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Norf. And I to Norfolk with my Followers.

Mount. And I unto the Sea from whence I came. [Exe. K. Henry. And I with grief and forrow to the Court. Enter the Queen, and the Prince of Wales.

Exe. Here comes the Queen,

Whofe looks bewray her anger:

I'll steal away.


K. Henry. Exeter fo will I:
Queen. Nay, go not from me, I will follow thee-
K. Henry. Be patient, gentle Queen, and I will stay.
Queen. Who can be patient in fuch extreams?
Ah wretched Man! would I had dy'd a Maid,
And never feen thee, never born thee Son,
Seeing thou haft prov'd fo unnatural a Father.
Hath he deferv'd to lose his Birth-right thus?
Hadft thou but lov'd him half fo much as I,
Or felt that pain which I did for him once,
Or nourisht him, as I did with my Blood;
Thou wouldst have left thy deareft Heart-blood there,
Rather than made that Savage Duke thine Heir,
And difinherited thine only Son.

Prince. Father, you cannot difinherit me:
If you be King, why fhould not I fucceed?

K. Henry. Pardon me, Margaret; pardon me, fweet Son; The Earl of Warwick and the Duke enforc'd me.

Queen. Enforc'd thee? art thou King,and wilt be forc'd? I fhame to hear thee fpeak; ah timorous Wretch! Thou haft undone thy felf, thy Son, and me, And given unto the House of York fuch head, As thou fhalt Reign but by their fufferance. To entail him and his Heirs unto the Crown, What is it, but to make thy Sepulchre, And creep into it far before thy time? Warwick is Chancellor, and the Lord of Calais, Stern Faulconbridge commands the narrow Seas, The Duke is made Protector of the Realm, And yet fhalt thou be fafe? fuch fafety finds The trembling Lamb, invironed with Wolves. Had I been there, which am a filly Woman, The Soldiers fhould have tofs'd me on their Pikes, Before I would have granted to that A&.


But thou preferr'ft thy Life before thine honour.
And feeing thou doft, I here divorce my felf,
Both from thy Table, Henry, and thy Bed,
Until that Act of Parliament be repealed,
Whereby my Son is difinherited.

The Northern Lords, that have forfworn thy Colours,
Will follow mine, if once they fee them fpread:
And spread they fhall be, to thy foul disgrace,
And utter ruin of the House of York,

Thus do I leave thee; come Son, let's away,

Our Army is ready, come, we'll after them.

K. Henry. Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me speak. Queen. Thou haft fpoke too much already; get thee


K. Henry. Gentle Son Edward, thou wilt ftay with me? Queen. Ay, to be murther'd by his Enemies.

Prince. When I return with Victory from the Field, I'll fee your Grace; 'till then I'll follow her.

Queen. Come, Sor, away, we may not linger thus. [Exeunt Queen and Prince.

K. Henry. Poor Queen,

How love to me, and to her Son,

Hath made her break out into terms of Rage.
Reveng'd may the be on that hateful Duke,
Whofe haughty Spirit, winged with defire,
Will coft my Crown, and like an empty Eagle,
Tire on the Flesh of me, and of my Son.
The lofs of those three Lords torments my Heart;
I'll write unto them, and intreat them fair;
Come, Coufin, you fhall be the Meffenger.
Exe. And I hope fhall reconcile them all.


Enter Richard, Edward, and Mountague.
Rich. Brother, though I be youngeft, give me leave.
Edw. No, I can better play the Orator.
Mount. But I have reafons ftrong and forcible.
Enter the Duke of York.

Tork. Why, how now Sons and Brother, at a ftrife?
What is your Quarrel? how began it first?

Edw. No Quarrel, but a flight Contention.

Tork. About what?

Rich. About that which concerns your Grace and us, The Crown of England, Father, which is yours.


Tork. 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 Houfe of Lancaster leave to breathe,
It will out-run 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 fhould be forfworn.
York. I shall be, if I claim by open War.

Rich. I'll prove the contrary, if you'll hear me fpeak.
York. Thou can'ft not, Son, it is impoffible.
Rich. An Oath is of no moment, being not took
Before a true and lawful Magiftrate,

That hath Authority over him that Swears.
Henry had none, but did ufurp the Place.
Then feeing 'twas he that made you to depofe,
Your Oath, my Lord, is vain and frivolous.
Therefore to Arms: and, Father, do but think,
How fweet a thing it is to wear a Crown,
Within whofe Circuit is Elyfium,

And all that Poets feign of Blifs and Joy.
Why do we linger thus? I cannot reft,
Until the white Rofe that I wear, be dy'd
Even in the lukewarm Blood of Henry's Heart.
York. Richard, enough: I will be King, or die.
Brother, thou shalt to London presently,
And whet on Warwick to this Enterprize.
Thou, Richard, fhalt go to the Duke of Norfolk,
And tell him privily of our intent.

You, Edward, fhall unto my Lord Cobham,
With whom the Kentifhmen will willingly rife.
In them I truft; for they are Soldiers,

Witty, courteous, liberal, full of Spirit.

While you are thus employ'd, what refteth more,
But that I feek occafion how to rife?

And yet the King not privy to my drift,

Nor any of the House of Lancaster.

Enter Gabriel.

But ftay what News? why com'ft thou in fuch post?

Gab. The Queen,


With all the Northern Earls and Lords,
Intend here to befiege you in your Caftle.
She is hard by, with twenty thousand Men;
And therefore fortifie your Hold, my Lord.
York. Ay, with my Sword."

What, think'ft thou that we fear them?
Edward and Richard, you' fhall ftay with me,
My Brother Montague fhall poft to London.
Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the reft,
Whom we have left Protectors of the King,
With powerful Policy ftrengthen themselves,
And truft not fimple Henry, nor his Oaths.
Mont. Brother, I go: I'll win them, fear it not.
And thus moft humbly I do take my leave.

[Exis Montague,
Enter Sir John Mortimer, and Sir Hugh Mortimer.
Tork. Sir John, and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine Uncles,
You are come to Sandal in a happy hour.

The Army of the Queen means to befiege us.

Sir John. She fhall 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?

Edw. I hear their Drums:

Let's fet our Men in order,

[A march afar off.

And iffue forth, and bid them Battel ftreight.
Tork. Five Men to twenty, though the odds be

I doubt not, Uncle, of our Victory.

Many a Battel have I won in France,

When as the Enemy hath been ten to one:

Why should I not now have the like Succefs?


Enter Rutland and his Tutor.


Rut. Ah, whether fhall I flie, to scape their Hands? Ah, Tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes.

Enter Clifford.

Clif. Chaplain, away, thy Priefthood faves thy Life; As for the Brat of this accurfed Duke,

Whofe Father flew my Father, he shall die.

Tutor. And I, my Lord, will bear him Company.


Clif. Soldiers, away with him.

Tutor. Ah Clifford, murther not this innocent Child, Left thou be hated both of God and Man.

Clif. How now? is he dead already?.

Or is it fear that makes him close his Eyes?
I'll open them.

Rut. So looks the pent-up Lyon o'er the wretch,
That trembles under his devouring Paws:.
And fo he walks, infulting o'er his Prey,
And fo he comes to rend his Limbs afunder.
Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy Sword,
And not with fuch a cruel threatning Look.
Sweet Clifford, hear me fpeak before I die:
I am too mean a subject of thy wrath,
Be thou reveng❜d on Men, and let me live.
Cliff. In vain thou fpeak'ft, poor Boy:
My Father's Blood hath ftopt the paffage
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 fufficient for me:

No, if I digg'd up thy Fore-fathers Graves,
And hung their rotten Coffins up in Chains,
It could not flake mine Ire, nor eafe my Heart.
The fight of any of the Houfe of York,
Is as a fury to torment my Soul:

And 'till I root out their accurfed Line,
And leave not one alive, I live in Hell.

Rut. O let me pray before I take my Death:
To thee, I pray- fweet Clifford, pity me.
Clif. Such pity as my Rapier's point affords.
Rut. I never did thee harm; why wilt thou flay me?
Clif. Thy Father hath.

Rut. But 'twas e'er I was born.

Thou haft one Son, for his fake pity me,
Left in revenge thereof, fith God is just,
He be as miferably flain as I.

Ah, let me live in Prifon all my Days,
And when I give occafion of Offence,


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