Edw.
Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?

Rich.
Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun;
Not separated by the racking clouds^{2 note}


,
But sever'd in a pale clear-shining sky.
See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,
As if they vow'd some league inviolable:
Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun.
In this the heaven figures some event.

Edw.
'Tis wondrous strange, the like yet never heard of.

I think, it cites us, brother, to the field;
That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet,
Each one already ^{3 note}
blazing by our meeds,
Should, notwithstanding, join our lights together,
And over-shine the-earth, as this the world.
Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear
Upon my target three fair shining suns.

Rick.
Nay, bear three daughters;—by your leave I speak it,
You love the breeder better than the male. Enter a Messenger.
But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretel
Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?

Mes.
Ah, one that was a woeful looker on,
When as the noble duke of York was slain,
Your princely father, and my loving lord.

Edw.
^{4 note}Oh, speak no more! ^{5 note}

for I have heard too much.

Rich.
Say how he dy'd, for I will hear it all.

Mes.
Environed he was with many foes;
And stood against them, as the hope of Troy
Against the Greeks, that would have enter'd Troy.
But Hercules himself must yield to odds;
And many strokes, though with a little axe,
Hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.
By many hands your father was subdu'd;
But only slaughter'd by the ireful arm

Of unrelenting Clifford, and the queen:
Who crown'd the gracious duke, in high despight;
Laugh'd in his face; and, when with grief he wept,
The ruthless queen gave him, to dry his cheeks,
A napkin steeped in the harmless blood
Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain:
And, after many scorns, many foul taunts,
They took his head, and on the gates of York
They set the same; and there it doth remain,
The saddest spectacle that e'er I view'd.

Edw.
Sweet duke of York, our prop to lean upon;
Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay!—
Oh Clifford, boistrous Clifford, thou hast slain
The flower of Europe for his chivalry;
And treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him,
For, hand to hand, he would have vanquish'd thee!—
Now my soul's palace is become a prison:
Ah, would she break from hence! that this my body
Might in the ground be closed up in rest:
For never henceforth shall I joy again,
Never, O, never, shall I see more joy.

Rich.
I cannot weep; for all my body's moisture
Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart:
Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burden;
For self-same wind, that I should speak withal,
Is kindling coals, that fire all my breast, 9Q0843
And burn me up with flames, that tears would quench.
To weep, is to make less the depth of grief:
Tears, then, for babes; blows, and revenge, for me!—
Richard, I bear thy name, I'll venge thy death,
Or die renowned by attempting it.

Edw.
His name that valiant duke hath left with thee;
^{6 note}
His dukedom and his chair with me is left.

Rich.
Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird,
Shew thy descent by gazing 'gainst the sun^{5 note}

War.
How now, fair lords? What fare? what news abroad?

Rich.
Great lord of Warwick, if we should recount
Our baleful news, and, at each word's deliverance,
Stab poniards in our flesh, 'till all were told,
The words would add more anguish than the wounds.
O valiant lord, the duke of York is slain.

Edw.
O Warwick! Warwick! that Plantagenet,
Which held thee dearly, as his soul's redemption,
^{8 note}

War.
Ten days ago I drown'd these news in tears:

And now, to add more measure to your woes,
I come to tell you things since then befall'n.
After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave father breath'd his latest gasp,
Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run,
Were brought me of your loss, and his depart.
I then in London, keeper of the king,
Muster'd my soldiers, gather'd flocks of friends,
^{9 note}And very well appointed, as I thought,
March'd towards saint Alban's to intercept the queen,
Bearing the king in my behalf along:
For by my scouts I was advertised,
That she was coming with a full intent
To dash our late decree in parliament,
Touching king Henry's oath, and your succession.
Short tale to make,—we at saint Alban's met,
Our battles join'd, and both sides fiercely fought:
But, whether 'twas the coldness of the king,
Who look'd full gently on his warlike queen,
That robb'd my soldiers of their heated spleen;
Or whether 'twas report of her success;
Or more than common fear of Clifford's rigour,
Who thunders to his captives—blood and death,
I cannot judge: but, to conclude with truth,
Their weapons like to lightning came and went;
Our soldiers'—^{1 note}like the night-owl's lazy flight,
Or like an idle thresher with a flail,—
Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends.
I cheer'd them up with justice of the cause,
With promise of high pay, and great rewards:
But all in vain; they had no heart to fight,

And we, in them, no hope to win the day,
So that we fled; the king, unto the queen;
Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and myself,
In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you;
For in the marches here, we heard, you were,
Making another head to fight again.

Edw.
Where is the duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick?
And when came George from Burgundy to England?

War.
Some six miles off the duke is with his power:
And for your brother,—he was lately sent
From your kind aunt, dutchess of Burgundy,
With aid of soldiers to this needful war.

Rich.
'Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled:
Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit,
But ne'er, 'till now, his scandal of retire.

War.
Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou hear:
For thou shalt know, this strong right hand of mine
Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry's head,
And wring the awful scepter from his fist;
Were he as famous and as bold in war,
As he is fam'd for mildness, peace, and prayer.

Rich.
I know it well, lord Warwick: blame me not;
'Tis love, I bear thy glories, makes me speak.
But, in this troublous time, what's to be done?
Shall we go throw away our coats of steel,
And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns,
Numb'ring our Ave-Maries with our beads?
Or shall we on the helmets of our foes
Tell our devotion with revengeful arms?
If for the last, say—Ay, and to it, lords.

War.
Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you out;
And therefore comes my brother Montague.
Attend me, lords. The proud insulting queen,

With Clifford, and the haught Northumberland^{2 note}

Rich.
Ay, now, methinks, I hear great Warwick speak:
Ne'er may he live to see a sun-shine day,
That cries—Retire, when Warwick bids him stay.

Edw.
Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean;
And when thou fail'st, (as God forbid the hour!)
Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forefend!

War.
No longer earl of March, but duke of York;
The next degree is, England's royal king:
For king of England shalt thou be proclaim'd
In every borough as we pass along;
And he, that casts not up his cap for joy,
Shall for the offence make forfeit of his head.
King Edward,—valiant Richard,—Montague,—
Stay we no longer dreaming of renown,
But sound the trumpets, and about our task.

Rich.
Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as steel,
(As thou hast shewn it flinty by thy deeds)
I come to pierce it,—or to give thee mine.

Edw.
Then strike up, drums;—God, and saint George, for us! Enter a Messenger.

War.
How now? what news?

Mes.
The duke of Norfolk sends you word by me,
The queen is coming with a puissant host;
And craves your company for speedy counsel.

War.
^{4 note}