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Offering their own lives in their young's defence ?
K. Henry. Full well hath Clifford plaid the orator,
Queen. My Lord, cheer up your spirits, our foes are And this soft courage makes your followers faint: You promis'd Knighthood to our forward fon, Unsheath your sword, and dub him presently. Edward, kneel down.
K. Henry. Edward Plantagenet, arise a Knight; And learn this leffon, draw thy sword in right.
(10) And happy always was it for that for, W bose father for bis boarding went to bell.] Mr. Rorve and Mr. Pope in this pointing have err'd with some of the old impresions, and quite fubverted the poet's meaning. They make the King affert a sentiment, which he, in fact, is calling in question. I have restor'd the true pointing from the old Quarto, which Mr. Pope would have us believe he had collated. The King would argue thus; “ Tho''tis “ a general saying, that the lon is happy, whose miserly father goes “ to the devil; yet is every such son, without exception, happy, in “ having bad luch a parfimonious father?”
Prince. My gracious father, by your kingly leave,
Enter a Mefsenger.
Clif. I would, your Highness would depart the field: The Queen hath best fuccefs, when you are abfent.
Queen. Ay, good my Lord, and leave us to our fortune. K. Henry. Why, that's my fortune too; therefore I'll North. Be it with resolution then to fight. [ftay.
Prince. My royal father, cheer these noble Lords, And hearten those that fight in your
defence : Unfheath your sword, good father ; cry, St. George ! March. Enter Edward, Warwick, Richard, Clarence,
Norfolk, Montague, and Soldiers. Edw. Now, perjur'd Henry, wilt thou kneel for grace, And set thy diadem upon my
Queen. Go rate thy minions, proud insulting boy.
Edw. I am his King, and he should bow his knee;
Clif. And reason too :
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 fort.
Rich. 'Twas you that kill'd young Rutland, was it not?
Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently.
Clif. I flew thy father, call’ft thou him a child ?
Rich. Ay, like a daftard and a treacherous coward, As thou didit kill our tender brother Rutland : But, ere fun set, I'll make thee curse the deed. K. Henry. Have done with words, my Lords, and hear
me speak. Queen. Defy them then, or else hold close thy lips:
K. Henry. I prythee, give no limits to my tongue; I am a King, and privileg'd to speak.
[here, Clif. My Liege, the wound, that bred this meeting Cannot be cur'd by words; therefore be ftill.
Ricb. Then, executioner, unsheath thy sword :
War. If thou deny, their blood upon thy head !
Prince. If that be right, which Warrick 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 halt thy mother's tongue. Queen. But thou art neither like thy fire nor dam,
But like a foul mif- shapen stigmatick,
Rich. Iron of Naples hid with English gilt,
Edw. A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns
Cla. But when we saw, our sun-line made thy springs
Edw. And in this resolution I defy thee;
Edw. No, wrangling woman, we'll no longer stay: These words will cost ten thousand lives this day.
SCENE changes to a Field of Battle at Ferri
bridge in Yorkshire.
Alarum. Excursions. Enter Warwick.
I lay me down a little while to breathe :
Enter Edward running.
Edw. Bootless is flight, they follow us with wings; And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit.
Enter Richard. Rich. Ah, Warwick, why halt thou withdrawn thyself? Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk, (u)
Broach'd (11) Tby brother's blood the thirsty earth bath drunk,] This passage, from the variation of the copies, gave me no little perplexity. The old 4to applies this description to the death of Salisoury, Warwick's father. But this was a notorious deviation from the truth of history. For the Earl of Salisbury in the battle at Wakefield, wherein Ricbard Duke of York lost his life, was taken prisoner, beheaded at Pomfret, and his head, together with the Duke of York's, fix'd over Yorkgates. Then, the only brother of Warwick, introduc'd in this play, is the Marquiss of Montacute ; (or Montague, as he is callid by our author :) but he does not die, till ten years after, in the battle at Barnet ; where Warwick likewise was kill'd. The truth is, the brother, here mention’d, is no person in the Dramai and his death