Rich. 'Twas you that kill'd young Rutland, was it not?
Clif. Ay, and old York, and yet not fatisfy'd.
Rich. For God's fake, Lords, give fignal to the fight.
War. What fay'ft thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown?
Queen. Why, how now, long-tongu'd Warwick, dare
you speak?

When you and I met at St. Albans laft,

Your legs did better service than your hands.

War. Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine. Clif. You faid fo much before, and yet you fled. War. "Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence. North. No, nor your manhood, that durft make you ftay. Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently.. Break off the parle, for fcarce I can refrain The execution of my big-fwoln heart Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.

Clif. I flew thy father, call'st thou him a child? Rich. Ay, like a daftard and a treacherous coward, As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland: But, ere fun-fet, I'll make thee curfe the deed.

K. Henry. Have done with words, my Lords, and hear me speak.

Queen. Defy them then, or elfe hold clofe thy lips. K. Henry. I pry'thee, give no limits to my tongue; I am a King, and privileg'd to speak.

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

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

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

Rich. Who ever got thee, there thy mother ftands, For, well I wot, thou haft thy mother's tongue. Queen. But thou art neither like thy fire nor dam,

But

But like a foul mif- fhapen ftigmatick,
Mark'd by the deftinies to be avoided;
As venomous toads, or lizards dreadful ftings.
Rich. Iron of Naples hid with English gilt,
Whofe father bears the title of a King,

(As if a channel fhould be call'd the fea) Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught, To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?

Edw. A wifp of ftraw were worth a thousand crowns, To make this fhameless callet know herself. Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou, Although thy husband may be Menelaus ; And ne'er was Agamemnon's brother wrong'd By that falfe woman, as this King by thee. His father revell'd in the heart of France, And tam'd the King, and made the Dauphin ftoop: And had he match'd according to his ftate, He might have kept that glory to this day. But when he took a beggar to his bed, And grac'd thy poor fire with his bridal day, Even then that fun-fhine brew'd a show'r for him, That wash'd his father's fortunes forth of France, And heap'd fedition on his crown at home: For what hath broach'd this tumult, but thy pride? Hadft thou been meek, our title ftill had flept; And we, in pity of the gentle King,

Had flipt our claim until another

age.

Cla. But when we faw, our fun-fhine made thy fpring, And that thy fummer bred us no increase,

We fet the axe to thy ufurping root;

And though the edge hath fomething hit ourselves,
Yet know thou, fince we have begun to ftrike,
We'll never leave till we have hewn thee down,
Or bath'd thy growing with our heated bloods.
Edw. And in this refolution I defy thee;
Not willing any longer conference,
Since thou deny'dit the gentle King to fpeak.
Sound trumpets, let our bloody colours wave,
And either victory, or else a grave.

Queen. Stay, Edward

Edw. No, wrangling woman, we'll no longer ftay: These words will coft ten thoufand lives this day.

[Exeunt omnes.

SCENE changes to a Field of Battle at Ferribridge in Yorkshire.

War.

F

Alarum. Excurfions. Enter Warwick.

Ore-fpent with toil, as runners with a race, I lay me down a little while to breathe: For ftrokes receiv'd, and many blows repaid, Have robb'd my ftrong-knit finews of their ftrength; And, fpight of spight, needs muft I reft awhile.

Enter Edward running.

Edw. Smile, gentle heav'n! or ftrike, ungentle death! For this world frowns, and Edward's fun is clouded. War. How now, my Lord, what hap?what hope of good? Enter Clarence.

Cla. Our hap is lofs, our hope but fad despair;
Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us.
What counsel give you? whither fhall we fly?

Edw. Bootlefs is flight, they follow us with wings; And weak we are, and cannot fhun purfuit.

Enter Richard.

Rich. Ah, Warwick, why haft thou withdrawn thyself? Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk, (11) Broach'd

(11) Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth bath drunk,] This paffage, from the variation of the copies, gave me no little perplexity. The old 4to applies this defcription to the death of Salisbury, Warwick's father. But this was a notorious deviation from the truth of history. For the Earl of Salisbury in the battle at Wakefield, wherein Richard Duke of York loft his life, was taken prifoner, beheaded at Pomfret, and his head, together with the Duke of York's, fix'd over Yorkgates. Then, the only brother of Warwick, introduc'd in this play, is the Marquifs of Montacute; (or Montague, as he is call'd by our author:) but he does not die, till ten years after, in the battle at Barnet; where Warwick likewife was kill'd. The truth is, the brother, here mention'd, is no perfon in the Drama: and his death

is

Broach'd with the fteely point of Clifford's lance:
And in the very pangs of death he cry'd,
(Like to a difmal clangor heard from far)
Warwick, revenge; brother, revenge my death.
So underneath the belly of their steeds,
That ftain'd their fetlocks in his fmoaking blood,
The noble gentleman gave up the ghoft.

War. Then let the earth be drunken with our bloods
I'll kill my horfe, becaufe I will not fly:
Why ftand we like foft-hearted women here,
Wailing our loffes, whiles the foe doth rage;
And look upon, as if the tragedy

Were plaid in jeft by counterfeiting actors?
Here on my knee I vow to God above,
I'll never paufe again, never stand still,
Till either death hath clos'd thefe eyes of mine,
Or fortune given me measure of

revenge.

Edw. O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine, And in this vow do chain my foul to thine.

And ere my knee rife from the earth's cold face,
I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee,
Thou fetter up, and plucker down, of Kings!
Befeeching thee, (if with thy will it ftands
That to my foes this body must be prey)
Yet that thy brazen gates of heav'n may ope,
And give fweet paffage to my finful foul.

Now, Lords, take leave until we meet again;
Where-e'er it be, in heav'n or on earth.

Rich. Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle Warwicks Let me embrace thee in my weary arms:

I, that did never weep, now melt with woe;
That winter fhould cut off our spring-time fo.
War. Away, away: once more, fweet Lords, farewel.
Cla. Yet let us all together to our troops;

And give them leave to fly, that will not stay;
And call them pillars, that will ftand to us;

is only an incidental piece of hiftory. Confulting the chronicles, upon this action at Ferribridge, I find him to have been a natural fon of Salisbury, (in that refpect, a brother to Warwick;) and esteem'd a valiant young gentleman,

And

And if we thrive, promise them fuch rewards,
As victors wear at the Olympian games.

This may plant courage in their quailing breafts,
For yet is hope of life and victory;

Fore-flow no longer, make we hence amain. [Exeunt.
Excurfions. Enter Richard, and Clifford.

Rich. Now, Clifford, I have fingled thee alone;
Suppofe, this arm is for the Duke of York,
And this for Rutland, both bound to revenge,
Wert thou environ'd with a brazen wall.

Clif. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone,
This is the hand, that ftabb'd thy father York;
And this the hand, that flew thy brother Rutland;
And here's the heart, that triumphs in their death;
And cheers these hands, that flew thy fire and brother,
To execute the like upon thyfelf:

And fo, have at thee.

They fight. Warwick enters, Clifford flies. Rich. Nay, Warwick, fingle out fome other chase, For I myself will hunt this wolf to death.

Alarum. Enter King Henry alone.

[Exeunt.

K. Henry. This battle fares like to the morning's war,
When dying clouds contend with growing light;
What time the fhepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day nor night.
Now fways it this way, like a mighty fea
Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind:
Now fways it that way, like the self-fame fea
Forc'd to retire by fury of the wind.

Sometime, the flood prevails; and then, the wind;
Now, one the better; then, another best;
Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,
Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered;
So is the equal poize of this fell war.
Here on this mole-hill will I fit me down:
To whom God will, there be the victory!
For Margaret my Queen and Clifford too