EDWARD

Lord Stafford's Father, Duke of Buckingham, Is either slain or wounded dangerous. I cleft his Beaver with a downright blow: That this is true (Father) behold his blood. Oh Warwick, Warwick, that Plantagenet Which held thee dearly, as his Souls Redemption, Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death. Now perjured Henry, wilt thou kneel for grace? And set thy Diadem upon my head? Or bide the mortal Fortune of the field. And in this resolution, I defy thee, Not willing any longer Conference, Since thou denied'st the gentle King to speak. Found Trumpets, let our bloody Colours wave, And either Victory, or else a Grave. Thou pittied'st Rutland, I will pity thee. And why not Queen? Now Brother Richard, Lord Hastings, and the rest, Yet thus far Fortune makes us amends, And says, that once more I shall interchange My waned state, for Henries Regal Crown. Well have we passed, and now repassed the Seas, And brought desired help from Burgundy. What then remains, we being thus arrived From Rauenspurre Haven, before the Gates of York, But that we enter, as into our Dukedom? Tush man, aboadments must not now affright us: By fair or foul means we must enter in, For hither will our friends repair to us. But, Master Mayor, if Henry be your King, Yet Edward, at the least, is Duke of York. Why, and I challenge nothing but my Dukedom, As being well content with that alone. So, Master Mayor: these Gates must not be shut, But in the Night, or in the time of War. What, fear not man, but yield me up the Keys, For Edward will defend the Town, and thee, And all those friends, that deine to follow me. Welcome Sir John: but why come you in Arms? Thanks good Montgomery: But we now forget our Title to the Crown, And only claim our Dukedom, Till God please to send the rest. Nay stay, Sir John, a while, and we'll debate By what safe means the Crown may be recovered. When we grow stronger, Then we'll make our Claim: Till then, it's wisdom to conceal our meaning. Then be it as you will: for it's my right, And Henry but usurps the Diadem. Thanks brave Montgomery, And thanks unto you all: If fortune serve me, I'll requite this kindness. Now for this Night, let's harbour here in York: And when the Morning Sun shall raise his Car Above the Border of this Horizon, We'll forward towards Warwick, and his Mates; For well I wot, that Henry is no Soldier. Ah froward Clarence, how evil it beseems thee, To flatter Henry, and forsake thy Brother? Yet as we may, we'll meet both thee and Warwick. Come on brave Soldiers: doubt not of the Day, And that once got, doubt not of large Pay. Seize on the shamefaced Henry, bear him hence, And once again proclaim us King of England. You are the Foum , that makes small Brooks to flow, Now stops thy Spring, my Sea shall suck them dry, And swell so much the higher, by their ebb. Hence with him to the Tower, let him not speak. And Lords, towards Coventry bend we our course, Where peremptory Warwick now remains: The Sun shines hight, and if we use delay, Cold biting Winter mars our hoped Hay. Go, Trumpet, to the Walls, and found a Parley. Now Warwick, wilt thou open the City Gates, Speak gentle words, and humbly bend thy Knee, Call Edward King, and at his hands beg Mercy, And he shall pardon thee these Outrages? Why then it's mine, if but by Warwick's gift. But Warwick's King is Edwards Prisoner: And gallant Warwick, do but answer this, What is the Body, when the Head is off? It's even so, yet you are Warwick still. Sail how thou canst, Have Wind and Tide thy friend, This Hand, fast wound about thy coalblack hair, Shall, while thy Head is warm, and new cut off, Write in the dust this Sentence with thy blood, Wind-changing Warwick now can change no more. So other foes may set upon our backs. Stand we in good array: for they no doubt Will issue out again, and bid us battle; If not, the City being but of small defence, We'll quickly rouse the Traitors in the same. The harder matched, the greater Victory, My mind presages happy gain, and Conquest. Now welcome more, and ten times more beloved, Then if thou never hadst deserved our hate. What Warwick, Wilt thou leave the Town, and fight? Or shall we Beatrice the Stones about thine Ears? Yes Warwick, Edward dares, and leads the way: Lords to the field: Saint George, and Victory. So, lie thou there: die thou, and die our fear, For Warwick was a Bug that feared us all. Now Montague fit fast, I seek for thee, That Warwick's Bones may keep thine company. Brave followers, yonder stands the thorny Wood, Which by the Heavens assistance, and your strength, Must by the Roots be hew'ne up yet ere Night. I needs not add more fuel to your fire, For well I wot, you blaze, to burn them out: Give signal to the fight, and to it Lords. Now here a perjod of tumultuous Broils. Away with Oxford to Hames Castle straight: For Somerset, off with his guilty Head. Go bear them hence, I will not hear them speak. Is Proclamation made, That who finds Edward, Shall have a high Reward, and he his Life? Bring forth the Gallant, let us hear him speak. What? can so young a Thorn begin to prick? Edward, what satisfaction canst thou make, For bearing Arms, for stirring up my Subjects, And all the trouble thou hast turned me to? Peace wilful Boy, or I will charm your tongue. Take that, the likeness of this Railer here. Hold, Richard, hold, for we have done too much. What? does she swown? use means for her recovery. Sweet Father do so, set it on your Head. No, I can better play the Orator. No Quarrel, but a slight Contention. 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. But for a Kingdom any Oath may be broken: I would break a thousand Oaths, to reign one year. I hear their Drums: Let's set our men in order, And issue forth, and bid them Battle straight. I wonder how our Princely Father scaped: Or whither he be scaped away, or no, From Clifford's and Northumberland's pursuit? Had he been taken, we should have herd the news; Had he been slain, we should have herd the news: Or had he scaped me thinks we should have herd The happy tidings of his good escape. How fares my Brother? why is he so sad? It's wondrous strange, The Like yet never herd of. I think it cites us (Brother) to the field, That we, the Sons of brave Plantagenet, Each one already blazing by our meeds, Should notwithstanding join our Lights together, And overshine the Earth, as this the World. What ere it bodes, henceforward will I bear Upon my Target three fair shining Suns. O speak no more, for I have herd too much. Sweet Duke of York, our Prop to lean upon, Now thou art gone we have no Staff, no Stay. O Clifford, boisterous Clifford thou hast slain The flower of Europe, for his Chivalry, And treacherously hast thou vanquished him, For hand to hand he would have vanquished thee. Now my Souls Palace is become a Prison: Ah, would she break from hence, that this my body Might in the ground be closed up in rest: For never henceforth shall I joy again: Never, o never shall I see more joy. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three Suns? His name that valiant Duke hath left with thee: His Dukedom, and his Chair with me is left. Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick? And when came George from Burgundy to England? Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean, And when thou failest (as God forbid the hour) Must Edward fallen, which peril heaven forefend. Then strike up Drums, God and S. George for us. I am his King, and he should bow his knee: I was adopted Heir by his consent. Say Henry, shall I have my right, or no: A thousand men have broke their Fasts to day, That never shall dine, unless thou-yeeld the Crown. A wisp of straw were worth a thousand Crowns, To make this shameless Callet know her self: Helen of Greece was fairer far then thou, Although thy Husband may be Menelaus ; And never was Agamemnon's Brother wronged By that false Woman, as this King by thee. His Father revealed in the heart of France, And tamed the King, and made the Dolphin stoop: And had he matched according to his State, He might have kept that glory to this day. But when he took a beggar to his bed, And graced thy poor Sire with his Bridal day, Even then that Sunshine brewed a shower for him, That washed his Father's Fortune's forth of France, And heaped sedition on his Crown at home: For what hath broached this tumult but thy Pride? Hadst thou be meek, our Title still had slept, And we in pity of the Gentle King, Had slipped our Claim, until another Age. No wrangling Woman, we'll no longer stay, These words will cost ten thousand lives this day. Smile gentle heaven, or strike ungentle death, For this world frowns, and Edwards Sun is clouded. Bootless is flight, they follow us with Wings, And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit. O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine, And in this vow do chain my soul to thine: And ere my knee rise from the Earth's cold face I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee, Thou setter up, and plucker down of Kings: Beseeching thee (if with thy will it stands) That to my Foes this body must be prey, Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may open, And give sweet passage to my sinful soul. Now Lords, take leave until we meet again, Where ere it be, in heaven, or in earth. Now breath we Lords, good fortune bids us pause, And smooth the frowns of War, with peaceful looks: Some Troops pursue the bloody-minded Queen, That led calm Henry, though he were a King, As does a Sail, filled with a fretting Gust Command and Argosy to stem the Waves. But think you (Lords) that Clifford fled with them? And now the Battles ended, If Friend or Foe, let him be gently used. Bring forth that fatal Schreechowle to our house, That nothing sung but death, to us and ours: Now death shall stop his dismal threatening found, And his ill-boding tongue, no more shall speak. Clifford, repent in bootless penitence. Even as thou wilt sweet Warwick, let it be: For in thy shoulder do I build my Seat; And never will I undertake the thing Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting: Richard, I will create thee Duke of Gloucester, And George of Clarence; Warwick as our Self, Shall do, and undo as him pleases best. Away I say, I charge you bear her hence, Where's Richard gone. He's sudden if a thing comes in his head. Now march we hence, discharge the common sort With Pay and Thanks, and let's away to London, And see our gentle Queen how well she fares, By this (I hope) she hath a Son for me. The Duke? Why Warwick, when we parted, Thou calledst me King. Yea, Brother of Clarence, Art thou here too? Nay then I see, that Edward needs must down. Yet Warwick, in despite of all mischance, Of thee thy self, and all thy Accomplices, Edward will always bear himself as King: Though Fortune's malice overthrow my State, My mind exceeds the compass of her Wheel. What Fates impose, that men must needs abide; It boots not to resist both wind and tide. Stanley, I will requite thy forwardness. Huntsman, what sayest thou? Wilt thou go along? Bishop farewell, Shield thee from Warwick's frown, And pray that I may repossess the Crown. Nay this way man, See where the Huntsmen stand. Now Brother of Gloucester, Lord Hastings, and the rest, Stand you thus close to steal the Bishops Dear? But whither shall we then?