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Enter a Messenger.
War. How now? What News?
Mes. 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 forts, brave Warriors let's away.
[Exeunt omnes. Enter King Henry, the Queen, Clifford, Northumberland,
and the Prince of Wales, with Drums and Trumpets. Qucen. Welcome, my Lord, to this brave Town of York, Yonder's the Head of that Arch-enemy, That sought to be encompast with your Crown. Doth not the Objeđ cheer your Heart, my Lord?
K. Henry. Ay, as the Rocks cheer them that fear their Wrack;
To see this fight it irks my very Soul:
With-hold Revenge, dear God, 'tis not my fault,
Nor wittingly have I infring’d my Vow.
Clif. My gracious Liege, this too much Lenity
And harmless Pity must be laid afide:
To whom do Lions caft 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 fting?
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
He but a Duke, would have his Son a King,
And raise his Issue like a loving Sire;
Thou being a King, blest 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 prote&tion of their tender ones,
Who hath not seen them even with those Wings,
Which sometimes they have us’d with fearful Night,
Make War with him that climb'd unto their Nest,
Offering their own Lives in their Young's Defences
For Shame, my Liege, make them your President:
Were it not pity, that this goodly Boy
Should lose his Birth-right by his Father's Fault,
And long hereafter say unto his Child,
What my great Grandfather and Grandfire got,
My careless Father fondly gave away.
Ah, what a Shame was this? look on the Boy,
And let his manly Face, which promisech
Successful Fortune, steel thy melting Heart,
To hold thine own, and leave thine own with him.
King. Full well hath Clifford plaid the Orator,
Inferring Arguments of mighty Force:
But, Clifford, tell me, didit thou never hear,
That things ill got, had ever bad Success,
And happy always was it for that Son,
Whose Father for his hoording went to Hell:
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 Poffeffion any jot of Pleasure.
Ah Cousin Tork, would thy best Friends did know,
How it doth grieve me that thy Head is here,
Queen. My Lord, cheer up your Spirits, our Foes are nigh,
And this soft Courage makes your Followers faint:
You promis'd Knighthood to our forward Son,
Unseath your Sword, and dub him presently.
Edward, kneel down.
King. 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.
Clif. Why that is spoken like a toward Prince.
Enter a Messenger.
Mes. Royal Commanders, be in readiness,
For with a Band of thirty thousand Men
Comes Warwick, backing of the Duke of Zork.
And in the Towns, as they do march along,
Proclaims him King, and many fly to him.
Darraign your Battel, they are near at hand.
Clif. I would your Highness would depart the Field,
The Queen hath best Success when you are abfent
Queen. Ay, good my Lord, and leave us to our Fortune.
K. Henry. Why that's my Fortune too, therefore I'll stay.
North. Be it with Resolution then to fight.
Prince. My Royal Father, cheer these Noble Lords,
And hearten those that fight in your Defence :
Unsheath your Sword, good Father; cry St. George.
March. 'Enter Edward,' Warwick, Richard, Ciarence,
Norfolk, Montague, and Soldiers.
Edw. Now perjur'd Henry, wilt thou kneel for Grace,
And let thy Diadem upon my Head;
Or bide the Mortal Fortune of the Field?
Queen. Go rate thy Minions, proud insulting Boy,
Becomes it thee to be thus bold in Terms,
Before thy Soveraign, 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 A&' of Parliament,
To' blot out me, and put his own Son in.
Clif. And reason too:
Who should succeed the Father, but the Son
Rich. Are you there, Butcher? O, I cannot speak.
Clif. Ay, Crook-back, here I stand to answer thee,
Or any he, the proudest of thy fort.
Rich. 'Twas you that kill'd young Rutland, was it not?
Clif. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfy’d.
Rich. For God's fake, Lords, give Signal to the Fight.
War. What say'st thou, Henry,
Wilt thou yield the Crown?
Queen. Why how now, long-tongu'd Warwick, dare you When you and I met at St. Albans laft,
[speak? Your Legs did better Service than
War. Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine.
Clif. You said so much before, and 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 Parley, for scarce I can refrain
The Execution of my big-swolo Heart
Upon that Clifford, that cruel Child-killer,
Clif. I few thy Father, call’ft thou him a Child?
Rich. Ay, like a Daitard, and a treacherous Coward,
As thou dialt kill our tender Brother Ruland:
But e'er Sun fer, I'll make thee curse the Decc.
k. Henry. Have done with Words, my Lords, and hear me speak.
Queen. Defie them then, or else hold close thy Lips.
K. Henry. I prithee give no Limits to my Tongue, I am a King, and privileg’d to speak.
Clif. My Liege, the Wound that bred this Meeting here Cannot be cur’d by Words, therefore be ftill.
Rich. Then, Execution, re-un sheath thy Sword:
By him that made us all, I am resolu'd
That Clifford's Manhood lyes upon his Tongue.
Edw. Say, Henry, thall 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.
War. Who ever got thee, there thy Mother stands,
For well I wot, thou hast thy Mother's Tongue.
Queen. But thou art neither like thy Sire nor Dam,
But like a foul milh apen Stigmatick,
Mark'd by the Destinies to be avoided,
As venomous Toads, or Lizards dreadful Stings.
Rich. Iron of Naples, hid with Englip Gilt,
Whose Father bears the Title of a King,
(As if a Kennel Thould be callid the Sea)
Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,
To let thy Tongue dete& thy bafe-born Heart,
Edw. A Wisp of Straw were wortha thousand Crowns,
To make this thameless Callet know her self.
Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,
Although thy Husband may be Menelaus,
And ne'er was Agamemnon's Brother wrong'd
By that falfe Woman, as this King by thee.
His Father revelled in the Heart of France,
And tam'd the King, and made the Dauphin stoop:
And had he matchd according to his State,
He might have kept that Glory to this Day.
But when he took a Beggar to his Bed,
And grac'd thy poor Sire with his Bridal Day,
Even then that Sun-fhine brew'd a Shower for him,
That wash'd his Father's Fortunes forth of France,
And heap'd Sedition on his Crown at home:
For what hath broach'd this tumult but thy Pride?
Hadst thou been meek, our Title still had slept,
And we in Pity of the gentle King,
Had Nipt our Claim until another Age.
Cla. But when we saw our Sunshine made thy Spring,
And that thy Summer bred us no encrease,
We set the Ax to thy usurping Root:
And though the Edge hath something hit our felves,
Yet know thou, since we have begun to frike,
We'll never leave, 'till we liave hewn thee down,
Or bach'd thee growing with our heated Bloods.
Edw. And in this Resolution I defie thee,
Not willing any longer Conference,
Since thou deny dst the gentle King to speak.
Sound Trumpers, let our bloody Colours wave,
And either Victory, or else a Grave.
Queex. Stay, Edward
Edw. No, wrangling Woman, we'll no longer stay.
These Words will cost ten thousand Lives this Day.
Alarum. Excursions. Enter Warwick.
War. Fore-spent with Toil, as Runners with a Race,
I lay me down a little while to breathe:
For Strokes receiv'd, and many Blows repaid,
Have robb'd my strong-knit Sinews of their Strength,
And spight of spight, needs must I rest a while.
Enter Edward running.
Edw. Smile, gentle Heav'n; or strike, ungentle Death;
For this world frowns, and Edward's Sun is clouded.
War. How now, my Lord, what hap? What hope of good?
Cla. Our Hap is Loss, our Hope but sad Despair,
Our Ranks are broke, and Ruin follows us.