Exe. No; for he could not so resign his crown, But that the next heir should succeed and reign. K. Hen. Art thou against us, duke of Exeter? Exe. His is the right, and therefore pardon me. York. Why whisper you, my lords, and answer not? Exe. My conscience tells me he is lawful king. K. Hen. All will revolt from me, and turn to him. North. Plantagenet, for all the claim thou lay'st, Think not, that Henry shall be so depos'd. War. Depos'd he shall be in despite of all. North. Thou art deceiv'd: 'tis not thy southern power, Of Essex, Norfolk, Suffolk, nor of Kent, Clif. King Henry, be thy title right or wrong, York. Henry of Lancaster, resign thy crown. What mutter you, or what conspire you, lords? War. Do right unto this princely duke of York, Or I will fill the house with armed men, And, o'er the chair of state, where now he sits, Write up his title with usurping blood. [He stamps, and the Soldiers show themselves. Whom I unnaturally shall disinherit. But be it as it may, I here entail The crown to thee, and to thine heirs for ever; Conditionally, that here thou take an oath To cease this civil war, and, whilst I live, To honour me as thy king and sovereign; And neither by treason, nor hostility, To seek to put me down, and reign thyself. York. This oath I willingly take, and will perform. [Coming from the Throne. War. Long live king Henry!-Plantagenet, embrace him. K. Hen. And long live thou, and these thy forward sons! York. Now York and Lancaster are reconcil'd. Exe. Accurs'd be he, that seeks to make them foes! [Sennet. The Lords come forward. York. Farewell, my gracious lord: I'll to my castle. War. And I'll keep London with my soldiers. K. Hen. And I, with grief and sorrow, to the [Going. Q. Mar. Nay, go not from me; I will follow thee. K. Hen. Be patient, gentle queen, and I will stay. Q. Mar. Who can be patient in such extremes? Ah, wretched man! would I had died a maid, And never seen thee, never borne thee son, Seeing thou hast prov'd so unnatural a father! Hath he deserv'd to lose his birthright thus ? Hadst thou but lov'd him half so well as I, Or felt that pain which I did for him once, Or nourish'd him, as I did with my blood, Thou wouldst have left thy dearest heart-blood there, Rather than have made that savage duke thine heir, And disinherited thine only son. Prince. Father, you cannot disinherit me. If you be king, why should not I succeed? K. Hen. Pardon me, Margaret;-pardon me, sweet son : The earl of Warwick, and the duke, enforc'd me. Q. Mar. Enforc'd thee! art thou king, and wilt be forc'd? I shame to hear thee speak. Ah, timorous wretch! The trembling lamb, environed with wolves. The northern lords, that have forsworn thy colours, Q. Mar. Thou hast spoke too much already: get thee gone. K. Hen. Gentle son Edward, thou wilt stay with me? Q. Mar. Ay, to be murder'd by his enemies. Prince. When I return with victory from the The crown of England, father, which is yours. York. Mine, boy? not till king Henry be dead. Rich. Your right depends not on his life, or death. Edw. Now you are heir, therefore enjoy it now: By giving the house of Lancaster leave to breathe. It will outrun you, father, in the end. York. I took an oath that he should quietly reign. Edw. But for a kingdom any oath may be broken: I would break a thousand oaths to reign one year. Rich. No: God forbid, your grace should be forsworn. York. I shall be, if I claim by open war. Rich. I'll prove the contrary, if you'll hear me speak. York. Thou canst not, son: it is impossible. Rich. An oath is of no moment, being not took Before a true and lawful magistrate, That hath authority over him that swears: Henry had none, but did usurp the place; Then, seeing 'twas he that made you to depose, Your oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous. Therefore, to arms. And, father, do but think, How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown, Within whose circuit is Elysium, And all that poets feign of bliss and joy. Why do we linger thus? I cannot rest, Until the white rose, that I wear, be dyed Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry's heart. York. Richard, enough: I will be king, or die.- While you are thus employ'd, what resteth more, Enter a Messenger. But, stay. What news? Why com'st thou in such post? Mess. The queen, with all the northern earls and lords, Intend here to besiege you in your castle. She is hard by with twenty thousand men, And therefore fortify your hold, my lord. York. Ay, with my sword. What! think'st thou, that we fear them?- Mont. Brother, I go; I'll win them, fear it not: And thus most humbly I do take my leave. [Exit. Enter Sir JOHN, and Sir HUGH MORTIMER. York. Sir John, and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles, You are come to Sandal in a happy hour; Sir John. She shall not need, we'll meet her in the field. York. What, with five thousand men? Rich. Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need. A woman's general; what should we fear? [A march afar off. Edw. I hear their drums: let's set our men in SCENE III.-Plains near Sandal Castle. Alarums: excursions. Enter RUTLAND, and his Tutor. Rut. Ah! whither shall I fly to 'scape their hands? Ah, tutor! look, where bloody Clifford comes. Enter CLIFFORD, and Soldiers. Clif. Chaplain, away: thy priesthood saves thy life. As for the brat of this accursed duke, Whose father slew my father, he shall die. Tut. Ah, Clifford murder not this innocent child, Lest thou be hated both of God and man. [Exit, forced off by Soldiers. Clif. How now! is he dead already? Or, is it fear, That makes him close his eyes?-I'll open them. Clif. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy my fa ther's blood Hath stopp'd the passage where thy words should enter. Rut. Then let my father's blood open it again : He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him. Clif. Had I thy brethren here, their lives, and thine, Were not revenge sufficient for me. Rut. O! let me pray before 1 take my death.— To thee I pray: sweet Clifford, pity me! Clif. Such pity as my rapier's point affords. Rut. I never did thee harın: why wilt thou slay me? Clif. Thy father hath. Rut. But 'twas ere I was born. Ah! let me live in prison all my days, Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause. Thy father slew my father: therefore, die. Clif. Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet! And this thy son's blood cleaving to my blade, Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood Congeal'd with this do make me wipe off both. [Exit. SCENE IV.-The Same. Alarum. Enter YORK. York. The army of the queen hath got the field: And cried,—“ A crown, or else a glorious tomb! North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet. York. My ashes, as the phoenix, may bring forth A bird that will revenge upon you all; And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heaven, Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with. Why come you not?—what! multitudes, and fear? Clif. So cowards fight, when they can fly no further; So doves do peck the falcon's piercing talons; So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives, Breathe out invectives 'gainst the officers. York. O, Clifford! but bethink thee once again. And in thy thought o'er-run my former time; And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face, And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with cowardice, Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this. Clif. I will not bandy with thee word for word. But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one. Q. Mar. Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand causes I would prolong awhile the traitor's life.— Wrath makes him deaf: speak thou, Northumberland. North. Hold, Clifford! do not honour him so much To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart: What valour were it, when a cur doth grin, For one to thrust his hand between his teeth, When he might spurn him with his foot away? It is war's prize to take all vantages, [They lay hands on YORK, who struggles. Clif. Ay, ay; so strives the woodcock with the gin. North. So doth the coney struggle in the net. [YORK is taken prisoner. York. So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty; So true men yield, with robbers so o'er-match'd. North. What would your grace have done unto him now? Q. Mar. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland, Come, make him stand upon this molehill here, Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland? Made issue from the bosom of the boy; I pr'ythee, grieve to make me merry, York: Ay, this is he that took king Henry's chair; Is crown'd so soon, and broke his solemn oath? Now in his life, against your holy oath? York. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France; |