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Have caus'd him by new act of parliament
To blot out me, and put his own fon in.
Clif. And reafon too.

Who fhould fucceed the father, but the fon?

Rich. Are you there, butcher?-O, I cannot speak. Clif. Ay, Crook back, here I ftand to answer thee, Or any he the proudest of thy fort.

Rich. 'Twas you that kill'd young Rutland, was it

not?

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

Rich. For God's fake, Lords, give fignal to the fight. War. What fay'ft 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 laft,

Your legs did better fervice than your hands.

War. Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine. Clif. You faid fo much before, and yet you fled. War. 'Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence.

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

Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently.

Break off the parle, for fcarce I can refrain The execution of my big fwoln heart

Upon that Clifford, that cruel child killer.

Clif. I flew thy father, call'ft thou him a child?

Rich. Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward,

As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland;

But, ere fun fet, I'll make thee curfe the deed.

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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 pr'ythee, give no limits to my tongue I am a King, and privileg'd to fpeak.

Clif. My Liege, the wound, that bred this meeting

here

Can

Cannot be cur'd by words; therefore be still.
Rich. Then, executioner, unfheath thy fword:
By him that made us all, I am refolv'd *
That Clifford's manhood lies upon his tongue.

Edw. Say, Henry, fhall I have right, or no?
A thousand men have broke their fafts to day,
That ne'er fhall dine, unless thou yield the crown.
War. If thou deny, their blood upon thy head!
For York in juftice puts his armour on.

Prince. If that be right, which Warwick fays is right,.

There is no wrong, but every thing is right.

Rich. Whoever got thee, there thy mother ftands, For, well I wot, thou haft thy mother's tongue. Queen. But thou art neither like thy fire nor dam, But like a foul mif-fhapen ftigmatick,

Mark'd by the deftinies 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 fhould be call'd the fea,

Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,
To let thy tongue detect thy bafe-born heart?
Edw. A wifp of straw were worth a thoufand

crowns,

To make this fhameless 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 falfe 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,

-I am refolv'd] It is my firm perfuafion; I am no longer in doubt.

To let thy tongue dete] To how thy meannels of birth by the indecency of language with

which thou raileft at my deformity.

9 A wifp of ftraw.] I fuppofe for an inftrument of correction that might difgrace but not hurt her.

L 4

And

And had he matcht 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 fun-fhine brew'd a fhow'r for him,
That wash'd his father's fortunes forth of France,
And heap'd fedition on his Crown at home,
For what hath broach'd this tumult, but thy pride?
Hadft thou been meek, our Title ftill had flept.
And we, in pity of the gentle King,

Had flipt our claim until another age.

Cla. But when we faw, our fun-fhine made thy
fpring,

And that thy fummer bred us no increase,
We fet the ax to thy ufurping root;

And though the edge hath fomething hit ourselves,
Yet know thou, fince 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 refolution I defy thee;
Not willing any longer conference,
Since thou deny'ft 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. Thefe words will coft ten thousand lives this day.

We faw our fun-fhine made thy Spring, And that thy fummer bred us no increafe. When we faw that by favouring thee we made thee grow in fortune, but that

[Exeunt omnes.

we received no advantage from thy fortune flourishing by our favour, we then refolved to deftroy thee, and determine to try fome other means, though our first efforts have failed.

SCENE

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Changes to a Field of Battle at Ferribridge in Yorkshire.

Alarm. Excurfions. Enter Warwick. War.ORE-fpent with toil, as runners with a race, I lay me down a little while to breathe, For ftrokes receiv'd, and many blows repaid, Have robb'd my ftrong-knit finews of their ftrength; And, fpight of fpight, needs muft I reft a while.

Enter Edward running,

Edw. Smile, gentle heav'n! or strike, ungentle death!

For this world frowns, and Edward's fun is clouded. War. How now, my Lord, what hap? what hope of good?

Enter Clarence.

Cla. Our hap is lofs, our hope but fad despair;
Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us.
What counsel give you? whither shall we fly?

Edw. Bootlefs is flight, they follow us with wings; And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit,

Enter Richard.

Rich. Ah, Warwick, why haft thou withdrawn thyfelf?

Thy brother's blood the thirfty earth hath drunk,

• Thy Brother's Blood the thirfty Earth bath drunk,] This Paffage, from the Variation of the Copies, gave me no little Perplexity. The old 4to applies this Defcription to the Death of

Broach'd

Salisbury, 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 Rich ard Duke of York loft his Life,

was

Broach'd with the steely point of Clifford's lance,
And in the very pangs of death he cry'd,
(Like to a difmal clangor heard from far)
Warwick, revenge; brother, revenge my death.
So underneath the belly of their steeds,

That ftain'd their fetlocks in his fmoaking blood,
The noble Gentleman gave up the ghoft.

War. Then let the Earth be drunken with our blood;
I'll kill my horie, because I will not fly.
Why ftand we like foft-hearted women here,
Wailing our loffes, whiles the foe doth rage,
And look upon, as if the Tragedy
Were plaid in jeft by counterfeiting Actors?
Here on my knee I vow to God above,
I'll never pause again, never ftand still,
Till either Death hath clos'd thefe eyes of mine,
Or Fortune give me measure of revenge.

Edw. Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine, And in this vow do chain my foul with thine. And ere my knee rife from the earth's cold face, I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee, Thou Setter up, and Plucker down, of Kings! Befeeching thee, if with thy will it stands That to my foes this body must be prey, Yet that thy brazen gates of heav'n may ope, And give fweet paffage to my finful foul. Now, Lords, take leave until we meet again; Where-e'er it be, in heaven or on earth.

was taken Prifoner, beheaded at Pomfret, and his Head, together with the Duke of York's, fix'd over York-gates. Then, the only Brother of Warwick, introduc'd in this Play, is the Marquefs of Montacute; (or Mountague, as he is call'd by our Author:) but he does not dye, till ten years after, in the Battle at Barnet; where Warwick likewife was kill'd.

The truth is, the Brother here mention'd, is no Perfon in the Drama and his Death is only an incidental Piece of History. Confulting the Chronicles, upon this Action at Ferribridge, I find him to have been a natural Son of Salisbury, (in that respect, a Brother to Warwick;) and efteem'd a valiant young Gentleman.

THEOBALD.

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