Queen.
Welcome, my Lord, to this brave town of York.
Yonder's the head of that arch-enemy,
That sought to be encompast with your crown.
Doth not the object cheer your heart, my Lord?

K. Henry.
Ay, as the rocks cheer them, that fear their wreck;
To see this sight, it irks my very soul:
With-hold revenge, dear God; 'tis not my fault,
Nor 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;
And doves will peck in safeguard 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, blest with a goodly son,
Didst yield consent to disinherit him;
Which argu'd thee a most unloving father.
Unreasonable creatures feed their young;
And tho' man's face be fearful to their eyes,
Yet, in protection of their tender ones,
Who hath not seen them (even with those wings,
Which sometimes 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 president.
Were it not pity, that this goodly boy
Should lose his birth-right by his father's fault;
And long hereafter say unto his child,
What my great grandfather and grandsire got,
My careless father fondly gave away!
Ah, what a shame was 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. Henry.
Full well hath Clifford plaid the orator,
Inferring arguments of mighty force:
But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear,
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That things ill-got had ever bad success?
And happy always was it for that son,
Whose father for his hoarding went to hell?
I'll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind;
And 'would, my father had left me no more!
For all the rest is held at such a rate,
As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep,

Than in possession any jot of pleasure.
Ah, Cousin York; 'would, thy best friends did know,
How it doth grieve me that thy head is here!

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

K. Henry.
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.

Mes.
Royal commanders, be in readiness;
For, with a band of thirty thousand 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.
Darraign your battle, for they are at hand.

Clif.
I would, your higness would depart the field:
The Queen hath best success, when you are absent.

Queen.
Ay, good my Lord, and leave us to our fortune.

K. Henry.
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, St. George!

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