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.
O Clifford, boisterous 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!

71

Rich. I cannot weep; for all my body's moisture Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning

heart:

80

Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great
burthen;

For selfsame wind that I should speak withal
Is kindling coals that fires all my breast,
And burns 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:

His dukedom and his chair with me is left. 90 Rich. Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird, Show thy descent by gazing 'gainst the sun: For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say;

Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his. March. Enter Warwick, Marquess of Montague, and their army.

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

Rich. Great Lord of Warwick, if we should re

count

Our baleful news, and at each word's deliver

ance

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! 100
Edw. O Warwick, Warwick! that Plantagenet,
Which held thee dearly as his soul's redemption,
Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death.
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 sith then befall'n.
After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave father breathed 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,

111

And very well appointed, as I thought,

March'd toward 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 succes-
sion.

Short tale to make, we at Saint Alban's met, 120
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 rigor,
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', like the night-owl's lazy flight, 130
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 our 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;

113. Omitted in Ff., added by Steevens (from Qq.).-I. G. 131. "idle," Capell's emendation (from Qq.) of Ff., "lazy.”— I. G.

Lord George your brother, Norfolk and my

self,

In haste, post haste, are come to join with you;
For in the marches here we heard you were, 140
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 the soldiers;

And for your brother, he was lately sent From your kind aunt, Duchess of Burgundy, With aid of soldiers to this needful war. Rich. 'Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled:

141. The second battle of St. Albans, of which Warwick here tells the story, took place February 17, 1461. The account is for the most part historically true. Of course it will be understood that the king was at that time in the keeping of those who were really fighting against him, though nominally with his sanction; and the effect of the battle was to release him from their hands, and restore him to his friends, who under the leading of the queen were seeking to break up the compromise that had been forced through in the late parliament. The course and issue of the fight are thus described in the Chronicles: "These (the Yorkists) gave the onset so fiercelie at the beginning, that the victorie rested doubtfull a certeine time; but after they had stood it a pretie while they began to faint, and, turning their backes, fled amaine over hedge and ditch, through thick and thin, woods and bushes, seeking to escape the hands of their cruell enimies, that followed them with eger minds, to make slaughter upon them, and bare downe manie, and more had doone, if the night comming on had not stayed them."-H. N. H.

146. "Your kind aunt, Duchess of Burgundy," i. e. Isabel, daughter of John I, King of Portugal, by Philippa of Lancaster, eldest daughter of John of Gaunt; she was, therefore, really third cousin to Edward, and not aunt.-I. G.

147. This is slightly at variance with fact. York's sons, George

Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit,

150

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 famed 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, 160 And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns, Numbering 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 aye, 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, And of their feather many moe proud birds, 170 Have wrought the easy-melting king like wax. and Richard, the one being then in his twelfth year, the other in his ninth, were sent into Flanders immediately after the battle of Wakefield, and did not return till Edward had taken the crown.H. N. H,