Chapter 112

For Edward will defend the Towne, and thee, And all those friends, that deine to follow mee.

March. Enter Mountgomerie, with Drumme and Souldiers.

Rich. Brother, this is Sir Iohn Mountgomerie, Our trustie friend, vnlesse I be deceiu'd

Edw. Welcome Sir Iohn: but why come you in Armes? Mount. To helpe King Edward in his time of storme, As euery loyall Subiect ought to doe

Edw. Thankes good Mountgomerie: But we now forget our Title to the Crowne, And onely clayme our Dukedome, Till God please to send the rest

Mount. Then fare you well, for I will hence againe, I came to serue a King, and not a Duke: Drummer strike vp, and let vs march away.

The Drumme begins to march.

Edw. Nay stay, Sir Iohn, a while, and wee'le debate By what safe meanes the Crowne may be recouer'd

Mount. What talke you of debating? in few words, If you'le not here proclaime your selfe our King, Ile leaue you to your fortune, and be gone, To keepe them back, that come to succour you. Why shall we fight, if you pretend no Title? Rich. Why Brother, wherefore stand you on nice points? Edw. When wee grow stronger, Then wee'le make our Clayme: Till then, 'tis wisdome to conceale our meaning

Hast. Away with scrupulous Wit, now Armes must rule

Rich. And fearelesse minds clyme soonest vnto Crowns. Brother, we will proclaime you out of hand, The bruit thereof will bring you many friends

Edw. Then be it as you will: for 'tis my right, And Henry but vsurpes the Diademe

Mount. I, now my Soueraigne speaketh like himselfe, And now will I be Edwards Champion

Hast. Sound Trumpet, Edward shal be here proclaim'd: Come, fellow Souldior, make thou proclamation.

Flourish. Sound.

Soul. Edward the Fourth, by the Grace of God, King of England and France, and Lord of Ireland, &c

Mount. And whosoe're gainsayes King Edwards right, By this I challenge him to single fight.

Throwes downe his Gauntlet.

All. Long liue Edward the Fourth

Edw. Thankes braue Mountgomery, And thankes vnto you all: If fortune serue me, Ile requite this kindnesse. Now for this Night, let's harbor here in Yorke: And when the Morning Sunne shall rayse his Carre Aboue the Border of this Horizon, Wee'le forward towards Warwicke, and his Mates; For well I wot, that Henry is no Souldier. Ah froward Clarence, how euill it beseemes thee, To flatter Henry, and forsake thy Brother? Yet as wee may, wee'le meet both thee and Warwicke. Come on braue Souldiors: doubt not of the Day, And that once gotten, doubt not of large Pay.

Exeunt.

Flourish. Enter the King, Warwicke, Mountague, Clarence, Oxford, and Somerset.

War. What counsaile, Lords? Edward from Belgia, With hastie Germanes, and blunt Hollanders, Hath pass'd in safetie through the Narrow Seas, And with his troupes doth march amaine to London, And many giddie people flock to him

King. Let's leuie men, and beat him backe againe

Clar. A little fire is quickly trodden out, Which being suffer'd, Riuers cannot quench

War. In Warwickshire I haue true-hearted friends, Not mutinous in peace, yet bold in Warre, Those will I muster vp: and thou Sonne Clarence Shalt stirre vp in Suffolke, Norfolke, and in Kent, The Knights and Gentlemen, to come with thee. Thou Brother Mountague, in Buckingham, Northampton, and in Leicestershire, shalt find Men well enclin'd to heare what thou command'st. And thou, braue Oxford, wondrous well belou'd, In Oxfordshire shalt muster vp thy friends. My Soueraigne, with the louing Citizens, Like to his Iland, gyrt in with the Ocean, Or modest Dyan, circled with her Nymphs, Shall rest in London, till we come to him: Faire Lords take leaue, and stand not to reply. Farewell my Soueraigne

King. Farewell my Hector, and my Troyes true hope

Clar. In signe of truth, I kisse your Highnesse Hand

King. Well-minded Clarence, be thou fortunate

Mount. Comfort, my Lord, and so I take my leaue

Oxf. And thus I seale my truth, and bid adieu

King. Sweet Oxford, and my louing Mountague, And all at once, once more a happy farewell

War. Farewell, sweet Lords, let's meet at Couentry.

Exeunt.

King. Here at the Pallace will I rest a while. Cousin of Exeter, what thinkes your Lordship? Me thinkes, the Power that Edward hath in field, Should not be able to encounter mine

Exet. The doubt is, that he will seduce the rest

King. That's not my feare, my meed hath got me fame: I haue not stopt mine eares to their demands, Nor posted off their suites with slow delayes, My pittie hath beene balme to heale their wounds, My mildnesse hath allay'd their swelling griefes, My mercie dry'd their water-flowing teares. I haue not been desirous of their wealth, Nor much opprest them with great Subsidies, Nor forward of reuenge, though they much err'd. Then why should they loue Edward more then me? No Exeter, these Graces challenge Grace: And when the Lyon fawnes vpon the Lambe, The Lambe will neuer cease to follow him.

Shout within, A Lancaster, A Lancaster.

Exet. Hearke, hearke, my Lord, what Shouts are these? Enter Edward and his Souldiers.

Edw. Seize on the shamefac'd Henry, beare him hence, And once againe proclaime vs King of England. You are the Fount, that makes small Brookes to flow, Now stops thy Spring, my Sea shall suck them dry, And swell so much the higher, by their ebbe. Hence with him to the Tower, let him not speake.

Exit with King Henry.

And Lords, towards Couentry bend we our course, Where peremptorie Warwicke now remaines: The Sunne shines hot, and if we vse delay, Cold biting Winter marres our hop'd-for Hay

Rich. Away betimes, before his forces ioyne, And take the great-growne Traytor vnawares: Braue Warriors, march amaine towards Couentry.

Exeunt.

Enter Warwicke, the Maior of Couentry, two Messengers, and others vpon the Walls.

War. Where is the Post that came from valiant Oxford? How farre hence is thy Lord, mine honest fellow? Mess .1. By this at Dunsmore, marching hitherward

War. How farre off is our Brother Mountague? Where is the Post that came from Mountague? Mess. 2. By this at Daintry, with a puissant troope. Enter Someruile.

War. Say Someruile, what sayes my louing Sonne? And by thy guesse, how nigh is Clarence now? Someru. At Southam I did leaue him with his forces, And doe expect him here some two howres hence

War. Then Clarence is at hand, I heare his Drumme

Someru. It is not his, my Lord, here Southam lyes: The Drum your Honor heares, marcheth from Warwicke

War. Who should that be? belike vnlook'd for friends

Someru. They are at hand, and you shall quickly know.

March. Flourish. Enter Edward, Richard, and Souldiers.

Edw. Goe, Trumpet, to the Walls, and sound a Parle

Rich. See how the surly Warwicke mans the Wall

War. Oh vnbid spight, is sportfull Edward come? Where slept our Scouts, or how are they seduc'd, That we could heare no newes of his repayre

Edw. Now Warwicke, wilt thou ope the Citie Gates, Speake gentle words, and humbly bend thy Knee, Call Edward King, and at his hands begge Mercy, And he shall pardon thee these Outrages? War. Nay rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence, Confesse who set thee vp, and pluckt thee downe, Call Warwicke Patron, and be penitent, And thou shalt still remaine the Duke of Yorke

Rich. I thought at least he would haue said the King, Or did he make the Ieast against his will? War. Is not a Dukedome, Sir, a goodly gift? Rich. I, by my faith, for a poore Earle to giue, Ile doe thee seruice for so good a gift

War. 'Twas I that gaue the Kingdome to thy Brother

Edw. Why then 'tis mine, if but by Warwickes gift

War. Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight: And Weakeling, Warwicke takes his gift againe, And Henry is my King, Warwicke his Subiect

Edw. But Warwickes King is Edwards Prisoner: And gallant Warwicke, doe but answer this, What is the Body, when the Head is off? Rich. Alas, that Warwicke had no more fore-cast, But whiles he thought to steale the single Ten, The King was slyly finger'd from the Deck: You left poore Henry at the Bishops Pallace, And tenne to one you'le meet him in the Tower

Edw. 'Tis euen so, yet you are Warwicke still

Rich. Come Warwicke, Take the time, kneele downe, kneele downe: Nay when? strike now, or else the Iron cooles

War. I had rather chop this Hand off at a blow, And with the other, fling it at thy face, Then beare so low a sayle, to strike to thee

Edw. Sayle how thou canst, Haue Winde and Tyde thy friend, This Hand, fast wound about thy coale-black hayre, Shall, whiles thy Head is warme, and new cut off, Write in the dust this Sentence with thy blood, Wind-changing Warwicke now can change no more. Enter Oxford, with Drumme and Colours.

War. Oh chearefull Colours, see where Oxford comes

Oxf. Oxford, Oxford, for Lancaster

Rich. The Gates are open, let vs enter too

Edw. So other foes may set vpon our backs. Stand we in good array: for they no doubt Will issue out againe, and bid vs battaile; If not, the Citie being but of small defence, Wee'le quickly rowze the Traitors in the same

War. Oh welcome Oxford, for we want thy helpe. Enter Mountague, with Drumme and Colours.

Mount. Mountague, Mountague, for Lancaster

Rich. Thou and thy Brother both shall buy this Treason Euen with the dearest blood your bodies beare

Edw. The harder matcht, the greater Victorie, My minde presageth happy gaine, and Conquest. Enter Somerset, with Drumme and Colours.

Som. Somerset, Somerset, for Lancaster

Rich. Two of thy Name, both Dukes of Somerset, Haue sold their Liues vnto the House of Yorke, And thou shalt be the third, if this Sword hold. Enter Clarence, with Drumme and Colours.

War. And loe, where George of Clarence sweepes along, Of force enough to bid his Brother Battaile: With whom, in vpright zeale to right, preuailes More then the nature of a Brothers Loue. Come Clarence, come: thou wilt, if Warwicke call

Clar. Father of Warwicke, know you what this meanes? Looke here, I throw my infamie at thee: I will not ruinate my Fathers House, Who gaue his blood to lyme the stones together, And set vp Lancaster. Why, trowest thou, Warwicke, That Clarence is so harsh, so blunt, vnnaturall, To bend the fatall Instruments of Warre Against his Brother, and his lawfull King. Perhaps thou wilt obiect my holy Oath: To keepe that Oath, were more impietie, Then Iephah, when he sacrific'd his Daughter. I am so sorry for my Trespas made, That to deserue well at my Brothers hands, I here proclayme my selfe thy mortall foe: With resolution, wheresoe're I meet thee, (As I will meet thee, if thou stirre abroad) To plague thee, for thy foule mis-leading me. And so, prowd-hearted Warwicke, I defie thee, And to my Brother turne my blushing Cheekes. Pardon me Edward, I will make amends: And Richard, doe not frowne vpon my faults, For I will henceforth be no more vnconstant

Edw. Now welcome more, and ten times more belou'd, Then if thou neuer hadst deseru'd our hate

Rich. Welcome good Clarence, this is Brother-like

Warw. Oh passing Traytor, periur'd and vniust

Edw. What Warwicke, Wilt thou leaue the Towne, and fight? Or shall we beat the Stones about thine Eares? Warw. Alas, I am not coop'd here for defence: I will away towards Barnet presently, And bid thee Battaile, Edward, if thou dar'st

Edw. Yes Warwicke, Edward dares, and leads the way: Lords to the field: Saint George, and Victorie.

Exeunt.

March. Warwicke and his companie followes.

Alarum, and Excursions. Enter Edward bringing forth Warwicke wounded.

Edw. So, lye thou there: dye thou, and dye our feare, For Warwicke was a Bugge that fear'd vs all. Now Mountague sit fast, I seeke for thee, That Warwickes Bones may keepe thine companie. Enter.

Warw. Ah, who is nigh? come to me, friend, or foe, And tell me who is Victor, Yorke, or Warwicke? Why aske I that? my mangled body shewes, My blood, my want of strength, my sicke heart shewes, That I must yeeld my body to the Earth, And by my fall, the conquest to my foe. Thus yeelds the Cedar to the Axes edge, Whose Armes gaue shelter to the Princely Eagle, Vnder whose shade the ramping Lyon slept, Whose top-branch ouer-peer'd Ioues spreading Tree, And kept low Shrubs from Winters pow'rfull Winde. These Eyes, that now are dim'd with Deaths black Veyle, Haue beene as piercing as the Mid-day Sunne, To search the secret Treasons of the World: The Wrinckles in my Browes, now fill'd with blood, Were lik'ned oft to Kingly Sepulchers: For who liu'd King, but I could digge his Graue? And who durst smile, when Warwicke bent his Brow? Loe, now my Glory smear'd in dust and blood. My Parkes, my Walkes, my Mannors that I had, Euen now forsake me; and of all my Lands, Is nothing left me, but my bodies length. Why, what is Pompe, Rule, Reigne, but Earth and Dust? And liue we how we can, yet dye we must. Enter Oxford and Somerset.

Som. Ah Warwicke, Warwicke, wert thou as we are, We might recouer all our Losse againe: The Queene from France hath brought a puissant power. Euen now we heard the newes: ah, could'st thou flye

Warw. Why then I would not flye. Ah Mountague, If thou be there, sweet Brother, take my Hand, And with thy Lippes keepe in my Soule a while. Thou lou'st me not: for, Brother, if thou did'st, Thy teares would wash this cold congealed blood, That glewes my Lippes, and will not let me speake. Come quickly Mountague, or I am dead

Som. Ah Warwicke, Mountague hath breath'd his last, And to the latest gaspe, cry'd out for Warwicke: And said, Commend me to my valiant Brother. And more he would haue said, and more he spoke, Which sounded like a Cannon in a Vault, That mought not be distinguisht: but at last, I well might heare, deliuered with a groane, Oh farewell Warwicke

Warw. Sweet rest his Soule: Flye Lords, and saue your selues, For Warwicke bids you all farewell, to meet in Heauen

Oxf. Away, away, to meet the Queenes great power.

Here they beare away his Body. Exeunt.

Flourish. Enter King Edward in triumph, with Richard, Clarence, and the rest.

King. Thus farre our fortune keepes an vpward course, And we are grac'd with wreaths of Victorie: But in the midst of this bright-shining Day, I spy a black suspicious threatning Cloud, That will encounter with our glorious Sunne, Ere he attaine his easefull Westerne Bed: I meane, my Lords, those powers that the Queene Hath rays'd in Gallia, haue arriued our Coast, And, as we heare, march on to fight with vs

Clar. A little gale will soone disperse that Cloud, And blow it to the Source from whence it came, Thy very Beames will dry those Vapours vp, For euery Cloud engenders not a Storme

Rich. The Queene is valued thirtie thousand strong, And Somerset, with Oxford, fled to her: If she haue time to breathe, be well assur'd Her faction will be full as strong as ours

King. We are aduertis'd by our louing friends, That they doe hold their course toward Tewksbury. We hauing now the best at Barnet field, Will thither straight, for willingnesse rids way, And as we march, our strength will be augmented: In euery Countie as we goe along, Strike vp the Drumme, cry courage, and away.

Exeunt.

Flourish. March. Enter the Queene, young Edward, Somerset, Oxford, and Souldiers.

Qu. Great Lords, wise men ne'r sit and waile their losse, But chearely seeke how to redresse their harmes. What though the Mast be now blowne ouer-boord, The Cable broke, the holding-Anchor lost, And halfe our Saylors swallow'd in the flood? Yet liues our Pilot still. Is't meet, that hee Should leaue the Helme, and like a fearefull Lad, With tearefull Eyes adde Water to the Sea, And giue more strength to that which hath too much, Whiles in his moane, the Ship splits on the Rock, Which Industrie and Courage might haue sau'd? Ah what a shame, ah what a fault were this. Say Warwicke was our Anchor: what of that? And Mountague our Top-Mast: what of him? Our slaught'red friends, the Tackles: what of these? Why is not Oxford here, another Anchor? And Somerset, another goodly Mast? The friends of France our Shrowds and Tacklings? And though vnskilfull, why not Ned and I, For once allow'd the skilfull Pilots Charge? We will not from the Helme, to sit and weepe, But keepe our Course (though the rough Winde say no) From Shelues and Rocks, that threaten vs with Wrack. As good to chide the Waues, as speake them faire. And what is Edward, but a ruthlesse Sea? What Clarence, but a Quick-sand of Deceit? And Richard, but a raged fatall Rocke? All these, the Enemies to our poore Barke. Say you can swim, alas 'tis but a while: Tread on the Sand, why there you quickly sinke, Bestride the Rock, the Tyde will wash you off, Or else you famish, that's a three-fold Death. This speake I (Lords) to let you vnderstand, If case some one of you would flye from vs, That there's no hop'd-for Mercy with the Brothers, More then with ruthlesse Waues, with Sands and Rocks. Why courage then, what cannot be auoided, 'Twere childish weakenesse to lament, or feare

Prince. Me thinkes a Woman of this valiant Spirit, Should, if a Coward heard her speake these words, Infuse his Breast with Magnanimitie, And make him, naked, foyle a man at Armes. I speake not this, as doubting any here: For did I but suspect a fearefull man, He should haue leaue to goe away betimes, Least in our need he might infect another, And make him of like spirit to himselfe. If any such be here, as God forbid, Let him depart, before we neede his helpe

Oxf. Women and Children of so high a courage, And Warriors faint, why 'twere perpetuall shame. Oh braue young Prince: thy famous Grandfather Doth liue againe in thee; long may'st thou liue, To beare his Image, and renew his Glories

Som. And he that will not fight for such a hope, Goe home to Bed, and like the Owle by day, If he arise, be mock'd and wondred at

Qu. Thankes gentle Somerset, sweet Oxford thankes

Prince. And take his thankes, that yet hath nothing else. Enter a Messenger.

Mess. Prepare you Lords, for Edward is at hand, Readie to fight: therefore be resolute

Oxf. I thought no lesse: it is his Policie, To haste thus fast, to finde vs vnprouided

Som. But hee's deceiu'd, we are in readinesse

Qu. This cheares my heart, to see your forwardnesse

Oxf. Here pitch our Battaile, hence we will not budge.

Flourish, and march. Enter Edward, Richard, Clarence, and Souldiers.

Edw. Braue followers, yonder stands the thornie Wood, Which by the Heauens assistance, and your strength, Must by the Roots be hew'ne vp yet ere Night. I need not adde more fuell to your fire, For well I wot, ye blaze, to burne them out: Giue signall to the fight, and to it Lords

Qu. Lords, Knights, and Gentlemen, what I should say, My teares gaine-say: for euery word I speake, Ye see I drinke the water of my eye. Therefore no more but this: Henry your Soueraigne Is Prisoner to the Foe, his State vsurp'd, His Realme a slaughter-house, his Subiects slaine, His Statutes cancell'd, and his Treasure spent: And yonder is the Wolfe, that makes this spoyle. You fight in Iustice: then in Gods Name, Lords, Be valiant, and giue signall to the fight.

Alarum, Retreat, Excursions. Exeunt.

Flourish. Enter Edward, Richard, Queene, Clarence, Oxford, Somerset.

Edw. Now here a period of tumultuous Broyles. Away with Oxford, to Hames Castle straight: For Somerset, off with his guiltie Head. Goe beare them hence, I will not heare them speake

Oxf. For my part, Ile not trouble thee with words

Som. Nor I, but stoupe with patience to my fortune.

Exeunt.

Qu. So part we sadly in this troublous World, To meet with Ioy in sweet Ierusalem

Edw. Is Proclamation made, That who finds Edward, Shall haue a high Reward, and he his Life? Rich. It is, and loe where youthfull Edward comes. Enter the Prince.

Edw. Bring forth the Gallant, let vs heare him speake. What? can so young a Thorne begin to prick? Edward, what satisfaction canst thou make, For bearing Armes, for stirring vp my Subiects, And all the trouble thou hast turn'd me to? Prince. Speake like a Subiect, prowd ambitious Yorke. Suppose that I am now my Fathers Mouth, Resigne thy Chayre, and where I stand, kneele thou, Whil'st I propose the selfe-same words to thee, Which (Traytor) thou would'st haue me answer to

Qu. Ah, that thy Father had beene so resolu'd

Rich. That you might still haue worne the Petticoat, And ne're haue stolne the Breech from Lancaster

Prince. Let Aesop fable in a Winters Night, His Currish Riddles sorts not with this place

Rich. By Heauen, Brat, Ile plague ye for that word

Qu. I, thou wast borne to be a plague to men

Rich. For Gods sake, take away this Captiue Scold

Prince. Nay, take away this scolding Crooke-backe, rather

Edw. Peace wilfull Boy, or I will charme your tongue

Clar. Vntutor'd Lad, thou art too malapert

Prince. I know my dutie, you are all vndutifull: Lasciuious Edward, and thou periur'd George, And thou mis-shapen Dicke, I tell ye all, I am your better, Traytors as ye are, And thou vsurp'st my Fathers right and mine

Edw. Take that, the likenesse of this Rayler here.

Stabs him.

Rich. Sprawl'st thou? take that, to end thy agonie.

Rich[ard]. stabs him.

Clar. And ther's for twitting me with periurie.

Clar[ence]. stabs him.

Qu. Oh, kill me too

Rich. Marry, and shall.

Offers to kill her.

Edw. Hold, Richard, hold, for we haue done too much

Rich. Why should shee liue, to fill the World with words

Edw. What? doth shee swowne? vse meanes for her recouerie

Rich. Clarence excuse me to the King my Brother: Ile hence to London on a serious matter, Ere ye come there, be sure to heare some newes

Cla. What? what? Rich. Tower, the Tower. Enter.

Qu. Oh Ned, sweet Ned, speake to thy Mother Boy. Can'st thou not speake? O Traitors, Murtherers! They that stabb'd Cæsar, shed no blood at all: Did not offend, nor were not worthy Blame, If this foule deed were by, to equall it. He was a Man; this (in respect) a Childe, And Men, ne're spend their fury on a Childe. What's worse then Murtherer, that I may name it? No, no, my heart will burst, and if I speake, And I will speake, that so my heart may burst. Butchers and Villaines, bloudy Caniballes, How sweet a Plant haue you vntimely cropt: You haue no children (Butchers) if you had, The thought of them would haue stirr'd vp remorse, But if you euer chance to haue a Childe, Looke in his youth to haue him so cut off. As deathsmen you haue rid this sweet yong Prince

King. Away with her, go beare her hence perforce

Qu. Nay, neuer beare me hence, dispatch me heere: Here sheath thy Sword, Ile pardon thee my death: What? wilt thou not? Then Clarence do it thou

Cla. By heauen, I will not do thee so much ease

Qu. Good Clarence do: sweet Clarence do thou do it

Cla. Did'st thou not heare me sweare I would not do it? Qu. I, but thou vsest to forsweare thy selfe. 'Twas Sin before, but now 'tis Charity What wilt y not? Where is that diuels butcher Richard? Hard fauor'd Richard? Richard, where art thou? Thou art not heere; Murther is thy Almes-deed: Petitioners for Blood, thou ne're put'st backe

Ed. Away I say, I charge ye beare her hence, Qu. So come to you, and yours, as to this Prince.

Exit Queene.

Ed. Where's Richard gone

Cla. To London all in post, and as I guesse, To make a bloody Supper in the Tower

Ed. He's sodaine if a thing comes in his head. Now march we hence, discharge the common sort With Pay and Thankes, and let's away to London, And see our gentle Queene how well she fares, By this (I hope) she hath a Sonne for me. Enter.

Enter Henry the sixt, and Richard, with the Lieutenant on the Walles.

Rich. Good day, my Lord, what at your Booke so hard? Hen. I my good Lord: my Lord I should say rather, Tis sinne to flatter, Good was little better: 'Good Gloster, and good Deuill, were alike, And both preposterous: therefore, not Good Lord

Rich. Sirra, leaue vs to our selues, we must conferre