York advances.
Thus far hath York advanced to claim his right,
And pluck the crown from feeble Henry's head.
Ring bells aloud! burn bonfirses clear and bright!
To entertain fair England's lawful king.
Well, nobles, well,—'twas politickly done,
To send me packing with a host of men.
I fear me, you but warm'd the starved snake,

Who, cherish'd in your breasts, will sting your hearts.
I will stir up in England some black storm,
Shall blow ten thousand souls to heaven or hell;
And this fell tempest shall not cease to rage,
Until the golden circuit on my head,
Like to the glorious sun's transparent beams,
Burst forth, and drive the scudding rack before it.
Ah, majesty! who would not buy thee dear?
Let them obey that know not how to rule.
I cannot give due action to my words,
Except a sword or scèptre balance it. Enter a Trumpet from the King.

Trump.
The mighty Lord, Clifford of Cumberland,
Sent by King Henry, doth demand a parley.

York.
Go—bid him welcome! I shall greet him fair. [Exit trumpet.
It is the pride of kings to be thought gods
On earth, striving to mock Omnipotence,
To make them favourites, plant them aloft
In their own sphere, till remote kingdoms gaze
At their prodigious height—then, in an instant
Shoot them from thence like falling meteors.* ^note Enter Old Clifford.

O. Cliff.
York, if thou meanest well, I greet thee well.

York.
Clifford of Cumberland, I accept thy greeting.
Art thou a messenger, or com'st of pleasure?

O. Cliff.
A messenger from Henry, our dread liege,
To know the reason of these arms in peace;
Or, why thou, being a subject, as I am,

Should dare to bring thy force so near the court.

York.
Scarce can I speak, my choler is so great. (Aside)
I am far better born than is the king,—
More like a king, more kingly in my thoughts.
But I must make fair weather yet awhile,
'Till Henry be more weak, and I more strong.
—Oh, my good lord, I pray thee, pardon me,
That I have given no answer all this while.
My mind was troubled with deep melancholy.
The cause why I have brought this army hither
Is to remove proud Somerset from the king,
As dangerous to the crown as to the state.

O. Cliff.
York, if thy arms be to no other end,
Know thou, that Somerset is in the Tower.—
Nay, by my honour, he is prisoner.

York.
Soldiers! I thank ye all—disperse yourselves!

O. Cliff.
I do commend this prompt submission.
Now, let us seek the royal tent together. [Exeunt

Previous section

Next section