WARWICK

For grief that all is lost that Warwick won. Sons. Anioy and Main, both given away at once, Why Warwick did win them, & must that then which we wone with our swords, be given away with words? Unto the Main, o father, Main is lost, Which Warwick by main force did win from France, Main chance father you meant, but I mean Main, Which I will win from France, or else be slain. The Cardinal's not my better in the field. And Warwick may live to be the best of all. And yet the worthy deeds that York hath done, Should make him worthy to be honoured bore. Image of pride, wherefore should I peace? Then York begin, and if thy claim be good, The Neuills are thy subjects to command. What plain proceedings can be more plain? he claims it from Lionel duke of Clarence, the third son to Ed ward the third, and Henry from John of Gaunt the fourth son. So that till Lyonels issue fails, his should not reign. It fails not yet, but flourishes in thee and in thy sons, brave slips of such a stock. Then noble father, kneel we both together, and in this private place be we the first to honour him with birthright to the Crown. Then York advise thy self, and take thy time, Claim thou the Crown, and set thy standard up, And in the same advance the milkwhite Rose, And then to guard it I will rouse the Bear, Environed with ten thousand ragged-staues To aid and help thee for to win thy right, Maugre the proudest lords of Henries blood, That dares deny the right and claim of York, For why, my mind presages I shall live To see the noble Duke of York to be a King. My lord, the Commons Like and angry hive ofbees, Run up and down, caring not whom they sting, For good Humphreys death, whom they report To be murdered by Suffolk and the Cardinal here. Enter his privy chamber my lord, and view the body. Good father stay you with the rude multitude till I return. Now by his soul, that took our shape upon him To free us from his father's dreadful curse, I am resolved that violent hands were laid, Upon the life of this famous Duke. Oft have I seen a timely parted ghost, Of ashy semblance, pale and bloodless: But lo, the blood is settled in the face, More better coloured, then when he lived, His well proportioned beard made rough and stern, His fingers spread abroad as one that grasped for life, Yet was by strength surprised, the least of these are probable, It cannot choose but he was murdered. Yea, but it well known they were not his friends, And 'tis well seen he found some enemies. Who sees a heifer dead and bleeding fresh, And sees hard by a butcher with and axe, But will suspect it he that made the slaughter? Who finds the partridge in the puttocks nest, But will imagine how the bird came there, Although the Kite soar with unbloody beak? Even so suspicious is this Tragedy. What dares not Warwick, if false Suffolk dare him Madame be you still, with reverence may I say it, That every word you speak in his defence, Is slander to your royal majesty. But that the gilded of murder bucklers thee, And I should rob the death's man of his fee, Quitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames, And that my sovereigns presence makes me mute, I would false murderous coward on thy knees, Make thee crave pardon for thy passed speech, And say it was thy mother that thou meantest, That thou thy self wast born in bastardy, And after all this fearful homage done, Give thee thy hire, and send thy soul to hell, Pernicious bloodsucker of sleeping men. Away even now, or I will drag thee hence. You had best go dream again, To keep you from the tempest of the field. Now by my father's age old Neuells crest, The Rampant bear chained to the ragged staff, This day isle wear aloft my burgonet, As on a mountain top the Caedar shows, That keeps his leaves in spite of any storm, Even to affright thee with the view thereof. Clifford of Comberland, 'tis Warwick calls, And if thou dost not hide thee from the Bear, Now while the angry Trumpets found Alarms, And dead men's cries do fill the empty avret Clifford I say, come forth and fight with me, Proud Northern Lord, Clifford of Comberland, Warwick is hoarse with calling thee to arms. Warwickestand still, and view the way that Clifford hawes with his murdering curtelaxe, through the fainting troops to find thee out. Warwick stand still, and S rre not till I come. How now my Lord, what a foot Who killed your horses Brave lord, 'tis for a crown thou fightest, Clifford farewell, as I intend to prosper well to day It grieves my soul to leave thee vnassaild After them, nay before them if we can: Now by my Faith Lords it a glorious day, Saint Albons battle won by famous York, Shall be eternized in all age to come, Found Drums and Trumpets, and to London all, And more such days as these to us befall. Whom soever you account worthy, York is the worthiest.