The northern lords, that have forsworn thy colours, Thus do I leave thee:-Come, son, let's away; K. Hen. Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me speak. Q. Mar. Thou hast spoke too much already; get thee gone. K. Hen. Gentle son Edward, thou wilt stay with me? Q. Mar. Ay, to be murder'd by his enemies. Prince. When I return with victory from the field, I'll see your grace: till then, I'll follow her. Q Mar. Come, son, away; we may not linger thus. [Exeunt Queen MARGARET, and the Prince. K. Hen. Poor queen! how love to me, and to her son, Hath made her break out into terms of rage! Reveng'd may she be on that hateful duke; Whose haughty spirit, winged with desire, Will cost my crown, and, like an empty eagle, Tire on the flesh of me, and of my son! The loss of those three lords torments my heart: I'll write unto them, and entreat them fair;Come, cousin, you shall be the messenger. Exe. And I, I hope, shall reconcile them all. [Exeunt. SCENE II.-A Room in Sandal Castle, near Wakefield, in Yorkshire. Enter EDWARD, RICHARD, and MONTAGUE. Rich. Brother, though I be youngest, give me leave, Edw. No, I can better play the orator. Mont. But I have reasons strong and forcible. Enter YORK. York. Why, how now, sons and brother, at a strife? What is your quarrel? how began it first? Edw. No quarrel, but a slight contention. and Rich. About that, which concerns your grace us; York. I took an oath, that he should quietly reign. Edw. But, for a kingdom, any oath may be broken: I'd break a thousand oaths, to reign one year. Rich. No; God forbid, your grace should be forsworn. Rich. I'll prove the contrary, if you'll hear me speak. That hath authority over him that swears: Then, seeing 'twas he that made you to depose, And all that poets feign of bliss and joy. Why do we linger thus? I cannot rest, You, Edward, shall unto my lord Cobham, And yet the king not privy to my drift, Nor any of the house of Lancaster? Enter a Messenger. But, stay; What news? Why com'st thou in such post? York. Ay, with my sword. What! think'st thou, that we fear them ?– Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me ;- Mont. Brother, I go; I'll win them, fear it not: And thus most humbly I do take my leave. Enter Sir JOHN and Sir HUGH MORTIMER. [Exit. York. Sir John, and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles! You are come to Sandal in a happy hour; The army of the queen mean to besiege us. Sir John. She shall not need, we'll meet her in the field. York. What, with five thousand men? Rich. Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need. A woman's general; What should we fear? [A March afar off. Edw. I hear their drums; let's set our men in order; And issue forth, and bid them battle straight. York. Five men to twenty?-though the odds be great, I doubt not, uncle, of our victory. Many a battle have I won in France, When as the enemy hath been ten to one; Why should I not now have the like success? [Alarum. Exeunt. SCENE III.-Plains near Sandal Castle. Alarums: Excursions. Enter RUTLAND, and his Tutor. Rut. Ah, whither shall I fly to 'scape their hands! Ah, tutor! look, where bloody Clifford comes ! Enter CLIFFORD, and Soldiers. Clif. Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy life. As for the brat of this accursed duke, Whose father slew my father, he shall die. Tut. Ah, Clifford murder not this innocent child, Lest thou be hated both of God and man. [Exit, forced off by Soldiers. Clif. How now! is he dead already? Or, is it fear, That makes him close his eyes?-I'll open them. Rut. So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch, That trembles under his devouring paws: And so he walks, insulting o'er his prey; And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder.Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword, And not with such a cruel threat'ning look. Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die ;— I am too mean a subject for thy wrath, Be thou reveng❜d on men, and let me live. Clif. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy; my father's blood Hath stopp'd the passage, where thy words should enter. Rut. Then let my father's blood open it again; He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him. Clif. Had I thy brethren here, their lives, and thinę, Were not revenge sufficient for me; No, if I digg'd up thy forefathers' graves, And hung their rotten coffins up in chains, It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart. Is as a fury to torment my soul; And, till I root out their accursed line, |