Q. Mar.
Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York.
Yonder's the head of that arch-enemy,
That sought to be encompass'd with your crown:
&mlquo;Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?

&mlquo;K. Hen.
&mlquo;Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their wreck;—
To see this sight, it irks my very soul.—
Withhold revenge, dear God! 'tis not my fault,
Not wittingly have I infring'd my vow.

Clif.
My gracious liege, this too much lenity
And harmful pity, must be laid aside.
To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?
Not to the beast that would usurp their den.

Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick?
Not his, that spoils her young before her face.
Who 'scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting?
Not he, that sets his foot upon her back.
The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on;
&mlquo;And doves will peck, in safeguard^{2 note} of their brood.
Ambitious York did level at thy crown,
Thou smiling, while he knit his angry brows:
He, but a duke, would have his son a king,
And raise his issue, like a loving sire;
Thou, being a king, bless'd with a goodly son,
Didst yield consent to disinherit him,
&mlquo;Which argued thee a most unloving father^{3 note}.
Unreasonable creatures feed their young:
And though man's face be fearful to their eyes,
Yet, in protection of their tender ones,
Who hath not seen them (even with those wings
&mlquo;Which sometime they have us'd with fearful flight,)
Make war with him that climb'd unto their nest,
Offering their own lives in their young's defence?
For shame, my liege, make them your precedent!
Were it not pity that this goodly boy
Should lose his birthright by his father's fault;
And long hereafter say unto his child,—
What my great-grandfather and grandsire got,
My careless father fondly^{4 note}

gave away?
Ah, what a shame were this! Look on the boy;
And let his manly face, which promiseth
Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart,
To hold thine own, and leave thine own with him.

K. Hen.
Full well hath Clifford play'd the orator,

Inferring arguments of mighty force.
&mlquo;But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear,—
That things ill got had ever bad success^{5 note}

&mlquo;Q. Mar.
&mlquo;My lord, cheer up your spirits; our foes are nigh,
&mlquo;And this soft courage makes your followers faint.
&mlquo;You promis'd knighthood to our forward son;
&mlquo;Unsheath your sword, and dub him presently.—
Edward, kneel down.

K. Hen.
Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight;
And learn this lesson,—Draw thy sword in right.

Prince.
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.

Clif.
Why, that is spoken like a toward prince. Enter a Messenger.

Mess.
Royal commanders, be in readiness:
&mlquo;For, with a band of thirty thousand^{8 note} 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:
&mlquo;Darraign^{9 note}

Clif.
I would, your highness would depart the field;
The queen^{1 note}

Q. Mar.
Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fortune.

K. Hen.
Why, that's my fortune too; therefore I'll stay.

North.
Be it with resolution then to fight.

Prince.
My royal father, cheer these noble lords,
And hearten those that fight in your defence:
Unsheath your sword, good father; cry, Saint George! March. Enter Edward, George, Richard, Warwick, Norfolk, Montague, and Soldiers.

&mlquo;Edw.
&mlquo;Now, perjur'd Henry! wilt thou kneel for grace,
&mlquo;And set thy diadem upon my head;
&mlquo;Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?

Q. Mar.
Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting boy!
&mlquo;Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms,
&mlquo;Before thy sovereign, and thy lawful king?

Edw.
I am his king, and he should bow his knee;
I was adopted heir by his consent:
Since when, his oath is broke^{2 note}

You—that are king, though he do wear the crown,—
Have caus'd him, by new act of parliament,
&mlquo;To blot out me, and put his own son in.

&mlquo;Clif.
&mlquo;And reason too;
Who should succeed the father, but the son?

&mlquo;Rich.
&mlquo;Are you there, butcher?—O, I cannot speak!

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

Rich.
'Twas you that kill'd young Rutland, was it not?

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

Rich.
For God's sake, lords, give signal to the fight.

War.
What say'st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown?

&mlquo;Q. Mar.
&mlquo;Why, how now, long-tongu'd Warwick? dare you speak?
When you and I met at Saint Alban's last,
Your legs did better service than your hands^{3 note}.

War.
Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine.

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

War.
'Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence.

&mlquo;North.
&mlquo;No, nor your manhood, that durst make you stay.

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

Clif.
I slew thy father: Call'st thou him a child?

Rich.
Ay, like a dastard, and a treacherous coward,
As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland;
But, ere sun-set, I'll make thee curse the deed.

K. Hen.
Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak.

Q. Mar.
Defy them then, or else hold close thy lips.

K. Hen.
I pr'ythee, give no limits to my tongue;
I am a king, and privileg'd to speak.

Clif.
My liege, the wound, that bred this meeting here,
Cannot be cur'd by words; therefore be still.

Rich.
Then, executioner, unsheath thy sword:
By him that made us all, I am resolv'd^{4 note},
&mlquo;That Clifford's manhood lies upon his tongue.

&mlquo;Edw.
&mlquo;Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or no?
A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day,
That ne'er shall dine, unless thou yield the crown.

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

&mlquo;Prince.
&mlquo;If that be right, which Warwick says is right,
There is no wrong, but every thing is right.

Rich.
Whoever got thee^{5 note}, there thy mother stands;
For, well I wot, thou hast thy mother's tongue.

Q. Mar.
But thou art neither like thy sire, nor dam;
But like a foul mis-shapen stigmatick^{6 note}

Mark'd by the destinies to be avoided,
As venom toads, or lizards' dreadful stings^{7 note}

Rich.
Iron of Naples, hid with English gilt^{8 note}

&mlquo;Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,
&mlquo;To let thy tongue detect^{1 note}

Edw.
A wisp of straw^{2 note}

To make this shameless callet know herself^{3 note}

And heap'd sedition on his crown at home.
&mlquo;For what hath broach'd this tumult^{5 note}, but thy pride?
Hadst thou been meek, our title still had slept;
And we, in pity of the gentle king,
Had slipp'd our claim until another age.

&mlquo;Geo.
&mlquo;But, when we saw our sunshine made thy spring,
&mlquo;And that thy summer bred us no increase^{6 note}

Edw.
And, in this resolution, I defy thee;
Not willing any longer conference,
Since thou deny'st the gentle king to speak.—
Sound trumpets!—let our bloody colours wave!—
And either victory, or else a grave.

Q. Mar.
Stay, Edward.

Edw.
No, wrangling woman; we'll no longer stay:
These words will cost ten thousand lives to-day. [Exeunt.

SCENE III. A Field of Battle^{7 note}

&mlquo;War.
&mlquo;Forspent with toil^{8 note}, as runners with a race,

I lay me down a little while to breathe:
For strokes receiv'd, and many blows repaid,
Have robb'd my strong-knit sinews of their strength,
&mlquo;And, spite of spite^{9 note}
, needs must I rest awhile. Enter Edward, running.

Edw.
Smile, gentle heaven^{1 note}



! or strike, ungentle death!
&mlquo;For this world frowns, and Edward's sun is clouded.

War.
How now, my lord? what hap? what hope of good? Enter George.

&mast;Geo.
&mast;Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair^{2 note}

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

Enter Richard.

&mlquo;Rich.
&mlquo;Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?
&mlquo;Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk^{3 note}

&mlquo;Broach'd with the steely point of Clifford's lance:
&mlquo;And, in the very pangs of death, he cried,—
&mlquo;Like to a dismal clangor heard from far,—
&mlquo;Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death!
&mlquo;So underneath the belly of their steeds,
&mlquo;That stain'd their fetlocks in his smoking blood,
&mlquo;The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.

&mlquo;War.
&mlquo;Then let the earth be drunken with our blood:
I'll kill my horse, because I will not fly^{4 note}

&mlquo;Here on my knee I vow to God above,
&mlquo;I'll never pause again, never stand still,
&mlquo;Till either death hath clos'd these eyes of mine,
&mlquo;Or fortune given me measure of revenge.

Edw.
O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine;
&mlquo;And, in this vow, do chain my soul to thine^{6 note}
.—
&mast;And, ere my knee rise from the earth's cold face,
&mast;I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee,
Thou setter up and plucker down of kings!
&mlquo;Beseeching thee^{7 note}

&mlquo;Rich.
&mlquo;Brother, give me thy hand;—and, gentle Warwick,

&mlquo;Let me embrace thee in my weary arms:—
&mlquo;I, that did never weep, now melt with woe,
&mlquo;That winter should cut off our spring-time so.

&mlquo;War.
&mlquo;Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell.

&mlquo;Geo.
&mlquo;Yet let us all together to our troops,
&mlquo;And give them leave to fly that will not stay;
And call them pillars, that will stand to us;
&mlquo;And, if we thrive, promise them such rewards
&mlquo;As victors wear at the Olympian games:
&mast;This may plant courage in their quailing^{8 note}

breasts;
&mast;For yet is hope of life, and victory.—
&mast;Fore-slow no longer^{9 note}

SCENE IV. The Same. Another Part of the Field. Excursions. Enter Richard and Clifford.

&mlquo;Rich.
&mlquo;Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone^{2 note}



:
&mlquo;Suppose, this arm is for the duke of York,
&mlquo;And this for Rutland; both bound to revenge,
&mlquo;Wert thou environ'd with a brazen wall^{3 note}

.

Clif.
Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone:
This is the hand, that stabb'd 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 enters, Clifford flies.

&mlquo;Rich.
&mlquo;Nay, Warwick^{4 note}

SCENE V. Another Part of the Field. Alarum. Enter King Henry.

&mast;K. Hen.
&mast;This battle fares like to the morning's war^{5 note}

&mast;Can neither call it perfect day, nor night.
&mlquo;Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea,
&mlquo;Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind:
&mlquo;Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea
&mlquo;Forc'd to retire by fury of the wind:
&mlquo;Sometime, the flood prevails; and then, the wind;
&mlquo;Now, one the better, then, another best;
&mlquo;Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast^{7 note}
,
&mlquo;Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered:
&mlquo;So is the equal poise of this fell war.
&mast;Here on this molehill will I sit me down.
&mast;To whom God will, there be the victory!
&mlquo;For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too,
&mlquo;Have chid me from the battle; swearing both,
&mlquo;They prosper best of all when I am thence.
&mlquo;'Would I were dead! if God's good will were so:
&mlquo;For what is in this world, but grief and woe?
&mast;O God! methinks, it were a happy life^{8 note}

&mast;How many years a mortal man may live.
&mast;When this is known, then to divide the times:
&mast;So many hours must I tend my flock;
&mast;So many hours must I take my rest;
&mast;So many hours must I cóntemplate;
&mast;So many hours must I sport myself;
&mast;So many days my ewes have been with young;
&mast;So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean^{1 note}

&mast;When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him. Alarum. Enter a Son that has killed his Father^{4 note}

Son.
Ill blows the wind, that profits no body.—
&mlquo;This man whom hand to hand I slew in fight,
&mlquo;May be possessed with some store of crowns:
&mast;And I, that haply take them from him now,
&mast;May yet ere night yield both my life and them
&mast;To some man else, as this dead man doth me.—
&mlquo;Who's this?—O God! it is my father's face,
&mlquo;Whom in this conflict I unawares have kill'd.
&mlquo;O heavy times, begetting such events!
&mlquo;From London by the king was I press'd forth;
&mlquo;My father, being the earl of Warwick's man,
&mlquo;Came on the part of York, press'd by his master;
&mlquo;And I, who at his hands receiv'd my life,
&mlquo;Have by my hands of life bereaved him.—
&mlquo;Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did!—
And pardon, father, for I knew not thee!—
&mast;My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks;
&mast;And no more words, till they have flow'd their fill.

&mlquo;K. Hen.
&mlquo;O piteous spectacle^{5 note}






! O bloody times!

Whilst lions war, and battle for their dens,
&mlquo;Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity,—
&mast;Weep, wretched man, I'll aid thee tear for tear;
&mast;And let our hearts, and eyes, like civil war,
&mast;Be blind with tears, and break o'ercharg'd with grief^{6 note}
. Enter a Father, who has killed his Son, with the Body in his arms.

&mlquo;Fath.
&mlquo;Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me,
&mlquo;Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold;
&mlquo;For I have bought it with an hundred blows.—
&mlquo;But let me see:—is this our foeman's face?
&mlquo;Ah, no, no, no, it is mine only son!—
&mast;Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee,
&mast;Throw up thine eye; see, see, what showers arise,
&mast;Blown with the windy tempest of my heart^{7 note}

,
&mast;Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart!—
&mlquo;O, pity, God, this miserable age!—
&mlquo;What stratagems^{8 note}

&mlquo;Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural,
&mlquo;This deadly quarrel daily doth beget!—
&mlquo;O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon^{8 note},
&mlquo;And hath bereft thee of thy life too late^{9 note}

K. Hen.
Woe above woe! grief more than common grief!
&mlquo;O, that my death would stay these ruthful deeds!—
&mast;O pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity!—
The red rose and the white are on his face,
The fatal colours of our striving houses:
&mast;The one, his purple blood right well resembles;
&mast;The other, his pale cheeks, methinks, presenteth;
Wither one rose, and let the other flourish!
&mlquo;If you contend, a thousand lives must wither^{1 note}

Son.
How will my mother, for a father's death,
Take on with me^{2 note}

Fath.
How will my wife, for slaughter of my son,
&mlquo;Shed seas of tears, and ne'er be satisfied?

&mlquo;K. Hen.
&mlquo;How will the country^{3 note}

&mlquo;Son.
&mlquo;Was ever son, so ru'd a father's death?

&mlquo;Fath.
&mlquo;Was ever father, so bemoan'd a son^{4 note}


?

&mlquo;K. Hen.
&mlquo;Was ever king, so griev'd for subjects' woe?
&mlquo;Much is your sorrow; mine, ten times so much.

&mlquo;Son.
&mlquo;I'll bear thee hence^{5 note}

, where I may weep my fill. [Exit with the Body.

&mast;Fath.
&mast;These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet:
&mast;My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre;
&mast;For from my heart thine image ne'er shall go.
&mast;My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell;
&mast;And so obsequious will thy father be^{6 note}

&mlquo;K. Hen.
&mlquo;Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care,
&mlquo;Here sits a king more woful than you are. Alarums: Excursions. Enter Queen Margaret, Prince of Wales, and Exeter.

&mlquo;Prince.
&mlquo;Fly, father, fly! for all your friends are fled,
&mlquo;And Warwick rages like a chafed bull:
&mlquo;Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit.

&mlquo;Q. Mar.
&mlquo;Mount you, my lord; towards Berwick post amain:
&mlquo;Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds,
&mlquo;Having the fearful, flying hare in sight,
&mlquo;With firy eyes, sparkling for very wrath,

&mlquo;And bloody steel grasp'd in their ireful hands,
&mlquo;Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain.

&mlquo;Exe.
&mlquo;Away! for vengeance comes along with them:
&mlquo;Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed;
Or else come after, I'll away before.

&mlquo;K. Hen.
&mlquo;Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exeter;
&mlquo;Not that I fear to stay, but love to go
&mlquo;Whither the queen intends. Forward; away! [Exeunt. SCENE VI. The Same. A loud Alarum. Enter Clifford, wounded^{9 note}.

&mlquo;Clif.
&mlquo;Here burns my candle out, ay, here it dies^{1 note}
,
Which, while 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!
&mlquo;And, now I fall, thy tough commixtures melt^{2 note}

Impairing Henry, strength'ning mis-proud York,
The common people swarm like summer flies^{3 note}:
And whither fly the gnats, but to the sun^{4 note}


?
And who shines now but Henry's enemies?
O Phœbus! hadst thou never given consent^{5 note}
That Phaeton should check thy firy steeds,
Thy burning car never had scorch'd the earth:
And, Henry, hadst thou sway'd as kings should do,
Or as thy father, and his father, did,
Giving no ground unto the house of York,
&mast;They never then had sprung like summer flies;
&mlquo;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?
&mlquo;And what makes robbers bold, but too much lenity?
Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds;
&mlquo;No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight^{6 note}

The foe is merciless, and will not pity;
For, at their hands, I have deserv'd no pity.
&mlquo;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;
&mlquo;I stabb'd your father's bosoms, split my breast^{7 note}
. [He faints. Alarum and Retreat. Enter Edward, George, Richard, Montague, Warwick, and Soldiers.

&mlquo;Edw.
&mlquo;Now breathe we, lords^{8 note}

&mlquo;Command an argosy to stem the waves.
&mlquo;But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them?

War.
No, 'tis impossible he should escape:
For, though before his face I speak the words,
Your brother Richard mark'd him for the grave^{1 note}

Edw.
Whose soul^{2 note}

Rich.
A deadly groan, like life and death's departing^{3 note}

Edw.
See who it is: and, now the battle's ended,
If friend, or foe, let him be gently us'd.

&mlquo;Rich.
&mlquo;Revoke that doom of mercy, for 'tis Clifford;
&mlquo;Who not contented that he lopp'd the branch
&mlquo;In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth^{4 note}

&mlquo;But set his murdering knife unto the root
&mlquo;From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring,
&mlquo;I mean, our princely father, duke of York.

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

Edw.
Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house,
&mlquo;That nothing sung but death to us and ours^{5 note}

:
&mlquo;Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound,
&mlquo;And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak. [Attendants bring the Body forward.

War.
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.

Rich.
O, 'would he did! and so, perhaps, he doth;
&mlquo;'Tis but his policy to counterfeit,

&mlquo;Because he would avoid such bitter taunts
&mlquo;Which in the time of death he gave our father.

Geo.
If so thou think'st, vex him with eager words^{6 note}

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

Edw.
Clifford, repent in bootless penitence.

War.
Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults.

Geo.
While we devise fell tortures for thy faults.

&mlquo;Rich.
&mlquo;Thou didst love York, and I am son to York.

Edw.
Thou pitied'st Rutland, I will pity thee.

Geo.
Where's captain Margaret, to fence you now?

War.
They mock thee, Clifford! swear as thou wast wont.

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

War.
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.
&mlquo;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;
&mlquo;And, having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread
The scatter'd foe, that hopes to rise again;
For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt,
Yet look to have them buz, to offend thine ears.
First, will I see the coronation;
&mlquo;And then to Britanny I'll cross the sea^{7 note}
,
To effect this marriage, so it please my lord.

Edw.
Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be:
&mast;For on thy shoulder do I build my seat;
&mast;And never will I undertake the thing,
&mast;Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting.—
&mlquo;Richard, I will create thee duke of Gloster;—
&mlquo;And George, of Clarence;—Warwick, as ourself,
&mlquo;Shall do, and undo, as him pleaseth best.

Rich.
Let me be duke of Clarence; George of Gloster;
For Gloster's dukedom is too ominous^{8 note}

War.
Tut, that's a foolish observation;
Richard, be duke of Gloster: Now to London,
To see these honours in possession. [Exeunt.

Previous section

Next section