University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

York, Edward, George, Richard, Warwick, and other Lords, &c. discover'd as in Parliament.
York.
Ye Peers of England, having shown my Title,
And you approving my just Pedigree;
I take Possession of my Royal Right,
And to my Death my Scepter I'll maintain.

Enter King Henry, Clifford, and others.
K. Hen.
My Lords, look where the sturdy Rebel sits.
Young Lord Cumberland, he slew thy Father,
And I do think that you have vow'd Revenge
On him, his Sons, his Favourites, and his Friends.

Cliff.
The Hope thereof makes Clifford mourn in Steel.

War.
What say you, Lancaster, will you resign,
In Peace, the Crown to him whose Right it is?
Or, shall we force it from you with our Swords?

Cliff.
What, shall we suffer this? Lets pluck him down.
My Heart for Anger burns, I cannot brook it.
My gracious Lord, here in the Parliament
Let us assail the Family of York.

K. Hen.
Far be the Thought of Strife from Henry's Heart
So to abuse this Place's Dignity.
No, my Lord Clifford, Frowns, Words, and Threats,
Shall be the War that Henry means to use.
Thou factious Duke of York, descend the Throne,
And kneel for Grace and Mercy at my Feet.
I am thy Sovereign.

York.
Henry I am thine.

K. Hen.
And shall I stand, and thou sit in my Throne?

York.
It must and shall be so—Content thy self.

War.
Be Duke of Lancaster, so he is King.

Cliff.
He is both Duke of Lancaster, and King;
And that I Clifford boldly will maintain.

War.
And Warwick shall disprove it; you forget
That we are those who chas'd you from the Field,
And slew your Fathers, and with Colours spread,
March'd thro' the City to the Palace Gates.

Cliff.
Urge it no more, lest that instead of Words
I send thee, Warwick, such a Messenger
As shall revenge his Death before I stir.
Plantaganet, of thee, and these thy Sons,
Thy Favourites, and Friends, I'll have more Lives
Than Drops of Blood were in my Father's Veins.

War.
Poor Clifford, how we scorn thy worthless Threats.

York.
Will you, we show our Title to the Crown?
If not, our Swords shall plead it in the Field.

Edw.
Good Father, as you love and honour Arms
Let's fight it out, and not stand brawling thus.

Rich.
Sound but the Trumpet, and the King will fly.

York.
Peace, Sons.

K. Hen.
Peace all of you, and hear your King.
Rebels, I fear all Danger less than you,
For I am better arm'd with Innocence.
But I confess I fear a Civil War;
Not for my own, but for my People's Sake.
I am afraid indeed of shedding Blood,
But you are all most bold in Cruelty:
By which (O Heaven) judge whose is the Child,
His who desires to have it cut in Pieces,
Or mine, who strive in Tenderness to save it.
Rebels may be successful for a Time,
And overturn all Order, Right, and Justice:
But Heaven does not let the World stand long
In that unnatural, uneasy Posture.
Just Heaven point out the Course I am to take.
I shudder at the Thought of Civil War.
And shall I tamely then resign the Crown,
So bravely fought for by my Ancestors?
I know not what to do. I shall run mad.

York.
Thy own Mouth, Henry, has pronounc'd thy Doom.
Successful Murder, and Rebellion
Swell'd for two Generations of thy Race,
Over all Right, and all that durst oppose 'em.
But Heaven in thee has dry'd up the black Stream
And made it such a Brook all trample over it.

K. Hen.
Think'st thou I will leave my kingly Throne,
Wherein my Grandsire, and my Father sat?
No. First shall War unpeople this my Realm.
Ay, and their Colours often born in France,
And now in England, to our Heart's great Sorrow,
Shall be my Winding-Sheet.—Then fear not, Lords,
My Title's good, and better far than his.

Cliff.
There spoke a King indeed.

York.
Henry, do but prove
Thy Title good, and thou shalt reign as King.

K. Hen.
Henry the Fourth by Conquest got the Crown.

York.
'Twas in Rebellion 'gainst his lawful King.

K. Hen.
Tell me, may not a King adopt an Heir?

York.
What then?

K. Hen.
Why, if he may, then am I lawful King,
For Richard, in the View of many Lords,
Resign'd his Crown to Henry the Fourth,
Whose Heir my Father was, and I am his.

York.
Did not thy Grandfather compel him to't
By Force of Arms? and then the Parliament,
To their eternal Shame and Infamy,
Flatter'd the wicked, fortunate Usurper.

War.
But say the King had done it unconstrain'd,
He could not give away another's Right.
Henry usurp'd the Right of the next Heirs.

York.
To prove this true, read the last Words of Mortimer,
Who dy'd in Prison in your Minor Days,
And dying breath'd these Words into my Ears.
[Delivers a Scrowl to Henry.]
That those were the Words of that injur'd Man,
I will maintain, both with my Oath and Sword.

K. Hen.
I know not what to say—my Title's weak.

Cliff.
How, Sir, will you revolt from your own self,
Who will stand by you then?

War.
Clifford, thou dy'st,
If thou permit'st not Henry to resign.

Cliff.
Let Henry give his Title to the Crown,
He shall not give my Title to Revenge.
King Henry be thy Title right or wrong,
Lord Clifford vows to fight in thy Defence.
May that Ground gape, and swallow me alive,
Where I shall kneel to him that slew my Father.

War.
Do Right unto this princely Duke of York,
Or I will fill the House with armed Men,
And o'er the Chair of State, where now he sits,
Write up his Title with usurping Blood.

K. Hen.
Hold, hold, my Lords—Oh! let not Blood be shed,
First hear the Proffers that I have to make,
And hearken all—I find my Title's weak,
And to defend it were to fight with Justice.
Besides, there lies already on my Head,
The Blood of Richard, murder'd by my Grandfather,
And I'd be loth to add my People's Blood,
For saving which, hear this Proposal from me:
I have been King these Eight and Thirty Years,
And many Interests must grow to mine,
That you can never tear me from the Throne,
But you will set a Thousand Veins a bleeding.
Then let me Reign in Quiet all my Life,
And when I'm dead, Plantagenet be King.

York,
I approve of it, and on that Condition
I swear to be King Henry's Vassal.

K. Hen.
And not to seek the Crown by Arms or Treason.

York.
Never whilst King Henry lives.

K. Hen.
Then I intail
The Crown to thee, and to thy Heirs for ever.

Cliff.
What Wrong is this unto the Prince your Son?

War.
What Good is this to England and himself?

Cliff.
Base, fearful, and despairing Henry,
How hast thou injur'd both thy self and us?
But I will haste to inform the Queen of this.
Farewel, faint-hearted and degenerate King,
In whose cold Blood no Spark of Honour bides.
If thy great Father Henry's Soul did see
Thy Baseness, it wou'd torture him in Heav'n.
Plantagenet, when that great Monarch liv'd,
Thou durst have sooner let into thy Soul
Ten Thousand Devils than a Traytor's Thought.
Henry, adieu, be thou a Prey to York,
And die in Bonds for this unmanly Deed.
In dreadful War, may'st thou be overcome,
Or live in Peace, abandon'd and despis'd.

[Exit.
York,
Sons, head the Troops before the Palace Gates,
Lest furious Clifford shou'd disturb our Peace.

[Exit.
K. Hen.
Oh!

War.
Why sigh you, Sir?

K. Hen.
Not for my self, but my poor Son I've wrong'd.

War.
You have not wrong'd him, you have wholly freed him,
From all the Vengeance due to Usurpation.

York.
I hear the Queen has rais'd Forces in the North.
My Lord of Warwick, attend you the King,
And stay to raise what Force you can in London,
Whilst I post to the North, and so between us
We'll wall her in, and keep that Fire from spreading.

[Exit.
K. Hen.
Pray do, my Lords, I will assist you both
Against my self, but Justice shall be done.
See, yonder comes my Queen, whose unkind Looks
Strike Terror to me, oh! I dare not stay,
To hear the Bitterness of her Reproaches.

Enter the Queen and Prince.
Queen.
Where is the King? What, do you shun me, Sir?
Nay, go not from me, I will follow thee.

K. Hen.
Be patient, gentle Queen, and I will stay.

Queen.
Who can be patient in such sad Extremes?
Oh wretched Man, wou'd I had dy'd a Maid.
And never seen thee, never bore the Son,
Since thou hast prov'd so unnatural a Father
Hath he deserv'd to lose his Birthright thus?
Hadst thou but lov'd him half so much as I,
Or felt that Pain which I did for him once,
Or nourish'd him, as I did with my Blood,
Thou would'st have left thy dearest Heart Blood here,
Rather than make rebellious York thine Heir,
And disinherited thine only Son.

K. Hen.
The Crown is his, I have no Title to it
But what is founded on Rebellion,
The Murder of a King, and Usurpation.

Queen.
I shame to hear thee speak, thou timorous Wretch.
Thou hast undone thy self, thy Son, and me,
And giv'n to the House of York such Head,
As thou shalt reign but by their Sufferance.
To intail him and his Heirs unto the Crown,
What is it, but to make thy Sepulchre,
And creep into it far before thy Time.
Had I been here, who am a poor weak Woman,
The Soldiers should have toss'd me on their Pikes,
E'er I had stoop'd to such unnatural Baseness.
Oh, my dear Son, thou art no more a Prince,
Because thy Father is no more a King:
By one base Deed he has undone us all.

Prince.
I am a Prince, and I will be a King:
Father, you cannot disinherit me;
You may bestow your Kingdom whilst you live,
But when you are dead, the Crown by Right is mine,
And by the sacred Memory of my Ancestors,
I'll bear no Head that does not wear a Crown.

Queen.
My Son, he shall not disinherit thee,
I have Men here to guard us from the Rebels,
And Troops elsewhere to conquer 'em, and chastise,
And I will make thee, Son, a glorious Prince,
Whilst thou, tame Wretch, shalt be a Slave to Traytors,
And only be a Shadow of a King.

K. Hen.
Oh, my sweet Love, talk not so harshly to me:

Queen.
I will be harsher in my Deeds than Words,
For, from this Moment, I divorce my self,
Both from thy Table, Henry, and thy Bed,
Until that Act of Parliament be repeal'd,
Whereby my Son is disinherited.

K. Hen.
Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me speak.

Queen.
Thou hast spoke too much already, get thee gone;

K. Hen.
Then, my Son Edward, wilt thou stay with me!

Queen.
Ay, to be murder'd by his Enemies!
No, thou shalt have no Sons of me to ruin:
I scorn to be the Mother of a Slave.

Prince.
When I return with Victory from the Field
I'll see your Grace, till then I'll follow her.

Queen.
Come, Son, away, we may not linger thus.

[Exeunt.
K. Hen.
Poor Queen, how Love and Pity for my Son
Cause Rage in her, as they cause Grief in me.

War.
Add her Ambition to her Love and Pity,
For that has no small Share in her Disturbance.
But come, my Liege, let us straight call a Council,
So to prevent her spreading farther Mischief.

K. Hen.
With all my Heart, my noble Lord of Warwick,
For, O! I'm weary of these deadly Broils,
To you I'll readily submit vain Rule:
Tho' on my self I sure Destruction bring,
E'er I'll hurt England I'll not reign your King.

[Exeunt.
Enter York, Edward, and Richard.
Rich.
Father, I think I've plainly made appear
Your Oath to be most vain and frivolous,
Therefore to Arms, and, Father, do but think,
How sweet a Thing it is to wear a Crown,
Within whose Circuit is Elisium,
And all that Poets feign of Bliss and Joy.
Why do we linger thus? I cannot rest
Until the white Rose that I wear, be dy'd
E'en in the lukewarm Blood of Henry's Heart.

York.
Richard enough—I will be King or die,
Mountague shall to London presently,
And whet on Warwick to this Enterprize.
Thou, Richard, shalt go to the Duke of Norfolk,
And tell him privily of our Intent.
You, Edward, unto my brave Lord Cobham,
With whom the Kentish Men will willing rise.
While you are thus employ'd, what resteth 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.
Enter Gentleman.
Now say, what News, that thou com'st in such Haste?

Gent.
The Queen, with all the Northern Earls and Lords,
Are near at Hand with Twenty Thousand Men,
And therefore fortify your Hold, my Lord.

York.
Ay, with my Sword,
What, think'st thou that we fear 'em?
Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me,
I've sent your Brother George to raise some Troops;
I hop'd he wou'd have been with me e'er now;
But I must take my Fortune—Hark, the Enemy
Approaches us, bring in my dear Child Rutland.
Enter Rutland.
My Darling, let me kiss thee e'er I go;
I know not if I e'er shall see thee more;
If I shou'd fall under the numerous Enemy,
Whoe'er survives take care of this sweet Boy.

Rut.
Why do you talk thus, Sir? You make me weep;
If you must die, I hope I shall die with you.
I had rather die with you, than live a King.

York.
Sweet Boy, farewel, my Soul. There, take the Child,
And guard him safely—If my Arms should fail,
Convey him with speed to our next Garrison,
And give his Brother Notice of his flight.
[Exit Rutland.
Altho' the Queen has Twenty Thousand Men,
And our whole Power will make but Five Thousand,
I'll issue forth, and bid 'em Battle strait.
Five Men to Twenty—True, the Odds are great,
Yet I'll not doubt, my Sons, of Victory.
Many a Battle have I won in France,
When the proud Foe has number'd Ten to One;
Why should I not now have the like Success?
Now show your selves the Loyal Sons of York,
And fight as each wou'd wear the Royal Crown.

[Exeunt.
Trumpets sound, &c.
Enter Clifford with a Party.
Cliff.
Pursue, pursue, and give no Quarter:
I charge you do not spare nor Sex, nor Age.

[Exit.
Enter Rutland.
Rut.
Oh! whither shall I fly? How shall I 'scape?
Ah, Clifford comes, and no one's here to guard me.

Re-enter Clifford.
Cliff.
Thou cursed Brat of York's accursed Race,
Prepare to die.

Rut.
Oh! brave, noble, Clifford,
Hear me but speak a Word before I die.

Cliff.
What can'st thou say, fond Boy, that's worth my hearing?

Rut.
I only beg you to regard your self,
You are a Noble Man, I am a Boy;
Stain not your Fame by killing a poor Boy,
I wou'd not for your own sake you shou'd do it,
For I love gallant Men—and I love you,
Tho' you are my Enemy—because you are valiant.

Cliff
Away, you insinuating, flattering Boy,
Give o'er, give o'er, for were there in thy Voice
Celestial Harmony, my Father's Blood
Has shut the Passage where the Sound should enter.

Rut.
I did not shed his Blood.

Cliff.
Thy Father did.

Rut.
Then fight my Father, that will get you Honour.

Cliff.
Shou'd I kill thee, thy Father, and thy Brothers,
'Twere not Revenge sufficient for my Wrath.
No, if I dig'd up thy Forefathers Graves
It cou'd not slake mine Ire, or ease my Heart.
The Sight of any of the House of York
Is as a Fury to torment my Soul;
And till I root out the accursed Line,
And leave not one alive, I live in Hell,
Therefore—

Rut.
Oh! let me pray before I take my Death;
To thee I pray—sweet Clifford, pity me.

Cliff.
Such Pity as my Rapier's Point affords.

Rut.
Hear me, but one Word more, dear, brave, Lord Clifford,
You have a Son, for his sake pity me,
Lest in Revenge thereof, since Heaven is just,
He be as miserably slain as I.
Why shou'd your Fury burn against the Innocent?

Cliff.
I kill thee out of Hatred to thy Kind,
As I would do a Toad, or a young Serpent.

Rut.
Ah! let me live in Prison all my Days,
And when I give Occasion of Offence
Then let me die, for now thou hast no Cause.

Cliff.
I'll hear no more, lest thy soft Tongue o'ercome me,
Thy Father slew my Father, therefore die.

[Stabs him.
Rut.
May'st thou ne'er get more Fame than by this Deed.

[Dies.
Cliff
Plantagenet, I come, Plantagenet,
And this thy Son's Blood cleaving to my Blade,
Shall rust upon my Weapon, till thy Blood
Congeal'd with this, do make me wipe off both.
Take up the Body, and bring it after me,
I'll make a Present of it to proud York.

[Exit.
Enter York.
York.
The Army of the Queen hath got 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 pursu'd by hungry starved Wolves.
My Sons, Heav'n knows what hath bechanced them,
But this I know, they have behav'd themselves
Like Men born to Renown, by Life or Death.
Three Times did Richard make a Lane to me,
And thrice cry'd, 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 who had encounter'd him.
Richard cry'd Charge, and give no Foot of Ground,
We'll have a Crown or else a glorious Tomb;
A Sceptre, or an earthly Sepulchre.
With this we charg'd again, but soon, alas!
Retir'd back, as I have seen a Swan,
With bootless Labour, swim against the Tide,
And spend her Strength with over-matching Waves.
Ah! hark the fatal Followers do pursue,
And I am very faint, and cannot fly:
But had I Strength; I'm on all Sides inclos'd.
The Sands are number'd that make up my Life,
Here must I stay, and here my Life must end.

Enter Queen, Clifford, and Guards.
Cliff.
Ha! have I found thee, proud Plantagenet?
What tumbled, Phaeton, from thy shining Chariot!
Oh, Father! from thy Joys above descend,
And share with me the Pleasure of Revenge.

York.
Thou bloody raging Clifford, do thy worst,
I'd scorn to ask thee Mercy hadst thou any;
But thou hast none, then come with all thy Multitudes.

Cliff.
So Cowards fight when they can fly no farther;
So Pidgeons peck the Falcon's piercing Talons;
So desperate Thieves breathe Curses at their Officers.

York.
So triumph Thieves upon their conquer'd Beauty;
So true Men yield, by Robbers so overmatch'd.
Hast thou the Insolence to charge a Prince
With Cowardice, who made thee basely fly:
Call to thy Memory St. Alban's Battle.

Cliff.
I do, then didst thou kill my brave old Father.

York.
And now would thee, wer't thou not back'd with Multitudes.

Cliff.
I will try that—stand off, and do not touch him
Unless I fall—then cut him all to pieces.
I will not lose Revenge—yet I will give him
So much Revenge, to kill me if he can

York.
I thank thee for this Kindness, 'tis a great one.

Queen.
Hold, Clifford, do not Honour him so much,
To prick thy Finger, though it wound his Heart.
What Valour were it, when a Cur doth grin,
For one to thrust his Hand between his Teeth,
When he might spurn him with his Foot away?
It is War's Prize to take all Vantages.
And, valiant Clifford, for a Thousand Causes
I wou'd prolong a while the Traytor's Life.
What, was it you that wou'd be England's King?
Wast you that revell'd in our Parliaments,
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 Crook-back'd Prodigy,
Dicky, your Boy, that with his grumbling Voice
Was won't to cheer his Dad in Mutinies;
And, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland?
Look, York, I stain'd this Napkin with the Blood
That valiant Clifford, with his Rapier's Point,
Made issue from the Bosom of thy Boy,
I bring it thee to wipe away thy Tears.
Alas! poor York, but that I hate thee deadly,
I should lament thy miserable State.

York.
Oh Tiger's Heart! wrap'd in a Woman's Hide,
How cou'dst thou drain the Life-Blood of a Child,
To bid his Father wipe his Eyes withal,
And yet be seen to wear a Woman's Face?

Queen.
Why, this I did, York, to increase thy Sorrow;
I know a Parent's Love, and thy fond Love,
And all the Mysteries of thy haughty Heart:
I knew that thou wouldst Barricado it
Against the Losses of a Crown and Life,
With Iron Bars of Stubbornness and Pride:
But Oh! this Blood-like Oil will sink into it;
These crimson Threads will lead tormenting Grief
Into the inmost Lodgings of thy Soul.
And lest this Napkin be too soft a Thing,
I have at Hand an Engin that shall squeeze
Thy Soul into thy Eyes—bring Rutland's Body.

Rutland's Body brought in.
York.
She Wolf of France, for Woman thou art none:
Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible,
Thou, stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless;
Wouldst have me rage, why now thou hast thy Will?
Wouldst have me weep, why now thou hast thy Wish?
These Tears are my sweet Rutland's Obsequies,
And every Drop cries Vengeance to his Death.
'Gainst thee fell Clifford, and thou false French Woman.
Oh! my sweet Boy.

Queen.
Why, this is Musick to me.
This is the part thou mean'st I shou'd have play'd,
If thy accursed Treasons had succeeded;
But, that my Tragedy must have been deeper,
And bloodier far, thou mean'st I should have wept,
For a lost Kingdom, Husband, and a Son!

York.
See ruthless Queen, a hapless Father's Tears.
This Cloth thou dip'dst 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 tell'st the heavy Story right,
Upon my Soul the Hearers will shed Tears;
Yea, ev'n my Foes will shed fast falling Tears,
And say, alas! it was a piteous Deed.
May, in thy need, such Comfort come to thee,
As now I reap at thy most cruel Hand.
Hard hearted Clifford, take me from the World,
My Soul to Heaven, my Blood upon thy Head.

Cliff.
Here's for my Oath, and for my Father's Death,
And here's to Right our gentle hearted King.

[Stabs York.
York.
Open thy Gates of Mercy, gracious Heaven,
My Soul flies through these Wounds to seek out thee.

[Dies.
Queen.
Now take his Head, once fill'd with lofty Thoughts,
And set it on a lofty Pinacle.

[Exeunt.