Edw.
Now, perjur'd Henry, wilt thou kneel for grace,
And set thy Diadem upon my head;
Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?

Queen.
Go rate thy minions, proud insulting boy,
Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms
Before thy sovereign and thy lawful King?

Edw.
I am his King, and he shall bow his knee;
I was adopted heir by his consent;
Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear,
You that are King, though he do wear the crown,
Have caus'd him by new act of parliament
To blot out me, and put his own son in.

Cliff.
And reason too:
Who should succeed the father, but the son?

Rich.
Are you there, butcher? O, I cannot speak.

Clif.
Ay, crook-back, here I stand to answer thee,
Or any he the proudest of thy sort.

Rich.
'Twas you that kill'd young Rutland, was it not?

Clif.
Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfy'd.

Rich.
For God's sake, Lords, give signal to the fight.

War.
What say'st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown?

Queen.
Why, how now, long-tongu'd Warwick, dare you speak?
When you and I met at St. Albans last,
Your legs did better service than your hands.

War.
Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine.

Clif.
You said so much before, and yet you fled.

War.
'Twas not your valour, Clifford drove me thence.

North.
No, nor your manhood, that durst make you stay.

Rich.
Northumberland, I hold thee reverently.—
Break off the parle, for scarce I can refrain
The Execution of my big-swoln heart
Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.

Clif.
I slew thy father, call'st thou him a child?

Rich.
Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward,
As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland:
But, ere sun-set, I'll make thee curse the deed.

K. Henry.
Have done with words, my Lords, and hear me speak.

Queen.
Defie them then, or else hold close thy lips.

K. Henry.
I pr'ythee, give no limits to my tongue;
I am a King, and privileg'd to speak.

Clif.
My Liege, the wound, that bred this meeting here,
Cannot be cur'd by words; therefore be still.

Rich.
Then, executioner, unsheath thy sword:
By him that made us all, I am resolv'd
That Clifford's manhood lyes upon his tongue.

Edw.
Say, Henry, shall I have right, or no?
A thousand men have broke their fasts to day,
That ne'er shall dine, unless thou yield the crown.

War.
If thou deny, their blood upon thy head!
For York in justice puts his armour on.

Prince.
If that be right, which Warwick says is right,
There is no wrong, but every thing is right.

Rich.
Who ever got thee, there thy mother stands,
For, well I wot, thou hast thy mother's tongue.

Queen.
But thou art neither like thy sire or dam,
But like a foul mis-shapen stigmatick,
Mark'd by the destinies to be avoided;

As venomous toads, or lizards' dreadful stings.

Rich.
Iron of Naples hid with English gilt,
Whose father bears the title of a King.
(As if a channel should be call'd the sea)
Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,
To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?

Edw.
A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns,
To make this shameless Callat know herself.
Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,
Although thy husband may be Menelaus;
And ne'er was Agamemnon's brother wrong'd
By that false woman, as this King by thee.
His Father revell'd in the heart of France,
And tam'd the King, and made the Dauphin stoop:
And had he match'd according to his State,
He might have kept that glory to this day.
But when he took a beggar to his bed,
And grac'd thy poor Sire with his bridal day,
Even then that sun-shine brew'd a show'r for him,
That wash'd his father's fortunes forth of France,
And heap'd sedition on his Crown at home:
For what hath broach'd this tumult, but thy pride?
Hadst thou been meek, our Title still had slept;
And we, in pity of the gentle King,
Had slipt our claim until another age.

Cla.
But when we saw, our sun-shine made thy spring,
And that thy summer bred us no increase,
We set the ax to thy usurping root;
And though the edge hath something hit ourselves,
Yet know thou, since we have begun to strike,
We'll never leave 'till we have hewn thee down,
Or bath'd thy Growing with our heated bloods.

Edw.
And in this resolution I defie thee;
Not willing any longer conference,
Since thou deny'st the gentle King to speak.

Sound trumpets, let our bloody Colours wave,
And either victory, or else a Grave.

Queen.
Stay, Edward—

Edw.
No, wrangling Woman, we'll no longer stay:
These words will cost ten thousand lives this day. [Exeunt omnes.

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