Tork. Mine, Boy? not 'till King Henry be dead. Rich. Your Right depends not on his Life, or Death. Edw. Now you are Heir, therefore enjoy it now: By giving the House of Lancaster leave to breathe, It will out-run you, Father, in the end.
Tork. I took an Oath, that he should quietly Reign. Edw. But for a Kingdom any Oath may be broken: I would break a thousand Oaths to Reign one Year. Rich. No; God forbid your Grace fhould be forfworn. York. I shall be, if I claim by open War.
Rich. I'll prove the contrary, if you'll hear me fpeak. York. Thou can't not, Son, it is impoffible. Rich. An Oath is of no moment, being not took Before a true and lawful Magiftrate,
That hath Authority over him that Swears. Henry had none, but did ufurp the Place. Then feeing 'twas he that made you to depofe, Your Oath, my Lord, is vain and frivolous. Therefore to Arms: and, Father, do but think, How fweet a thing it is to wear a Crown, Within whose Circuit is Elysium, And all that Poets feign of Blifs and Joy." Why do we linger thus? I cannot reft, Until the white Rofe that I wear, be dy'd Even in the lukewarm Blood of Henry's Heart. York. Richard, enough: I will be King, or die. Brother, thou shalt to London presently, And whet on Warwick to this Enterprize. Thou, Richard, fhalt go to the Duke of Norfolk, And tell him privily of our intent.
You, Edward, fhall unto my Lord Cobham, With whom the Kentifhmen will willingly rife. In them I truft; for they are Soldiers,
Witty, courteous, liberal, full of Spirit.
While you are thus employ'd, what refteth more, But that I feek occafion how to rife?
And yet the King not privy to my drift,
Nor any of the House of Lancaster.
But ftay, what News? why com'ft thou in fuch poft?
With all the Northern Earls and Lords, Intend here to befiege you in your Caftle. She is hard by, with twenty thousand Men; And therefore fortifie your Hold, my Lord. York. Ay, with my Sword.
What, think'ft thou that we fear them? Edward and Richard, you shall ftay with me, My Brother Montague fhall poft to London. Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the reft, 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 moft 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. Tork. What, with five thousand Men?
Rich. Ay, with five hundred, Father, for a need.
A Woman's General; what should we fear?
Edw. I hear their Drums:
Let's fet our Men in order,
And iffue forth, and bid them Battel ftreight.
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,
When as the Enemy hath been ten to one:
Why should I not now have the like Succefs?
Enter Rutland and his Tutor.
Rut. Ah, whether fhall I flie, to scape their Hands? Ah, Tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes.
Clif. Chaplain, away, thy Priesthood faves thy Life; As for the Brat of this accurfed Duke,
Whole 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.
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 Lyon 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 Sword, And not with such a cruel threatning Look. Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die: I am too mean a fubject of thy wrath, Be thou reveng❜d on Men, and let me live. Cliff. In vain thou fpeak'ft, poor Boy: My Father's Blood hath ftopt the paffage 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 thine Were not revenge fufficient for me:
No, if I digg'd up thy Fore-fathers Graves, And hung their rotten Coffins up in Chains, It could not flake mine Ire, nor cafe my Heart. The fight of any of the House of York, Is as a fury to torment my Soul:
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 e'er I was born.
Thou haft one Son, for his fake pity me, Left in revenge thereof, fith God is just, 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 caufe.
Clif. No caufe? thy Father flew my Father, therefore die. Rut. Dii faciant, laudis fumma fit ista tua. Clif. Plantagenet, I come, Plantagenet. And this thy Son's Blood cleaving to my Blade, Shall ruft upon my Weapon, 'till thy Blood Congeal'd with this, do make me wipe off both.
Alarum. Enter Richard Duke of York. Tork. The Army of the Queen hath got the Field: My Uncles both are flain in rescuing me, And all my Followers, to the eager Foe
Turn back, and fly, like Ships before the Wind, Or Lambs purfu'd by hunger-ftarved Wolves. My Sons, 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 come Edward to my fide, With Purple Falchion, painted to the Hilt In Blood of thofe that had encountred him; And when the hardiest Warriors did retire, Richard cry'd, Charge, and give no foot of Ground, And cry'd, a Crown, or else a glorious Tomb, A Scepter, or an Earthly Sepulcher. With this we chatg'd again; but out alas, We bodg'd again; as I have feen a Swan With bootless labour fwim against the Tide, And spend her ftrength with over-matching Waves.
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 Sands are numbred that make up my Life, Here must I stay, and here my Life muft end. Enter the Queen, Clifford, Northumberland, the Prince of Wales, and Soldiers.
Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland, I dare your quenchlefs 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.
Tork. 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 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 Falcons piercing Talons, So defperate Thieves, all hopeless of their Lives, Breath out Invectives 'gainst the Officers.
Tork. 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 Cowardice, Whofe frown hath made thee faint and fly e'er this. Clif. I will not bandy with thee Word for Word, But buckler with thee Blows twice two for one.
Queen. Hold, valiant Clifford, for a thoufand causes 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 Valour 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 Wars 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.
York. So triumph Thieves upon their conquer'd Booty, So true Men yield, with Robbers fo o'er-matcht.
North. What would your Grace have done unto him now? Queen. Brave Warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,, Come make him ftand upon this Mole-hill here, That caught at Mountains with out-stretched 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,
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