YORK

I am thine. It was my Inheritance, as the Earldom was. It must and shall be so, content thy self. Why how now Sons, and Brother, at a strife? What is your Quarrel? how began it first? About what? Mine Boy? not till King Henry be dead. I took and Oath, that he should quietly reign. I shall be, if I claim by open War. Thou canst not, Son: it is impossible. Richard enough: I will be King, or die. Brother, thou shalt to London presently, And whet on Warwick to this Enterprise. Thou Richard shalt to the Duke of Norfolk, And tell him privily of our intent. You Edward shall unto my Lord Cobham, With whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise. In them I trust: for they are Soldiers, Witty, courteous, liberal, full of spirit. While you are thus employed, what rests more? But that I seek occasion how to rise, And yet the King not privy to my Drift, Nor any of the House of Lancaster. But stay, what News? Why comest thou in such post? I, with my Sword. What? thinkest thou, that we fear them? Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me, My Brother Montague shall post to London. Let Noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest, Whom we have left Protectors of the King, With powerful Policy strengthen themselves, And trust not simple Henry, nor his Oaths. What, with five thousand men? Five men to twenty: though the odds be great, I doubt not, Uncle, of our Victory Many a Battle have I won in France, When as the Enemy hath been ten to one: Why should I not now have the Like success? The Army of the Queen hath God the field: My Uncles both are slain, in rescuing me; And all my followers, to the eager foe Turn back, and fly, Like Ships before the Wind, Or Lambs pursued by hunger-starved Wolves. My Sons, God knows what hath bechance them: But this I know, they have demeaned themselves Like men born to Renown, by Life or Death. Three times did Richard make a Lane to me, And thrice cried, Courage Father, fight it out: And full as oft came Edward to my side, With Purple Falchion, painted to the Hilt, In blood of those that had encountered him: And when the hardyest Warriors did retire, Richard cried, Charge, and give no foot of ground, And cried, A Crown, or else a glorious Tomb, A Sceptre, or and Earthly Sepulchre. With this we charged again: but out alas, We bodged again, as I have seen a Swan With bootless labour swim against the Tide, And spend her strength with overmatching Waves. Ah hark, the fatal followers do pursue, And I am faint, and cannot fly their fury: And were I strong, I would not shun their fury. The Sands are numbered, that makes up my Life, Here must I stay, and here my Life must end. Come bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland, I dare your quenchless fury to more rage: I am your Butt, and I abide your Shot. My ashes, as the Phoenix, may bring forth A Bird, that will revenge upon you all: And in that hope, I throw mine eyes to Heaven, Scorning what ere you can afflict me with. Why come you not? what, multitudes, and fear? O Clifford, but bethink thee once again, And in thy thought overrun my former time: And if thou canst, for blushing, view this face, And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with Cowardice, Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this. She-wolf of France, But worse then Wolves of France, Whose Tongue more poisons then the Adders Tooth: How ill-beseeming is it in thy Sex, To triumph Like and Amazonian Trull, Upon their Woes, whom Fortune captivates? But that thy Face is Vizard-like, unchanging, Made impudent with use of evil deeds. I would assay, proud Queen, to make thee blush. To tell thee whence thou camest, of whom derived, Were shame enough, to shame thee, Wertenberg thou not shameless. Thy Father bears the type of King of Naples, Of both the Sicils, and Jerusalem, Yet not so wealthy as and English Yeoman. Hath that poor Monarch taught thee to insult? It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud Queen, Unless the Adage must be verified, That Beggars mounted, run their Horse to death. It's Beauty that does oft make Women proud, But God he knows, thy share thereof is small. It's Virtue, that does make them most admired, The contrary, does make thee wondered at. It's Government that makes them seem Divine, The want thereof, makes thee abominable. Thou art as opposite to every good, As the Antipodes are unto us, Or as the South to the Septentrion. O Tigers Heart, wrapped in a Woman's Hide, How couldst thou drain the Lifeblood of the Child, To bid the Father wipe his eyes withal, And yet be seen to bear a Woman's face? Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible; Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. Bidst thou me rage? why now thou hast thy wish. Wouldst have me weep? why now thou hast thy will. For raging Wind blows up incessant showers, And when the Rage alleys, the Rain begins. These Tears are my sweet Rutland's Obsequies, And every drop cries vengeance for his death, against thee fell Clifford, and thee false Frenchwoman. That Face of his, The hungry Cannibals would not have touched, Would not have stained with blood: But you are more inhumane, more inexorable, O, ten times more then Tigers of Hyrcania. See, ruthless Queen, a hapless Father's Tears: This Cloth thou dipd'st in blood of my sweet Boy, And I with Tears do wash the blood away. Keep thou the Napkin, and go boast of this, And if thou tellest the heavy story right, Upon my Soul, the hearers will shed Tears: Yea, even my Foes will shed fast-falling Tears, And say, Alas, it was a piteous deed. There, take the Crown, and with the Crown, my Curse, And in thy needs, such comfort come to thee, As now I reap at thy too cruel hand. Hardhearted Clifford, take me from the World, My Soul to Heaven, my Blood upon your Heads. Open thy Gate of Mercy, gracious God, My Soul flies through these wounds, to seek out thee. Sir John, and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine Uncles, You are come to Sandal in a happy hour. The Army of the Queen mean to besiege us. So triumph Thieves upon their conquered Booty, So True men yield with Robbers, so overmatched. While we pursued the Horsemen of y e North, He slyly stole away, and left his men: Whereat the great Lord of Northumberland, Whose Warlike ears could never brook retreat, Cheered up the drooping Army, and himself. Lord Clifford and Lord Stafford all abreast Charged our main Battles Front: and breaking in, Were by the Swords of common Soldiers slain. Richard hath best deserved of all my sons: But is your Grace dead, my Lord of Somerset? Assist me then, sweet Warwick, and I will, For hither we have broken in by force. Thanks gentle Norfolk, stay by me my Lords, And Soldiers stay and lodge by me this Night. The Queen this day here holds her Parliament, But little thinks we shall be of her counsel, By words or blows here let us win our right. Then leave me not, my Lords be resolute, I mean to take possession of my Right. Will you we show our Title to the Crown? If not, our Swords shall plead it in the field. Sons peace. 'Twas by Rebellion against his King. What then? He rose against him, being his Sovereign, And made him to resign his Crown perforce. Why whisper you, my Lords, and answer not? Henry of Lancaster, resign thy Crown: What mutter you, or what conspire you Lords? Confirm the Crown to me and to mine Heirs, And thou shalt reign in quiet while thou livest. This Oath I willingly take, and will perform. Now York and Lancaster are reconciled. Farewell my gracious Lord, I'll to my Castle.