Chapter 3

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'd By 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 of good? 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 Tragedie Were 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 rewards As 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 too Haue 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 shade To Shepheards, looking on their silly Sheepe, Then doth a rich Imbroider'd Canopie To 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: and a Father 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 them To 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 griefe Enter 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 greefe O 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 death Take 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 hands Are 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 go Whether 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 Phæton 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 Gust Command 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 Branch In 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 taunts Which 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 hard When 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 Blood Stifle the Villaine, whose vnstanched thirst Yorke, and yong Rutland could not satisfie War. 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 dread The 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 thing Wherein 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-bow Will 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 Cæsar 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 Warwicke I: thither gone, to craue the French Kings Sister To 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 contented To 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 king King. 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 field This 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 keepes the 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 Fathers Lands

Wid. Be pittifull, dread Lord, and graunt it then

King. Lords giue vs leaue, Ile trye this Widowes wit

Rich. I, good leaue haue you, for you will haue leaue, Till Youth take leaue, and leaue you to the Crutch