And much effuse of blood doth make me faint:
Come York and Richard, Warwick and the reft,
I ftabb'd your father's bofom; split my breaft.
[He faints.

Alarum and Retreat. Enter Edward, Warwick, Ri chard, Montague, Clarence, and Soldiers.

Edw. Now breathe we lords, good fortune bids us påufe,

And fmooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks.
Some troops pursue the bloody-minded Queen,
That led calm Henry, though he were a King,
As doth a fail fill'd with a fretting guft
Command an Argofie to ftem the waves.
But think you lords that Clifford fled with them?
War. No, 'tis impoffible he fhould escape:
For though before his face I fpeak the word,
Your brother Richard mark'd him for the grave;
And wherefoe'er he is, he's furely dead.

[Clifford groans.

Rich. Whofe foul is that which takes her heavy leave?

A deadly groan, like life and death's departing.

See who it is.

Edw. And now the battel's ended,

If friend or foe, let him be gently used.

Rich. Revoke that doom of mercy, for 'tis

Clifford,

Who not contented that he lopp'd the branch,

In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth;

But fet his murth'ring knife unto the root

From whence that tender fpray did fweetly fpring,

I mean our princely father, Duke of York,

War. From off the gates of York fetch down the head,

Your father's head, which Clifford placed there :

Instead whereof let his fupply the room.

Meafure for measure must be answered.

Edw. Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house,

That

That nothing fung but death to us and ours:
Now death fhall ftop his difmal threatning found,
And his ill-boading tongue no more fhall speak..
War. I think his understanding is bereft :
Speak Clifford, doft thou know who speaks to thee
Dark cloudy death o'er-shades his beams of life,
And he nor fees, nor hears us what we say.

Rich. O would he did; and fo perhaps he doth 'Tis but his policy to counterfeit,

Because he would avoid fuch bitter taunts

As in the time of death he gave our father.

Cla. If fo thou think'ft, vex him with eager words.

Rich. Clifford, ask mercy, and obtain no grace..
Edw. Clifford, repent in bootlefs penitence.
War. Clifford, devife excufes for thy faults.
Cla. While we devise fell tortures for thy faults
Rich. Thou didst love York, and I am fon to York.
Edw. Thou pitied'ft Rutland, I will pity thee.
Cla. Where's captain Margaret to fence you now?
War. They mock thee, Clifford,. fwear as thou waft

wont.

Rich. What not an oath! nay then the world goes

hard,

When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath

I know by that he's dead; and by my foul,
If this right hand would buy but two hours life,
That I in all defpight might rail at him,

:

This hand fhould chop it off; and with the iffuing blood

Stifle the villain, whofe unftanched thirst

York and young Rutland could not fatisfie.

War. Ay, but he's dead. Off with the traitor's head,

And rear it in the place your father's ftands.

And now to London with triumphant march,
There to be crowned England's royal King:
From whence fhall Warwick cut the fea to France,
And ask the lady Bona for thy Queen.

So

So fhalt thou finew both these lands together.
And having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread
The fcatter'd foe that hopes to rise again :

For though they cannot greatly fting to hurt,
Yet look to have them buz t'offend thine ears.
First will I fee the coronation,

And then to Britany I'll cross the sea,
T'effect this marriage, fo it pleafe my lord.

Edw. Ev'n as thou wilt, fweet Warwick, let it be; ::

For on thy fhoulder do I build my feat:
And never will I undertake the thing
Wherein thy counsel and confent is wanting.
Richard, I will create thee Duke of Glo'fter,
And George of Clarence; Warwick as our felf
Shall do and undo, as him pleaseth best.

Rich. Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of
Glofter,

For Glofter's Dukedom is too ominous.

War. Tut, that's a foolish obfervation:

Richard, be Duke of Glo'fler: now to London,

To fee these honours in poffeffion.

[Exeunt.

ACT

ACT III. SCENE I.

Enter Sinklo and Humphry, with cross-bows in their bands.

SIN KLO.

NDER this thick-grown brake we'll shroud our felves,

For through this laund anon the Deer will come;

And in this covert will we make our ftand,

Culling the principal of all the Deer.

Hum. I'll stay above the hill, fo both may shoot
Sink. That cannot be: the noife of thy cross-bow
Will fcare the herd, and fo my shoot is loft:
Here stand we both, and aim we at the best.
And, for the time fhall not feem tedious,
I'll tell thee what befel me on a day,

In this felf-place where now we mean to ftand.
Hum. Here comes a man, let's ftay till he be paft.

Enter King Henry, with a prayer-book.

K. Henry. From Scotland am I ftol'n ev'n of

love,

To greet mine own land with my wishful fight;
No Harry, Harry, 'tis no land of thine,

Thy place is fill'd, thy fcepter wrung from thee,
Thy balm wafht off wherewith thou waft anointed :
No bending knee will call thee Cafar now,
No humble fuitors prefs to fpeak for right:
No, not a man comes for redrefs to theeyst
For how can I help them, and not my self?

pure

Sink

Sink. Ay, here's a deer, whofe skin's a keeper's fee :
This is the quondam King, let's feize upon him.
K. Henry. Let me embrace a thefe four adverfities,
For wife men say it is the wifeft course.

Hum. Why linger we? let us lay hands upon him.
Sink. Forbear a while, we'll hear a little more.

K. Henry. My Queen and fon are gone to France
for aid:

And as I hear, the great commanding Warwick

Is thither gone to crave the French King's fifter
To wife for Edward. If this news be true,
Poor Queen and fon! your labour is but loft:
For Warwick is a fubtle orator,

And Lewis a Prince foon won with moving words:

By this account then Margaret may win him,

For fhe's a woman to be pitied much :

Her fighs will make a batt'ry in his breaft;
Her tears will pierce into a marble heart;
The Tyger will be mild while the doth mourn,
And Nero would be tainted with remorse,
To hear and fee her plaints, her brinish tears.
Ay, but she's come to beg, Warwick to give :
She on his left fide craving aid for Henry;
He on his right, asking a wife for Edward.
She weeps, and fays her Henry is depos'd;
He fmiles, and fays his Edward is inftall'd;
That fhe, poor wretch, for grief can fpeak no more!
While Warwick tells his title, fmooths the wrong,
Inferreth arguments of mighty strength,

And in conclufion wins the King from her,
With promise of his fifter, and what else,
To ftrengthen and fupport King Edward's place.
O Margret, thus 'twill be, and thou (poor foul)
Art thou forfaken, as thou went'ft forlorn.

Hum, Say, what art thou that talk'st of Kings and
Queens ?

K. Henry. More than I feem, and less than I was born to ; A man at least, for lefs I fhould not be ;

And men may talk of Kings, and why not L?

a the four adverfaries.

Hum.