Somerset.
K. Henry.
See, Buckingham, Somerset comes with the Queen;
Go, bid her hide him quickly from the Duke.
Q. Mar.
For thousand Yorks he shall not hide his head,
But boldly stand and front him to his face.
York.
How now? is Somerset at liberty?
Then, York, unloose thy long imprison'd thoughts,
And let thy tongue be equal with thy heart.
Shall I endure the sight of Somerset?
False King! why hast thou broken faith with me,
Knowing how hardly I can brook abuse?
King did I call thee? no, thou art no King:
Not fit to govern and rule multitudes,
Which durst not, no, nor canst not rule a traitor.
That head of thine doth not become a Crown:
Thy hand is made to grasp a palmer's staff,
And not to grace an awful princely scepter.
That gold must round engirt these brows of mine,
Whose smile and frown (like to Achilles' spear)
Is able with the change to kill and cure.
Here is a hand to hold a scepter up,
And with the same to act controlling laws:
Give place; by heaven, thou shalt rule no more
O'er him, whom heav'n created for thy ruler.
Som.
O monstrous traitor! I arrest thee, York,
Of capital treason 'gainst the King and Crown;
Obey, audacious traitor, kneel for grace.
York.
Sirrah, call in my Sons to be my Bail;(20) note
Would'st have me kneel? First, let me ask of these,
If they can brook I bow a knee to man.
I know, ere they will let me go to Ward,
They'll pawn their swords for my enfranchisement.
-- 291 --
Q. Mar.
Call hither Clifford, bid him come amain,
To say, if that the bastard boys of York
Shall be the Surety for their traitor father.
York.
O blood-bespotted Neapolitan,
Out-cast of Naples, England's bloody scourge!
The Sons of York, thy Betters in their Birth,
Shall be their father's bail, and bale to those(21) note
That for my surety will refuse the boys.
Enter Edward and Richard.
See, where they come; I'll warrant, they'll make it good.
Enter Clifford.
Q. Mar.
And here comes Clifford, to deny their bail.
Clif.
Health and all Happiness to my lord the King!
York.
I thank thee, Clifford; say, what news with thee?
Nay, do not fright us with an angry look:
We are thy Soveraign, Clifford, kneel again;
For thy mistaking so, we pardon thee.
Clif.
This is my King, York, I do not mistake;
But thou mistak'st me much, to think I do;
To Bedlam with him, is the man grown mad?
K. Henry.
Ay, Clifford, a Bedlam and ambitious humour
Makes him oppose himself against his King.
Clif.
He is a traitor, let him to the Tower,
And crop away that factious pate of his.
Q. Mar.
He is arrested, but will not obey:
His sons, he says, shall give their words for him.
-- 292 --
York.
Will you not, sons?
E. Plan.
Ay, noble father, if our words will serve.
R. Plan.
And if words will not, then our weapons shall.
Clif.
Why, what a brood of traitors have we here?
York.
Look in a glass, and call thy image so.
I am thy King, and thou a false-heart traitor;
Call hither to the stake my two brave bears,
That with the very shaking of their chains
They may astonish these fell-lurking curs:
Bid Salisbury and Warwick come to me.
Enter the Earl of Warwick and Salisbury.
Clif.
Are these thy bears? we'll bait thy bears to death,
And manacle the bearward in their chains,
If thou dar'st bring them to the baiting place.
R. Plan.
Oft have I seen a hot o'er-weening cur
Run back and bite, because he was with-held;
Who, being suffer'd with the bear's fell paw,
Hath clapt his tail betwixt his legs and cry'd:
And such a piece of service will you do,
If you oppose your selves to match lord Warwick.
Clif.
Hence, heap of wrath, foul indigested lump,
As crooked in thy manners, as thy shape.
York.
Nay, we shall heat you thorowly anon.
Clif.
Take heed, lest by your heat you burn your selves.
K. Henry.
Why, Warwick, hath thy knee forgot to bow?
Old Salisbury, shame to thy silver hair,
Thou mad mis-leader of thy brain-sick son,
What, wilt thou on thy death-bed play the ruffian,
And seek for sorrow with thy spectacles?
Oh, where is faith? oh, where is loyalty?
If it be banish'd from the frosty head,
Where shall it find a harbour in the earth?
Wilt thou go dig a grave to find out war,
And shame thine honourable age with blood?
Why art thou old, and want'st experience?
Or wherefore dost abuse it, if thou hast it?
-- 293 --
For shame, in duty bend thy knee to me,
That bows unto the grave with mickle age.
Sal.
My lord, I have consider'd with my self
The Title of this most renowned Duke;
And in my conscience do repute his Grace
The rightful heir to England's royal Seat.
K. Henry.
Hast thou not sworn allegiance unto me?
Sal.
I have.
K. Henry.
Canst thou dispense with heav'n for such an oath?
Sal.
It is great sin to swear unto a sin;
But greater sin to keep a sinful oath:
Who can be bound by any solemn vow
To do a murd'rous deed, to rob a man,
To force a spotless virgin's chastity,
To reave the orphan of his patrimony,
To wring the widow from her custom'd right,
And have no other reason for his wrong,
But that he was bound by a solemn oath?
Q. Mar.
A subtle traitor needs no sophister.
K. Henry.
Call Buckingham, and bid him arm himself.
York.
Call Buckingham and all the friends thou hast,
I am resolv'd for death or dignity.
Old Clif.
The first I warrant thee; if dreams prove true.
War.
You were best go to bed and dream again,
To keep thee from the tempest of the field.
Old Clif.
I am resolv'd to bear a greater storm
Than any thou canst conjure up to day:
And that I'll write upon thy Burgonet,
Might I but know thee by thy House's badge.
War.
Now by my father's Badge, old Nevil's Crest,
The rampant bear chain'd to the ragged staff,
This day I'll wear aloft my Burgonet,
(As on a mountain-top the cedar shews,
That keeps his leaves in spight of any storm,)
Ev'n to affright thee with the view thereof.
Old Clif.
And from thy Burgonet I'll rend thy bear,
And tread it under foot with all contempt,
Despight the bear-ward, that protects the bear.
-- 294 --
Y. Clif.
And so to Arms, victorious noble father,
To quell the rebels and their complices.
R. Plan.
Fie, charity for shame, speak not in spight,
For you shall sup with Jesu Christ to night.
Y. Clif.
Foul stigmatick, that's more than thou canst tell.
R. Plan.
If not in heav'n, you'll surely sup in hell.
[Exeunt, severally.
Lewis Theobald [1733], The works of Shakespeare: in seven volumes. Collated with the Oldest Copies, and Corrected; With notes, Explanatory and Critical; By Mr. Theobald (Printed for A. Bettesworth and C. Hitch [and] J. Tonson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11201].
