“York.
Now, my good lords, our simple supper ended,
Let me in private satisfy myself
By craving your opinion of my title,
Which is infallible to England's crown.”

“Sal.
Noble Plantagenet, if thy claim be good—

“War.
If!—noble father, what can be more plain?
  Henry doth claim the crown from John of Gaunt,
And should not reign till Lionel's issue fail.
That doth not fail, but flourisheth in York,
And in his sons, fair slips of such a stock.
Then, father Salisbury, kneel we together,
And in this covert plot be we the first
That shall salute our rightful sovereign.

Both (kneeling.)
Long live our sovereign Richard, England's King!”

“York.
We thank you lords, but yet I'm not your king,
No; not until my princely sword be stain'd
With heart's-blood of the house of Lancaster,
And that's not suddenly to be perform'd,
But with advice, and silent secrecy.
Do you, as I do, in these dangerous days;
Wink at the Duke of Suffolk's insolence—
At Beaufort's pride—at Somerset's ambition,
Till they have snared the shepherd of the flock,
The good Duke Humphry—for, in seeking that,
They'll find their deaths, if York can prophecy!

“Sal.
My lord, here break we off; we know your mind.

“War.
My heart assures me that the Earl of Warwick
Shall one day make the Duke of York a king.

“York.
And, Neville, this I do assure myself.
Richard shall live to make the Earl of Warwick,
The greatest man in England, but the king. Exeunt Salisbury and Warwick.”
Now, York, or never steal thy fearful thoughts,
And change misdoubt to resolution.
Be what thou hopest to be, or what thou art
Resign to death—it is not worth the enjoying:
Let pale-faced fear keep with the mean-born man,
And find no harbour in a royal heart.
Faster than spring-time showers comes thought on thought,
And not a thought but thinks on dignity.
My brain, more busy than the labouring spider,
Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.
—This Kentish insurrection falls most apt
To furnish forth a pretext for my levies.
In Ireland have I seen that rustic, Cade,
Oppose himself against a troop of kerns,
And fight so long, till that his thighs with darts,
Were almost like a sharp-quill'd porcupine;
And, after, being rescued, I have seen
Him caper upright like a wild morisco,
Shaking the bloody darts, as he his bells.
This devil here, shall be my substitute,
For that John Mortimer, which now is dead,
In face, in gait, in mein he doth resemble.
By this, I shall perceive the commons' mind,
How they affect the house and claims of York;
And, if he fail, his loss shall be my gain—
Or, say he thrive, the harvest still is mine.
Glo'ster! thy sun is set, that York's may shine. [Exit. END OF ACT II.

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