AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY OF THE CIVIL WARS In the REIGN of King
HENRY
VI.
(Being a Sequel to the TRAGEDY of HUMFREY Duke of GLOUCESTER: And an Introduction to the TRAGICAL HISTORY of King
RICHARD
III.)
Alter'd from SHAKESPEAR, in the Year 1720.
By THEO. CIBBER.
Heu! quantum potuit caeli pelagique parari,
Hoc quem
Civiles
fuderunt sanguine dextrae!
LUCAN.
LONDON:
Printed for J. WALTHOE,
jun.
in
Cornhill;
W. CHETWOOD, in
Russel-Street, Covent-Garden;
and J. STAGG, in
Westminster-Hall:
And Sold by J. ROBERTS, in
Warwick-Lane.
Price 1
s.
6
d.
PREFACE.
T HIS Piece was finish'd above Two Years ago, and put into my Hands, to make what Use of it I thought fit. And tho' it cost our Author but the Labour of a single Month, or less, yet, upon this Occasion, I can't but think the publishing it will oblige the World, since it is a Sequel to Mr.
Philips
's Play of Duke
Humfrey,
and an Introduction to Mr.
Cibber
's Alteration of
Richard
the Third. Never Child had a more regardless Father, than the Parent of this; and therefore rather than have it smother'd, I thought it a more Human Act to let it come upon the Parish. And, in my poor Opinion, I have seen a less promising Appearance than this Brat carries about him, rise in the State.
But if, like
Phaeton,
in
Shakespear
's Carr,
Th' unequal Muse unhappily should Err,
At least you'll own from glorious Heights he fell,
And there's some Merit in attempting well.
Prol. to XIMENA.
The PERSONS.
King
Henry,
Prince
Edward,
Old
Clifford,
Young
Clifford,
York,
Edward,
George,
Richard,
Warwick.
Queen
Margaret,
Lady
Grey,
Lady
Elizabeth,
Lady
Anne.
Messengers, Attendants,
&c.
The Historical Tragedy of King HENRY VI.
ACT I. SCENE I.
Enter King
Henry.
N EVER had King less Joy in Rule than I,
Nor more Misfortune; Heaven was pleas'd to set
My Cradle on the Top of humane Glory,
Where I lay helpless, to all Storms expos'd;
My childish Hand, not able to support
My Father's Sword, dropt the victorious Point,
And let fall all the Laurels that adorn'd it;
And
French
and
English
ravag'd for the Spoil.
So lost I
France;
now am I threatned too
By wicked Rebels, with the Loss of
England:
Cade
and
Plantagenet
joyn to undo me.
Never did Subject long to be a King,
As I do long, and wish to be a Subject.
Enter the Queen, attended.
Health and good Tidings to your Majesty;
The Villain
Cade,
is kill'd by brave young
Clifford.
Kill'd!
He is kill'd, my Lord; and all his Powers do yield,
And wait your Highness Doom, of Life, or Death.
Their Fault was great, 'tis true; but their Submission
Now cancels that, and they shall meet my Mercy.
Therefore with pleasing Pardon to them all,
I do dismiss 'em to their several Homes.
Kings should have Mercy, but with it Justice too.
Just Heaven accept my Vows of Thanks and Praise,
For having sav'd the Lives of my poor People.
I swear I am more pleas'd to see this End,
Without the Shedding my poor Subjects Blood,
Than I should be to conquer the whole World
By Slaughter—but—Ha! old
Clifford
weeping.
Enter Old
Clifford.
Yes, Sir, I weep; but I weep Tears of Joy;
For I am crush'd between Two mighty Joys,
Your Royal Safety, and my Son's Success.
Enter Young
Clifford,
and kneels.
O gallant
Clifford!
how shall I reward thee?
I fought not for Rewards; or if I did,
I ought to end my Work e'er I be paid.
I have only now pull'd down a paltry Scaffold,
On which
Plantagenet
design'd to climb,
To build his trayt'rous Projects—Have you not heard
The Duke of
York
is newly come from
Ireland;
And with a puissant and mighty Power,
Is marching hitherwards in proud Array.
True, he approaches with a mighty Host,
But he gives out, he only does intend
To drive away from me some wicked Ministers.
The constant Vizard of Rebellion.
Rebellion is so foul and grim a Monster,
That those who mount the horrid Beast are forc'd
To cover it all o'er with gawdy Trappings.
They mark it in the Forehead with white Stars,
Pretences heavenly.
Believe me, Sir—he tells you nought but Truth.
Thus stands my State, 'twixt
Cade
and
York
distrest,
Like to a Ship, that having scap'd a Tempest
Is straitway calm'd, and boarded with a Pirate.
I pray thee, old
Clifford,
go and meet him,
And ask him what's the Reason of these Arms.
I will, my Lord, and doubt not so to deal,
As all Things shall redound unto your Good.
Come Wife, let's in, and learn to govern better;
For yet may
England
curse my wretched Reign.
[Exeunt.
Enter
York, Edward, George, Richard,
and Soldiers.
From
Ireland
thus comes
York
to claim his Right,
And pluck the Crown from feeble
Henry
's Head.
Oh holy Majesty! who would not buy thee dear,
Let them obey that know not how to rule.
This Hand was made to handle nought but Gold.
I cannot give due Action to my Words,
Except a Sword or Sceptre ballance it.
A Scepter shall it have. Have I a Soul!
On which I'll toss the Flower de Luce of
France.
Enter Old
Clifford.
Whom have we here? old
Clifford
to disturb me?
The King hath sent him sure—I must dissemble.
York,
if thou meanest well, I greet thee well.
Clifford
of
Cumberland,
I accept thy Greeting.
Art thou a Messenger, or come of Pleasure?
A Messenger from
Henry
our dread Liege,
To know the Reason of these Arms in Peace?
Or why, thou being a Subject, as I am,
Against thy Oath, and true Allegiance sworn,
Should raise so great a Pow'r without his Leave;
Or dare to bring thy Force so near the Court?
Scarce can I speak, my Choler is so great.
Oh! I could hew up Rocks, and fight with Flint,
I am so angry at these abject Terms:
And now, like frantick
Ajax,
On Sheep, or Oxen, could I spend my Fury.
I am far better born than is the King;
More like a King, more kingly in my Thoughts.
But I must make fair Weather yet a while,
Till
Henry
be more weak, and I more strong.
[aside.]
O
Cumberland,
I prithee pardon me,
That I have giv'n no Answer all this while.
My Mind was troubled with deep Melancholy,
The Cause why I have brought this Army hither,
Is to remove proud
Somerset
from the King,
Seditious to his Grace, and to the State.
That is too much Presumption on thy Part.
But if thy Arms be to no other End,
The King hath yielded unto thy Demand:
The Duke of
Somerset
is in the Tower.
Upon thy Honour, Is he Prisoner?
Upon my Honour, he is Prisoner.
Then, noble
Clifford,
I'll dismiss my Pow'rs,
And let my Sovereign, virtuous
Henry,
Command my eldest Son; nay, all my Sons,
As Pledges of my Fealty and Love;
I'll send 'em all, as willing as I live.
Lands, Goods, House, Armour, every Thing I have,
Is to his Use, so
Somerset
may die.
York,
I commend this kind Submission;
And I am sure 'twill glad King
Henry
's Heart,
Come, let us Two go friendly to the King.
Enter King
Henry,
attended.
Clifford,
doth
York
intend no Harm to us,
That thus he marches with thee Arm in Arm.
In all Submission and Humility,
York
doth present himself unto your Highness.
Then what intend these Forces thou dost bring.
To have the Traytor
Somerset
from hence,
And fight against that monstrous Rebel
Cade;
Who since, I hear, is overcome and slain.
Enter the Queen, and
Somerset.
See, old
Clifford; Somerset
comes with the Queen;
Go bid her hide him quickly from the Duke.
For thousand
Yorks
he shall not hide his Head,
But boldly stand, and front him to his Face.
How now? Is
Somerset
at Liberty?
Then
York
unloose thy long imprison'd Thoughts,
And let thy Tongue be equal with thy Heart.
Shall I endure the Sight of
Somerset?
False King, why hast thou broken Faith with me,
Knowing how hardly I can brook Abuse?
King, did I call thee? no, thou art no King,
Nor fit to govern and rule Multitudes,
Who has not Power to rule a single Traytor:
That Head of thine doth not become a Crown;
Thy Hand is made to grasp a Palmer's Staff,
And not to grace an awful princely Scepter:
That Gold must round engirt these Brows of mine,
Whose Smile and Frown, like to
Achilles
's Spear,
Is able, with the Change, to kill and cure;
Here is a Hand to hold the Scepter up,
And, with the same, to act controuling Laws:
Give Place; by Heav'n thou shalt rule no more
O'er him, whom Heav'n created for thy Ruler.
O, monstrous Traytor! I arrest thee,
York,
Of capital Treason 'gainst the King and Crown.
Somerset,
in whose Name do you arrest me?
In the King's Name.
Then I'll unfold my self;
Know, hitherto I've been like a dark Cloud,
Where scorching Heat has been engendring Thunder;
The Grumbling and the Rowling you have heard,
And now the deadly Bolt shalt light among you:
I am your King.
Ha!
Yes, I am your King,
Sprung from the Royal House of
Clarence,
Whom three Usurpers of the House of
Lancaster,
Successively, have trodden under Feet,
Whilst they have glitter'd in our Royal Glory,
Shone like false Diamonds in our Purple Robes.
Enter young
Clifford.
Health and all Happiness to my Lord the King.
I thank thee,
Clifford,
say, What News with thee?
Nay, think not to fright me with an angry Look,
We are thy Sovereign,
Clifford,
kneel thee down,
For thy mistaking so we pardon thee.
This is my King,
York,
I do not mistake,
But thou mistakest much to think I do.
To
Bedlam
with him—Is the Man grown mad?
Ay,
Clifford,
Frenzy and ambitious Humour
Make him oppose himself against his King!
Did we not tell you this?
And we will tell you more, obey your King,
I mean, my Royal Father, or our Swords
Shall turn the Arrest of Treason on your selves.
Surely you think you are among your Beauties,
Amorous
Edward,
there your Valour lies.
Let them admire thy Boasts, here art thou scorn'd.
'Tis said, when the brave Duke of
Suffolk
liv'd,
Queen
Margaret
would not contemn a Lover;
I'm young, and love, but yet I am not stricken
So blind with Beauty, but I can discern
Both the fair Kingdom, and the fair Queen, lie
Sick of the Impotence of a weak King.
Ill manner'd Insolence!
Why, what a brood of Traytors have we here?
Look in a Glass, and call thy Image so;
I am thy King, and thou a false hearted Traytor.
I've declar'd my Right, and here are my three Sons
To plead it with their Swords. Now I'll produce
The Sword of the Victorious Earl of
Warwick.
Call in the Earl.
Enter
Warwick.
Thou against me,
Warwick!
Say, didst thou never swear Allegiance to me,
And canst dispense with Heav'n for such an Oath?
It is great Sin to swear unto a Sin,
But greater Sin to keep a sinful Oath:
Who can be bound by any solemn Vow,
To do a murderous Deed, to rob a Man,
To force a spotless Virgin's Chastity,
To 'reave the Orphan of his Patrimony,
And have no other Reason for his Wrong,
But that he was bound to't by solemn Oath?
A subtle Traytor needs no Sophister.
Cause I ador'd an Idol once, in Ignorance,
Must I still do so, now I see my Error?
Know, Duke of
Lancaster
(for you are no more)
Henry,
your Grandfather, murder'd his King,
Richard
the Second; not content with that,
He trampled on the Rights of the next Heirs.
Your Father, warlike
Henry,
I confess,
Had in Desert what he did want in Title:
But Merit makes no lawful Claim to Crowns,
For if it did, I wou'd be King of
England;
But I will tell you to your Face, Duke
Henry,
That you have neither Title nor Desert.
Most impudent of Traytors.
I'll speak Truth,
And value not the Fury of you all;
Your Father
Henry
was a Wall of Steel,
Thro' which there was no Passage to the Throne,
But you are only a soft silken Curtain,
Which with my Hand, or Breath, I'll put aside,
And seat your self, King
Richard,
in the Throne,
For it is empty tho' the Duke be there.
What, have these Traytors conquer'd us already,
They talk at this bold Rate? Thou Traytor
Warwick,
Warwick,
no! when thou dethron'st thy King
Thou mad'st thy self a Groom, by the same Law
Thou tramplest on thy King; a sawcy Groom
May set his dirty Foot upon thy Jaws,
And tell thee they were made both of one Clay.
What a fierce Talker's this?
I laugh at him;
All this loud Noise and Fury you have heard
Is but the Crackling of some burning Thorn,
That hedge the Duke, and they will soon be Ashes.
Wherefore does
Henry
parley with these Miscreants?
Let's draw the Sword, and chase these Rebels hence,
Daily Disturbers of our Peace.
Poor
Margaret,
I cannot blame thy Rage, but pity thee,
For thou hast cause to rail, since from the Fall
Of good Duke
Humphrey,
all those Schemes prov'd Air,
Which hop'd Success from noble
Gloster
's Death;
Mark Heaven's Vengeance.
Proud insulting
York!
Call
Buckingham,
and bid him arm himself.
Call
Buckingham,
and all the Friends thou hast,
I am resolv'd for Death or Dignity.
The first, I warrant thee—if Dreams prove true.
You were best go to Bed, and dream again,
To keep thee from the Tempest of the Field.
I am resolv'd to bear a greater Storm
Than any thou can'st conjure up to Day.
And so to Arms, my brave, and noble Father,
To quell the Rebels and their Complices.
And Royal
Richard,
fix'd on Loyal
Warwick,
Stand like a Cedar on a Mountain Top,
Securely rooted, and despise all Storm.
Now sound the Trumpets, and each Mandraw his Sword,
A Crown's the Prize, and Victory the Word.
My Cause is fix'd in Heaven, for it is just,
And more in Heaven than our Arms I trust.
[Exeunt severally.
A great Charge here.
Enter
Warwick
and
York
Meeting.
How now, my noble Lord, What, all a foot?
The deadly handed
Clifford
slew my Steed,
And I have made a Prey for Kites and Crows,
Even of the bonny Beast he lov'd so well.
Enter old
Clifford.
Old
Clifford,
now prepare to meet thy Fate.
Hold
Warwick,
seek thou out some other Chase,
For I my self must hunt this Deer to Death.
Then nobly,
York,
'tis for a Crown thou fight'st.
As I intend
Clifford
to thrive to Day,
It grieves my Soul to leave thee unassail'd.
[Exit.
York,
with thy Bearing shou'd I be in love,
But that 'tis shewn ignobly, and in Treason.
So let it help me now against thy Sword,
As I in Justice, and true Right, express it.
[They fight,
Clifford
falls.
Farewel, old valiant
Clifford,
I should now
Be sorry for thee, wert thou not my Enemy.
[Exit.
I do not lack thy Sorrow, thou art a Traytor,
And I for Loyalty die honourably.
Enter
Richard
and
Somerset.
They fight.
Somerset
falls.
So lie thou there,
For underneath an Alehouse paltry Sign,
The
Castle
in St.
Albans, Somerset
Hath made the Wizard famous in his Death.
Sword, hold thy Temper; Heart be wrathful still,
Priests pray for Enemies, but Princes kill.
[Exit.
Enter young
Clifford.
Shame and Confusion! all is on the Rout!
My Men are fied, or slain, and I alone
Stand like a lofty Mast, shewing my Head
Above the Waves, when all the Ship is sunk.
I cannot find my Father, nor my King.
Oh, Son!
Ha!
Methought I heard a Voice resembling much
My Father's, very weak and faint it seem'd,
As he were far from me, or near to Death.
Oh,
Clifford,
'tis thy aged Father calls!
Ha! Oh, there he lies!
All wel'tring in his Gore, gasping for Life!
Oh Father! Father! if thou hast Breath enough,
Leave with me but the Name of him that wounded thee,
That I may give thee, and my Self, Revenge,
And I'll prefer that glorious Legacy,
Before the Estate and Honour which thou leav'st me.
Plantagenet
gave me my Death. Farewel!
[dies.
Plantagenet
gave thee thy Death!
Plantagenet
Then gave himself, and all his Race Destruction.
Now let the general Trumpet blow his Blast,
And Nature start at this great deadly Shock.
Wast thou ordain'd, Oh, my dear, loving, Father,
To lose thy Youth in Peace, and in thy Age
To die in Ruffian Battle? Ev'n at this Sight
My Heart is turn'd to Stone; and from this Time
I will be famous for inhuman Cruelty.
Tears, to me, shall be as the Dew to Fire;
And Beauty, that the Tyrant oft reclaims,
Shall to my flaming Wrath be Oil and Flax.
Ne'er more will I have ought to do with Pity.
Meet I an Infant of the House of
York,
Into as many Gobbets will I cut it,
As wild
Medea
young
Absurtus
did.
York
kills our old Men, and I'll kill his Children,
That when he's dead he may not have a Son
To bear him to the Grave, as I my Father.
Alas, he hears me not—he's dead, he's gone!
Come thou new Ruin of old
Clifford
's House,
As did
Aeneas
old
Anchises
bear,
So I'll bear thee upon my manly Shoulders;
But then
Aeneas
bare a living Load:
Nothing so heavy as these Woes of mine.
[Exit.
Trumpets sound, and great Shouts. Enter
York, Edward, Richard, George,
and Soldiers.
Of brave
Warwick,
Who can report of him?
This happy Day
Is not it self, nor have we won one Foot,
If that brave Man be lost.
My noble Father,
Three Times, to Day, I help'd him to his Horse;
Three Times bestrid him; thrice I led him off,
Perswaded him from any further Act,
And still where Danger was, still there I met him.
But Noble as he is, look where he comes.
Enter
Warwick.
Let me embrace the greatest Man that breathes.
England
will learn again to fight and conquer;
A glorious Science we have almost lost,
Under the Reign of this tame, bookish King.
What is become of the young boasting
Clifford?
Fate, as if tender of him, did to Day,
When e'er I met him, thrust a Crowd betwixt us.
I met his Father in the Field; and there
I put the brave old Man to his last Bed.
The stout old Winter Lion, that had long
Endur'd the Brush of Time, fought with that Heat
As he had been but in the Spring of Youth:
Like
Arras
Hangings in a homely House,
So was his gallant Spirit in his Body.
Whilst we pursu'd the Horse-Men of the North
With too much Heat, the King escap'd our Hands;
But he has left behind some of his Friends;
I fell upon the gallant Duke of
Buckingham,
And with one fortunate substantial Blow
I cleft his good steel Helmet and his Scull.
Now, by my Sword, well hast thou fought to Day;
So did we all;
And by my Life, Lords, 'twas a glorious Day;
St.
Alban
's Battle worthy famous
York,
Shall be eterniz'd in all Age to come:
But now, my Lord, post we with speed to
London,
For thither, I am told, the King is fled,
And there he will repair this Day's wide Breach.
Citizens always love tame, pious Princes,
And such as abhor fighting, like themselves.
Then, if you can, enter the Town before 'em,
And fill it with your Troops, and see to Morrow
To get early into the Parliament House,
There guarded well, openly claim the Crown;
My Tongue and Sword shall both assert your Title;
Then let me see who shall dare be so bold,
To gainsay what we with our Swords assert.
Thou Soul of Valour, Wisdom and Nobility,
I'll take thy Counsel.
—Come then, away,
Our Enemies gain Strength by our Delay.
[Exeunt.
End of the First ACT.
ACT II.
York, Edward, George, Richard, Warwick,
and other Lords,
&c.
discover'd as in Parliament.
Y E Peers of
England,
having shown my Title,
And you approving my just Pedigree;
I take Possession of my Royal Right,
And to my Death my Scepter I'll maintain.
Enter King
Henry, Clifford,
and others.
My Lords, look where the sturdy Rebel fits.
Young Lord
Cumberland,
he slew thy Father,
And I do think that you have vow'd Revenge
On him, his Sons, his Favourites, and his Friends.
The Hope thereof makes
Clifford
mourn in Steel.
What say you,
Lancaster,
will you resign,
In Peace, the Crown to him whose Right it is?
Or, shall we force it from you with our Swords?
What, shall we suffer this? Lets pluck him down.
My Heart for Anger burns, I cannot brook it.
My gracious Lord, here in the Parliament
Let us assail the Family of
York.
Far be the Thought of Strife from
Henry
's Heart
So to abuse this Place's Dignity.
No, my Lord
Clifford,
Frowns, Words, and Threats,
Shall be the War that
Henry
means to use.
Thou factious Duke of
York,
descend the Throne,
And kneel for Grace and Mercy at my Feet.
I am thy Sovereign.
Henry
I am thine.
And shall I stand, and thou sit in my Throne?
It must and shall be so—Content thy self.
Be Duke of
Lancaster,
so he is King.
He is both Duke of
Lancaster,
and King;
And that I
Clifford
boldly will maintain.
And
Warwick
shall disprove it; you forget
That we are those who chas'd you from the Field,
And slew your Fathers, and with Colours spread,
March'd thro' the City to the Palace Gates.
Urge it no more, lest that instead of Words
I send thee,
Warwick,
such a Messenger
As shall revenge his Death before I stir.
Plantaganet,
of thee, and these thy Sons,
Thy Favourites, and Friends, I'll have more Lives
Than Drops of Blood were in my Father's Veins.
Poor
Clifford,
how we scorn thy worthless Threats.
Will you, we show our Title to the Crown?
If not, our Swords shall plead it in the Field.
Good Father, as you love and honour Arms
Let's fight it out, and not stand brawling thus.
Sound but the Trumpet, and the King will fly.
Peace, Sons.
Peace all of you, and hear your King.
Rebels, I fear all Danger less than you,
For I am better arm'd with Innocence.
But I confess I fear a Civil War;
Not for my own, but for my People's Sake.
I am afraid indeed of shedding Blood,
But you are all most bold in Cruelty:
By which (O Heaven) judge whose is the Child,
His who desires to have it cut in Pieces,
Or mine, who strive in Tenderness to save it.
Rebels may be successful for a Time,
And overturn all Order, Right, and Justice:
But Heaven does not let the World stand long
In that unnatural, uneasy Posture.
Just Heaven point out the Course I am to take,
I shudder at the Thought of Civil War.
And shall I tamely then resign the Crown,
So bravely fought for by my Ancestors?
I know not what to do. I shall run mad.
Thy own Mouth,
Henry,
has pronounc'd thy Doom.
Successful Murder, and Rebellion
Swell'd for two Generations of thy Race,
Over all Right, and all that durst oppose 'em.
But Heaven in thee has dry'd up the black Stream
And made it such a Brook all trample over it.
Think'st thou I will leave my kingly Throne,
Wherein my Grandsire, and my Father sat?
No. First shall War unpeople this my Realm.
Ay, and their Colours often born in
France,
And now in
England,
to our Heart's great Sorrow,
Shall be my Winding Sheet.—Then fear not, Lords,
My Title's good, and better far than his.
There spoke a King indeed.
Henry,
do but prove
Thy Title good, and thou shalt reign as King.
Henry
the Fourth by Conquest got the Crown.
'Twas in Rebellion 'gainst his lawful King.
Tell me, may not a King adopt an Heir?
What then?
Why, if he may, then am I lawful King,
For
Richard,
in the View of many Lords,
Resign'd his Crown to
Henry
the Fourth,
Whose Heir my Father was, and I am his.
Did not thy Grandfather compel him to't
By Force of Arms? and then the Parliament,
To their eternal Shame and Infamy,
Flatter'd the wicked, fortunate Usurper.
But say the King had done it unconstrain'd,
He could not give away another's Right.
Henry
usurp'd the Right of the next Heirs.
To prove this true, read the last Words of
Mortimer,
Who dy'd in Prison in your Minor Days,
And dying breath'd these Words into my Ears.
[Delivers a Scrowl to
Henry.
]
That those were the Words of that injur'd Man,
I will maintain, both with my Oath and Sword.
I know not what to say—my Title's weak.
How, Sir, will you revolt from your own self,
Who will stand by you then?
Clifford,
thou dy'st,
If thou permit'st not
Henry
to resign.
Let
Henry
give his Title to the Crown,
He shall not give my Title to Revenge.
King
Henry
be thy Title right or wrong,
Lord
Clifford
vows to fight in thy Defence.
May that Ground gape, and swallow me alive,
Where I shall kneel to him that slew my Father.
Do Right unto this princely Duke of
York,
Or I will fill the House with armed Men,
And o'er the Chair of State, where now he sits,
Write up his Title with usurping Blood.
Hold, hold, my Lords—Oh! let not Blood be shed,
First hear the Proffers that I have to make,
And hearken all—I find my Title's weak,
And to defend it were to fight with Justice.
Besides, there lies already on my Head,
The Blood of
Richard,
murder'd by my Grandfather,
And I'd be loth to add my People's Blood,
For saving which, hear this Proposal from me:
I have been King these Eight and Thirty Years,
And many Interests must grow to mine,
That you can never tear me from the Throne,
But you will set a Thousand Veins a bleeding.
Then let me Reign in Quiet all my Life,
And when I'm dead,
Plantagenet
be King.
I approve of it, and on that Condition
I swear to be King
Henry
's Vassal.
And not to seek the Crown by Arms or Treason.
Never whilst King
Henry
lives.
Then I intail
The Crown to thee, and to thy Heirs for ever.
What Wrong is this unto the Prince your Son?
What Good is this to
England
and himself?
Base, fearful, and despairing
Henry,
How hast thou injur'd both thy self and us?
But I will haste to inform the Queen of this.
Farewel, faint-hearted and degenerate King,
In whose cold Blood no Spark of Honour bides.
If thy great Father
Henry
's Soul did see
Thy Baseness, it wou'd torture him in Heav'n.
Plantagenet,
when that great Monarch liv'd,
Thou durst have sooner let into thy Soul
Ten Thousand Devils than a Traytor's Thought.
Henry,
adieu, be thou a Prey to
York,
And die in Bonds for this unmanly Deed.
In dreadful War, may'st thou be overcome,
Or live in Peace, abandon'd and despis'd.
[Exit.
Sons, head the Troops before the Palace Gates,
Lest furious
Clifford
shou'd disturb our Peace.
[Exit.
Oh!
Why sigh you, Sir?
Not for my self, but my poor Son I've wrong'd.
You have not wrong'd him, you have wholly freed him,
From all the Vengeance due to Usurpation.
York.
I hear the Queen has rais'd Forces in the North.
My Lord of
Warwick,
attend you the King,
And stay to raise what Force you can in
London,
Whilst I post to the North, and so between us
We'll wall her in, and keep that Fire from spreading.
[Exit.
Pray do, my Lords, I will assist you both
Against my self, but Justice shall be done.
See, yonder comes my Queen, whose unkind Looks
Strike Terror to me, oh! I dare not stay,
To hear the Bitterness of her Reproaches.
Enter the Queen and Prince.
Where is the King? What, do you shun me, Sir?
Nay, go not from me, I will follow thee.
Be patient, gentle Queen, and I will stay.
Who can be patient in such sad Extremes?
Oh wretched Man, wou'd I had dy'd a Maid,
And never seen thee, never bore the Son,
Since thou hast prov'd so unnatural a Father!
Hath he deserv'd to lose his Birthright thus?
Hadst thou but lov'd him half so much as I,
Or felt that Pain which I did for him once;
Or nourish'd him, as I did with my Blood,
Thou would'st have left thy dearest Heart Blood here,
Rather than make rebellious
York
thine Heir,
And difinherited thine only Son.
The Crown is his, I have no Title to it
But what is founded on Rebellion,
The Murder of a King, and Usurpation.
I shame to hear thee speak, thou timorous Wretch,
Thou hast undone thy self, thy Son, and me,
And giv'n to the House of
York
such Head,
As thou shalt reign but by their Sufferance.
To intail him and his Heirs unto the Crown,
What is it, but to make thy Sepulchre,
And creep into it far before thy Time.
Had I been here, who am a poor weak Woman,
The Soldiers should have toss'd me on their Pikes,
E'er I had stoop'd to such unnatural Baseness.
Oh, my dear Son, thou art no more a Prince,
Because thy Father is no more a King:
By one base Deed he has undone us all.
I am a Prince, and I will be a King:
Father, you cannot disinherit me;
You may bestow your Kingdom whilst you live,
But when you are dead, the Crown by Right is mine,
And by the sacred Memory of my Ancestors,
I'll bear no Head that does not wear a Crown.
My Son, he shall not disinherit thee,
I have Men here to guard us from the Rebels,
And Troops elsewhere to conquer 'em, and chastise,
And I will make thee, Son, a glorious Prince,
Whilst thou, tame Wretch, shalt be a Slave to Traytors,
And only be a Shadow of a King.
Oh, my sweet Love, talk not so harshly to me!
I will be harsher in my Deeds than Words,
For, from this Moment, I divorce my self,
Both from thy Table,
Henry,
and thy Bed,
Until that Act of Parliament be repeal'd,
Whereby my Son is disinherited.
Stay, gentle
Margaret,
and hear me speak.
Thou hast spoke too much already, get thee gone;
Then, my Son
Edward,
wilt thou stay with me!
Ay, to be murder'd by his Enemies!
No, thou shalt have no Sons of me to ruin:
I scorn to be the Mother of a Slave.
When I return with Victory from the Field
I'll see your Grace, till then I'll follow her.
Come, Son, away, we may not linger thus.
[Exeunt.
Poor Queen, how Love and Pity for my Son
Cause Rage in her, as they cause Grief in me.
Add her Ambition to her Love and Pity.
For that has no small Share in her Disturbance.
But come, my Liege, let us straight call a Council,
So to prevent her spreading farther Mischief.
With all my Heart, my noble Lord of
Warwick,
For, O! I'm weary of these deadly Broils,
To you I'll readily submit vain Rule:
Tho' on my self I sure Destruction bring,
E'er I'll hurt
England
I'll not reign your King.
[Exeunt.
Enter
York, Edward,
and
Richard.
Father, I think I've plainly made appear
Your Oath to be most vain and frivolous,
Therefore to Arms, and, Father, do but think,
How sweet a Thing it is to wear a Crown,
Within whose Circuit is
Elisium,
And all that Poets seign of Bliss and Joy.
Why do we linger thus? I cannot rest
Until the white Rose that I wear, be dy'd
E'en in the lukewarm Blood of
Henry
's Heart.
Richard
enough—I will be King or die,
Mountague
shall to
London
presently,
And whet on
Warwick
to this Enterprize.
Thou,
Richard,
shalt go to the Duke of
Norfolk,
And tell him privily of out Intent.
You,
Edward,
unto my brave Lord
Cobham,
With whom the
Kentish
Men will willing rise.
While you are thus employ'd, what resteth more,
But that I seek Occasion how to rise,
And yet the King not privy to my Drift,
Nor any of the House of
Lancaster.
Enter Gentleman.
Now say, what News, that thou com'st in such Haste?
The Queen, with all the Northern Earls and Lords,
Are near at Hand with Twenty Thousand Men,
And therefore fortify your Hold, my Lord.
Ay, with my Sword,
What, think'st thou that we fear 'em?
Edward
and
Richard,
you shall stay with me,
I've sent your Brother
George
to raise some Troops;
I hop'd he wou'd have been with me e'er now;
But I must take my Fortune—Hark, the Enemy
Approaches us, bring in my dear Child
Rutland.
Enter
Rutland.
My Darling, let me kiss thee e'er I go;
I know not if I e'er shall see thee more;
If I shou'd fall under the numerous Enemy,
Whoe'er survives take care of this sweet Boy.
Why do you talk thus, Sir? You make me weep;
If you must die, I hope I shall die with you.
I had rather die with you, than live a King.
Sweet Boy, farewel, my Soul. There, take the Child,
And guard him safely—If my Arms should fail,
Convey him with speed to our next Garrison,
And give his Brother Notice of his flight.
[Exit
Rutland.
Altho' the Queen has Twenty Thousand Men,
And our whole Power will make but Five Thousand,
I'll issue forth, and bid 'em Battle strait.
Five Men to Twenty—True, the Odds are great,
Yet I'll not doubt, my Sons, of Victory.
Many a Battle have I won in
France,
When the proud Foe has number'd Ten to One;
Why should I not now have the like Success?
Now show your selves the Loyal Sons of
York,
And fight as each wou'd wear the Royal Crown.
[Exeunt.
Trumpets sound,
&c.
Enter
Clifford
with a Party.
Pursue, pursue, and give no Quarter:
I charge you do not spare nor Sex, nor Age.
[Exit.
Enter
Rutland.
Oh! whither shall I fly? How shall I 'scape?
Ah,
Clifford
comes, and no one's here to guard me.
Re-enter
Clifford.
Thou cursed Brat of
York
's accursed Race,
Prepare to die.
Oh! brave, noble,
Clifford,
Hear me but speak a Word before I die.
What can'st thou say, fond Boy, that's worth my hearing?
I only beg you to regard your self,
You are a Noble Man, I am a Boy;
Stain not your Fame by killing a poor Boy,
I wou'd not for your own sake you shou'd do it,
For I love gallant Men—and I love you,
Tho' you are my Enemy—because you are valiant.
Away, you infinuating, flattering Boy,
Give o'er, give o'er, for were there in thy Voice
Celestial Harmony, my Father's Blood
Has shut the Passage where the Sound should enter.
I did not shed his Blood.
Thy Father did.
Then fight my Father, that will get you Honour.
Shou'd I kill thee, thy Father, and thy Brothers,
'Twere not Revenge sufficient for my Wrath.
No, if I dig'd up thy Forefathers Graves
It cou'd not slake mine Ire, or ease my Heart.
The Sight of any of the House of
York
Is as a Fury to torment my Soul;
And till I root out the accursed Line,
And leave not one alive, I live in Hell,
Therefore—
Oh! let me pray before I take my Death;
To thee I pray—sweet
Clifford,
pity me.
Such Pity as my Rapier's Point affords.
Hear me, but one Word more, dear, brave, Lord
Clifford,
You have a Son, for his sake pity me,
Lest in Revenge thereof, since Heaven is just,
He be as miserably slain as I.
Why shou'd your Fury burn against the Innocent?
I kill thee out of Hatred to thy Kind,
As I would do a Toad, or a young Serpent.
Ah! let me live in Prison all my Days,
And when I give Occasion of Offence
Then let me die, for now thou hast no Cause.
I'll hear no more, lest thy soft Tongue o'ercome me,
Thy Father slew my Father, therefore die.
[Stabs him.
May'st thou ne'er get more Fame than by this Deed.
[Dies.
Plantagenet,
I come,
Plantagenet,
And this thy Son's Blood cleaving to my Blade,
Shall rust upon my Weapon, till thy Blood
Congeal'd with this, do make me wipe off both.
Take up the Body, and bring it after me,
I'll make a Present of it to proud
York.
[Exit.
Enter
York.
The Army of the Queen hath got the Field,
My Uncles both are slain in rescuing me;
And all my Followers to the eager Foe
Turn back, and fly like Ships before the Wind,
Or Lambs pursu'd by hungry starved Wolves.
My Sons, Heav'n knows what hath bechanced them,
But this I know, they have behav'd themselves
Like Men born to Renown, by Life or Death.
Three Times did
Richard
make a Lane to me,
And thrice cry'd, Courage, Father, fight it out.
And full as oft came
Edward
to my side,
With purple Falchion painted to the Hilt
In Blood of those who had encounter'd him.
Richard
cry'd Charge, and give no Foot of Ground,
We'll have a Crown or else a glorious Tomb;
A Sceptre, or an earthly Sepulchre.
With this we charg'd again, but soon, alas!
Retir'd back, as I have seen a Swan,
With bootless Labour, swim against the Tide,
And spend her Strength with over-matching Waves.
Ah! hark the fatal Followers do pursue,
And I am very faint, and cannot fly:
But had I Strength; I'm on all Sides inclos'd.
The Sands are number'd that make up my Life,
Here must I stay, and here my Life must end.
Enter
Queen, Clifford,
and Guards.
Ha! have I found thee, proud
Plantagenet?
What tumbled,
Phaeton,
from thy shining Chariot!
Oh, Father! from thy Joys above descend,
And share with me the Pleasure of Revenge.
Thou bloody raging
Clifford,
do thy worst,
I'd scorn to ask thee Mercy hadst thou any;
But thou hast none, then come with all thy Multitudes.
So Cowards fight when they can fly no farther;
So Pidgeons peck the Falcon's piercing Talons;
So desperate Thieves breathe Curses at their Officers.
So triumph Thieves upon their conquer'd Beauty;
So true Men yield, by Robbers so overmatch'd.
Hast thou the Insolence to charge a Prince
With Cowardice, who made thee basely fly:
Call to thy Memory St.
Alban
's Battle.
I do, then didst thou kill my brave old Father.
And now would thee, wer't thou not back'd with Multitudes.
I will try that—stand off, and do not touch him
Unless I fall—then cut him all to pieces.
I will not lose Revenge—yet I will give him
So much Revenge, to kill me if he can.
I thank thee for this Kindness, 'tis a great one.
Hold,
Clifford,
do not Honour him so much,
To prick thy Finger, though it wound his Heart.
What Valour were it, when a Cur doth grin,
For one to thrust his Hand between his Teeth,
When he might spurn him with his Foot away?
It is War's Prize to take all Vantages.
And, valiant
Clifford,
for a Thousand Causes
I wou'd prolong a while the Traytor's Life.
What, was it you that wou'd be
England
's King?
Wast you that revell'd in our Parliaments,
And made a Preachment of your high Descent?
Where are your Mess of Sons to back you now?
The wanton
Edward
and the lusty
George.
And where's that valiant Crook-back'd Prodigy,
Dicky,
your Boy, that with his grumbling Voice
Was won't to cheer his Dad in Mutinies;
And, with the rest, where is your darling
Rutland?
Look,
York,
I stain'd this Napkin with the Blood
That valiant
Clifford,
with his Rapier's Point,
Made issue from the Bosom of thy Boy,
I bring it thee to wipe away thy Tears.
Alas! poor
York,
but that I hate thee deadly,
I should lament thy miserable State.
Oh Tiger's Heart! wrap'd in a Woman's Hide,
How cou'dst thou drain the Life-Blood of a Child,
To bid his Father wipe his Eyes withal,
And yet be seen to wear a Woman's Face?
Why, this I did,
York,
to increase thy Sorrow;
I know a Parent's Love, and thy fond Love,
And all the Mysteries of thy haughty Heart:
I knew that thou wouldst Barricado it
Against the Losses of a Crown and Life,
With Iron Bars of Stubbornness and Pride:
But Oh! this Blood-like Oil will sink into it;
These crimson Threads will lead tormenting Grief
Into the inmost Lodgings of thy Soul.
And lest this Napkin be too soft a Thing,
I have at Hand an Engin that shall squeeze
Thy Soul into thy Eyes—bring
Rutland's
Body.
Rutland's Body brought in.
She Wolf of
France,
for Woman thou art
:
Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible,
Thou, stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless;
Wouldst have me rage, why now thou hast thy Will?
Wouldst have me weep, why now thou hast thy Wish?
These Tears are my sweet
Rutland
's Obsequies,
And every Drop cries Vengeance to his Death.
'Gainst thee fell
Clifford,
and thou false
French
Woman.
Oh! my sweet Boy.
Why, this is Musick to me.
This is the part thou mean'st I shou'd have play'd,
If thy accursed Treasons had succeeded;
But, that my Tragedy must have been deeper,
And bloodier far, thou mean'st I should have wept,
For a lost Kingdom, Husband, and a Son!
See ruthless Queen, a hapless Father's Tears.
This Cloth thou dip'dst in Blood of my sweet Boy;
And I with Tears do wash the Blood away:
Keep thou the Napkin, and go boast of this,
And if thou tell'st the heavy Story right,
Upon my Soul the Hearers will shed Tears;
Yea, ev'n my Foes will shed fast falling Tears,
And say, alas! it was a piteous Deed.
May, in thy need, such Comfort come to thee,
As now I reap at thy most cruel Hand.
Hard hearted
Clifford,
take me from the World,
My Soul to Heaven, my Blood upon thy Head.
Here's for my Oath, and for my Father's Death,
And here's to Right our gentle hearted King.
[Stabs
York.
Open thy Gates of Mercy, gracious Heaven,
My Soul flies through these Wounds to seek out thee.
[Dies.
Now take his Head, once fill'd with lofty Thoughts,
And set it on a lofty Pinacle.
[Exeunt.
The End of the Second ACT.
ACT III. SCENE I.
Enter
Edward, Richard,
and Soldiers.
I Wonder how our princely Father 'scap'd,
Or, whether he be 'scap'd away, or no,
From
Clifford
's and
Northumberland
's Pursuit?
Had he been ta'en, or kill'd, we had heard the News:
Or otherwise, methinks, we should have heard
The happy Tidings of his good Escape.
How fares my Brother? Why are you sad?
I cannot Joy until I am resolv'd
What is become of our right valiant Father;
I saw him in the Battle range about,
And watch'd him how he singled
Clifford
forth;
Methought he bore him in the thickest Troop,
As doth a Lion 'mongst a Herd of Deer;
Or, as a Bear encompass'd round with Dogs,
Who having pinch'd a few, and made 'em cry,
The rest stand all aloof, and bark at him,
So far'd our Father with his Enemies.
See how the Morning opes her golden Gates,
And takes her Farewel of the glorious Sun;
How well resembles it the Prime of Youth,
Trimm'd like a Yonker prancing to his Love.
Dazzle my Eyes, or do I see three Suns!
Three glorious Suns, each one a perfect Sun,
Not separated with the racking Clouds,
But sever'd in a pale, clear, shining Sky;
See, see, they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,
As if they vow'd some League inviolable.
Now are they but one Lamp, one Light, one Sun.
In this the Heav'ns figure some Event.
'Tis wond'rous strange, the like—yet never heard of,
I think it cites us, Brother, to the Field,
That we, the Sons of brave
Plantagenet,
Each one already blazing by our Deeds,
Should, notwithstanding, join our Lights together,
And over shine the Earth, as this the World.
Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear
Upon my Target, Three fair shining Suns.
Enter Gentleman.
But, what art thou, whose heavy Looks foretel
Some dreadful Story hanging on thy Tongue?
One that was a woful Looker on,
When as the noble Duke of
York
was slain,
Your princely Father, and my noble Lord.
Oh, speak no more! For I have heard too much.
Say how he dy'd, for I will hear it all.
Environ'd he was with many Foes,
And stood against 'em, as the Hope of
Troy
Against the
Greeks,
that would have enter'd there.
But
Hercules
himself must yield to odds;
And many Strokes, tho' with a little Ax,
Hews down, and fells the hardest timber'd Oak.
By many Hands your Father was subdu'd,
But only slaughter'd by the ireful Arm
Of unrelenting
Clifford,
whilst the Queen
Laugh'd in his Face; and when with Grief he wept,
The ruthless Queen, gave him to dry his Cheeks,
A Napkin steeped in the harmless Blood
Of sweet young
Rutland,
by rough
Clifford
slain;
And after many Scorns, many foul Taunts,
They took his Head, and on the Gates of
York
They set the same, and there it doth remain
The saddest Spectacle that e'er was view'd.
Oh
Clifford!
flinty
Clifford!
thou hast crop'd
The Flower of
Europe
for his Chivalry,
And treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him;
For Hand to Hand he would have vanquish'd thee.
Now my Soul's Palace is become a Prison.
Oh! wou'd she break from hence, that this my Body
Might in the Ground be closed up in Rest,
For I henceforth shall never joy again;
Never, Oh never, shall I know more Joy!
I cannot weep, for all my Body's Moisture
Scarce serves to quench my Furnace burning Heart.
Nor can my Tongue unload my Heart's great Burden,
For the same Wind that I shou'd speak withal,
Is kindling Coals that fire up all my Breast;
And burn me up with Flames that Tears would quench.
To weep is to make less the Depth of Grief;
Tears then for Babes, but dear Revenge for me.
Richard,
I bear thy Name, I'll 'venge thy Death,
Or die renowned by attempting it.
Enter
Warwick
and Soldiers.
Now, noble Lords, tell me what News abroad.
O
Warwick! Warwick!
—great
Plantagenet
Is by the stern Lord
Clifford
put to Death.
Some Time ago I drown'd this News in Tears,
After the bloody Fray at
Wakefield
fought,
Where your brave Father breath'd his latest Gasp;
Tidings, as swiftly as the Post could run,
Were brought me of your Loss, and his Depart.
I then in
London,
Keeper of the King,
Muster'd my Soldiers, gather'd Flocks of Friends,
March'd towards St.
Albans
to intercept the Queen.
Bearing the King, in my Behalf, along;
For by my Scouts I was advertis'd,
That she was coming with a full Intent
To dash our late Decrees in Parliament,
Touching King
Henry
's Oaths, and your Succession.
Short Tale to make, we at St.
Albans
met,
Our Battles join'd, and for long Time we fought;
But whether 'twas the Coldness of the King,
Who look'd full gently on his warlike Queen,
That robb'd my Soldiers of their heated Spleen;
Or, whether 'twas Report of her Success,
Or more than common Fear of
Clifford
's Vigor,
Who thunders to his Captives Blood and Death,
I cannot judge, but to conclude with Truth,
Their Weapons like to Light'ning came and went;
Our Soldiers, like the Night-Owls lazy Flight,
Or like a lazy Thrasher with his Flail,
Fell gently down, as if they struck their Friends;
I cheer'd 'em up with Justice of our Cause,
With Promise of high Pay, and great Reward,
But all in vain, they had no Heart to fight;
And we in them no Hope to win the Day,
So that we fled; the King unto the Queen,
Lord
George,
your Brother;
Norfolk
and my self,
With th' utmost speed, are come to join with you;
For in the Marshes here we heard you were,
Making another Head to fight again.
Where is the Duke of
Norfolk,
noble
Warwick?
And when came
George
from
Burgundy
to
England?
Some four Miles off the Duke is with the Soldiers,
And for your Brother, he was lately sent
From your kind Aunt, Dutchess of
Burgundy,
With needful Aid of Soldiers to this War,
And ev'ry Minute I expect him here.
'Twas Odds belike, when valiant
Warwick
fled;
Oft have I heard his Praises in Pursuit,
But ne'er till now, his Scandal of Retreat.
Nor now my Scandal,
Richard,
Dost thou hear?
For thou shalt know this strong right Hand of mine,
Can pluck the Diadem from faint
Henry
's Head,
And wring the awful Scepter from his Hand,
Were he as famous, and as bold in War,
As he is fam'd for Mildness, Peace, and Prayer.
I know it well, Lord
Warwick,
blame me not,
'Tis Love I bear thy Glories makes me speak.
But in this busy Time, what's to be done?
Shall we go throw away our Coats of Steel,
And wrap our Bodies in black Mourning Gown,
Numb'ring our
Ave Maries
with our Beads?
Or, shall we on the Helmets of our Foes
Tell our Devotion with revengeful Arms,
If for the last, say ay, and to it Lords?
Why therefore
Warwick
came to seek you out,
And therefore comes my Brother
Mountague;
Then once again let's stride our foaming Steeds,
And once again cry Charge upon our Foes,
But never more will we turn back and fly.
Ay, now, indeed, I hear great
Warwick
speak.
Ne'er may he live to see a Sun-shine Day
That cries Retreat, if
Warwick
bid him stay.
Enter
George
and Soldiers.
My Brother
George,
take a short Soldiers Welcome,
I have not Time to greet thee as I ought,
For we are going to a glorious Feast.
I heard of our great Father's sad Misfortunes,
And came to his Revenge with all the speed
A hungry Wretch wou'd do to a great Feast,
Where there are many Guests, and he far off.
Say, my dear Brother, are your Troops prepar'd?
All, all with a longing Appetite for 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,
And he that throws not up his Cap for Joy,
Shall for the Fault make forfeit of his Head.
Stay we no longer dreaming of Renown,
But sound the Trumpets, and about our Task.
Enter Messenger.
Princes prepare, the Foe is near at Hand,
The Amazon Queen drags
Henry
to the Battle,
Who fain wou'd keep his Oath, but she'll not suffer him.
Why, let 'em come, we are prepar'd to face 'em.
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.
This Day decides who shall be King of
England.
Strike up our Drums, and let the Trumpets sound,
Our brave Approach shall so much dare the Field,
That
Henry
shall couch down in Fear, and yield.
[Exit.
A short March, then an Alarm, clashing of Swords, and shouting. Enter
Warwick.
Ev'n spent with Toil, as Runners with a Race,
I lay me down a little while to breathe,
For Strokes receiv'd, and many Blows repay'd,
Have robb'd my strong knit Sinews of their Strength.
Enter
Edward.
Smile, gentle Heav'n, or strike, ungentle Death,
For this World's Frowns, and
Edward
's Sun is clouded.
Enter
George.
Our Ranks are broke, and Ruin follows us:
What Counsel give you? Whither shall we fly?
Bootless is Flight, they follow us with Wings,
And weak we are, and cannot shun Pursuit.
Enter
Richard.
Ah
Warwick!
—Why hast thou withdrawn thy self,
Thy Brother's Blood the thirsty Earth hath drunk,
Broach'd with the steely Point of
Clifford
's Lance;
And in the very Pangs of Death he cry'd,
Like to a dismal
Clangor
heard from far,
Warwick
revenge, Brother, revenge my Death:
So underneath the Belly of his Steeds,
That stain'd their Fetlocks in his smoaking Blood,
The noble Gentleman gave up the Ghost.
Then let the Earth be drunken with our Blood,
I'll kill my Horse because I will not fly.
Why stand we like soft-hearted Women here,
Wailing our Losses, while the Foe doth rage,
And look upon, as if the Tragedy
Were play'd in Jest by counterfeiting Actors?
Here, on my Knees, I vow to Heav'n above,
I'll never pause again, never stand still,
Till either Death doth close these Eyes of mine,
Or, till the Battle gives me full Revenge.
O
Warwick!
I do bend my Knee with thine,
And in this Vow do chain my Soul to thine;
And e'er my Knee rise from the Earth's cold Face,
I lift my Hands, my Eyes, my Heart, to thee,
Thou Setter up, and Plucker down, of Kings,
Beseeching thee (if with thy Will it stands)
That to my Foes this Body must be Prey,
Yet that thy glorious Gates of Heav'n may ope,
And give sweet Passage to my wand'ring Soul.
Yet let us all together to our Troops,
And give them leave to fly that dare not stay;
And call them Pillars that will stand to us,
Promising such Rewards if we should thrive,
As Victors wore at the
Olympian
Games:
This may plant Courage in their quailing Breasts,
For yet is Hope of Life and Victory.
Again then let our bloody Colours wave,
And either Victory, or else a Grave.
Now Lords, take leave until we meet again,
Where-e'er it be, in Heav'n, or on Earth.
[Exeunt.
Enter
Richard
and
Clifford,
meeting.
Now
Clifford,
I have singled thee alone,
Suppose this Arm is for the Duke of
York,
And for young
Rutland,
bound to revenge 'em both,
Wert thou inviron'd with a brazen Wall.
And,
Richard,
here's the Hand that stabb'd old
York;
The self same Hand that slew thy Brother
Rutland;
And here's the Heart that triumphs in their Deaths,
And cheers the Hand that slew thy Sire and Brother,
To execute the like upon thy self,
And so have at thee.
Now guard well thy Heart.
[Fight off the Stage
Enter King
Henry.
The Battle fares like to the Morning's War,
When dying Clouds contend with growing Light;
Both Armies tug for Victory Breast to Breast,
Yet neither's Conqueror, nor conquered.
Here, on this Mole-hill, will I set me down,
An easier Seat than a high Throne of State;
To whom Heav'n will there be the Victory,
For
Margaret,
my Queen, and
Clifford
too,
Have chid me from the Battle, swearing both,
They prosper best of all when I am thence.
Wou'd I were dead, if it were Heav'ns good Will,
For what is in this World but Grief and Woe:
Oh! I am weary of this wretched State.
Just now I met a Son bearing his Father,
And an unhappy Father with his Son,
Each by the other slain unwittingly;
They being press'd into different Services.
Oh monstrous Effect of Civil War!
Oh piteous Spectacle! Oh sad Confusions!
What horrid Errors, and unnatural Ills,
Our horrid and unnatural War produces!
Alas! had they lack'd Tears, I cou'd supply 'em.
How will the Kingdom, for these woful Chances,
Mis-think the King, and not be satisfy'd.
Oh wretched Men! How are ye all deceiv'd,
Who think there's no true Joy but in a Crown.
By my Life,
It is the very Height of Misery:
Nature's common Benefits we want;
Our Sleep unsound, and short, and all our Needs,
To be supply'd with Fear, since Treachery
Lurks in each Corner of a cursed Court?
How often is a Monarch stung to Death,
By the deadly Viper which his Bosom warm'd?
How do we rack our Brain with Thoughts for others,
Who nothing think for us? Yet, how are Men gull'd
With the deceitful Bait of Pomp and Shew,
Meer gaudy Pagentry, to varnish over
A wild distracted State?
Now, by my Royalty, and pompous Woe,
A Prison's preferable to a Court:
There, tho' confin'd, I cou'd enjoy my Mind,
At Liberty, soar to the high Orbs of Heaven,
And gain a Kingdom of immortal Joy;
While others, toiling for a Nation's Good,
Shall lose themselves. Alas!
Did my Son know the Trouble of a Crown,
He'd cease to wonder why I should resign it,
And joyn in Prayers for Heaven to take it from me.
Oh wretched Men, who in these Wars have lost
Your dearest Friends, and now are weeping for 'em,
Here is a King more woful than you all,
You grieve but for your selves, I for you all!
Oh you, who when you suffer by your Kings,
Think to mend all by War, and by Rebellion,
See here your sad Mistakes; how dreadfully
You scourge your selves!
And, Oh! you Kings, who let your People rule
Till they have run themselves into Confusion,
See here, such Gentleness does wound like Tyranny.
Enter Queen and Prince.
But that my Heart's on future Battles set,
I wou'd speak Blasphemy e'er bid you fly;
But fly you must, for all your Friends are fled,
And
Warwick
rages like a chased Bull:
Away, for Death doth hold us in Pursuit.
The Day is lost, and with the Day the Kingdom.
Where's
Clifford?
Oft within this Hour
I saw him down, oft up again, and fighting,
From Helmet, to the Spur, all Blood he was.
Stay not to talk—
Clifford,
I think, is dead;
I met him bleeding with an Hundred Wounds,
And now in Cakes of Blood his Fire is quench'd.
Mount you, my Load, towards
Berwick,
post amain;
Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed.
I go, but care not what becomes of me.
[Exit.
Enter
Clifford
wounded.
Here burns my Candle out, that lighted
Henry:
My Love and Fear glew'd many Friends to thee,
And now I fall, thy tough Commixtures melt,
Impairing good
Henry,
strength'ning proud
York.
And, whither fly the Gnats but to the Sun?
And, who shines now but
Henry
's Enemies?
O
Phoebus,
hadst thou never giv'n Consent,
That
Phaeton
shou'd check thy fiery Steeds,
Thy burning Car never had scorch'd the Earth.
And
Henry,
hadst thou sway'd as Kings shou'd do;
Or as thy Father, and his Father did,
Giving no Ground unto the House of
York,
They never then had sprung like Summer flies.
I, and Ten Thousand, in this luckless Realm,
Had left no Mourning Widows for our Death;
And thou, this Day, hadst kept thy Chair in Peace;
For, what doth cherish Weeds, but gentle Air?
And, what makes Robbers bold, but too much Lenity.
Bootless are Plaints, and cureless are my Wounds;
No way to fly, nor Strength to hold out Flight:
The Foe is merciless, and will not pity;
For at their Hands I have deserv'd no Mercy.
The Air hath got into my deadly Wounds,
And much Effuse of Blood doth make me faint.
Come
York
and
Richard, Clarence,
and the rest,
I stabb'd your Father's Bosons, split my Breast.
[Faints.
Shout.] Enter
Edward, Richard, George, Warwick,
Soldiers.
Now breathe we, Lords, good Fortune bids us pause,
And smooth the Frowns of War with peaceful Looks.
Are any Troops gone to pursue the Queen?
On her Fame
Henry
's Fortune does depend,
As the Seas Ebb and Flow does on the Moon.
I have ta'en Care of that.
Pray tell me, Lords,
Think you that
Clifford
fled with the King and Queen?
No, 'tis impossible he shou'd escape;
For tho' before his Face I speak the Word,
Your Brother
Richard
mark'd him for the Grave,
And wheresoe'er he is, he's surely dead.
Oh!
[dies.
Whose Soul is that which takes her deadly Leave?
See who it is—And now the Battle's ended,
If Friend, or Foe, let him be gently us'd.
Revoke that Doom of Mercy—for 'tis
Clifford,
Who, not contented that he lopp'd the Branch,
In hewing
Rutland,
when his Leaves put forth,
But set his murth'ring Knife unto the Root,
From whence that tender Spray did sweetly spring,
I mean our princely Father, Duke of
York.
Bring forth that fatal Screch-Owl to our House,
That nothing sung but Death to us and ours;
Now Death shall stop his dismal threat'ning Sound,
And his ill-boding Tongue no more shall speak.
I think his Understanding is bereft.
Say
Clifford,
Dost thou know who speaks to thee?
Dark, cloudy Death, o'ershades his Beams of Life,
And he nor sees, nor hears us, what we say.
Since then he's dead, off with the Traytor's Head,
And rear it in the Place your Father's stands.
And now to
London
with triumphant March,
There to be crowned
England
's Royal King.
From hence shall
Warwick
cut the Sea to
France,
And ask the Lady
Bona
for thy Queen;
So shalt thou sinew both these Lands together;
And having
France
thy Friend, thou shalt not dread
The scatter'd Foes that hope to rise again;
For tho' they cannot greatly sting to hurt,
Yet look to have 'em buz to offend your Ears.
Oh! thou hast made me much in Love with
Bona,
And all Relations have increas'd my Passion;
I cannot Marry better—haste away.
Then, Royal Sir, I humbly take my Leave.
Success attend your Embassy, my Lord.
[Exit.
Enter a Gentleman.
A beauteous Lady, attir'd in Widow's Weeds,
Intreats Admission to your Majesty.
Admit her instantly.
[Exit Gent.
Enter Lady
Grey.
She kneels, and delivers a Petition. The King gazes on her.
Sir, I present you humbly the Petition
Of a poor Widow, and her little Orphans.
I am the Relict of one Sir
John Grey,
Who in St.
Alban
's Battle lost his Life,
In the Defence of him we thought our King.
If my poor Husband's Loyalty did err,
He dearly for that fatal Error paid.
My humble Prayer is, that my poor Orphans
May not be punish'd for their Father's Faults,
If erring Loyalty can be a Fault.
I ne'er had Eyes, or my Eyes ne'er saw Beauty
Till this amazing Minute.
So! he's lost,
And any one may have
England
now that will.
May it please your Highness to resolve me now,
And what your Pleasure is shall satisfy me.
Ay, Widow, then, I'll warrant you, all your Lands,
If that which pleases him shall pleasure you.
I am so rapp'd, I mind not what she says,
Nor that she is all this while upon her Knees.
Pray, Madam, rise—leave us.
Yea, is it so?
I see the Lady hath a Thing to grant
Before the King will grant her humble Suit.
If I forget not, you said you had a Husband
Who in St.
Alban
's Battle lost his Life.
Yes, Sir, I had, his Name was Sir
John Grey.
What Excellence had he above Mankind,
That he shou'd be more blest than all the rest?
How many Children have you, Lady? Tell me.
I think he means to beg a Child of her.
Nay, then hang me, he'll rather give her two.
Three, my most gracious Lord.
You shall have Four if you'll be rul'd by him.
Oh wondrous, happy Man, to enjoy this Woman!
I must enquire about her, I was never,
Never so charm'd before—my Lord, come hither,
Pray do you know this Lady?
Yes, Sir, well,
She is the Widow of the late Sir
John Grey,
A Man of noble Blood, and great Estate,
But a most vehement
Lancastrian.
No Matter: Of what Family is she?
Her Quality does far exceed her Husband's,
And yet her Vertue does exceed her Quality;
She is the Daughter of Sir
Richard Woodvil,
Her Mother was sometime Dutchess of
Bedford,
And Daughter of the Earl of St.
Pool.
Of noble Birth, and by her Mother's Side
Related to the House of
Lancaster.
She is by Marriage, Sir, that was the Cause
That Sir
John Grey
was such a fierce
Lancastrian.
She has Beauty, Vertue, joyn'd with noble Birth;
Why may not this fair Lady be a Queen?
But she's a Subject,
England
will not like it;
And the
English
Nation, like the Sea it governs,
Is bold and turbulent, and easily mov'd,
And always beats against the Shore that bounds it.
What, are the People free, and not the King?
Not free, where every Slave is free, his Bed;
Ay, so it is it seems, and th'
English
Fury,
Will easily with any Wind be rais'd,
To dash the Palaces and Peace of Kings.
Come what will come, this Lady shall be mine;
She shall be, or my Mistress, or my Wife.
What was it, Madam, you desir'd of me?
To give poor Orphans, Sir, their Father's Lands.
Heaven forbid I shou'd retain 'em from 'em.
Then, Sir, with humble Thanks, I take my leave.
Hold, Madam, for I must have one Word more.
Pray tell me, Madam, Do you love your Children?
More dearly, Sir, than I do love my self.
And wou'd you not do much to do them good?
To do them good I wou'd sustain much harm.
I must impose a Tax upon this Land.
It shall be thankfully and gladly paid.
It will, I'm sure, more gladly be receiv'd.
It is an easy Tax, no more but Love.
No Loyal Subject, Sir, but loves their King.
But this is Love that none but you can grant.
I do not understand your Meaning, Sir.
Truly I scarcely understand my self.
For I have gaz'd my self out of my Reason.
With your Permission, Sir, I take my Leave.
Oh, you shall never, never, part from me!
Alas! what mean you, Sir.
I mean all the Love
E'er was, or can be, in the Heart of Man.
Oh, Royal Sir, I dare not understand you,
Because I dare not think Ill of my Prince.
Can there be ill in Love? There will be all
The Happiness to me, Glory to you,
Your Heart and mine can possibly desire.
Why do you tremble, and draw back your Hand?
You must not, shall not stir, till you have granted
What all this Languishing and Pressing mean.
Oh, I shall swoon! Wou'd I had ne'er come here.
Sir, I thus low most humbly beg of you,
Let it suffice your conquering Arms have seiz'd
My Husband's Life, your Laws have seiz'd his Lands,
Seek not to take my Honour, and my Vertue.
I never fought against you, ne'er oppos'd you.
Her Looks do argue her repleat with Modesty.
Her Words do show her Sense incomparable.
All her Perfections challenge Sovereignty;
I wrong her therefore, she deserves a Crown,
And each Look claims a Kingdom as its due.
Madam, I mean nothing but Honour to you,
I am resolv'd to make you Queen of
England.
Now, Sir, you mean Dishonour to your self;
I am as much unworthy to be Queen,
As I'm above serving an ill Design.
Rather, the Crown's unworthy of your Beauty.
It is impossible you shou'd descend
To such mean Thoughts.
It is impossible
I shou'd have Happiness without your Love.
I had rather with your Love be your dead Husband,
Than with your Hatred be a living King.
Therefore consider well what you will do.
Think on the Extravagance of my Passion;
Think how very great or miserable
My Power can make you, and remember too,
You said you were fond of all your Children,
And that to do them Good you cou'd bear Harm.
And now, behold a King, who courts both you
And them to Wealth, Pomp, and Royal Greatness.
Heav'n instruct me what Answer I shall make.
Who knows how far his Passion, back'd with Power,
May hurry him to ruin me and mine:
If I should not consent unto his Will,
I, by denial, ruin our whole House.
When I, by yielding, bear the Storm alone,
I rather will consent to sacrifice
My self, than see my poor little Orphans
Reduc'd to Shame, to Want, and Beggary;
That Thought strikes more Poniards into my Heart,
Than my consenting unto
Edward
's Love.
Oh, that I only were concern'd in this!
[aside.
I lately wish'd I never had come here,
For my own sake, I wish it now for yours.
Oh think, Sir, what will all your Subjects say!
They'll say I am in Love.
But will they not
Be much displeas'd their Prince shou'd love so low.
I give them leave to chuse where they like best,
And shall I be the only Man impos'd on.
But you have sent to Court a foreign Princess,
May bring your Kingdom great Advantages,
Consider how you may enrage Lord
Warwick.
He is my Friend and Subject, not my Master.
I fear the World will much condemn you, Sir.
I care not.
I had rather live a Minute in your Arms,
Than many Ages in the Praise of Fools.
Enter Gentleman.
Most happy Tidings, Sir
Henry,
your Enemy,
Wandring alone disguis'd in homely Habit,
Was taken by the Keepers of the Forest,
As he was reading in a lonely Covert.
Good News, indeed! where is he, bring him to me.
Enter King
Henry
in mean Habit.
Why, how now
Henry,
in this humble Garb?
Insult not,
Edward,
over my Misfortunes,
But from this Garb, in which thou scarce canst know me,
Learn thou to know thy self, and remember,
Heav'n can humble ev'ry King like me.
Henry,
I pity thee, thou dost not suffer
For thy own Crimes, but those of thy usurping
And traiterous Ancestors—to
London
with him,
And keep him a close Prisoner in the
Tower;
See that he there command all Things but Liberty.
How all my Happinesses flow together;
My Head incircled with a glorious Crown,
My greatest Enemy within my Power.
Successful Conquest waiting on my Arms,
And what's yet more, possess'd of thy bright Charms.
[Exeunt.
And have I fought only to give you Joys?
What, must not I too have an equal Share?
I have my Passions, Sir, as well as you.
Whence do those Passions spring, from childish Love?
No, from manly Greatness; all other Fondness
I've banish'd from this rude tough Breast of mine,
For I'm not made to please a wanton Eye.
Then, what will satisfy my Appetite?
Nought but a Crown, it hangs within my sight,
And I will stretch this blasted Arm of mine
O'er all the Heads that are 'twixt me and that
But I will reach it—my Arm must then be long,
For say that
Edward
's Title's buried,
Still there remains
Clarence
and
Henry,
And his Son
Edward,
with their unlook'd for Issue,
To take their Rooms, e'er I can place my self.
A cold Premeditation for my Purpose.
Why then do I but dream on Sovereignty?
Like one that stands upon a Promontory,
And spies afar off Shore, which he wou'd tread,
Wishing his Foot were equal with his Eye;
And chides the Sea that sunders him from thence,
Saying, he'll lave it dry, to have his Way.
So flatter I my self with Things impossible.
How rarely wou'd the long Regal Robe
Hide my Deformity of Back and Legs?
How wou'd a Sceptre grace this shrunk up Arm?
And, Oh! what Beauty is there in a Crown?
And till I gain it I do live in Torment.
Shall I then stand like one lost in a Wood,
And rather bear the pricking of the Thorns,
Than stain my Sword by hewing out my Way?
Why do I not set this Brain of mine to work,
And frame my Countenance to all Occasions?
I'll play the Orator as well as
Nestor,
Deceive more slyly than
Ulysses
cou'd,
And like a
Sinon
take another
Troy.
I can add Colours to the
Camelion,
And, for Advantage, can change Shapes with
Proteus.
Have I endur'd all Hazards of the War,
Only to see this lustful
Edward
reign?
Have both my Hands, for him, been wash'd in
Blood—
And shall they not dare do the same for me?
Soft Time, and Cunning, and a daring Mind,
Shall set this wish'd for Crown upon my Head?
Some Men, perhaps, will say by Villany,
That's Villany, which by its ill Success,
Betrays a Man, and into Ruin throws,
When once it gains a Crown, it Vertue grows.
The End of the Third ACT.
ACT IV. SCENE I.
Enter
Warwick
with a Letter.
'tis well, I do deserve this from thee,
For being such an Ass to fight for one
Who melts each Hour away in Luxury,
And gives his Kingdom for a Widow's Toy.
Edward,
my Wrongs are great, and thou shalt find
I think 'em so.
Did I forget, that by the House of
York
My Father came untimely to his Death:
Did I impale thee with the Regal Crown,
And put King
Henry
from his native Right,
And is it thus thou recompenc'st my Deeds?
My injur'd Honour rouses up my Rage.
Am I rewarded at the last with Shame?
Then, to repair my Honour lost for thee,
I will renounce thee, and return to
Henry.
So, noble
Margaret,
former Grudges pass,
Henceforth I'll be her faithful Servitor,
And I'll plant
Henry
in his former State.
When I departed from this treacherous
Edward,
Matters of Marriage was the Charge he gave me,
But dreadful War shall answer his Demand.
Had he none else to make a S
e but me?
Then none but I shall turn his Jest to Sorrow?
I was the Chief that rais'd him to this Pomp,
And I'll be Chief to bring him down again.
Both in Pity of
Henry
's Misery,
And for Revenge of
Edward
's Mockery.
[Exit.
Enter
Edward,
and Attendants, meeting a Messenger.
Now Sir, what Letters, or, what News, from
France?
My Sovereign Liege, no Letters, and few Words,
But such as I (without your special Pardon)
Dare not relate.
Go too, we pardon thee:
Therefore, in brief, tell their Words,
As near as thou canst guess them.
What Answer made King
Lewis
to our Letters?
At my Depart these were his very Words;
Go tell false
Edward,
thy supposed King,
That
Lewis
of
France
is sending over Maskers,
To revel it with him, and his new Bride.
Is
Lewis
so brave? Belike he thinks me
Henry.
But what said Lady
Bona
to my Marriage?
These were her Words, utter'd with mild Disdain;
Tell him, in hope he'll prove a Widower shortly,
I'll wear the Willow Garland for his sake.
I blame not her, she cou'd say little less;
Her's was the Wrong. But what said
Henry
's Queen?
For she, I hear, was present at that Time.
Tell him (quoth she)
My Mourning Weeds I now shall lay aside,
And I am ready to put Armour on.
Belike she means to play the
Amazon,
Yet how brooks
Warwick
this our sudden Marriage?
He, more incens'd against your Majesty
Than all the rest, discharg'd me with these Words;
Tell him, from me, that he hath done me wrong,
And therefore I'll uncrown him e'er be long.
Ha! durst the Traytor utter such proud Words?
Well, I will arm me, being thus forewarn'd;
They shall have Wars, and pay for their Presumption;
But say, is
Warwick
Friends with
Margaret?
They are so link'd in Friendship, Sovereign,
That young Prince
Edward
marries
Warwick
's Daughter.
Haste you to
Stafford;
bid him levy Men,
The Foe already's landed on our Coast,
And therefore let us hence, and lose no Hour,
'Till we meet Rebel
Warwick
with his Power.
[Exeunt.
Enter King
Henry,
Prince, Queen,
Warwick,
and Guards.
Now, Sir, you are King again, this valiant Lord
Has left the horrid Desarts of Rebellion;
Where he, and all his glorious Deeds were lost,
And found the Road of Honour.
I confess
Fortune did mislead me, and I the Kingdom,
To give your Royal Rights to a false Prince,
Who has some Royal Blood, no Royal Vertues,
So has no Right to Crowns those Vertues gain'd.
I give you Thanks, my Lord, for your great Gifts;
Life, Freedom, and a Crown. I call 'em Gifts,
Cause you can take 'em from me, or let me keep 'em.
To Life and Freedom I have a clear Title,
Because I ne'er did ill to forfeit 'em.
But oh! I am afraid to wear the Crown,
For fear I share the Murder that procur'd it.
Oh spiritless Prince! born for a Prison, not a Throne.
What, if your Grandfather murder'd his King,
Must you take Physick for his Sicknesses?
Or rather die! for a King's Crown and Life
Go fight together—so King
Richard
found it.
Sir, all our Lives wholly depend on yours,
And for one Fault of your dead Grandfather,
Which he repented, will you punish Thousands?
That he full sore repented
Richard
's Death,
His Deeds do show, for in goodly Order
He follow'd the King's Body to the Grave,
And on it he bestow'd more contrite Tears,
Than from it issued forced Drops of Blood.
Five Hundred Poor he yearly held in pay,
Who twice a Day their wither'd Hands held up
Towards Heav'n, to pardon the sad bloody Crime.
And more, did he not erect two Chauntries,
Where still the sad and solemn Priests do sing
For
Richard
's Soul: You'll sin to lose the Crown,
More than our Grandfather did to gain it.
If you will doom your self to be depos'd,
Because the Crown was gotten by ill Means;
By the same Law you may destroy half your Kingdom,
If Men, by inheriting their Fathers Fortunes,
Inherit the Crimes, by which their Fathers gain'd 'em,
Where is the Nation would not deserve Death?
Full well hath
Marg'ret
play'd the Orator,
Inferring Arguments of mighty Force:
But, pray now, tell me, did you never hear,
That Things ill got had ever bad Success.
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.
Sir, if you be no King, we are all Rebels,
And merit Death.
The undeserving
Edward
's,
Not only doom'd by Heav'n unfit for Reign,
But by his Flesh and Blood, his Brother
Clarence,
Who has revolted from him,
And to create between us
A lasting League, marries my eldest Daughter.
And I have giv'n my Heart, Sir, to her Sister,
Who has kindly list'ned to my Tale of Love.
Oh, do not make me wretched e'ery Way!
Ambitious
York
did level at thy Crown,
Thou smiling while he knit his angry Brows;
He but a Duke wou'd 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 argu'd thee a most unloving Father.
Unreasonable Creatures feed their Young;
And tho' Man's Face be fearful to their Eyes,
Yet in Protection of their tender Ones,
Who hath not seen 'em, even with those Wings
Which sometimes they have us'd with fearful Flight,
Make War with him that climb'd unto their Nest,
Off'ring their own Lives in their Young's Defence.
For shame then,
Henry,
make them your President;
Were it not pity that this goodly Boy
Shou'd 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 thy own, and leave thine own with him.
Oh! Nature conquers me!
Oh, happy Conquest!
Upon my Knees, Sir, I return you Thanks.
Enter
George.
See, here he comes, who gallantly to serve
His King and Country, will forsake his Brother.
Welcome, brave
Clarence,
I hold it Cowardice
To rest mistrustful, where a noble Heart
Hath pawn'd an open Hand in Sign of Love;
Else might I think that
Clarence, Edward
's Brother,
Were but a feigned Friend to our Proceedings.
But once more welcome, my Daughter shall be thine.
I thought my Blood deriv'd a Crown to us,
But now I find it derives only Treason;
To clear the Taint, I come to set it boiling
Over a flaming Zeal for the King's Service.
What think you now, Sir? Do you judge your Title
Good, when your very Enemies proclaim it.
I find it's Heaven's Will that I shou'd Reign.
My noble Friends, let me embrace you both.
My Lord of
Warwick,
you are Fortunate,
I must beg you to Rule, for I'm afraid
My thwarting Stars will blast this blessed Land.
Your Majesty is wise to foresee Evils,
And Good, that you wou'd save your People from 'em.
Here stands a Prince most worthy of Command.
The World has not more Worth than great Lord
Warwick.
Give me your Hands, I join you both together,
And make you both Protectors of the Kingdom;
Rule you, while I wait only on Devotion.
And now my Son, thy Inheritance is safe.
May I be Happy in my Mistress too.
Ay, if the King consent.
With all my Heart.
Thanks for this Honour, mighty Sovereign.
Who waits? Call in my Daughter, Lady
Anne;
The Marriages shall both be suddenly,
For hourly I expect her Sister here.
Enter Lady
Anne.
Your Blessing, Sir.
Welcome, my dearest Daughter.
Welcome, young Lady unto
Henry
's Court.
[Gazing.]
At every View my Wounds bleed all afresh.
Ye Powers! how her Charms
Steal through my Eyes, and fix upon my Heart.
Myriads of
Cupids
play within her Eyes,
A Thousand Graces wait upon her Smiles,
And her whole Form consists of lovely Charms.
Oh! I could gaze for ever on her Beauty.
Yet think it a short Time, and rarely spent.
Love, my dear Boy, has seiz'd your Heart betimes,
What Heart so young, that must not feel her Power.
I've heard you say, Love was a boyish Passion;
Why do you wonder then it strikes my Youth?
I cannot fancy now I am a Boy,
The Sight of her has warm'd me into Man.
Peace, my young
Ned,
you make the Lady blush.
Say, Daughter, if our Will desire a Marriage
'Twixt you and this young Prince, Would you refuse it?
Sir, your Commands have e'er been sacred to me,
Then do not think I'll now forget my Duty.
The Prince's Merit, and your precious Will,
Shall plead my Excuse for my so soon complying:
And thereon I give my Hand to the young Prince.
With ravish'd Heart, and bended Knee I take it,
The extreamest Bliss my Soul could e'er desire.
O Mother, do not wonder that my Words
Are full of Rapture, since my Heart is so:
She has Delights to ravish every Sense,
And my whole Soul dissolves away in Love.
Then let us in to celebrate your Nuptials,
And may Heaven prosper this your early Loves.
Amen, ye Powers.
And now what rests, but in Night's Coverture,
Edward
being carelessly encamp'd,
His Soldiers lurking in the Town about,
And but attended by a simple Guard,
We may surprize and take him at our Pleasure.
Our Scouts have found the Adventure very easy;
That as
Ulysses,
and stout
Diomede,
With Slight and Manhood stole to
Rhesus'
Tents,
And brought from thence the
Thracian
fatal Steeds.
So we, well cover'd with the Night's black Mantle,
At unawares may beat down
Edward
's Guard,
And seize his Person, but none attempt his Life.
You that will follow me to this Attempt,
Applaud the Name of
Henry
with your Leader.
[Shout.
Why then, let's on our Way in silent Sort,
For
Henry
and his Friends, Heaven and St.
George.
[Exeunt.
Enter Guards.
Come on, my Masters, each Man take his Stand,
The King by this is set him down to sleep.
What, Will he not to Bed?
Why, no—For he hath made a solemn Vow,
Never to lye, and take his natural Rest,
'Till
Warwick,
or himself, be quite supprest.
But say, I pray, What Nobleman is that,
That with the King here resteth in his Tent?
'Tis the Lord
Hastings,
the King's chiefest Friend.
Oh! is it so!—but why commands the King,
That his chief Followers lodge in Towns about him,
While he himself keeps in the cold Field.
'Tis the more Honour, because the more Danger.
Ay, but give me Worship and Quietness,
I like it better than a dangerous Honour.
If
Warwick
knew in what Estate he stands,
'Tis to be doubted he would waken him.
Unless our Halbards did shut up his Passage.
Ay, Wherefore else guard we this royal Tent,
But to defend his Person from Night Foes.
Enter
Warwick,
with Soldiers.
This is his Tent, and see where stands his Guard.
Courage, my Masters, Honour now or never.
But follow me, and
Edward
shall be ours.
Who goes there?
Stay, or thou dy'st.
Warwick, Warwick.
[They fall upon the Guards, and kill them, then rush into the Tent, and bring out
Edward.
What are they that fly there?
Richard
and
Hastings,
let them go; here is the Duke.
Warwick,
when we parted, thou call'dst me King.
When you disgrac'd me in my Embassade,
Then I degraded you from being King,
And now am come to create you Duke of
York.
Alas! how should you govern any Kingdom,
That cannot use a Nobleman with Honour.
Who cannot be contented with one Wife.
Nor know you how to use your Brother
Clarence;
Nor how to study for the People's Welfare;
Nor how to shrowd your self from Enemies;
Nor how to set true Value on a Friend.
Nay, then I see, that
Edward
needs must down.
Yet,
Warwick,
in despight of all Mischance,
Edward
will always bear himself as King:
Though Fortune's Malice overthrow my State,
My Mind exceeds the Compass of her Wheel.
Then for his Mind, be
Edward England
's King,
But
Henry
now shall wear the
English
Crown,
And be true King indeed, thou but a Shadow.
I'll prove upon thee
Warwick
's Power is great.
What Fates impose, poor Man must needs abide;
It boots not to resist both Wind and Tide.
[Exeunt.
Enter Lady
Grey,
meeting a Gentleman.
Now, Sir, tell me, what's the News with you.
Pardon me, gracious Queen, the News I bring
Is full of Grief, and royal
Edward
's Losses.
What of my Sovereign?
He's taken Prisoner.
Either betray'd by Falshood of his Guard,
Or by his Foes surpriz'd at unawares.
And as I further have to understand,
Is now committed to the Bishop of
York,
Fell
Warwick
's Brother, and by that our Foe.
Alas! this News is full of Grief indeed.
Yet, gracious Madam, bear it like your self.
Warwick
may lose, that now hath won the Day.
Till then fair Hope must hinder Life's Decay.
And I the rather wean me from Despair,
For Love of
Edward
's Offspring in my Womb.
'Tis this that makes me bridle in my Passion,
And bear with Mildness my Misfortune cross.
Ay, ay, for this I draw in many a Tear,
And stop the rising of Blood-sucking Sighs:
Left with my Sighs or Tears, I blast or drown
King
Edward
's Fruit, true Heir to th'
English
Crown.
Pray tell me, Where is
Warwick
then become?
I am inform'd that he is gone towards
London,
To guard King
Henry,
who is reinstall'd.
I guess the rest, King
Edward
's Friends must down.
But to prevent the Tyrant's Violence,
For trust not him who once hath broken Faith,;
I'll hence forthwith unto the Sanctuary,
To save, at least, the Heir of
Edward
's Right.
There shall I rest secure from Force and Fraud,
And all the Malice of imperious
Warwick.
Come therefore let us fly, while we may fly,
If
Warwick
take us, we are sure to dye.
[Exeunt.
The End of the Fourth ACT.
ACT V. SCENE I.
Enter King
Henry,
Prince
Edward, Warwick, George,
Queen, Lady
Elizabeth,
Lady
Anne,
and Attendants.
G Racious
Henry,
lend Ear unto my Speech,
Since Heav'n approves your Reign in our Success,
I think, my Liege, that it is more than needful,
Forthwith that
Edward
be pronounc'd a Traytor,
And all his Lands and Goods confiscated.
And with your royal Leave, I speak it,
Henry,
That
Clarence
well deserves those forfeit Lands.
I think
There's not a Thing I would deny
Warwick,
Though
Clarence
's Merit did not prompt me to it.
Accept our hearty Thanks, my royal Liege.
And noble
Warwick
too accept my Thanks,
For the great Blessings you have given me.
And take my Thanks, who wish I had more,
To give brave
Warwick
for my beauteous Bride.
I wish her Merit were equal to your Love.
She deserves more than I can ever pay.
Heaven grant your Loves may ever prove successful.
Enter a Messenger.
What News, my Friend?
Edward
is escaped from your Brother.
And fled (as he hears since) to
Burgundy.
Unsavoury News! but how made he his Escape?
He was convey'd by
Richard
Duke of
Gloster,
And the Lord
Hastings,
who attended him
In secret Ambush on the Forest Side,
And from the Bishop's Huntsmen rescu'd him:
For hunting was his daily Exercise.
My Brother was too careless of his Charge.
But let us hasten in, and call a Council,
And so determine quickly what's to do.
[Exeunt.
So please you, Sir, I'll follow presently.
Now I'm secure of
Warwick
's beauteous Daughter,
Why let the Devil take him with his Treason.
Perhaps he will object my sacred Oath:
To keep that Oath were more Impiety,
Than
Jephthab
's when he sacrific'd his Daughter.
And so, proud-hearted
Warwick,
fare thee well.
Be it your Care, Sir, on the first Opportunity,
To seize my lovely Bride, and follow me;
For I in private (lest I should meet Prevention)
Will hasten hence, to joyn my Brother
Edward.
And in each Town, as I do pass along,
I'll see and muster Soldiers for his Service.
Sir, I with Care will your Commands obey,
And if I fail, then take my forfeit Life.
If you succeed, doubt not of great Reward.
[Exeunt.
Enter
Edward, Richard,
Gentlemen, and Attendants.
Now, Brother
Richard,
and my noble Followers,
Yet thus far Fortune maketh us Amends,
And says, That once more I shall interchange
My wained State, for
Henry
's regal Crown.
Well have we pass'd, and now repass'd the Seas,
And brought desir'd Help from
Burgundy.
Now say, How fares my faithful Brother?
Why much the better for that faithful Title,
And if I
Richard
ever prove untrue,
May Heaven's Vengnance follow me to my Grave.
Thanks, my dear Brother; and Thanks to all my Friends,
If Fortune serve me, I'll require this Kindness.
Now for this Night our T
shall here be pitch'd,
And when the Morning Sun shall raise his Carr
Above the Border of this Horizon,
We'll forward towards
Warwick
and his Mates:
For well I wot, that
Henry
is no Soldier.
Ah! froward
,
how ill doth it become thee,
To flatter
Henry,
and forsake thy Brother?
Yet as we may, we'll meet both thee and
Warwick.
Come on, brave Soldiers, doubt not of the Day.
And that once gotten, doubt not of large Pay.
[Exeunt.
Enter
Henry, Queen, Warwick,
Lady
Anne,
and Attendants.
What Counsel, Lords?
Edward
from
Belgia,
With hasty
Germans,
and blunt
Hollanders,
Hath pass'd in Safety through the narrow Seas,
And with his Troops doth march
to
London,
And many giddy People stock to him.
Let's muster Men, and beat him back again.
My Liege speaks well—I will about it strait:
A little Fire is quickly trodden out,
Which being suffer'd, Rivers cannot quench.
I wonder what is now become of
Clarence,
His Aid would be most needful at this Time.
No doubt he's gone to do us special Service,
For he most solemnly hath sworn me Friendship.
Pray Heaven his Actions shall declare him so.
Enter Prince.
Whence come you, my
Ned?
I have been viewing
Our well-disposed Troops, their chearful Looks;
Promise no less than glorious Victory.
Their Arms all shining bright appear a Sun;
Their piercing Eyes, that sparkle thro' their Helmets,
With a quick Motion spread a Fire around 'em,
And show like Stars twinkling i'th' Firmament.
The Plumes and Colours waving o'er their Heads,
Do fan the Fire that has possess'd their Hearts.
Each prancing Horse neighs Courage to his Rider,
And with their horned Hoofs they paw the Ground,
As they'd dig Graves for all our Enemies.
I am transported with the gallant Sight,
And my Breast burns, I so much long for War.
Then your Desires shall be satisfy'd,
For we will march to meet
Edward
this instant.
But hear you ought of
Clarence,
noble Prince?
'Twas Part of what I would have told to you,
Had not your Words so soon cut off my Tale.
Clarence
is fled to his Brother—he left Orders
With one (whom Threats and Gold has caus'd discover it)
To bring your Daughter Lady
Elizabeth
after.
I will not waste the Time in idle Words,
But speedy Action shall declare my Rage.
Soon as I have giv'n some Orders to my Daughter,
I'll mount my Horse, and with what Speed I may,
I'll hasten to chastise this perjur'd
Clarence.
My Sovereign with the loving Citizens,
Like to his Island, girt with the Ocean,
Shall rest in
London,
'till we return.
Farewel my
Hector,
and my
Troy
's true Hope,
Well-minded
Warwick,
be thou fortunate.
In Sign of Truth, I kiss your Highness' Hand,
Comfort, my Lord, and so I take my Leave.
What, my young
Edward,
Wilt thou to these Wars?
Why, who is he, whose Chin is but enrich'd
With one appearing Hair, that will not follow
These choice and gallant Cavaliers to War.
Why then I'll in, to pray for thy Success,
My Prayers, and Blessing, ever shall attend thee:
Yet much I fear we ne'er shall meet again.
Fear as you will, he shall unto the Field.
Be speedy, Boy, for I'm resolv'd to see thee,
Sure of a Crown, or dying at my Feet.
My Heart has here a little Leave to take,
And then I follow.
[Exeunt. Manent Prince and
Anne.
Oh, my beauteous
Anne!
The Battle bids me leave thee for a while,
But flush'd with Conquest soon I will return,
And lay my dear bought Laurels at thy Feet.
By Heav'n, I think I cou'd perswade my Father
To resign his Crown for ever to proud
York,
So I might rest within thy lovely Fold,
Secure of Peace, and undisturb'd by War.
But that the Thoughts of making thee a Queen,
Awakes my Soul, and summons it to Arms:
Yet if I fall, which gracious Heav'n forbid,
For now, methinks, I am ev'n fond of Life,
(Having tasted of the Bliss of thy sweet Love)
Tho' I before thought of it as a Trifle.
The Loss of Life seems but of little Moment
When I reflect upon the Loss of thee.
And when the horrid Thought comes in my Mind,
I leave behind my Soul's dearest Treasure
For other happy Men, perhaps, to enjoy.
Then Sweet, I beg of thee this once to swear,
Thou never wilt have thought of other Man.
Why, my dear Lord, do you then doubt my Truth?
Oh no, by Heaven—but I wou'd have my Ear
Blest with the Musick of thy melting Voice,
In Words of Comfort, e'er I do depart,
That if the Almighty Power's gracious Will
Is so determin'd, I must fall in Battle,
I may have Hopes our spotless Souls, through Love
And Constancy, may meet in Heav'n hereafter,
And spite of War we may again be Happy.
Then hear me, gracious Heav'n, and assist me,
To keep the Vow I solemnly do make.
If it seems sitting in the Eye of Heav'n,
My precious
Edward
in this War should fall,
May Heav'n forsake me at my latest Hour,
If I e'er taste of Joy, or Comfort more.
And if my Heart shou'd e'er swerve from Truth,
May all the bitter Pangs of a rack'd Conscience
Pursue me here, and in the World to come:
And oh! ye mighty Guardians of the Just,
Protect his Youth i'- th' deadly brunt of War,
And send my Yew home adorn'd in Triumph.
Edward,
my Love, be careful of thy Life,
For if thou dy'st, thy loving
Anne
falls with thee.
This is too much for Mortal to support,
How shall I bear this vast Excess of Bliss?
Surely I cannot have long time to live,
My Joys flow in so fast this present Hour.
But let Fate do its worst, this pays for all.
Oh, my Heart's Joy, if
Edward
e'er prove false,
May Heav'n inflict its deadliest Vengeance on me.
Hark, my Love,
[Trumpets sound.
The cheerful Trumpet calls me to the Field,
My Heart e'en dances to its spritely Notes;
This one Embrace, and then farewel my
Anne.
Adieu thou dearest, thou excelling Creature,
Now I am certain Fate it self can't part us.
Let Death stand in its worst Form array'd,
I will not entertain a Thought of Fear,
But warm'd by thee, my Life, bravely I'll on,
To assert my lawful Title to the Crown.
By this Day's Feats in Battle I will prove,
What Youth dare do for Empire, and for Love.
[Exit.
Enter Lady
Elizabeth.
Oh
Anne!
now show thy self a loving Sister,
And send
Elizabeth
Supply of Tears,
For mine will ne'er suffice for my great Sorrow.
Alas, from whence proceeds this sudden Grief!
Is not our Father
Warwick
gone to fight
Against King
Edward,
and my Husband
Clarence,
And can'st thou ask the Occasion of these Tears;
Let who will conquer, still thy Sister mourns,
Or for her murder'd Father, or her Husband.
Why, let his Treason wipe away his Love.
Oh, he's too deeply rooted in my Heart!
Be witness Heav'n, I had never lov'd him,
Had not my noble Father first commanded.
I plainly saw, when he did leave King
Edward,
It was his Love for me did prompt him on.
Why have I not the Power to keep him here?
Oh, now he has got Possession of my Person,
He, like a Tyrant, gives his Will free way!
My Father does command that I shou'd hate him,
I, out of Duty to my worthy Father,
Wou'd hate him much, but that my Heart pleads hard,
And will not turn him forth from out my Bosom.
Why then, indulge thy Sorrows, dear
Eliza,
For I will be thy very faithful Friend,
And send forth Sigh for Sigh, and Tear for Tear.
Thy State, indeed, deserves extremest Pity,
Since thy great Sorrow is past hope of Cure,
Unless the Saints, in pity to thy Woes,
Shou'd send some Miracle to end thy Grief.
The only Way to prove thy self my Friend,
Is to contrive how to increase my Sorrow;
For when I find that 'tis in Human Nature
To suffer more, it may avail a little
To stop the Torrent of my flowing Tears,
But I am sure that is impossible.
Whene'er I strive to press a rising Sigh,
My Heart e'en bursts to give it a free Passage.
Let them have Scope, tho' what they do import
Help nothing else, yet do they ease the Heart.
[Exit.
Enter Queen, Prince,
Warwick,
and Soldiers.
Thus far with Speed, and easy March, we are come,
Now let us doff our silken Robes of Peace,
And arm our Minds and Bodies for fell War;
Stiffen the Sinews, summon up the Blood,
Disguise fair Nature with hard favour'd Rage,
And lend the Eye a terrible Aspect;
Now set the Teeth, and stretch the Nostril wide;
Hold hard the Breath, and rouze up e'ery Spirit
To its full Height. On, on, you noblest
English,
Whose Blood is fetch'd from Fathers of War Proof,
Fathers, that like so many
Alexanders,
Have in these Parts from Morn till Evening fought,
And sheath'd their Swords for lack of Argument.
Dishonour not your Mothers; now arrest,
That those whom you call'd Fathers did beget you.
Be Copy now, to Men of grosser Blood,
And teach 'em how to War. And you, good Yeomen,
Whose Limbs were made in
England,
shew us now
The Mettle of your Pasture. Let us swear
That you are worth your Breeding, which I doubt not,
For there is none of you so Mean and Base,
That hath not noble Lustre in your Eyes.
I see you stand like Grey-Hounds in the Slips,
Straining upon the Start, the Games o' Foot,
Follow your Spirit, and upon 'em Charge.
Oh, were I but a Man, that I by Deeds
Might stir your Hearts more than my poor Words can!
Methinks a Woman of this valiant Spirit,
Shou'd, if a Coward heard her speak these Words,
Infuse his Breast with Magnanimity,
And make him, naked, foil a Man at Arms.
I speak not this as Doubting any here,
For did I but suspect a fearful Man,
He shou'd have leave to go away betimes,
Lest in our Need he might infect another,
And make him of base Spirit, like himself.
If any such be here, which Heav'n forbid,
Let him depart before we need his Help.
Women and Children of so high a Courage,
And Warriors faint, why, 'twere perpetual Shame.
Oh brave young Prince—thy famous Grandfather
Doth live again in thee: Long may'st thou live
To bear his Image, and renew his Glories.
And he that will not fight for such a Hope,
Go home to Bed, and like the Owl by Day,
If he arise, be mock'd, and wonder'd at.
Thanks noble General, brave
Warwick
Thanks.
And take his Thanks, that yet hath nothing else.
Enter Messenger.
Prepare you Chiefs, for
Edward
is at Hand,
Ready to fight, therefore be resolute.
I thought no less; it is his Policy,
To haste thus fast to find us unprovided,
But he's deceiv'd, we are in Readiness.
This cheers my Heart to see your Forwardness.
I am sorry, but I have more News to tell,
Royal
Henry,
by a Party of Duke
Edward
's,
In
London
was surpriz'd, and now is kept
Close Prisoner in the
Tower.
Lords, Knights, and Gentlemen, what I should say
My Tears gainsay, for e'ery Word I speak
Ye see I drink the Water of my Eye.
Therefore no more but this—
Henry,
your Sovereign,
Is Prisoner to the Foe, his State usurp'd,
His Realm a Slaughter-house, his Subjects slain,
His Statutes cancell'd, and his Treasure spent,
And yonder is the Wolf that makes this Spoil.
You fight in Justice; then in Heav'n's Name, Lords,
Be valiant, and give signal to the Fight.
Follow me all, for I will lead you on
To glorious Deeds of War in Justice's Cause.
[Exeunt, Alarm,
&c.
Re-enter
Warwick
and Prince
Edward.
Oh young Prince
Edward,
I had pleasing Hope
To tutor thee in Stratagems of War;
But now thou'rt come unto a Feast of Death,
A terrible and unavoided Danger!
Therefore, dear Prince, mount on thy swiftest Horse,
And I'll direct thee how thou may'st escape,
For I have snatch'd thee from the Jaws of Death.
The Swords of Rebels have not made me smart;
These Words of yours draw Life-blood from my Heart.
Before young
Edward
(of great
Henry
's Race,
Who conquer'd
France,
and made her Chiefs to tremble)
Relinquish
Warwick
in the Heat of War,
I'll slay each Horse I have within the Field,
Then, worthy Chief, lose not a Thought on me,
But to thy Sword-hack'd Soldiers strait return,
And with thy wond'rous Deeds (too great for Words)
Animate thy Troops. I pray you, haste away,
Thy Presence only makes 'em win the Day.
Consult thy Safety, Prince, and leave the Field.
[Exit.
I shall consult my honourable Fame.
Fell Havock now rages through all the Hosts;
The nodding Plumes that grac'd our Soldiers Helms,
Are shiver'd all; and all besmear'd with Blood:
Their Arms and Armour hack'd with lusty Blows,
And the whole Fight displays a general Terror.
The Sight is dreadful! but 'tis glorious too!
Shall I now basely shrink? No, Heaven forbid.
Love draws my Sword, Revenge shall steel its Point;
A Crown and Royalty shall man my Breast.
I'm resolute to die, or to return
A Conqueror worthy of my
Anna
's Bed:
And when succeeding Ages read my Deeds,
They shall not say they sham'd our
British
Annals.
Ha!
Richard
here! Nay, then rouse up my Soul.
Enter
Richard
opposite to the Prince.
Hence Stripling, for I am loth to slain my Sword
Dishonourably in the Blood of Boys.
Tho' cursed
Clifford
cou'd dip both his Hands
In the more precious Heart's Blood of young
Rutland,
I'm above those poor Deeds—yet now I think
It were great Folly shou'd I let thee go:
Since if thy usurping Father's Friends shou'd conquer,
Thou art his Heir—tho' I will not kill thee,
But whip thee, thou rash Boy, into Submission.
These Words provoke me—no
Richard,
tho' I'm a Youth,
The Blood of
English
Kings runs in these Veins,
And I am a Stranger to all Sorts of Fear.
E'er I will yield I'll split my Breast with Courage,
And I'll strain hard each Sinew and each Nerve,
That I may be an equal Match to meet
This mighty Bugbear
Richard,
so come on.
Now, by my Life, brave Youth, thou'rt worth my Sword,
And since thou art so fond of Death, receive it.
[They approach to fight. Enter a Party on both Sides.
Richard
's beats off the others.
Enter
Edward
and
Warwick,
fighting. He falls.
So, lie thou there—die thou, and die our Fear;
Now I am King of
England,
and I owe
My Crown to my own Sword, and not to thine.
Now
Montague,
fit fast, I seek for thee,
That
Warwick
's Bones may keep thine Company.
[Exit.
Ah, who is nigh—come to me Friend or Foe
And tell me who is Victor,
York
or
Warwick.
Why ask I that? my mangled Body shews
My Blood, my want of Strength, and my sick Heart,
That I must yield my Body to the Earth,
And by my Fall, the Conquest to my Foe.
Thus yields the Cedar to the Axe's Edge,
Whose Arms gave Shelter to the princely Eagle;
Under whose Shade the ramping Lion slept,
Whose top Branch overpeer'd
Jove
's spreading Tree,
And kept low Shrubs from Winter's powerful Wind.
These Eyes, that now are dim'd with Death's black Veil,
Have been as piercing as the Mid-day Sun,
To search the secret Treasons of the World.
The Wrinkles of my Brows now fill'd with Blood,
Were lik'ned oft to kingly Sepulchres,
For who liv'd King, but I could dig his Grave;
And who durst smile, when
Warwick
bent his Brow?
Lo, now my Glory smear'd in Dust and Blood!
My Parks, my Walks, my Mannors, that I had,
E'en now forsake me, and of all my Lands,
Is nothing left me but my Body's length.
Why, what is Pomp, Rule, Reign, but Earth and Dast,
And live we how we can, yet die we must.
[Dies.
Enter
Edward, George, Richard,
and Soldiers.
Thus far our Fortune keeps an upward Course,
And we are grac'd with Wreaths of Victory.
Now, Sir, I hope you will forgive my Errors,
For you your self have felt the Power of Love.
Brother, your Errors are all buried under
Heaps of my Enemies you have kill'd to Day.
I have dispatch'd my greatest Enemy.
Warwick
will make and unmake no more Kings.
And the bold Amazon Queen, and insolent Boy,
Her fierce Son
Edward,
are both taken Prisoners.
I've order'd, Sir, they shall attend you here;
And now behold where youthful
Edward
comes.
Enter Queen and Prince, Prisoners.
Bring forth the Gallant, let us hear him speak.
What, can so young a Thorn begin to prick?
What Satisfaction canst thou make,
For bearing Arms, for stirring up my Subjects,
And all the Trouble thou hast giv'n me?
Speak like a Subject, proud, ambitious
York;
Suppose that I am now my Father's Mouth;
Resign thy Place, and where I stand, kneel thou,
Whilst I propose the self same Words to thee,
Which, Traytor, thou would'st have me answer to.
Oh that thy Father had been so resolv'd!
That so your Distaff might have been our Sceptre.
Let
Aesop
fable in a Winter's Night,
His currish Riddles forth, not at this Time.
By Heav'n, Brat, I'll plague you for that Word.
Ay, thou wer't born to be the Plague of Men.
Why take you not away this Captive Scold?
Nay, take away this scolding Crook-back rather.
Peace, wilful Boy, or I will charm thy Tongue.
I know my Duty—you are all undutiful.
Lascivious
Edward,
and thou perjur'd
George,
And thou mis-shapen
Dick,
I tell ye all,
I am your Betters, Traytors as you are,
And thou usurp'st my Father's Right and mine.
Untutor'd Lad, thou art too malapert
[Edw. strikes him.
Take that, thou Likeness of this Railer here.
They stab him.
And there's for twitting me with Perjury.
They stab him.
Oh, kill me too!
Marry, with all my Heart.
Hold
Richard,
we've done too much already.
Why shou'd she live to fill the World with Strife?
Behold she swoons, use Means for her Recovery.
Clarence,
excuse me to the King my Brother,
I'll hence to
London
on a serious Matter.
E'er you come there, be sure to hear some News.
Why, whither go you?
To the
Tower,
the
Tower.
[Exit.
Oh
Ned,
sweet
Ned,
speak to thy Mother, Boy:
Canst thou not speak?—O Traytors! Murderers!
They that stabb'd
Caesar,
shed no Blood at all;
Did not offend, nor were not worthy Blame.
If this foul Deed were by, to equal it:
He was a Man, this in respect a Child,
And Men ne'er spend their Fury on a Child.
What's worse than Murderer, that I may name it?
No, no, my Heart will burst, and if I speak,
And I will speak, that so my Heart may burst.
Oh cruel Villains! bloody Cannibals!
How sweet a Plant have you untimely cropp'd?
You have no Children, Butchers, if you had,
The Thought of them wou'd have stir'd up Remorse;
But if you ever chance to have a Child,
Look in his Youth to have him so cut off.
As Death's Men you have rid this sweet young Prince.
Away with her. Go, bear her hence by force.
Nay, never bear me hence, dispatch me here,
Here sheath thy Sword, I'll pardon thee my Death.
What, wilt thou not? then,
Clarence,
do it thou.
By Heav'n I will not give thee so much Ease.
Good
Clarence
do, sweet
Clarence
do thou do it.
Didst thou not hear me swear I wou'd not do it.
Ay, but thou usest to forswear thy self.
'Twas Sin before, but now 'tis Charity.
What, wilt thou not; where is that Butcher
Richard?
He is not here, or he wou'd grant my Suit,
And set me free from hated Light at once.
Away, I say, I charge you bear her hence.
So come to you and yours as to this Prince.
[Exit.
Where's
Richard
gone.
To
London
in great haste, and, as I guess,
To make a bloody Supper in the
Tower.
He's sudden if a Thing comes in his Head.
Now march we hence—discharge the common sort
With Pay and Thanks, and let's away to
London,
And see how well our gentle Queen does fare:
By this I hope she hath a Son for me.
Now here's a Period of tumultuous Broils.
Once more we fit on
England's
Royal Throne,
Re-purchas'd with the Blood of Enemies.
What valiant Foe-Men, like to Autumn's Corn,
Have we mow'd down in top of all her Pride.
Three Dukes of
Somerset,
threefold renown'd
For hardy and undoubted Champions.
Two
Cliffords,
as the Father and the Son.
And two
Northumberlands;
two braver Men,
Ne'er spur'd their Coursers at the Trumpet's Sound.
With them the two brave Bears,
Warwick
and
Mountague,
That in their Chains fetter'd the kingly Lion,
And made the Forest tremble when they roar'd.
Thus have we swept Suspicion from our Seat,
And made our Footstool of Security.
What will your Grace have done with
Margaret?
Away with her, and waft her hence to
France.
And then what rests, but that we spend the Time
With stately Triumphs, mirthful Comick Shews,
Such as befit the Pleasure of the Court,
So to divert our Subjects busy Minds,
From doing farther Mischief 'gainst the State.
Sound Drums and Trumpets, farewel all Annoy,
For here, I hope, begins our lasting Joy.
And may this Land, learn from our Houses Jars,
Ever to dread th' Event of Civil Wars.
END.
BOOKS lately printed, for J. WALTHOE, jun. W. CHETWOOD, and J. STAGG.
I. THE Adventures of TELEMACHUS, the Son of
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Written in
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II. Dialogues concerning ELOQUENCE. By the late Archbishop of CAMBRAY.
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IV. T. LUCRETIUS CARUS, of the Nature of Things. Done into
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with Notes upon the Lord LANSDOWNE'S Poem
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Price
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