Alarum. Exit.
Enter Rutland, and his Tutor.
Rutland. Ah, whither shall I flye, to scape their hands?Ah Tutor, looke where bloody Clifford comes.Enter Clifford.
Clifford. Chaplaine away, thy Priesthood saues thy life.As for the Brat of this accursed Duke,Whose Father slew my Father, he shall dye
Tutor. And I, my Lord, will beare him company
Clifford. Souldiers, away with him
Tutor. Ah Clifford, murther not this innocent Child,Least thou be hated both of God and Man.Enter.
Clifford. How now? is he dead alreadie?Or is it feare, that makes him close his eyes?Ile open them
Rutland. So looks the pent-vp Lyon o're the Wretch,That trembles vnder his deuouring Pawes:And so he walkes, insulting o're his Prey,And so he comes, to rend his Limbes asunder.Ah gentle Clifford, kill me with thy Sword,And not with such a cruell threatning Looke.Sweet Clifford heare me speake, before I dye:I am too meane a subiect for thy Wrath,Be thou reueng'd on men, and let me liue
Clifford. In vaine thou speak'st, poore Boy:My Fathers blood hath stopt the passageWhere thy words should enter
Rutland. Then let my Fathers blood open it againe,He is a man, and Clifford cope with him
Clifford. Had I thy Brethren here, their liues and thineWere not reuenge sufficient for me:No, if I digg'd vp thy fore-fathers Graues,And hung their rotten Coffins vp in Chaynes,It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart.The sight of any of the House of Yorke,Is as a furie to torment my Soule:And till I root out their accursed Line,And leaue not one aliue, I liue in Hell.Therefore-Rutland. Oh let me pray, before I take my death:To thee I pray; sweet Clifford pitty me
Clifford. Such pitty as my Rapiers point affords
Rutland. I neuer did thee harme: why wilt thou slayme?Clifford. Thy Father hath
Rutland. But 'twas ere I was borne.Thou hast one Sonne, for his sake pitty me,Least in reuenge thereof, sith God is iust,He be as miserably slaine as I.Ah, let me liue in Prison all my dayes,And when I giue occasion of offence,Then let me dye, for now thou hast no cause
Clifford. No cause? thy Father slew my Father: thereforedye
Rutland. Dij faciant laudis summa sit ista tuę
Clifford. Plantagenet, I come Plantagenet:And this thy Sonnes blood cleauing to my Blade,Shall rust vpon my Weapon, till thy bloodCongeal'd with this, doe make me wipe off both.Enter.
Alarum. Enter Richard, Duke of Yorke.
Yorke. The Army of the Queene hath got the field:My Vnckles both are slaine, in rescuing me;And all my followers, to the eager foeTurne back, and flye, like Ships before the Winde,Or Lambes pursu'd by hunger-starued Wolues.My Sonnes, God knowes what hath bechanced them:But this I know, they haue demean'd themseluesLike men borne to Renowne, by Life or Death.Three times did Richard make a Lane to me,And thrice cry'de, Courage Father, fight it out:And full as oft came Edward to my side,With Purple Faulchion, painted to the Hilt,In blood of those that had encountred him:And when the hardyest Warriors did retyre,Richard cry'de, Charge, and giue no foot of ground,And cry'de, A Crowne, or else a glorious Tombe,A Scepter, or an Earthly Sepulchre.With this we charg'd againe: but out alas,We bodg'd againe, as I haue seene a SwanWith bootlesse labour swimme against the Tyde,And spend her strength with ouer-matching Waues.
A short Alarum within.
Ah hearke, the fatall followers doe pursue,And I am faint, and cannot flye their furie:And were I strong, I would not shunne their furie,The Sands are numbred, that makes vp my Life,Here must I stay, and here my Life must end.Enter the Queene, Clifford, Northumberland, the young Prince,andSouldiers.
Come bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,I dare your quenchlesse furie to more rage:I am your Butt, and I abide your Shot
Northumb. Yeeld to our mercy, proud Plantagenet
Clifford. I, to such mercy, as his ruthlesse ArmeWith downe-right payment, shew'd vnto my Father.Now Phęton hath tumbled from his Carre,And made an Euening at the Noone-tide Prick
Yorke. My ashes, as the Phoenix, may bring forthA Bird, that will reuenge vpon you all:And in that hope, I throw mine eyes to Heauen,Scorning what ere you can afflict me with.Why come you not? what, multitudes, and feare?Cliff. So Cowards fight, when they can flye no further,So Doues doe peck the Faulcons piercing Tallons,So desperate Theeues, all hopelesse of their Liues,Breathe out Inuectiues 'gainst the Officers
Yorke. Oh Clifford, but bethinke thee once againe,And in thy thought ore-run my former time:And if thou canst, for blushing, view this face,And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with Cowardice,Whose frowne hath made thee faint and flye ere this
Clifford. I will not bandie with thee word for word,But buckler with thee blowes twice two for one
Queene. Hold valiant Clifford, for a thousand causesI would prolong a while the Traytors Life:Wrath makes him deafe; speake thou Northumberland
Northumb. Hold Clifford, doe not honor him so much,To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart.What valour were it, when a Curre doth grinne,For one to thrust his Hand betweene his Teeth,When he might spurne him with his Foot away?It is Warres prize, to take all Vantages,And tenne to one, is no impeach of Valour
Clifford. I, I, so striues the Woodcocke with theGynne
Northumb. So doth the Connie struggle in theNet
York. So triumph Theeues vpon their conquer'd Booty,So True men yeeld with Robbers, so o're-matcht
Northumb. What would your Grace haue done vntohim now?Queene. Braue Warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,Come make him stand vpon this Mole-hill here,That raught at Mountaines with out-stretched Armes,Yet parted but the shadow with his Hand.What, was it you that would be Englands King?Was't you that reuell'd in our Parliament,And made a Preachment of your high Descent?Where are your Messe of Sonnes, to back you now?The wanton Edward, and the lustie George?And where's that valiant Crook-back Prodigie,Dickie, your Boy, that with his grumbling voyceWas wont to cheare his Dad in Mutinies?Or with the rest, where is your Darling, Rutland?Looke Yorke, I stayn'd this Napkin with the bloodThat valiant Clifford, with his Rapiers point,Made issue from the Bosome of the Boy:And if thine eyes can water for his death,I giue thee this to drie thy Cheekes withall.Alas poore Yorke, but that I hate thee deadly,I should lament thy miserable state.I prythee grieue, to make me merry, Yorke.What, hath thy fierie heart so parcht thine entrayles,That not a Teare can fall, for Rutlands death?Why art thou patient, man? thou should'st be mad:And I, to make thee mad, doe mock thee thus.Stampe, raue, and fret, that I may sing and dance.Thou would'st be fee'd, I see, to make me sport:Yorke cannot speake, vnlesse he weare a Crowne.A Crowne for Yorke; and Lords, bow lowe to him:Hold you his hands, whilest I doe set it on.I marry Sir, now lookes he like a King:I, this is he that tooke King Henries Chaire,And this is he was his adopted Heire.But how is it, that great PlantagenetIs crown'd so soone, and broke his solemne Oath?As I bethinke me, you should not be King,Till our King Henry had shooke hands with Death.And will you pale your head in Henries Glory,And rob his Temples of the Diademe,Now in his Life, against your holy Oath?Oh 'tis a fault too too vnpardonable.Off with the Crowne; and with the Crowne, his Head,And whilest we breathe, take time to doe him dead
Clifford. That is my Office, for my Fathers sake
Queene. Nay stay, let's heare the Orizons heemakes
Yorke. Shee-Wolfe of France,But worse then Wolues of France,Whose Tongue more poysons then the Adders Tooth:How ill-beseeming is it in thy Sex,To triumph like an Amazonian Trull,Vpon their Woes, whom Fortune captiuates?But that thy Face is Vizard-like, vnchanging,Made impudent with vse of euill deedes.I would assay, prowd Queene, to make thee blush.To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom deriu'd,Were shame enough, to shame thee,Wert thou not shamelesse.Thy Father beares the type of King of Naples,Of both the Sicils, and Ierusalem,Yet not so wealthie as an English Yeoman.Hath that poore Monarch taught thee to insult?It needes not, nor it bootes thee not, prowd Queene,Vnlesse the Adage must be verify'd,That Beggers mounted, runne their Horse to death.'Tis Beautie that doth oft make Women prowd,But God he knowes, thy share thereof is small.'Tis Vertue, that doth make them most admir'd,The contrary, doth make thee wondred at.'Tis Gouernment that makes them seeme Diuine,The want thereof, makes thee abhominable.Thou art as opposite to euery good,As the Antipodes are vnto vs,Or as the South to the Septentrion.Oh Tygres Heart, wrapt in a Womans Hide,How could'st thou drayne the Life-blood of the Child,To bid the Father wipe his eyes withall,And yet be seene to beare a Womans face?Women are soft, milde, pittifull, and flexible;Thou, sterne, obdurate, flintie, rough, remorselesse.Bidst thou me rage? why now thou hast thy wish.Would'st haue me weepe? why now thou hast thy will.For raging Wind blowes vp incessant showers,And when the Rage allayes, the Raine begins.These Teares are my sweet Rutlands Obsequies,And euery drop cryes vengeance for his death,'Gainst thee fell Clifford, and thee false French-woman
Northumb. Beshrew me, but his passions moues me so,That hardly can I check my eyes from Teares
Yorke. That Face of his,The hungry Caniballs would not haue toucht,Would not haue stayn'd with blood:But you are more inhumane, more inexorable,Oh, tenne times more then Tygers of Hyrcania.See, ruthlesse Queene, a haplesse Fathers Teares:This Cloth thou dipd'st in blood of my sweet Boy,And I with Teares doe wash the blood away.Keepe thou the Napkin, and goe boast of this,And if thou tell'st the heauie storie right,Vpon my Soule, the hearers will shed Teares:Yea, euen my Foes will shed fast-falling Teares,And say, Alas, it was a pittious deed.There, take the Crowne, and with the Crowne, my Curse,And in thy need, such comfort come to thee,As now I reape at thy too cruell hand.Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the World,My Soule to Heauen, my Blood vpon your Heads
Northumb. Had he been slaughter-man to all my Kinne,I should not for my Life but weepe with him,To see how inly Sorrow gripes his Soule
Queen. What, weeping ripe, my Lord Northumberland?Thinke but vpon the wrong he did vs all,And that will quickly drie thy melting Teares
Clifford. Heere's for my Oath, heere's for my FathersDeath
Queene. And heere's to right our gentle-heartedKing
Yorke. Open thy Gate of Mercy, gracious God,My Soule flyes through these wounds, to seeke out thee
Queene. Off with his Head, and set it on Yorke Gates,So Yorke may ouer-looke the Towne of Yorke.
Flourish. Exit.
A March. Enter Edward, Richard, and their power.
Edward. I wonder how our Princely Father scap't:Or whether he be scap't away, or no,From Cliffords and Northumberlands pursuit?Had he been ta'ne, we should haue heard the newes;Had he beene slaine, we should haue heard the newes:Or had he scap't, me thinkes we should haue heardThe happy tidings of his good escape.How fares my Brother? why is he so sad?Richard. I cannot ioy, vntill I be resolu'dWhere our right valiant Father is become.I saw him in the Battaile range about,And watcht him how he singled Clifford forth.Me thought he bore him in the thickest troupe,As doth a Lyon in a Heard of Neat,Or as a Beare encompass'd round with Dogges:Who hauing pincht a few, and made them cry,The rest stand all aloofe, and barke at him.So far'd our Father with his Enemies,So fled his Enemies my Warlike Father:Me thinkes 'tis prize enough to be his Sonne.See how the Morning opes her golden Gates,And takes her farwell of the glorious Sunne.How well resembles it the prime of Youth,Trimm'd like a Yonker, prauncing to his Loue?Ed. Dazle mine eyes, or doe I see three Sunnes?Rich. Three glorious Sunnes, each one a perfect Sunne,Not seperated with the racking Clouds,But seuer'd in a pale cleare-shining Skye.See, see, they ioyne, embrace, and seeme to kisse,As if they vow'd some League inuiolable.Now are they but one Lampe, one Light, one Sunne:In this, the Heauen figures some euent
Edward. 'Tis wondrous strange,The like yet neuer heard of.I thinke it cites vs (Brother) to the field,That wee, the Sonnes of braue Plantagenet,Each one alreadie blazing by our meedes,Should notwithstanding ioyne our Lights together,And ouer-shine the Earth, as this the World.What ere it bodes, hence-forward will I beareVpon my Targuet three faire shining Sunnes
Richard. Nay, beare three Daughters:By your leaue, I speake it,You loue the Breeder better then the Male.Enter one blowing.
But what art thou, whose heauie Lookes fore-tellSome dreadfull story hanging on thy Tongue?Mess. Ah, one that was a wofull looker on,When as the Noble Duke of Yorke was slaine,Your Princely Father, and my louing Lord
Edward. Oh speake no more, for I haue heard toomuch
Richard. Say how he dy'de, for I will heare it all
Mess. Enuironed he was with many foes,And stood against them, as the hope of TroyAgainst the Greekes, that would haue entred Troy.But Hercules himselfe must yeeld to oddes:And many stroakes, though with a little Axe,Hewes downe and fells the hardest-tymber'd Oake.By many hands your Father was subdu'd,But onely slaught'red by the irefull ArmeOf vn-relenting Clifford, and the Queene:Who crown'd the gracious Duke in high despight,Laugh'd in his face: and when with griefe he wept,The ruthlesse Queene gaue him, to dry his Cheekes,A Napkin, steeped in the harmelesse bloodOf sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slaine:And after many scornes, many foule taunts,They tooke his Head, and on the Gates of YorkeThey set the same, and there it doth remaine,The saddest spectacle that ere I view'd
Edward. Sweet Duke of Yorke, our Prop to leane vpon,Now thou art gone, wee haue no Staffe, no Stay.Oh Clifford, boyst'rous Clifford, thou hast slaineThe flowre of Europe, for his Cheualrie,And trecherously hast thou vanquisht him,For hand to hand he would haue vanquisht thee.Now my Soules Pallace is become a Prison:Ah, would she breake from hence, that this my bodyMight in the ground be closed vp in rest:For neuer henceforth shall I ioy againe:Neuer, oh neuer shall I see more ioy
Rich. I cannot weepe: for all my bodies moystureScarse serues to quench my Furnace-burning hart:Nor can my tongue vnloade my hearts great burthen,For selfe-same winde that I should speake withall,Is kindling coales that fires all my brest,And burnes me vp with flames, that tears would quench.To weepe, is to make lesse the depth of greefe:Teares then for Babes; Blowes, and Reuenge for mee.Richard, I beare thy name, Ile venge thy death,Or dye renowned by attempting it
Ed. His name that valiant Duke hath left with thee:His Dukedome, and his Chaire with me is left
Rich. Nay, if thou be that Princely Eagles Bird,Shew thy descent by gazing 'gainst the Sunne:For Chaire and Dukedome, Throne and Kingdome say,Either that is thine, or else thou wer't not his.
March. Enter Warwicke, Marquesse Mountacute, and their Army.
Warwick. How now faire Lords? What faire? Whatnewes abroad?Rich. Great Lord of Warwicke, if we should recomptOur balefull newes, and at each words deliueranceStab Poniards in our flesh, till all were told,The words would adde more anguish then the wounds.O valiant Lord, the Duke of Yorke is slaine
Edw. O Warwicke, Warwicke, that PlantagenetWhich held thee deerely, as his Soules Redemption,Is by the sterne Lord Clifford done to death
War. Ten dayes ago, I drown'd these newes in teares.And now to adde more measure to your woes,I come to tell you things sith then befalne.After the bloody Fray at Wakefield fought,Where your braue Father breath'd his latest gaspe,Tydings, as swiftly as the Postes could runne,Were brought me of your Losse, and his Depart.I then in London, keeper of the King,Muster'd my Soldiers, gathered flockes of Friends,Marcht toward S[aint]. Albons, to intercept the Queene,Bearing the King in my behalfe along:For by my Scouts, I was aduertisedThat she was comming with a full intentTo dash our late Decree in Parliament,Touching King Henries Oath, and your Succession:Short Tale to make, we at S[aint]. Albons met,Our Battailes ioyn'd, and both sides fiercely fought:But whether 'twas the coldnesse of the King,Who look'd full gently on his warlike Queene,That robb'd my Soldiers of their heated Spleene.Or whether 'twas report of her successe,Or more then common feare of Cliffords Rigour,Who thunders to his Captiues, Blood and Death,I cannot iudge: but to conclude with truth,Their Weapons like to Lightning, came and went:Our Souldiers like the Night-Owles lazie flight,Or like a lazie Thresher with a Flaile,Fell gently downe, as if they strucke their Friends.I cheer'd them vp with iustice of our Cause,With promise of high pay, and great Rewards:But all in vaine, they had no heart to fight,And we (in them) no hope to win the day,So that we fled: the King vnto the Queene,Lord George, your Brother, Norfolke, and my Selfe,In haste, post haste, are come to ioyne with you:For in the Marches heere we heard you were,Making another Head, to fight againe
Ed. Where is the Duke of Norfolke, gentle Warwick?And when came George from Burgundy to England?War. Some six miles off the Duke is with the Soldiers,And for your Brother he was lately sentFrom your kinde Aunt Dutchesse of Burgundie,With ayde of Souldiers to this needfull Warre
Rich. 'Twas oddes belike, when valiant Warwick fled;Oft haue I heard his praises in Pursuite,But ne're till now, his Scandall of Retire
War. Nor now my Scandall Richard, dost thou heare:For thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine,Can plucke the Diadem from faint Henries head,And wring the awefull Scepter from his Fist,Were he as famous, and as bold in Warre,As he is fam'd for Mildnesse, Peace, and Prayer
Rich. I know it well Lord Warwick, blame me not,'Tis loue I beare thy glories make me speake:But in this troublous time, what's to be done?Shall we go throw away our Coates of Steele,And wrap our bodies in blacke mourning Gownes,Numb'ring our Aue-Maries with our Beads?Or shall we on the Helmets of our FoesTell our Deuotion with reuengefull Armes?If for the last, say I, and to it Lords
War. Why therefore Warwick came to seek you out,And therefore comes my Brother Mountague:Attend me Lords, the proud insulting Queene,With Clifford, and the haught Northumberland,And of their Feather, many moe proud Birds,Haue wrought the easie-melting King, like Wax.He swore consent to your Succession,His Oath enrolled in the Parliament.And now to London all the crew are gone,To frustrate both his Oath, and what besideMay make against the house of Lancaster.Their power (I thinke) is thirty thousand strong:Now, if the helpe of Norfolke, and my selfe,With all the Friends that thou braue Earle of March,Among'st the louing Welshmen can'st procure,Will but amount to fiue and twenty thousand,Why Via, to London will we march,And once againe, bestride our foaming Steeds,And once againe cry Charge vpon our Foes,But neuer once againe turne backe and flye
Rich. I, now me thinks I heare great Warwick speak;Ne're may he liue to see a Sun-shine day,That cries Retire, if Warwicke bid him stay
Ed. Lord Warwicke, on thy shoulder will I leane,And when thou failst (as God forbid the houre)Must Edward fall, which perill heauen forefend
War. No longer Earle of March, but Duke of Yorke:The next degree, is Englands Royall Throne:For King of England shalt thou be proclaim'dIn euery Burrough as we passe along,And he that throwes not vp his cap for ioy,Shall for the Fault make forfeit of his head.King Edward, valiant Richard Mountague:Stay we no longer, dreaming of Renowne.But sound the Trumpets, and about our Taske
Rich. Then Clifford, were thy heart as hard as Steele,As thou hast shewne it flintie by thy deeds,I come to pierce it, or to giue thee mine
Ed. Then strike vp Drums, God and S[aint]. George for vs.Enter a Messenger.
War. How now? what newes?Mes. The Duke of Norfolke sends you word by me,The Queene is comming with a puissant Hoast,And craues your company, for speedy counsell
War. Why then it sorts, braue Warriors, let's away.
Exeunt. Omnes.
Flourish. Enter the King, the Queene, Clifford, Northum[berland]and YongPrince, with Drumme and Trumpettes.
Qu. Welcome my Lord, to this braue town of Yorke,Yonders the head of that Arch-enemy,That sought to be incompast with your Crowne.Doth not the obiect cheere your heart, my Lord
K. I, as the rockes cheare them that feare their wrack,To see this sight, it irkes my very soule:With-hold reuenge (deere God) 'tis not my fault,Nor wittingly haue I infring'd my Vow
Clif. My gracious Liege, this too much lenityAnd harmfull pitty must be layd aside:To whom do Lyons cast their gentle Lookes?Not to the Beast, that would vsurpe their Den.Whose hand is that the Forrest Beare doth licke?Not his that spoyles her yong before her face.Who scapes the lurking Serpents mortall sting?Not he that sets his foot vpon her backe.The smallest Worme will turne, being troden on,And Doues will pecke in safegard of their Brood.Ambitious Yorke, did leuell at thy Crowne,Thou smiling, while he knit his angry browes.He but a Duke, would haue his Sonne a King,And raise his issue like a louing Sire.Thou being a King, blest with a goodly sonne,Did'st yeeld consent to disinherit him:Which argued thee a most vnlouing Father.Vnreasonable Creatures feed their young,And though mans face be fearefull to their eyes,Yet in protection of their tender ones,Who hath not seene them euen with those wings,Which sometime they haue vs'd with fearfull flight,Make warre with him that climb'd vnto their nest,Offering their owne liues in their yongs defence?For shame, my Liege, make them your President:Were it not pitty that this goodly BoyShould loose his Birth-right by his Fathers fault,And long heereafter say vnto his childe,What my great Grandfather, and Grandsire got,My carelesse Father fondly gaue away.Ah, what a shame were this? Looke on the Boy,And let his manly face, which promisethSuccessefull Fortune steele thy melting heart,To hold thine owne, and leaue thine owne with him
King. Full well hath Clifford plaid the Orator,Inferring arguments of mighty force:But Clifford tell me, did'st thou neuer heare,That things ill got, had euer bad successe.And happy alwayes was it for that Sonne,Whose Father for his hoording went to hell:Ile leaue my Sonne my Vertuous deeds behinde,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 keepe,Then in possession any iot of pleasure.Ah Cosin Yorke, would thy best Friends did know,How it doth greeue me that thy head is heere
Qu. My Lord cheere vp your spirits, our foes are nye,And this soft courage makes your Followers faint:You promist Knighthood to our forward sonne,Vnsheath your sword, and dub him presently.Edward, kneele downe
King. Edward Plantagenet, arise a Knight,And learne this Lesson; Draw thy Sword in right
Prin. My gracious Father, by your Kingly leaue,Ile draw it as Apparant to the Crowne,And in that quarrell, vse it to the death
Clif. Why that is spoken like a toward Prince.Enter a Messenger.
Mess. Royall Commanders, be in readinesse,For with a Band of thirty thousand men,Comes Warwicke backing of the Duke of Yorke,And in the Townes as they do march along,Proclaimes him King, and many flye to him,Darraigne your battell, for they are at hand
Clif. I would your Highnesse would depart the field,The Queene hath best successe when you are absent
Qu. I good my Lord, and leaue vs to our Fortune
King. Why, that's my fortune too, therefore Ile stay
North. Be it with resolution then to fight
Prin. My Royall Father, cheere these Noble Lords,And hearten those that fight in your defence:Vnsheath your Sword, good Father: Cry S[aint]. George.
March. Enter Edward, Warwicke, Richard, Clarence, Norfolke,Mountague, andSoldiers.
Edw. Now periur'd Henry, wilt thou kneel for grace?And set thy Diadem vpon my head?Or bide the mortall Fortune of the field
Qu. Go rate thy Minions, proud insulting Boy,Becomes it thee to be thus bold in termes,Before thy Soueraigne, and thy lawfull King?Ed. I am his King, and he should bow his knee:I was adopted Heire by his consent
Cla. Since when, his Oath is broke: for as I heare,You that are King, though he do weare the Crowne,Haue caus'd him by new Act of Parliament,To blot out me, and put his owne Sonne in
Clif. And reason too,Who should succeede the Father, but the Sonne
Rich. Are you there Butcher? O, I cannot speake
Clif. I Crooke-back, here I stand to answer thee,Or any he, the proudest of thy sort
Rich. 'Twas you that kill'd yong Rutland, was it not?Clif. I, and old Yorke, and yet not satisfied
Rich. For Gods sake Lords giue signall to the fight
War. What say'st thou Henry,Wilt thou yeeld the Crowne?Qu. Why how now long-tongu'd Warwicke, dare you speak?When you and I, met at S[aint]. Albons last,Your legges did better seruice then your hands
War. Then 'twas my turne to fly, and now 'tis thine:Clif. You said so much before, and yet you fled
War. 'Twas not your valor Clifford droue me thence
Nor. No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay
Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reuerently,Breake off the parley, for scarse I can refraineThe execution of my big-swolne heartVpon that Clifford, that cruell Child-killer
Clif. I slew thy Father, cal'st thou him a Child?Rich. I like a Dastard, and a treacherous Coward,As thou didd'st kill our tender Brother Rutland,But ere Sunset, Ile make thee curse the deed
King. Haue done with words (my Lords) and heareme speake
Qu. Defie them then, or els hold close thy lips
King. I prythee giue no limits to my Tongue,I am a King, and priuiledg'd to speake
Clif. My Liege, the wound that bred this meeting here,Cannot be cur'd by Words, therefore be still
Rich. Then Executioner vnsheath thy sword:By him that made vs all, I am resolu'd,That Cliffords Manhood, lyes vpon his tongue
Ed. Say Henry, shall I haue my right, or no:A thousand men haue broke their Fasts to day,That ne're shall dine, vnlesse thou yeeld the Crowne
War. If thou deny, their Blood vpon thy head,For Yorke in iustice put's his Armour on
Pr.Ed. If that be right, which Warwick saies is right,There is no wrong, but euery thing is right
War. Who euer got thee, there thy Mother stands,For well I wot, thou hast thy Mothers tongue
Qu. But thou art neyther like thy Sire nor Damme,But like a foule mishapen Stygmaticke,Mark'd by the Destinies to be auoided,As venome Toades, or Lizards dreadfull stings
Rich. Iron of Naples, hid with English gilt,Whose Father beares the Title of a King,(As if a Channell should be call'd the Sea)Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,To let thy tongue detect thy base-borne heart
Ed. A wispe of straw were worth a thousand Crowns,To make this shamelesse Callet know her selfe:Helen of Greece was fayrer farre then thou,Although thy Husband may be Menelaus;And ne're was Agamemnons Brother wrong'dBy that false Woman, as this King by thee.His Father reuel'd in the heart of France,And tam'd the King, and made the Dolphin stoope:And had he match'd according to his State,He might haue kept that glory to this day.But when he tooke a begger to his bed,And grac'd thy poore Sire with his Bridall day,Euen then that Sun-shine brew'd a showre for him,That washt his Fathers fortunes forth of France,And heap'd sedition on his Crowne at home:For what hath broach'd this tumult but thy Pride?Had'st thou bene meeke, our Title still had slept,And we in pitty of the Gentle King,Had slipt our Claime, vntill another Age
Cla. But when we saw, our Sunshine made thy Spring,And that thy Summer bred vs no increase,We set the Axe to thy vsurping Roote:And though the edge hath something hit our selues,Yet know thou, since we haue begun to strike,Wee'l neuer leaue, till we haue hewne thee downe,Or bath'd thy growing, with our heated bloods
Edw. And in this resolution, I defie thee,Not willing any longer Conference,Since thou denied'st the gentle King to speake.Sound Trumpets, let our bloody Colours waue,And either Victorie, or else a Graue
Qu. Stay Edward
Ed. No wrangling Woman, wee'l no longer stay,These words will cost ten thousand liues this day.
Exeunt. omnes.
Alarum. Excursions. Enter Warwicke.
War. Fore-spent with Toile, as Runners with a Race,I lay me downe a little while to breath:For strokes receiu'd, and many blowes repaid,Haue robb'd my strong knit sinewes of their strength,And spight of spight, needs must I rest a-while.Enter Edward running.
Ed. Smile gentle heauen, or strike vngentle death,For this world frownes, and Edwards Sunne is clowded
War. How now my Lord, what happe? what hope ofgood?Enter Clarence
Cla. Our hap is losse, our hope but sad dispaire,Our rankes are broke, and ruine followes vs.What counsaile giue you? whether shall we flye?Ed. Bootlesse is flight, they follow vs with Wings,And weake we are, and cannot shun pursuite.Enter Richard.
Rich. Ah Warwicke, why hast y withdrawn thy selfe?Thy Brothers blood the thirsty earth hath drunk,Broach'd with the Steely point of Cliffords Launce:And in the very pangs of death, he cryde,Like to a dismall Clangor heard from farre,Warwicke, reuenge; Brother, reuenge my death.So vnderneath the belly of their Steeds,That stain'd their Fetlockes in his smoaking blood,The Noble Gentleman gaue vp the ghost
War. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood:Ile kill my Horse, because I will not flye:Why stand we like soft-hearted women heere,Wayling our losses, whiles the Foe doth Rage,And looke vpon, as if the TragedieWere plaid in iest, by counterfetting Actors.Heere on my knee, I vow to God aboue,Ile neuer pawse againe, neuer stand still,Till either death hath clos'd these eyes of mine,Or Fortune giuen me measure of Reuenge
Ed. Oh Warwicke, I do bend my knee with thine,And in this vow do chaine my soule to thine:And ere my knee rise from the Earths cold face,I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee,Thou setter vp, and plucker downe of Kings:Beseeching thee (if with thy will it stands)That to my Foes this body must be prey,Yet that thy brazen gates of heauen may ope,And giue sweet passage to my sinfull soule.Now Lords, take leaue vntill we meete againe,Where ere it be, in heauen, or in earth
Rich. Brother,Giue me thy hand, and gentle Warwicke,Let me imbrace thee in my weary armes:I that did neuer weepe, now melt with wo,That Winter should cut off our Spring-time so
War. Away, away:Once more sweet Lords farwell
Cla. Yet let vs altogether to our Troopes,And giue them leaue to flye, that will not stay:And call them Pillars that will stand to vs:And if we thriue, promise them such rewardsAs Victors weare at the Olympian Games.This may plant courage in their quailing breasts,For yet is hope of Life and Victory:Foreslow no longer, make we hence amaine.
Exeunt.
Excursions. Enter Richard and Clifford.
Rich. Now Clifford, I haue singled thee alone,Suppose this arme is for the Duke of Yorke,And this for Rutland, both bound to reuenge,Wer't thou inuiron'd with a Brazen wall
Clif. Now Richard, I am with thee heere alone,This is the hand that stabb'd thy Father Yorke,And this the hand, that slew thy Brother Rutland,And here's the heart, that triumphs in their death,And cheeres these hands, that slew thy Sire and Brother,To execute the like vpon thy selfe,And so haue at thee.They Fight, Warwicke comes, Clifford flies.
Rich. Nay Warwicke, single out some other Chace,For I my selfe will hunt this Wolfe to death.
Exeunt.
Alarum. Enter King Henry alone.
Hen. This battell fares like to the mornings Warre,When dying clouds contend, with growing light,What time the Shepheard blowing of his nailes,Can neither call it perfect day, nor night.Now swayes it this way, like a Mighty Sea,Forc'd by the Tide, to combat with the Winde:Now swayes it that way, like the selfe-same Sea,Forc'd to retyre by furie of the Winde.Sometime, the Flood preuailes; and than the Winde:Now, one the better: then, another best;Both tugging to be Victors, brest to brest:Yet neither Conqueror, nor Conquered.So is the equall poise of this fell Warre.Heere on this Mole-hill will I sit me downe,To whom God will, there be the Victorie:For Margaret my Queene, and Clifford tooHaue chid me from the Battell: Swearing both,They prosper best of all when I am thence.Would I were dead, if Gods good will were so;For what is in this world, but Greefe and Woe.Oh God! me thinkes it were a happy life,To be no better then a homely Swaine,To sit vpon a hill, as I do now,To carue out Dialls queintly, point by point,Thereby to see the Minutes how they runne:How many makes the Houre full compleate,How many Houres brings about the Day,How many Dayes will finish vp the Yeare,How many Yeares, a Mortall man may liue.When this is knowne, then to diuide the Times:So many Houres, must I tend my Flocke;So many Houres, must I take my Rest:So many Houres, must I Contemplate:So many Houres, must I Sport my selfe:So many Dayes, my Ewes haue bene with yong:So many weekes, ere the poore Fooles will Eane:So many yeares, ere I shall sheere the Fleece:So Minutes, Houres, Dayes, Monthes, and Yeares,Past ouer to the end they were created,Would bring white haires, vnto a Quiet graue.Ah! what a life were this? How sweet? how louely?Giues not the Hawthorne bush a sweeter shadeTo Shepheards, looking on their silly Sheepe,Then doth a rich Imbroider'd CanopieTo Kings, that feare their Subiects treacherie?Oh yes, it doth; a thousand fold it doth.And to conclude, the Shepherds homely Curds,His cold thinne drinke out of his Leather Bottle,His wonted sleepe, vnder a fresh trees shade,All which secure, and sweetly he enioyes,Is farre beyond a Princes Delicates:His Viands sparkling in a Golden Cup,His bodie couched in a curious bed,When Care, Mistrust, and Treason waits on him.
Alarum. Enter a Sonne that hath kill'd his Father, at one doore: andaFather that hath kill'd his Sonne at another doore.
Son. Ill blowes the winde that profits no body,This man whom hand to hand I slew in fight,May be possessed with some store of Crownes,And I that (haply) take them from him now,May yet (ere night) yeeld both my Life and themTo some man else, as this dead man doth me.Who's this? Oh God! It is my Fathers face,Whom in this Conflict, I (vnwares) haue kill'd:Oh heauy times! begetting such Euents.From London, by the King was I prest forth,My Father being the Earle of Warwickes man,Came on the part of Yorke, prest by his Master:And I, who at his hands receiu'd my life,Haue by my hands, of Life bereaued him.Pardon me God, I knew not what I did:And pardon Father, for I knew not thee.My Teares shall wipe away these bloody markes:And no more words, till they haue flow'd their fill
King. O pitteous spectacle! O bloody Times!Whiles Lyons Warre, and battaile for their Dennes,Poore harmlesse Lambes abide their enmity.Weepe wretched man: Ile ayde thee Teare for Teare,And let our hearts and eyes, like Ciuill Warre,Be blinde with teares, and break ore-charg'd with griefeEnter Father, bearing of his Sonne.
Fa. Thou that so stoutly hath resisted me,Giue me thy Gold, if thou hast any Gold:For I haue bought it with an hundred blowes.But let me see: Is this our Foe-mans face?Ah, no, no, no, it is mine onely Sonne.Ah Boy, if any life be left in thee,Throw vp thine eye: see, see, what showres arise,Blowne with the windie Tempest of my heart,Vpon thy wounds, that killes mine Eye, and Heart.O pitty God, this miserable Age!What Stratagems? how fell? how Butcherly?Erreoneous, mutinous, and vnnaturall,This deadly quarrell daily doth beget?O Boy! thy Father gaue thee life too soone,And hath bereft thee of thy life too late
King. Wo aboue wo: greefe, more the[n] common greefeO that my death would stay these ruthfull deeds:O pitty, pitty, gentle heauen pitty:The Red Rose and the White are on his face,The fatall Colours of our striuing Houses:The one, his purple Blood right well resembles,The other his pale Cheekes (me thinkes) presenteth:Wither one Rose, and let the other flourish:If you contend, a thousand liues must wither
Son. How will my Mother, for a Fathers deathTake on with me, and ne're be satisfi'd?Fa. How will my Wife, for slaughter of my Sonne,Shed seas of Teares, and ne're be satisfi'd?King. How will the Country, for these woful chances,Mis-thinke the King, and not be satisfied?Son. Was euer sonne, so rew'd a Fathers death?Fath. Was euer Father so bemoan'd his Sonne?Hen. Was euer King so greeu'd for Subiects woe?Much is your sorrow; Mine, ten times so much
Son. Ile beare thee hence, where I may weepe my fill
Fath. These armes of mine shall be thy winding sheet:My heart (sweet Boy) shall be thy Sepulcher,For from my heart, thine Image ne're shall go.My sighing brest, shall be thy Funerall bell;And so obsequious will thy Father be,Men for the losse of thee, hauing no more,As Priam was for all his Valiant Sonnes,Ile beare thee hence, and let them fight that will,For I haue murthered where I should not kill.
Exit
Hen. Sad-hearted-men, much ouergone with Care;Heere sits a King, more wofull then you are.
Alarums. Excursions. Enter the Queen, the Prince, and Exeter.
Prin. Fly Father, flye: for all your Friends are fled.And Warwicke rages like a chafed Bull:Away, for death doth hold vs in pursuite
Qu. Mount you my Lord, towards Barwicke post amaine:Edward and Richard like a brace of Grey-hounds,Hauing the fearfull flying Hare in sight,With fiery eyes, sparkling for very wrath,And bloody steele graspt in their yrefull handsAre at our backes, and therefore hence amaine
Exet. Away: for vengeance comes along with them.Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed,Or else come after, Ile away before
Hen. Nay take me with thee, good sweet Exeter:Not that I feare to stay, but loue to goWhether the Queene intends. Forward, away.
Exeunt.
A lowd alarum. Enter Clifford Wounded.
Clif. Heere burnes my Candle out; I, heere it dies,Which whiles it lasted, gaue King Henry light.O Lancaster! I feare thy ouerthrow,More then my Bodies parting with my Soule:My Loue and Feare, glew'd many Friends to thee,And now I fall. Thy tough Commixtures melts,Impairing Henry, strength'ning misproud Yorke;And whether flye the Gnats, but to the Sunne?And who shines now, but Henries Enemies?O Phoebus! had'st thou neuer giuen consent,That Phęton should checke thy fiery Steeds,Thy burning Carre neuer had scorch'd the earth.And Henry, had'st thou sway'd as Kings should do,Or as thy Father, and his Father did,Giuing no ground vnto the house of Yorke,They neuer then had sprung like Sommer Flyes:I, and ten thousand in this lucklesse Realme,Had left no mourning Widdowes for our death,And thou this day, had'st kept thy Chaire in peace.For what doth cherrish Weeds, but gentle ayre?And what makes Robbers bold, but too much lenity?Bootlesse are Plaints, and Curelesse are my Wounds:No way to flye, no strength to hold out flight:The Foe is mercilesse, and will not pitty:For at their hands I haue deseru'd no pitty.The ayre hath got into my deadly Wounds,And much effuse of blood, doth make me faint:Come Yorke, and Richard, Warwicke, and the rest,I stab'd your Fathers bosomes; Split my brest.
Alarum & Retreat. Enter Edward, Warwicke, Richard, and Soldiers, Montague, & Clarence.
Ed. Now breath we Lords, good fortune bids vs pause,And smooth the frownes of War, with peacefull lookes:Some Troopes pursue the bloody-minded Queene,That led calme Henry, though he were a King,As doth a Saile, fill'd with a fretting GustCommand an Argosie to stemme the Waues.But thinke you (Lords) that Clifford fled with them?War. No, 'tis impossible he should escape:(For though before his face I speake the words)Your Brother Richard markt him for the Graue.And wheresoere he is, hee's surely dead.
Clifford grones
Rich. Whose soule is that which takes hir heauy leaue?A deadly grone, like life and deaths departing.See who it is
Ed. And now the Battailes ended,If Friend or Foe, let him be gently vsed
Rich. Reuoke that doome of mercy, for 'tis Clifford,Who not contented that he lopp'd the BranchIn hewing Rutland, when his leaues put forth,But set his murth'ring knife vnto the Roote,From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring,I meane our Princely Father, Duke of Yorke
War. From off the gates of Yorke, fetch down y head,Your Fathers head, which Clifford placed there:In stead whereof, let this supply the roome,Measure for measure, must be answered
Ed. Bring forth that fatall Schreechowle to our house,That nothing sung but death, to vs and ours:Now death shall stop his dismall threatning sound,And his ill-boading tongue, no more shall speake
War. I thinke his vnderstanding is bereft:Speake Clifford, dost thou know who speakes to thee?Darke cloudy death ore-shades his beames of life,And he nor sees, nor heares vs, what we say
Rich. O would he did, and so (perhaps) he doth,'Tis but his policy to counterfet,Because he would auoid such bitter tauntsWhich in the time of death he gaue our Father
Cla. If so thou think'st,Vex him with eager Words
Rich. Clifford, aske mercy, and obtaine no grace
Ed. Clifford, repent in bootlesse penitence
War. Clifford, deuise excuses for thy faults
Cla. While we deuise fell Tortures for thy faults
Rich. Thou didd'st loue Yorke, and I am son to Yorke
Edw. Thou pittied'st Rutland, I will pitty thee
Cla. Where's Captaine Margaret, to fence you now?War. They mocke thee Clifford,Sweare as thou was't wont
Ric. What, not an Oath? Nay then the world go's hardWhen Clifford cannot spare his Friends an oath:I know by that he's dead, and by my Soule,If this right hand would buy two houres life,That I (in all despight) might rayle at him,This hand should chop it off: & with the issuing BloodStifle the Villaine, whose vnstanched thirstYorke, and yong Rutland could not satisfieWar. I, but he's dead. Of with the Traitors head,And reare it in the place your Fathers stands.And now to London with Triumphant march,There to be crowned Englands Royall King:From whence, shall Warwicke cut the Sea to France,And aske the Ladie Bona for thy Queene:So shalt thou sinow both these Lands together,And hauing France thy Friend, thou shalt not dreadThe scattred Foe, that hopes to rise againe:For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt,Yet looke to haue them buz to offend thine eares:First, will I see the Coronation,And then to Britanny Ile crosse the Sea,To effect this marriage, so it please my Lord
Ed. Euen as thou wilt sweet Warwicke, let it bee:For in thy shoulder do I builde my Seate;And neuer will I vndertake the thingWherein thy counsaile and consent is wanting:Richard, I will create thee Duke of Gloucester,And George of Clarence; Warwicke as our Selfe,Shall do, and vndo as him pleaseth best
Rich. Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloster,For Glosters Dukedome is too ominous
War. Tut, that's a foolish obseruation:Richard, be Duke of Gloster: Now to London,To see these Honors in possession.
Exeunt.
Enter Sinklo, and Humfrey, with Crosse-bowes in their hands.
Sink. Vnder this thicke growne brake, wee'l shrowd our selues:For through this Laund anon the Deere will come,And in this couert will we make our Stand,Culling the principall of all the Deere
Hum. Ile stay aboue the hill, so both may shoot
Sink. That cannot be, the noise of thy Crosse-bowWill scarre the Heard, and so my shoot is lost:Heere stand we both, and ayme we at the best:And for the time shall not seeme tedious,Ile tell thee what befell me on a day,In this selfe-place, where now we meane to stand
Sink. Heere comes a man, let's stay till he be past:Enter the King with a Prayer booke.
Hen. From Scotland am I stolne euen of pure loue,To greet mine owne Land with my wishfull sight:No Harry, Harry, 'tis no Land of thine,Thy place is fill'd, thy Scepter wrung from thee,Thy Balme washt off, wherewith thou was Annointed:No bending knee will call thee Cęsar now,No humble suters prease to speake for right:No, not a man comes for redresse of thee:For how can I helpe them, and not my selfe?Sink. I, heere's a Deere, whose skin's a Keepers Fee:This is the quondam King; Let's seize vpon him
Hen. Let me embrace the sower Aduersaries,For Wise men say, it is the wisest course
Hum. Why linger we? Let vs lay hands vpon him
Sink. Forbeare a-while, wee'l heare a little more
Hen. My Queene and Son are gone to France for aid:And (as I heare) the great Commanding WarwickeI: thither gone, to craue the French Kings SisterTo wife for Edward. If this newes be true,Poore Queene, and Sonne, your labour is but lost:For Warwicke is a subtle Orator:And Lewis a Prince soone wonne with mouing words:By this account then, Margaret may winne him,For she's a woman to be pittied much:Her sighes will make a batt'ry in his brest,Her teares will pierce into a Marble heart:The Tyger will be milde, whiles she doth mourne;And Nero will be tainted with remorse,To heare and see her plaints, her Brinish Teares.I, but shee's come to begge, Warwicke to giue:Shee on his left side, crauing ayde for Henrie;He on his right, asking a wife for Edward.Shee Weepes, and sayes, her Henry is depos'd:He Smiles, and sayes, his Edward is instaul'd;That she (poore Wretch) for greefe can speake no more:Whiles Warwicke tels his Title, smooths the Wrong,Inferreth arguments of mighty strength,And in conclusion winnes the King from her,With promise of his Sister, and what else,To strengthen and support King Edwards place.O Margaret, thus 'twill be, and thou (poore soule)Art then forsaken, as thou went'st forlorne
Hum. Say, what art thou talk'st of Kings & Queens?King. More then I seeme, and lesse then I was born to:A man at least, for lesse I should not be:And men may talke of Kings, and why not I?Hum. I, but thou talk'st, as if thou wer't a King
King. Why so I am (in Minde) and that's enough
Hum. But if thou be a King, where is thy Crowne?King. My Crowne is in my heart, not on my head:Not deck'd with Diamonds, and Indian stones:Nor to be seene: my Crowne, is call'd Content,A Crowne it is, that sildome Kings enioy
Hum. Well, if you be a King crown'd with Content,Your Crowne Content, and you, must be contentedTo go along with vs. For (as we thinke)You are the king King Edward hath depos'd:And we his subiects, sworne in all Allegeance,Will apprehend you, as his Enemie
King. But did you neuer sweare, and breake an Oath
Hum. No, neuer such an Oath, nor will not now
King. Where did you dwell when I was K[ing]. of England?Hum. Heere in this Country, where we now remaine
King. I was annointed King at nine monthes old,My Father, and my Grandfather were Kings:And you were sworne true Subiects vnto me:And tell me then, haue you not broke your Oathes?Sin. No, for we were Subiects, but while you wer kingKing. Why? Am I dead? Do I not breath a Man?Ah simple men, you know not what you sweare:Looke, as I blow this Feather from my Face,And as the Ayre blowes it to me againe,Obeying with my winde when I do blow,And yeelding to another, when it blowes,Commanded alwayes by the greater gust:Such is the lightnesse of you, common men.But do not breake your Oathes, for of that sinne,My milde intreatie shall not make you guiltie.Go where you will, the king shall be commanded,And be you kings, command, and Ile obey
Sinklo. We are true Subiects to the king,King Edward
King. So would you be againe to Henrie,If he were seated as king Edward is
Sinklo. We charge you in Gods name & the Kings,To go with vs vnto the Officers
King. In Gods name lead, your Kings name be obeyd,And what God will, that let your King performe.And what he will, I humbly yeeld vnto.
Exeunt.
Enter K[ing]. Edward, Gloster, Clarence, Lady Gray.
King. Brother of Gloster, at S[aint]. Albons fieldThis Ladyes Husband, Sir Richard Grey, was slaine,His Land then seiz'd on by the Conqueror,Her suit is now, to repossesse those Lands,Which wee in Iustice cannot well deny,Because in Quarrell of the House of Yorke,The worthy Gentleman did lose his Life
Rich. Your Highnesse shall doe well to graunt her suit:It were dishonor to deny it her
King. It were no lesse, but yet Ile make a pawse
Rich. Yea, is it so:I see the Lady hath a thing to graunt,Before the King will graunt her humble suit
Clarence. Hee knowes the Game, how true hee keepesthe winde?Rich. Silence
King. Widow, we will consider of your suit,And come some other time to know our minde
Wid. Right gracious Lord, I cannot brooke delay:May it please your Highnesse to resolue me now,And what your pleasure is, shall satisfie me
Rich. I Widow? then Ile warrant you all your Lands,And if what pleases him, shall pleasure you:Fight closer, or good faith you'le catch a Blow
Clarence. I feare her not, vnlesse she chance to fall
Rich. God forbid that, for hee'le take vantages
King. How many Children hast thou, Widow? tell me
Clarence. I thinke he meanes to begge a Child of her
Rich. Nay then whip me: hee'le rather giue her two
Wid. Three, my most gracious Lord
Rich. You shall haue foure, if you'le be rul'd by him
King. 'Twere pittie they should lose their FathersLands
Wid. Be pittifull, dread Lord, and graunt it then
King. Lords giue vs leaue, Ile trye this Widoweswit
Rich. I, good leaue haue you, for you will haue leaue,Till Youth take leaue, and leaue you to the Crutch
King. Now tell me, Madame, doe you loue yourChildren?Wid. I, full as dearely as I loue my selfe
King. And would you not doe much to doe themgood?Wid. To doe them good, I would sustayne someharme
King. Then get your Husbands Lands, to doe themgood
Wid. Therefore I came vnto your Maiestie
King. Ile tell you how these Lands are to be got
Wid. So shall you bind me to your Highnesse seruice
King. What seruice wilt thou doe me, if I giue them?Wid. What you command, that rests in me to doe
King. But you will take exceptions to my Boone
Wid. No, gracious Lord, except I cannot doe it
King. I, but thou canst doe what I meane to aske
Wid. Why then I will doe what your Grace commands
Rich. Hee plyes her hard, and much Raine weares theMarble
Clar. As red as fire? nay then, her Wax must melt
Wid. Why stoppes my Lord? shall I not heare myTaske?King. An easie Taske, 'tis but to loue a King
Wid. That's soone perform'd, because I am a Subiect
King. Why then, thy Husbands Lands I freely giue thee
Wid. I take my leaue with many thousand thankes
Rich. The Match is made, shee seales it with a Cursie
King. But stay thee, 'tis the fruits of loue I meane
Wid. The fruits of Loue, I meane, my louing Liege
King. I, but I feare me in another sence.What Loue, think'st thou, I sue so much to get?Wid. My loue till death, my humble thanks, my prayers,That loue which Vertue begges, and Vertue graunts
King. No, by my troth, I did not meane such loue
Wid. Why then you meane not, as I thought you did
King. But now you partly may perceiue my minde
Wid. My minde will neuer graunt what I perceiueYour Highnesse aymes at, if I ayme aright
King. To tell thee plaine, I ayme to lye with thee
Wid. To tell you plaine, I had rather lye in Prison
King. Why then thou shalt not haue thy HusbandsLands
Wid. Why then mine Honestie shall be my Dower,For by that losse, I will not purchase them
King. Therein thou wrong'st thy Children mightily
Wid. Herein your Highnesse wrongs both them & me:But mightie Lord, this merry inclinationAccords not with the sadnesse of my suit:Please you dismisse me, eyther with I, or no
King. I, if thou wilt say I to my request:No, if thou do'st say No to my demand
Wid. Then No, my Lord: my suit is at an end
Rich. The Widow likes him not, shee knits herBrowes
Clarence. Hee is the bluntest Wooer in Christendome
King. Her Looks doth argue her replete with Modesty,Her Words doth shew her Wit incomparable,All her perfections challenge Soueraigntie,One way, or other, shee is for a King,And shee shall be my Loue, or else my Queene.Say, that King Edward take thee for his Queene?Wid. 'Tis better said then done, my gracious Lord:I am a subiect fit to ieast withall,But farre vnfit to be a Soueraigne
King. Sweet Widow, by my State I sweare to thee,I speake no more then what my Soule intends,And that is, to enioy thee for my Loue
Wid. And that is more then I will yeeld vnto:I know, I am too meane to be your Queene,And yet too good to be your Concubine
King. You cauill, Widow, I did meane my Queene
Wid. 'Twill grieue your Grace, my Sonnes should callyou Father
King. No more, then when my DaughtersCall thee Mother.Thou art a Widow, and thou hast some Children,And by Gods Mother, I being but a Batchelor,Haue other-some. Why, 'tis a happy thing,To be the Father vnto many Sonnes:Answer no more, for thou shalt be my Queene
Rich. The Ghostly Father now hath done his Shrift
Clarence. When hee was made a Shriuer, 'twas for shift
King. Brothers, you muse what Chat wee two hauehad
Rich. The Widow likes it not, for shee lookes verysad
King. You'ld thinke it strange, if I should marrieher
Clarence. To who, my Lord?King. Why Clarence, to my selfe
Rich. That would be tenne dayes wonder at the least
Clarence. That's a day longer then a Wonder lasts
Rich. By so much is the Wonder in extremes
King. Well, ieast on Brothers: I can tell you both,Her suit is graunted for her Husbands Lands.Enter a Noble man
Nob. My gracious Lord, Henry your Foe is taken,And brought your Prisoner to your Pallace Gate
King. See that he be conuey'd vnto the Tower:And goe wee Brothers to the man that tooke him,To question of his apprehension.Widow goe you along: Lords vse her honourable.
Exeunt.
Manet Richard.
Rich. I, Edward will vse Women honourably:Would he were wasted, Marrow, Bones, and all,That from his Loynes no hopefull Branch may spring,To crosse me from the Golden time I looke for:And yet, betweene my Soules desire, and me,The lustfull Edwards Title buryed,Is Clarence, Henry, and his Sonne young Edward,And all the vnlook'd-for Issue of their Bodies,To take their Roomes, ere I can place my selfe:A cold premeditation for my purpose.Why then I doe but dreame on Soueraigntie,Like one that stands vpon a Promontorie,And spyes a farre-off shore, where hee would tread,Wishing his foot were equall with his eye,And chides the Sea, that sunders him from thence,Saying, hee'le lade it dry, to haue his way:So doe I wish the Crowne, being so farre off,And so I chide the meanes that keepes me from it,And so (I say) Ile cut the Causes off,Flattering me with impossibilities:My Eyes too quicke, my Heart o're-weenes too much,Vnlesse my Hand and Strength could equall them.Well, say there is no Kingdome then for Richard:What other Pleasure can the World affoord?Ile make my Heauen in a Ladies Lappe,And decke my Body in gay Ornaments,And 'witch sweet Ladies with my Words and Lookes.Oh miserable Thought! and more vnlikely,Then to accomplish twentie Golden Crownes.Why Loue forswore me in my Mothers Wombe:And for I should not deale in her soft Lawes,Shee did corrupt frayle Nature with some Bribe,To shrinke mine Arme vp like a wither'd Shrub,To make an enuious Mountaine on my Back,Where sits Deformitie to mocke my Body;To shape my Legges of an vnequall size,To dis-proportion me in euery part:Like to a Chaos, or an vn-lick'd Beare-whelpe,That carryes no impression like the Damme.And am I then a man to be belou'd?Oh monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought.Then since this Earth affoords no Ioy to me,But to command, to check, to o're-beare such,As are of better Person then my selfe:Ile make my Heauen, to dreame vpon the Crowne,And whiles I liue, t' account this World but Hell,Vntill my mis-shap'd Trunke, that beares this Head,Be round impaled with a glorious Crowne.And yet I know not how to get the Crowne,For many Liues stand betweene me and home:And I, like one lost in a Thornie Wood,That rents the Thornes, and is rent with the Thornes,Seeking a way, and straying from the way,Not knowing how to finde the open Ayre,But toyling desperately to finde it out,Torment my selfe, to catch the English Crowne:And from that torment I will free my selfe,Or hew my way out with a bloody Axe.Why I can smile, and murther whiles I smile,And cry, Content, to that which grieues my Heart,And wet my Cheekes with artificiall Teares,And frame my Face to all occasions.Ile drowne more Saylers then the Mermaid shall,Ile slay more gazers then the Basiliske,Ile play the Orator as well as Nestor,Deceiue more slyly then Vlisses could,And like a Synon, take another Troy.I can adde Colours to the Camelion,Change shapes with Proteus, for aduantages,And set the murtherous Macheuill to Schoole.Can I doe this, and cannot get a Crowne?Tut, were it farther off, Ile plucke it downe.Enter.