HENRY

My Lords, look where the sturdy Rebel sits, Even in the Chair of State: belike he means, Backed by the power of Warwick, that false Peer, To aspire unto the Crown, and reign as King. Earl of Northumberland, he slew thy Father, And thine, Lord Clifford, & you both have vowed revenge On him, his sons, his favorites, and his friends. Be patient, gentle Earl of Westmoreland. Ah, know you not the City favours them, And they have troops of Soldiers at their beck? Far be the thought of this from Henries heart, To make a Shambles of the Parliament House. Cousin of Exeter, frowns, words, and threats, Shall be the War that Henry means to use. Thou factious Duke of York descend my Throne, And kneel for grace and mercy at my feet, I am thy Sovereign. And shall I stand, and thou fit in my Throne? What Title hast thou Traitor to the Crown? My Father was as thou art, Duke of York, Thy Grandfather Roger Mortimer, Earl of March. I am the Son of Henry the Fifth, Who made the Dolphin and the French to stoop, And seized upon their Towns and Provinces. The Lord Protector lost it, and not I: When I was crowned, I was but nine months old. Peace thou, and give King Henry leave to speak. I know not what to say, my Titles weak: Tell me, may not a King adopt and Heir? And if he may, then am I lawful King: For Richard, in the view of many Lords, Resigned the Crown to Henry the Fourth, Whose Heir my Father was, and I am his. Art thou against us, Duke of Exeter? All will revolt from me, and turn to him. O Clifford, how thy words revive my heart. My Lord of Warwick, hear but one word, Let me for this my life time reign as King. I am content: Richard Plantagenet Enjoy the Kingdom after my decease. Ah Exeter. Not for my self Lord Warwick, but my Son, Whom I unnaturally shall disinherit. But be it as it may: I here entail The Crown to thee and to thine Heirs for ever, Conditionally, that here thou take and Oath, To cease this Civil War: and whilst I live, To honour me as thy King, and Sovereign: And neither by Treason nor Hostility, To seek to put me down, and reign thy self. And long live thou, and these thy forward Sons. And I with grief and sorrow to the Court. Exeter so will I. Be patient gentle Queen, and I will stay. Pardon me Margaret, pardon me sweet Son, The Earl of Warwick and the Duke enforced me. Stay gentle Margaret, and hear me speak. Gentle Son Edward, thou wilt stay me? Poor Queen, How love to me, and to her Son, Hath made her break out into terms of Rage. Revenged may she be on that hateful Duke, Whose haughty spirit, winged with desire, Will cost my Crown, and Like and empty Eagle, Tyre on the flesh of me, and of my Son. The lose of those three Lords torments my heart: I'll write unto them, and entreat them fair; Come Cousin, you shall be the Messenger. Thinkest thou, that I will leave my Kingly Throne, Wherein my Grandsire and my Father sat? No: first shall War unpeople this my Realm; I, and their Colours often born in France, And now in England, to our hearts great sorrow, Shall be my Winding-sheet. Why faint you Lords? My Title's good, and better far then his. Henry the Fourth by Conquest God the Crown. This battle fares Like to the morning's War, When dying clouds contend, with growing light, What time the Shepherd blowing of his nails, Can neither call it perfect day, nor night. Now sways it this way, Like a Mighty Sea, Forced by the Tide, to combat with the Wind: Now sways it that way, Like the selfsame Sea, Forced to retire by fury of the Wind. Sometime, the Flood prevails; and than the Wind: Now, one the better: then, another best; Both tugging to be Victor's, breast to breast: Yet neither Conqueror, nor Conquered. So is the equal poise of this fell War. Here on this Molehill will I fit me down, To whom God will, there be the Victory: For Margaret my Queen, and Clifford too Have chid me from the Battle: Swearing both, They prosper best of all when I am thence. Would I were dead, if Gods good will were so; For what is in this world, but Grief and Woe. O God! me thinks it were a happy life, To be no better then a homely Swain, To fit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out Dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the Minutes how they run: How many makes the Hour full complete, How many Hours brings about the Day, How many Days will finish up the Year, How many Years, a Mortal man may live. When this is known, then to divide the Times: So many Hours, must I tend my Flock; So many Hours, must I take my Rest: So many Hours, must I Contemplate: So many Hours, must I Sport my self: So many Days, my Ewes have be with young: So many weeks, ere the poor Fools will Eane: So many years, ere I shall shear the Fleece: So Minutes, Hours, Days, Months, and Years, Passed over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs, unto a Quiet graven. Ah! what a life were this? How sweet? how lovely? Gives not the Hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To Shepherds looking on their silly Sheep, Then does a rich Embroidered Canopy To Kings, that fear their Subjects treachery? O yes, it does; a thousand fold it does. And to conclude, the Shepherd's homely Curds, His cold thin drink out of his Leather Bottle, His wonted sleep, under a fresh trees shade, All which secure, and sweetly he enjoys, Is far beyond a Princes Delicates: His Viands sparkling in a Golden Cup, His body couched in a curious bed, When Care, Mistrust, and Treason waits on him. Was ever King so grieved for Subjects woe? Much is your sorrow; Mine, ten times so much. Sad-hearted-men, much overgone with Care; Here sits a King, more woeful then you are. Nay take me with thee, good sweet Exeter: Not that I fear to stay, but love to go Whither the Queen intends. Forward, away. From Scotland am I stolen even of pure love, To greet mine own Land with my wishful sighed: No Harry, Harry, it's no Land of thine, Thy place is filled, thy Sceptre wrung from thee, Thy Balm washed off, wherewith thou was Anointed: No bending knee will call thee Caesar now, No humble suitors press to speak for right: No, not a man comes for redress of thee: For how can I help them, and not my self? Let me embrace the Sour Adversaries, For Wise men say, it is the wisest course. My Queen and Son are gone to France for aid: And (as I hear) the great Commanding Warwick I: thither gone, to crave the French Kings Sister To wife for Edward. If this news be true, Poor Queen, and Son, your labour is but lost: For Warwick is a subtle Orator: And Lewis a Prince soon won with moving words: By this account then, Margaret may win him, For she's a woman to be pitied much: Her sighs will make a battery in his breast, Her tears will pierce into a Marble heart: The Tiger will be mild, while she does mourn; And Nero will be tainted with remorse, To hear and see her plaints, her Brinish Tears. I, but she's come to beg, Warwick to give: She on his left side, craving aid for Henry ; He on his right, asking a wife for Edward. She Weeps, and says, her Henry is deposed: He Smiles, and says, his Edward is instaul'd; That she (poor Wretch) for grief can speak no more: While Warwick tells his Title, smooths the Wrong, Infers arguments of mighty strength, And in conclusion wins the King from her, With promise of his Sister, and what else, To strengthen and support King Edwards place. Oh Margaret, thus it'll be, and thou (poor soul) Art then forsaken, as thou wentest forlorn. I my good Lord: my Lord I should say rather, 'Tis sin to flatter, Good was little better: Good Gloucester, and good Devil, were alike, And both preposterous: therefore, not Good Lord. So flies the wreakless shepherd from y e Wolf: So first the harmless Sheep does yield his Fleece, And next his Throat, unto the Butchers Knife. What Scene of death hath Rossius now to Act? The Bird that hath been limed in a bush, With trembling wings misdoubts every bush; And I the hapless Male to one sweet Bird, Have now the fatal Object in my eye, Where my poor young was limed, was caught, and killed. I Dedaius, my poor Boy Icarus, Thy Father Minos, that deni'de our course, The Sun that seared the wings of my sweet Boy. Thy Brother Edward, and thy Self, the Sea Whose envious Gulf did swallow up his life: Ah, kill me with thy Weapon, not with words, My breast can better brook thy Daggers point, Then can my ears that Tragic History. But wherefore dost thou come? Is't for my Life? A Persecutor I am sure thou art, If murdering Innocents be Executing. Why then thou art and Executioner. Hadst thou been killed, when first y u didst presume, Thou hadst not lived to kill a Son of mine: And thus I prophesy, that many a thousand, Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear, And many and old men sigh, and many a Widow's, And many and Orphans water-standing-eye, Men for their Sons, Wives for their Husbands, Orphans, for their Parents timeless death, Shall rue the hour that ever thou was't born. The Owl shrieked at thy birth, and evil sign, The Night-Crow cried, aboding luckless time, Dogs howled, and hideous Tempest shook down Trees: The Raven rooked her on the Chimneys top, And chattering Pies in dismal Discords sung: Thy Mother felt more then a Mother's pain, And yet brought forth less then a Mother's hope, To wit, and indigested and deformed lump, Not Like the fruit of such a goodly Tree. Teeth hadst thou in thy head, when thou was't born, To signify, thou camest to bite the world: And if the rest be true, which I have herd, Thou camest— I, and for much more slaughter after this, Oh God forgive my sins, and pardon thee. M. Lieutenant, now that God and Friends Have shaken Edward from the Regal seat, And turned my captive state to liberty, My fear to hope, my sorrows unto joys, At our enlargement what are thy endue Fees? For what, Lieutenant? For well using me? Nay, be thou sure, I'll well requite thy kindness. For that it made my imprisonment, a pleasure: I, such a pleasure, as incaged Birds Conceive; when after many moody Thoughts, At last, by Notes of Household harmony, They quite forget their lose of Liberty. But Warwick, after God, thou settest me free, And chiefly therefore, I thank God, and thee, He was the Author, thou the Instrument. Therefore that I may conquer Fortune's spite, By living low, where Fortune cannot hurt me, And that the people of this blessed Land May not be punished with my thwarting stars, Warwick, although my Head still wear the Crown, I here resign my Government to thee, For thou art fortunate in all thy deeds. Full well hath Clifford played the Orator, Inferring arguments of mighty force: But Clifford tell me, didst thou never hear, That things ill God, had ever bade success. And happy always was it for that Son, Whose Father for his hoarding went to hell: I'll leave my Son my Virtuous deeds behind, And would my Father had left me no more: For all the rest is held at such a Rate, As brings a thousand fold more care to keep, Then in possession any jot of pleasure. Ah Cousin York, would thy best Friends did know, How it does grieve me that thy head is here. Edward Plantagenet, arise a Knight, And learn this Lesson; Draw thy Sword in right. Why, that's my fortune too, therefore I'll stay. Have done with words (my Lords) and hear me speak. I prithee give no limits to my Tongue, I am a King, and privileged to speak. Oh piteous spectacle! Oh bloody Times! While Lyons War, and battle for their Dens, Poor harmless Lambs abide their enmity. Weep wretched man: I'll aid thee Tear for Tear, And let our hearts and eyes, Like Civil War, Be blind with tears, and break over-charged with grief Woe above woe: grief, more the ̄ common grief Oh that my death would stay these ruthful deeds: Oh pity, pity, gentle heaven pity: The Read Rose and the White are on his face, The fatal Colours of our striving Houses: The one, his purple Blood right well resembles, The other his pale Cheeks (me thinks) presents: Wither one Rose, and let the other flourish: If you contend, a thousand lives must wither. How will the Country, for these woeful chances, Mis-thinke the King, and not be satisfied? More then I seem, and less then I was born to: A man at least, for less I should not be: And men may talk of Kings, and why not I? Why so I am (in Mind) and that's enough. My Crown is in my heart, not on my head: Not decked with Diamonds, and Indian stones: Nor to be seen: my Crown, is called Content, A Crown it is, that seldom Kings enjoy. But did you never swear, and break and Oath. Where did you dwell when I was K. of England? I was anointed King at nine months old, My Father, and my Grandfather were Kings: And you were sworn true Subjects unto me: And tell me then, have you not broke your Oaths? Why? Am I dead? Do I not breath a Man? Ah simple men, you know not what you swear: Look, as I blow this Feather from my Face, And as the Air blows it to me again, Obeying with my wind when I do blow, And yielding to another, when it blows, Commanded always by the greater gust: Such is the lightness of you, common men. But do not break your Oaths, for of that sin, My mild intreaty shall not make you guilty. Go where you will, the king shall be commanded, And be you kings, command, and I'll obey. So would you be again to Henry, If he were seated as king Edward is. In Gods name led, your Kings name be obeyed, And what God will, that let your King perform And what he will, I humbly yield unto. Brother of Gloucester, at S. Albons field This Ladies Husband, Sir Richard Gray, was slain, His Land then seized on by the Conqueror, Her suit is now, to repossess those Lands, Which we in Justice cannot well deny, Because in Quarrel of the House of York, The worthy Gentleman did loose his Life. It were no less, but yet I'll make a pause. Widow, we will consider of your suit, And come some other time to know our mind. How many Children hast thou, Widow? tell me. 'Twere pity they should loose their Father's Lands. Lords give us leave, I'll try this Widows wit. Now tell me, Madame, do you love your Children? And would you not do much to do them good? Then get your Husbands Lands, to do them good. I'll tell you how these Lands are to be God. What service wilt thou do me, if I give them? But you will take exceptions to my Boon. I, but thou canst do what I mean to ask. And easy Task, it's but to love a King. Why then, thy Husbands Lands I freely give thee. But stay thee, it's the fruits of love I mean. I, but I fear me in another sense. What Love, thinkest thou, I sue so much to get? No, by my troth, I did not mean such love. But now you partly may perceive my mind. To tell thee plain, I aim to lie with thee. Why then thou shalt not have thy Husbands Lands. Therein thou wrongest thy Children mightily. I, if thou wilt say I to my request: No, if thou dost say No to my demand. Her Looks does argue her replete with Modesty, Her Words does show her Wit incomparable, All her perfections challenge Sovereignty, One way, or other, she is for a King, And she shall be my Love, or else my Queen. Say, that King Edward take thee for his Queen? Sweet Widow, by my State I swear to thee, I speak no more then what my Soul intends, And that is, to enjoy thee for my Love. You cavil, Widow, I did mean my Queen. No more, then when my Daughters Call thee Mother. Thou art a Widow, and thou hast some Children, And by Gods Mother, I being but a Bachelor, Have othersome. Why, it's a happy thing, To be the Father unto many Sons: Answer no more, for thou shalt be my Queen. Brother's, you muse what Chat we two have had. You'd think it strange, if I should marry her. Why Clarence, to my self. Well, jest on Brother's: I can tell you both, Her suit is granted for her Husbands Lands. See that he be conveyed unto the Tower: And go we Brother's to the man that took him, To question of his apprehension. Widow go you along: Lords use her honourable. Now Brother of Clarence, How Like you our Choice, That you stand pensive, as half malcontent? Suppose they take offence without a cause: They are but Lewis and Warwick, I am Edward, Your King and Warwick's, and must have my will. Yea, Brother Richard, are you offended too? Setting your skornes, and your mislike aside, Tell me some reason, why the Lady Gray Should not become my Wife, and England's Queen? And you too, Somerset, and Montague, Speak freely what you think. What, if both Lewis and Warwick be appeased, By such invention as I can devise? I, what of that? it was my will, and grant, And for this once, my Will shall stand for Law. Alas, poor Clarence: is it for a Wife That thou art malcontent? I will provide thee. Leave me, or tarry, Edward will be King, And not be tied unto his Brother's will. My Love, forbear to fawn upon their frowns: What danger, or what sorrow can befall thee, So long as Edward is thy constant friend, And their true Sovereign, whom they must obey? Nay, whom they shall obey, and love thee too, Unless they seek for hatred at my hands: Which if they do, yet will I keep thee safe, And they shall feel the vengeance of my wrath. Now Messenger, what Letters, or what News from France? Go too, we pardon thee: Therefore, in brief, tell me their words, As near as thou canst guess them. What answer makes King Lewis unto our Letters? Is Lewis so brave? belike he thinks me Henry. But what said Lady Bona to my Marriage? I blame not her; she could say little less: She had the wrong. But what said Henries Queen? For I have herd, that she was there in place. Belike she minds to play the Amazon. But what said Warwick to these injuries? Would? durst the Traitor breath out so proud words? Well, I will arm me, being thus forewarned: They shall have Wars, and pay for their presumption. But say, is Warwick friends with Margaret? Clarence and Somerset both gone to Warwick ? Yet am I armed against the worst can happen: And haste is needful in this desperate case. Pembroke and Stafford, you in our behalf Go levy men, and make prepare for War; They are already, or quickly will be landed: My self in person will straight follow you. But ere I go, Hastings and Montague Resolve my doubt: you twain, of all the rest, Are near to Warwick, by blood, and by alliance: Tell me, if you love Warwick more then me; If it be so, then both depart to him: I rather wish you foes, then hollow friends. But if you mind to hold your true obedience, Give me assurance with some friendly Vow, That I may never have you in suspect. Now, Brother Richard, will you stand by us? Why so: then am I sure of Victory. Now therefore let us hence, and loose no hour, Till we meet Warwick, with his foreign pour. Warwick and Clarence, give me both your Hands: Now join your Hands, & with your Hands your Hearts, That no dissension hinder Government. I make you both Protectors of this Land, While I my self will led a private Life, And in devotion spend my latter days, To sins rebuke, and my Creators praise. But with the first, of all your chief affairs, Let me entreat (for I command no more) That Margaret your Queen, and my Son Edward, Be sent for, to return from France with speed: For till I see them here, by doubtful fear, My joy of liberty is half eclipsed. My Lord of Somerset, what Youth is that, Of whom you seem to have so tender care? Come hither, England's Hope: If secret Powers suggest but truth To my divining thoughts, This pretty Lad will prove our Countries bliss. His Looks are full of peaceful Majesty, His Head by nature framed to wear a Crown, His Hand to wield a Sceptre, and himself Likely in time to bless a Regal Throne: Make much of him, my Lords; for this is he Must help you more, then you are hurt by me. Let's levy men, and Beatrice him back again, Farewell my Hector, and my Troy's true hope. Well-minded Clarence, be thou fortunate. Sweet Oxford, and my loving Montague, And all at once, once more a happy farewell. Here at the Palace will I rest a while. Cousin of Exeter, what thinks your Lordship? Me thinks, the Power that Edward hath in field, Should not be able to encounter mine. That's not my fear, my meed hath God me fame: I have not stopped mine ears to their demands, Nor posted off their suits with slow delays, My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds, My mildness hath allayed their swelling griefs, My mercy dried their water-flowing tears. I have not been desirous of their wealth, Nor much oppressed them with great Subsidies, Nor forward of revenge, though they much erred. Then why should they love Edward more then me? No Exeter, these Graces challenge Grace: And when the Lion fawns upon the Lamb, The Lamb will never cease to follow him. Thus far our fortune keeps and upward course, And we are graced with wreaths of Victory: But in the amid of this bright-shining Day, I spy a black suspicious threatening Cloud, That will encounter with our glorious Sun, Ere he attain his easeful Western Bed: I mean, my Lords, those powers that the Queen Hath raised in Gallia, have arrived our Coast, And, as we hear, march on to fight with us. We are advertised by our loving friends, That they do hold their course towards Tewksbury. We having now the best at Barnet field, Will thither straight, for willingness rids way, And as we march, our strength will be augmented: In every County as we go along, Strike up the Drum, cry courage, and away. Away with her, go bear her hence perforce. Once more we fit in England's Royal Throne, Re-purchac'd with the Blood of Enemies: What valiant Foemen, Like to Autumns Corn, Have we mowed down in tops of all their pride? Three Dukes of Somerset, threefold Renown, For hardy and undoubted Champions: Two Clifford's, as the Father and the Son, And two Northumberland's: two braver men, Never spurred their Coursers at the Trumpets found. With them, the two brave Bears, Warwick & Montague, That in their Chains fettered the Kingly Lion, And made the Forest tremble when they roared. Thus have we swept Suspicion from our Seat, And made our Footstool of Security. Come hither Bess, and let me kiss my Boy: Young Ned, for thee, thine Uncles, and my self, Have in our Armours watched the Winter's night, Went all afoot in Summer's scalding heat, That thou mightest repossess the Crown in peace, And of our Labours thou shalt reap the gain. Clarence and Gloucester, love my lovely Queen, And kiss your Princely Nephew Brother's both. Now am I seated as my soul delights, Having my Countries peace, and Brother's loves. Away with her, and waft her hence to France: And now what rests, but that we spend the time With stately Triumphs, mirthful Comic shows, Such as befits the pleasure of the Court. Found Drums and Trumpets, farewell sour annoy, For here I hope begins our lasting joy. I, as the rocks cheer them that fear their wrack, To see this sighed, it irks my very soul: Withhold revenge (deer God) it's not my fault, Nor wittingly have I infringed my Vow.