 | The Earl of Warwick |  |
SCENE II.
KING EDWARD, MARGARET, CLIFFORD, Officer.EDWARD.
Is Suffolk yet return'd?
(to an Officer.)
OFFICER.
No, my good liege.
EDWARD.
Go, wait and bring him to me,
[Ex. Of.
I'll to my closet.
Pardon me, fair lady,
I saw you not.
MARGARET.
Perhaps it is beneath
A conqu'ror to look down upon his slave;
But I've a boon to ask.
EDWARD.
Whate'er it is,
Within the limits of fair courtesy,
Which honour can bestow, I'll not refuse thee.
MARGARET.
There was a time when Margaret of Anjou
Wou'd not have deign'd to ask of Edward ought;
Nor was there ought which Edward dar'd refuse her;
7
And I am now your pris'ner.
EDWARD.
Since the hour,
When fortune smil'd propitious on the cause
Of justice, and gave vict'ry to our arms;
You have been treated with all due respect,
All your condition, or your sex cou'd claim;
Serv'd like a queen, and lodg'd within our palace:
Is there ought more you can with reason ask,
Or I in prudence grant you.
MARGARET.
Give me back
The liberty I lost, restore my son,
And I may then, perhaps, be reconcil'd
To un usurper, may with-hold my vengeance,
And let thee sit unpunish'd on—my throne.
EDWARD.
You talk too proudly, madam; but to shew you
I cannot fear, you have your liberty.
Letters this morning I receiv'd from France,
Have offer'd noble ransom for your person;
Without that ransom—for the soul of Edward
Is far above the sordid lust of gold,
I grant it—from this moment you are free;
But for your son—I cannot part with him.
MARGARET.
I scorn your bounties, scorn your proffer'd freedom,
What's liberty to me without my child?
But fate will place us soon above thy reach,
Thy short-liv'd tyranny is almost past,
The storm is gath'ring round thee, and will burst
With ten-fold vengeance on thy guilty head.
8
I am not to be talk'd into submission,
Nor dread the menace of a clam'rous woman.
MARGARET.
Thou may'st have cause to dread a woman's pow'r.
The time may come—mark my prophetic word—
When wayward beauty shall repay with scorn
Thy fruitless vows, and vindicate my wrongs:
The friend thou lean'st on, like a broken reed,
Shall pierce thy side, and fill thy soul with anguish,
Keen as the pangs I feel: York's perjur'd house
Shall sink to rise no more, and Lancaster
With added lustre re-assume the throne.
Hear this and tremble—give me back my son—
Or dread the vengeance of a desp'rate mother.
| The Earl of Warwick | |