MARGARET

Nay, go not from me, I will follow thee. Who can be patient in such extremes? Ah wretched man, would I had died a Maid? And never seen thee, never born thee Son, Seeing thou hast proved so unnatural a Father. Hath he deserved to lose his Birthright thus? Hadst thou but loved him half so well as I, Or felt that pain which I did for him once, Or nourished him, as I did with my blood; Thou wouldst have left thy dearest heartblood there, Rather then have made that savage Duke thine Heir, And disinherited thine only Son. Thou hast spoke too much already: get thee gone. I, to be murdered by his Enemies. Come Son away, we may not linger thus. Hold valiant Clifford, for a thousand causes I would prolong a while the Traitors Life: Wrath makes him deaf; speak thou Northumberland. Brave Warriors, Clifford and Northumberland, Come make him stand upon this Molehill here, That reached at Mountains with outstretched Arms, Yet parted but the shadow with his Hand. What, was it you that would be England's King? Was't you that revealed in our Parliament, And made a Preachment of your high Descent? Where are your Mess of Sons, to back you now? The wanton Edward, and the lusty George? And where's that valiant Crookback Prodigy, Dicky, your Boy, that with his grumbling voice Was wont to cheer his Dad in Mutinies? Or with the rest, where is your Darling, Rutland? Look York, I stained this Napkin with the blood That valiant Clifford, with his Rapiers point, Made issue from the Bosom of the Boy: And if thine eyes can water for his death, I give thee this to dry thy Cheeks withal. Alas poor York, but that I hate thee deadly, I should lament thy miserable state. I prithee grieve, to make me merry, York. What, hath thy fiery heart so parched thine entrails, That not a Tear can fallen, for Rutland's death? Why art thou patient, man? thou shouldst be mad: And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus. Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance. Thou wouldst be feed, I see, to make me sport: York cannot speak, unless he wear a Crown. A Crown for York ; and Lords, bow low to him: Hold you his hands, whilst I do set it on. I marry Sir, now looks he Like a King: I, this is he that took King Henries Chair, And this is he was his adopted Heir. But how is it, that great Plantagenet Is crowned so soon, and broke his solemn Oath? As I bethink me, you should not be King, Till our King Henry had shook hands with Death. And will you pale your head in Henries Glory, And rob his Temples of the Diadem, Now in his Life, against your holy Oath? O it's a fault too too unpardonable. Off with the Cro ne; and with the Crown, his Head, And whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead. Nay stay, let's hear the Orisons he makes. And here's to right our gentle-hearted King. Off with his Head, and set it on York Gates, So York may overlook the Town of York. Enforced thee? Art thou King, and wilt be forced? I shame to hear thee speak: ah timorous Wretch, Thou hast undone thy self, thy Son, and me, And given unto the House of York such head, As thou shalt reign but by their sufferance. To entail him and his Heirs unto the Crown, What is it, but to make thy Sepulcher, And creep into it far before thy time? Warwick is Chancellor, and the Lord of Calais, Stern Falconbridge commands the Narrow Seas, The Duke is made Protector of the Realm, And yet shalt thou be safe? Such safety finds The trembling Lamb, environed with Wolves. Had I been there, which am a silly Woman, The Soldiers should have tossed me on their Pikes, Before I would have granted to that Act. But thou preferrest thy Life, before thine Honour. And seeing thou dost, I here divorce my self, Both from thy Table Henry, and thy Bed, Until that Act of Parliament be repealed, Whereby my Son is disinherited. The Northern Lords, that have forsworn thy Colours, Will follow mine, if once they see them spread: And spread they shall 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. What, weeping ripe, my Lord Northumberland? Think but upon the wrong he did us all, And that will quickly dry thy melting Tears. Welcome my Lord, to this brave town of York, Yonders the head of that Archenemy, That sought to be encompassed with your Crown. Does not the object cheer your heart, my Lord. My Lord cheer up your spirits, our foes are nigh, And this soft courage makes your Followers faint: You promised Knighthood to our forward son, Unsheath your sword, and dub him presently. Edward, kneel down. I good my Lord, and leave us to our Fortune. Go rate thy Minions, proud insulting Boy, Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms, Before thy Sovereign, and thy lawful King? Why how now long-tongued Warwick, dare you speak? When you and I, met at S. Albons last, Your legs did better service then your hands. Defy them then, or else hold close thy lips. But thou art neither Like thy Sire nor Dam, But Like a foul mishapen Stygmaticke, Marked by the Destinies to be avoided, As venom Toads, or Lizards dreadful stings. Stay Edward. Mount you my Lord, towards Berwick post a main: Edward and Richard Like a brace of Greyhouds, Having the fearful flying Hare in sighed, With fiery eyes, sparkling for very wrath, And bloody steel grasped in their ireful hands Are at our backs, and therefore hence amain. Great Lords, wise men never fit and wail their lose, But chearely seek how to redress their harms. What though the Mast be now blown overboard, The Cable broke, the holding-Anchor lost, And half our Sailors swallowed in the flood? Yet lives our Pilot still. Is't meet, that he Should leave the Helm, and Like a fearful Lad, With tearful Eyes add Water to the Sea, And give more strength to that which hath too much, While in his moan, the Ship splits on the Rock, Which Industry and Courage might have saved? Ah what a shame, ah what a fault were this. Say Warwick was our Anchor: what of that? And Montague our Topmast: what of him? Our slaughtered friends, the Tackles: what of these? Why is not Oxford here, another Anchor? And Somerset, another goodly Mast? The friends of France our Shrowds and Tacklings? And though unskilful, why not Ned and I, For once allowed the skilful Pilots Charge? We will not from the Helm, to fit and weep, But keep our Course (though the rough Wind say no) From Shelves and Rocks, that threaten us with Wrack. As good to chide the Waves, as speak them fair. And what is Edward, but a ruthless Sea? What Clarence, but a Quicksand of Deceit? And Richard, but a raged fatal Rock? All these, the Enemies to our poor Bark. Say you can swim, alas it's but a while: Tread on the Sand, why there you quickly sink, Bestride the Rock, the Tide will wash you off, Or else you famish, that's a threefold Death. This speak I (Lords) to let you understand, If case some one of you would fly from us, That there's no hoped Mercy with the Brother's, More then with ruthless Waves, with Sands and Rocks. Why courage then, what cannot be avoided, 'Twere childish weakness to lament, or fear. Thanks gentle Somerset, sweet Oxford thanks. This cheers my heart, to see your forwardness. Lords, Knights, and Gentlemen, what I should say, My tears gainsay: for every word I speak, You see I drink the water of my eye. Therefore no more but this: Henry your Sovereign Is Prisoner to the Foe, his State usurped, His Realm a slaughterhouse, his Subjects slain, His Statutes canceled, and his Treasure spent: And yonder is the Wolf, that makes this spoil. You fight in Justice: then in Gods Name, Lords, Be valiant, and give signal to the fight. So partly we sadly in this troublous World, To meet with Joy in sweet Jerusalem. Ah, that thy Father had been so resolved. I, thou wast born to be a plague to men. O, kill me too. O Ned, sweet Ned, speak to thy Mother Boy. Canst thou not speak? Oh Traitors, Murderers! They that stabbed Caesar, shed no blood at all: Did not offend, nor were not worthy Blame, If this foul deed were by, to equal it. He was a Man; this (in respect) a Child, And Men, never spend their fury on a Child. What's worse then Murderer, that I may name it? No, no, my heart will burst, and if I speak, And I will speak, that so my heart may burst. Butchers and Villains, bloody Caniballes, How sweet a Plant have you untimely cropped: You have no children (Butchers) if you had, The thought of them would have stirred up remorse, But if you ever chance to have a Child, Look in his youth to have him so cut off. As deathsmen you have rid this sweet young Prince. Nay, never bear me hence, dispatch me here: Here sheath thy Sword, I'll pardon thee my death: What? wilt thou not? Then Clarence do it thou. Good Clarence do: sweet Clarence do thou do it. I, but thou usest to forswear thy self. 'Twas Sin before, but now it's Charity. What wilt y u not? Where is that devils butcher Richard ? Hard favoured Richard? Richard, where art thou? Thou art not here; Murder is thy Alms-deed: Petitioners for Blood, thou never puttest back. So come to you, and yours, as to this Prince. No, mighty King of France: now Margaret Must strike her sail, and learn a while to serve, Where Kings command. I was (I must confess) Great Albions Queen, in former Golden days: But now mischance hath trod my Title down, And with dishonour laid me on the ground, Where I must take Like Seat unto my fortune, And to my humble Seat conform my self. From such a cause, as fills mine eyes with tears, And stops my tongue, while heart is drowned in cares. Those gracious words Revive my drooping thoughts, And give my tongue-tied sorrows leave to speak. Now therefore be it known to Noble Lewis, That Henry, sole possessor of my Love, Is, of a King, become a banished man, And forced to live in Scotland a Forlorn; While proud ambitious Edward, Duke of York, Usurps the Regal Title, and the Seat Of England's true anointed lawful King. This is the cause that I, poor Margaret, With this my Son, Prince Edward, Henries Heir, Am come to crave thy joust and lawful aid: And if thou fail us, all our hope is done. Scotland hath will to help, but cannot help: Our People, and our Peers, are both misled, Our Treasure seized, our Soldiers put to flight, And (as thou seest) our selves in heavy plighted. The more we stay, the stronger grows our Foe. Oh, but impatience waits on true sorrow. And see where comes the breeder of my sorrow. Our Earl of Warwick, Edwards greatest Friend. I now begins a second Storm to rise, For this is he that moves both Wind and Tide. If that go forward, Henries hope is done. King Lewis, and Lady Bona, hear me speak, Before you answer Warwick. His demand Springs not from Edwards well-meant honest Love, But from Deceit, bred by Necessity: For how can Tyrants safely govern home, Unless abroad they purchase great alliance? To prove him Tyrant, this reason may suffice, That Henry lives still: but were he dead, Yet here Prince Edward stands, King Henries Son. Look therefore Lewis, that by this League and Marriage Thou draw not on thy Danger, and Dishonour: For though Usurper's sway the rule a while, Yet Heavens are joust, and Time suppresses Wrongs. Heavens grant, that Warwick's words be witch him not. Deceitful Warwick, it was thy device, By this alliance to make void my suit: Before thy coming, Lewis was Henries friend. Peace impudent, and shameless Warwick, Proud setter up, and puller down of Kings, I will not hence, till with my Talk and Tears (Both full of Truth) I make King Lewis behold Thy sly conveyance, and thy Lords false love, For both of you are Birds of selfsame Feather. Mine such, as fill my heart with unhoped joys. I told your Majesty as much before: This proves Edwards Love, and Warwick's honesty. Warwick, These words have turned my Hate, to Love, And I forgive, and quite forget old faults, And joy that thou becomest King Henries Friend. Renowned Prince, how shall Poor Henry live, Unless thou rescue him from foul despair? Let me give humble thanks for all, at once. Tell him, my mourning weeds are laid aside, And I am ready to put Armour on. Yes, I agree, and thank you for your Motion. Son Edward, she is Fair and Virtuous, Therefore delay not, give thy hand to Warwick, And with thy hand, thy faith irrevocable, That only Warwick's daughter shall be thine.