While you are thus employ'd, what refteth more
But that I feek occafion how to rife;

9'As yet the King not privy to my drift,
Nor any of the house of Lancaster ?

Enter Mellenger.

But stay, what news? why com'ft thou in fuch poft? Mef. The Queen, with all the northern Earls and Lords, Intends here to befiege you in your caftle.

She is hard by with twenty thoufand men;

And therefore fortifie your hold, my Lord.

York. Ay, with my fword. What, think'ft thou that we fear them?

Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me;
My brother Montague shall poft to London.
Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest,
Whom we have left Protectors of the King,
With powerful policy ftrengthen themselves,
And truft not fimple Henry nor his oaths.
Mont. Brother, I go, I'll win them, fear it not.
And thus most humbly I do take my leave.

[Exit Montague.

Enter Sir John Mortimer and Sir Hugh Mortimer.

York. Sir John and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles, You are come to Sandal in a happy hour.

The army of the Queen means to befiege us.

Sir John. She fhall not need, we'll meet her in the field. York. What, with five thoufand 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 fet our men in order, And iffue forth and bid them battel strait.

York. Five men to twenty! though the odds be great, I doubt not, uncle, of our victory.

Many a battel have I won in France,

9 And

When

When as the enemy hath been ten to one:

Why fhould I not now have the like fuccefs?

[Alarm. Exeunt.

SCENE V.

A Field of Battle.

Enter Rutland and his Tutor.

Rut. Ah, Tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes.

H, whither fhall I fly to 'fcape their hands?

Enter Clifford, and Soldiers.

Clif. Chaplain, away! thy priesthood faves thy life; As for the brat of this accurfed Duke,

Whose father flew my father, he fhall die.

Tutor. And I, my Lord, will bear him company.
Clif. Soldiers, away with him!

Tutor. Ah! Clifford, murther not this innocent child, Left thou be hated both of God and man.

[Exit with Soldiers. Clif. How now? is he dead already? or is it fear That makes him clofe his eyes? I'll open them. Rut. So looks the pent-up Lion o'er the wretch That trembles under his devouring paws; And fo he walks infulting o'er his prey, And fo he comes to rend his limbs afunder. Ah gentle Clifford, kill me with thy fword, And not with fuch a cruel threatning look. Sweet Clifford, hear me fpeak before I die: I am too mean a fubject of thy wrath, Be thou reveng'd on men, and let me live!

Clif. In vain thou fpeak'ft, poor boy: my father's blood Hath ftopt the paffage where thy words fhould enter. Rut. Then let my father's blood open't again:

He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him.

Clif. Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine
Were not revenge fufficient for me:

No, if I digg'd up thy forefathers graves,
And hung their rotten coffins up in chains,
It could not flake mine ire nor ease my heart.
The fight of any of the houfe of York
Is as a fury to torment my foul:
And 'till I root out their accurfed line,
And leave not one alive, I live in hell.
Therefore

Rut. O let me pray before I take my death:
To thee I pray-fweet Clifford, pity me!
Clif. Such pity as my rapier's point affords.
Rut. I never did thee harm; why wilt thou flay me?
Clif. Thy father hath.

Rut. But 'twas ere I was born.

Thou haft one fon, for his fake pity me,
Left in revenge thereof (fith God is juft)
He be as miferably flain as I.

Ah, let me live in prifon all my days,
And when I give occafion of offence,

Then let me die, for now thou haft no cause.
Clif. No caufe!

Thy father flew my father, therefore die.

[Clifford ftabs him.

Rut. Di faciant laudis fumma fit ifta tue!

1

Clif. Plantagenet, I come, Plantagenet,

And this thy fon's blood cleaving to my blade

Shall ruft upon my weapon, 'till thy blood

[Dies.

Congeal'd with this do make me wipe off both. [Exit.

SCENE VI.

Alarum. Enter the Duke of York.

York. The army of the Queen hath got the field;

My uncles both are flain in refcuing me,

And all my followers to the eager foe

Turn

Turn back, and fly like fhips before the wind,
Or lambs purfu'd by hunger-ftarved wolves.
My fons, God knows what hath bechanced them:
But this I know, they have demean'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 fide,
With purple falchion painted to the hilt
In blood of thofe that had encounter'd him:
And when the hardieft warriors did retire,
Richard cry'd, Charge! and give no foot of ground;
And cry'd, A crown or else a glorious tomb,
A fcepter or an earthly fepulchre.

With this we charg'd again; but, out alas!
We bodg'd again; as I have seen a Swan
With bootlefs labour fwim against the tide,
And spend her ftrength with over-matching waves.
[Afbort alarum within.

Ah! hark, the fatal followers do purfue,
And I am faint and cannot fly their fury.
And were I ftrong, I would not fhun their fury.
The fands are number'd that make up my life,
Here muft I stay, and here my life must end.

Enter Queen Margaret, Clifford, Northumberland, the
Prince of Wales, and Soldiers.

Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,
I dare your quenchless fury to more rage:
I am your butt, and I abide your fhot.

North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet!
Clif. Ay, to fuch mercy as his ruthless arm

With downright payment fhew'd unto my father.
Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his car,
And made an evening at the noon-tide prick.
York, My afhes, as the Phoenix, may bring forth
A bird that will revenge upon you all :
And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heav'n,

Scorning

Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with.
Why come you not? what! multitudes and fear?
Clif. So cowards fight when they can fly no farther;
So doves do peck the falcon's piercing talons;
So defp'rate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,
Breathe out invectives 'gainst the officers.

York. Oh Clifford, but bethink thee once again,
And in thy thought o'er-run my former time;
And, if thou canft for blushing, view this face,
And bite thy tongue that flanders him with cowardife,
Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this.
Clif. I will not bandy with thee word for word,
But buckle with thee blows twice two for one.

Q. Mar. Hold, valiant Clifford, for a thousand caufes
I would prolong a while the traitor's life:
Wrath makes him deaf; fpeak thou, Northumberland.
North. Hold, Clifford, do not honour him fo much,
To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart.
What yalour were it, when a cur doth grin,
For one to thruft his hand between his teeth,
When he might fpurn him with his foot away?
It is war's prize to take all vantages,
And ten to one is no impeach of valour.

Clif. Ay, ay, fo ftrives the woodcock with the gin.
North. So doth the cony struggle in the net.'

[They take York prifoner.
York. So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty;
So true, men yield, with robbers fo o'er-matcht. [how?
North. What would your Grace have done unto him
Q. Mar. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,
Come make him ftand upon this mole-hill here,
That raught at mountains with out-ftretched arms,
Yet parted but the fhadow with his hand.
What, was it you that would be England's King?
Was't you that revell'd in our Parliament,
And made a preachment of your high defcent?
Where are your mefs of fons to back you now,
The wanton Edward, and the lufty George?

And