University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Enter Edward, Richard, and Soldiers.
Edw.
I wonder how our princely Father 'scap'd,
Or, whether he be 'scap'd away, or no,
From Clifford's and Northumberland's Pursuit?
Had he been ta'en, or kill'd, we had heard the News:
Or otherwise, methinks, we should have heard
The happy Tidings of his good Escape.
How fares my Brother? Why are you sad?

Rich.
I cannot Joy until I am resolv'd
What is become of our right valiant Father;
I saw him in the Battle range about,
And watch'd him how he singled Clifford forth;
Methought he bore him in the thickest Troop,
As doth a Lion 'mongst a Herd of Deer;
Or, as a Bear encompass'd round with Dogs,
Who having pinch'd a few, and made 'em cry,
The rest stand all aloof, and bark at him,
So far'd our Father with his Enemies.
See how the Morning opes her golden Gates,
And takes her Farewel of the glorious Sun;
How well resembles it the Prime of Youth,
Trimm'd like a Yonker prancing to his Love.

Edw.
Dazzle my Eyes, or do I see three Suns!

Rich.
Three glorious Suns, each one a perfect Sun,
Not separated with the racking Clouds,
But sever'd in a pale, clear, shining Sky;
See, see, they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,
As if they vow'd some League inviolable.
Now are they but one Lamp, one Light, one Sun.
In this the Heav'ns figure some Event.

Edw.
'Tis wond'rous strange, the like—yet never heard of,
I think it cites us, Brother, to the Field,
That we, the Sons of brave Plantagenet,
Each one already blazing by our Deeds,
Should, notwithstanding, join our Lights together,
And over shine the Earth, as this the World.
Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear
Upon my Target, Three fair shining Suns.
Enter Gentleman.
But, what art thou, whose heavy Looks foretel
Some dreadful Story hanging on thy Tongue?

Gent.
One that was a woful Looker on,
When as the noble Duke of York was slain,
Your princely Father, and my noble Lord.

Edw.
Oh, speak no more! For I have heard too much.

Rich.
Say how he dy'd, for I will hear it all.

Gent.
Environ'd he was with many Foes,
And stood against 'em, as the Hope of Troy
Against the Greeks, that would have enter'd there.
But Hercules himself must yield to odds;
And many Strokes, tho' with a little Ax,
Hews down, and fells the hardest timber'd Oak.
By many Hands your Father was subdu'd,
But only slaughter'd by the ireful Arm
Of unrelenting Clifford, whilst the Queen
Laugh'd in his Face; and when with Grief he wept,
The ruthless Queen, gave him to dry his Cheeks,
A Napkin steeped in the harmless Blood
Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain;
And after many Scorns, many foul Taunts,
They took his Head, and on the Gates of York
They set the same, and there it doth remain
The saddest Spectacle that e'er was view'd.

Edw.
Oh Clifford! flinty Clifford! thou hast crop'd
The Flower of Europe for his Chivalry,
And treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him;
For Hand to Hand he would have vanquish'd thee.
Now my Soul's Palace is become a Prison.
Oh! wou'd she break from hence, that this my Body
Might in the Ground be closed up in Rest,
For I henceforth shall never joy again;
Never, Oh never, shall I know more Joy!

Rich.
I cannot weep, for all my Body's Moisture
Scarce serves to quench my Furnace burning Heart.
Nor can my Tongue unload my Heart's great Burden,
For the same Wind that I shou'd speak withal,
Is kindling Coals that fire up all my Breast,
And burn me up with Flames that Tears would quench.
To weep is to make less the Depth of Grief;
Tears then for Babes, but dear Revenge for me.
Richard, I bear thy Name, I'll 'venge thy Death,
Or die renowned by attempting it.

Enter Warwick and Soldiers.
War.
Now, noble Lords, tell me what News abroad.

Edw.
O Warwick! Warwick!—great Plantagenet
Is by the stern Lord Clifford put to Death.

War.
Some Time ago I drown'd this News in Tears,
After the bloody Fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave Father breath'd his latest Gasp;
Tidings, as swiftly as the Post could run,
Were brought me of your Loss, and his Depart.
I then in London, Keeper of the King,
Muster'd my Soldiers, gather'd Flocks of Friends,
March'd towards St. Albans to intercept the Queen.
Bearing the King, in my Behalf, along;
For by my Scouts I was advertis'd,
That she was coming with a full Intent
To dash our late Decrees in Parliament,
Touching King Henry's Oaths, and your Succession.
Short Tale to make, we at St. Albans met,
Our Battles join'd, and for long Time we fought;
But whether 'twas the Coldness of the King,
Who look'd full gently on his warlike Queen,
That robb'd my Soldiers of their heated Spleen;
Or, whether 'twas Report of her Success,
Or more than common Fear of Clifford's Vigor,
Who thunders to his Captives Blood and Death,
I cannot judge, but to conclude with Truth,
Their Weapons like to Light'ning came and went;
Our Soldiers, like the Night-Owls lazy Flight,
Or like a lazy Thrasher with his Flail,
Fell gently down, as if they struck their Friends;
I cheer'd 'em up with Justice of our Cause,
With Promise of high Pay, and great Reward,
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,
With th' utmost speed, are come to join with you;
For in the Marshes here we heard you were,
Making another Head to fight again.

Edw.
Where is the Duke of Norfolk, noble Warwick?
And when came George from Burgundy to England?

War.
Some four Miles off the Duke is with the Soldiers,
And for your Brother, he was lately sent
From your kind Aunt, Dutchess of Burgundy,
With needful Aid of Soldiers to this War,
And ev'ry Minute I expect him here.

Rich.
'Twas Odds belike, when valiant Warwick fled;
Oft have I heard his Praises in Pursuit,
But ne'er till now, his Scandal of Retreat.

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 Henry's Head,
And wring the awful Scepter from his Hand,
Were he as famous, and as bold in War,
As he is fam'd for Mildness, Peace, and Prayer.

Rich.
I know it well, Lord Warwick, blame me not,
'Tis Love I bear thy Glories makes me speak.
But in this busy Time, what's to be done?
Shall we go throw away our Coats of Steel,
And wrap our Bodies in black Mourning Gown,
Numb'ring our Ave Maries with our Beads?
Or, shall we on the Helmets of our Foes
Tell our Devotion with revengeful Arms,
If for the last, say ay, and to it Lords?

War.
Why therefore Warwick came to seek you out,
And therefore comes my Brother Mountague;
Then once again let's stride our foaming Steeds,
And once again cry Charge upon our Foes,
But never more will we turn back and fly.

Rich.
Ay, now, indeed, I hear great Warwick speak.
Ne'er may he live to see a Sun-shine Day
That cries Retreat, if Warwick bid him stay.

Enter George and Soldiers.
Edw.
My Brother George, take a short Soldiers Welcome,
I have not Time to greet thee as I ought,
For we are going to a glorious Feast.

Geo.
I heard of our great Father's sad Misfortunes,
And came to his Revenge with all the speed
A hungry Wretch wou'd do to a great Feast,
Where there are many Guests, and he far off.

Edw.
Say, my dear Brother, are your Troops prepar'd?

Geo.
All, all with a longing Appetite for War.

War.
No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York;
The next Degree is England's Royal Throne;
For King of England shalt thou be proclaim'd,
And he that throws not up his Cap for Joy,
Shall for the Fault make forfeit of his Head.
Stay we no longer dreaming of Renown,
But sound the Trumpets, and about our Task.

Enter Messenger.
Mess.
Princes prepare, the Foe is near at Hand,
The Amazon Queen drags Henry to the Battle,
Who fain wou'd keep his Oath, but she'll not suffer him.

Edw.
Why, let 'em come, we are prepar'd to face 'em.

Rich.
Then Clifford, were thy Heart as hard as Steel,
As thou hast shown it flinty by thy Deeds,
I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine.

Edw.
This Day decides who shall be King of England.
Strike up our Drums, and let the Trumpets sound,
Our brave Approach shall so much dare the Field,
That Henry shall couch down in Fear, and yield.

[Exit.
A short March, then an Alarm, clashing of Swords, and shouting. Enter Warwick.
War.
Ev'n spent with Toil, as Runners with a Race,
I lay me down a little while to breathe,
For Strokes receiv'd, and many Blows repay'd,
Have robb'd my strong knit Sinews of their Strength.

Enter Edward.
Edw.
Smile, gentle Heav'n, or strike, ungentle Death,
For this World's Frowns, and Edward's Sun is clouded.

Enter George.
Geo.
Our Ranks are broke, and Ruin follows us:
What Counsel give you? Whither shall we fly?

Edw.
Bootless is Flight, they follow us with Wings,
And weak we are, and cannot shun Pursuit.

Enter Richard.
Rich.
Ah Warwick!—Why hast thou withdrawn thy self,
Thy Brother's Blood the thirsty Earth hath drunk,
Broach'd with the steely Point of Clifford's Lance;
And in the very Pangs of Death he cry'd,
Like to a dismal Clangor heard from far,
Warwick revenge, Brother, revenge my Death:
So underneath the Belly of his Steeds,
That stain'd their Fetlocks in his smoaking Blood,
The noble Gentleman gave up the Ghost.

War.
Then let the Earth be drunken with our Blood,
I'll kill my Horse because I will not fly.
Why stand we like soft-hearted Women here,
Wailing our Losses, while the Foe doth rage,
And look upon, as if the Tragedy
Were play'd in Jest by counterfeiting Actors?
Here, on my Knees, I vow to Heav'n above,
I'll never pause again, never stand still,
Till either Death doth close these Eyes of mine,
Or, till the Battle gives me full Revenge.

Edw.
O Warwick! I do bend my Knee with thine,
And in this Vow do chain my Soul to thine;
And e'er my Knee rise from the Earth's cold Face,
I lift my Hands, my Eyes, my Heart, to thee,
Thou Setter up, and Plucker down, of Kings,
Beseeching thee (if with thy Will it stands)
That to my Foes this Body must be Prey,
Yet that thy glorious Gates of Heav'n may ope,
And give sweet Passage to my wand'ring Soul.

Geo.
Yet let us all together to our Troops,
And give them leave to fly that dare not stay;
And call them Pillars that will stand to us,
Promising such Rewards if we should thrive,
As Victors wore at the Olympian Games:
This may plant Courage in their quailing Breasts,
For yet is Hope of Life and Victory.

Rich.
Again then let our bloody Colours wave,
And either Victory, or else a Grave.

Edw.
Now Lords, take leave until we meet again,
Where-e'er it be, in Heav'n, or on Earth.

[Exeunt.
Enter Richard and Clifford, meeting.
Rich.
Now Clifford, I have singled thee alone,
Suppose this Arm is for the Duke of York,
And for young Rutland, bound to revenge 'em both,
Wert thou inviron'd with a brazen Wall.

Cliff.
And, Richard, here's the Hand that stabb'd old York;
The self same Hand that slew thy Brother Rutland;
And here's the Heart that triumphs in their Deaths,
And cheers the Hand that slew thy Sire and Brother,
To execute the like upon thy self,
And so have at thee.

Rich.
Now guard well thy Heart.

[Fight off the Stage
Enter King Henry.
K. Hen.
The Battle fares like to the Morning's War,
When dying Clouds contend with growing Light;
Both Armies tug for Victory Breast to Breast,
Yet neither's Conqueror, nor conquered.
Here, on this Mole-hill, will I set me down,
An easier Seat than a high Throne of State;
To whom Heav'n will there be the Victory,
For Margaret, my Queen, and Clifford too,
Have chid me from the Battle, swearing both,
They prosper best of all when I am thence.
Wou'd I were dead, if it were Heav'ns good Will,
For what is in this World but Grief and Woe:
Oh! I am weary of this wretched State.
Just now I met a Son bearing his Father,
And an unhappy Father with his Son,
Each by the other slain unwittingly;
They being press'd into different Services.
Oh monstrous Effect of Civil War!
Oh piteous Spectacle! Oh sad Confusions!
What horrid Errors, and unnatural Ills,
Our horrid and unnatural War produces!
Alas! had they lack'd Tears, I cou'd supply 'em.
How will the Kingdom, for these woful Chances,
Mis-think the King, and not be satisfy'd.
Oh wretched Men! How are ye all deceiv'd,
Who think there's no true Joy but in a Crown.
By my Life,
It is the very Height of Misery:
Nature's common Benefits we want;
Our Sleep unsound, and short, and all our Needs,
To be supply'd with Fear, since Treachery
Lurks in each Corner of a cursed Court?
How often is a Monarch stung to Death,
By the deadly Viper which his Bosom warm'd?
How do we rack our Brain with Thoughts for others,
Who nothing think for us? Yet, how are Men gull'd
With the deceitful Bait of Pomp and Shew,
Meer gaudy Pagentry, to varnish over
A wild distracted State?
Now, by my Royalty, and pompous Woe,
A Prison's preferable to a Court:
There, tho' confin'd, I cou'd enjoy my Mind,
At Liberty, soar to the high Orbs of Heaven,
And gain a Kingdom of immortal Joy;
While others, toiling for a Nation's Good,
Shall lose themselves. Alas!
Did my Son know the Trouble of a Crown,
He'd cease to wonder why I should resign it,
And joyn in Prayers for Heaven to take it from me.
Oh wretched Men, who in these Wars have lost
Your dearest Friends, and now are weeping for 'em,
Here is a King more woful than you all,
You grieve but for your selves, I for you all!
Oh you, who when you suffer by your Kings,
Think to mend all by War, and by Rebellion,
See here your sad Mistakes; how dreadfully
You scourge your selves!
And, Oh! you Kings, who let your People rule
Till they have run themselves into Confusion,
See here, such Gentleness does wound like Tyranny.

Enter Queen and Prince.
Prince.
But that my Heart's on future Battles set,
I wou'd speak Blasphemy e'er bid you fly;
But fly you must, for all your Friends are fled,
And Warwick rages like a chased Bull:
Away, for Death doth hold us in Pursuit.

Queen.
The Day is lost, and with the Day the Kingdom.

K. Hen.
Where's Clifford?

Prince.
Oft within this Hour
I saw him down, oft up again, and fighting,
From Helmet, to the Spur, all Blood he was.

Queen.
Stay not to talk—Clifford, I think, is dead;
I met him bleeding with an Hundred Wounds,
And now in Cakes of Blood his Fire is quench'd.
Mount you, my Load, towards Berwick, post amain;
Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed.

K. Hen.
I go, but care not what becomes of me.

[Exit.
Enter Clifford wounded.
Cliff.
Here burns my Candle out, that lighted Henry:
My Love and Fear glew'd many Friends to thee,
And now I fall, thy tough Commixtures melt,
Impairing good Henry, strength'ning proud York
And, whither fly the Gnats but to the Sun?
And, who shines now but Henry's Enemies?
O Phœbus, hadst thou never giv'n Consent,
That Phaeton shou'd check thy fiery Steeds,
Thy burning Car never had scorch'd the Earth.
And Henry, hadst thou sway'd as Kings shou'd do;
Or as thy Father, and his Father did,
Giving no Ground unto the House of York,
They never then had sprung like Summer flies.
I, and Ten Thousand, in this luckless Realm,
Had left no Mourning Widows for our Death;
And thou, this Day, hadst kept thy Chair in Peace;
For, what doth cherish Weeds, but gentle Air?
And, what makes Robbers bold, but too much Lenity.
Bootless are Plaints, and cureless are my Wounds;
No way to fly, nor Strength to hold out Flight:
The Foe is merciless, and will not pity;
For at their Hands I have deserv'd no Mercy.
The Air hath got into my deadly Wounds,
And much Effuse of Blood doth make me faint.
Come York and Richard, Clarence, and the rest,
I stabb'd your Father's Bosom, split my Breast.

[Faints.
Shout.]
Enter Edward, Richard, George, Warwick, Soldiers.
Edw.
Now breathe we, Lords, good Fortune bids us pause,
And smooth the Frowns of War with peaceful Looks.
Are any Troops gone to pursue the Queen?
On her Fame Henry's Fortune does depend,
As the Seas Ebb and Flow does on the Moon.

War.
I have ta'en Care of that.

Edw.
Pray tell me, Lords,
Think you that Clifford fled with the King and Queen?

War.
No, 'tis impossible he shou'd escape;
For tho' before his Face I speak the Word,
Your Brother Richard mark'd him for the Grave,
And wheresoe'er he is, he's surely dead.

Cliff.
Oh!

[dies.
Edw.
Whose Soul is that which takes her deadly Leave?
See who it is—And now the Battle's ended,
If Friend, or Foe, let him be gently us'd.

Rich.
Revoke that Doom of Mercy—for 'tis Clifford,
Who, not contented that he lopp'd the Branch,
In hewing Rutland, when his Leaves put forth,
But set his murth'ring Knife unto the Root,
From whence that tender Spray did sweetly spring,
I mean our princely Father, Duke of York.

Edw.
Bring forth that fatal Screch-Owl to our House,
That nothing sung but Death to us and ours;
Now Death shall stop his dismal threat'ning Sound,
And his ill-boding Tongue no more shall speak.

War.
I think his Understanding is bereft.
Say Clifford, Dost thou know who speaks to thee?
Dark, cloudy Death, o'ershades his Beams of Life,
And he nor sees, nor hears us, what we say.
Since then he's dead, off with the Traytor's 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 hence shall Warwick cut the Sea to France,
And ask the Lady Bona for thy Queen;
So shalt thou sinew both these Lands together;
And having France thy Friend, thou shalt not dread
The scatter'd Foes that hope to rise again;
For tho' they cannot greatly sting to hurt,
Yet look to have 'em buz to offend your Ears.

Edw.
Oh! thou hast made me much in Love with Bona,
And all Relations have increas'd my Passion;
I cannot Marry better—haste away.

War.
Then, Royal Sir, I humbly take my Leave.

Edw.
Success attend your Embassy, my Lord.

[Exit.
Enter a Gentleman.
Gent.
A beauteous Lady, attir'd in Widow's Weeds,
Intreats Admission to your Majesty.

Edw.
Admit her instantly.

[Exit Gent.
Enter Lady Grey. She kneels, and delivers a Petition. The King gazes on her.
L. G.
Sir, I present you humbly the Petition
Of a poor Widow, and her little Orphans.
I am the Relict of one Sir John Grey,
Who in St. Alban's Battle lost his Life,
In the Defence of him we thought our King.
If my poor Husband's Loyalty did err,
He dearly for that fatal Error paid.
My humble Prayer is, that my poor Orphans
May not be punish'd for their Father's Faults,
If erring Loyalty can be a Fault.

Edw.
I ne'er had Eyes, or my Eyes ne'er saw Beauty
Till this amazing Minute.

Rich.
So! he's lost,
And any one may have England now that will.

L. G.
May it please your Highness to resolve me now,
And what your Pleasure is shall satisfy me.

Rich.
Ay, Widow, then, I'll warrant you, all your Lands,
If that which pleases him shall pleasure you.

Edw.
I am so rapp'd, I mind not what she says,
Nor that she is all this while upon her Knees.
Pray, Madam, rise—leave us.

Rich.
Yea, is it so?
I see the Lady hath a Thing to grant
Before the King will grant her humble Suit.

Edw.
If I forget not, you said you had a Husband
Who in St. Alban's Battle lost his Life.

L. G.
Yes, Sir, I had, his Name was Sir John Grey.

Edw.
What Excellence had he above Mankind,
That he shou'd be more blest than all the rest?
How many Children have you, Lady? Tell me.

Geo.
I think he means to beg a Child of her.

Rich.
Nay, then hang me, he'll rather give her two.

L. G.
Three, my most gracious Lord.

Rich.
You shall have Four if you'll be rul'd by him.

Edw.
Oh wondrous, happy Man, to enjoy this Woman!
I must enquire about her, I was never,
Never so charm'd before—my Lord, come hither,
Pray do you know this Lady?

Lord.
Yes, Sir, well,
She is the Widow of the late Sir John Grey,
A Man of noble Blood, and great Estate,
But a most vehement Lancastrian.

Edw.
No Matter: Of what Family is she?

Lord.
Her Quality does far exceed her Husband's,
And yet her Vertue does exceed her Quality;
She is the Daughter of Sir Richard Woodvil,
Her Mother was sometime Dutchess of Bedford,
And Daughter of the Earl of St. Pool.

Edw.
Of noble Birth, and by her Mother's Side
Related to the House of Lancaster.

Lord.
She is by Marriage, Sir, that was the Cause
That Sir John Grey was such a fierce Lancastrian.

Edw.
She has Beauty, Vertue, joyn'd with noble Birth;
Why may not this fair Lady be a Queen?
But she's a Subject, England will not like it;
And the English Nation, like the Sea it governs,
Is bold and turbulent, and easily mov'd,
And always beats against the Shore that bounds it.
What, are the People free, and not the King?
Not free, where every Slave is free, his Bed;
Ay, so it is it seems, and th' English Fury,
Will easily with any Wind be rais'd,
To dash the Palaces and Peace of Kings.
Come what will come, this Lady shall be mine;
She shall be, or my Mistress, or my Wife.
What was it, Madam, you desir'd of me?

L. G.
To give poor Orphans, Sir, their Father's Lands.

Edw.
Heaven forbid I shou'd retain 'em from 'em.

L. G.
Then, Sir, with humble Thanks, I take my leave.

Edw.
Hold, Madam, for I must have one Word more.
Pray tell me, Madam, Do you love your Children?

L. G.
More dearly, Sir, than I do love my self.

Edw.
And wou'd you not do much to do them good?

L. G.
To do them good I wou'd sustain much harm.

Edw.
I must impose a Tax upon this Land.

L. G.
It shall be thankfully and gladly paid.

Edw.
It will, I'm sure, more gladly be receiv'd.
It is an easy Tax, no more but Love.

L. G.
No Loyal Subject, Sir, but loves their King.

Edw.
But this is Love that none but you can grant.

L. G.
I do not understand your Meaning, Sir.

Edw.
Truly I scarcely understand my self.
For I have gaz'd my self out of my Reason.

L. G.
With your Permission, Sir, I take my Leave.

Edw.
Oh, you shall never, never, part from me!

L. G.
Alas! what mean you, Sir.

Edw.
I mean all the Love
E'er was, or can be, in the Heart of Man.

L. G.
Oh, Royal Sir, I dare not understand you,
Because I dare not think Ill of my Prince.

Edw.
Can there be ill in Love? There will be all
The Happiness to me, Glory to you,
Your Heart and mine can possibly desire.
Why do you tremble, and draw back your Hand?
You must not, shall not stir, till you have granted
What all this Languishing and Pressing mean.

L. G.
Oh, I shall swoon! Wou'd I had ne'er come here.
Sir, I thus low most humbly beg of you,
Let it suffice your conquering Arms have seiz'd
My Husband's Life, your Laws have seiz'd his Lands,
Seek not to take my Honour, and my Vertue.
I never fought against you, ne'er oppos'd you.

Edw.
Her Looks do argue her repleat with Modesty.
Her Words do show her Sense incomparable.
All her Perfections challenge Sovereignty;
I wrong her therefore, she deserves a Crown,
And each Look claims a Kingdom as its due.
Madam, I mean nothing but Honour to you,
I am resolv'd to make you Queen of England.

L. G.
Now, Sir, you mean Dishonour to your self;
I am as much unworthy to be Queen,
As I'm above serving an ill Design.

Edw.
Rather, the Crown's unworthy of your Beauty.

L. G.
It is impossible you shou'd descend
To such mean Thoughts.

Edw.
It is impossible
I shou'd have Happiness without your Love.
I had rather with your Love be your dead Husband,
Than with your Hatred be a living King.
Therefore consider well what you will do.
Think on the Extravagance of my Passion;
Think how very great or miserable
My Power can make you, and remember too,
You said you were fond of all your Children,
And that to do them Good you cou'd bear Harm.
And now, behold a King, who courts both you
And them to Wealth, Pomp, and Royal Greatness.

L. G.
Heav'n instruct me what Answer I shall make.
Who knows how far his Passion, back'd with Power,
May hurry him to ruin me and mine:
If I should not consent unto his Will,
I, by denial, ruin our whole House.
When I, by yielding, bear the Storm alone,
I rather will consent to sacrifice
My self, than see my poor little Orphans
Reduc'd to Shame, to Want, and Beggary;
That Thought strikes more Poniards into my Heart,
Than my consenting unto Edward's Love.
Oh, that I only were concern'd in this!
[aside.
I lately wish'd I never had come here,
For my own sake, I wish it now for yours.
Oh think, Sir, what will all your Subjects say!

Edw.
They'll say I am in Love.

L. G.
But will they not
Be much displeas'd their Prince shou'd love so low.

Edw.
I give them leave to chuse where they like best,
And shall I be the only Man impos'd on.

L. G.
But you have sent to Court a foreign Princess,
May bring your Kingdom great Advantages,
Consider how you may enrage Lord Warwick.

Edw.
He is my Friend and Subject, not my Master.

L. G.
I fear the World will much condemn you, Sir.

Edw.
I care not.
I had rather live a Minute in your Arms,
Than many Ages in the Praise of Fools.

Enter Gentleman.
Gent.
Most happy Tidings, Sir Henry, your Enemy,
Wandring alone disguis'd in homely Habit,
Was taken by the Keepers of the Forest,
As he was reading in a lonely Covert.

Edw.
Good News, indeed! where is he, bring him to me.
Enter King Henry in mean Habit.
Why, how now Henry, in this humble Garb?

Hen.
Insult not, Edward, over my Misfortunes,
But from this Garb, in which thou scarce canst know me,
Learn thou to know thy self, and remember,
Heav'n can humble ev'ry King like me.

Edw.
Henry, I pity thee, thou dost not suffer
For thy own Crimes, but those of thy usurping
And traiterous Ancestors—to London with him,
And keep him a close Prisoner in the Tower;
See that he there command all Things but Liberty.
How all my Happinesses flow together;
My Head incircled with a glorious Crown,
My greatest Enemy within my Power.
Successful Conquest waiting on my Arms,
And what's yet more, possess'd of thy bright Charms.

[Exeunt.
Manet Rich.
And have I fought only to give you Joys?
What, must not I too have an equal Share?
I have my Passions, Sir, as well as you.
Whence do those Passions spring, from childish Love?
No, from manly Greatness; all other Fondness
I've banish'd from this rude tough Breast of mine,
For I'm not made to please a wanton Eye.
Then, what will satisfy my Appetite?
Nought but a Crown, it hangs within my sight,
And I will stretch this blasted Arm of mine
O'er all the Heads that are 'twixt me and that
But I will reach it—my Arm must then be long,
For say that Edward's Title's buried,
Still there remains Clarence and Henry,
And his Son Edward, with their unlook'd for Issue,
To take their Rooms, e'er I can place my self.
A cold Premeditation for my Purpose.
Why then do I but dream on Sovereignty?
Like one that stands upon a Promontory,
And spies afar off Shore, which he wou'd tread,
Wishing his Foot were equal with his Eye;
And chides the Sea that sunders him from thence,
Saying, he'll lave it dry, to have his Way.
So flatter I my self with Things impossible.
How rarely wou'd the long Regal Robe
Hide my Deformity of Back and Legs?
How wou'd a Sceptre grace this shrunk up Arm?
And, Oh! what Beauty is there in a Crown?
And till I gain it I do live in Torment.
Shall I then stand like one lost in a Wood,
And rather bear the pricking of the Thorns,
Than stain my Sword by hewing out my Way?
Why do I not set this Brain of mine to work,
And frame my Countenance to all Occasions?
I'll play the Orator as well as Nestor,
Deceive more slyly than Ulysses cou'd,
And like a Sinon take another Troy.
I can add Colours to the Camelion,
And, for Advantage, can change Shapes with Proteus.
Have I endur'd all Hazards of the War,
Only to see this lustful Edward reign?
Have both my Hands, for him, been wash'd in
Blood—
And shall they not dare do the same for me?
Soft Time, and Cunning, and a daring Mind,
Shall set this wish'd for Crown upon my Head?
Some Men, perhaps, will say by Villany,
That's Villany, which by its ill Success,