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Have wrought the easy-melting king like wax.
He swore consent to your succession,
His oath enrolled in the parliament;
And now to London all the crew are gone,
To frustrate both his oath, and what beside
May make against the house of Lancaster.
Their

power, I think, is thirty thousand strong: Now, if the help of Norfolk, and myself,

With all the friends that thou, brave earl of March,
Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure,
Will but amount to five and twenty thousand,
Why, via! to London will we march amain;
And once again bestride our foaming steeds,
And once again cry-Charge upon our foes!
But never once again turn back, and fly.

Rich. Ay, now, methinks, I hear great Warwick Ne'er may he live to see a sunshine day,

[speak: Edw. Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean; And when thou fall'st, (as God forbid the hour!) Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forefend! War. No longer earl of March, but duke of York; The next degree is, England's royal throne: For king of England shalt thou be proclaim'd In every borough as we pass along; And he, that throws.not up his cap for joy, Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head. King Edward,-valiant Richard,-Montague,— Stay we no longer dreaming of renown, But sound the trumpets, and about our task. Rich. Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as steel As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds), I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine.

That cries-Retire, if Warwick bid him stay.

Edw. Then strike up, drums;-God, and saint George, for us!

Enter a Messenger.

War. How now? what news?

Mess. The duke of Norfolk sends you word by me,

The queen is coming with a puissant host;
And craves your company for speedy counsel.
War. Why then it sorts, brave warriors: Let's away.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II. Before YORK.

Enter KING HENRY, QUEEN MARGARET, the PRINCE of WALES, CLIFFORD, and NORTHUMBERLAND, with Forces.

Q. Mar. Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of Yonder's the head of that arch-enemy,

[York. That sought to be encompass'd with your crown: Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?

K. Hen. Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their
To see this sight, it irks my very soul.— [wreck :-
Withhold revenge, dear God! 'tis not my fault,
Not wittingly have I infring'd my vow.

Cliff. My gracious liege, this too much lenity,
And harmful pity, must be laid aside.
To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?
Not to the beast that would usurp their den.
Whose hand is that, the forest bear doth lick?
Not his, that spoils her young before her face.
Who 'scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting?
Not he, that sets his foot upon her back.

The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on;
And doves will peck, in safeguard of their brood.
Ambitious York did level at thy crown,
Thou smiling, while he knit his angry brows:
He, but a duke, would have his son a king,
Aud raise his issue, like a loving sire;
Thou, being a king, bless'd with a goodly son,
Didst yield consent to disinherit him,
Which argued thee a most unloving father.
Unreasonable creatures feed their young:
And though man's face be fearful to their eyes,
Yet, in protection of their tender ones,

Who hath not seen them (even with those wings
Which sometime they have us'd with fearful flight),

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Make war with him that climb'd unto their nest,
Offering their own lives in their young's defence?
For shame, my liege, make them your precedent!
Were it not pity, that this goodly boy

Should lose his birthright by his father's fault?
And long hereafter say unto his child,—
What my great-grandfather and grandsire got,
My careless father fondly gave away?

Ah, what a shame were this! Look on the boy;
And let his manly face, which promiseth

Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart,

To hold thine own, and leave thine own with him.
K. Hen. Full well hath Clifford play'd the orator,
Inferring arguments of mighty force.

Bat, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear,-
That things ill got had ever bad success?
And happy always was it for that son,
Whose father for his hoarding went to hell?
I'll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind;
And 'would, my father had left me no more!
For all the rest is held at such a rate,

As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep,
Than in possession any jot of pleasure.

Ah, cousin York! 'would thy best friends did know,
How it doth grieve me that thy head is here!

[nigh,
Q. Mar. My lord, cheer up your spirits; our foes are
Aud this soft courage makes your followers faint.
You promis'd knighthood to our forward son;
Unsheath your sword, and dub him presently.-
Edward, kneel down.

K. Hen. Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight;
And learn this lesson,-Draw thy sword in right.
Prince. My gracious father, by your kingly leave,
I'll draw it as apparent to the crown,

And in that quarrel use it to the death.

Cliff. Why, that is spoken like a toward prince.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. Royal commanders, be in readiness:
For, with a band of thirty thousand men,

Comes Warwick, backing of the duke of York;
And, in the towns as they do march along,
Proclaims him king, and many fly to him:
Darraign your battle, for they are at hand.

Cliff. I would, your highness would depart the field; The queen hath best success when you are absent.

Q. Mar. Ay, good, my lord, and leave us to our fortune. K. Hen. Why, that's my fortune too; therefore I'll North. Be it with resolution then to fight.

[stay. Prince. My royal father, cheer these noble lords, And hearten those that fight in your defence: Unsheath your sword, good father; cry, Saint George!

March. Enter EDWARD, GEORGE, RICHARD, WARWICK, NORFOLK, MONTAGUE, and Soldiers.

Edw. Now, perjur'd Henry! wilt thou kneel for grace, And set thy diadem upon my head;

Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?

Q. Mar. Go rate thy minions, proud insulting boy! Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms, Before thy sovereign, and thy lawful king?

Edw. I am his king, and he should bow his knee; I was adopted heir by his consent:

Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear,

You-that are king, though he do wear the crown,— Have caus'd him, by new act of parliament,

To blot out me, and put his own son in.

Cliff. And reason too;

Who should succeed the father, but the son?

Rich. Are you there, butcher?-O, I cannot speak! Cliff. Ay, crook-back; here I stand, to answer thee, Or any he the proudest of thy sort.

Rich. "Twas you that killed young Rutland, was it not? Cliff. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied. Rich. For God's sake, lords, give signal to the fight. War. What say'st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown? [dare you speak? Q. Mar. Why, how now, long-tongu'd Warwick? When you and I met at St. Albans last,

Your legs did better service than your hands.

War. Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine. Cliff. You said so much before, aud yet you fled. War. 'Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence.

North. No, nor your manhood, that durst make you stay.

Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently;-
Break off the parle; for scarce I can refrain
The execution of my big-swoln heart

Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.

Cliff. I slew thy father: Call'st thou him a child? Rich. Ay, like a dastard, and a treacherous coward, As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland; But, ere sunset, I'll make thee curse the deed.

K. Hen. Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak.

Q. Mar. Defy them then, or else hold close thy lips. K. Hen. I pr'ythee, give no limits to my tongue; I am a king, and privileg'd to speak.

Cliff. My liege, the wound, that bred this meeting here, Cannot be cur'd by words; therefore be still.

Rich. Then, executioner, unsheath thy sword:
By him that made us all, I am resolv'd,
That Clifford's manhood lies upon his tongue.
Edw. Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or no?
A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day,
That ne'er shall dine, unless thou yield the crown.
War. If thou deny, their blood upon thy head;
For York in justice puts his armour on.

Prince. If that be right, which Warwick says is right, There is no wrong, but every thing is right.

Rich. Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands; For, well I wot, thou hast thy mother's tongue.

Q. Mar. But thou art neither like thy şire, nor dam; But like a foul mis-shapen stigmatic,

Mark'd by the destinies to be avoided,

As venom toads, or lizards' dreadful stings.
Rich. Iron of Naples, hid with English gilt,

Whose father bears the title of a king
(As if a channel should be call'd the sea),

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