Part 80

PRINCE EDWARD. My gracious father, by your kingly leave, I’ll draw it as apparent to the crown, And in that quarrel use it to the death.

CLIFFORD. Why, that is spoken like a toward prince.

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. Royal commanders, be in readiness; For with a band of thirty thousand men Comes Warwick, backing of the Duke of York, And in the towns, as they do march along, Proclaims him king, and many fly to him. Darraign your battle, for they are at hand.

CLIFFORD. I would your highness would depart the field. The Queen hath best success when you are absent.

QUEEN MARGARET. Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fortune.

KING HENRY. Why, that’s my fortune too; therefore I’ll stay.

NORTHUMBERLAND. Be it with resolution then to fight.

PRINCE EDWARD. My royal father, cheer these noble lords, And hearten those that fight in your defence. Unsheathe your sword, good father; cry “Saint George!”

March. Enter Edward, George, Richard, Warwick, Norfolk, Montague and Soldiers.

EDWARD. Now, perjured Henry, wilt thou kneel for grace And set thy diadem upon my head, Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?

QUEEN MARGARET. Go rate thy minions, proud insulting boy! Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms Before thy sovereign and thy lawful king?

EDWARD. I am his king, and he should bow his knee. I was adopted heir by his consent. Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear, You that are king, though he do wear the crown, Have caused him by new act of Parliament To blot out me and put his own son in.

CLIFFORD. And reason too: Who should succeed the father but the son?

RICHARD. Are you there, butcher? O, I cannot speak!

CLIFFORD. Ay, crook-back; here I stand, to answer thee, Or any he, the proudest of thy sort.

RICHARD. ’Twas you that killed young Rutland, was it not?

CLIFFORD. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied.

RICHARD. For God’s sake, lords, give signal to the fight.

WARWICK. What sayst thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown?

QUEEN MARGARET. Why, how now, long-tongued Warwick, dare you speak? When you and I met at Saint Albans last, Your legs did better service than your hands.

WARWICK. Then ’twas my turn to fly, and now ’tis thine.

CLIFFORD. You said so much before, and yet you fled.

WARWICK. ’Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence.

NORTHUMBERLAND. No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay.

RICHARD. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently. Break off the parley; for scarce I can refrain The execution of my big-swoln heart Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.

CLIFFORD. I slew thy father; call’st thou him a child?

RICHARD. Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward, As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland, But ere sunset I’ll make thee curse the deed.

KING HENRY. Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak.

QUEEN MARGARET. Defy them then, or else hold close thy lips.

KING HENRY. I prithee, give no limits to my tongue. I am a king, and privileged to speak.

CLIFFORD. My liege, the wound that bred this meeting here Cannot be cured by words; therefore be still.

RICHARD. Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword. By Him that made us all, I am resolved That Clifford’s manhood lies upon his tongue.

EDWARD. Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or no? A thousand men have broke their fasts today That ne’er shall dine unless thou yield the crown.

WARWICK. If thou deny, their blood upon thy head; For York in justice puts his armour on.

PRINCE EDWARD. If that be right which Warwick says is right, There is no wrong, but everything is right.

RICHARD. Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands; For well I wot thou hast thy mother’s tongue.

QUEEN MARGARET. But thou art neither like thy sire nor dam, But like a foul misshapen stigmatic, Marked by the Destinies to be avoided, As venom toads or lizards’ dreadful stings.

RICHARD. Iron of Naples, hid with English gilt, Whose father bears the title of a king, As if a channel should be called the sea, Sham’st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught, To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?

EDWARD. A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns To make this shameless callet know herself. Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou, Although thy husband may be Menelaus; And ne’er was Agamemnon’s brother wronged By that false woman as this king by thee. His father revelled in the heart of France, And tamed the King, and made the Dauphin stoop; And had he matched according to his state, He might have kept that glory to this day; But when he took a beggar to his bed And graced thy poor sire with his bridal day, Even then that sunshine brewed a shower for him That washed his father’s fortunes forth of France And heaped sedition on his crown at home. For what hath broached this tumult but thy pride? Hadst thou been meek, our title still had slept; And we, in pity of the gentle king, Had slipped our claim until another age.

GEORGE. But when we saw our sunshine made thy spring, And that thy summer bred us no increase, We set the axe to thy usurping root; And though the edge hath something hit ourselves, Yet know thou, since we have begun to strike, We’ll never leave till we have hewn thee down Or bathed thy growing with our heated bloods.

EDWARD. And in this resolution I defy thee; Not willing any longer conference, Since thou deniest the gentle King to speak. Sound trumpets! Let our bloody colours wave; And either victory or else a grave!

QUEEN MARGARET. Stay, Edward.

EDWARD. No, wrangling woman, we’ll no longer stay. These words will cost ten thousand lives this day.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE III. A field of battle between Towton and Saxton, in Yorkshire

Alarums. Excursions. Enter Warwick.

WARWICK. Forspent with toil, as runners with a race, I lay me down a little while to breathe; For strokes received, and many blows repaid, Have robbed my strong-knit sinews of their strength, And spite of spite, needs must I rest awhile.

Enter Edward, running.

EDWARD. Smile, gentle heaven, or strike, ungentle death; For this world frowns and Edward’s sun is clouded.

WARWICK. How now, my lord, what hap? What hope of good?

Enter George.

GEORGE. Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair; Our ranks are broke and ruin follows us. What counsel give you? Whither shall we fly?

EDWARD. Bootless is flight, they follow us with wings; And weak we are and cannot shun pursuit.

Enter Richard.

RICHARD. Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself? Thy brother’s blood the thirsty earth hath drunk, Broached with the steely point of Clifford’s lance; And in the very pangs of death he cried, Like to a dismal clangor heard from far, “Warwick, revenge! Brother, revenge my death!” So, underneath the belly of their steeds, That stained their fetlocks in his smoking blood, The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.

WARWICK. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood; I’ll kill my horse because I will not fly. Why stand we like soft-hearted women here, Wailing our losses whiles the foe doth rage, And look upon, as if the tragedy Were played in jest by counterfeiting actors? Here on my knee I vow to God above I’ll never pause again, never stand still, Till either death hath closed these eyes of mine, Or Fortune given me measure of revenge.

EDWARD. O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine, And in this vow do chain my soul to thine! And, ere my knee rise from the earth’s cold face, I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to Thee, Thou setter up and plucker down 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 heaven may ope, And give sweet passage to my sinful soul. Now, lords, take leave until we meet again, Where’er it be, in heaven or in earth.

RICHARD. Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle Warwick, Let me embrace thee in my weary arms. I, that did never weep, now melt with woe That winter should cut off our spring-time so.

WARWICK. Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell.

GEORGE. Yet let us all together to our troops, And give them leave to fly that will not stay, And call them pillars that will stand to us; And if we thrive, promise them such rewards As victors wear at the Olympian games. This may plant courage in their quailing breasts, For yet is hope of life and victory. Forslow no longer; make we hence amain.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE IV. Another Part of the Field

Excursions. Enter Richard and Clifford.

RICHARD. Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone. Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York, And this for Rutland; both bound to revenge, Wert thou environed with a brazen wall.

CLIFFORD. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone. This is the hand that stabbed thy father York, And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland; And here’s the heart that triumphs in their death And cheers these hands that slew thy sire and brother To execute the like upon thyself; And so have at thee!

They fight. Warwick comes; Clifford flies.

RICHARD. Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase; For I myself will hunt this wolf to death.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE V. Another Part of the Field

Enter King Henry.

KING HENRY. This battle fares like to the morning’s war, When dying clouds contend with growing light, What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails, Can neither call it perfect day nor night. Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea Forced by the tide to combat with the wind; Now sways it that way, like the selfsame sea Forced to retire by fury of the wind. Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind; Now one the better, then another best, Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, Yet neither conqueror nor conquered. So is the equal poise of this fell war. Here on this molehill will I sit me down. To whom God will, there be the victory! For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too, Have chid me from the battle, swearing both They prosper best of all when I am thence. Would I were dead, if God’s good will were so; For what is in this world but grief and woe? O God! Methinks it were a happy life To be no better than a homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run: How many make the hour full complete, How many hours brings about the day, How many days will finish up the year, How many years a mortal man may live. When this is known, then to divide the times: So many hours must I tend my flock; So many hours must I take my rest; So many hours must I contemplate; So many hours must I sport myself; So many days my ewes have been with young; So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean; So many years ere I shall shear the fleece. So minutes, hours, days, months, and years, Passed over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this! How sweet, how lovely! Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds looking on their silly sheep Than doth a rich embroidered canopy To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery? O, yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth. And to conclude, the shepherd’s homely curds, His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, His wonted sleep under a fresh tree’s shade, All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, Is far beyond a prince’s delicates— His viands sparkling in a golden cup, His body couched in a curious bed, When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him.

Alarum. Enter a Son that hath killed his father, bringing in the dead body.

SON. Ill blows the wind that profits nobody. This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight, May be possessed with some store of crowns; And I, that haply take them from him now, May yet ere night yield both my life and them To some man else, as this dead man doth me. Who’s this? O God! It is my father’s face, Whom in this conflict I unwares have killed. O heavy times, begetting such events! From London by the King was I pressed forth; My father, being the Earl of Warwick’s man, Came on the part of York, pressed by his master; And I, who at his hands received my life, Have by my hands of life bereaved him. Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did; And pardon, father, for I knew not thee. My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks, And no more words till they have flowed their fill.

KING HENRY. O piteous spectacle! O bloody times! Whiles lions war and battle for their dens, Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity. Weep, wretched man, I’ll aid thee tear for tear; And let our hearts and eyes, like civil war, Be blind with tears and break o’ercharged with grief.

Enter a Father who has killed his son, with the body in his arms.

FATHER. Thou that so stoutly hath resisted me, Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold, For I have bought it with an hundred blows. But let me see: is this our foeman’s face? Ah, no, no, no; it is mine only son! Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee, Throw up thine eye! See, see what showers arise, Blown with the windy tempest of my heart Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart! O, pity, God, this miserable age! What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly, Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural, This deadly quarrel daily doth beget! O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon, And hath bereft thee of thy life too late!

KING HENRY. Woe above woe, grief more than common grief! O that my death would stay these ruthful deeds! O pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity! The red rose and the white are on his face, The fatal colours of our striving houses; The one his purple blood right well resembles, The other his pale cheeks, methinks, presenteth. Wither one rose, and let the other flourish! If you contend, a thousand lives must wither.

SON. How will my mother for a father’s death Take on with me and ne’er be satisfied!

FATHER. How will my wife for slaughter of my son Shed seas of tears and ne’er be satisfied!

KING HENRY. How will the country for these woeful chances Misthink the King and not be satisfied!

SON. Was ever son so rued a father’s death?

FATHER. Was ever father so bemoaned his son?

KING HENRY. Was ever king so grieved for subjects’ woe? Much is your sorrow, mine ten times so much.

SON. I’ll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill.

[_Exit with the body._]

FATHER. These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet; My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre, For from my heart thine image ne’er shall go. My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell; And so obsequious will thy father be, Even for the loss of thee, having no more, As Priam was for all his valiant sons. I’ll bear thee hence; and let them fight that will, For I have murdered where I should not kill.

[_Exit with the body._]

KING HENRY. Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care, Here sits a king more woeful than you are.

Alarums. Excursions. Enter Queen Margaret, Prince of Wales and Exeter.

PRINCE EDWARD. Fly, father, fly, for all your friends are fled, And Warwick rages like a chafed bull. Away, for death doth hold us in pursuit.

QUEEN MARGARET. Mount you, my lord; towards Berwick post amain. Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds Having the fearful flying hare in sight, With fiery eyes sparkling for very wrath, And bloody steel grasped in their ireful hands, Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain.

EXETER. Away, for vengeance comes along with them. Nay, stay not to expostulate; make speed, Or else come after; I’ll away before.

KING HENRY. Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exeter; Not that I fear to stay, but love to go Whither the Queen intends. Forward; away!

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE VI. Another Part of the Field

A loud alarum. Enter Clifford, wounded.

CLIFFORD. Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies, Which whiles it lasted gave King Henry light. O Lancaster, I fear thy overthrow More than my body’s parting with my soul! My love and fear glued many friends to thee; And, now I fall, thy tough commixtures melts, Impairing Henry, strengthening misproud York. The common people swarm like summer flies; And whither fly the gnats but to the sun? And who shines now but Henry’s enemies? O Phoebus, hadst thou never given consent That Phaëthon should check thy fiery steeds, Thy burning car never had scorched the earth! And, Henry, hadst thou swayed as kings should do, Or as thy father and his father did, Giving no ground unto the house of York, They never then had sprung like summer flies; I, and ten thousand in this luckless realm Had left no mourning widows for our death, And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace. For what doth cherish weeds but gentle air? And what makes robbers bold but too much lenity? Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds; No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight. The foe is merciless and will not pity, For at their hands I have deserved no pity. The air hath got into my deadly wounds, And much effuse of blood doth make me faint. Come, York and Richard, Warwick, and the rest; I stabbed your fathers’ bosoms, split my breast.

[_He faints._]

Alarum and retreat. Enter Edward, George, Richard, Montague, Warwick and Soldiers.

EDWARD. Now breathe we, lords. Good fortune bids us pause And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks. Some troops pursue the bloody-minded Queen That led calm Henry, though he were a king, As doth a sail, filled with a fretting gust, Command an argosy to stem the waves. But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them?

WARWICK. No, ’tis impossible he should escape; For, though before his face I speak the words, Your brother Richard marked him for the grave, And whereso’er he is, he’s surely dead.

[_Clifford groans and dies._]

RICHARD. Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave? A deadly groan, like life and death’s departing.

EDWARD. See who it is; and, now the battle’s ended, If friend or foe, let him be gently used.

RICHARD. Revoke that doom of mercy, for ’tis Clifford, Who, not contented that he lopped the branch In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth, But set his murdering knife unto the root From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring, I mean our princely father, Duke of York.

WARWICK. From off the gates of York fetch down the head, Your father’s head, which Clifford placed there; Instead whereof let this supply the room. Measure for measure must be answered.

EDWARD. Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house, That nothing sung but death to us and ours; Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound, And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.

[_Soldiers bring the body forward._]

WARWICK. I think his understanding is bereft. Speak, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee? Dark cloudy death o’ershades his beams of life, And he nor sees nor hears us, what we say.

RICHARD. O, would he did, and so, perhaps, he doth! ’Tis but his policy to counterfeit, Because he would avoid such bitter taunts Which in the time of death he gave our father.

GEORGE. If so thou think’st, vex him with eager words.

RICHARD. Clifford, ask mercy, and obtain no grace.

EDWARD. Clifford, repent in bootless penitence.

WARWICK. Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults.

GEORGE. While we devise fell tortures for thy faults.

RICHARD. Thou didst love York, and I am son to York.

EDWARD. Thou pitied’st Rutland, I will pity thee.

GEORGE. Where’s Captain Margaret to fence you now?

WARWICK. They mock thee, Clifford; swear as thou wast wont.

RICHARD. What, not an oath? Nay then, the world goes hard When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath. I know by that he’s dead; and, by my soul, If this right hand would buy but two hours’ life, That I in all despite might rail at him, This hand should chop it off, and with the issuing blood Stifle the villain whose unstaunched thirst York and young Rutland could not satisfy.

WARWICK. Ay, but he’s dead. Off with the traitor’s head, And rear it in the place your father’s stands. And now to London with triumphant march, There to be crowned England’s royal king; From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France, And ask the Lady Bona for thy queen. So shalt thou sinew both these lands together, And, having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread The scattered foe that hopes to rise again; For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt, Yet look to have them buzz to offend thine ears. First will I see the coronation, And then to Brittany I’ll cross the sea To effect this marriage, so it please my lord.

EDWARD. Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be; For in thy shoulder do I build my seat, And never will I undertake the thing Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting. Richard, I will create thee Duke of Gloucester; And George, of Clarence. Warwick, as ourself, Shall do and undo as him pleaseth best.

RICHARD. Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloucester, For Gloucester’s dukedom is too ominous.

WARWICK. Tut, that’s a foolish observation. Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London, To see these honours in possession.

[_Exeunt._]

ACT III

SCENE I. A Forest in the North of England

Enter two Keepers with crossbows in their hands.

1 KEEPER. Under this thick-grown brake we’ll shroud ourselves, For through this laund anon the deer will come; And in this covert will we make our stand, Culling the principal of all the deer.

2 KEEPER. I’ll stay above the hill, so both may shoot.

1 KEEPER. That cannot be; the noise of thy crossbow Will scare the herd, and so my shoot is lost. Here stand we both, and aim we at the best; And, for the time shall not seem tedious, I’ll tell thee what befell me on a day In this self place where now we mean to stand.

2 KEEPER. Here comes a man; let’s stay till he be past.

Enter King Henry, disguised, with a prayer-book.

KING HENRY. From Scotland am I stolen, even of pure love, To greet mine own land with my wishful sight. No, Harry, Harry, ’tis no land of thine; Thy place is filled, thy sceptre wrung from thee, Thy balm washed off wherewith thou wast anointed. No bending knee will call thee Caesar now, No humble suitors press to speak for right, No, not a man comes for redress of thee; For how can I help them and not myself?

1 KEEPER. Ay, here’s a deer whose skin’s a keeper’s fee. This is the quondam king; let’s seize upon him.

KING HENRY. Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, For wise men say it is the wisest course.

2 KEEPER. Why linger we? Let us lay hands upon him.

1 KEEPER. Forbear awhile; we’ll hear a little more.

KING HENRY. My queen and son are gone to France for aid; And, as I hear, the great commanding Warwick Is thither gone to crave the French King’s sister To wife for Edward. If this news be true, Poor queen and son, your labour is but lost, For Warwick is a subtle orator, And Lewis a prince soon won with moving words. By this account, then, Margaret may win him, For she’s a woman to be pitied much. Her sighs will make a batt’ry in his breast, Her tears will pierce into a marble heart; The tiger will be mild whiles she doth mourn, And Nero will be tainted with remorse To hear and see her plaints, her brinish tears. Ay, but she’s come to beg, Warwick to give; She on his left side craving aid for Henry; He on his right asking a wife for Edward. She weeps and says her Henry is deposed; He smiles and says his Edward is installed; That she, poor wretch, for grief can speak no more; Whiles Warwick tells his title, smooths the wrong, Inferreth arguments of mighty strength, And in conclusion wins the King from her With promise of his sister, and what else, To strengthen and support King Edward’s place. O Margaret, thus ’twill be; and thou, poor soul, Art then forsaken, as thou went’st forlorn.

2 KEEPER. Say, what art thou, that talk’st of kings and queens?

KING HENRY. More than I seem, and less than I was born to: A man at least, for less I should not be; And men may talk of kings, and why not I?

2 KEEPER. Ay, but thou talk’st as if thou wert a king.

KING HENRY. Why, so I am, in mind; and that’s enough.

2 KEEPER. But, if thou be a king, where is thy crown?