WARWICK

I Wonder how the King escaped our hands? And so do I, victorious Prince of York. Before I see thee seated in that Throne, Which now the House of Lancaster usurps, I vow by Heaven, these eyes shall never close. This is the Palace of the fearful King, And this the Regal Seat: possess it York, For this is thine, and not King Henries Heirs. And when the King comes, offer him no violence, Unless he seek to thrust you out perforce. The bloody Parliament shall this be called, Unless Plantagenet, Duke of York, be King, And bashful Henry deposed, whose Cowardice Hath made us bywords to our enemies. Neither the King, nor he that loves him best, The proudest he that holds up Lancaster, Dares stir a Wing, if Warwick shake his Bells'. I'll plant Plantagenet, root him up who dares: Resolve thee Richard, claim the English Crown. Exeter thou art a Traitor to the Crown, In following this usurping Henry. True Clifford, that's Richard Duke of York. Be Duke of Lancaster, let him be King. And Warwick shall disprove it. You forget, That we are those which chased you from the field, And slew your Father's, and with Colours spread Marched through the City to the Palace Gates. Poor Clifford, how I scorn his worthless Threats. Talk not of France, sith thou hast lost it all. Plantagenet shall speak first: Hear him Lords, And be you silent and attentive too, For he that interrupts him, shall not live. Prove it Henry, and thou shalt be King. Suppose, my Lords, he did it vnconstrayn'd, Think you 'twere prejudicial to his Crown? Deposed he shall be, in despite of all. Do right unto this Princely Duke of York, Or I will fill the House with armed men, And over the Chair of State, where now he sits, Write up his Title with usurping blood. What good is this to England, and himself? Turn this way Henry, and regard them not. Why should you sighs, my Lord? Long live King Henry: Plantagenet embrace him. And I'll keep London with my Soldiers. From worthy Edward, King of Albion, My Lord and Sovereign, and thy vowed Friend, I come (in Kindness, and unfeigned Love) First, to do greetings to thy Royal Person, And then to crave a League of Amity: And lastly, to confirm that Amity With Nuptial Knot, if thou vouchsafe to grant That virtuous Lady Bona, thy fair Sister, To England's King, in lawful Marriage. And gracious Madame, In our Kings behalf, I am commanded, with your leave and favour, Humbly to kiss your Hand, and with my Tongue To tell the passion of my Sovereigns Heart; Where Fame, late entering at his heedful Ears, Hath placed thy Beauty's Image, and thy Virtue. Injurious Margaret. Because thy Father Henry did usurp, And thou no more art Prince, then she is Queen. Oxford, how haps it in this smooth discourse, You told not, how Henry the Sixth hath lost All that, which Henry the Fifth had got: Me thinks these Peers of France should smile at that. But for the rest: you tell a Pedigree Of threescore and two years, a silly time To make prescription for a Kingdoms worth. Can Oxford, that did ever fence the right, Now buckler Falsehood with a Pedigree? For shame leave Henry, and call Edward King. And I the House of York. Thereon I pawn my Credit, and mine Ho nor. The more, that Henry was unfortunate. Henry now lives in Scotland, at his ease; Where having nothing, nothing can he loose. And as for you your self (our quondam Queen) You have a Father able to maintain you, And better 'twere, you troubled him, then France. Trust me, my Lord, all hitherto goes well, The common people by numbers swarm to us. But see where Somerset and Clarence comes: Speak suddenly, my Lords, are we all friends? Then gentle Clarence, welcome unto Warwick, And welcome Somerset: I hold it cowardice, To rest mistrustful, where a Noble Heart Hath pawned and open Hand, in sign of Love; Else might I think, that Clarence, Edwards Brother, Were but a feigned friend to our proceedings: But welcome sweet Clarence, my Daughter shall be thine. And now, what rests? but in Nights Coverture, Thy Brother being carelessly encamped, His Soldiers lurking in the Town about, And but attended by a simple Guard, We may surprise and take him at our pleasure, Our Scouts have found the adventure very easy: That as Ulysses, and stout Diomede, With sleight and manhood stole to Rhesus Tents, And brought from thence the Thracian fatal Steeds; So we, well covered with the Nights black Mantle, At unawares may Beatrice down Edwards Guard, And seize himself: I say not, slaughter him, For I intend but only to surprise him. You that will follow me to this attempt, Applaud the Name of Henry, with your Leader. Why then, let's on our way in silent sort, For Warwick and his friends, God and Saint George. This is his Tent, and see where stand his Guard: Courage my Master's: Honour now, or never: But follow me, and Edward shall be ours. Richard and Hastings: let them go, here is the Duke. I, but the case is altered. When you disgraced me in my Embassade, Then I degraded you from being King, And come now to create you Duke of York. Alas, how should you govern any Kingdom, That know not how to use Ambassadors, Nor how to be contented with one Wife, Nor how to use your Brother's Brotherly, Nor how to study for the Peoples Welfare, Nor how to shroud your self from Enemies? Then for his mind, be Edward England's King; But Henry now shall wear the English Crown, And be true King indeed: thou but the shadow. My Lord of Somerset, at my request, See that forthwith Duke Edward be conveyed Unto my Brother Archbishop of York: When I have fought with Pembroke, and his fellows, I'll follow you, and tell what answer Lewis and the Lady Bona send to him. Now for awhile farewell good Duke of York. Your Grace hath still been famed for virtuous, And now may seem as wise as virtuous, By spying and avoiding Fortune's malice, For few men rightly temper with the Stars: Yet in this one thing let me blame your Grace, For choosing me, when Clarence is in place. And I choose Clarence only for Protector. What answers Clarence to his Sovereigns will? Why then, though loath, yet must I be content: We'll yoke together, Like a double shadow To Henries Body, and supply his place; I mean, in bearing weight of Government, While he enjoys the Honour, and his ease. And Clarence, now then it is more then needful, Forthwith that Edward be pronounced a Traitor, And all his Lands and Goods confiscate. I, therein Clarence shall not want his partly. What news, my friend? Unsavoury news: but how made he escape? My Brother was too careless of his charge. But let us hence, my Sovereign, to provide A salve for any soar, that may betide. O passing Traitor, perjured and unjust. Alas, I am not cooped here for defence: I will away towards Barnet presently, And bid thee Battle, Edward, if thou darest. Ah, who is nigh? come to me, friend, or foe, And tell me who is Victor, York, or Warwick? Why ask I that? my mangled body shows, My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows, That I must yield my body to the Earth, And by my fallen, the conquest to my foe. Thus yields the Cedar to the Axes edge, Whose Arms gave shelter to the Princely Eagle, Under whose shade the ramping Lion slept, Whose top-branch ouer-peer'd Jove's spreading Tree, And kept low Shrubs from Winter's powerful Wind. These Eyes, that now are dimmed with Death's black Veil, Have been as piercing as the Midday Sun, To search the secret Treasons of the World: The Wrinkles in my Brows, now filled with blood, Were likened oft to Kingly Sepulchers: For who lived King, but I could dig his Grave? And who durst smile, when Warwick bent his Brow? Lo, now my Glory smeared in dust and blood. My Parks, my Walks, my Manors that I had, Even now forsake me; and of all my Lands, Is nothing left me, but my bodies length. Why, what is Pomp, Rule, Reign, but Earth and Dust? And live we how we can, yet die we must. Why then I would not fly. Ah Montague, If thou be there, sweet Brother, take my Hand, And with thy Lips keep in my Soul a while. Thou lovest me not: for, Brother, if thou didst, Thy tears would wash this cold congealed blood, That glues my Lips, and will not let me speak. Come quickly Montague, or I am dead. Sweet rest his Soul: Fly Lords, and save your selves, For Warwick bids you all farewell, to meet in Heaven. Ten days ago, I drowned these news in tears, And now to add more measure to your woes, I come to tell you things sith then befallen. After the bloody Fray at Wakefield fought, Where your brave Father breathed his latest gasp, Tidings, as swiftly as the Posts could run, Were brought me of your Loss, and his Depart. I then in London, keeper of the King, Mustered my Soldiers, gathered flocks of Friends, Marched towards S. Albons, to intercept the Queen, Bearing the King in my behalf along: For by my Scouts, I was advertised That she was coming with a full intent To dash our late Decree in Parliament, Touching King Henries Oath, and your Succession: Short Tale to make, we at S. Albons met, Our Battles joined, and both sides fiercely fought: But whither 'twas the coldness of the King, Who looked full gently on his warlike Queen, That robbed my Soldiers of their heated Spleen. Or whither 'twas report of her success, Or more then common fear of Clifford's Rigour, Who thunders to his Captives, Blood and Death, I cannot judge: but to conclude with truth, Their Weapons Like to Lightning, came and went: Our Soldiers Like the Night-owls lazy flight, Or Like a lazy Thresher with a Flail, Fell gently down, as if they struck their Friends. I cheered them up with justice of our Cause, With promise of high pay, and great Rewards: But all in vain, they had no heart to fight, And we (in them) no hope to win the day, So that we fled: the King unto the Queen, Lord George, your Brother, Norfolk, and my Self, In haste, post haste, are come to join with you: For in the Marches here we herd you were, Making another Head, to fight again. Some six miles off the Duke is with the Soldiers, And for your Brother he was lately sent From your kind Aunt Duchess of Burgundy, With aid of Soldiers to this needful War. Nor now my Scandal Richard, dost thou hear: For thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine, Can pluck the Diadem from faint Henries head, And wring the awful Sceptre from his Fist, Were he as famous, and as bold in War, As he is famed for Mildness, Peace, and Prayer. Why therefore Warwick came to seek you out, And therefore comes my Brother Montague : Attend me Lords, the proud insulting Queen, With Clifford, and the haught Northumberland, And of their Feather, many more proud Birds, Have wrought the easie-melting King, Like Wax. He swore consent to your Succession, His Oath enrolled in the Parliament. And now to London all the crew are gone, To frustrate both his Oath, and what beside May make against the house of Lancaster. Their power (I think) is thirty thousand strong: Now, if the help of Norfolk, and my self, With all the Friends that thou brave Earl of March, Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure, Will but amount to five and twenty thousand, Why Via, to London will we march, And once again, bestride our foaming Steeds, And once again cry Charge upon our Foes, But never once again turn back and fly. No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York: The next degree, is England's Royal Throne: For King of England shalt thou be proclaimed In every Burrough as we pass along, And he that throws not up his cap for joy, Shall for the Fault make forfeit of his head. King Edward, valiant Richard Montague : Stay we no longer, dreaming of Renown, But found the Trumpets, and about our Task. How now? what news? Why then it sorts, brave Warriors, let's away. What sayest thou Henry, Wilt thou yield the Crown? Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now it's thine: 'Twas not yout valour Clifford drove me thence. If thou deny, their Blood upon thy head, For York in justice put's his Armour on. Who ever God thee, there thy Mother stands, For well I wot, thou hast thy Mother's tongue. Forespent with Toil, as Runners with a Raze, I lay me down a little while to breath: For strokes received, and many blows repaid, Have robbed my strong knit sinews of their strength, And spite of spite, needs must I rest awhile. How now my Lord, what happen? what hope of good? Then let the earth be drunken with our blood: I'll kill my Horse, because I will not fly: Why stand we Like softhearted women here, Wailing our losses, while the Foe does Rage, And look upon, as if the Tragedy Were played in lest, by counterfeiting Actors. Here on my knee, I vow to God above, I'll never pause again, never stand still, Till either death hath closed these eyes of mine, Or Fortune given me measure of Revenge. Away, away: Once more sweet Lords farewell. No, it's impossible he should escape: (For though before his face I speak the words) Your Brother Richard marked him for the Grave. And wheresoever he is, he's surely dead. From off the gates of York, fetch down y e head, Your Father's head, which Clifford placed there: In stead whereof, let this supply the room, Measure for measure, must be answered. I think is understanding is bereft: Speak Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee? Dark cloudy death overshades his beams of life, And he nor sees, nor hears us, what we say. Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults, They mock thee Clifford, Swear as thou was't wont. I, but he's dead. Of with the Traitors head, And rear it in the place your Father's stands. And now to London with Triumphant march, There to be crowned England's Royal King: From whence, shall Warwick cut the Sea to France, And ask the Lady Bona for thy Queen: So shalt thou sinow both these Lands together, And having France thy Friend, thou shalt not dread The scattered Foe, that Hope's to rise again: For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt, Yet look to have them buz to offend thine ears: First, will I see the Coronation, And then to Britanny I'll cross the Sea, To effect this marriage, so it please my Lord. Tut, that's a foolish observation: Richard be Duke of Gloucester: Now to London, To see these Honours in possession. Such it seems, As may beseem a Monarch Like himself. My self have often herd him say, and swear, That this his Love was and external Plant, Whereof the Root was fixed in Virtues ground, The Leaves and Fruit maintained with Beauty's Sun, Exempt from Envy, but not from Disdain, Unless the Lady Bona quit his pain. Mine full of sorrow, and hearts discontent. King Lewis, I here protest in sighed of heaven, And by the hope I have of heavenly bliss, That I am clear from this misdeed of Edwards ; No more my King, for he dishonours me, But most himself, if he could see his shame. Did I forget, that by the House of York My Father came untimely to his death? Did I let pass the abuse done to my Niece? Did I impale him with the Regal Crown? Did I put Henry from his Native Right? And am I guerdoned at the last, with Shame? Shame on himself, for my Desert is Honour. And to repair my Honour lost for him, I here renounce him, and return to Henry. My Noble Queen, let former grudges pass, And henceforth, I am thy true Servitor: I will revenge his wrong to Lady Bona, And replant Henry in his former state. So much his Friend, I, his unfeigned Friend, That if King Lewis vouchsafe to furnish us With some few Bans of chosen Soldiers, I'll undertake to Land them on our Coast, And force the Tyrant from his seat by War. It's not his new-made Bride shall succour him, And as for Clarence, as my Letters tell me, He's very likely now to fallen from him, For matching more for wanton Lust, then Honour, Or then for strength and safety of our Country. And mine fair Lady Bona, joins with yours. Tell him from me, that he hath done me wrong, And therefore I'll uncrown him, er't be long. There's thy reward, be gone. This shall assure my constant Loyalty, That if our Queen, and this young Prince agree, I'll join mine eldest daughter, and my Joy, To him forthwith, in holy Wedlock bans. I came from Edward as Ambassador, But I return his sworn and mortal Foe: Matter of Marriage was the charge he gave me, But dreadful War shall answer his demand. Had he none else to make a stale but me? Then none but I, shall turn his Jest to Sorrow. I was the Chief that raised him to the Crown, And I'll be Chief to bring him down again: Not that I pity Henries misery, But seek Revenge on Edwards mockery. I, that's the first thing that we have to do, To free King Henry from imprisonment, And see him seated in the Regal Throne. What counsel, Lords? Edward from Belgia, With hasty Germane, and blunt Hollanders, Hath passed in safety through the Narrow Seas, And with his troops does march amain to London, And many giddy people flock to him. In Warwickshire I have truehearted friends, Not mutinous in peace, yet bold in War, Those will I muster up: and thou Son Clarence Shalt stir up in Suffolk, Norfolk, and in Kenned, The Knights and Gentlemen, to come with thee. Thou Brother Montague, in Buckingham, Northampton, and in Leicestershire, shalt find Men well inclined to hear what thou commandest. And thou, brave Oxford, wondrous well beloved, In Oxfordshire shalt muster up thy friends. My Sovereign, with the loving Citizens, Like to his Island, gyrt in with the Ocean, Or modest Dyan, circled with her Nymphs, Shall rest in London, till we come to him: Fair Lords take leave, and stand not to reply. Farewell my Sovereign. Farewell, sweet Lords, let's meet at Coventry. Where is the Post that came from valiant Oxford? How far hence is thy Lord, mine honest fellow? How far off is our Brother Montague ? Where is the Post that came from Montague ? Say Someruile, what says my loving Son? And by thy guess, how nigh is Clarence now? Then Clarence is at hand, I hear his Drum. Who should that be? belike unlooked for friends. O unbid spite, is sportful Edward come? Where slept our Scouts, or how are they seduced, That we could hear no news of his repair. Nay rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence, Confess who set thee up, and plucked thee down, Call Warwick Patron, and be penitent, And thou shalt still remain the Duke of York. Is not a Dukedom, Sir, a goodly gift? 'Twas I that gave the Kingdom to thy Bro there. Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight: And Weakling, Warwick takes his gift again, And Henry is my King, Warwick his Subject. I had rather chop this Hand off at a blow, And with the other, fling it at thy face, Then bear so low a sail, to strike to thee. O cheerful Colours, see where Oxford comes. O welcome Oxford, for we want thy help. And lo, where George of Clarence sweeps along, Of force enough to bid his Brother Battle: With whom, in upright zeal to right, prevails More then the nature of a Brother's Love. Come Clarence, come: thou wilt, if Warwick call. How now fair Lords? What fair? What news abroad?