THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH

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Contents

Dramatis Personæ

KING HENRY THE SIXTH
MARGARET, Queen to King Henry
Humphrey, Duke of GLOUCESTER, his uncle
ELEANOR, Duchess of Gloucester
CARDINAL Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, great-uncle to the King

DUKE OF SOMERSET
DUKE OF SUFFOLK
DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM
LORD CLIFFORD
YOUNG CLIFFORD, his son
VAUX

Richard Plantagenet, Duke of YORK
EDWARD and RICHARD, his sons
EARL OF SALISBURY
EARL OF WARWICK

THOMAS HORNER, an armourer
PETER THUMP, his man
JOHN HUME, a priest
JOHN SOUTHWELL, a priest
Margery JOURDAIN, a witch
ROGER BOLINGBROKE, a conjurer
SIMPCOX, an impostor
Wife to Simpcox
Mayor of Saint Albans
SIR JOHN STANLEY
Two Murderers
A LIEUTENANT
MASTER
Master’s-Mate
Walter WHITMORE
Two Gentlemen, prisoners with Suffolk

Jack CADE, a rebel
George BEVIS
John HOLLAND
DICK the butcher
SMITH the weaver
MICHAEL, etc., followers of Cade
CLERK of Chartham
SIR HUMPHREY STAFFORD
WILLIAM STAFFORD, his brother
LORD SCALES
LORD SAYE
MATTHEW GOUGH
Alexander IDEN, a Kentish gentleman

Lords, Ladies, and Attendants, Petitioners, Aldermen, a Herald, a Beadle, Sheriff, and Officers, Citizens, Prentices, Falconers, Guards, Soldiers, Messengers, &c.

A Spirit

SCENE: England.

ACT I

SCENE I. London. The palace

Flourish of trumpets, then hautboys. Enter the King, Gloucester, Salisbury, Warwick, and Cardinal Beaufort on the one side; the Queen, Suffolk, York, Somerset and Buckingham on the other.

SUFFOLK.
As by your high imperial Majesty
I had in charge at my depart for France,
As procurator to your excellence,
To marry Princess Margaret for your grace,
So, in the famous ancient city Tours,
In presence of the Kings of France and Sicil,
The Dukes of Orleans, Calaber, Bretagne, and Alençon,
Seven earls, twelve barons, and twenty reverend bishops,
I have performed my task and was espoused,
And humbly now upon my bended knee,
In sight of England and her lordly peers,
Deliver up my title in the Queen
To your most gracious hands, that are the substance
Of that great shadow I did represent:
The happiest gift that ever marquess gave,
The fairest queen that ever king received.

KING HENRY.
Suffolk, arise.—Welcome, Queen Margaret.
I can express no kinder sign of love
Than this kind kiss.—O Lord, that lends me life,
Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness!
For Thou hast given me in this beauteous face
A world of earthly blessings to my soul,
If sympathy of love unite our thoughts.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Great King of England and my gracious lord,
The mutual conference that my mind hath had
By day, by night, waking and in my dreams,
In courtly company or at my beads,
With you, mine alderliefest sovereign,
Makes me the bolder to salute my King
With ruder terms, such as my wit affords
And overjoy of heart doth minister.

KING HENRY.
Her sight did ravish, but her grace in speech,
Her words yclad with wisdom’s majesty,
Makes me from wondering fall to weeping joys,
Such is the fulness of my heart’s content.
Lords, with one cheerful voice welcome my love.

ALL.
[Kneeling.] Long live Queen Margaret, England’s happiness!

QUEEN MARGARET.
We thank you all.

[Flourish.]

SUFFOLK.
My Lord Protector, so it please your grace,
Here are the articles of contracted peace
Between our sovereign and the French king Charles,
For eighteen months concluded by consent.

GLOUCESTER.
[Reads.] Imprimis, it is agreed between the French king Charles and William de la Pole, Marquess of Suffolk, ambassador for Henry, King of England, that the said Henry shall espouse the Lady Margaret, daughter unto Reignier King of Naples, Sicilia, and Jerusalem, and crown her Queen of England ere the thirtieth of May next ensuing. Item, that the duchy of Anjou and the county of Maine shall be released and delivered to the King her father—

[Lets the paper fall.]

KING HENRY.
Uncle, how now?

GLOUCESTER.
Pardon me, gracious lord.
Some sudden qualm hath struck me at the heart
And dimmed mine eyes, that I can read no further.

KING HENRY.
Uncle of Winchester, I pray read on.

CARDINAL.
[Reads.] Item, it is further agreed between them, that the duchies of Anjou and Maine shall be released and delivered to the King her father, and she sent over of the King of England’s own proper cost and charges, without having any dowry.

KING HENRY.
They please us well.—Lord Marquess, kneel down.
We here create thee the first Duke of Suffolk,
And girt thee with the sword.—Cousin of York,
We here discharge your grace from being regent
I’ th’ parts of France, till term of eighteen months
Be full expired.—Thanks, uncle Winchester,
Gloucester, York, Buckingham, Somerset,
Salisbury, and Warwick;
We thank you all for this great favour done
In entertainment to my princely Queen.
Come, let us in, and with all speed provide
To see her coronation be performed.

[Exeunt King, Queen and Suffolk.]

GLOUCESTER.
Brave peers of England, pillars of the state,
To you Duke Humphrey must unload his grief,
Your grief, the common grief of all the land.
What! Did my brother Henry spend his youth,
His valour, coin, and people, in the wars?
Did he so often lodge in open field,
In winter’s cold and summer’s parching heat,
To conquer France, his true inheritance?
And did my brother Bedford toil his wits
To keep by policy what Henry got?
Have you yourselves, Somerset, Buckingham,
Brave York, Salisbury, and victorious Warwick,
Received deep scars in France and Normandy?
Or hath mine uncle Beaufort and myself,
With all the learned council of the realm,
Studied so long, sat in the council house
Early and late, debating to and fro
How France and Frenchmen might be kept in awe,
And had his highness in his infancy
Crowned in Paris in despite of foes?
And shall these labours and these honours die?
Shall Henry’s conquest, Bedford’s vigilance,
Your deeds of war, and all our counsel die?
O peers of England, shameful is this league!
Fatal this marriage, cancelling your fame,
Blotting your names from books of memory,
Razing the characters of your renown,
Defacing monuments of conquered France,
Undoing all, as all had never been!

CARDINAL.
Nephew, what means this passionate discourse,
This peroration with such circumstance?
For France, ’tis ours; and we will keep it still.

GLOUCESTER.
Ay, uncle, we will keep it if we can,
But now it is impossible we should.
Suffolk, the new-made duke that rules the roast,
Hath given the duchy of Anjou and Maine
Unto the poor King Reignier, whose large style
Agrees not with the leanness of his purse.

SALISBURY.
Now, by the death of Him that died for all,
These counties were the keys of Normandy!
But wherefore weeps Warwick, my valiant son?

WARWICK.
For grief that they are past recovery;
For, were there hope to conquer them again,
My sword should shed hot blood, mine eyes no tears.
Anjou and Maine! Myself did win them both,
Those provinces these arms of mine did conquer;
And are the cities that I got with wounds
Delivered up again with peaceful words?
Mort Dieu!

YORK.
For Suffolk’s duke, may he be suffocate,
That dims the honour of this warlike isle!
France should have torn and rent my very heart
Before I would have yielded to this league.
I never read but England’s kings have had
Large sums of gold and dowries with their wives;
And our King Henry gives away his own,
To match with her that brings no vantages.

GLOUCESTER.
A proper jest, and never heard before,
That Suffolk should demand a whole fifteenth
For costs and charges in transporting her!
She should have staid in France, and starved in France,
Before—

CARDINAL.
My Lord of Gloucester, now ye grow too hot.
It was the pleasure of my lord the King.

GLOUCESTER.
My Lord of Winchester, I know your mind.
’Tis not my speeches that you do mislike,
But ’tis my presence that doth trouble ye.
Rancour will out. Proud prelate, in thy face
I see thy fury. If I longer stay,
We shall begin our ancient bickerings.—
Lordings, farewell; and say, when I am gone,
I prophesied France will be lost ere long.

[Exit.]

CARDINAL.
So, there goes our Protector in a rage.
’Tis known to you he is mine enemy,
Nay, more, an enemy unto you all,
And no great friend, I fear me, to the King.
Consider, lords, he is the next of blood
And heir apparent to the English crown.
Had Henry got an empire by his marriage,
And all the wealthy kingdoms of the west,
There’s reason he should be displeased at it.
Look to it, lords. Let not his smoothing words
Bewitch your hearts; be wise and circumspect.
What though the common people favour him,
Calling him “Humphrey, the good Duke of Gloucester,”
Clapping their hands, and crying with loud voice,
“Jesu maintain your royal excellence!”
With “God preserve the good Duke Humphrey!”
I fear me, lords, for all this flattering gloss,
He will be found a dangerous Protector.

BUCKINGHAM.
Why should he, then, protect our sovereign,
He being of age to govern of himself?
Cousin of Somerset, join you with me,
And all together, with the Duke of Suffolk,
We’ll quickly hoist Duke Humphrey from his seat.

CARDINAL.
This weighty business will not brook delay;
I’ll to the Duke of Suffolk presently.

[Exit.]

SOMERSET.
Cousin of Buckingham, though Humphrey’s pride
And greatness of his place be grief to us,
Yet let us watch the haughty cardinal;
His insolence is more intolerable
Than all the princes’ in the land beside.
If Gloucester be displaced, he’ll be Protector.

BUCKINGHAM.
Or thou or I, Somerset, will be Protector,
Despite Duke Humphrey or the Cardinal.

[Exeunt Buckingham and Somerset.]

SALISBURY.
Pride went before; Ambition follows him.
While these do labour for their own preferment,
Behoves it us to labour for the realm.
I never saw but Humphrey Duke of Gloucester,
Did bear him like a noble gentleman.
Oft have I seen the haughty Cardinal,
More like a soldier than a man o’ th’ church,
As stout and proud as he were lord of all,
Swear like a ruffian and demean himself
Unlike the ruler of a commonweal.—
Warwick my son, the comfort of my age,
Thy deeds, thy plainness, and thy housekeeping,
Hath won the greatest favour of the commons,
Excepting none but good Duke Humphrey.—
And, brother York, thy acts in Ireland,
In bringing them to civil discipline,
Thy late exploits done in the heart of France,
When thou wert regent for our sovereign,
Have made thee feared and honoured of the people.
Join we together for the public good,
In what we can to bridle and suppress
The pride of Suffolk and the Cardinal,
With Somerset’s and Buckingham’s ambition;
And, as we may, cherish Duke Humphrey’s deeds
While they do tend the profit of the land.

WARWICK.
So God help Warwick, as he loves the land
And common profit of his country!

YORK.
And so says York, [Aside.] for he hath greatest cause.

SALISBURY.
Then let’s make haste away and look unto the main.

WARWICK.
Unto the main! O father, Maine is lost,
That Maine which by main force Warwick did win,
And would have kept so long as breath did last!
Main chance, father, you meant; but I meant Maine,
Which I will win from France, or else be slain.

[Exeunt Warwick and Salisbury.]

YORK.
Anjou and Maine are given to the French;
Paris is lost; the state of Normandy
Stands on a tickle point now they are gone.
Suffolk concluded on the articles,
The peers agreed, and Henry was well pleased
To change two dukedoms for a duke’s fair daughter.
I cannot blame them all. What is’t to them?
’Tis thine they give away, and not their own.
Pirates may make cheap pennyworths of their pillage,
And purchase friends, and give to courtesans,
Still revelling like lords till all be gone;
Whileas the silly owner of the goods
Weeps over them, and wrings his hapless hands,
And shakes his head, and trembling stands aloof,
While all is shared and all is borne away,
Ready to starve and dare not touch his own.
So York must sit and fret and bite his tongue,
While his own lands are bargained for and sold.
Methinks the realms of England, France, and Ireland
Bear that proportion to my flesh and blood
As did the fatal brand Althaea burnt
Unto the prince’s heart of Calydon.
Anjou and Maine both given unto the French!
Cold news for me, for I had hope of France,
Even as I have of fertile England’s soil.
A day will come when York shall claim his own;
And therefore I will take the Nevilles’ parts,
And make a show of love to proud Duke Humphrey,
And when I spy advantage, claim the crown,
For that’s the golden mark I seek to hit.
Nor shall proud Lancaster usurp my right,
Nor hold the sceptre in his childish fist,
Nor wear the diadem upon his head,
Whose church-like humours fits not for a crown.
Then, York, be still awhile till time do serve.
Watch thou and wake when others be asleep,
To pry into the secrets of the state;
Till Henry, surfeiting in joys of love
With his new bride and England’s dear-bought Queen,
And Humphrey with the peers be fallen at jars.
Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose,
With whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed,
And in my standard bear the arms of York,
To grapple with the house of Lancaster;
And force perforce I’ll make him yield the crown,
Whose bookish rule hath pulled fair England down.

[Exit.]

SCENE II. The Duke of Gloucester’s House

Enter Duke Humphrey of Gloucester and his wife Eleanor.

ELEANOR.
Why droops my lord, like over-ripened corn
Hanging the head at Ceres’ plenteous load?
Why doth the great Duke Humphrey knit his brows,
As frowning at the favours of the world?
Why are thine eyes fixed to the sullen earth,
Gazing on that which seems to dim thy sight?
What seest thou there? King Henry’s diadem,
Enchased with all the honours of the world?
If so, gaze on, and grovel on thy face,
Until thy head be circled with the same.
Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold.
What, is’t too short? I’ll lengthen it with mine;
And, having both together heaved it up,
We’ll both together lift our heads to heaven,
And never more abase our sight so low
As to vouchsafe one glance unto the ground.

GLOUCESTER.
O Nell, sweet Nell, if thou dost love thy lord,
Banish the canker of ambitious thoughts.
And may that hour when I imagine ill
Against my King and nephew, virtuous Henry,
Be my last breathing in this mortal world!
My troublous dreams this night doth make me sad.

ELEANOR.
What dreamed my lord? Tell me, and I’ll requite it
With sweet rehearsal of my morning’s dream.

GLOUCESTER.
Methought this staff, mine office-badge in court,
Was broke in twain; by whom I have forgot,
But, as I think, it was by th’ Cardinal,
And on the pieces of the broken wand
Were placed the heads of Edmund, Duke of Somerset
And William de la Pole, first Duke of Suffolk.
This was my dream; what it doth bode, God knows.

ELEANOR.
Tut, this was nothing but an argument
That he that breaks a stick of Gloucester’s grove
Shall lose his head for his presumption.
But list to me, my Humphrey, my sweet Duke:
Methought I sat in seat of majesty
In the cathedral church of Westminster
And in that chair where kings and queens are crowned,
Where Henry and Dame Margaret kneeled to me
And on my head did set the diadem.

GLOUCESTER.
Nay, Eleanor, then must I chide outright.
Presumptuous dame, ill-nurtured Eleanor,
Art thou not second woman in the realm,
And the Protector’s wife, beloved of him?
Hast thou not worldly pleasure at command,
Above the reach or compass of thy thought?
And wilt thou still be hammering treachery
To tumble down thy husband and thyself
From top of honour to disgrace’s feet?
Away from me, and let me hear no more!

ELEANOR.
What, what, my lord! Are you so choleric
With Eleanor for telling but her dream?
Next time I’ll keep my dreams unto myself,
And not be checked.

GLOUCESTER.
Nay, be not angry, I am pleased again.

Enter Messenger.

MESSENGER.
My Lord Protector, ’tis his highness’ pleasure
You do prepare to ride unto Saint Albans,
Whereas the King and Queen do mean to hawk.

GLOUCESTER.
I go. Come, Nell, thou wilt ride with us?

ELEANOR.
Yes, my good lord, I’ll follow presently.

[Exeunt Gloucester and Messenger.]

Follow I must; I cannot go before
While Gloucester bears this base and humble mind.
Were I a man, a duke, and next of blood,
I would remove these tedious stumbling-blocks
And smooth my way upon their headless necks;
And, being a woman, I will not be slack
To play my part in Fortune’s pageant.—
Where are you there? Sir John! Nay, fear not, man,
We are alone; here’s none but thee and I.

Enter Hume.

HUME.
Jesus preserve your royal majesty!

ELEANOR.
What sayst thou? Majesty! I am but grace.

HUME.
But, by the grace of God, and Hume’s advice,
Your grace’s title shall be multiplied.

ELEANOR.
What sayst thou, man? Hast thou as yet conferred
With Margery Jourdain, the cunning witch,
With Roger Bolingbroke, the conjurer?
And will they undertake to do me good?

HUME.
This they have promised, to show your highness
A spirit raised from depth of underground,
That shall make answer to such questions
As by your Grace shall be propounded him.

ELEANOR.
It is enough, I’ll think upon the questions.
When from Saint Albans we do make return,
We’ll see these things effected to the full.
Here, Hume, take this reward; make merry, man,
With thy confederates in this weighty cause.

[Exit.]

HUME.
Hume must make merry with the Duchess’ gold.
Marry, and shall. But, how now, Sir John Hume!
Seal up your lips, and give no words but mum;
The business asketh silent secrecy.
Dame Eleanor gives gold to bring the witch;
Gold cannot come amiss, were she a devil.
Yet have I gold flies from another coast.
I dare not say, from the rich cardinal
And from the great and new-made Duke of Suffolk,
Yet I do find it so. For, to be plain,
They, knowing Dame Eleanor’s aspiring humour,
Have hired me to undermine the Duchess
And buzz these conjurations in her brain.
They say “A crafty knave does need no broker”,
Yet am I Suffolk and the cardinal’s broker.
Hume, if you take not heed, you shall go near
To call them both a pair of crafty knaves.
Well, so its stands; and thus, I fear, at last
Hume’s knavery will be the Duchess’ wrack,
And her attainture will be Humphrey’s fall.
Sort how it will, I shall have gold for all.

[Exit.]

SCENE III. London. The palace

Enter Peter and Petitioners.

1 PETITIONER.
My masters, let’s stand close. My Lord Protector will come this way by and by, and then we may deliver our supplications in the quill.

2 PETITIONER.
Marry, the Lord protect him, for he’s a good man! Jesu bless him!

Enter Suffolk and Queen.

1 PETITIONER.
Here he comes, methinks, and the Queen with him. I’ll be the first, sure.

2 PETITIONER.
Come back, fool! This is the Duke of Suffolk and not my Lord Protector.

SUFFOLK.
How now, fellow; wouldst anything with me?

1 PETITIONER.
I pray, my lord, pardon me, I took ye for my Lord Protector.

QUEEN MARGARET.
[Reading.] “To my Lord Protector.” Are your supplications to his lordship? Let me see them. What is thine?

1 PETITIONER.
Mine is, an ’t please your grace, against John Goodman, my Lord Cardinal’s man, for keeping my house and lands, and wife and all, from me.

SUFFOLK.
Thy wife too! That’s some wrong, indeed.—What’s yours?—What’s here! [Reads.] Against the Duke of Suffolk for enclosing the commons of Melford. How now, sir knave!

2 PETITIONER.
Alas, sir, I am but a poor petitioner of our whole township.

PETER.
[Giving his petition.] Against my master, Thomas Horner, for saying that the Duke of York was rightful heir to the crown.

QUEEN MARGARET.
What sayst thou? Did the Duke of York say he was rightful heir to the crown?

PETER.
That my master was? No, forsooth, my master said that he was, and that the King was an usurper.

SUFFOLK.
Who is there?

Enter Servant.

Take this fellow in, and send for his master with a pursuivant presently.—We’ll hear more of your matter before the King.

[Exit Servant with Peter.]

QUEEN MARGARET.
And as for you, that love to be protected
Under the wings of our Protector’s grace,
Begin your suits anew, and sue to him.

[Tears the supplications.]

Away, base cullions!—Suffolk, let them go.

ALL.
Come, let’s be gone.

[Exeunt.]

QUEEN MARGARET.
My Lord of Suffolk, say, is this the guise,
Is this the fashion in the court of England?
Is this the government of Britain’s isle,
And this the royalty of Albion’s king?
What, shall King Henry be a pupil still
Under the surly Gloucester’s governance?
Am I a queen in title and in style,
And must be made a subject to a duke?
I tell thee, Pole, when in the city Tours
Thou ran’st atilt in honour of my love
And stol’st away the ladies’ hearts of France,
I thought King Henry had resembled thee
In courage, courtship, and proportion.
But all his mind is bent to holiness,
To number Ave-Maries on his beads.
His champions are the prophets and apostles,
His weapons holy saws of sacred writ,
His study is his tilt-yard, and his loves
Are brazen images of canonized saints.
I would the college of the cardinals
Would choose him pope and carry him to Rome
And set the triple crown upon his head!
That were a state fit for his holiness.

SUFFOLK.
Madam, be patient. As I was cause
Your highness came to England, so will I
In England work your grace’s full content.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Beside the haughty Protector, have we Beaufort
The imperious churchman, Somerset, Buckingham,
And grumbling York; and not the least of these
But can do more in England than the King.

SUFFOLK.
And he of these that can do most of all
Cannot do more in England than the Nevilles;
Salisbury and Warwick are no simple peers.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Not all these lords do vex me half so much
As that proud dame, the Lord Protector’s wife.
She sweeps it through the court with troops of ladies,
More like an empress than Duke Humphrey’s wife.
Strangers in court do take her for the Queen.
She bears a duke’s revenues on her back,
And in her heart she scorns our poverty.
Shall I not live to be avenged on her?
Contemptuous base-born callet as she is,
She vaunted ’mongst her minions t’ other day
The very train of her worst wearing gown
Was better worth than all my father’s lands
Till Suffolk gave two dukedoms for his daughter.

SUFFOLK.
Madam, myself have limed a bush for her
And placed a quire of such enticing birds
That she will light to listen to the lays
And never mount to trouble you again.
So let her rest; and, madam, list to me,
For I am bold to counsel you in this:
Although we fancy not the Cardinal,
Yet must we join with him and with the lords
Till we have brought Duke Humphrey in disgrace.
As for the Duke of York, this late complaint
Will make but little for his benefit.
So, one by one, we’ll weed them all at last,
And you yourself shall steer the happy helm.

Sound a sennet. Enter the King, Gloucester, Cardinal Beaufort, Somerset, Buckingham, Salisbury, York, Warwick and the Duchess of Gloucester.

KING HENRY.
For my part, noble lords, I care not which;
Or Somerset or York, all’s one to me.

YORK.
If York have ill demeaned himself in France,
Then let him be denied the regentship.

SOMERSET.
If Somerset be unworthy of the place,
Let York be regent; I will yield to him.

WARWICK.
Whether your Grace be worthy, yea or no,
Dispute not that; York is the worthier.

CARDINAL.
Ambitious Warwick, let thy betters speak.

WARWICK.
The Cardinal’s not my better in the field.

BUCKINGHAM.
All in this presence are thy betters, Warwick.

WARWICK.
Warwick may live to be the best of all.

SALISBURY.
Peace, son!—And show some reason, Buckingham,
Why Somerset should be preferred in this.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Because the King, forsooth, will have it so.

GLOUCESTER.
Madam, the King is old enough himself
To give his censure. These are no women’s matters.

QUEEN MARGARET.
If he be old enough, what needs your grace
To be Protector of his excellence?

GLOUCESTER.
Madam, I am Protector of the realm,
And at his pleasure will resign my place.

SUFFOLK.
Resign it then, and leave thine insolence.
Since thou wert king—as who is king but thou?—
The commonwealth hath daily run to wrack,
The Dauphin hath prevailed beyond the seas,
And all the peers and nobles of the realm
Have been as bondmen to thy sovereignty.

CARDINAL.
The commons hast thou racked; the clergy’s bags
Are lank and lean with thy extortions.

SOMERSET.
Thy sumptuous buildings and thy wife’s attire
Have cost a mass of public treasury.

BUCKINGHAM.
Thy cruelty in execution
Upon offenders hath exceeded law,
And left thee to the mercy of the law.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Thy sale of offices and towns in France,
If they were known, as the suspect is great,
Would make thee quickly hop without thy head.

[Exit Gloucester. The Queen drops her fan.]

Give me my fan. What minion! Can ye not?

[She gives the Duchess a box on the ear.]

I cry your mercy, madam; was it you?

ELEANOR.
Was’t I! Yea, I it was, proud Frenchwoman.
Could I come near your beauty with my nails,
I’d set my ten commandments in your face.

KING HENRY.
Sweet aunt, be quiet; ’twas against her will.

ELEANOR.
Against her will! Good King, look to ’t in time;
She’ll hamper thee and dandle thee like a baby.
Though in this place most master wear no breeches,
She shall not strike Dame Eleanor unrevenged.

[Exit.]

BUCKINGHAM.
Lord Cardinal, I will follow Eleanor,
And listen after Humphrey, how he proceeds.
She’s tickled now; her fume needs no spurs,
She’ll gallop far enough to her destruction.

[Exit.]

Enter Gloucester.

GLOUCESTER.
Now, lords, my choler being overblown
With walking once about the quadrangle,
I come to talk of commonwealth affairs.
As for your spiteful false objections,
Prove them, and I lie open to the law;
But God in mercy so deal with my soul
As I in duty love my king and country!
But, to the matter that we have in hand:
I say, my sovereign, York is meetest man
To be your regent in the realm of France.

SUFFOLK.
Before we make election, give me leave
To show some reason, of no little force,
That York is most unmeet of any man.

YORK.
I’ll tell thee, Suffolk, why I am unmeet:
First, for I cannot flatter thee in pride;
Next, if I be appointed for the place,
My Lord of Somerset will keep me here
Without discharge, money, or furniture,
Till France be won into the Dauphin’s hands.
Last time, I danced attendance on his will
Till Paris was besieged, famished, and lost.

WARWICK.
That can I witness, and a fouler fact
Did never traitor in the land commit.

SUFFOLK.
Peace, headstrong Warwick!

WARWICK.
Image of pride, why should I hold my peace?

Enter Horner the armourer and his man Peter, guarded.

SUFFOLK.
Because here is a man accused of treason.
Pray God the Duke of York excuse himself!

YORK.
Doth anyone accuse York for a traitor?

KING HENRY.
What mean’st thou, Suffolk? Tell me, what are these?

SUFFOLK.
Please it your majesty, this is the man
That doth accuse his master of high treason.
His words were these: that Richard, Duke of York
Was rightful heir unto the English crown,
And that your majesty was an usurper.

KING HENRY.
Say, man, were these thy words?

HORNER.
An ’t shall please your majesty, I never said nor thought any such matter. God is my witness, I am falsely accused by the villain.

PETER.
By these ten bones, my lords, he did speak them to me in the garret one night as we were scouring my Lord of York’s armour.

YORK.
Base dunghill villain and mechanical,
I’ll have thy head for this thy traitor’s speech!—
I do beseech your royal majesty,
Let him have all the rigour of the law.

HORNER.
Alas, my lord, hang me if ever I spake the words. My accuser is my prentice; and when I did correct him for his fault the other day, he did vow upon his knees he would be even with me. I have good witness of this, therefore I beseech your majesty, do not cast away an honest man for a villain’s accusation.

KING HENRY.
Uncle, what shall we say to this in law?

GLOUCESTER.
This doom, my lord, if I may judge:
Let Somerset be regent o’er the French,
Because in York this breeds suspicion;
And let these have a day appointed them
For single combat in convenient place,
For he hath witness of his servant’s malice.
This is the law, and this Duke Humphrey’s doom.

SOMERSET.
I humbly thank your royal Majesty.

HORNER.
And I accept the combat willingly.

PETER.
Alas, my lord, I cannot fight; for God’s sake, pity my case! The spite of man prevaileth against me. O Lord, have mercy upon me! I shall never be able to fight a blow. O Lord, my heart!

GLOUCESTER.
Sirrah, or you must fight or else be hanged.

KING HENRY.
Away with them to prison; and the day
Of combat shall be the last of the next month.
Come, Somerset, we’ll see thee sent away.

[Flourish. Exeunt.]

SCENE IV. Gloucester’s Garden

Enter the Witch Margery Jourdain, the two Priests, Hume, Southwell and Bolingbroke.

HUME.
Come, my masters. The duchess, I tell you, expects performance of your promises.

BOLINGBROKE.
Master Hume, we are therefore provided. Will her ladyship behold and hear our exorcisms?

HUME.
Ay, what else? Fear you not her courage.

BOLINGBROKE.
I have heard her reported to be a woman of an invincible spirit. But it shall be convenient, Master Hume, that you be by her aloft while we be busy below; and so, I pray you go, in God’s name, and leave us.

[Exit Hume.]

Mother Jourdain, be you prostrate and grovel on the earth. John Southwell, read you; and let us to our work.

Enter Duchess aloft, Hume following.

ELEANOR.
Well said, my masters; and welcome all. To this gear, the sooner the better.

BOLINGBROKE.
Patience, good lady; wizards know their times.
Deep night, dark night, the silent of the night,
The time of night when Troy was set on fire,
The time when screech-owls cry and ban-dogs howl,
And spirits walk and ghosts break up their graves;
That time best fits the work we have in hand.
Madam, sit you and fear not. Whom we raise
We will make fast within a hallowed verge.

[Here they do the ceremonies belonging, and make the circle; Bolingbroke or Southwell reads “Conjuro te”, etc. It thunders and lightens terribly; then the Spirit riseth.]

SPIRIT.
Adsum.

M. JOURDAIN.
Asnath,
By the eternal God, whose name and power
Thou tremblest at, answer that I shall ask;
For till thou speak thou shalt not pass from hence.

SPIRIT.
Ask what thou wilt. That I had said and done!

BOLINGBROKE.
[Reads.] First of the King: what shall of him become?

SPIRIT.
The duke yet lives that Henry shall depose,
But him outlive and die a violent death.

[As the Spirit speaks, Southwell writes the answer.]

BOLINGBROKE.
[Reads.] What fates await the Duke of Suffolk?

SPIRIT.
By water shall he die and take his end.

BOLINGBROKE.
[Reads.] What shall befall the Duke of Somerset?

SPIRIT.
Let him shun castles.
Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains
Than where castles mounted stand.
Have done, for more I hardly can endure.

BOLINGBROKE.
Descend to darkness and the burning lake!
False fiend, avoid!

[Thunder and lightning. Exit Spirit.]

Enter the Duke of York and the Duke of Buckingham with their Guard, and Sir Humphrey Stafford, and break in.

YORK.
Lay hands upon these traitors and their trash.
Beldam, I think we watched you at an inch.
What, madam, are you there? The King and commonweal
Are deeply indebted for this piece of pains.
My Lord Protector will, I doubt it not,
See you well guerdoned for these good deserts.

ELEANOR.
Not half so bad as thine to England’s king,
Injurious duke, that threatest where’s no cause.

BUCKINGHAM.
True, madam, none at all. What call you this?
Away with them! Let them be clapped up close
And kept asunder.—You, madam, shall with us.—
Stafford, take her to thee.

[Exit Stafford.]

[Exeunt above, Duchess and Hume, guarded.]

We’ll see your trinkets here all forthcoming.
All, away!

[Exeunt guard with Jourdain, Southwell, Bolingbroke, etc.]

YORK.
Lord Buckingham, methinks you watched her well.
A pretty plot, well chosen to build upon!
Now, pray, my lord, let’s see the devil’s writ.
What have we here?
[Reads.] The duke yet lives that Henry shall depose.
But him outlive and die a violent death.
Why, this is just
Aio te, Aeacida, Romanos vincere posse.
Well, to the rest:
Tell me what fate awaits the Duke of Suffolk?
By water shall he die and take his end.
What shall betide the Duke of Somerset?
Let him shun castles;
Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains
Than where castles mounted stand.
Come, come, my lords, these oracles
Are hardly attained, and hardly understood.
The King is now in progress towards Saint Albans,
With him the husband of this lovely lady.
Thither go these news as fast as horse can carry them.
A sorry breakfast for my Lord Protector.

BUCKINGHAM.
Your Grace shall give me leave, my Lord of York,
To be the post, in hope of his reward.

YORK.
At your pleasure, my good lord.

[Exit Buckingham.]

Who’s within there, ho!

Enter a Servingman.

Invite my Lords of Salisbury and Warwick
To sup with me tomorrow night. Away!

[Exeunt.]

ACT II

SCENE I. Saint Albans

Enter the King, Queen, Gloucester, Cardinal and Suffolk with Falconers hallooing.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Believe me, lords, for flying at the brook
I saw not better sport these seven years’ day;
Yet, by your leave, the wind was very high,
And, ten to one, old Joan had not gone out.

KING HENRY.
But what a point, my lord, your falcon made,
And what a pitch she flew above the rest!
To see how God in all His creatures works!
Yea, man and birds are fain of climbing high.

SUFFOLK.
No marvel, an it like your majesty,
My Lord Protector’s hawks do tower so well;
They know their master loves to be aloft,
And bears his thoughts above his falcon’s pitch.

GLOUCESTER.
My lord, ’tis but a base ignoble mind
That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.

CARDINAL.
I thought as much. He would be above the clouds.

GLOUCESTER.
Ay, my Lord Cardinal, how think you by that?
Were it not good your grace could fly to heaven?

KING HENRY.
The treasury of everlasting joy.

CARDINAL.
Thy heaven is on earth; thine eyes and thoughts
Beat on a crown, the treasure of thy heart,
Pernicious Protector, dangerous peer,
That smooth’st it so with king and commonweal!

GLOUCESTER.
What, cardinal, is your priesthood grown peremptory?
Tantaene animis coelestibus irae?
Churchmen so hot? Good uncle, hide such malice.
With such holiness can you do it?

SUFFOLK.
No malice, sir; no more than well becomes
So good a quarrel and so bad a peer.

GLOUCESTER.
As who, my lord?

SUFFOLK.
Why, as you, my lord,
An ’t like your lordly Lord Protectorship.

GLOUCESTER.
Why, Suffolk, England knows thine insolence.

QUEEN MARGARET.
And thy ambition, Gloucester.

KING HENRY.
I prithee, peace, good queen,
And whet not on these furious peers;
For blessed are the peacemakers on earth.

CARDINAL.
Let me be blessed for the peace I make
Against this proud Protector, with my sword!

GLOUCESTER.
[Aside to Cardinal.] Faith, holy uncle, would ’twere come to that!

CARDINAL.
[Aside to Gloucester.] Marry, when thou dar’st.

GLOUCESTER.
[Aside to Cardinal.] Make up no factious numbers for the matter,
In thine own person answer thy abuse.

CARDINAL.
[Aside to Gloucester.] Ay, where thou dar’st not peep; an if thou dar’st,
This evening, on the east side of the grove.

KING HENRY.
How now, my lords?

CARDINAL.
Believe me, cousin Gloucester,
Had not your man put up the fowl so suddenly,
We had had more sport.—[Aside to Gloucester.]
Come with thy two-hand sword.

GLOUCESTER.
True, uncle.
[Aside to Cardinal.] Are ye advised? The east side of the grove?

CARDINAL.
[Aside to Gloucester.] I am with you.

KING HENRY.
Why, how now, uncle Gloucester?

GLOUCESTER.
Talking of hawking; nothing else, my lord.
[Aside to Cardinal.] Now, by God’s mother, priest,
I’ll shave your crown for this,
Or all my fence shall fail.

CARDINAL.
[Aside to Gloucester.] Medice, teipsum.—
Protector, see to ’t well, protect yourself.

KING HENRY.
The winds grow high; so do your stomachs, lords.
How irksome is this music to my heart!
When such strings jar, what hope of harmony?
I pray, my lords, let me compound this strife.

Enter a Townsman of Saint Albans, crying, “A miracle!”

GLOUCESTER.
What means this noise?
Fellow, what miracle dost thou proclaim?

TOWNSMAN.
A miracle! A miracle!

SUFFOLK.
Come to the King, and tell him what miracle.

TOWNSMAN.
Forsooth, a blind man at Saint Alban’s shrine,
Within this half hour, hath received his sight,
A man that ne’er saw in his life before.

KING HENRY.
Now, God be praised, that to believing souls
Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair!

Enter the Mayor of Saint Albans and his brethren, bearing Simpcox between two in a chair, Simpcox’s Wife following.

CARDINAL.
Here comes the townsmen on procession,
To present your highness with the man.

KING HENRY.
Great is his comfort in this earthly vale,
Although by his sight his sin be multiplied.

GLOUCESTER.
Stand by, my masters. Bring him near the King.
His highness’ pleasure is to talk with him.

KING HENRY.
Good fellow, tell us here the circumstance,
That we for thee may glorify the Lord.
What, hast thou been long blind and now restored?

SIMPCOX.
Born blind, an ’t please your grace.

WIFE.
Ay, indeed, was he.

SUFFOLK.
What woman is this?

WIFE.
His wife, an ’t like your worship.

GLOUCESTER.
Hadst thou been his mother, thou couldst have better told.

KING HENRY.
Where wert thou born?

SIMPCOX.
At Berwick in the north, an ’t like your grace.

KING HENRY.
Poor soul, God’s goodness hath been great to thee.
Let never day nor night unhallowed pass,
But still remember what the Lord hath done.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Tell me, good fellow, cam’st thou here by chance,
Or of devotion, to this holy shrine?

SIMPCOX.
God knows, of pure devotion; being called
A hundred times and oftener, in my sleep,
By good Saint Alban, who said “Simpcox, come,
Come, offer at my shrine, and I will help thee.”

WIFE.
Most true, forsooth; and many time and oft
Myself have heard a voice to call him so.

CARDINAL.
What, art thou lame?

SIMPCOX.
Ay, God Almighty help me!

SUFFOLK.
How cam’st thou so?

SIMPCOX.
A fall off of a tree.

WIFE.
A plum-tree, master.

GLOUCESTER.
How long hast thou been blind?

SIMPCOX.
O, born so, master.

GLOUCESTER.
What, and wouldst climb a tree?

SIMPCOX.
But that in all my life, when I was a youth.

WIFE.
Too true; and bought his climbing very dear.

GLOUCESTER.
Mass, thou lov’dst plums well, that wouldst venture so.

SIMPCOX.
Alas, good master, my wife desired some damsons,
And made me climb, with danger of my life.

GLOUCESTER.
A subtle knave! But yet it shall not serve.—
Let me see thine eyes. Wink now. Now open them.
In my opinion yet thou seest not well.

SIMPCOX.
Yes, master, clear as day, I thank God and Saint Alban.

GLOUCESTER.
Sayst thou me so? What colour is this cloak of?

SIMPCOX.
Red, master, red as blood.

GLOUCESTER.
Why, that’s well said. What colour is my gown of?

SIMPCOX.
Black, forsooth, coal-black as jet.

KING HENRY.
Why, then, thou know’st what colour jet is of?

SUFFOLK.
And yet, I think, jet did he never see.

GLOUCESTER.
But cloaks and gowns before this day, a many.

WIFE.
Never before this day in all his life.

GLOUCESTER.
Tell me, sirrah, what’s my name?

SIMPCOX.
Alas, master, I know not.

GLOUCESTER.
What’s his name?

SIMPCOX.
I know not.

GLOUCESTER.
Nor his?

SIMPCOX.
No, indeed, master.

GLOUCESTER.
What’s thine own name?

SIMPCOX.
Sander Simpcox, an if it please you, master.

GLOUCESTER.
Then, Sander, sit there, the lyingest knave in Christendom. If thou hadst been born blind, thou mightst as well have known all our names as thus to name the several colours we do wear. Sight may distinguish of colours; but suddenly to nominate them all, it is impossible.—My lords, Saint Alban here hath done a miracle; and would ye not think his cunning to be great that could restore this cripple to his legs again?

SIMPCOX.
O master, that you could!

GLOUCESTER.
My masters of Saint Albans, have you not beadles in your town, and things called whips?

MAYOR.
Yes, my lord, if it please your grace.

GLOUCESTER.
Then send for one presently.

MAYOR.
Sirrah, go fetch the beadle hither straight.

[Exit a Townsman.]

GLOUCESTER.
Now fetch me a stool hither by and by.—Now, sirrah, if you mean to save yourself from whipping, leap me over this stool and run away.

SIMPCOX.
Alas, master, I am not able to stand alone.
You go about to torture me in vain.

Enter a Beadle with whips.

GLOUCESTER.
Well, sir, we must have you find your legs.
Sirrah beadle, whip him till he leap over that same stool.

BEADLE.
I will, my lord.—Come on, sirrah; off with your doublet quickly.

SIMPCOX.
Alas, master, what shall I do? I am not able to stand.

[After the Beadle hath hit him once, he leaps over the stool and runs away; and they follow and cry, “A miracle!”]

KING HENRY.
O God, seest Thou this, and bearest so long?

QUEEN MARGARET.
It made me laugh to see the villain run.

GLOUCESTER.
Follow the knave, and take this drab away.

WIFE.
Alas, sir, we did it for pure need.

GLOUCESTER.
Let them be whipped through every market town
Till they come to Berwick, from whence they came.

[Exeunt Wife, Beadle, Mayor, etc.]

CARDINAL.
Duke Humphrey has done a miracle today.

SUFFOLK.
True, made the lame to leap and fly away.

GLOUCESTER.
But you have done more miracles than I.
You made in a day, my lord, whole towns to fly.

Enter Buckingham.

KING HENRY.
What tidings with our cousin Buckingham?

BUCKINGHAM.
Such as my heart doth tremble to unfold.
A sort of naughty persons, lewdly bent,
Under the countenance and confederacy
Of Lady Eleanor, the Protector’s wife,
The ringleader and head of all this rout,
Have practised dangerously against your state,
Dealing with witches and with conjurers,
Whom we have apprehended in the fact,
Raising up wicked spirits from under ground,
Demanding of King Henry’s life and death,
And other of your highness’ Privy Council,
As more at large your Grace shall understand.

CARDINAL.
[Aside to Gloucester.] And so, my Lord Protector, by this means
Your lady is forthcoming yet at London.
This news, I think, hath turned your weapon’s edge;
’Tis like, my lord, you will not keep your hour.

GLOUCESTER.
Ambitious churchman, leave to afflict my heart.
Sorrow and grief have vanquished all my powers,
And, vanquished as I am, I yield to thee,
Or to the meanest groom.

KING HENRY.
O God, what mischiefs work the wicked ones,
Heaping confusion on their own heads thereby!

QUEEN MARGARET.
Gloucester, see here the tainture of thy nest,
And look thyself be faultless, thou wert best.

GLOUCESTER.
Madam, for myself, to heaven I do appeal
How I have loved my king and commonweal;
And, for my wife, I know not how it stands.
Sorry I am to hear what I have heard.
Noble she is; but if she have forgot
Honour and virtue, and conversed with such
As like to pitch defile nobility,
I banish her my bed and company
And give her as a prey to law and shame
That hath dishonoured Gloucester’s honest name.

KING HENRY.
Well, for this night we will repose us here;
Tomorrow toward London back again,
To look into this business thoroughly,
And call these foul offenders to their answers,
And poise the cause in Justice’ equal scales,
Whose beam stands sure, whose rightful cause prevails.

[Flourish. Exeunt.]

SCENE II. London. The Duke of York’s Garden

Enter York, Salisbury and Warwick.

YORK.
Now, my good Lords of Salisbury and Warwick,
Our simple supper ended, give me leave
In this close walk to satisfy myself
In craving your opinion of my title,
Which is infallible, to England’s crown.

SALISBURY.
My lord, I long to hear it at full.

WARWICK.
Sweet York, begin; and if thy claim be good,
The Nevilles are thy subjects to command.

YORK.
Then thus:
Edward the Third, my lords, had seven sons:
The first, Edward the Black Prince, Prince of Wales;
The second, William of Hatfield; and the third,
Lionel, Duke of Clarence; next to whom
Was John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster;
The fifth was Edmund Langley, Duke of York;
The sixth was Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester;
William of Windsor was the seventh and last.
Edward the Black Prince died before his father
And left behind him Richard, his only son,
Who after Edward the Third’s death reigned as king,
Till Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster,
The eldest son and heir of John of Gaunt,
Crowned by the name of Henry the Fourth,
Seized on the realm, deposed the rightful king,
Sent his poor queen to France, from whence she came,
And him to Pomfret; where, as all you know,
Harmless Richard was murdered traitorously.

WARWICK.
Father, the Duke hath told the truth;
Thus got the house of Lancaster the crown.

YORK.
Which now they hold by force and not by right;
For Richard, the first son’s heir, being dead,
The issue of the next son should have reigned.

SALISBURY.
But William of Hatfield died without an heir.

YORK.
The third son, Duke of Clarence, from whose line
I claim the crown, had issue, Philippa, a daughter,
Who married Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March.
Edmund had issue, Roger, Earl of March;
Roger had issue, Edmund, Anne, and Eleanor.

SALISBURY.
This Edmund, in the reign of Bolingbroke,
As I have read, laid claim unto the crown
And, but for Owen Glendower, had been king,
Who kept him in captivity till he died.
But to the rest.

YORK.
His eldest sister, Anne,
My mother, being heir unto the crown,
Married Richard Earl of Cambridge, who was son
To Edmund Langley, Edward the Third’s fifth son.
By her I claim the kingdom; she was heir
To Roger, Earl of March, who was the son
Of Edmund Mortimer, who married Philippa,
Sole daughter unto Lionel, Duke of Clarence.
So, if the issue of the elder son
Succeed before the younger, I am king.

WARWICK.
What plain proceeding is more plain than this?
Henry doth claim the crown from John of Gaunt,
The fourth son; York claims it from the third.
Till Lionel’s issue fails, his should not reign;
It fails not yet, but flourishes in thee
And in thy sons, fair slips of such a stock.
Then, father Salisbury, kneel we together,
And in this private plot be we the first
That shall salute our rightful sovereign
With honour of his birthright to the crown.

BOTH.
Long live our sovereign Richard, England’s king!

YORK.
We thank you, lords. But I am not your king
Till I be crowned, and that my sword be stained
With heart-blood of the house of Lancaster;
And that’s not suddenly to be performed,
But with advice and silent secrecy.
Do you as I do in these dangerous days—
Wink at the Duke of Suffolk’s insolence,
At Beaufort’s pride, at Somerset’s ambition,
At Buckingham, and all the crew of them,
Till they have snared the shepherd of the flock,
That virtuous prince, the good Duke Humphrey.
’Tis that they seek; and they, in seeking that,
Shall find their deaths, if York can prophesy.

SALISBURY.
My lord, break we off; we know your mind at full.

WARWICK.
My heart assures me that the Earl of Warwick
Shall one day make the Duke of York a king.

YORK.
And, Neville, this I do assure myself:
Richard shall live to make the Earl of Warwick
The greatest man in England but the king.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE III. A Hall of Justice

Sound trumpets. Enter the King, the Queen, Gloucester, York, Suffolk and Salisbury; the Duchess of Gloucester, Margery Jourdain, Southwell, Hume and Bolingbroke under guard.

KING HENRY.
Stand forth, Dame Eleanor Cobham, Gloucester’s wife.
In sight of God and us, your guilt is great;
Receive the sentence of the law for sins
Such as by God’s book are adjudged to death.
You four, from hence to prison back again;
From thence unto the place of execution.
The witch in Smithfield shall be burnt to ashes,
And you three shall be strangled on the gallows.
You, madam, for you are more nobly born,
Despoiled of your honour in your life,
Shall, after three days’ open penance done,
Live in your country here in banishment,
With Sir John Stanley in the Isle of Man.

ELEANOR.
Welcome is banishment; welcome were my death.

GLOUCESTER.
Eleanor, the law, thou seest, hath judged thee.
I cannot justify whom the law condemns.

[Exeunt Duchess and the other prisoners, guarded.]

Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief.
Ah, Humphrey, this dishonour in thine age
Will bring thy head with sorrow to the ground!—
I beseech your majesty, give me leave to go;
Sorrow would solace, and mine age would ease.

KING HENRY.
Stay, Humphrey Duke of Gloucester. Ere thou go,
Give up thy staff. Henry will to himself
Protector be; and God shall be my hope,
My stay, my guide, and lantern to my feet.
And go in peace, Humphrey, no less beloved
Than when thou wert Protector to thy king.

QUEEN MARGARET.
I see no reason why a king of years
Should be to be protected like a child.
God and King Henry govern England’s realm!
Give up your staff, sir, and the King his realm.

GLOUCESTER.
My staff? Here, noble Henry, is my staff.
As willingly do I the same resign
As e’er thy father Henry made it mine;
And even as willingly at thy feet I leave it
As others would ambitiously receive it.
Farewell, good King. When I am dead and gone,
May honourable peace attend thy throne.

[Exit.]

QUEEN MARGARET.
Why, now is Henry King and Margaret Queen,
And Humphrey Duke of Gloucester scarce himself,
That bears so shrewd a maim. Two pulls at once;
His lady banished, and a limb lopped off.
This staff of honour raught, there let it stand
Where it best fits to be, in Henry’s hand.

SUFFOLK.
Thus droops this lofty pine and hangs his sprays;
Thus Eleanor’s pride dies in her youngest days.

YORK.
Lords, let him go.—Please it your majesty,
This is the day appointed for the combat,
And ready are the appellant and defendant,
The armourer and his man, to enter the lists,
So please your highness to behold the fight.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Ay, good my lord; for purposely therefore
Left I the court to see this quarrel tried.

KING HENRY.
I’ God’s name, see the lists and all things fit.
Here let them end it, and God defend the right!

YORK.
I never saw a fellow worse bested,
Or more afraid to fight, than is the appellant,
The servant of his armourer, my lords.

Enter at one door Horner the armourer, and his Neighbours, drinking to him so much that he is drunk; and he enters with a drum before him and his staff with a sandbag fastened to it; and at the other door Peter, his man, with a drum and sandbag, and Prentices drinking to him.

1 NEIGHBOUR.
Here, neighbour Horner, I drink to you in a cup of sack; and fear not, neighbour, you shall do well enough.

2 NEIGHBOUR.
And here, neighbour, here’s a cup of charneco.

3 NEIGHBOUR.
And here’s a pot of good double beer, neighbour. Drink, and fear not your man.

HORNER.
Let it come, i’ faith, and I’ll pledge you all; and a fig for Peter!

1 PRENTICE.
Here, Peter, I drink to thee, and be not afraid.

2 PRENTICE.
Be merry, Peter, and fear not thy master. Fight for credit of the prentices.

PETER.
I thank you all. Drink, and pray for me, I pray you, for I think I have taken my last draught in this world. Here, Robin, an if I die, I give thee my apron; and, Will, thou shalt have my hammer; and here, Tom, take all the money that I have. O Lord bless me! I pray God, for I am never able to deal with my master, he hath learnt so much fence already.

SALISBURY.
Come, leave your drinking and fall to blows.
Sirrah, what’s thy name?

PETER.
Peter, forsooth.

SALISBURY.
Peter? What more?

PETER.
Thump.

SALISBURY.
Thump! Then see thou thump thy master well.

HORNER.
Masters, I am come hither, as it were, upon my man’s instigation, to prove him a knave and myself an honest man; and touching the Duke of York, I will take my death I never meant him any ill, nor the King, nor the Queen; and therefore, Peter, have at thee with a downright blow!

YORK.
Dispatch! This knave’s tongue begins to double.
Sound, trumpets. Alarum to the combatants!

[They fight, and Peter strikes him down.]

HORNER.
Hold, Peter, hold! I confess, I confess treason.

[Dies.]

YORK.
Take away his weapon.—Fellow, thank God and the good wine in thy master’s way.

PETER.
O God, have I overcome mine enemies in this presence? O Peter, thou hast prevailed in right!

KING HENRY.
Go, take hence that traitor from our sight,
For by his death we do perceive his guilt.
And God in justice hath revealed to us
The truth and innocence of this poor fellow,
Which he had thought to have murdered wrongfully.
Come, fellow, follow us for thy reward.

[Sound a flourish. Exeunt.]

SCENE IV. A Street

Enter Gloucester and his Servingmen in mourning cloaks.

GLOUCESTER.
Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud,
And after summer evermore succeeds
Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold;
So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet.
Sirs, what’s o’clock?

SERVINGMEN.
Ten, my lord.

GLOUCESTER.
Ten is the hour that was appointed me
To watch the coming of my punished duchess.
Uneath may she endure the flinty streets,
To tread them with her tender-feeling feet.
Sweet Nell, ill can thy noble mind abrook
The abject people gazing on thy face
With envious looks, laughing at thy shame,
That erst did follow thy proud chariot wheels
When thou didst ride in triumph through the streets.
But, soft! I think she comes; and I’ll prepare
My tear-stained eyes to see her miseries.

Enter the Duchess of Gloucester in a white sheet, and a taper burning in her hand; with Sir John Stanley, the Sheriff, and Officers.

SERVINGMEN.
So please your Grace, we’ll take her from the sheriff.

GLOUCESTER.
No, stir not for your lives; let her pass by.

ELEANOR.
Come you, my lord, to see my open shame?
Now thou dost penance too. Look how they gaze!
See how the giddy multitude do point,
And nod their heads, and throw their eyes on thee.
Ah, Gloucester, hide thee from their hateful looks,
And, in thy closet pent up, rue my shame,
And ban thine enemies, both mine and thine!

GLOUCESTER.
Be patient, gentle Nell, forget this grief.

ELEANOR.
Ah, Gloucester, teach me to forget myself!
For whilst I think I am thy married wife
And thou a prince, Protector of this land,
Methinks I should not thus be led along,
Mailed up in shame, with papers on my back,
And followed with a rabble that rejoice
To see my tears and hear my deep-fet groans.
The ruthless flint doth cut my tender feet,
And when I start, the envious people laugh
And bid me be advised how I tread.
Ah, Humphrey, can I bear this shameful yoke?
Trowest thou that e’er I’ll look upon the world,
Or count them happy that enjoy the sun?
No, dark shall be my light and night my day;
To think upon my pomp shall be my hell.
Sometimes I’ll say, I am Duke Humphrey’s wife,
And he a prince and ruler of the land;
Yet so he ruled and such a prince he was
As he stood by whilst I, his forlorn duchess,
Was made a wonder and a pointing-stock
To every idle rascal follower.
But be thou mild and blush not at my shame,
Nor stir at nothing till the axe of death
Hang over thee, as, sure, it shortly will.
For Suffolk, he that can do all in all
With her that hateth thee and hates us all,
And York and impious Beaufort, that false priest,
Have all limed bushes to betray thy wings;
And fly thou how thou canst, they’ll tangle thee.
But fear not thou until thy foot be snared,
Nor never seek prevention of thy foes.

GLOUCESTER.
Ah, Nell, forbear! Thou aimest all awry.
I must offend before I be attainted;
And had I twenty times so many foes,
And each of them had twenty times their power,
All these could not procure me any scathe
So long as I am loyal, true, and crimeless.
Wouldst have me rescue thee from this reproach?
Why, yet thy scandal were not wiped away,
But I in danger for the breach of law.
Thy greatest help is quiet, gentle Nell.
I pray thee, sort thy heart to patience;
These few days’ wonder will be quickly worn.

Enter a Herald.

HERALD.
I summon your grace to his majesty’s parliament,
Holden at Bury the first of this next month.

GLOUCESTER.
And my consent ne’er asked herein before?
This is close dealing. Well, I will be there.

[Exit Herald.]

My Nell, I take my leave; and, master sheriff,
Let not her penance exceed the King’s commission.

SHERIFF.
An ’t please your grace, here my commission stays,
And Sir John Stanley is appointed now
To take her with him to the Isle of Man.

GLOUCESTER.
Must you, Sir John, protect my lady here?

STANLEY.
So am I given in charge, may ’t please your grace.

GLOUCESTER.
Entreat her not the worse in that I pray
You use her well. The world may laugh again,
And I may live to do you kindness if
You do it her. And so, Sir John, farewell.

ELEANOR.
What, gone, my lord, and bid me not farewell?

GLOUCESTER.
Witness my tears, I cannot stay to speak.

[Exeunt Gloucester and Servingmen.]

ELEANOR.
Art thou gone too? All comfort go with thee,
For none abides with me; my joy is death;
Death, at whose name I oft have been afeard,
Because I wished this world’s eternity.
Stanley, I prithee, go, and take me hence,
I care not whither, for I beg no favour,
Only convey me where thou art commanded.

STANLEY.
Why, madam, that is to the Isle of Man,
There to be used according to your state.

ELEANOR.
That’s bad enough, for I am but reproach;
And shall I then be used reproachfully?

STANLEY.
Like to a duchess, and Duke Humphrey’s lady;
According to that state you shall be used.

ELEANOR.
Sheriff, farewell, and better than I fare,
Although thou hast been conduct of my shame.

SHERIFF.
It is my office; and, madam, pardon me.

ELEANOR.
Ay, ay, farewell; thy office is discharged.
Come, Stanley, shall we go?

STANLEY.
Madam, your penance done, throw off this sheet,
And go we to attire you for our journey.

ELEANOR.
My shame will not be shifted with my sheet,
No, it will hang upon my richest robes
And show itself, attire me how I can.
Go, lead the way, I long to see my prison.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III

SCENE I. The Abbey at Bury St. Edmund’s

Sound a sennet. Enter the King, the Queen, Cardinal Beaufort, Suffolk, York, Buckingham, Salisbury and Warwick to the Parliament.

KING HENRY.
I muse my Lord of Gloucester is not come.
’Tis not his wont to be the hindmost man,
Whate’er occasion keeps him from us now.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Can you not see, or will ye not observe
The strangeness of his altered countenance?
With what a majesty he bears himself,
How insolent of late he is become,
How proud, how peremptory, and unlike himself?
We know the time since he was mild and affable;
And if we did but glance a far-off look,
Immediately he was upon his knee,
That all the court admired him for submission.
But meet him now, and be it in the morn
When everyone will give the time of day,
He knits his brow and shows an angry eye
And passeth by with stiff unbowed knee,
Disdaining duty that to us belongs.
Small curs are not regarded when they grin,
But great men tremble when the lion roars;
And Humphrey is no little man in England.
First note that he is near you in descent,
And should you fall, he is the next will mount.
Me seemeth then it is no policy,
Respecting what a rancorous mind he bears
And his advantage following your decease,
That he should come about your royal person
Or be admitted to your Highness’ Council.
By flattery hath he won the commons’ hearts;
And when he please to make commotion,
’Tis to be feared they all will follow him.
Now ’tis the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted;
Suffer them now, and they’ll o’ergrow the garden
And choke the herbs for want of husbandry.
The reverent care I bear unto my lord
Made me collect these dangers in the Duke.
If it be fond, can it a woman’s fear;
Which fear if better reasons can supplant,
I will subscribe and say I wronged the Duke.
My Lord of Suffolk, Buckingham, and York,
Reprove my allegation if you can,
Or else conclude my words effectual.

SUFFOLK.
Well hath your highness seen into this Duke;
And, had I first been put to speak my mind,
I think I should have told your grace’s tale.
The Duchess by his subornation,
Upon my life, began her devilish practices;
Or, if he were not privy to those faults,
Yet, by reputing of his high descent,
As next the King he was successive heir,
And such high vaunts of his nobility—
Did instigate the bedlam brain-sick Duchess
By wicked means to frame our sovereign’s fall.
Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep,
And in his simple show he harbours treason.
The fox barks not when he would steal the lamb.
No, no, my sovereign, Gloucester is a man
Unsounded yet and full of deep deceit.

CARDINAL.
Did he not, contrary to form of law,
Devise strange deaths for small offences done?

YORK.
And did he not, in his protectorship,
Levy great sums of money through the realm
For soldiers’ pay in France, and never sent it?
By means whereof the towns each day revolted.

BUCKINGHAM.
Tut, these are petty faults to faults unknown,
Which time will bring to light in smooth Duke Humphrey.

KING HENRY.
My lords, at once: the care you have of us
To mow down thorns that would annoy our foot
Is worthy praise; but, shall I speak my conscience,
Our kinsman Gloucester is as innocent
From meaning treason to our royal person
As is the sucking lamb or harmless dove.
The Duke is virtuous, mild, and too well given
To dream on evil or to work my downfall.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Ah, what’s more dangerous than this fond affiance?
Seems he a dove? His feathers are but borrowed,
For he’s disposed as the hateful raven.
Is he a lamb? His skin is surely lent him,
For he’s inclined as is the ravenous wolves.
Who cannot steal a shape that means deceit?
Take heed, my lord; the welfare of us all
Hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man.

Enter Somerset.

SOMERSET.
All health unto my gracious sovereign!

KING HENRY.
Welcome, Lord Somerset. What news from France?

SOMERSET.
That all your interest in those territories
Is utterly bereft you; all is lost.

KING HENRY.
Cold news, Lord Somerset; but God’s will be done.

YORK.
[Aside.] Cold news for me, for I had hope of France
As firmly as I hope for fertile England.
Thus are my blossoms blasted in the bud,
And caterpillars eat my leaves away;
But I will remedy this gear ere long,
Or sell my title for a glorious grave.

Enter Gloucester.

GLOUCESTER.
All happiness unto my lord the King!
Pardon, my liege, that I have staid so long.

SUFFOLK.
Nay, Gloucester, know that thou art come too soon,
Unless thou wert more loyal than thou art.
I do arrest thee of high treason here.

GLOUCESTER.
Well, Suffolk, thou shalt not see me blush,
Nor change my countenance for this arrest.
A heart unspotted is not easily daunted.
The purest spring is not so free from mud
As I am clear from treason to my sovereign.
Who can accuse me? Wherein am I guilty?

YORK.
’Tis thought, my lord, that you took bribes of France,
And, being Protector, stayed the soldiers’ pay,
By means whereof his highness hath lost France.

GLOUCESTER.
Is it but thought so? What are they that think it?
I never robbed the soldiers of their pay,
Nor ever had one penny bribe from France.
So help me God, as I have watched the night,
Ay, night by night, in studying good for England!
That doit that e’er I wrested from the King,
Or any groat I hoarded to my use,
Be brought against me at my trial day!
No, many a pound of mine own proper store,
Because I would not tax the needy commons,
Have I dispursed to the garrisons
And never asked for restitution.

CARDINAL.
It serves you well, my lord, to say so much.

GLOUCESTER.
I say no more than truth, so help me God!

YORK.
In your protectorship you did devise
Strange tortures for offenders never heard of,
That England was defamed by tyranny.

GLOUCESTER.
Why, ’tis well known that, whiles I was Protector,
Pity was all the fault that was in me;
For I should melt at an offender’s tears,
And lowly words were ransom for their fault.
Unless it were a bloody murderer,
Or foul felonious thief that fleeced poor passengers,
I never gave them condign punishment.
Murder indeed, that bloody sin, I tortured
Above the felon or what trespass else.

SUFFOLK.
My lord, these faults are easy, quickly answered;
But mightier crimes are laid unto your charge
Whereof you cannot easily purge yourself.
I do arrest you in his highness’ name,
And here commit you to my Lord Cardinal
To keep until your further time of trial.

KING HENRY.
My Lord of Gloucester, ’tis my special hope
That you will clear yourself from all suspense.
My conscience tells me you are innocent.

GLOUCESTER.
Ah, gracious lord, these days are dangerous.
Virtue is choked with foul ambition,
And charity chased hence by rancour’s hand;
Foul subornation is predominant,
And equity exiled your highness’ land.
I know their complot is to have my life;
And if my death might make this island happy
And prove the period of their tyranny,
I would expend it with all willingness.
But mine is made the prologue to their play;
For thousands more, that yet suspect no peril,
Will not conclude their plotted tragedy.
Beaufort’s red sparkling eyes blab his heart’s malice,
And Suffolk’s cloudy brow his stormy hate;
Sharp Buckingham unburdens with his tongue
The envious load that lies upon his heart;
And dogged York, that reaches at the moon,
Whose overweening arm I have plucked back,
By false accuse doth level at my life.
And you, my sovereign lady, with the rest,
Causeless have laid disgraces on my head
And with your best endeavour have stirred up
My liefest liege to be mine enemy.
Ay, all of you have laid your heads together—
Myself had notice of your conventicles—
And all to make away my guiltless life.
I shall not want false witness to condemn me,
Nor store of treasons to augment my guilt.
The ancient proverb will be well effected:
“A staff is quickly found to beat a dog.”

CARDINAL.
My liege, his railing is intolerable.
If those that care to keep your royal person
From treason’s secret knife and traitor’s rage
Be thus upbraided, chid, and rated at,
And the offender granted scope of speech,
’Twill make them cool in zeal unto your grace.

SUFFOLK.
Hath he not twit our sovereign lady here
With ignominious words, though clerkly couched,
As if she had suborned some to swear
False allegations to o’erthrow his state?

QUEEN MARGARET.
But I can give the loser leave to chide.

GLOUCESTER.
Far truer spoke than meant. I lose, indeed.
Beshrew the winners, for they played me false!
And well such losers may have leave to speak.

BUCKINGHAM.
He’ll wrest the sense and hold us here all day.
Lord Cardinal, he is your prisoner.

CARDINAL.
Sirs, take away the Duke, and guard him sure.

GLOUCESTER.
Ah, thus King Henry throws away his crutch
Before his legs be firm to bear his body.
Thus is the shepherd beaten from thy side,
And wolves are gnarling who shall gnaw thee first.
Ah, that my fear were false; ah, that it were!
For, good King Henry, thy decay I fear.

[Exit Gloucester, guarded.]

KING HENRY.
My lords, what to your wisdoms seemeth best
Do, or undo, as if ourself were here.

QUEEN MARGARET.
What, will your highness leave the parliament?

KING HENRY.
Ay, Margaret; my heart is drowned with grief,
Whose flood begins to flow within mine eyes,
My body round engirt with misery;
For what’s more miserable than discontent?
Ah, uncle Humphrey, in thy face I see
The map of honour, truth, and loyalty;
And yet, good Humphrey, is the hour to come
That e’er I proved thee false or feared thy faith.
What louring star now envies thy estate
That these great lords and Margaret our Queen
Do seek subversion of thy harmless life?
Thou never didst them wrong nor no man wrong.
And as the butcher takes away the calf
And binds the wretch and beats it when it strains,
Bearing it to the bloody slaughterhouse,
Even so remorseless have they borne him hence;
And as the dam runs lowing up and down,
Looking the way her harmless young one went,
And can do naught but wail her darling’s loss,
Even so myself bewails good Gloucester’s case
With sad unhelpful tears, and with dimmed eyes
Look after him, and cannot do him good,
So mighty are his vowed enemies.
His fortunes I will weep and ’twixt each groan
Say “Who’s a traitor? Gloucester he is none.”

[Exeunt all but Queen, Cardinal Beaufort, Suffolk and York; Somerset remains apart.]

QUEEN MARGARET.
Free lords, cold snow melts with the sun’s hot beams.
Henry my lord is cold in great affairs,
Too full of foolish pity; and Gloucester’s show
Beguiles him, as the mournful crocodile
With sorrow snares relenting passengers,
Or as the snake, rolled in a flowering bank,
With shining checkered slough, doth sting a child
That for the beauty thinks it excellent.
Believe me, lords, were none more wise than I—
And yet herein I judge mine own wit good—
This Gloucester should be quickly rid the world,
To rid us from the fear we have of him.

CARDINAL.
That he should die is worthy policy,
But yet we want a colour for his death.
’Tis meet he be condemned by course of law.

SUFFOLK.
But, in my mind, that were no policy.
The King will labour still to save his life,
The commons haply rise to save his life,
And yet we have but trivial argument,
More than mistrust, that shows him worthy death.

YORK.
So that, by this, you would not have him die.

SUFFOLK.
Ah, York, no man alive so fain as I!

YORK.
’Tis York that hath more reason for his death.
But, my Lord Cardinal, and you, my Lord of Suffolk,
Say as you think, and speak it from your souls:
Were ’t not all one an empty eagle were set
To guard the chicken from a hungry kite,
As place Duke Humphrey for the King’s Protector?

QUEEN MARGARET.
So the poor chicken should be sure of death.

SUFFOLK.
Madam, ’tis true; and were ’t not madness then
To make the fox surveyor of the fold,
Who being accused a crafty murderer,
His guilt should be but idly posted over
Because his purpose is not executed?
No, let him die in that he is a fox,
By nature proved an enemy to the flock,
Before his chaps be stained with crimson blood,
As Humphrey, proved by reasons, to my liege.
And do not stand on quillets how to slay him;
Be it by gins, by snares, by subtlety,
Sleeping or waking, ’tis no matter how,
So he be dead; for that is good deceit
Which mates him first that first intends deceit.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Thrice-noble Suffolk, ’tis resolutely spoke.

SUFFOLK.
Not resolute, except so much were done,
For things are often spoke and seldom meant;
But that my heart accordeth with my tongue,
Seeing the deed is meritorious,
And to preserve my sovereign from his foe,
Say but the word, and I will be his priest.

CARDINAL.
But I would have him dead, my Lord of Suffolk,
Ere you can take due orders for a priest.
Say you consent and censure well the deed,
And I’ll provide his executioner.
I tender so the safety of my liege.

SUFFOLK.
Here is my hand, the deed is worthy doing.

QUEEN MARGARET.
And so say I.

YORK.
And I. And now we three have spoke it,
It skills not greatly who impugns our doom.

Enter a Post.

POST.
Great lords, from Ireland am I come amain
To signify that rebels there are up
And put the Englishmen unto the sword.
Send succours, lords, and stop the rage betime,
Before the wound do grow uncurable;
For, being green, there is great hope of help.

CARDINAL.
A breach that craves a quick expedient stop!
What counsel give you in this weighty cause?

YORK.
That Somerset be sent as regent thither.
’Tis meet that lucky ruler be employed;
Witness the fortune he hath had in France.

SOMERSET.
If York, with all his far-fet policy,
Had been the regent there instead of me,
He never would have stayed in France so long.

YORK.
No, not to lose it all as thou hast done.
I rather would have lost my life betimes
Than bring a burden of dishonour home
By staying there so long till all were lost.
Show me one scar charactered on thy skin;
Men’s flesh preserved so whole do seldom win.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Nay then, this spark will prove a raging fire
If wind and fuel be brought to feed it with.
No more, good York. Sweet Somerset, be still.
Thy fortune, York, hadst thou been regent there,
Might happily have proved far worse than his.

YORK.
What, worse than naught? Nay, then a shame take all!

SOMERSET.
And, in the number, thee that wishest shame!

CARDINAL.
My Lord of York, try what your fortune is.
Th’ uncivil kerns of Ireland are in arms
And temper clay with blood of Englishmen.
To Ireland will you lead a band of men,
Collected choicely, from each county some,
And try your hap against the Irishmen?

YORK.
I will, my lord, so please his majesty.

SUFFOLK.
Why, our authority is his consent,
And what we do establish he confirms.
Then, noble York, take thou this task in hand.

YORK.
I am content. Provide me soldiers, lords,
Whiles I take order for mine own affairs.

SUFFOLK.
A charge, Lord York, that I will see performed.
But now return we to the false Duke Humphrey.

CARDINAL.
No more of him; for I will deal with him
That henceforth he shall trouble us no more.
And so break off; the day is almost spent.
Lord Suffolk, you and I must talk of that event.

YORK.
My Lord of Suffolk, within fourteen days
At Bristol I expect my soldiers;
For there I’ll ship them all for Ireland.

SUFFOLK.
I’ll see it truly done, my Lord of York.

[Exeunt all but York.]

YORK.
Now, York, or never, steel thy fearful thoughts,
And change misdoubt to resolution.
Be that thou hop’st to be, or what thou art
Resign to death; it is not worth th’ enjoying.
Let pale-faced fear keep with the mean-born man
And find no harbour in a royal heart.
Faster than springtime showers comes thought on thought,
And not a thought but thinks on dignity.
My brain, more busy than the labouring spider
Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.
Well, nobles, well, ’tis politicly done,
To send me packing with an host of men;
I fear me you but warm the starved snake,
Who, cherished in your breasts, will sting your hearts.
’Twas men I lacked, and you will give them me;
I take it kindly, yet be well assured
You put sharp weapons in a madman’s hands.
Whiles I in Ireland nourish a mighty band,
I will stir up in England some black storm
Shall blow ten thousand souls to heaven or hell;
And this fell tempest shall not cease to rage
Until the golden circuit on my head,
Like to the glorious sun’s transparent beams,
Do calm the fury of this mad-bred flaw.
And for a minister of my intent,
I have seduced a headstrong Kentishman,
John Cade of Ashford,
To make commotion, as full well he can,
Under the title of John Mortimer.
In Ireland have I seen this stubborn Cade
Oppose himself against a troop of kerns,
And fought so long till that his thighs with darts
Were almost like a sharp-quilled porpentine;
And in the end being rescued, I have seen
Him caper upright like a wild Morisco,
Shaking the bloody darts as he his bells.
Full often, like a shag-haired crafty kern,
Hath he conversed with the enemy,
And undiscovered come to me again
And given me notice of their villainies.
This devil here shall be my substitute;
For that John Mortimer, which now is dead,
In face, in gait, in speech, he doth resemble.
By this I shall perceive the commons’ mind,
How they affect the house and claim of York.
Say he be taken, racked, and tortured,
I know no pain they can inflict upon him
Will make him say I moved him to those arms.
Say that he thrive, as ’tis great like he will,
Why then from Ireland come I with my strength
And reap the harvest which that rascal sowed.
For Humphrey being dead, as he shall be,
And Henry put apart, the next for me.

[Exit.]

SCENE II. Bury St. Edmund’s. A Room of State

Enter two or three Murderers running over the stage, from the murder of Duke Humphrey.

1 MURDERER.
Run to my Lord of Suffolk; let him know
We have dispatched the Duke as he commanded.

2 MURDERER.
O that it were to do! What have we done?
Didst ever hear a man so penitent?

Enter Suffolk.

1 MURDERER.
Here comes my lord.

SUFFOLK.
Now, sirs, have you dispatched this thing?

1 MURDERER.
Ay, my good lord, he’s dead.

SUFFOLK.
Why, that’s well said. Go, get you to my house;
I will reward you for this venturous deed.
The King and all the peers are here at hand.
Have you laid fair the bed? Is all things well,
According as I gave directions?

1 MURDERER.
’Tis, my good lord.

SUFFOLK.
Away, be gone!

[Exeunt Murderers.]

Sound trumpets. Enter the King, the Queen, Cardinal Beaufort, Somerset with attendants.

KING HENRY.
Go, call our uncle to our presence straight;
Say we intend to try his grace today
If he be guilty, as ’tis published.

SUFFOLK.
I’ll call him presently, my noble lord.

[Exit.]

KING HENRY.
Lords, take your places; and, I pray you all,
Proceed no straiter ’gainst our uncle Gloucester
Than from true evidence of good esteem
He be approved in practice culpable.

QUEEN MARGARET.
God forbid any malice should prevail
That faultless may condemn a nobleman!
Pray God he may acquit him of suspicion!

KING HENRY.
I thank thee, Meg; these words content me much.

Enter Suffolk.

How now? Why look’st thou pale? Why tremblest thou?
Where is our uncle? What’s the matter, Suffolk?

SUFFOLK.
Dead in his bed, my lord; Gloucester is dead.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Marry, God forfend!

CARDINAL.
God’s secret judgment! I did dream tonight
The Duke was dumb and could not speak a word.

[The King swoons.]

QUEEN MARGARET.
How fares my lord? Help, lords! the King is dead.

SOMERSET.
Rear up his body; wring him by the nose.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Run, go, help, help! O Henry, ope thine eyes!

SUFFOLK.
He doth revive again. Madam, be patient.

KING HENRY.
O heavenly God!

QUEEN MARGARET.
How fares my gracious lord?

SUFFOLK.
Comfort, my sovereign! Gracious Henry, comfort!

KING HENRY.
What, doth my Lord of Suffolk comfort me?
Came he right now to sing a raven’s note,
Whose dismal tune bereft my vital powers,
And thinks he that the chirping of a wren,
By crying comfort from a hollow breast,
Can chase away the first-conceived sound?
Hide not thy poison with such sugared words;
Lay not thy hands on me. Forbear, I say!
Their touch affrights me as a serpent’s sting.
Thou baleful messenger, out of my sight!
Upon thy eyeballs murderous tyranny
Sits in grim majesty to fright the world.
Look not upon me, for thine eyes are wounding.
Yet do not go away; come, basilisk,
And kill the innocent gazer with thy sight.
For in the shade of death I shall find joy,
In life but double death, now Gloucester’s dead.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Why do you rate my Lord of Suffolk thus?
Although the Duke was enemy to him,
Yet he most Christian-like laments his death.
And for myself, foe as he was to me,
Might liquid tears or heart-offending groans
Or blood-consuming sighs recall his life,
I would be blind with weeping, sick with groans,
Look pale as primrose with blood-drinking sighs,
And all to have the noble Duke alive.
What know I how the world may deem of me?
For it is known we were but hollow friends.
It may be judged I made the Duke away;
So shall my name with slander’s tongue be wounded
And princes’ courts be filled with my reproach.
This get I by his death. Ay me, unhappy!
To be a queen, and crowned with infamy!

KING HENRY.
Ah, woe is me for Gloucester, wretched man!

QUEEN MARGARET.
Be woe for me, more wretched than he is.
What, dost thou turn away and hide thy face?
I am no loathsome leper. Look on me.
What, art thou, like the adder, waxen deaf?
Be poisonous too and kill thy forlorn Queen.
Is all thy comfort shut in Gloucester’s tomb?
Why, then, Dame Margaret was ne’er thy joy.
Erect his statue and worship it,
And make my image but an alehouse sign.
Was I for this nigh wracked upon the sea
And twice by awkward wind from England’s bank
Drove back again unto my native clime?
What boded this, but well forewarning wind
Did seem to say “Seek not a scorpion’s nest,
Nor set no footing on this unkind shore?”
What did I then, but cursed the gentle gusts
And he that loosed them forth their brazen caves
And bid them blow towards England’s blessed shore
Or turn our stern upon a dreadful rock?
Yet Aeolus would not be a murderer,
But left that hateful office unto thee.
The pretty-vaulting sea refused to drown me,
Knowing that thou wouldst have me drowned on shore
With tears as salt as sea, through thy unkindness.
The splitting rocks cowered in the sinking sands
And would not dash me with their ragged sides,
Because thy flinty heart, more hard than they,
Might in thy palace perish Margaret.
As far as I could ken thy chalky cliffs,
When from thy shore the tempest beat us back,
I stood upon the hatches in the storm,
And when the dusky sky began to rob
My earnest-gaping sight of thy land’s view,
I took a costly jewel from my neck—
A heart it was, bound in with diamonds—
And threw it towards thy land. The sea received it,
And so I wished thy body might my heart.
And even with this I lost fair England’s view,
And bid mine eyes be packing with my heart,
And called them blind and dusky spectacles,
For losing ken of Albion’s wished coast.
How often have I tempted Suffolk’s tongue,
The agent of thy foul inconstancy,
To sit and witch me, as Ascanius did
When he to madding Dido would unfold
His father’s acts commenced in burning Troy!
Am I not witched like her? Or thou not false like him?
Ay me, I can no more! Die, Margaret,
For Henry weeps that thou dost live so long.

Noise within. Enter Warwick, Salisbury and many Commons.

WARWICK.
It is reported, mighty sovereign,
That good Duke Humphrey traitorously is murdered
By Suffolk and the Cardinal Beaufort’s means.
The commons, like an angry hive of bees
That want their leader, scatter up and down
And care not who they sting in his revenge.
Myself have calmed their spleenful mutiny,
Until they hear the order of his death.

KING HENRY.
That he is dead, good Warwick, ’tis too true;
But how he died God knows, not Henry.
Enter his chamber, view his breathless corpse,
And comment then upon his sudden death.

WARWICK.
That shall I do, my liege.—Stay, Salisbury,
With the rude multitude till I return.

[Warwick exits through one door; Salisbury and Commons exit through another.]

KING HENRY.
O Thou that judgest all things, stay my thoughts,
My thoughts that labour to persuade my soul
Some violent hands were laid on Humphrey’s life.
If my suspect be false, forgive me, God,
For judgment only doth belong to Thee.
Fain would I go to chafe his paly lips
With twenty thousand kisses, and to drain
Upon his face an ocean of salt tears,
To tell my love unto his dumb deaf trunk,
And with my fingers feel his hand unfeeling;
But all in vain are these mean obsequies.
And to survey his dead and earthy image,
What were it but to make my sorrow greater?

Enter Warwick and others, bearing Gloucester’s body on a bed.

WARWICK.
Come hither, gracious sovereign, view this body.

KING HENRY.
That is to see how deep my grave is made,
For with his soul fled all my worldly solace;
For seeing him, I see my life in death.

WARWICK.
As surely as my soul intends to live
With that dread King that took our state upon Him
To free us from His Father’s wrathful curse,
I do believe that violent hands were laid
Upon the life of this thrice-famed duke.

SUFFOLK.
A dreadful oath, sworn with a solemn tongue!
What instance gives Lord Warwick for his vow?

WARWICK.
See how the blood is settled in his face.
Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost,
Of ashy semblance, meagre, pale, and bloodless,
Being all descended to the labouring heart,
Who, in the conflict that it holds with death,
Attracts the same for aidance ’gainst the enemy,
Which with the heart there cools and ne’er returneth
To blush and beautify the cheek again.
But see, his face is black and full of blood,
His eyeballs further out than when he lived,
Staring full ghastly like a strangled man;
His hair upreared, his nostrils stretched with struggling,
His hands abroad displayed, as one that grasped
And tugged for life and was by strength subdued.
Look, on the sheets his hair, you see, is sticking;
His well-proportioned beard made rough and rugged,
Like to the summer’s corn by tempest lodged.
It cannot be but he was murdered here;
The least of all these signs were probable.

SUFFOLK.
Why, Warwick, who should do the Duke to death?
Myself and Beaufort had him in protection,
And we, I hope, sir, are no murderers.

WARWICK.
But both of you were vowed Duke Humphrey’s foes,
And you, forsooth, had the good Duke to keep.
’Tis like you would not feast him like a friend,
And ’tis well seen he found an enemy.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Then you, belike, suspect these noblemen
As guilty of Duke Humphrey’s timeless death.

WARWICK.
Who finds the heifer dead and bleeding fresh
And sees fast by a butcher with an axe,
But will suspect ’twas he that made the slaughter?
Who finds the partridge in the puttock’s nest
But may imagine how the bird was dead,
Although the kite soar with unbloodied beak?
Even so suspicious is this tragedy.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Are you the butcher, Suffolk? Where’s your knife?
Is Beaufort termed a kite? Where are his talons?

SUFFOLK.
I wear no knife to slaughter sleeping men,
But here’s a vengeful sword, rusted with ease,
That shall be scoured in his rancorous heart
That slanders me with murder’s crimson badge.
Say, if thou dar’st, proud Lord of Warwickshire,
That I am faulty in Duke Humphrey’s death.

[Exeunt Cardinal, Somerset and others.]

WARWICK.
What dares not Warwick, if false Suffolk dare him?

QUEEN MARGARET.
He dares not calm his contumelious spirit,
Nor cease to be an arrogant controller,
Though Suffolk dare him twenty thousand times.

WARWICK.
Madam, be still, with reverence may I say;
For every word you speak in his behalf
Is slander to your royal dignity.

SUFFOLK.
Blunt-witted lord, ignoble in demeanour!
If ever lady wronged her lord so much,
Thy mother took into her blameful bed
Some stern untutored churl, and noble stock
Was graft with crab-tree slip, whose fruit thou art,
And never of the Nevilles’ noble race.

WARWICK.
But that the guilt of murder bucklers thee
And I should rob the deathsman of his fee,
Quitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames,
And that my sovereign’s presence makes me mild,
I would, false murderous coward, on thy knee
Make thee beg pardon for thy passed speech
And say it was thy mother that thou meant’st,
That thou thyself wast born in bastardy;
And after all this fearful homage done,
Give thee thy hire and send thy soul to hell,
Pernicious blood-sucker of sleeping men!

SUFFOLK.
Thou shalt be waking while I shed thy blood,
If from this presence thou dar’st go with me.

WARWICK.
Away even now, or I will drag thee hence.
Unworthy though thou art, I’ll cope with thee
And do some service to Duke Humphrey’s ghost.

[Exeunt Suffolk and Warwick.]

KING HENRY.
What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted?
Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just,
And he but naked, though locked up in steel,
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.

[A noise within.]

QUEEN MARGARET.
What noise is this?

Enter Suffolk and Warwick with their weapons drawn.

KING HENRY.
Why, how now, lords? Your wrathful weapons drawn
Here in our presence? Dare you be so bold?
Why, what tumultuous clamour have we here?

SUFFOLK.
The traitorous Warwick with the men of Bury
Set all upon me, mighty sovereign.

Enter Salisbury.

SALISBURY.
[To the Commons, entering.]
Sirs, stand apart; the King shall know your mind.—
Dread lord, the commons send you word by me,
Unless Lord Suffolk straight be done to death,
Or banished fair England’s territories,
They will by violence tear him from your palace
And torture him with grievous lingering death.
They say, by him the good Duke Humphrey died;
They say, in him they fear your highness’ death;
And mere instinct of love and loyalty,
Free from a stubborn opposite intent,
As being thought to contradict your liking,
Makes them thus forward in his banishment.
They say, in care of your most royal person,
That if your highness should intend to sleep
And charge that no man should disturb your rest,
In pain of your dislike or pain of death,
Yet, notwithstanding such a strait edict,
Were there a serpent seen, with forked tongue,
That slyly glided towards your majesty,
It were but necessary you were waked,
Lest, being suffered in that harmful slumber,
The mortal worm might make the sleep eternal.
And therefore do they cry, though you forbid,
That they will guard you, whe’er you will or no,
From such fell serpents as false Suffolk is,
With whose envenomed and fatal sting
Your loving uncle, twenty times his worth,
They say, is shamefully bereft of life.

COMMONS.
[Within.] An answer from the King, my Lord of Salisbury!

SUFFOLK.
’Tis like the commons, rude unpolished hinds,
Could send such message to their sovereign.
But you, my lord, were glad to be employed,
To show how quaint an orator you are.
But all the honour Salisbury hath won
Is that he was the lord ambassador
Sent from a sort of tinkers to the King.

COMMONS.
[Within.] An answer from the King, or we will all break in!

KING HENRY.
Go, Salisbury, and tell them all from me,
I thank them for their tender loving care;
And had I not been cited so by them,
Yet did I purpose as they do entreat.
For, sure, my thoughts do hourly prophesy
Mischance unto my state by Suffolk’s means.
And therefore, by His majesty I swear,
Whose far unworthy deputy I am,
He shall not breathe infection in this air
But three days longer, on the pain of death.

[Exit Salisbury.]

QUEEN MARGARET.
O Henry, let me plead for gentle Suffolk!

KING HENRY.
Ungentle Queen, to call him gentle Suffolk!
No more, I say; if thou dost plead for him,
Thou wilt but add increase unto my wrath.
Had I but said, I would have kept my word;
But when I swear, it is irrevocable.
If, after three days’ space, thou here be’st found
On any ground that I am ruler of,
The world shall not be ransom for thy life.
Come, Warwick, come, good Warwick, go with me;
I have great matters to impart to thee.

[Exeunt all but Queen and Suffolk.]

QUEEN MARGARET.
Mischance and sorrow go along with you!
Heart’s discontent and sour affliction
Be playfellows to keep you company!
There’s two of you; the devil make a third!
And threefold vengeance tend upon your steps!

SUFFOLK.
Cease, gentle Queen, these execrations,
And let thy Suffolk take his heavy leave.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Fie, coward woman and soft-hearted wretch!
Has thou not spirit to curse thine enemies?

SUFFOLK.
A plague upon them! Wherefore should I curse them?
Could curses kill, as doth the mandrake’s groan,
I would invent as bitter searching terms,
As curst, as harsh and horrible to hear,
Delivered strongly through my fixed teeth,
With full as many signs of deadly hate,
As lean-faced Envy in her loathsome cave.
My tongue should stumble in mine earnest words;
Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint;
Mine hair be fixed on end, as one distract;
Ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban;
And even now my burdened heart would break
Should I not curse them. Poison be their drink!
Gall, worse than gall, the daintiest that they taste!
Their sweetest shade a grove of cypress-trees!
Their chiefest prospect murdering basilisks;
Their softest touch as smart as lizards’ stings!
Their music frightful as the serpent’s hiss,
And boding screech-owls make the consort full!
All the foul terrors in dark-seated hell—

QUEEN MARGARET.
Enough, sweet Suffolk; thou torment’st thyself,
And these dread curses, like the sun ’gainst glass,
Or like an overcharged gun, recoil
And turns the force of them upon thyself.

SUFFOLK.
You bade me ban, and will you bid me leave?
Now, by the ground that I am banished from,
Well could I curse away a winter’s night,
Though standing naked on a mountain top
Where biting cold would never let grass grow,
And think it but a minute spent in sport.

QUEEN MARGARET.
O, let me entreat thee cease. Give me thy hand,
That I may dew it with my mournful tears;
Nor let the rain of heaven wet this place
To wash away my woeful monuments.
O, could this kiss be printed in thy hand,
That thou mightst think upon these by the seal,
Through whom a thousand sighs are breathed for thee!
So, get thee gone, that I may know my grief;
’Tis but surmised whiles thou art standing by,
As one that surfeits thinking on a want.
I will repeal thee, or, be well assured,
Adventure to be banished myself;
And banished I am, if but from thee.
Go; speak not to me, even now be gone!
O, go not yet! Even thus two friends condemned
Embrace and kiss and take ten thousand leaves,
Loather a hundred times to part than die.
Yet now farewell, and farewell life with thee.

SUFFOLK.
Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished,
Once by the King, and three times thrice by thee.
’Tis not the land I care for, wert thou thence.
A wilderness is populous enough,
So Suffolk had thy heavenly company;
For where thou art, there is the world itself,
With every several pleasure in the world;
And where thou art not, desolation.
I can no more. Live thou to joy thy life,
Myself no joy in nought but that thou liv’st.

Enter Vaux.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Whither goes Vaux so fast? What news, I prithee?

VAUX.
To signify unto his majesty
That Cardinal Beaufort is at point of death;
For suddenly a grievous sickness took him,
That makes him gasp and stare and catch the air,
Blaspheming God and cursing men on earth.
Sometime he talks as if Duke Humphrey’s ghost
Were by his side; sometime he calls the King
And whispers to his pillow, as to him,
The secrets of his overcharged soul.
And I am sent to tell his majesty
That even now he cries aloud for him.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Go tell this heavy message to the King.

[Exit Vaux.]

Ay me! What is this world? What news are these!
But wherefore grieve I at an hour’s poor loss,
Omitting Suffolk’s exile, my soul’s treasure?
Why only, Suffolk, mourn I not for thee,
And with the southern clouds contend in tears,
Theirs for the earth’s increase, mine for my sorrows’?
Now get thee hence. The King, thou know’st, is coming;
If thou be found by me thou art but dead.

SUFFOLK.
If I depart from thee, I cannot live;
And in thy sight to die, what were it else
But like a pleasant slumber in thy lap?
Here could I breathe my soul into the air,
As mild and gentle as the cradle-babe
Dying with mother’s dug between its lips;
Where, from thy sight, I should be raging mad
And cry out for thee to close up mine eyes,
To have thee with thy lips to stop my mouth.
So shouldst thou either turn my flying soul,
Or I should breathe it so into thy body,
And then it lived in sweet Elysium.
To die by thee were but to die in jest;
From thee to die were torture more than death.
O, let me stay, befall what may befall!

QUEEN MARGARET.
Away! Though parting be a fretful corrosive,
It is applied to a deathful wound.
To France, sweet Suffolk! Let me hear from thee,
For whereso’er thou art in this world’s globe
I’ll have an Iris that shall find thee out.

SUFFOLK.
I go.

QUEEN MARGARET.
And take my heart with thee.

SUFFOLK.
A jewel, locked into the woefull’st cask
That ever did contain a thing of worth.
Even as a splitted bark, so sunder we.
This way fall I to death.

QUEEN MARGARET.
This way for me.

[Exeunt severally.]

SCENE III. A Bedchamber

Enter the King, Salisbury and Warwick, to the Cardinal in bed.

KING HENRY.
How fares my lord? Speak, Beaufort, to thy sovereign.

CARDINAL.
If thou be’st Death, I’ll give thee England’s treasure,
Enough to purchase such another island,
So thou wilt let me live and feel no pain.

KING HENRY.
Ah, what a sign it is of evil life
Where death’s approach is seen so terrible!

WARWICK.
Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks to thee.

CARDINAL.
Bring me unto my trial when you will.
Died he not in his bed? Where should he die?
Can I make men live, whe’er they will or no?
O, torture me no more! I will confess.
Alive again? Then show me where he is.
I’ll give a thousand pound to look upon him.
He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them.
Comb down his hair; look, look, it stands upright,
Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul.
Give me some drink, and bid the apothecary
Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.

KING HENRY.
O Thou eternal mover of the heavens,
Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch!
O, beat away the busy meddling fiend
That lays strong siege unto this wretch’s soul,
And from his bosom purge this black despair!

WARWICK.
See how the pangs of death do make him grin!

SALISBURY.
Disturb him not; let him pass peaceably.

KING HENRY.
Peace to his soul, if God’s good pleasure be!
Lord Cardinal, if thou think’st on heaven’s bliss,
Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope.
He dies and makes no sign. O God, forgive him!

WARWICK.
So bad a death argues a monstrous life.

KING HENRY.
Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.
Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close,
And let us all to meditation.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV

SCENE I. The Coast of Kent

Alarum. Fight at sea. Ordnance goes off. Enter a Lieutenant, Suffolk, disguised, a prisoner. The Master, a Master’s Mate, Walter Whitmore, and prisoners.

LIEUTENANT.
The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day
Is crept into the bosom of the sea;
And now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades
That drag the tragic melancholy night,
Who, with their drowsy, slow, and flagging wings
Clip dead men’s graves and from their misty jaws
Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air.
Therefore bring forth the soldiers of our prize;
For, whilst our pinnace anchors in the Downs,
Here shall they make their ransom on the sand,
Or with their blood stain this discoloured shore.
Master, this prisoner freely give I thee,
And thou that art his mate, make boot of this;
The other, Walter Whitmore, is thy share.

1 GENTLEMAN.
What is my ransom, master? Let me know.

MASTER.
A thousand crowns, or else lay down your head.

MATE.
And so much shall you give, or off goes yours.

LIEUTENANT.
What, think you much to pay two thousand crowns,
And bear the name and port of gentlemen?
Cut both the villains’ throats—for die you shall.
The lives of those which we have lost in fight
Be counterpoised with such a petty sum!

1 GENTLEMAN.
I’ll give it, sir, and therefore spare my life.

2 GENTLEMAN.
And so will I, and write home for it straight.

WHITMORE.
[To Suffolk.] I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboard,
And therefore to revenge it shalt thou die;
And so should these, if I might have my will.

LIEUTENANT.
Be not so rash; take ransom, let him live.

SUFFOLK.
Look on my George; I am a gentleman.
Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid.

WHITMORE.
And so am I; my name is Walter Whitmore.
How now! Why starts thou? What, doth death affright?

SUFFOLK.
Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is death.
A cunning man did calculate my birth
And told me that by water I should die.
Yet let not this make thee be bloody-minded;
Thy name is Gaultier, being rightly sounded.

WHITMORE.
Gaultier or Walter, which it is, I care not.
Never yet did base dishonour blur our name
But with our sword we wiped away the blot.
Therefore, when merchant-like I sell revenge,
Broke be my sword, my arms torn and defaced,
And I proclaimed a coward through the world!

SUFFOLK.
Stay, Whitmore, for thy prisoner is a prince,
The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Pole.

WHITMORE.
The Duke of Suffolk, muffled up in rags?

SUFFOLK.
Ay, but these rags are no part of the Duke.
Jove sometime went disguised, and why not I?

LIEUTENANT.
But Jove was never slain, as thou shalt be.

SUFFOLK.
Obscure and lowly swain, King Henry’s blood,
The honourable blood of Lancaster,
Must not be shed by such a jaded groom.
Hast thou not kissed thy hand and held my stirrup?
Bareheaded plodded by my foot-cloth mule,
And thought thee happy when I shook my head?
How often hast thou waited at my cup,
Fed from my trencher, kneeled down at the board,
When I have feasted with Queen Margaret?
Remember it, and let it make thee crestfallen,
Ay, and allay thus thy abortive pride.
How in our voiding lobby hast thou stood
And duly waited for my coming forth?
This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf,
And therefore shall it charm thy riotous tongue.

WHITMORE.
Speak, captain, shall I stab the forlorn swain?

LIEUTENANT.
First let my words stab him, as he hath me.

SUFFOLK.
Base slave, thy words are blunt, and so art thou.

LIEUTENANT.
Convey him hence, and on our longboat’s side
Strike off his head.

SUFFOLK.
Thou dar’st not, for thy own.

LIEUTENANT.
Yes, poll!

SUFFOLK.
Pole!

LIEUTENANT.
Pool! Sir Pool! Lord!
Ay, kennel, puddle, sink, whose filth and dirt
Troubles the silver spring where England drinks;
Now will I dam up this thy yawning mouth
For swallowing the treasure of the realm.
Thy lips that kissed the Queen shall sweep the ground;
And thou that smiledst at good Duke Humphrey’s death
Against the senseless winds shalt grin in vain,
Who in contempt shall hiss at thee again.
And wedded be thou to the hags of hell,
For daring to affy a mighty lord
Unto the daughter of a worthless king,
Having neither subject, wealth, nor diadem.
By devilish policy art thou grown great
And, like ambitious Sylla, overgorged
With gobbets of thy mother’s bleeding heart.
By thee Anjou and Maine were sold to France,
The false revolting Normans thorough thee
Disdain to call us lord, and Picardy
Hath slain their governors, surprised our forts,
And sent the ragged soldiers wounded home.
The princely Warwick, and the Nevilles all,
Whose dreadful swords were never drawn in vain,
As hating thee are rising up in arms.
And now the house of York, thrust from the crown
By shameful murder of a guiltless king
And lofty, proud, encroaching tyranny,
Burns with revenging fire, whose hopeful colours
Advance our half-faced sun, striving to shine,
Under the which is writ “Invitis nubibus.”
The commons here in Kent are up in arms;
And, to conclude, reproach and beggary
Is crept into the palace of our King,
And all by thee.—Away! Convey him hence.

SUFFOLK.
O that I were a god, to shoot forth thunder
Upon these paltry, servile, abject drudges!
Small things make base men proud. This villain here,
Being captain of a pinnace, threatens more
Than Bargulus the strong Illyrian pirate.
Drones suck not eagles’ blood but rob beehives.
It is impossible that I should die
By such a lowly vassal as thyself.
Thy words move rage and not remorse in me.
I go of message from the Queen to France;
I charge thee waft me safely ’cross the Channel.

LIEUTENANT.
Walter.

WHITMORE.
Come, Suffolk, I must waft thee to thy death.

SUFFOLK.
Pene gelidus timor occupat artus.
It is thee I fear.

WHITMORE.
Thou shalt have cause to fear before I leave thee.
What, are ye daunted now? Now will ye stoop?

1 GENTLEMAN.
My gracious lord, entreat him, speak him fair.

SUFFOLK.
Suffolk’s imperial tongue is stern and rough,
Used to command, untaught to plead for favour.
Far be it we should honour such as these
With humble suit. No, rather let my head
Stoop to the block than these knees bow to any
Save to the God of heaven and to my King;
And sooner dance upon a bloody pole
Than stand uncovered to the vulgar groom.
True nobility is exempt from fear;
More can I bear than you dare execute.

LIEUTENANT.
Hale him away, and let him talk no more.

SUFFOLK.
Come, soldiers, show what cruelty ye can,
That this my death may never be forgot!
Great men oft die by vile Bezonians.
A Roman sworder and banditto slave
Murdered sweet Tully; Brutus’ bastard hand
Stabbed Julius Caesar; savage islanders
Pompey the Great; and Suffolk dies by pirates.

[Exeunt Whitmore and others with Suffolk.]

LIEUTENANT.
And as for these whose ransom we have set,
It is our pleasure one of them depart.
Therefore come you with us, and let him go.

[Exeunt all but the 1 Gentleman.]

Enter Whitmore with Suffolk’s body and head.

WHITMORE.
There let his head and lifeless body lie,
Until the Queen his mistress bury it.

[Exit.]

1 GENTLEMAN.
O barbarous and bloody spectacle!
His body will I bear unto the King.
If he revenge it not, yet will his friends;
So will the Queen, that living held him dear.

[Exit with the body.]

SCENE II. Blackheath

Enter George Bevis and John Holland.

BEVIS.
Come, and get thee a sword, though made of a lath; they have been up these two days.

HOLLAND.
They have the more need to sleep now, then.

BEVIS.
I tell thee, Jack Cade the clothier means to dress the commonwealth, and turn it, and set a new nap upon it.

HOLLAND.
So he had need, for ’tis threadbare. Well, I say it was never merry world in England since gentlemen came up.

BEVIS.
O miserable age! Virtue is not regarded in handicraftsmen.

HOLLAND.
The nobility think scorn to go in leather aprons.

BEVIS.
Nay, more, the King’s Council are no good workmen.

HOLLAND.
True; and yet it is said, “Labour in thy vocation,” which is as much to say as, “Let the magistrates be labouring men;” and therefore should we be magistrates.

BEVIS.
Thou hast hit it; for there’s no better sign of a brave mind than a hard hand.

HOLLAND.
I see them! I see them! There’s Best’s son, the tanner of Wingham.

BEVIS.
He shall have the skin of our enemies, to make dog’s leather of.

HOLLAND.
And Dick the butcher.

BEVIS.
Then is sin struck down like an ox, and iniquity’s throat cut like a calf.

HOLLAND.
And Smith the weaver.

BEVIS.
Argo, their thread of life is spun.

HOLLAND.
Come, come, let’s fall in with them.

Drum. Enter Cade, Dick the Butcher, Smith the Weaver and a Sawyer with infinite numbers carrying long staves.

CADE.
We, John Cade, so termed of our supposed father—

DICK.
[Aside.] Or rather, of stealing a cade of herrings.

CADE.
For our enemies shall fall before us, inspired with the spirit of putting down kings and princes. Command silence.

DICK.
Silence!

CADE.
My father was a Mortimer—

DICK.
[Aside.] He was an honest man and a good bricklayer.

CADE.
My mother a Plantagenet—

DICK.
[Aside.] I knew her well; she was a midwife.

CADE.
My wife descended of the Lacies—

DICK.
[Aside.] She was indeed a pedler’s daughter, and sold many laces.

SMITH.
[Aside.] But now of late, not able to travel with her furred pack, she washes bucks here at home.

CADE.
Therefore am I of an honourable house.

DICK.
[Aside.] Ay, by my faith, the field is honourable; and there was he born, under a hedge, for his father had never a house but the cage.

CADE.
Valiant I am.

SMITH.
[Aside.] He must needs; for beggary is valiant.

CADE.
I am able to endure much.

DICK.
[Aside.] No question of that; for I have seen him whipped three market-days together.

CADE.
I fear neither sword nor fire.

SMITH.
[Aside.] He need not fear the sword, for his coat is of proof.

DICK.
[Aside.] But methinks he should stand in fear of fire, being burnt i’ th’ hand for stealing of sheep.

CADE.
Be brave, then, for your captain is brave, and vows reformation. There shall be in England seven halfpenny loaves sold for a penny; the three-hooped pot shall have ten hoops, and I will make it felony to drink small beer. All the realm shall be in common, and in Cheapside shall my palfrey go to grass. And when I am king, as king I will be—

ALL.
God save your majesty!

CADE.
I thank you, good people.—There shall be no money; all shall eat and drink on my score, and I will apparel them all in one livery, that they may agree like brothers and worship me their lord.

DICK.
The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.

CADE.
Nay, that I mean to do. Is not this a lamentable thing, that of the skin of an innocent lamb should be made parchment; that parchment, being scribbled o’er, should undo a man? Some say the bee stings, but I say ’tis the bee’s wax; for I did but seal once to a thing, and I was never mine own man since. How now? Who’s there?

Enter some, bringing in the Clerk of Chartham.

SMITH.
The clerk of Chartham. He can write and read and cast account.

CADE.
O, monstrous!

SMITH.
We took him setting of boys’ copies.

CADE.
Here’s a villain!

SMITH.
H’as a book in his pocket with red letters in ’t.

CADE.
Nay, then, he is a conjurer.

DICK.
Nay, he can make obligations and write court-hand.

CADE.
I am sorry for ’t. The man is a proper man, of mine honour; unless I find him guilty, he shall not die.—Come hither, sirrah, I must examine thee. What is thy name?

CLERK.
Emmanuel.

DICK.
They use to write it on the top of letters. ’Twill go hard with you.

CADE.
Let me alone. Dost thou use to write thy name? Or hast thou a mark to thyself, like a honest, plain-dealing man?

CLERK.
Sir, I thank God, I have been so well brought up that I can write my name.

ALL.
He hath confessed. Away with him! He’s a villain and a traitor.

CADE.
Away with him, I say! Hang him with his pen and inkhorn about his neck.

[Exit one with the Clerk.]

Enter Michael.

MICHAEL.
Where’s our general?

CADE.
Here I am, thou particular fellow.

MICHAEL.
Fly, fly, fly! Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother are hard by, with the King’s forces.

CADE.
Stand, villain, stand, or I’ll fell thee down. He shall be encountered with a man as good as himself. He is but a knight, is he?

MICHAEL.
No.

CADE.
To equal him, I will make myself a knight presently.
[Kneels.] Rise up Sir John Mortimer.
[Rises.] Now have at him!

Enter Sir Humphrey Stafford and his Brother with Drum and soldiers.

STAFFORD.
Rebellious hinds, the filth and scum of Kent,
Marked for the gallows, lay your weapons down;
Home to your cottages, forsake this groom.
The King is merciful, if you revolt.

BROTHER.
But angry, wrathful, and inclined to blood,
If you go forward. Therefore yield, or die.

CADE.
As for these silken-coated slaves, I pass not.
It is to you, good people, that I speak,
Over whom, in time to come, I hope to reign,
For I am rightful heir unto the crown.

STAFFORD.
Villain, thy father was a plasterer,
And thou thyself a shearman, art thou not?

CADE.
And Adam was a gardener.

BROTHER.
And what of that?

CADE.
Marry, this: Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March,
Married the Duke of Clarence’ daughter, did he not?

STAFFORD.
Ay, sir.

CADE.
By her he had two children at one birth.

BROTHER.
That’s false.

CADE.
Ay, there’s the question; but I say ’tis true.
The elder of them, being put to nurse,
Was by a beggar-woman stolen away,
And, ignorant of his birth and parentage,
Became a bricklayer when he came to age.
His son am I; deny it if you can.

DICK.
Nay, ’tis too true; therefore he shall be King.

SMITH.
Sir, he made a chimney in my father’s house, and the bricks are alive at this day to testify it; therefore deny it not.

STAFFORD.
And will you credit this base drudge’s words,
That speaks he knows not what?

ALL.
Ay, marry, will we; therefore get ye gone.

BROTHER.
Jack Cade, the Duke of York hath taught you this.

CADE.
[Aside.] He lies, for I invented it myself.—Go to, sirrah, tell the King from me that, for his father’s sake, Henry the Fifth, in whose time boys went to span-counter for French crowns, I am content he shall reign, but I’ll be Protector over him.

DICK.
And furthermore, we’ll have the Lord Saye’s head for selling the dukedom of Maine.

CADE.
And good reason, for thereby is England mained and fain to go with a staff, but that my puissance holds it up. Fellow kings, I tell you that that Lord Saye hath gelded the commonwealth and made it an eunuch; and more than that, he can speak French, and therefore he is a traitor.

STAFFORD.
O gross and miserable ignorance!

CADE.
Nay, answer if you can. The Frenchmen are our enemies; go to, then, I ask but this: can he that speaks with the tongue of an enemy be a good counsellor, or no?

ALL.
No, no, and therefore we’ll have his head.

BROTHER.
Well, seeing gentle words will not prevail,
Assail them with the army of the King.

STAFFORD.
Herald, away, and throughout every town
Proclaim them traitors that are up with Cade;
That those which fly before the battle ends
May, even in their wives’ and children’s sight,
Be hanged up for example at their doors.
And you that be the King’s friends, follow me.

[Exeunt the two Staffords and soldiers.]

CADE.
And you that love the commons follow me.
Now show yourselves men; ’tis for liberty.
We will not leave one lord, one gentleman;
Spare none but such as go in clouted shoon,
For they are thrifty honest men and such
As would, but that they dare not, take our parts.

DICK.
They are all in order and march toward us.

CADE.
But then are we in order when we are most out of order. Come, march forward.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE III. Another part of Blackheath

[Alarums to the fight, wherein both the Staffords are slain. Enter Cade and the rest.

CADE.
Where’s Dick, the butcher of Ashford?

DICK.
Here, sir.

CADE.
They fell before thee like sheep and oxen, and thou behaved’st thyself as if thou hadst been in thine own slaughterhouse. Therefore thus will I reward thee: the Lent shall be as long again as it is, and thou shalt have a licence to kill for a hundred lacking one.

DICK.
I desire no more.

CADE.
And, to speak truth, thou deservest no less. This monument of the victory will I bear. [putting on Sir Humphrey’s brigandine] And the bodies shall be dragged at my horse heels till I do come to London, where we will have the Mayor’s sword borne before us.

DICK.
If we mean to thrive and do good, break open the gaols and let out the prisoners.

CADE.
Fear not that, I warrant thee. Come, let’s march towards London.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE IV. London. The Palace

Enter the King with a supplication, and the Queen with Suffolk’s head, the Duke of Buckingham and the Lord Saye.

QUEEN MARGARET.
[Aside.] Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind
And makes it fearful and degenerate;
Think therefore on revenge and cease to weep.
But who can cease to weep and look on this?
Here may his head lie on my throbbing breast;
But where’s the body that I should embrace?

BUCKINGHAM.
What answer makes your grace to the rebels’ supplication?

KING HENRY.
I’ll send some holy bishop to entreat,
For God forbid so many simple souls
Should perish by the sword! And I myself,
Rather than bloody war shall cut them short,
Will parley with Jack Cade their general.
But stay, I’ll read it over once again.

QUEEN MARGARET.
[Aside.] Ah, barbarous villains! Hath this lovely face
Ruled, like a wandering planet, over me,
And could it not enforce them to relent
That were unworthy to behold the same?

KING HENRY.
Lord Saye, Jack Cade hath sworn to have thy head.

SAYE.
Ay, but I hope your highness shall have his.

KING HENRY.
How now, madam?
Still lamenting and mourning for Suffolk’s death?
I fear me, love, if that I had been dead,
Thou wouldst not have mourned so much for me.

QUEEN MARGARET.
No, my love, I should not mourn, but die for thee.

Enter a Messenger.

KING HENRY.
How now, what news? Why com’st thou in such haste?

MESSENGER.
The rebels are in Southwark; fly, my lord!
Jack Cade proclaims himself Lord Mortimer,
Descended from the Duke of Clarence’ house,
And calls your grace usurper openly,
And vows to crown himself in Westminster.
His army is a ragged multitude
Of hinds and peasants, rude and merciless.
Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother’s death
Hath given them heart and courage to proceed.
All scholars, lawyers, courtiers, gentlemen,
They call false caterpillars, and intend their death.

KING HENRY.
O graceless men! They know not what they do.

BUCKINGHAM.
My gracious lord, retire to Killingworth
Until a power be raised to put them down.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Ah, were the Duke of Suffolk now alive,
These Kentish rebels would be soon appeased!

KING HENRY.
Lord Saye, the traitors hate thee;
Therefore away with us to Killingworth.

SAYE.
So might your grace’s person be in danger.
The sight of me is odious in their eyes;
And therefore in this city will I stay
And live alone as secret as I may.

Enter another Messenger.

MESSENGER.
Jack Cade hath gotten London Bridge;
The citizens fly and forsake their houses.
The rascal people, thirsting after prey,
Join with the traitor, and they jointly swear
To spoil the city and your royal court.

BUCKINGHAM.
Then linger not, my lord; away, take horse!

KING HENRY.
Come, Margaret. God, our hope, will succour us.

QUEEN MARGARET.
[Aside.] My hope is gone, now Suffolk is deceased.

KING HENRY.
Farewell, my lord. Trust not the Kentish rebels.

BUCKINGHAM.
Trust nobody, for fear you be betrayed.

SAYE.
The trust I have is in mine innocence,
And therefore am I bold and resolute.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE V. London. The Tower

Enter Lord Scales upon the Tower, walking. Then enter two or three Citizens below.

SCALES.
How now? Is Jack Cade slain?

1 CITIZEN.
No, my lord, nor likely to be slain; for they have won the Bridge, killing all those that withstand them. The Lord Mayor craves aid of your honour from the Tower to defend the city from the rebels.

SCALES.
Such aid as I can spare you shall command,
But I am troubled here with them myself;
The rebels have assayed to win the Tower.
But get you to Smithfield and gather head,
And thither I will send you Matthew Gough.
Fight for your king, your country, and your lives!
And so farewell, for I must hence again.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE VI. London. Cannon Street

Enter Jack Cade and the rest, and strikes his staff on London Stone.

CADE.
Now is Mortimer lord of this city. And here, sitting upon London Stone, I charge and command that, of the city’s cost, the Pissing Conduit run nothing but claret wine this first year of our reign. And now henceforward it shall be treason for any that calls me other than Lord Mortimer.

Enter a Soldier, running.

SOLDIER.
Jack Cade! Jack Cade!

CADE.
Knock him down there.

[They kill him.]

DICK.
If this fellow be wise, he’ll never call ye Jack Cade more. I think he hath a very fair warning. My lord, there’s an army gathered together in Smithfield.

CADE.
Come then, let’s go fight with them. But first, go and set London Bridge on fire; and, if you can, burn down the Tower too. Come, let’s away.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE VII. London. Smithfield

Alarums. Matthew Gough is slain, and all the rest. Then enter Jack Cade with his company.

CADE.
So, sirs. Now go some and pull down the Savoy; others to th’ Inns of Court; down with them all.

DICK.
I have a suit unto your lordship.

CADE.
Be it a lordship, thou shalt have it for that word.

DICK.
Only that the laws of England may come out of your mouth.

HOLLAND.
[Aside.] Mass, ’twill be sore law, then; for he was thrust in the mouth with a spear, and ’tis not whole yet.

SMITH.
[Aside.] Nay, John, it will be stinking law, for his breath stinks with eating toasted cheese.

CADE.
I have thought upon it, it shall be so. Away, burn all the records of the realm. My mouth shall be the parliament of England.

HOLLAND.
[Aside.] Then we are like to have biting statutes, unless his teeth be pulled out.

CADE.
And henceforward all things shall be in common.

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER.
My lord, a prize, a prize! Here’s the Lord Saye, which sold the towns in France; he that made us pay one-and-twenty fifteens, and one shilling to the pound, the last subsidy.

Enter George Bevis with the Lord Saye.

CADE.
Well, he shall be beheaded for it ten times. Ah, thou say, thou serge, nay, thou buckram lord! Now art thou within point-blank of our jurisdiction regal. What canst thou answer to my majesty for giving up of Normandy unto Mounsieur Basimecu, the Dauphin of France? Be it known unto thee by these presence, even the presence of Lord Mortimer, that I am the besom that must sweep the court clean of such filth as thou art. Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school; and whereas, before, our forefathers had no other books but the score and the tally, thou hast caused printing to be used, and, contrary to the King, his crown, and dignity, thou hast built a paper-mill. It will be proved to thy face that thou hast men about thee that usually talk of a noun and a verb, and such abominable words as no Christian ear can endure to hear. Thou hast appointed justices of peace, to call poor men before them about matters they were not able to answer. Moreover, thou hast put them in prison, and because they could not read, thou hast hanged them, when indeed only for that cause they have been most worthy to live. Thou dost ride on a foot-cloth, dost thou not?

SAYE.
What of that?

CADE.
Marry, thou ought’st not to let thy horse wear a cloak when honester men than thou go in their hose and doublets.

DICK.
And work in their shirt too; as myself, for example, that am a butcher.

SAYE.
You men of Kent—

DICK.
What say you of Kent?

SAYE.
Nothing but this; ’tis bona terra, mala gens.

CADE.
Away with him, away with him! He speaks Latin.

SAYE.
Hear me but speak, and bear me where you will.
Kent, in the Commentaries Caesar writ,
Is termed the civil’st place of all this isle.
Sweet is the country, because full of riches;
The people liberal, valiant, active, wealthy;
Which makes me hope you are not void of pity.
I sold not Maine, I lost not Normandy,
Yet to recover them would lose my life.
Justice with favour have I always done;
Prayers and tears have moved me, gifts could never.
When have I aught exacted at your hands
Kent to maintain the King, the realm, and you?
Large gifts have I bestowed on learned clerks,
Because my book preferred me to the King.
And seeing ignorance is the curse of God,
Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven,
Unless you be possessed with devilish spirits,
You cannot but forbear to murder me.
This tongue hath parleyed unto foreign kings
For your behoof—

CADE.
Tut, when struck’st thou one blow in the field?

SAYE.
Great men have reaching hands; oft have I struck
Those that I never saw, and struck them dead.

GEORGE.
O monstrous coward! What, to come behind folks?

SAYE.
These cheeks are pale for watching for your good.

CADE.
Give him a box o’ th’ ear, and that will make ’em red again.

SAYE.
Long sitting to determine poor men’s causes
Hath made me full of sickness and diseases.

CADE.
Ye shall have a hempen caudle then, and the help of hatchet.

DICK.
Why dost thou quiver, man?

SAYE.
The palsy, and not fear, provokes me.

CADE.
Nay, he nods at us, as who should say, “I’ll be even with you.” I’ll see if his head will stand steadier on a pole or no. Take him away, and behead him.

SAYE.
Tell me, wherein have I offended most?
Have I affected wealth or honour? Speak.
Are my chests filled up with extorted gold?
Is my apparel sumptuous to behold?
Whom have I injured, that ye seek my death?
These hands are free from guiltless bloodshedding,
This breast from harbouring foul deceitful thoughts.
O, let me live!

CADE.
[Aside.] I feel remorse in myself with his words, but I’ll bridle it. He shall die, an it be but for pleading so well for his life. Away with him! He has a familiar under his tongue; he speaks not i’ God’s name. Go, take him away, I say, and strike off his head presently; and then break into his son-in-law’s house, Sir James Cromer, and strike off his head, and bring them both upon two poles hither.

ALL.
It shall be done.

SAYE.
Ah, countrymen, if when you make your prayers,
God should be so obdurate as yourselves,
How would it fare with your departed souls?
And therefore yet relent, and save my life.

CADE.
Away with him! And do as I command ye.

[Exeunt some with Lord Saye.]

The proudest peer in the realm shall not wear a head on his shoulders unless he pay me tribute; there shall not a maid be married but she shall pay to me her maidenhead ere they have it. Men shall hold of me in capite; and we charge and command that their wives be as free as heart can wish or tongue can tell.

DICK.
My lord, when shall we go to Cheapside and take up commodities upon our bills?

CADE.
Marry, presently.

ALL.
O, brave!

Enter one with the heads.

CADE.
But is not this braver? Let them kiss one another, for they loved well when they were alive. Now part them again, lest they consult about the giving up of some more towns in France. Soldiers, defer the spoil of the city until night; for with these borne before us instead of maces will we ride through the streets, and at every corner have them kiss. Away!

[Exeunt.]

SCENE VIII. Southwark

Alarum and retreat. Enter Cade and all his rabblement.

CADE.
Up Fish Street! Down Saint Magnus’ Corner! Kill and knock down! Throw them into Thames! [Sound a parley.] What noise is this I hear? Dare any be so bold to sound retreat or parley when I command them kill?

Enter Buckingham and old Clifford attended.

BUCKINGHAM.
Ay, here they be that dare and will disturb thee.
Know, Cade, we come ambassadors from the King
Unto the commons, whom thou hast misled,
And here pronounce free pardon to them all
That will forsake thee and go home in peace.

CLIFFORD.
What say ye, countrymen? Will ye relent
And yield to mercy whilst ’tis offered you,
Or let a rebel lead you to your deaths?
Who loves the King and will embrace his pardon,
Fling up his cap, and say “God save his Majesty!”
Who hateth him and honours not his father,
Henry the Fifth, that made all France to quake,
Shake he his weapon at us and pass by.

ALL.
God save the King! God save the King!

CADE.
What, Buckingham and Clifford, are ye so brave? And you, base peasants, do ye believe him? Will you needs be hanged with your pardons about your necks? Hath my sword therefore broke through London gates, that you should leave me at the White Hart in Southwark? I thought ye would never have given out these arms till you had recovered your ancient freedom; but you are all recreants and dastards, and delight to live in slavery to the nobility. Let them break your backs with burdens, take your houses over your heads, ravish your wives and daughters before your faces. For me, I will make shift for one, and so God’s curse light upon you all!

ALL.
We’ll follow Cade! We’ll follow Cade!

CLIFFORD.
Is Cade the son of Henry the Fifth,
That thus you do exclaim you’ll go with him?
Will he conduct you through the heart of France
And make the meanest of you earls and dukes?
Alas, he hath no home, no place to fly to,
Nor knows he how to live but by the spoil,
Unless by robbing of your friends and us.
Were ’t not a shame that whilst you live at jar
The fearful French, whom you late vanquished,
Should make a start o’er seas and vanquish you?
Methinks already in this civil broil
I see them lording it in London streets,
Crying “Villiago!” unto all they meet.
Better ten thousand base-born Cades miscarry
Than you should stoop unto a Frenchman’s mercy.
To France, to France, and get what you have lost!
Spare England, for it is your native coast.
Henry hath money, you are strong and manly;
God on our side, doubt not of victory.

ALL.
A Clifford! A Clifford! We’ll follow the King and Clifford.

CADE.
Was ever feather so lightly blown to and fro as this multitude? The name of Henry the Fifth hales them to an hundred mischiefs and makes them leave me desolate. I see them lay their heads together to surprise me. My sword make way for me, for here is no staying.—In despite of the devils and hell, have through the very middest of you! And heavens and honour be witness that no want of resolution in me, but only my followers’ base and ignominious treasons, makes me betake me to my heels.

[Exit.]

BUCKINGHAM.
What, is he fled? Go some, and follow him;
And he that brings his head unto the King
Shall have a thousand crowns for his reward.

[Exeunt some of them.]

Follow me, soldiers; we’ll devise a mean
To reconcile you all unto the King.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE IX. Kenilworth Castle

Sound trumpets. Enter King, Queen and Somerset on the terrace, aloft.

KING HENRY.
Was ever king that joyed an earthly throne
And could command no more content than I?
No sooner was I crept out of my cradle
But I was made a king at nine months old.
Was never subject longed to be a king
As I do long and wish to be a subject.

Enter Buckingham and old Clifford.

BUCKINGHAM.
Health and glad tidings to your majesty!

KING HENRY.
Why, Buckingham, is the traitor Cade surprised?
Or is he but retired to make him strong?

Enter below multitudes with halters about their necks.

CLIFFORD.
He is fled, my lord, and all his powers do yield,
And humbly thus, with halters on their necks,
Expect your highness’ doom of life or death.

KING HENRY.
Then, heaven, set ope thy everlasting gates
To entertain my vows of thanks and praise!
Soldiers, this day have you redeemed your lives
And showed how well you love your prince and country.
Continue still in this so good a mind,
And Henry, though he be infortunate,
Assure yourselves, will never be unkind.
And so, with thanks and pardon to you all,
I do dismiss you to your several countries.

ALL.
God save the King! God save the King!

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER.
Please it your grace to be advertised
The Duke of York is newly come from Ireland,
And with a puissant and a mighty power
Of gallowglasses and stout kerns
Is marching hitherward in proud array,
And still proclaimeth, as he comes along,
His arms are only to remove from thee
The Duke of Somerset, whom he terms a traitor.

KING HENRY.
Thus stands my state, ’twixt Cade and York distressed,
Like to a ship that, having scaped a tempest,
Is straightway calmed and boarded with a pirate.
But now is Cade driven back, his men dispersed,
And now is York in arms to second him.
I pray thee, Buckingham, go and meet him,
And ask him what’s the reason of these arms.
Tell him I’ll send Duke Edmund to the Tower.—
And, Somerset, we will commit thee thither,
Until his army be dismissed from him.

SOMERSET.
My lord, I’ll yield myself to prison willingly,
Or unto death, to do my country good.

KING HENRY.
In any case, be not too rough in terms,
For he is fierce and cannot brook hard language.

BUCKINGHAM.
I will, my lord, and doubt not so to deal
As all things shall redound unto your good.

KING HENRY.
Come, wife, let’s in, and learn to govern better;
For yet may England curse my wretched reign.

[Flourish. Exeunt.]

SCENE X. Kent. Iden’s Garden

Enter Cade.

CADE.
Fie on ambitions! Fie on myself, that have a sword and yet am ready to famish! These five days have I hid me in these woods and durst not peep out, for all the country is laid for me; but now am I so hungry that if I might have a lease of my life for a thousand years, I could stay no longer. Wherefore, o’er a brick wall have I climbed into this garden, to see if I can eat grass, or pick a sallet another while, which is not amiss to cool a man’s stomach this hot weather. And I think this word “sallet” was born to do me good; for many a time, but for a sallet, my brain-pan had been cleft with a brown bill; and many a time, when I have been dry and bravely marching, it hath served me instead of a quart pot to drink in; and now the word “sallet” must serve me to feed on.

Enter Iden and his men.

IDEN.
Lord, who would live turmoiled in the court
And may enjoy such quiet walks as these?
This small inheritance my father left me
Contenteth me, and worth a monarchy.
I seek not to wax great by others’ waning,
Or gather wealth, I care not with what envy;
Sufficeth that I have maintains my state
And sends the poor well pleased from my gate.

CADE.
Here’s the lord of the soil come to seize me for a stray, for entering his fee-simple without leave.—Ah, villain, thou wilt betray me and get a thousand crowns of the King by carrying my head to him; but I’ll make thee eat iron like an ostrich, and swallow my sword like a great pin, ere thou and I part.

IDEN.
Why, rude companion, whatsoe’er thou be,
I know thee not; why, then, should I betray thee?
Is ’t not enough to break into my garden
And, like a thief, to come to rob my grounds,
Climbing my walls in spite of me the owner,
But thou wilt brave me with these saucy terms?

CADE.
Brave thee? Ay, by the best blood that ever was broached, and beard thee too. Look on me well: I have eat no meat these five days, yet come thou and thy five men, and if I do not leave you all as dead as a doornail, I pray God I may never eat grass more.

IDEN.
Nay, it shall ne’er be said, while England stands,
That Alexander Iden, an esquire of Kent,
Took odds to combat a poor famished man.
Oppose thy steadfast-gazing eyes to mine,
See if thou canst outface me with thy looks.
Set limb to limb and thou art far the lesser;
Thy hand is but a finger to my fist,
Thy leg a stick compared with this truncheon.
My foot shall fight with all the strength thou hast;
And if mine arm be heaved in the air,
Thy grave is digged already in the earth.
As for words, whose greatness answers words,
Let this my sword report what speech forbears.

CADE.
By my valour, the most complete champion that ever I heard! Steel, if thou turn the edge, or cut not out the burly-boned clown in chines of beef ere thou sleep in thy sheath, I beseech God on my knees thou mayst be turned to hobnails.

[Here they fight and Cade falls.]

O, I am slain! Famine and no other hath slain me. Let ten thousand devils come against me, and give me but the ten meals I have lost, and I’d defy them all. Wither, garden; and be henceforth a burying place to all that do dwell in this house, because the unconquered soul of Cade is fled.

IDEN.
Is’t Cade that I have slain, that monstrous traitor?
Sword, I will hallow thee for this thy deed,
And hang thee o’er my tomb when I am dead.
Ne’er shall this blood be wiped from thy point,
But thou shalt wear it as a herald’s coat
To emblaze the honour that thy master got.

CADE.
Iden, farewell, and be proud of thy victory. Tell Kent from me she hath lost her best man, and exhort all the world to be cowards; for I, that never feared any, am vanquished by famine, not by valour.

[Dies.]

IDEN.
How much thou wrong’st me, heaven be my judge.
Die, damned wretch, the curse of her that bare thee!
And as I thrust thy body in with my sword,
So wish I, I might thrust thy soul to hell.
Hence will I drag thee headlong by the heels
Unto a dunghill, which shall be thy grave,
And there cut off thy most ungracious head,
Which I will bear in triumph to the King,
Leaving thy trunk for crows to feed upon.

[Exit.]

ACT V

SCENE I. Fields between Dartford and Blackheath

Enter York and his army of Irish, with drum and colours.

YORK.
From Ireland thus comes York to claim his right
And pluck the crown from feeble Henry’s head.
Ring, bells, aloud; burn, bonfires, clear and bright,
To entertain great England’s lawful king.
Ah, sancta majestas, who would not buy thee dear?
Let them obey that knows not how to rule.
This hand was made to handle nought but gold.
I cannot give due action to my words
Except a sword or sceptre balance it.
A sceptre shall it have, have I a soul,
On which I’ll toss the fleur-de-luce of France.

Enter Buckingham.

Whom have we here? Buckingham, to disturb me?
The King hath sent him, sure. I must dissemble.

BUCKINGHAM.
York, if thou meanest well, I greet thee well.

YORK.
Humphrey of Buckingham, I accept thy greeting.
Art thou a messenger, or come of pleasure?

BUCKINGHAM.
A messenger from Henry, our dread liege,
To know the reason of these arms in peace;
Or why thou, being a subject as I am,
Against thy oath and true allegiance sworn,
Should raise so great a power without his leave,
Or dare to bring thy force so near the court.

YORK.
[Aside.] Scarce can I speak, my choler is so great.
O, I could hew up rocks and fight with flint,
I am so angry at these abject terms;
And now, like Ajax Telamonius,
On sheep or oxen could I spend my fury.
I am far better born than is the King,
More like a king, more kingly in my thoughts.
But I must make fair weather yet awhile,
Till Henry be more weak and I more strong.—
Buckingham, I prithee, pardon me,
That I have given no answer all this while;
My mind was troubled with deep melancholy.
The cause why I have brought this army hither
Is to remove proud Somerset from the King,
Seditious to his grace and to the state.

BUCKINGHAM.
That is too much presumption on thy part;
But if thy arms be to no other end,
The King hath yielded unto thy demand:
The Duke of Somerset is in the Tower.

YORK.
Upon thine honour, is he prisoner?

BUCKINGHAM.
Upon mine honour, he is prisoner.

YORK.
Then, Buckingham, I do dismiss my powers.
Soldiers, I thank you all; disperse yourselves;
Meet me tomorrow in Saint George’s field,
You shall have pay and everything you wish.

[Exeunt Soldiers.]

And let my sovereign, virtuous Henry,
Command my eldest son, nay, all my sons,
As pledges of my fealty and love,
I’ll send them all as willing as I live.
Lands, goods, horse, armour, anything I have
Is his to use, so Somerset may die.

BUCKINGHAM.
York, I commend this kind submission.
We twain will go into his highness’ tent.

Enter King and Attendants.

KING HENRY.
Buckingham, doth York intend no harm to us
That thus he marcheth with thee arm in arm?

YORK.
In all submission and humility
York doth present himself unto your highness.

KING HENRY.
Then what intends these forces thou dost bring?

YORK.
To heave the traitor Somerset from hence
And fight against that monstrous rebel Cade,
Who since I heard to be discomfited.

Enter Iden with Cade’s head.

IDEN.
If one so rude and of so mean condition
May pass into the presence of a king,
Lo, I present your grace a traitor’s head,
The head of Cade, whom I in combat slew.

KING HENRY.
The head of Cade! Great God, how just art Thou!
O, let me view his visage, being dead,
That living wrought me such exceeding trouble.
Tell me, my friend, art thou the man that slew him?

IDEN.
I was, an ’t like your majesty.

KING HENRY.
How art thou called? And what is thy degree?

IDEN.
Alexander Iden, that’s my name;
A poor esquire of Kent, that loves his King.

BUCKINGHAM.
So please it you, my lord, ’twere not amiss
He were created knight for his good service.

KING HENRY.
Iden, kneel down. [He kneels.] Rise up a knight.
We give thee for reward a thousand marks,
And will that thou henceforth attend on us.

IDEN.
May Iden live to merit such a bounty,
And never live but true unto his liege!

[Rises.]

Enter Queen and Somerset.

KING HENRY.
See, Buckingham, Somerset comes with the Queen.
Go, bid her hide him quickly from the Duke.

QUEEN MARGARET.
For thousand Yorks he shall not hide his head,
But boldly stand and front him to his face.

YORK.
How now? Is Somerset at liberty?
Then, York, unloose thy long-imprisoned thoughts,
And let thy tongue be equal with thy heart.
Shall I endure the sight of Somerset?
False king, why hast thou broken faith with me,
Knowing how hardly I can brook abuse?
“King” did I call thee? No, thou art not king,
Not fit to govern and rule multitudes,
Which dar’st not, no, nor canst not rule a traitor.
That head of thine doth not become a crown;
Thy hand is made to grasp a palmer’s staff,
And not to grace an awful princely sceptre.
That gold must round engirt these brows of mine,
Whose smile and frown, like to Achilles’ spear,
Is able with the change to kill and cure.
Here is a hand to hold a sceptre up
And with the same to act controlling laws.
Give place! By heaven, thou shalt rule no more
O’er him whom heaven created for thy ruler.

SOMERSET.
O monstrous traitor! I arrest thee, York,
Of capital treason ’gainst the King and crown.
Obey, audacious traitor, kneel for grace.

YORK.
Wouldst have me kneel? First let me ask of these
If they can brook I bow a knee to man.
Sirrah, call in my sons to be my bail.

[Exit Attendant.]

I know, ere they will have me go to ward,
They’ll pawn their swords for my enfranchisement.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Call hither Clifford; bid him come amain,
To say if that the bastard boys of York
Shall be the surety for their traitor father.

[Exit Buckingham.]

YORK.
O blood-bespotted Neapolitan,
Outcast of Naples, England’s bloody scourge!
The sons of York, thy betters in their birth,
Shall be their father’s bail; and bane to those
That for my surety will refuse the boys!

Enter Edward and Richard.

See where they come; I’ll warrant they’ll make it good.

Enter old Clifford and his Son.

QUEEN MARGARET.
And here comes Clifford to deny their bail.

CLIFFORD.
Health and all happiness to my lord the King.

[Rises.]

YORK.
I thank thee, Clifford. Say, what news with thee?
Nay, do not fright us with an angry look.
We are thy sovereign, Clifford, kneel again.
For thy mistaking so, we pardon thee.

CLIFFORD.
This is my king, York, I do not mistake;
But thou mistakes me much to think I do.
To Bedlam with him! Is the man grown mad?

KING HENRY.
Ay, Clifford; a bedlam and ambitious humour
Makes him oppose himself against his king.

CLIFFORD.
He is a traitor; let him to the Tower,
And chop away that factious pate of his.

QUEEN MARGARET.
He is arrested, but will not obey;
His sons, he says, shall give their words for him.

YORK.
Will you not, sons?

EDWARD.
Ay, noble father, if our words will serve.

RICHARD.
And if words will not, then our weapons shall.

CLIFFORD.
Why, what a brood of traitors have we here!

YORK.
Look in a glass, and call thy image so.
I am thy king, and thou a false-heart traitor.
Call hither to the stake my two brave bears,
That with the very shaking of their chains
They may astonish these fell-lurking curs.
Bid Salisbury and Warwick come to me.

Enter the Earls of Warwick and Salisbury.

CLIFFORD.
Are these thy bears? We’ll bait thy bears to death
And manacle the bearherd in their chains,
If thou dar’st bring them to the baiting-place.

RICHARD.
Oft have I seen a hot o’erweening cur
Run back and bite because he was withheld,
Who, being suffered with the bear’s fell paw,
Hath clapped his tail between his legs and cried;
And such a piece of service will you do
If you oppose yourselves to match Lord Warwick.

CLIFFORD.
Hence, heap of wrath, foul indigested lump,
As crooked in thy manners as thy shape!

YORK.
Nay, we shall heat you thoroughly anon.

CLIFFORD.
Take heed, lest by your heat you burn yourselves.

KING HENRY.
Why, Warwick, hath thy knee forgot to bow?
Old Salisbury, shame to thy silver hair,
Thou mad misleader of thy brainsick son!
What, wilt thou on thy deathbed play the ruffian,
And seek for sorrow with thy spectacles?
O, where is faith? O, where is loyalty?
If it be banished from the frosty head,
Where shall it find a harbour in the earth?
Wilt thou go dig a grave to find out war,
And shame thine honourable age with blood?
Why art thou old, and want’st experience?
Or wherefore dost abuse it, if thou hast it?
For shame, in duty bend thy knee to me
That bows unto the grave with mickle age.

SALISBURY.
My lord, I have considered with myself
The title of this most renowned duke,
And in my conscience do repute his grace
The rightful heir to England’s royal seat.

KING HENRY.
Hast thou not sworn allegiance unto me?

SALISBURY.
I have.

KING HENRY.
Canst thou dispense with heaven for such an oath?

SALISBURY.
It is great sin to swear unto a sin,
But greater sin to keep a sinful oath.
Who can be bound by any solemn vow
To do a murderous deed, to rob a man,
To force a spotless virgin’s chastity,
To reave the orphan of his patrimony,
To wring the widow from her customed right,
And have no other reason for this wrong
But that he was bound by a solemn oath?

QUEEN MARGARET.
A subtle traitor needs no sophister.

KING HENRY.
Call Buckingham, and bid him arm himself.

YORK.
Call Buckingham, and all the friends thou hast,
I am resolved for death or dignity.

CLIFFORD.
The first I warrant thee, if dreams prove true.

WARWICK.
You were best to go to bed and dream again,
To keep thee from the tempest of the field.

CLIFFORD.
I am resolved to bear a greater storm
Than any thou canst conjure up today;
And that I’ll write upon thy burgonet,
Might I but know thee by thy household badge.

WARWICK.
Now, by my father’s badge, old Neville’s crest,
The rampant bear chained to the ragged staff,
This day I’ll wear aloft my burgonet,
As on a mountain top the cedar shows
That keeps his leaves in spite of any storm,
Even to affright thee with the view thereof.

CLIFFORD.
And from thy burgonet I’ll rend thy bear
And tread it under foot with all contempt,
Despite the bearherd that protects the bear.

YOUNG CLIFFORD.
And so to arms, victorious father,
To quell the rebels and their complices.

RICHARD.
Fie, charity, for shame! Speak not in spite,
For you shall sup with Jesu Christ tonight.

YOUNG CLIFFORD.
Foul stigmatic, that’s more than thou canst tell.

RICHARD.
If not in heaven, you’ll surely sup in hell.

[Exeunt severally.]

SCENE II. Saint Albans

The sign of the Castle Inn is displayed. Alarums to the battle. Enter Warwick.

WARWICK.
Clifford of Cumberland, ’tis Warwick calls;
An if thou dost not hide thee from the bear,
Now, when the angry trumpet sounds alarum
And dead men’s cries do fill the empty air,
Clifford, I say, come forth and fight with me!
Proud northern lord, Clifford of Cumberland,
Warwick is hoarse with calling thee to arms.

Enter York.

How now, my noble lord? What, all afoot?

YORK.
The deadly-handed Clifford slew my steed,
But match to match I have encountered him
And made a prey for carrion kites and crows
Even of the bonny beast he loved so well.

Enter old Clifford.

WARWICK.
Of one or both of us the time is come.

YORK.
Hold, Warwick, seek thee out some other chase,
For I myself must hunt this deer to death.

WARWICK.
Then, nobly, York; ’tis for a crown thou fight’st.
As I intend, Clifford, to thrive today,
It grieves my soul to leave thee unassailed.

[Exit.]

CLIFFORD.
What seest thou in me, York? Why dost thou pause?

YORK.
With thy brave bearing should I be in love,
But that thou art so fast mine enemy.

CLIFFORD.
Nor should thy prowess want praise and esteem,
But that ’tis shown ignobly and in treason.

YORK.
So let it help me now against thy sword
As I in justice and true right express it!

CLIFFORD.
My soul and body on the action both!

YORK.
A dreadful lay! Address thee instantly.

[They fight and Clifford falls.]

CLIFFORD.
La fin couronne les oeuvres.

[Dies.]

YORK.
Thus war hath given thee peace, for thou art still.
Peace with his soul, heaven, if it be thy will!

[Exit.]

Enter young Clifford.

YOUNG CLIFFORD.
Shame and confusion! All is on the rout,
Fear frames disorder, and disorder wounds
Where it should guard. O war, thou son of hell,
Whom angry heavens do make their minister,
Throw in the frozen bosoms of our part
Hot coals of vengeance! Let no soldier fly.
He that is truly dedicate to war
Hath no self-love; nor he that loves himself
Hath not essentially but by circumstance,
The name of valour. [Sees his dead father.] O, let the vile world end
And the premised flames of the last day
Knit earth and heaven together!
Now let the general trumpet blow his blast,
Particularities and petty sounds
To cease! Wast thou ordained, dear father,
To lose thy youth in peace, and to achieve
The silver livery of advised age,
And, in thy reverence and thy chair-days, thus
To die in ruffian battle? Even at this sight
My heart is turned to stone, and while ’tis mine
It shall be stony. York not our old men spares;
No more will I their babes; tears virginal
Shall be to me even as the dew to fire,
And beauty, that the tyrant oft reclaims,
Shall to my flaming wrath be oil and flax.
Henceforth I will not have to do with pity.
Meet I an infant of the house of York,
Into as many gobbets will I cut it
As wild Medea young Absyrtus did.
In cruelty will I seek out my fame.

[He takes him up on his back.]

Come, thou new ruin of old Clifford’s house;
As did Aeneas old Anchises bear,
So bear I thee upon my manly shoulders;
But then Aeneas bare a living load,
Nothing so heavy as these woes of mine.

[Exit, bearing off his father.]

Enter Richard and Somerset to fight. Somerset is killed.

RICHARD.
So, lie thou there;
For underneath an alehouse’ paltry sign,
The Castle in Saint Albans, Somerset
Hath made the wizard famous in his death.
Sword, hold thy temper; heart, be wrathful still!
Priests pray for enemies, but princes kill.

[Exit.]

Fight. Excursions. Enter King, Queen and others.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Away, my lord! You are slow, for shame, away!

KING HENRY.
Can we outrun the heavens? Good Margaret, stay.

QUEEN MARGARET.
What are you made of? You’ll nor fight nor fly.
Now is it manhood, wisdom, and defence
To give the enemy way, and to secure us
By what we can, which can no more but fly.

[Alarum afar off.]

If you be ta’en, we then should see the bottom
Of all our fortunes; but if we haply scape,
As well we may, if not through your neglect,
We shall to London get, where you are loved
And where this breach now in our fortunes made
May readily be stopped.

Enter young Clifford.

YOUNG CLIFFORD.
But that my heart’s on future mischief set,
I would speak blasphemy ere bid you fly;
But fly you must; uncurable discomfit
Reigns in the hearts of all our present parts.
Away, for your relief! And we will live
To see their day and them our fortune give.
Away, my lord, away!

[Exeunt.]

SCENE III. Fields near Saint Albans

Alarum. Retreat. Enter York, Richard, Warwick and Soldiers with drum and colours.

YORK.
Of Salisbury, who can report of him,
That winter lion, who in rage forgets
Aged contusions and all brush of time,
And, like a gallant in the brow of youth,
Repairs him with occasion? This happy day
Is not itself, nor have we won one foot,
If Salisbury be lost.

RICHARD.
My noble father,
Three times today I holp him to his horse,
Three times bestrid him; thrice I led him off,
Persuaded him from any further act;
But still, where danger was, still there I met him,
And like rich hangings in a homely house,
So was his will in his old feeble body.
But, noble as he is, look where he comes.

Enter Salisbury.

Now, by my sword, well hast thou fought today.

SALISBURY.
By th’ mass, so did we all. I thank you, Richard.
God knows how long it is I have to live,
And it hath pleased him that three times today
You have defended me from imminent death.
Well, lords, we have not got that which we have;
’Tis not enough our foes are this time fled,
Being opposites of such repairing nature.

YORK.
I know our safety is to follow them;
For, as I hear, the King is fled to London
To call a present court of parliament.
Let us pursue him ere the writs go forth.
What says Lord Warwick? Shall we after them?

WARWICK.
After them? Nay, before them, if we can.
Now, by my hand, lords, ’twas a glorious day.
Saint Albans battle won by famous York
Shall be eternized in all age to come.
Sound drums and trumpets, and to London all;
And more such days as these to us befall!

[Exeunt.]

THE THIRD PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH

---

Contents

ACT I

Scene I. London. The Parliament House

Scene II. Sandal Castle

Scene III. Plains near Sandal Castle

Scene IV. The Same

ACT II

Scene I. A plain near Mortimer’s Cross in Herefordshire

Scene II. Before York

Scene III. A field of battle between Towton and Saxton, in Yorkshire

Scene IV. Another Part of the Field

Scene V. Another Part of the Field

Scene VI. Another Part of the Field

ACT III

Scene I. A Forest in the North of England

Scene II. The Palace

Scene III. France. The King’s Palace

ACT IV

Scene I. London. The Palace

Scene II. A Plain in Warwickshire

Scene III. Edward’s Camp near Warwick

Scene IV. London. The Palace

Scene V. A park near Middleham Castle in Yorkshire

Scene VI. London. The Tower

Scene VII. Before York

Scene VIII. London. The Palace

ACT V

Scene I. Coventry

Scene II. A Field of Battle near Barnet

Scene III. Another Part of the Field

Scene IV. Plains near Tewkesbury

Scene V. Another part of the Field

Scene VI. London. The Tower

Scene VII. London. The Palace

Dramatis Personæ

KING HENRY the Sixth
QUEEN MARGARET
PRINCE EDWARD, Prince of Wales, his son
DUKE OF SOMERSET
DUKE OF EXETER
EARL OF OXFORD
EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND
EARL OF WESTMORELAND
LORD CLIFFORD
RICHARD PLANTAGENET, Duke of York
EDWARD, Earl of March, afterwards King Edward IV., his son
GEORGE, afterwards Duke of Clarence, his son
RICHARD, afterwards Duke of Gloucester, his son
EDMUND, Earl of Rutland, his son
DUKE OF NORFOLK
MARQUESS OF MONTAGUE
EARL OF WARWICK
EARL OF PEMBROKE
LORD HASTINGS
LORD STAFFORD
SIR JOHN MORTIMER, uncle to the Duke of York
SIR HUGH MORTIMER, uncle to the Duke of York
LADY GREY, afterwards Queen Elizabeth to Edward IV
EARL RIVERS, brother to Lady Grey
HENRY, Earl of Richmond, a youth
SIR WILLIAM STANLEY
SIR JOHN MONTGOMERY
SIR JOHN SOMERVILLE
KING LEWIS the Eleventh, King of France
BONA, sister to the French Queen
Tutor to Rutland
Mayor of York
Lieutenant of the Tower
A Nobleman
Two Keepers
A Huntsman
A Son that has killed his father
A Father that has killed his son

Soldiers, Attendants, Messengers, Watchmen, etc.

SCENE: England and France

ACT I

SCENE I. London. The Parliament House

Alarum. Enter Duke of York, Edward, Richard, Norfolk, Montague, Warwick and Soldiers, all wearing the white rose.

WARWICK.
I wonder how the King escaped our hands.

YORK.
While we pursued the horsemen of the 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 battle’s front, and breaking in,
Were by the swords of common soldiers slain.

EDWARD.
Lord Stafford’s father, Duke of Buckingham,
Is either slain or wounded dangerous;
I cleft his beaver with a downright blow.
That this is true, father, behold his blood.

[Showing his bloody sword.]

MONTAGUE.
And, brother, here’s the Earl of Wiltshire’s blood,

[To York, showing his.]

Whom I encountered as the battles joined.

RICHARD.
Speak thou for me, and tell them what I did.

[Throwing down the Duke of Somerset’s head.]

YORK.
Richard hath best deserved of all my sons.
But is your Grace dead, my Lord of Somerset?

NORFOLK.
Such hope have all the line of John of Gaunt!

RICHARD.
Thus do I hope to shake King Henry’s head.

WARWICK.
And so do I. Victorious Prince of York,
Before I see thee seated in that throne
Which now the house of Lancaster usurps,
I vow by heaven these eyes shall never close.
This is the palace of the fearful king,
And this the regal seat. Possess it, York,
For this is thine, and not King Henry’s heirs’.

YORK.
Assist me, then, sweet Warwick, and I will;
For hither we have broken in by force.

NORFOLK.
We’ll all assist you; he that flies shall die.

YORK.
Thanks, gentle Norfolk. Stay by me, my lords;
And, soldiers, stay and lodge by me this night.

WARWICK.
And when the King comes, offer him no violence,
Unless he seek to thrust you out perforce.

[They retire.]

YORK.
The Queen this day here holds her parliament,
But little thinks we shall be of her council.
By words or blows here let us win our right.

RICHARD.
Armed as we are, let’s stay within this house.

WARWICK.
The bloody parliament shall this be called,
Unless Plantagenet, Duke of York, be king,
And bashful Henry deposed, whose cowardice
Hath made us bywords to our enemies.

YORK.
Then leave me not, my lords; be resolute.
I mean to take possession of my right.

WARWICK.
Neither the King, nor he that loves him best,
The proudest he that holds up Lancaster,
Dares stir a wing if Warwick shake his bells.
I’ll plant Plantagenet, root him up who dares.
Resolve thee, Richard; claim the English crown.

[Warwick leads York to the throne, who seats himself.]

Flourish. Enter King Henry, Clifford, Northumberland, Westmoreland, Exeter and the rest, all wearing the red rose.

KING HENRY.
My lords, look where the sturdy rebel sits,
Even in the chair of state! Belike he means,
Backed by the power of Warwick, that false peer,
To aspire unto the crown and reign as king.
Earl of Northumberland, he slew thy father,
And thine, Lord Clifford; and you both have vowed revenge
On him, his sons, his favourites, and his friends.

NORTHUMBERLAND.
If I be not, heavens be revenged on me!

CLIFFORD.
The hope thereof makes Clifford mourn in steel.

WESTMORELAND.
What, shall we suffer this? Let’s pluck him down.
My heart for anger burns. I cannot brook it.

KING HENRY.
Be patient, gentle Earl of Westmoreland.

CLIFFORD.
Patience is for poltroons, such as he.
He durst not sit there had your father lived.
My gracious lord, here in the parliament
Let us assail the family of York.

NORTHUMBERLAND.
Well hast thou spoken, cousin. Be it so.

KING HENRY.
Ah, know you not the city favours them,
And they have troops of soldiers at their beck?

EXETER.
But when the Duke is slain, they’ll quickly fly.

KING HENRY.
Far be the thought of this from Henry’s heart,
To make a shambles of the Parliament House!
Cousin of Exeter, frowns, words, and threats
Shall be the war that Henry means to use.

[They advance to the Duke.]

Thou factious Duke of York, descend my throne,
And kneel for grace and mercy at my feet;
I am thy sovereign.

YORK.
I am thine.

EXETER.
For shame, come down. He made thee Duke of York.

YORK.
’Twas my inheritance, as the earldom was.

EXETER.
Thy father was a traitor to the crown.

WARWICK.
Exeter, thou art a traitor to the crown
In following this usurping Henry.

CLIFFORD.
Whom should he follow but his natural king?

WARWICK.
True, Clifford, that’s Richard, Duke of York.

KING HENRY.
And shall I stand, and thou sit in my throne?

YORK.
It must and shall be so. Content thyself.

WARWICK.
Be Duke of Lancaster. Let him be king.

WESTMORELAND.
He is both King and Duke of Lancaster;
And that the Lord of Westmoreland shall maintain.

WARWICK.
And Warwick shall disprove it. You forget
That we are those which chased you from the field
And slew your fathers, and with colours spread
Marched through the city to the palace gates.

NORTHUMBERLAND.
Yes, Warwick, I remember it to my grief;
And, by his soul, thou and thy house shall rue it.

WESTMORELAND.
Plantagenet, of thee and these thy sons,
Thy kinsmen, and thy friends, I’ll have more lives
Than drops of blood were in my father’s veins.

CLIFFORD.
Urge it no more; lest that, instead of words,
I send thee, Warwick, such a messenger
As shall revenge his death before I stir.

WARWICK.
Poor Clifford, how I scorn his worthless threats!

YORK.
Will you we show our title to the crown?
If not, our swords shall plead it in the field.

KING HENRY.
What title hast thou, traitor, to the crown?
Thy father was, as thou art, Duke of York;
Thy grandfather, Roger Mortimer, Earl of March.
I am the son of Henry the Fifth,
Who made the Dauphin and the French to stoop,
And seized upon their towns and provinces.

WARWICK.
Talk not of France, sith thou hast lost it all.

KING HENRY.
The Lord Protector lost it, and not I.
When I was crowned I was but nine months old.

RICHARD.
You are old enough now, and yet, methinks, you lose.
Father, tear the crown from the usurper’s head.

EDWARD.
Sweet father, do so; set it on your head.

MONTAGUE.
Good brother, as thou lov’st and honourest arms,
Let’s fight it out and not stand cavilling thus.

RICHARD.
Sound drums and trumpets, and the King will fly.

YORK.
Sons, peace!

KING HENRY.
Peace thou, and give King Henry leave to speak.

WARWICK.
Plantagenet shall speak first. Hear him, lords,
And be you silent and attentive too,
For he that interrupts him shall not live.

KING HENRY.
Think’st thou that 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 borne in France,
And now in England, to our heart’s great sorrow,
Shall be my winding-sheet. Why faint you, lords?
My title’s good, and better far than his.

WARWICK.
Prove it, Henry, and thou shalt be king.

KING HENRY.
Henry the Fourth by conquest got the crown.

YORK.
’Twas by rebellion against his king.

KING HENRY.
[Aside.] I know not what to say; my title’s weak.
Tell me, may not a king adopt an heir?

YORK.
What then?

KING HENRY.
An if he may, then am I lawful king;
For Richard, in the view of many lords,
Resigned the crown to Henry the Fourth,
Whose heir my father was, and I am his.

YORK.
He rose against him, being his sovereign,
And made him to resign his crown perforce.

WARWICK.
Suppose, my lords, he did it unconstrained,
Think you ’twere prejudicial to his crown?

EXETER.
No, for he could not so resign his crown
But that the next heir should succeed and reign.

KING HENRY.
Art thou against us, Duke of Exeter?

EXETER.
His is the right, and therefore pardon me.

YORK.
Why whisper you, my lords, and answer not?

EXETER.
My conscience tells me he is lawful king.

KING HENRY.
[Aside.] All will revolt from me and turn to him.

NORTHUMBERLAND.
Plantagenet, for all the claim thou lay’st,
Think not that Henry shall be so deposed.

WARWICK.
Deposed he shall be, in despite of all.

NORTHUMBERLAND.
Thou art deceived. ’Tis not thy southern power,
Of Essex, Norfolk, Suffolk, nor of Kent,
Which makes thee thus presumptuous and proud,
Can set the Duke up in despite of me.

CLIFFORD.
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!

KING HENRY.
O Clifford, how thy words revive my heart!

YORK.
Henry of Lancaster, resign thy crown.
What mutter you, or what conspire you, lords?

WARWICK.
Do right unto this princely Duke of York,
Or I will fill the house with armed men,
And over the chair of state where now he sits,
Write up his title with usurping blood.

[He stamps with his foot, and the Soldiers show themselves.]

KING HENRY.
My Lord of Warwick, hear but one word:
Let me for this my lifetime reign as king.

YORK.
Confirm the crown to me, and to mine heirs,
And thou shalt reign in quiet while thou liv’st.

KING HENRY.
I am content. Richard Plantagenet,
Enjoy the kingdom after my decease.

CLIFFORD.
What wrong is this unto the Prince your son!

WARWICK.
What good is this to England and himself!

WESTMORELAND.
Base, fearful, and despairing Henry!

CLIFFORD.
How hast thou injured both thyself and us!

WESTMORELAND.
I cannot stay to hear these articles.

NORTHUMBERLAND.
Nor I.

CLIFFORD.
Come, cousin, let us tell the Queen these news.

WESTMORELAND.
Farewell, faint-hearted and degenerate king,
In whose cold blood no spark of honour bides.

NORTHUMBERLAND.
Be thou a prey unto the house of York,
And die in bands for this unmanly deed!

CLIFFORD.
In dreadful war mayst thou be overcome,
Or live in peace abandoned and despised!

[Exeunt Westmoreland, Northumberland and Clifford.]

WARWICK.
Turn this way, Henry, and regard them not.

EXETER.
They seek revenge, and therefore will not yield.

KING HENRY.
Ah, Exeter!

WARWICK.
Why should you sigh, my lord?

KING HENRY.
Not for myself, Lord Warwick, but my son,
Whom I unnaturally shall disinherit.
But be it as it may, [To York.] I here entail
The crown to thee and to thine heirs for ever;
Conditionally, that here thou take an oath
To cease this civil war, and whilst I live,
To honour me as thy king and sovereign,
And neither by treason nor hostility
To seek to put me down and reign thyself.

YORK.
This oath I willingly take and will perform.

[Coming from the throne.]

WARWICK.
Long live King Henry! Plantagenet, embrace him.

KING HENRY.
And long live thou, and these thy forward sons!

YORK.
Now York and Lancaster are reconciled.

EXETER.
Accursed be he that seeks to make them foes!

Sennet. Here they come down.

YORK.
Farewell, my gracious lord. I’ll to my castle.

WARWICK.
And I’ll keep London with my soldiers.

NORFOLK.
And I to Norfolk with my followers.

MONTAGUE.
And I unto the sea from whence I came.

[Exeunt York and his Sons, Warwick, Norfolk, Montague and their Soldiers.]

KING HENRY.
And I with grief and sorrow to the court.

Enter Queen Margaret and the Prince of Wales.

EXETER.
Here comes the Queen, whose looks bewray her anger.
I’ll steal away.

KING HENRY.
Exeter, so will I.

[Going.]

QUEEN MARGARET.
Nay, go not from me; I will follow thee.

KING HENRY.
Be patient, gentle Queen, and I will stay.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Who can be patient in such extremes?
Ah, wretched man, would I had died a maid,
And never seen thee, never borne thee son,
Seeing thou hast proved so unnatural a father.
Hath he deserved to lose his birthright thus?
Hadst thou but loved him half so well as I,
Or felt that pain which I did for him once,
Or nourished him as I did with my blood,
Thou wouldst have left thy dearest heart-blood there,
Rather than have made that savage duke thine heir
And disinherited thine only son.

PRINCE EDWARD.
Father, you cannot disinherit me.
If you be king, why should not I succeed?

KING HENRY.
Pardon me, Margaret; pardon me, sweet son.
The Earl of Warwick and the Duke enforced me.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Enforced thee! Art thou King, and wilt be forced?
I shame to hear thee speak. Ah, timorous wretch,
Thou hast undone thyself, thy son, and me,
And given unto the house of York such head
As thou shalt reign but by their sufferance.
To entail him and his heirs unto the crown,
What is it but to make thy sepulchre
And creep into it far before thy time?
Warwick is Chancellor and the lord of Calais;
Stern Falconbridge commands the narrow seas;
The Duke is made Protector of the realm;
And yet shalt thou be safe? Such safety finds
The trembling lamb environed with wolves.
Had I been there, which am a silly woman,
The soldiers should have tossed me on their pikes
Before I would have granted to that act.
But thou prefer’st thy life before thine honour.
And seeing thou dost, I here divorce myself
Both from thy table, Henry, and thy bed,
Until that act of parliament be repealed
Whereby my son is disinherited.
The northern lords that have forsworn thy colours
Will follow mine if once they see them spread;
And spread they shall be, to thy foul disgrace
And utter ruin of the house of York.
Thus do I leave thee. Come, son, let’s away:
Our army is ready; come, we’ll after them.

KING HENRY.
Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me speak.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Thou hast spoke too much already. Get thee gone.

KING HENRY.
Gentle son Edward, thou wilt stay with me?

QUEEN MARGARET.
Ay, to be murdered by his enemies.

PRINCE EDWARD.
When I return with victory from the field
I’ll see your Grace. Till then I’ll follow her.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Come, son, away; we may not linger thus.

[Exeunt Queen Margaret and the Prince.]

KING HENRY.
Poor queen! How love to me and to her son
Hath made her break out into terms of rage!
Revenged may she be on that hateful Duke,
Whose haughty spirit, winged with desire,
Will cost my crown, and like an empty eagle
Tire on the flesh of me and of my son.
The loss of those three lords torments my heart.
I’ll write unto them and entreat them fair.
Come, cousin, you shall be the messenger.

EXETER.
And I, I hope, shall reconcile them all.

[Flourish. Exeunt.]

SCENE II. Sandal Castle

Enter Edward, Richard and Montague.

RICHARD.
Brother, though I be youngest, give me leave.

EDWARD.
No, I can better play the orator.

MONTAGUE.
But I have reasons strong and forcible.

Enter the Duke of York.

YORK.
Why, how now, sons and brother, at a strife?
What is your quarrel? How began it first?

EDWARD.
No quarrel, but a slight contention.

YORK.
About what?

RICHARD.
About that which concerns your Grace and us:
The crown of England, father, which is yours.

YORK.
Mine, boy? Not till King Henry be dead.

RICHARD.
Your right depends not on his life or death.

EDWARD.
Now you are heir, therefore enjoy it now.
By giving the house of Lancaster leave to breathe,
It will outrun you, father, in the end.

YORK.
I took an oath that he should quietly reign.

EDWARD.
But for a kingdom any oath may be broken.
I would break a thousand oaths to reign one year.

RICHARD.
No; God forbid your Grace should be forsworn.

YORK.
I shall be, if I claim by open war.

RICHARD.
I’ll prove the contrary if you’ll hear me speak.

YORK.
Thou canst not, son; it is impossible.

RICHARD.
An oath is of no moment, being not took
Before a true and lawful magistrate
That hath authority over him that swears.
Henry had none, but did usurp the place;
Then, seeing ’twas he that made you to depose,
Your oath, my lord, is 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 Elysium
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 dyed
Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry’s heart.

YORK.
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 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 a Messenger.

But stay. What news? Why com’st thou in such post?

MESSENGER.
The Queen, with all the northern earls and lords
Intend here to besiege you in your castle.
She is hard by with twenty thousand men;
And therefore fortify your hold, my lord.

YORK.
Ay, with my sword. What, think’st 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.

MONTAGUE.
Brother, I go; I’ll win them, fear it not.
And thus most humbly I do take my leave.

[Exit.]

Enter Sir John and Sir Hugh Mortimer.

YORK.
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.

SIR JOHN.
She shall not need; we’ll meet her in the field.

YORK.
What, with five thousand men?

RICHARD.
Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need.
A woman’s general; what should we fear?

[A march afar off.]

EDWARD.
I hear their drums. Let’s set our men in order,
And issue forth and bid them battle straight.

YORK.
Five men to twenty! Though the odds be great,
I doubt not, uncle, of our victory.
Many a battle have I won in France
Whenas the enemy hath been ten to one.
Why should I not now have the like success?

[Alarum. Exeunt.]

SCENE III. Plains near Sandal Castle

Alarums. Enter Rutland and his Tutor.

RUTLAND.
Ah, whither shall I fly to scape their hands?
Ah, tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes.

Enter Clifford and Soldiers.

CLIFFORD.
Chaplain, away! Thy priesthood saves thy life.
As for the brat of this accursed duke
Whose father slew my father, he shall die.

TUTOR.
And I, my lord, will bear him company.

CLIFFORD.
Soldiers, away with him!

TUTOR.
Ah, Clifford, murder not this innocent child,
Lest thou be hated both of God and man.

[Exit, dragged off by Soldiers.]

CLIFFORD.
How now? Is he dead already? Or is it fear
That makes him close his eyes? I’ll open them.

RUTLAND.
So looks the pent-up lion o’er the wretch
That trembles under his devouring paws;
And so he walks, insulting o’er his prey,
And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder.
Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword,
And not with such a cruel threat’ning look.
Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die.
I am too mean a subject for thy wrath;
Be thou revenged on men, and let me live.

CLIFFORD.
In vain thou speak’st, poor boy; my father’s blood
Hath stopped the passage where thy words should enter.

RUTLAND.
Then let my father’s blood open it again;
He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him.

CLIFFORD.
Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine
Were not revenge sufficient for me.
No, if I digged up thy forefathers’ graves
And hung their rotten coffins up in chains,
It could not slake mine ire nor 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 their accursed line
And leave not one alive, I live in hell.
Therefore—

[Lifting his hand.]

RUTLAND.
O, let me pray before I take my death!
To thee I pray; sweet Clifford, pity me!

CLIFFORD.
Such pity as my rapier’s point affords.

RUTLAND.
I never did thee harm; why wilt thou slay me?

CLIFFORD.
Thy father hath.

RUTLAND.
But ’twas ere I was born.
Thou hast one son; for his sake pity me,
Lest in revenge thereof, sith God is just,
He be as miserably slain as I.
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.

CLIFFORD.
No cause? Thy father slew my father; therefore die.

[Clifford stabs him.]

RUTLAND.
Di faciant laudis summa sit ista tuae!

[Dies.]

CLIFFORD.
Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet!
And this thy son’s blood cleaving to my blade
Shall rust upon my weapon till thy blood,
Congealed with this, do make me wipe off both.

[Exit.]

SCENE IV. The Same

Alarum. Enter Richard, Duke of 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 pursued by hunger-starved wolves.
My sons, God knows what hath bechanced 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 hardiest warriors did retire,
Richard cried “Charge, and give no foot of ground!”
And cried “A crown, or else a glorious tomb!
A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre!”
With this we charged again; but, out, alas!
We budged again, as I have seen a swan
With bootless labour swim against the tide
And spend her strength with over-matching waves.

[A short alarum within.]

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.

Enter Queen Margaret, Clifford, Northumberland, the young Prince Edward and Soldiers.

Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,
I dare your quenchless fury to more rage.
I am your butt, and I abide your shot.

NORTHUMBERLAND.
Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.

CLIFFORD.
Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm
With downright payment showed unto my father.
Now Phaëthon hath tumbled from his car,
And made an evening at the noontide prick.

YORK.
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 whate’er you can afflict me with.
Why come you not? What, multitudes, and fear?

CLIFFORD.
So cowards fight when they can fly no further;
So doves do peck the falcon’s piercing talons;
So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,
Breathe out invectives ’gainst the officers.

YORK.
O Clifford, but bethink thee once again,
And in thy thought o’errun 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.

CLIFFORD.
I will not bandy with thee word for word,
But buckle with thee blows twice two for one.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Hold, valiant Clifford; for a thousand causes
I would prolong awhile the traitor’s life.
Wrath makes him deaf; speak thou, Northumberland.

NORTHUMBERLAND.
Hold, Clifford, do not honour him so much
To prick thy finger, though to 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 ten to one is no impeach of valour.

[They lay hands on York, who struggles.]

CLIFFORD.
Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin.

NORTHUMBERLAND.
So doth the cony struggle in the net.

[York is taken prisoner.]

YORK.
So triumph thieves upon their conquered booty;
So true men yield, with robbers so o’ermatched.

NORTHUMBERLAND.
What would your Grace have done unto him now?

QUEEN MARGARET.
Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,
Come, make him stand upon this molehill here,
That raught at mountains with outstretched arms,
Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.
What, was it you that would be England’s king?
Was ’t you that revelled in our parliament
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 prodigy,
Dicky your boy, that with his grumbling voice
Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies?
Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland?
Look, York, I stained this napkin with the blood
That valiant Clifford with his rapier’s point
Made issue from the bosom of the boy;
And if thine eyes can water for his death,
I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal.
Alas, poor York, but that I hate thee deadly
I should lament thy miserable state.
I prithee grieve to make me merry, York;
Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.
What, hath thy fiery heart so parched thine entrails
That not a tear can fall for Rutland’s death?
Why art thou patient, man? Thou shouldst be mad;
And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus.
Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.
Thou would’st be fee’d, I see, to make me sport;
York cannot speak unless he wear a crown.
A crown for York! And, lords, bow low to him.
Hold you his hands whilst I do set it on.

[Putting a paper crown on his head.]

Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king.
Ay, this is he that took King Henry’s chair,
And this is he was his adopted heir.
But how is it that great Plantagenet
Is crowned so soon and broke his solemn oath?
As I bethink me, you should not be king
Till our King Henry had shook hands with Death.
And will you pale your head in Henry’s glory,
And rob his temples of the diadem,
Now in his life, against your holy oath?
O, ’tis a fault too too unpardonable.
Off with the crown, and, with the crown, his head;
And whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead.

CLIFFORD.
That is my office, for my father’s sake.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Nay, stay; let’s hear the orisons he makes.

YORK.
She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France,
Whose tongue more poisons than the adder’s tooth!
How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex
To triumph like an 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 cam’st, of whom derived,
Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless.
Thy father bears the type of King of Naples,
Of both the Sicils, and Jerusalem,
Yet not so wealthy as an 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.
’Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud;
But God he knows thy share thereof is small.
’Tis virtue that doth make them most admired;
The contrary doth make thee wondered at.
’Tis 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 tiger’s heart wrapped in a woman’s hide!
How couldst thou drain the life-blood 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.
Bid’st 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 allays, the rain begins.
These tears are my sweet Rutland’s obsequies,
And every drop cries vengeance for his death
’Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false Frenchwoman.

NORTHUMBERLAND.
Beshrew me, but his passion moves me so
That hardly can I check my eyes from tears.

YORK.
That face of his the hungry cannibals
Would not have touched, would not have stained with blood;
But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,
O, ten times more than tigers of Hyrcania.
See, ruthless queen, a hapless father’s tears.
This cloth thou dipped’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 tell’st 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 need such comfort come to thee
As now I reap at thy too cruel hand!
Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world,
My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads!

NORTHUMBERLAND.
Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin,
I should not for my life but weep with him,
To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul.

QUEEN MARGARET.
What, weeping-ripe, my Lord Northumberland?
Think but upon the wrong he did us all,
And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.

CLIFFORD.
Here’s for my oath, here’s for my father’s death.

[Stabbing him.]

QUEEN MARGARET.
And here’s to right our gentle-hearted king.

[Stabbing him.]

YORK.
Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God!
My soul flies through these wounds to seek out Thee.

[Dies.]

QUEEN MARGARET.
Off with his head, and set it on York gates;
So York may overlook the town of York.

[Flourish. Exeunt.]

ACT II

SCENE I. A plain near Mortimer’s Cross in Herefordshire

A march. Enter Edward and Richard and their power.

EDWARD.
I wonder how our princely father scaped,
Or whether he be scaped away or no
From Clifford’s and Northumberland’s pursuit.
Had he been ta’en, we should have heard the news;
Had he been slain, we should have heard the news;
Or had he scaped, methinks we should have heard
The happy tidings of his good escape.
How fares my brother? Why is he so sad?

RICHARD.
I cannot joy until I be resolved
Where our right valiant father is become.
I saw him in the battle range about,
And watched him how he singled Clifford forth.
Methought he bore him in the thickest troop
As doth a lion in a herd of neat;
Or as a bear, encompassed round with dogs,
Who having pinched a few and made them cry,
The rest stand all aloof and bark at him.
So fared our father with his enemies;
So fled his enemies my warlike father.
Methinks ’tis pride enough to be his son.
See how the morning opes her golden gates
And takes her farewell of the glorious sun.
How well resembles it the prime of youth,
Trimmed like a younker prancing to his love!

EDWARD.
Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?

RICHARD.
Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun;
Not separated with the racking clouds,
But severed in a pale clear-shining sky.
See, see, they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,
As if they vowed some league inviolable.
Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun.
In this the heaven figures some event.

EDWARD.
’Tis wondrous 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 meeds,
Should notwithstanding join our lights together,
And overshine the earth, as this the world.
Whate’er it bodes, henceforward will I bear
Upon my target three fair shining suns.

RICHARD.
Nay, bear three daughters: by your leave I speak it,
You love the breeder better than the male.

Enter a Messenger, blowing.

But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell
Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?

MESSENGER.
Ah, one that was a woeful looker-on
When as the noble Duke of York was slain,
Your princely father and my loving lord.

EDWARD.
O, speak no more, for I have heard too much!

RICHARD.
Say how he died, for I will hear it all.

MESSENGER.
Environed he was with many foes,
And stood against them as the hope of Troy
Against the Greeks that would have entered Troy.
But Hercules himself must yield to odds;
And many strokes, though with a little axe,
Hews down and fell the hardest-timbered oak.
By many hands your father was subdued,
But only slaughtered by the ireful arm
Of unrelenting Clifford and the Queen,
Who crowned the gracious duke in high despite,
Laughed 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 I viewed.

EDWARD.
Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon,
Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay.
O Clifford, boisterous Clifford, thou hast slain
The flower of Europe for his chivalry;
And treacherously hast thou vanquished him,
For hand to hand he would have vanquished thee.
Now my soul’s palace is become a prison.
Ah, would she break from hence, that this my body
Might in the ground be closed up in rest!
For never henceforth shall I joy again;
Never, O, never, shall I see more joy!

RICHARD.
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 burthen,
For selfsame wind that I should speak withal
Is kindling coals that fires all my breast
And burns me up with flames that tears would quench.
To weep is to make less the depth of grief:
Tears, then, for babes; blows and revenge for me!
Richard, I bear thy name; I’ll venge thy death,
Or die renowned by attempting it.

EDWARD.
His name that valiant duke hath left with thee;
His dukedom and his chair with me is left.

RICHARD.
Nay, if thou be that princely eagle’s bird,
Show thy descent by gazing ’gainst the sun;
For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say,
Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his.

March. Enter Warwick, Marquess Montague and their army.

WARWICK.
How now, fair lords! What fare? What news abroad?

RICHARD.
Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount
Our baleful news, and at each word’s deliverance
Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told,
The words would add more anguish than the wounds.
O valiant lord, the Duke of York is slain!

EDWARD.
O, Warwick, Warwick, that Plantagenet
Which held thee dearly as his soul’s redemption
Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death.

WARWICK.
Ten days ago I drowned these news in tears,
And now, to add more measure to your woes,
I come to tell you things sith then befall’n.
After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave father breathed his latest gasp,
Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run,
Were brought me of your loss and his depart.
I, then in London, keeper of the King,
Mustered my soldiers, gathered flocks of friends,
And very well appointed, as I thought,
Marched toward Saint Albans to intercept the Queen,
Bearing the King in my behalf along;
For by my scouts I was advertised
That she was coming with a full intent
To dash our late decree in Parliament
Touching King Henry’s oath and your succession.
Short tale to make, we at Saint Albans met,
Our battles joined, and both sides fiercely fought.
But, whether ’twas the coldness of the King,
Who looked full gently on his warlike Queen,
That robbed my soldiers of their heated spleen,
Or whether ’twas report of her success;
Or more than common fear of Clifford’s rigour,
Who thunders to his captives blood and death,
I cannot judge; but, to conclude with truth,
Their weapons like to lightning came and went;
Our soldiers’, like the night-owl’s lazy flight,
Or like an idle thresher with a flail,
Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends.
I cheered them up with justice of our cause,
With promise of high pay and great rewards,
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 myself,
In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you;
For in the Marches here we heard you were,
Making another head to fight again.

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

WARWICK.
Some six miles off the Duke is with the soldiers;
And for your brother, he was lately sent
From your kind aunt, Duchess of Burgundy,
With aid of soldiers to this needful war.

RICHARD.
’Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled.
Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit,
But ne’er till now his scandal of retire.

WARWICK.
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 sceptre from his fist,
Were he as famous and as bold in war
As he is famed for mildness, peace, and prayer.

RICHARD.
I know it well, Lord Warwick; blame me not.
’Tis love I bear thy glories makes me speak.
But in this troublous time what’s to be done?
Shall we go throw away our coats of steel
And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns,
Numbering 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.

WARWICK.
Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you out,
And therefore comes my brother Montague.
Attend me, lords. The proud insulting Queen,
With Clifford and the haught Northumberland,
And of their feather many moe proud birds,
Have wrought the easy-melting King like wax.
He swore consent to your succession,
His oath enrolled in the Parliament;
And now to London all the crew are gone,
To frustrate both his oath and what beside
May make against the house of Lancaster.
Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong.
Now, if the help of Norfolk and myself,
With all the friends that thou, brave Earl of March,
Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure,
Will but amount to five and twenty thousand,
Why, via, to London will we march amain,
And once again bestride our foaming steeds,
And once again cry “Charge upon our foes!”
But never once again turn back and fly.

RICHARD.
Ay, now methinks I hear great Warwick speak.
Ne’er may he live to see a sunshine day
That cries “Retire,” if Warwick bid him stay.

EDWARD.
Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean;
And when thou fail’st—as God forbid the hour!—
Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forfend!

WARWICK.
No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York.
The next degree is England’s royal throne;
For King of England shalt thou be proclaimed
In every borough as we pass along,
And he that throws not up his cap for joy
Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head.
King Edward, valiant Richard, Montague,
Stay we no longer dreaming of renown,
But sound the trumpets and about our task.

RICHARD.
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.

EDWARD.
Then strike up, drums! God and Saint George for us!

Enter a Messenger.

WARWICK.
How now, what news?

MESSENGER.
The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me,
The Queen is coming with a puissant host,
And craves your company for speedy counsel.

WARWICK.
Why then it sorts; brave warriors, let’s away.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II. Before York

Flourish. Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret, the Prince of Wales, Clifford and Northumberland with drums and trumpets.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York.
Yonder’s the head of that arch-enemy
That sought to be encompassed with your crown.
Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?

KING HENRY.
Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their wrack!
To see this sight, it irks my very soul.
Withhold revenge, dear God! ’Tis not my fault,
Nor wittingly have I infringed my vow.

CLIFFORD.
My gracious liege, this too much lenity
And harmful pity must be laid aside.
To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?
Not to the beast that would usurp their den.
Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick?
Not his that spoils her young before her face.
Who scapes the lurking serpent’s mortal sting?
Not he that sets his foot upon her back.
The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on,
And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood.
Ambitious York did level at thy crown,
Thou smiling while he knit his angry brows.
He, but a duke, would have his son a king,
And raise his issue like a loving sire;
Thou, being a king, blest with a goodly son,
Didst yield consent to disinherit him,
Which argued thee a most unloving father.
Unreasonable creatures feed their young;
And though man’s face be fearful to their eyes,
Yet, in protection of their tender ones,
Who hath not seen them, even with those wings
Which sometime they have used with fearful flight,
Make war with him that climbed unto their nest,
Offering their own lives in their young’s defence?
For shame, my liege, make them your precedent.
Were it not pity that this goodly boy
Should lose his birthright by his father’s fault,
And long hereafter say unto his child,
“What my great-grandfather and grandsire got,
My careless father fondly gave away?”
Ah, what a shame were this! Look on the boy,
And let his manly face, which promiseth
Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart
To hold thine own and leave thine own with him.

KING HENRY.
Full well hath Clifford played the orator,
Inferring arguments of mighty force.
But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear
That things ill got had ever bad success?
And happy always was it for that son
Whose father for his hoarding went to hell?
I’ll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind,
And would my father had left me no more;
For all the rest is held at such a rate
As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep
Than in possession any jot of pleasure.
Ah, cousin York, would thy best friends did know
How it doth grieve me that thy head is here!

QUEEN MARGARET.
My lord, cheer up your spirits; our foes are nigh,
And this soft courage makes your followers faint.
You promised knighthood to our forward son.
Unsheathe your sword and dub him presently.—
Edward, kneel down.

KING HENRY.
Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight;
And learn this lesson: draw thy sword in right.

PRINCE EDWARD.
My gracious father, by your kingly leave,
I’ll draw it as apparent to the crown,
And in that quarrel use it to the death.

CLIFFORD.
Why, that is spoken like a toward prince.

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER.
Royal commanders, be in readiness;
For with a band of thirty thousand men
Comes Warwick, backing of the Duke of York,
And in the towns, as they do march along,
Proclaims him king, and many fly to him.
Darraign your battle, for they are at hand.

CLIFFORD.
I would your highness would depart the field.
The Queen hath best success when you are absent.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fortune.

KING HENRY.
Why, that’s my fortune too; therefore I’ll stay.

NORTHUMBERLAND.
Be it with resolution then to fight.

PRINCE EDWARD.
My royal father, cheer these noble lords,
And hearten those that fight in your defence.
Unsheathe your sword, good father; cry “Saint George!”

March. Enter Edward, George, Richard, Warwick, Norfolk, Montague and Soldiers.

EDWARD.
Now, perjured Henry, wilt thou kneel for grace
And set thy diadem upon my head,
Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?

QUEEN MARGARET.
Go rate thy minions, proud insulting boy!
Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms
Before thy sovereign and thy lawful king?

EDWARD.
I am his king, and he should bow his knee.
I was adopted heir by his consent.
Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear,
You that are king, though he do wear the crown,
Have caused him by new act of Parliament
To blot out me and put his own son in.

CLIFFORD.
And reason too:
Who should succeed the father but the son?

RICHARD.
Are you there, butcher? O, I cannot speak!

CLIFFORD.
Ay, crook-back; here I stand, to answer thee,
Or any he, the proudest of thy sort.

RICHARD.
’Twas you that killed young Rutland, was it not?

CLIFFORD.
Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied.

RICHARD.
For God’s sake, lords, give signal to the fight.

WARWICK.
What sayst thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown?

QUEEN MARGARET.
Why, how now, long-tongued Warwick, dare you speak?
When you and I met at Saint Albans last,
Your legs did better service than your hands.

WARWICK.
Then ’twas my turn to fly, and now ’tis thine.

CLIFFORD.
You said so much before, and yet you fled.

WARWICK.
’Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence.

NORTHUMBERLAND.
No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay.

RICHARD.
Northumberland, I hold thee reverently.
Break off the parley; for scarce I can refrain
The execution of my big-swoln heart
Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.

CLIFFORD.
I slew thy father; call’st thou him a child?

RICHARD.
Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward,
As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland,
But ere sunset I’ll make thee curse the deed.

KING HENRY.
Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Defy them then, or else hold close thy lips.

KING HENRY.
I prithee, give no limits to my tongue.
I am a king, and privileged to speak.

CLIFFORD.
My liege, the wound that bred this meeting here
Cannot be cured by words; therefore be still.

RICHARD.
Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword.
By Him that made us all, I am resolved
That Clifford’s manhood lies upon his tongue.

EDWARD.
Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or no?
A thousand men have broke their fasts today
That ne’er shall dine unless thou yield the crown.

WARWICK.
If thou deny, their blood upon thy head;
For York in justice puts his armour on.

PRINCE EDWARD.
If that be right which Warwick says is right,
There is no wrong, but everything is right.

RICHARD.
Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands;
For well I wot thou hast thy mother’s tongue.

QUEEN MARGARET.
But thou art neither like thy sire nor dam,
But like a foul misshapen stigmatic,
Marked by the Destinies to be avoided,
As venom toads or lizards’ dreadful stings.

RICHARD.
Iron of Naples, hid with English gilt,
Whose father bears the title of a king,
As if a channel should be called the sea,
Sham’st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,
To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?

EDWARD.
A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns
To make this shameless callet know herself.
Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,
Although thy husband may be Menelaus;
And ne’er was Agamemnon’s brother wronged
By that false woman as this king by thee.
His father revelled in the heart of France,
And tamed the King, and made the Dauphin stoop;
And had he matched according to his state,
He might have kept that glory to this day;
But when he took a beggar to his bed
And graced thy poor sire with his bridal day,
Even then that sunshine brewed a shower for him
That washed his father’s fortunes forth of France
And heaped sedition on his crown at home.
For what hath broached this tumult but thy pride?
Hadst thou been meek, our title still had slept;
And we, in pity of the gentle king,
Had slipped our claim until another age.

GEORGE.
But when we saw our sunshine made thy spring,
And that thy summer bred us no increase,
We set the axe to thy usurping root;
And though the edge hath something hit ourselves,
Yet know thou, since we have begun to strike,
We’ll never leave till we have hewn thee down
Or bathed thy growing with our heated bloods.

EDWARD.
And in this resolution I defy thee;
Not willing any longer conference,
Since thou deniest the gentle King to speak.
Sound trumpets! Let our bloody colours wave;
And either victory or else a grave!

QUEEN MARGARET.
Stay, Edward.

EDWARD.
No, wrangling woman, we’ll no longer stay.
These words will cost ten thousand lives this day.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE III. A field of battle between Towton and Saxton, in Yorkshire

Alarums. Excursions. Enter Warwick.

WARWICK.
Forspent with toil, as runners with a race,
I lay me down a little while to breathe;
For strokes received, and many blows repaid,
Have robbed my strong-knit sinews of their strength,
And spite of spite, needs must I rest awhile.

Enter Edward, running.

EDWARD.
Smile, gentle heaven, or strike, ungentle death;
For this world frowns and Edward’s sun is clouded.

WARWICK.
How now, my lord, what hap? What hope of good?

Enter George.

GEORGE.
Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair;
Our ranks are broke and ruin follows us.
What counsel give you? Whither shall we fly?

EDWARD.
Bootless is flight, they follow us with wings;
And weak we are and cannot shun pursuit.

Enter Richard.

RICHARD.
Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?
Thy brother’s blood the thirsty earth hath drunk,
Broached with the steely point of Clifford’s lance;
And in the very pangs of death he cried,
Like to a dismal clangor heard from far,
“Warwick, revenge! Brother, revenge my death!”
So, underneath the belly of their steeds,
That stained their fetlocks in his smoking blood,
The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.

WARWICK.
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 whiles the foe doth rage,
And look upon, as if the tragedy
Were played in jest by counterfeiting actors?
Here on my knee I vow to God above
I’ll never pause again, never stand still,
Till either death hath closed these eyes of mine,
Or Fortune given me measure of revenge.

EDWARD.
O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine,
And in this vow do chain my soul to thine!
And, ere my knee rise from the earth’s cold face,
I throw my hands, mine 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 brazen gates of heaven may ope,
And give sweet passage to my sinful soul.
Now, lords, take leave until we meet again,
Where’er it be, in heaven or in earth.

RICHARD.
Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle Warwick,
Let me embrace thee in my weary arms.
I, that did never weep, now melt with woe
That winter should cut off our spring-time so.

WARWICK.
Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell.

GEORGE.
Yet let us all together to our troops,
And give them leave to fly that will not stay,
And call them pillars that will stand to us;
And if we thrive, promise them such rewards
As victors wear at the Olympian games.
This may plant courage in their quailing breasts,
For yet is hope of life and victory.
Forslow no longer; make we hence amain.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE IV. Another Part of the Field

Excursions. Enter Richard and Clifford.

RICHARD.
Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone.
Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York,
And this for Rutland; both bound to revenge,
Wert thou environed with a brazen wall.

CLIFFORD.
Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone.
This is the hand that stabbed thy father York,
And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland;
And here’s the heart that triumphs in their death
And cheers these hands that slew thy sire and brother
To execute the like upon thyself;
And so have at thee!

They fight. Warwick comes; Clifford flies.

RICHARD.
Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase;
For I myself will hunt this wolf to death.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE V. Another Part of the Field

Enter King Henry.

KING HENRY.
This battle fares like to the morning’s war,
When dying clouds contend with growing light,
What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day nor night.
Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea
Forced by the tide to combat with the wind;
Now sways it that way, like the selfsame sea
Forced to retire by fury of the wind.
Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind;
Now one the better, then another best,
Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,
Yet neither conqueror nor conquered.
So is the equal poise of this fell war.
Here on this molehill will I sit me down.
To whom God 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.
Would I were dead, if God’s good will were so;
For what is in this world but grief and woe?
O God! Methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,
To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run:
How many make the hour full complete,
How many hours brings about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the times:
So many hours must I tend my flock;
So many hours must I take my rest;
So many hours must I contemplate;
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean;
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece.
So minutes, hours, days, months, and years,
Passed over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah, what a life were this! How sweet, how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds looking on their silly sheep
Than doth a rich embroidered canopy
To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery?
O, yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth.
And to conclude, the shepherd’s homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree’s shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince’s delicates—
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,
When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him.

Alarum. Enter a Son that hath killed his father, bringing in the dead body.

SON.
Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.
This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight,
May be possessed with some store of crowns;
And I, that haply take them from him now,
May yet ere night yield both my life and them
To some man else, as this dead man doth me.
Who’s this? O God! It is my father’s face,
Whom in this conflict I unwares have killed.
O heavy times, begetting such events!
From London by the King was I pressed forth;
My father, being the Earl of Warwick’s man,
Came on the part of York, pressed by his master;
And I, who at his hands received my life,
Have by my hands of life bereaved him.
Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did;
And pardon, father, for I knew not thee.
My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks,
And no more words till they have flowed their fill.

KING HENRY.
O piteous spectacle! O bloody times!
Whiles lions war and battle for their dens,
Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity.
Weep, wretched man, I’ll aid thee tear for tear;
And let our hearts and eyes, like civil war,
Be blind with tears and break o’ercharged with grief.

Enter a Father who has killed his son, with the body in his arms.

FATHER.
Thou that so stoutly hath resisted me,
Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold,
For I have bought it with an hundred blows.
But let me see: is this our foeman’s face?
Ah, no, no, no; it is mine only son!
Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee,
Throw up thine eye! See, see what showers arise,
Blown with the windy tempest of my heart
Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart!
O, pity, God, this miserable age!
What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly,
Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural,
This deadly quarrel daily doth beget!
O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon,
And hath bereft thee of thy life too late!

KING HENRY.
Woe above woe, grief more than common grief!
O that my death would stay these ruthful deeds!
O pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity!
The red rose and the white are on his face,
The fatal colours of our striving houses;
The one his purple blood right well resembles,
The other his pale cheeks, methinks, presenteth.
Wither one rose, and let the other flourish!
If you contend, a thousand lives must wither.

SON.
How will my mother for a father’s death
Take on with me and ne’er be satisfied!

FATHER.
How will my wife for slaughter of my son
Shed seas of tears and ne’er be satisfied!

KING HENRY.
How will the country for these woeful chances
Misthink the King and not be satisfied!

SON.
Was ever son so rued a father’s death?

FATHER.
Was ever father so bemoaned his son?

KING HENRY.
Was ever king so grieved for subjects’ woe?
Much is your sorrow, mine ten times so much.

SON.
I’ll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill.

[Exit with the body.]

FATHER.
These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet;
My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre,
For from my heart thine image ne’er shall go.
My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell;
And so obsequious will thy father be,
Even for the loss of thee, having no more,
As Priam was for all his valiant sons.
I’ll bear thee hence; and let them fight that will,
For I have murdered where I should not kill.

[Exit with the body.]

KING HENRY.
Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care,
Here sits a king more woeful than you are.

Alarums. Excursions. Enter Queen Margaret, Prince of Wales and Exeter.

PRINCE EDWARD.
Fly, father, fly, for all your friends are fled,
And Warwick rages like a chafed bull.
Away, for death doth hold us in pursuit.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Mount you, my lord; towards Berwick post amain.
Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds
Having the fearful flying hare in sight,
With fiery eyes sparkling for very wrath,
And bloody steel grasped in their ireful hands,
Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain.

EXETER.
Away, for vengeance comes along with them.
Nay, stay not to expostulate; make speed,
Or else come after; I’ll away before.

KING HENRY.
Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exeter;
Not that I fear to stay, but love to go
Whither the Queen intends. Forward; away!

[Exeunt.]

SCENE VI. Another Part of the Field

A loud alarum. Enter Clifford, wounded.

CLIFFORD.
Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies,
Which whiles it lasted gave King Henry light.
O Lancaster, I fear thy overthrow
More than my body’s parting with my soul!
My love and fear glued many friends to thee;
And, now I fall, thy tough commixtures melts,
Impairing Henry, strengthening misproud York.
The common people swarm like summer flies;
And whither fly the gnats but to the sun?
And who shines now but Henry’s enemies?
O Phoebus, hadst thou never given consent
That Phaëthon should check thy fiery steeds,
Thy burning car never had scorched the earth!
And, Henry, hadst thou swayed as kings should 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 deserved no pity.
The air hath got into my deadly wounds,
And much effuse of blood doth make me faint.
Come, York and Richard, Warwick, and the rest;
I stabbed your fathers’ bosoms, split my breast.

[He faints.]

Alarum and retreat. Enter Edward, George, Richard, Montague, Warwick and Soldiers.

EDWARD.
Now breathe we, lords. Good fortune bids us pause
And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks.
Some troops pursue the bloody-minded Queen
That led calm Henry, though he were a king,
As doth a sail, filled with a fretting gust,
Command an argosy to stem the waves.
But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them?

WARWICK.
No, ’tis impossible he should escape;
For, though before his face I speak the words,
Your brother Richard marked him for the grave,
And whereso’er he is, he’s surely dead.

[Clifford groans and dies.]

RICHARD.
Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave?
A deadly groan, like life and death’s departing.

EDWARD.
See who it is; and, now the battle’s ended,
If friend or foe, let him be gently used.

RICHARD.
Revoke that doom of mercy, for ’tis Clifford,
Who, not contented that he lopped the branch
In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth,
But set his murdering knife unto the root
From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring,
I mean our princely father, Duke of York.

WARWICK.
From off the gates of York fetch down the head,
Your father’s head, which Clifford placed there;
Instead whereof let this supply the room.
Measure for measure must be answered.

EDWARD.
Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house,
That nothing sung but death to us and ours;
Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound,
And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.

[Soldiers bring the body forward.]

WARWICK.
I think his understanding is bereft.
Speak, 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.

RICHARD.
O, would he did, and so, perhaps, he doth!
’Tis but his policy to counterfeit,
Because he would avoid such bitter taunts
Which in the time of death he gave our father.

GEORGE.
If so thou think’st, vex him with eager words.

RICHARD.
Clifford, ask mercy, and obtain no grace.

EDWARD.
Clifford, repent in bootless penitence.

WARWICK.
Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults.

GEORGE.
While we devise fell tortures for thy faults.

RICHARD.
Thou didst love York, and I am son to York.

EDWARD.
Thou pitied’st Rutland, I will pity thee.

GEORGE.
Where’s Captain Margaret to fence you now?

WARWICK.
They mock thee, Clifford; swear as thou wast wont.

RICHARD.
What, not an oath? Nay then, the world goes hard
When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath.
I know by that he’s dead; and, by my soul,
If this right hand would buy but two hours’ life,
That I in all despite might rail at him,
This hand should chop it off, and with the issuing blood
Stifle the villain whose unstaunched thirst
York and young Rutland could not satisfy.

WARWICK.
Ay, but he’s dead. Off with the traitor’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 whence 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 scattered foe that hopes to rise again;
For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt,
Yet look to have them buzz to offend thine ears.
First will I see the coronation,
And then to Brittany I’ll cross the sea
To effect this marriage, so it please my lord.

EDWARD.
Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be;
For in thy shoulder do I build my seat,
And never will I undertake the thing
Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting.
Richard, I will create thee Duke of Gloucester;
And George, of Clarence. Warwick, as ourself,
Shall do and undo as him pleaseth best.

RICHARD.
Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloucester,
For Gloucester’s dukedom is too ominous.

WARWICK.
Tut, that’s a foolish observation.
Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London,
To see these honours in possession.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III

SCENE I. A Forest in the North of England

Enter two Keepers with crossbows in their hands.

1 KEEPER.
Under this thick-grown brake we’ll shroud ourselves,
For through this laund anon the deer will come;
And in this covert will we make our stand,
Culling the principal of all the deer.

2 KEEPER.
I’ll stay above the hill, so both may shoot.

1 KEEPER.
That cannot be; the noise of thy crossbow
Will scare the herd, and so my shoot is lost.
Here stand we both, and aim we at the best;
And, for the time shall not seem tedious,
I’ll tell thee what befell me on a day
In this self place where now we mean to stand.

2 KEEPER.
Here comes a man; let’s stay till he be past.

Enter King Henry, disguised, with a prayer-book.

KING HENRY.
From Scotland am I stolen, even of pure love,
To greet mine own land with my wishful sight.
No, Harry, Harry, ’tis no land of thine;
Thy place is filled, thy sceptre wrung from thee,
Thy balm washed off wherewith thou wast anointed.
No bending knee will call thee Caesar now,
No humble suitors press to speak for right,
No, not a man comes for redress of thee;
For how can I help them and not myself?

1 KEEPER.
Ay, here’s a deer whose skin’s a keeper’s fee.
This is the quondam king; let’s seize upon him.

KING HENRY.
Let me embrace thee, sour adversity,
For wise men say it is the wisest course.

2 KEEPER.
Why linger we? Let us lay hands upon him.

1 KEEPER.
Forbear awhile; we’ll hear a little more.

KING HENRY.
My queen and son are gone to France for aid;
And, as I hear, the great commanding Warwick
Is thither gone to crave the French King’s sister
To wife for Edward. If this news be true,
Poor queen and son, your labour is but lost,
For Warwick is a subtle orator,
And Lewis a prince soon won with moving words.
By this account, then, Margaret may win him,
For she’s a woman to be pitied much.
Her sighs will make a batt’ry in his breast,
Her tears will pierce into a marble heart;
The tiger will be mild whiles she doth mourn,
And Nero will be tainted with remorse
To hear and see her plaints, her brinish tears.
Ay, but she’s come to beg, Warwick to give;
She on his left side craving aid for Henry;
He on his right asking a wife for Edward.
She weeps and says her Henry is deposed;
He smiles and says his Edward is installed;
That she, poor wretch, for grief can speak no more;
Whiles Warwick tells his title, smooths the wrong,
Inferreth arguments of mighty strength,
And in conclusion wins the King from her
With promise of his sister, and what else,
To strengthen and support King Edward’s place.
O Margaret, thus ’twill be; and thou, poor soul,
Art then forsaken, as thou went’st forlorn.

2 KEEPER.
Say, what art thou, that talk’st of kings and queens?

KING HENRY.
More than I seem, and less than I was born to:
A man at least, for less I should not be;
And men may talk of kings, and why not I?

2 KEEPER.
Ay, but thou talk’st as if thou wert a king.

KING HENRY.
Why, so I am, in mind; and that’s enough.

2 KEEPER.
But, if thou be a king, where is thy crown?

KING HENRY.
My crown is in my heart, not on my head;
Not decked with diamonds and Indian stones,
Not to be seen. My crown is called content;
A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.

2 KEEPER.
Well, if you be a king crowned with content,
Your crown content and you must be contented
To go along with us; for, as we think,
You are the king King Edward hath deposed;
And we his subjects, sworn in all allegiance,
Will apprehend you as his enemy.

KING HENRY.
But did you never swear, and break an oath?

2 KEEPER.
No, never such an oath; nor will not now.

KING HENRY.
Where did you dwell when I was King of England?

2 KEEPER.
Here in this country, where we now remain.

KING HENRY.
I was anointed king at nine months old;
My father and my grandfather were kings,
And you were sworn true subjects unto me.
And tell me, then, have you not broke your oaths?

1 KEEPER.
No, for we were subjects but while you were king.

KING HENRY.
Why, am I dead? Do I not breathe a man?
Ah, simple men, you know not what you swear.
Look, as I blow this feather from my face,
And as the air blows it to me again,
Obeying with my wind when I do blow,
And yielding to another when it blows,
Commanded always by the greater gust,
Such is the lightness of you common men.
But do not break your oaths; for of that sin
My mild entreaty shall not make you guilty.
Go where you will, the King shall be commanded;
And be you kings; command, and I’ll obey.

1 KEEPER.
We are true subjects to the King, King Edward.

KING HENRY.
So would you be again to Henry
If he were seated as King Edward is.

1 KEEPER.
We charge you, in God’s name and the King’s
To go with us unto the officers.

KING HENRY.
In God’s name, lead; your king’s name be obeyed,
And what God will, that let your king perform;
And what he will, I humbly yield unto.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II. The Palace

Enter King Edward, Richard (Duke of Gloucester), George (Duke of Clarence) and Lady Grey.

KING EDWARD.
Brother of Gloucester, at Saint Albans field
This lady’s husband, Sir John Grey, was slain,
His land then seized on by the conqueror.
Her suit is now to repossess those lands,
Which we in justice cannot well deny,
Because in quarrel of the house of York
The worthy gentleman did lose his life.

RICHARD.
Your Highness shall do well to grant her suit;
It were dishonour to deny it her.

KING EDWARD.
It were no less; but yet I’ll make a pause.

RICHARD.
[Aside to George.] Yea, is it so?
I see the lady hath a thing to grant
Before the King will grant her humble suit.

GEORGE.
[Aside to Richard.] He knows the game; how true he keeps the wind!

RICHARD.
[Aside to George.] Silence!

KING EDWARD.
Widow, we will consider of your suit,
And come some other time to know our mind.

LADY GREY.
Right gracious lord, I cannot brook delay.
May it please your Highness to resolve me now,
And what your pleasure is shall satisfy me.

RICHARD.
[Aside to George.] Ay, widow? Then I’ll warrant you all your lands,
An if what pleases him shall pleasure you.
Fight closer, or, good faith, you’ll catch a blow.

GEORGE.
[Aside to Richard.] I fear her not, unless she chance to fall.

RICHARD.
[Aside to George.] God forbid that, for he’ll take vantages.

KING EDWARD.
How many children hast thou, widow? Tell me.

GEORGE.
[Aside to Richard.] I think he means to beg a child of her.

RICHARD.
[Aside to George.] Nay, whip me then; he’ll rather give her two.

LADY GREY.
Three, my most gracious lord.

RICHARD.
[Aside to George.] You shall have four if you’ll be ruled by him.

KING EDWARD.
’Twere pity they should lose their father’s lands.

LADY GREY.
Be pitiful, dread lord, and grant it then.

KING EDWARD.
Lords, give us leave; I’ll try this widow’s wit.

RICHARD.
[Aside to George.] Ay, good leave have you; for you will have leave
Till youth take leave and leave you to the crutch.

[Richard and George stand aside.]

KING EDWARD.
Now tell me, madam, do you love your children?

LADY GREY.
Ay, full as dearly as I love myself.

KING EDWARD.
And would you not do much to do them good?

LADY GREY.
To do them good I would sustain some harm.

KING EDWARD.
Then get your husband’s lands to do them good.

LADY GREY.
Therefore I came unto your majesty.

KING EDWARD.
I’ll tell you how these lands are to be got.

LADY GREY.
So shall you bind me to your Highness’ service.

KING EDWARD.
What service wilt thou do me if I give them?

LADY GREY.
What you command that rests in me to do.

KING EDWARD.
But you will take exceptions to my boon.

LADY GREY.
No, gracious lord, except I cannot do it.

KING EDWARD.
Ay, but thou canst do what I mean to ask.

LADY GREY.
Why, then, I will do what your Grace commands.

RICHARD.
[Aside to George.] He plies her hard; and much rain wears the marble.

GEORGE.
[Aside to Richard.] As red as fire! Nay, then her wax must melt.

LADY GREY.
Why stops my lord? Shall I not hear my task?

KING EDWARD.
An easy task; ’tis but to love a king.

LADY GREY.
That’s soon performed, because I am a subject.

KING EDWARD.
Why, then, thy husband’s lands I freely give thee.

LADY GREY.
I take my leave with many thousand thanks.

RICHARD.
[Aside to George.] The match is made; she seals it with a curtsy.

KING EDWARD.
But stay thee; ’tis the fruits of love I mean.

LADY GREY.
The fruits of love I mean, my loving liege.

KING EDWARD.
Ay, but, I fear me, in another sense.
What love, thinkst thou, I sue so much to get?

LADY GREY.
My love till death, my humble thanks, my prayers;
That love which virtue begs, and virtue grants.

KING EDWARD.
No, by my troth, I did not mean such love.

LADY GREY.
Why, then, you mean not as I thought you did.

KING EDWARD.
But now you partly may perceive my mind.

LADY GREY.
My mind will never grant what I perceive
Your Highness aims at, if I aim aright.

KING EDWARD.
To tell thee plain, I aim to lie with thee.

LADY GREY.
To tell you plain, I had rather lie in prison.

KING EDWARD.
Why, then thou shalt not have thy husband’s lands.

LADY GREY.
Why, then mine honesty shall be my dower,
For by that loss I will not purchase them.

KING EDWARD.
Therein thou wrong’st thy children mightily.

LADY GREY.
Herein your Highness wrongs both them and me.
But, mighty lord, this merry inclination
Accords not with the sadness of my suit.
Please you dismiss me either with ay or no.

KING EDWARD.
Ay, if thou wilt say ay to my request;
No, if thou dost say no to my demand.

LADY GREY.
Then no, my lord. My suit is at an end.

RICHARD.
[Aside to George.] The widow likes him not, she knits her brows.

GEORGE.
[Aside to Richard.] He is the bluntest wooer in Christendom.

KING EDWARD.
[Aside.] Her looks doth argue her replete with modesty;
Her words doth show her wit incomparable;
All her perfections challenge sovereignty.
One way or other, she is for a king,
And she shall be my love, or else my queen.—
Say that King Edward take thee for his queen?

LADY GREY.
’Tis better said than done, my gracious lord.
I am a subject fit to jest withal,
But far unfit to be a sovereign.

KING EDWARD.
Sweet widow, by my state I swear to thee,
I speak no more than what my soul intends;
And that is to enjoy thee for my love.

LADY GREY.
And that is more than I will yield unto.
I know I am too mean to be your queen,
And yet too good to be your concubine.

KING EDWARD.
You cavil, widow; I did mean my queen.

LADY GREY.
’Twill grieve your Grace my sons should call you father.

KING EDWARD.
No more than when my daughters call thee mother.
Thou art a widow, and thou hast some children;
And, by God’s mother, I, being but a bachelor,
Have other some. Why, ’tis a happy thing
To be the father unto many sons.
Answer no more, for thou shalt be my queen.

RICHARD.
[Aside to George.] The ghostly father now hath done his shrift.

GEORGE.
[Aside to Richard.] When he was made a shriver, ’twas for shift.

KING EDWARD.
Brothers, you muse what chat we two have had.

Richard and George come forward.

RICHARD.
The widow likes it not, for she looks very sad.

KING EDWARD.
You’d think it strange if I should marry her.

GEORGE.
To whom, my lord?

KING EDWARD.
Why, Clarence, to myself.

RICHARD.
That would be ten days’ wonder at the least.

GEORGE.
That’s a day longer than a wonder lasts.

RICHARD.
By so much is the wonder in extremes.

KING EDWARD.
Well, jest on, brothers. I can tell you both
Her suit is granted for her husband’s lands.

Enter a Nobleman.

NOBLEMAN.
My gracious lord, Henry your foe is taken,
And brought your prisoner to your palace gate.

KING EDWARD.
See that he be conveyed unto the Tower.
And go we, brothers, to the man that took him,
To question of his apprehension.
Widow, go you along. Lords, use her honourably.

[Exeunt all but Richard.]

RICHARD.
Ay, Edward will use women honourably.
Would he were wasted, marrow, bones, and all,
That from his loins no hopeful branch may spring,
To cross me from the golden time I look for!
And yet, between my soul’s desire and me—
The lustful Edward’s title buried—
Is Clarence, Henry, and his son young Edward,
And all the unlooked-for issue of their bodies,
To take their rooms ere I can place myself.
A cold premeditation for my purpose!
Why then I do but dream on sovereignty;
Like one that stands upon a promontory
And spies a far-off shore where he would tread,
Wishing his foot were equal with his eye,
And chides the sea that sunders him from thence,
Saying he’ll lade it dry to have his way.
So do I wish the crown, being so far off,
And so I chide the means that keeps me from it;
And so I say I’ll cut the causes off,
Flattering me with impossibilities.
My eye’s too quick, my heart o’erweens too much,
Unless my hand and strength could equal them.
Well, say there is no kingdom then for Richard,
What other pleasure can the world afford?
I’ll make my heaven in a lady’s lap,
And deck my body in gay ornaments,
And ’witch sweet ladies with my words and looks.
O miserable thought, and more unlikely
Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns.
Why, Love forswore me in my mother’s womb,
And, for I should not deal in her soft laws,
She did corrupt frail Nature with some bribe
To shrink mine arm up like a withered shrub;
To make an envious mountain on my back,
Where sits Deformity to mock my body;
To shape my legs of an unequal size;
To disproportion me in every part,
Like to a chaos, or an unlicked bear-whelp
That carries no impression like the dam.
And am I then a man to be beloved?
O monstrous fault to harbour such a thought!
Then, since this earth affords no joy to me
But to command, to check, to o’erbear such
As are of better person than myself,
I’ll make my heaven to dream upon the crown,
And, whiles I live, t’ account this world but hell
Until my misshaped trunk that bear this head
Be round impaled with a glorious crown.
And yet I know not how to get the crown,
For many lives stand between me and home;
And I, like one lost in a thorny wood,
That rents the thorns, and is rent with the thorns,
Seeking a way, and straying from the way,
Not knowing how to find the open air,
But toiling desperately to find it out,
Torment myself to catch the English crown.
And from that torment I will free myself,
Or hew my way out with a bloody axe.
Why, I can smile, and murder while I smile,
And cry “Content!” to that which grieves my heart,
And wet my cheeks with artificial tears,
And frame my face to all occasions.
I’ll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall,
I’ll slay more gazers than the basilisk;
I’ll play the orator as well as Nestor,
Deceive more slyly than Ulysses could,
And, like a Sinon, take another Troy.
I can add colours to the chameleon,
Change shapes with Proteus for advantages,
And set the murderous Machiavel to school.
Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?
Tut, were it farther off, I’ll pluck it down.

[Exit.]

SCENE III. France. The King’s Palace

Flourish. Enter Lewis, the French King, his sister the Lady Bona, his Admiral called Bourbon, Prince Edward, Queen Margaret, and the Earl of Oxford. Lewis sits, and riseth up again.

KING LEWIS.
Fair Queen of England, worthy Margaret,
Sit down with us. It ill befits thy state
And birth that thou shouldst stand while Lewis doth sit.

QUEEN MARGARET.
No, mighty King of France. Now Margaret
Must strike her sail and learn awhile to serve
Where kings command. I was, I must confess,
Great Albion’s queen in former golden days;
But now mischance hath trod my title down
And with dishonour laid me on the ground,
Where I must take like seat unto my fortune
And to my humble seat conform myself.

KING LEWIS.
Why, say, fair queen, whence springs this deep despair?

QUEEN MARGARET.
From such a cause as fills mine eyes with tears
And stops my tongue, while heart is drowned in cares.

KING LEWIS.
Whate’er it be, be thou still like thyself,
And sit thee by our side. Yield not thy neck

[Seats her by him.]

To Fortune’s yoke, but let thy dauntless mind
Still ride in triumph over all mischance.
Be plain, Queen Margaret, and tell thy grief;
It shall be eased if France can yield relief.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Those gracious words revive my drooping thoughts
And give my tongue-tied sorrows leave to speak.
Now, therefore, be it known to noble Lewis
That Henry, sole possessor of my love,
Is, of a king, become a banished man
And forced to live in Scotland a forlorn;
While proud ambitious Edward, Duke of York,
Usurps the regal title and the seat
Of England’s true-anointed lawful king.
This is the cause that I, poor Margaret,
With this my son, Prince Edward, Henry’s heir,
Am come to crave thy just and lawful aid;
And if thou fail us, all our hope is done.
Scotland hath will to help, but cannot help;
Our people and our peers are both misled,
Our treasure seized, our soldiers put to flight,
And, as thou seest, ourselves in heavy plight.

KING LEWIS.
Renowned queen, with patience calm the storm
While we bethink a means to break it off.

QUEEN MARGARET.
The more we stay, the stronger grows our foe.

KING LEWIS.
The more I stay, the more I’ll succour thee.

QUEEN MARGARET.
O, but impatience waiteth on true sorrow.
And see where comes the breeder of my sorrow.

Enter Warwick.

KING LEWIS.
What’s he approacheth boldly to our presence?

QUEEN MARGARET.
Our Earl of Warwick, Edward’s greatest friend.

KING LEWIS.
Welcome, brave Warwick. What brings thee to France?

[He descends. Queen Margaret rises.]

QUEEN MARGARET.
Ay, now begins a second storm to rise,
For this is he that moves both wind and tide.

WARWICK.
From worthy Edward, king of Albion,
My lord and sovereign, and thy vowed friend,
I come, in kindness and unfeigned love,
First, to do greetings to thy royal person,
And then to crave a league of amity,
And lastly, to confirm that amity
With nuptial knot, if thou vouchsafe to grant
That virtuous Lady Bona, thy fair sister,
To England’s king in lawful marriage.

QUEEN MARGARET.
[Aside.] If that go forward, Henry’s hope is done.

WARWICK.
[To Bona.] And, gracious madam, in our king’s behalf,
I am commanded, with your leave and favour,
Humbly to kiss your hand, and with my tongue
To tell the passion of my sovereign’s heart,
Where fame, late entering at his heedful ears,
Hath placed thy beauty’s image and thy virtue.

QUEEN MARGARET.
King Lewis and Lady Bona, hear me speak
Before you answer Warwick. His demand
Springs not from Edward’s well-meant honest love,
But from deceit, bred by necessity;
For how can tyrants safely govern home
Unless abroad they purchase great alliance?
To prove him tyrant this reason may suffice,
That Henry liveth still; but were he dead,
Yet here Prince Edward stands, King Henry’s son.
Look therefore, Lewis, that by this league and marriage
Thou draw not on thy danger and dishonour;
For though usurpers sway the rule awhile,
Yet heavens are just, and time suppresseth wrongs.

WARWICK.
Injurious Margaret!

PRINCE EDWARD.
And why not Queen?

WARWICK.
Because thy father Henry did usurp,
And thou no more art prince than she is queen.

OXFORD.
Then Warwick disannuls great John of Gaunt,
Which did subdue the greatest part of Spain;
And after John of Gaunt, Henry the Fourth,
Whose wisdom was a mirror to the wisest;
And after that wise prince, Henry the Fifth,
Who by his prowess conquered all France.
From these our Henry lineally descends.

WARWICK.
Oxford, how haps it in this smooth discourse
You told not how Henry the Sixth hath lost
All that which Henry the Fifth had gotten?
Methinks these peers of France should smile at that.
But for the rest: you tell a pedigree
Of threescore and two years, a silly time
To make prescription for a kingdom’s worth.

OXFORD.
Why, Warwick, canst thou speak against thy liege,
Whom thou obeyed’st thirty and six years,
And not bewray thy treason with a blush?

WARWICK.
Can Oxford, that did ever fence the right,
Now buckler falsehood with a pedigree?
For shame! Leave Henry, and call Edward king.

OXFORD.
Call him my king by whose injurious doom
My elder brother, the Lord Aubrey Vere,
Was done to death? And more than so, my father,
Even in the downfall of his mellowed years,
When nature brought him to the door of death?
No, Warwick, no; while life upholds this arm,
This arm upholds the house of Lancaster.

WARWICK.
And I the house of York.

KING LEWIS.
Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, and Oxford,
Vouchsafe at our request to stand aside
While I use further conference with Warwick.

[They stand aloof.]

QUEEN MARGARET.
Heavens grant that Warwick’s words bewitch him not!

KING LEWIS.
Now, Warwick, tell me, even upon thy conscience,
Is Edward your true king? For I were loath
To link with him that were not lawful chosen.

WARWICK.
Thereon I pawn my credit and mine honour.

KING LEWIS.
But is he gracious in the people’s eye?

WARWICK.
The more that Henry was unfortunate.

KING LEWIS.
Then further, all dissembling set aside,
Tell me for truth the measure of his love
Unto our sister Bona.

WARWICK.
Such it seems
As may beseem a monarch like himself.
Myself have often heard him say and swear
That this his love was an eternal plant,
Whereof the root was fixed in virtue’s ground,
The leaves and fruit maintained with beauty’s sun,
Exempt from envy, but not from disdain,
Unless the Lady Bona quit his pain.

KING LEWIS.
Now, sister, let us hear your firm resolve.

BONA.
Your grant or your denial shall be mine.
[To Warwick] Yet I confess that often ere this day,
When I have heard your king’s desert recounted,
Mine ear hath tempted judgment to desire.

KING LEWIS.
Then, Warwick, thus: our sister shall be Edward’s.
And now forthwith shall articles be drawn
Touching the jointure that your king must make,
Which with her dowry shall be counterpoised.
Draw near, Queen Margaret, and be a witness
That Bona shall be wife to the English king.

PRINCE EDWARD.
To Edward, but not to the English king.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Deceitful Warwick, it was thy device
By this alliance to make void my suit.
Before thy coming Lewis was Henry’s friend.

KING LEWIS.
And still is friend to him and Margaret.
But if your title to the crown be weak,
As may appear by Edward’s good success,
Then ’tis but reason that I be released
From giving aid which late I promised.
Yet shall you have all kindness at my hand
That your estate requires and mine can yield.

WARWICK.
Henry now lives in Scotland, at his ease,
Where, having nothing, nothing can he lose.
And as for you yourself, our quondam queen,
You have a father able to maintain you,
And better ’twere you troubled him than France.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Peace, impudent and shameless Warwick,
Proud setter up and puller down of kings!
I will not hence till with my talk and tears,
Both full of truth, I make King Lewis behold
Thy sly conveyance and thy lord’s false love;
For both of you are birds of selfsame feather.

[Post blowing a horn within.]

KING LEWIS.
Warwick, this is some post to us or thee.

Enter the Post.

POST.
My lord ambassador, these letters are for you.
Sent from your brother, Marquess Montague.
These from our king unto your Majesty.
And, madam, these for you, from whom I know not.

[They all read their letters.]

OXFORD.
I like it well that our fair Queen and mistress
Smiles at her news while Warwick frowns at his.

PRINCE EDWARD.
Nay, mark how Lewis stamps as he were nettled.
I hope all’s for the best.

KING LEWIS.
Warwick, what are thy news? And yours, fair Queen?

QUEEN MARGARET.
Mine, such as fill my heart with unhoped joys.

WARWICK.
Mine, full of sorrow and heart’s discontent.

KING LEWIS.
What, has your king married the Lady Grey,
And now, to soothe your forgery and his,
Sends me a paper to persuade me patience?
Is this th’ alliance that he seeks with France?
Dare he presume to scorn us in this manner?

QUEEN MARGARET.
I told your majesty as much before;
This proveth Edward’s love and Warwick’s honesty.

WARWICK.
King Lewis, I here protest in sight of heaven,
And by the hope I have of heavenly bliss,
That I am clear from this misdeed of Edward’s—
No more my king, for he dishonours me,
But most himself, if he could see his shame.
Did I forget that by the house of York
My father came untimely to his death?
Did I let pass th’ abuse done to my niece?
Did I impale him with the regal crown?
Did I put Henry from his native right?
And am I guerdoned at the last with shame?
Shame on himself, for my desert is honour;
And to repair my honour lost for him,
I here renounce him and return to Henry.
My noble Queen, let former grudges pass,
And henceforth I am thy true servitor.
I will revenge his wrong to Lady Bona,
And replant Henry in his former state.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Warwick, these words have turned my hate to love;
And I forgive and quite forget old faults,
And joy that thou becom’st King Henry’s friend.

WARWICK.
So much his friend, ay, his unfeigned friend,
That if King Lewis vouchsafe to furnish us
With some few bands of chosen soldiers,
I’ll undertake to land them on our coast
And force the tyrant from his seat by war.
’Tis not his new-made bride shall succour him;
And as for Clarence, as my letters tell me,
He’s very likely now to fall from him
For matching more for wanton lust than honour,
Or than for strength and safety of our country.

BONA.
Dear brother, how shall Bona be revenged
But by thy help to this distressed queen?

QUEEN MARGARET.
Renowned prince, how shall poor Henry live
Unless thou rescue him from foul despair?

BONA.
My quarrel and this English queen’s are one.

WARWICK.
And mine, fair Lady Bona, joins with yours.

KING LEWIS.
And mine with hers, and thine, and Margaret’s.
Therefore, at last I firmly am resolved
You shall have aid.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Let me give humble thanks for all at once.

KING LEWIS.
Then, England’s messenger, return in post
And tell false Edward, thy supposed king,
That Lewis of France is sending over maskers
To revel it with him and his new bride.
Thou seest what’s past; go fear thy king withal.

BONA.
Tell him, in hope he’ll prove a widower shortly,
I’ll wear the willow garland for his sake.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Tell him my mourning weeds are laid aside,
And I am ready to put armour on.

WARWICK.
Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong,
And therefore I’ll uncrown him ere ’t be long.
There’s thy reward; be gone.

[Exit Post.]

KING LEWIS.
But, Warwick,
Thou and Oxford, with five thousand men,
Shall cross the seas and bid false Edward battle;
And, as occasion serves, this noble Queen
And prince shall follow with a fresh supply.
Yet, ere thou go, but answer me one doubt:
What pledge have we of thy firm loyalty?

WARWICK.
This shall assure my constant loyalty:
That if our Queen and this young prince agree,
I’ll join mine eldest daughter and my joy
To him forthwith in holy wedlock bands.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Yes, I agree, and thank you for your motion.
Son Edward, she is fair and virtuous,
Therefore delay not, give thy hand to Warwick,
And with thy hand thy faith irrevocable
That only Warwick’s daughter shall be thine.

PRINCE EDWARD.
Yes, I accept her, for she well deserves it;
And here, to pledge my vow, I give my hand.

[He gives his hand to Warwick.]

KING LEWIS.
Why stay we now? These soldiers shall be levied,
And thou, Lord Bourbon, our High Admiral,
Shall waft them over with our royal fleet.
I long till Edward fall by war’s mischance
For mocking marriage with a dame of France.

[Exeunt all but Warwick.]

WARWICK.
I came from Edward as ambassador,
But I return his sworn and mortal foe.
Matter of marriage was the charge he gave me,
But dreadful war shall answer his demand.
Had he none else to make a stale but me?
Then none but I shall turn his jest to sorrow.
I was the chief that raised him to the crown,
And I’ll be chief to bring him down again:
Not that I pity Henry’s misery,
But seek revenge on Edward’s mockery.

[Exit.]

ACT IV

SCENE I. London. The Palace

Enter Richard (Duke of Gloucester), George (Duke of Clarence), Somerset and Montague.

RICHARD.
Now tell me, brother Clarence, what think you
Of this new marriage with the Lady Grey?
Hath not our brother made a worthy choice?

GEORGE.
Alas, you know ’tis far from hence to France!
How could he stay till Warwick made return?

SOMERSET.
My lords, forbear this talk; here comes the King.

Flourish. Enter King Edward, attended; Lady Grey as Queen Elizabeth; Pembroke, Stafford, Hastings and others. Four stand on one side, and four on the other.

RICHARD.
And his well-chosen bride.

GEORGE.
I mind to tell him plainly what I think.

KING EDWARD.
Now, brother of Clarence, how like you our choice,
That you stand pensive as half malcontent?

GEORGE.
As well as Lewis of France or the Earl of Warwick,
Which are so weak of courage and in judgment
That they’ll take no offence at our abuse.

KING EDWARD.
Suppose they take offence without a cause,
They are but Lewis and Warwick; I am Edward,
Your King and Warwick’s, and must have my will.

RICHARD.
And shall have your will, because our King.
Yet hasty marriage seldom proveth well.

KING EDWARD.
Yea, brother Richard, are you offended too?

RICHARD.
Not I.
No, God forbid that I should wish them severed
Whom God hath joined together. Ay, and ’twere pity
To sunder them that yoke so well together.

KING EDWARD.
Setting your scorns and your mislike aside,
Tell me some reason why the Lady Grey
Should not become my wife and England’s queen.
And you too, Somerset and Montague,
Speak freely what you think.

GEORGE.
Then this is mine opinion: that King Lewis
Becomes your enemy for mocking him
About the marriage of the Lady Bona.

RICHARD.
And Warwick, doing what you gave in charge,
Is now dishonoured by this new marriage.

KING EDWARD.
What if both Lewis and Warwick be appeased
By such invention as I can devise?

MONTAGUE.
Yet to have joined with France in such alliance
Would more have strengthened this our commonwealth
’Gainst foreign storms than any home-bred marriage.

HASTINGS.
Why, knows not Montague that of itself
England is safe, if true within itself?

MONTAGUE.
But the safer when ’tis backed with France.

HASTINGS.
’Tis better using France than trusting France.
Let us be backed with God and with the seas
Which He hath giv’n for fence impregnable,
And with their helps only defend ourselves.
In them and in ourselves our safety lies.

GEORGE.
For this one speech Lord Hastings well deserves
To have the heir of the Lord Hungerford.

KING EDWARD.
Ay, what of that? It was my will and grant;
And for this once my will shall stand for law.

RICHARD.
And yet, methinks, your Grace hath not done well
To give the heir and daughter of Lord Scales
Unto the brother of your loving bride.
She better would have fitted me or Clarence;
But in your bride you bury brotherhood.

GEORGE.
Or else you would not have bestowed the heir
Of the Lord Bonville on your new wife’s son,
And leave your brothers to go speed elsewhere.

KING EDWARD.
Alas, poor Clarence, is it for a wife
That thou art malcontent? I will provide thee.

GEORGE.
In choosing for yourself you showed your judgment,
Which being shallow, you shall give me leave
To play the broker in mine own behalf;
And to that end I shortly mind to leave you.

KING EDWARD.
Leave me or tarry, Edward will be king,
And not be tied unto his brother’s will.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.
My lords, before it pleased his Majesty
To raise my state to title of a queen,
Do me but right, and you must all confess
That I was not ignoble of descent,
And meaner than myself have had like fortune.
But as this title honours me and mine,
So your dislikes, to whom I would be pleasing,
Doth cloud my joys with danger and with sorrow.

KING EDWARD.
My love, forbear to fawn upon their frowns.
What danger or what sorrow can befall thee
So long as Edward is thy constant friend
And their true sovereign, whom they must obey?
Nay, whom they shall obey, and love thee too,
Unless they seek for hatred at my hands;
Which if they do, yet will I keep thee safe,
And they shall feel the vengeance of my wrath.

RICHARD.
[Aside.] I hear, yet say not much, but think the more.

Enter a Post.

KING EDWARD.
Now, messenger, what letters or what news
From France?

POST.
My sovereign liege, no letters, and few words,
But such as I, without your special pardon,
Dare not relate.

KING EDWARD.
Go to, we pardon thee. Therefore, in brief,
Tell me their words as near as thou canst guess them.
What answer makes King Lewis unto our letters?

POST.
At my depart these were his very words:
“Go tell false Edward, thy supposed king,
That Lewis of France is sending over maskers
To revel it with him and his new bride.”

KING EDWARD.
Is Lewis so brave? Belike he thinks me Henry.
But what said Lady Bona to my marriage?

POST.
These were her words, uttered with mild disdain:
“Tell him, in hope he’ll prove a widower shortly,
I’ll wear the willow garland for his sake.”

KING EDWARD.
I blame not her; she could say little less;
She had the wrong. But what said Henry’s queen?
For I have heard that she was there in place.

POST.
“Tell him,” quoth she “my mourning weeds are done,
And I am ready to put armour on.”

KING EDWARD.
Belike she minds to play the Amazon.
But what said Warwick to these injuries?

POST.
He, more incensed against your Majesty
Than all the rest, discharged me with these words:
“Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong,
And therefore I’ll uncrown him ere ’t be long.”

KING EDWARD.
Ha! Durst the traitor breathe out so proud words?
Well, I will arm me, being thus forewarned.
They shall have wars and pay for their presumption.
But say, is Warwick friends with Margaret?

POST.
Ay, gracious sovereign, they are so linked in friendship
That young Prince Edward marries Warwick’s daughter.

GEORGE.
Belike the elder; Clarence will have the younger.
Now, brother king, farewell, and sit you fast,
For I will hence to Warwick’s other daughter;
That, though I want a kingdom, yet in marriage
I may not prove inferior to yourself.
You that love me and Warwick, follow me.

[Exit George and Somerset follows.]

RICHARD.
[Aside.] Not I. My thoughts aim at a further matter;
I stay not for the love of Edward, but the crown.

KING EDWARD.
Clarence and Somerset both gone to Warwick!
Yet am I armed against the worst can happen,
And haste is needful in this desperate case.
Pembroke and Stafford, you in our behalf
Go levy men and make prepare for war;
They are already, or quickly will be, landed.
Myself in person will straight follow you.

[Exeunt Pembroke and Stafford.]

But, ere I go, Hastings and Montague,
Resolve my doubt. You twain, of all the rest,
Are near to Warwick by blood and by alliance.
Tell me if you love Warwick more than me.
If it be so, then both depart to him.
I rather wish you foes than hollow friends.
But if you mind to hold your true obedience,
Give me assurance with some friendly vow,
That I may never have you in suspect.

MONTAGUE.
So God help Montague as he proves true!

HASTINGS.
And Hastings as he favours Edward’s cause!

KING EDWARD.
Now, brother Richard, will you stand by us?

RICHARD.
Ay, in despite of all that shall withstand you.

KING EDWARD.
Why, so! Then am I sure of victory.
Now, therefore, let us hence, and lose no hour
Till we meet Warwick with his foreign power.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II. A Plain in Warwickshire

Enter Warwick and Oxford in England, with French Soldiers.

WARWICK.
Trust me, my lord, all hitherto goes well;
The common people by numbers swarm to us.

Enter George (Duke of Clarence) and Somerset.

But see where Somerset and Clarence comes.
Speak suddenly, my lords: are we all friends?

GEORGE.
Fear not that, my lord.

WARWICK.
Then, gentle Clarence, welcome unto Warwick;
And welcome, Somerset. I hold it cowardice
To rest mistrustful where a noble heart
Hath pawned an open hand in sign of love;
Else might I think that Clarence, Edward’s brother,
Were but a feigned friend to our proceedings.
But welcome, sweet Clarence; my daughter shall be thine.
And now what rests but, in night’s coverture,
Thy brother being carelessly encamped,
His soldiers lurking in the towns about,
And but attended by a simple guard,
We may surprise and take him at our pleasure?
Our scouts have found the adventure very easy;
That, as Ulysses and stout Diomede
With sleight and manhood stole to Rhesus’ tents,
And brought from thence the Thracian fatal steeds,
So we, well covered with the night’s black mantle,
At unawares may beat down Edward’s guard,
And seize himself. I say not, slaughter him,
For I intend but only to surprise him.
You that will follow me to this attempt,
Applaud the name of Henry with your leader.

[They all cry “Henry!”]

Why then, let’s on our way in silent sort,
For Warwick and his friends, God and Saint George!

[Exeunt.]

SCENE III. Edward’s Camp near Warwick

Enter three Watchmen to guard the King’s tent.

1 WATCHMAN.
Come on, my masters, each man take his stand.
The King by this is set him down to sleep.

2 WATCHMAN.
What, will he not to bed?

1 WATCHMAN.
Why, no; for he hath made a solemn vow
Never to lie and take his natural rest
Till Warwick or himself be quite suppressed.

2 WATCHMAN.
Tomorrow, then, belike shall be the day,
If Warwick be so near as men report.

3 WATCHMAN.
But say, I pray, what nobleman is that
That with the King here resteth in his tent?

1 WATCHMAN.
’Tis the Lord Hastings, the King’s chiefest friend.

3 WATCHMAN.
O, is it so? But why commands the King
That his chief followers lodge in towns about him,
While he himself keeps in the cold field?

2 WATCHMAN.
’Tis the more honour, because more dangerous.

3 WATCHMAN.
Ay, but give me worship and quietness;
I like it better than dangerous honour.
If Warwick knew in what estate he stands,
’Tis to be doubted he would waken him.

1 WATCHMAN.
Unless our halberds did shut up his passage.

2 WATCHMAN.
Ay, wherefore else guard we his royal tent
But to defend his person from night-foes?

Enter Warwick, George (Duke of Clarence), Oxford, Somerset and French Soldiers, silent all.

WARWICK.
This is his tent; and see where stand his guard.
Courage, my masters! Honour now or never!
But follow me, and Edward shall be ours.

1 WATCHMAN.
Who goes there?

2 WATCHMAN.
Stay, or thou diest.

[Warwick and the rest cry all, “Warwick! Warwick!” and set upon the guard, who fly, crying “Arm! Arm!” Warwick and the rest following them.]

The drum playing and trumpet sounding, enter Warwick, Somerset, and the rest, bringing the King out in his gown, sitting in a chair. Richard (Duke of Gloucester) and Hastings fly over the stage.

SOMERSET.
What are they that fly there?

WARWICK.
Richard and Hastings.
Let them go. Here is the Duke.

KING EDWARD.
The Duke? Why, Warwick, when we parted,
Thou call’dst me king?

WARWICK.
Ay, but the case is altered.
When you disgraced me in my embassade,
Then I degraded you from being king,
And come now to create you Duke of York.
Alas, how should you govern any kingdom
That know not how to use ambassadors,
Nor how to be contented with one wife,
Nor how to use your brothers brotherly,
Nor how to study for the people’s welfare,
Nor how to shroud yourself from enemies?

KING EDWARD.
Yea, brother of Clarence, art thou here too?
Nay, then I see that Edward needs must down.
Yet, Warwick, in despite of all mischance
Of thee thyself and all thy complices,
Edward will always bear himself as king.
Though Fortune’s malice overthrow my state,
My mind exceeds the compass of her wheel.

WARWICK.
Then for his mind be Edward England’s king;

[Takes off his crown.]

But Henry now shall wear the English crown
And be true king indeed, thou but the shadow.
My lord of Somerset, at my request,
See that forthwith Duke Edward be conveyed
Unto my brother, Archbishop of York.
When I have fought with Pembroke and his fellows,
I’ll follow you and tell what answer
Lewis and the Lady Bona send to him.
Now, for a while farewell, good Duke of York.

[They begin to lead him out forcibly.]

KING EDWARD.
What fates impose, that men must needs abide;
It boots not to resist both wind and tide.

[Exit King Edward, led out; Somerset with him.]

OXFORD.
What now remains, my lords, for us to do,
But march to London with our soldiers?

WARWICK.
Ay, that’s the first thing that we have to do,
To free King Henry from imprisonment
And see him seated in the regal throne.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE IV. London. The Palace

Enter Queen Elizabeth and Rivers.

RIVERS.
Madam, what makes you in this sudden change?

QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Why, brother Rivers, are you yet to learn
What late misfortune is befall’n King Edward?

RIVERS.
What, loss of some pitched battle against Warwick?

QUEEN ELIZABETH.
No, but the loss of his own royal person.

RIVERS.
Then is my sovereign slain?

QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Ay, almost slain, for he is taken prisoner,
Either betrayed by falsehood of his guard
Or by his foe surprised at unawares;
And, as I further have to understand,
Is new committed to the Bishop of York,
Fell Warwick’s brother and by that our foe.

RIVERS.
These news, I must confess, are full of grief;
Yet, gracious madam, bear it as you may.
Warwick may lose that now hath won the day.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Till then, fair hope must hinder life’s decay;
And I the rather wean me from despair
For love of Edward’s offspring in my womb.
This is it that makes me bridle passion
And bear with mildness my misfortune’s cross,
Ay, ay, for this I draw in many a tear
And stop the rising of blood-sucking sighs,
Lest with my sighs or tears I blast or drown
King Edward’s fruit, true heir to th’ English crown.

RIVERS.
But, madam, where is Warwick then become?

QUEEN ELIZABETH.
I am informed that he comes towards London
To set the crown once more on Henry’s head.
Guess thou the rest: King Edward’s friends must down.
But to prevent the tyrant’s violence—
For trust not him that hath once broken faith—
I’ll hence forthwith unto the sanctuary
To save at least the heir of Edward’s right.
There shall I rest secure from force and fraud.
Come, therefore, let us fly while we may fly.
If Warwick take us, we are sure to die.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE V. A park near Middleham Castle in Yorkshire

Enter Richard (Duke of Gloucester), Lord Hastings, Sir William Stanley and others.

RICHARD.
Now, my Lord Hastings and Sir William Stanley,
Leave off to wonder why I drew you hither
Into this chiefest thicket of the park.
Thus stands the case: you know our King, my brother,
Is prisoner to the Bishop here, at whose hands
He hath good usage and great liberty,
And often but attended with weak guard,
Comes hunting this way to disport himself.
I have advertised him by secret means
That if about this hour he make this way,
Under the colour of his usual game,
He shall here find his friends with horse and men
To set him free from his captivity.

Enter King Edward and a Huntsman with him.

HUNTSMAN.
This way, my lord, for this way lies the game.

KING EDWARD.
Nay, this way, man. See where the huntsmen stand.
Now, brother of Gloucester, Lord Hastings, and the rest,
Stand you thus close to steal the Bishop’s deer?

RICHARD.
Brother, the time and case requireth haste;
Your horse stands ready at the park corner.

KING EDWARD.
But whither shall we then?

HASTINGS.
To Lynn, my lord, and shipped from thence to Flanders.

RICHARD.
Well guessed, believe me, for that was my meaning.

KING EDWARD.
Stanley, I will requite thy forwardness.

RICHARD.
But wherefore stay we? ’Tis no time to talk.

KING EDWARD.
Huntsman, what sayst thou? Wilt thou go along?

HUNTSMAN.
Better do so than tarry and be hanged.

RICHARD.
Come then, away! Let’s ha’ no more ado.

KING EDWARD.
Bishop, farewell; shield thee from Warwick’s frown,
And pray that I may repossess the crown.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE VI. London. The Tower

Enter King Henry, George (Duke of Clarence), Warwick, Somerset, young Richmond, Oxford, Montague, and Lieutenant of the Tower.

KING HENRY.
Master Lieutenant, now that God and friends
Have shaken Edward from the regal seat
And turned my captive state to liberty,
My fear to hope, my sorrows unto joys,
At our enlargement what are thy due fees?

LIEUTENANT.
Subjects may challenge nothing of their sovereigns;
But if an humble prayer may prevail,
I then crave pardon of your Majesty.

KING HENRY.
For what, lieutenant? For well using me?
Nay, be thou sure I’ll well requite thy kindness,
For that it made my imprisonment a pleasure;
Ay, such a pleasure as incaged birds
Conceive when, after many moody thoughts,
At last by notes of household harmony
They quite forget their loss of liberty.
But, Warwick, after God thou sett’st me free,
And chiefly therefore I thank God and thee;
He was the author, thou the instrument.
Therefore, that I may conquer Fortune’s spite,
By living low where Fortune cannot hurt me,
And that the people of this blessed land
May not be punished with my thwarting stars,
Warwick, although my head still wear the crown,
I here resign my government to thee,
For thou art fortunate in all thy deeds.

WARWICK.
Your Grace hath still been famed for virtuous,
And now may seem as wise as virtuous
By spying and avoiding Fortune’s malice,
For few men rightly temper with the stars;
Yet in this one thing let me blame your Grace,
For choosing me when Clarence is in place.

GEORGE.
No, Warwick, thou art worthy of the sway,
To whom the heavens in thy nativity
Adjudged an olive branch and laurel crown,
As likely to be blest in peace and war;
And therefore I yield thee my free consent.

WARWICK.
And I choose Clarence only for Protector.

KING HENRY.
Warwick and Clarence, give me both your hands.
Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts,
That no dissension hinder government.
I make you both Protectors of this land,
While I myself will lead a private life
And in devotion spend my latter days,
To sin’s rebuke and my Creator’s praise.

WARWICK.
What answers Clarence to his sovereign’s will?

GEORGE.
That he consents, if Warwick yield consent,
For on thy fortune I repose myself.

WARWICK.
Why, then, though loath, yet I must be content.
We’ll yoke together, like a double shadow
To Henry’s body, and supply his place;
I mean, in bearing weight of government,
While he enjoys the honour and his ease.
And, Clarence, now then it is more than needful
Forthwith that Edward be pronounced a traitor
And all his lands and goods be confiscate.

GEORGE.
What else? And that succession be determined.

WARWICK.
Ay, therein Clarence shall not want his part.

KING HENRY.
But with the first of all your chief affairs
Let me entreat—for I command no more—
That Margaret your Queen and my son Edward
Be sent for to return from France with speed;
For till I see them here, by doubtful fear
My joy of liberty is half eclipsed.

GEORGE.
It shall be done, my sovereign, with all speed.

KING HENRY.
My Lord of Somerset, what youth is that
Of whom you seem to have so tender care?

SOMERSET.
My liege, it is young Henry, Earl of Richmond.

KING HENRY.
Come hither, England’s hope. If secret powers

[Lays his hand on his head.]

Suggest but truth to my divining thoughts,
This pretty lad will prove our country’s bliss.
His looks are full of peaceful majesty,
His head by nature framed to wear a crown,
His hand to wield a sceptre, and himself
Likely in time to bless a regal throne.
Make much of him, my lords, for this is he
Must help you more than you are hurt by me.

Enter a Post.

WARWICK.
What news, my friend?

POST.
That Edward is escaped from your brother
And fled, as he hears since, to Burgundy.

WARWICK.
Unsavoury news! But how made he escape?

POST.
He was conveyed by Richard, Duke of Gloucester
And the Lord Hastings, who attended him
In secret ambush on the forest side
And from the Bishop’s huntsmen rescued him,
For hunting was his daily exercise.

WARWICK.
My brother was too careless of his charge.
But let us hence, my sovereign, to provide
A salve for any sore that may betide.

[Exeunt all but Somerset, Richmond and Oxford.]

SOMERSET.
My lord, I like not of this flight of Edward’s,
For doubtless Burgundy will yield him help,
And we shall have more wars before ’t be long.
As Henry’s late presaging prophecy
Did glad my heart with hope of this young Richmond,
So doth my heart misgive me, in these conflicts
What may befall him, to his harm and ours.
Therefore, Lord Oxford, to prevent the worst,
Forthwith we’ll send him hence to Brittany
Till storms be past of civil enmity.

OXFORD.
Ay, for if Edward repossess the crown,
’Tis like that Richmond with the rest shall down.

SOMERSET.
It shall be so. He shall to Brittany.
Come therefore, let’s about it speedily.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE VII. Before York

Flourish. Enter King Edward, Richard (Duke of Gloucester), Hastings and Soldiers.

KING EDWARD.
Now, brother Richard, Lord Hastings, and the rest,
Yet thus far Fortune maketh us amends,
And says that once more I shall interchange
My waned state for Henry’s regal crown.
Well have we passed and now repassed the seas,
And brought desired help from Burgundy.
What then remains, we being thus arrived
From Ravenspurgh haven before the gates of York,
But that we enter as into our dukedom?

RICHARD.
The gates made fast! Brother, I like not this;
For many men that stumble at the threshold
Are well foretold that danger lurks within.

KING EDWARD.
Tush, man, abodements must not now affright us.
By fair or foul means we must enter in,
For hither will our friends repair to us.

HASTINGS.
My liege, I’ll knock once more to summon them.

Enter on the walls, the Mayor of York and his Brethren.

MAYOR.
My lords, we were forewarned of your coming
And shut the gates for safety of ourselves,
For now we owe allegiance unto Henry.

KING EDWARD.
But, master Mayor, if Henry be your king,
Yet Edward, at the least, is Duke of York.

MAYOR.
True, my good lord, I know you for no less.

KING EDWARD.
Why, and I challenge nothing but my dukedom,
As being well content with that alone.

RICHARD.
[Aside.] But when the fox hath once got in his nose,
He’ll soon find means to make the body follow.

HASTINGS.
Why, master Mayor, why stand you in a doubt?
Open the gates; we are King Henry’s friends.

MAYOR.
Ay, say you so? The gates shall then be opened.

[He descends.]

RICHARD.
A wise, stout captain, and soon persuaded.

HASTINGS.
The good old man would fain that all were well,
So ’twere not long of him; but, being entered,
I doubt not, I, but we shall soon persuade
Both him and all his brothers unto reason.

Enter the Mayor and two Aldermen below.

KING EDWARD.
So, master Mayor, these gates must not be shut
But in the night or in the time of war.
What, fear not, man, but yield me up the keys;

[Takes his keys.]

For Edward will defend the town and thee
And all those friends that deign to follow me.

March. Enter Montgomery with drum and Soldiers.

RICHARD.
Brother, this is Sir John Montgomery,
Our trusty friend unless I be deceived.

KING EDWARD.
Welcome, Sir John! But why come you in arms?

MONTGOMERY.
To help King Edward in his time of storm,
As every loyal subject ought to do.

KING EDWARD.
Thanks, good Montgomery; but we now forget
Our title to the crown, and only claim
Our dukedom till God please to send the rest.

MONTGOMERY.
Then fare you well, for I will hence again.
I came to serve a king, and not a duke.
Drummer, strike up, and let us march away.

[The drum begins to march.]

KING EDWARD.
Nay, stay, Sir John, a while, and we’ll debate
By what safe means the crown may be recovered.

MONTGOMERY.
What talk you of debating? In few words,
If you’ll not here proclaim yourself our king,
I’ll leave you to your fortune and be gone
To keep them back that come to succour you.
Why shall we fight if you pretend no title?

RICHARD.
Why, brother, wherefore stand you on nice points?

KING EDWARD.
When we grow stronger, then we’ll make our claim.
Till then ’tis wisdom to conceal our meaning.

HASTINGS.
Away with scrupulous wit! Now arms must rule.

RICHARD.
And fearless minds climb soonest unto crowns.
Brother, we will proclaim you out of hand;
The bruit thereof will bring you many friends.

KING EDWARD.
Then be it as you will; for ’tis my right,
And Henry but usurps the diadem.

MONTGOMERY.
Ay, now my sovereign speaketh like himself,
And now will I be Edward’s champion.

HASTINGS.
Sound, trumpet; Edward shall be here proclaimed.
Come, fellow soldier, make thou proclamation.

[Gives him a paper. Flourish.]

SOLDIER.
[Reads.] Edward the Fourth, by the Grace of God, King of England and France, and Lord of Ireland, etc.

MONTGOMERY.
And whoso’er gainsays King Edward’s right,
By this I challenge him to single fight.

[Throws down his gauntlet.]

ALL.
Long live Edward the Fourth!

KING EDWARD.
Thanks, brave Montgomery, and thanks unto you all.
If Fortune serve me, I’ll requite this kindness.
Now for this night let’s harbour here in York,
And when the morning sun shall raise his car
Above the border of this horizon
We’ll forward towards Warwick and his mates;
For well I wot that Henry is no soldier.
Ah, froward Clarence, how evil it beseems thee
To flatter Henry and forsake thy brother!
Yet, as we may, we’ll meet both thee and Warwick.
Come on, brave soldiers; doubt not of the day,
And, that once gotten, doubt not of large pay.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE VIII. London. The Palace

Flourish. Enter King Henry, Warwick, Montague, George (Duke of Clarence), Oxford and Exeter.

WARWICK.
What counsel, lords? Edward from Belgia,
With hasty Germans and blunt Hollanders,
Hath passed in safety through the Narrow Seas,
And with his troops doth march amain to London;
And many giddy people flock to him.

KING HENRY.
Let’s levy men and beat him back again.

GEORGE.
A little fire is quickly trodden out,
Which, being suffered, rivers cannot quench.

WARWICK.
In Warwickshire I have true-hearted friends,
Not mutinous in peace, yet bold in war.
Those will I muster up; and thou, son Clarence,
Shalt stir up in Suffolk, Norfolk, and in Kent
The knights and gentlemen to come with thee.
Thou, brother Montague, in Buckingham,
Northampton, and in Leicestershire shalt find
Men well inclined to hear what thou command’st.
And thou, brave Oxford, wondrous well beloved,
In Oxfordshire shalt muster up thy friends.
My sovereign, with the loving citizens,
Like to his island girt in with the ocean,
Or modest Dian circled with her nymphs,
Shall rest in London till we come to him.
Fair lords, take leave and stand not to reply.
Farewell, my sovereign.

KING HENRY.
Farewell, my Hector, and my Troy’s true hope.

GEORGE.
In sign of truth, I kiss your Highness’ hand.

KING HENRY.
Well-minded Clarence, be thou fortunate.

MONTAGUE.
Comfort, my lord; and so I take my leave.

OXFORD.
And thus [kissing Henry’s hand] I seal my truth, and bid adieu.

KING HENRY.
Sweet Oxford, and my loving Montague,
And all at once, once more a happy farewell.

WARWICK.
Farewell, sweet lords; let’s meet at Coventry.

[Exeunt all but King Henry and Exeter.]

KING HENRY.
Here at the palace will I rest a while.
Cousin of Exeter, what thinks your lordship?
Methinks the power that Edward hath in field
Should not be able to encounter mine.

EXETER.
The doubt is that he will seduce the rest.

KING HENRY.
That’s not my fear; my meed hath got me fame.
I have not stopped mine ears to their demands,
Nor posted off their suits with slow delays;
My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds,
My mildness hath allayed their swelling griefs,
My mercy dried their water-flowing tears.
I have not been desirous of their wealth
Nor much oppressed them with great subsidies,
Nor forward of revenge, though they much erred.
Then why should they love Edward more than me?
No, Exeter, these graces challenge grace;
And when the lion fawns upon the lamb,
The lamb will never cease to follow him.

[Shout within “A York! A York!”]

EXETER.
Hark, hark, my lord, what shouts are these?

Enter King Edward, Richard (Duke of Gloucester) and Soldiers.

KING EDWARD.
Seize on the shame-faced Henry, bear him hence,
And once again proclaim us King of England.
You are the fount that makes small brooks to flow.
Now stops thy spring; my sea shall suck them dry
And swell so much the higher by their ebb.
Hence with him to the Tower. Let him not speak.

[Exeunt some with King Henry.]

And, lords, towards Coventry bend we our course,
Where peremptory Warwick now remains.
The sun shines hot, and, if we use delay,
Cold biting winter mars our hoped-for hay.

RICHARD.
Away betimes, before his forces join,
And take the great-grown traitor unawares.
Brave warriors, march amain towards Coventry.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V

SCENE I. Coventry

Enter, Warwick, the Mayor of Coventry, two Messengers and others, upon the walls.

WARWICK.
Where is the post that came from valiant Oxford?
How far hence is thy lord, mine honest fellow?

1 MESSENGER.
By this at Dunsmore, marching hitherward.

WARWICK.
How far off is our brother Montague?
Where is the post that came from Montague?

2 MESSENGER.
By this at Daintry, with a puissant troop.

Enter Sir John Somerville.

WARWICK.
Say, Somerville, what says my loving son?
And, by thy guess, how nigh is Clarence now?

SOMERVILLE.
At Southam I did leave him with his forces
And do expect him here some two hours hence.

[Drum heard.]

WARWICK.
Then Clarence is at hand; I hear his drum.

SOMERVILLE.
It is not his, my lord; here Southam lies.
The drum your honour hears marcheth from Warwick.

WARWICK.
Who should that be? Belike, unlooked-for friends.

SOMERVILLE.
They are at hand, and you shall quickly know.

March. Flourish. Enter King Edward, Richard (Duke of Gloucester) and Soldiers.

KING EDWARD.
Go, trumpet, to the walls and sound a parle.

RICHARD.
See how the surly Warwick mans the wall.

WARWICK.
O, unbid spite! Is sportful Edward come?
Where slept our scouts, or how are they seduced,
That we could hear no news of his repair?

KING EDWARD.
Now, Warwick, wilt thou ope the city gates,
Speak gentle words and humbly bend thy knee?
Call Edward King and at his hands beg mercy,
And he shall pardon thee these outrages.

WARWICK.
Nay, rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence,
Confess who set thee up and plucked thee down,
Call Warwick patron and be penitent,
And thou shalt still remain the Duke of York.

RICHARD.
I thought, at least, he would have said the King;
Or did he make the jest against his will?

WARWICK.
Is not a dukedom, sir, a goodly gift?

RICHARD.
Ay, by my faith, for a poor earl to give;
I’ll do thee service for so good a gift.

WARWICK.
’Twas I that gave the kingdom to thy brother.

KING EDWARD.
Why, then, ’tis mine, if but by Warwick’s gift.

WARWICK.
Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight;
And, weakling, Warwick takes his gift again;
And Henry is my King, Warwick his subject.

KING EDWARD.
But Warwick’s king is Edward’s prisoner;
And, gallant Warwick, do but answer this:
What is the body when the head is off?

RICHARD.
Alas, that Warwick had no more forecast,
But, whiles he thought to steal the single ten,
The king was slily fingered from the deck!
You left poor Henry at the Bishop’s palace,
And ten to one you’ll meet him in the Tower.

KING EDWARD.
’Tis even so; yet you are Warwick still.

RICHARD.
Come, Warwick, take the time; kneel down, kneel down.
Nay, when? Strike now, or else the iron cools.

WARWICK.
I had rather chop this hand off at a blow
And with the other fling it at thy face,
Than bear so low a sail to strike to thee.

KING EDWARD.
Sail how thou canst, have wind and tide thy friend,
This hand, fast wound about thy coal-black hair,
Shall, whiles thy head is warm and new cut off,
Write in the dust this sentence with thy blood:
“Wind-changing Warwick now can change no more.”

Enter Oxford with drum and colours.

WARWICK.
O cheerful colours! See where Oxford comes!

OXFORD.
Oxford, Oxford, for Lancaster!

[He and his forces enter the city.]

RICHARD.
The gates are open; let us enter too.

KING EDWARD.
So other foes may set upon our backs.
Stand we in good array, for they no doubt
Will issue out again and bid us battle;
If not, the city being but of small defence,
We’ll quietly rouse the traitors in the same.

WARWICK.
O, welcome, Oxford, for we want thy help.

Enter Montague with drum and colours.

MONTAGUE.
Montague, Montague, for Lancaster!

[He and his forces enter the city.]

RICHARD.
Thou and thy brother both shall buy this treason
Even with the dearest blood your bodies bear.

KING EDWARD.
The harder matched, the greater victory.
My mind presageth happy gain and conquest.

Enter Somerset with drum and colours.

SOMERSET.
Somerset, Somerset, for Lancaster!

[He and his forces enter the city.]

RICHARD.
Two of thy name, both Dukes of Somerset,
Have sold their lives unto the House of York;
And thou shalt be the third if this sword hold.

Enter George (Duke of Clarence) with drum and colours.

WARWICK.
And lo, where George of Clarence sweeps along,
Of force enough to bid his brother battle;
With whom an upright zeal to right prevails
More than the nature of a brother’s love.

[Richard and George whisper.]

Come, Clarence, come; thou wilt if Warwick call.

GEORGE.
Father of Warwick, know you what this means?

[Taking the red rose from his hat and throws the rose at Warwick.]

Look here, I throw my infamy at thee.
I will not ruinate my father’s house,
Who gave his blood to lime the stones together,
And set up Lancaster. Why, trowest thou, Warwick,
That Clarence is so harsh, so blunt, unnatural,
To bend the fatal instruments of war
Against his brother and his lawful King?
Perhaps thou wilt object my holy oath.
To keep that oath were more impiety
Than Jephthah’s when he sacrificed his daughter.
I am so sorry for my trespass made
That, to deserve well at my brother’s hands,
I here proclaim myself thy mortal foe,
With resolution, whereso’er I meet thee—
As I will meet thee if thou stir abroad—
To plague thee for thy foul misleading me.
And so, proud-hearted Warwick, I defy thee,
And to my brother turn my blushing cheeks.
Pardon me, Edward, I will make amends.
And, Richard, do not frown upon my faults,
For I will henceforth be no more unconstant.

KING EDWARD.
Now, welcome more, and ten times more beloved,
Than if thou never hadst deserved our hate.

RICHARD.
Welcome, good Clarence; this is brother-like.

WARWICK.
O passing traitor, perjured and unjust!

KING EDWARD.
What, Warwick, wilt thou leave the town and fight?
Or shall we beat the stones about thine ears?

WARWICK.
Alas! I am not cooped here for defence!
I will away towards Barnet presently
And bid thee battle, Edward, if thou dar’st.

KING EDWARD.
Yes, Warwick, Edward dares, and leads the way.
Lords, to the field! Saint George and victory!

[Exeunt. March. Warwick and his company follows.]

SCENE II. A Field of Battle near Barnet

Alarum and excursions. Enter King Edward bringing forth Warwick wounded.

KING EDWARD.
So, lie thou there. Die thou, and die our fear,
For Warwick was a bug that feared us all.
Now, Montague, sit fast; I seek for thee,
That Warwick’s bones may keep thine company.

[Exit.]

WARWICK.
Ah, who is nigh? Come to me, friend or foe,
And tell me who is victor, York or Warwick?
Why ask I that? My mangled body shows,
My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows
That I must yield my body to the earth
And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe.
Thus yields the cedar to the axe’s edge,
Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle,
Under whose shade the ramping lion slept,
Whose top branch overpeered Jove’s spreading tree,
And kept low shrubs from winter’s pow’rful wind.
These eyes, that now are dimmed with death’s black veil,
Have been as piercing as the midday sun,
To search the secret treasons of the world;
The wrinkles in my brows, now filled with blood,
Were likened oft to kingly sepulchres,
For who lived King but I could dig his grave?
And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow?
Lo, now my glory smeared in dust and blood!
My parks, my walks, my manors that I had,
Even now forsake me; and of all my lands
Is nothing left me but my body’s length.
Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust?
And live we how we can, yet die we must.

Enter Oxford and Somerset.

SOMERSET.
Ah, Warwick, Warwick, wert thou as we are,
We might recover all our loss again.
The Queen from France hath brought a puissant power;
Even now we heard the news. Ah, couldst thou fly!

WARWICK.
Why, then I would not fly. Ah, Montague!
If thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand
And with thy lips keep in my soul awhile.
Thou lov’st me not; for, brother, if thou didst,
Thy tears would wash this cold congealed blood
That glues my lips and will not let me speak.
Come quickly, Montague, or I am dead.

SOMERSET.
Ah, Warwick, Montague hath breathed his last,
And to the latest gasp cried out for Warwick,
And said “Commend me to my valiant brother.”
And more he would have said, and more he spoke,
Which sounded like a cannon in a vault,
That mought not be distinguished; but at last
I well might hear, delivered with a groan,
“O farewell, Warwick!”

WARWICK.
Sweet rest his soul! Fly, lords, and save yourselves,
For Warwick bids you all farewell, to meet in heaven.

[He dies.]

OXFORD.
Away, away, to meet the Queen’s great power!

[Here they bear away his body. Exeunt.]

SCENE III. Another Part of the Field

Flourish. Enter King Edward in triumph, with Richard, George and the rest.

KING EDWARD.
Thus far our fortune keeps an upward course,
And we are graced with wreaths of victory.
But in the midst of this bright-shining day,
I spy a black, suspicious, threat’ning cloud
That will encounter with our glorious sun
Ere he attain his easeful western bed.
I mean, my lords, those powers that the Queen
Hath raised in Gallia have arrived our coast
And, as we hear, march on to fight with us.

GEORGE.
A little gale will soon disperse that cloud
And blow it to the source from whence it came;
Thy very beams will dry those vapours up,
For every cloud engenders not a storm.

RICHARD.
The Queen is valued thirty thousand strong,
And Somerset, with Oxford, fled to her.
If she have time to breathe, be well assured
Her faction will be full as strong as ours.

KING EDWARD.
We are advertised by our loving friends
That they do hold their course toward Tewkesbury.
We, having now the best at Barnet field,
Will thither straight, for willingness rids way;
And, as we march, our strength will be augmented
In every county as we go along.
Strike up the drum! cry “Courage!” and away.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE IV. Plains near Tewkesbury

Flourish. March. Enter Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, Somerset, Oxford and Soldiers.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Great lords, wise men ne’er sit and wail their loss,
But cheerly seek how to redress their harms.
What though the mast be now blown overboard,
The cable broke, the holding-anchor lost,
And half our sailors swallowed in the flood?
Yet lives our pilot still. Is ’t meet that he
Should leave the helm and, like a fearful lad,
With tearful eyes add water to the sea
And give more strength to that which hath too much,
Whiles in his moan the ship splits on the rock,
Which industry and courage might have saved?
Ah, what a shame, ah, what a fault were this!
Say Warwick was our anchor; what of that?
And Montague our topmast; what of him?
Our slaughtered friends the tackles; what of these?
Why, is not Oxford here another anchor?
And Somerset another goodly mast?
The friends of France our shrouds and tacklings?
And, though unskilful, why not Ned and I
For once allowed the skilful pilot’s charge?
We will not from the helm to sit and weep,
But keep our course, though the rough wind say no,
From shelves and rocks that threaten us with wrack.
As good to chide the waves as speak them fair.
And what is Edward but a ruthless sea?
What Clarence but a quicksand of deceit?
And Richard but a ragged fatal rock?
All these the enemies to our poor bark?
Say you can swim: alas, ’tis but a while!
Tread on the sand: why, there you quickly sink;
Bestride the rock: the tide will wash you off,
Or else you famish; that’s a threefold death.
This speak I, lords, to let you understand,
If case some one of you would fly from us,
That there’s no hoped-for mercy with the brothers
More than with ruthless waves, with sands, and rocks.
Why, courage then! What cannot be avoided
’Twere childish weakness to lament or fear.

PRINCE EDWARD.
Methinks a woman of this valiant spirit
Should, if a coward heard her speak these words,
Infuse his breast with magnanimity
And make him, naked, foil a man at arms.
I speak not this as doubting any here;
For did I but suspect a fearful man,
He should have leave to go away betimes,
Lest in our need he might infect another
And make him of the like spirit to himself.
If any such be here, as God forbid!
Let him depart before we need his help.

OXFORD.
Women and children of so high a courage,
And warriors faint! Why, ’twere perpetual shame.
O, brave young Prince, thy famous grandfather
Doth live again in thee. Long mayst thou live
To bear his image and renew his glories!

SOMERSET.
And he that will not fight for such a hope,
Go home to bed and, like the owl by day,
If he arise, be mocked and wondered at.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Thanks, gentle Somerset. Sweet Oxford, thanks.

PRINCE EDWARD.
And take his thanks that yet hath nothing else.

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER.
Prepare you, lords, for Edward is at hand
Ready to fight; therefore be resolute.

OXFORD.
I thought no less. It is his policy
To haste thus fast, to find us unprovided.

SOMERSET.
But he’s deceived; we are in readiness.

QUEEN MARGARET.
This cheers my heart, to see your forwardness.

OXFORD.
Here pitch our battle; hence we will not budge.

Flourish and march. Enter King Edward, Richard, George and Soldiers.

KING EDWARD.
Brave followers, yonder stands the thorny wood
Which by the heaven’s assistance and your strength
Must by the roots be hewn up yet ere night.
I need not add more fuel to your fire,
For, well I wot, ye blaze to burn them out.
Give signal to the fight, and to it, lords!

QUEEN MARGARET.
Lords, knights, and gentlemen, what I should say
My tears gainsay; for every word I speak
Ye see I drink the water of my eye.
Therefore, no more but this: Henry, your sovereign,
Is prisoner to the foe, his state usurped,
His realm a slaughter-house, his subjects slain,
His statutes cancelled, and his treasure spent;
And yonder is the wolf that makes this spoil.
You fight in justice. Then, in God’s name, lords,
Be valiant and give signal to the fight.

[Alarum, retreat, excursions. Exeunt both armies]

SCENE V. Another part of the Field

Flourish. Enter King Edward, Richard, George and Soldiers; with Queen Margaret, Oxford and Somerset as prisoners.

KING EDWARD.
Now here a period of tumultuous broils.
Away with Oxford to Hames Castle straight.
For Somerset, off with his guilty head.
Go, bear them hence; I will not hear them speak.

OXFORD.
For my part, I’ll not trouble thee with words.

SOMERSET.
Nor I, but stoop with patience to my fortune.

[Exeunt Oxford and Somerset, guarded.]

QUEEN MARGARET.
So part we sadly in this troublous world,
To meet with joy in sweet Jerusalem.

KING EDWARD.
Is proclamation made that who finds Edward
Shall have a high reward, and he his life?

RICHARD.
It is, and lo where youthful Edward comes.

Enter soldiers with Prince Edward.

KING EDWARD.
Bring forth the gallant; let us hear him speak.
What, can so young a man begin to prick?
Edward, what satisfaction canst thou make
For bearing arms, for stirring up my subjects,
And all the trouble thou hast turned me to?

PRINCE EDWARD.
Speak like a subject, proud, ambitious York.
Suppose that I am now my father’s mouth;
Resign thy chair, and where I stand kneel thou,
Whilst I propose the selfsame words to thee
Which, traitor, thou wouldst have me answer to.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Ah, thy father had been so resolved!

RICHARD.
That you might still have worn the petticoat
And ne’er have stol’n the breech from Lancaster.

PRINCE EDWARD.
Let Aesop fable in a winter’s night;
His currish riddle sorts not with this place.

RICHARD.
By heaven, brat, I’ll plague you for that word.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Ay, thou wast born to be a plague to men.

RICHARD.
For God’s sake, take away this captive scold.

PRINCE EDWARD.
Nay, take away this scolding crookback rather.

KING EDWARD.
Peace, wilful boy, or I will charm your tongue.

GEORGE.
Untutored lad, thou art too malapert.

PRINCE EDWARD.
I know my duty; you are all undutiful.
Lascivious Edward, and thou perjured George,
And thou misshapen Dick, I tell ye all
I am your better, traitors as ye are,
And thou usurp’st my father’s right and mine.

KING EDWARD.
Take that, the likeness of this railer here.

[Stabs him.]

RICHARD.
Sprawl’st thou? Take that to end thy agony.

[Stabs him.]

GEORGE.
And there’s for twitting me with perjury.

[Stabs him.]

QUEEN MARGARET.
O, kill me too!

RICHARD.
Marry, and shall.

[Offers to kill her.]

KING EDWARD.
Hold, Richard, hold; for we have done too much.

RICHARD.
Why should she live to fill the world with words?

KING EDWARD.
What, doth she swoon? Use means for her recovery.

RICHARD.
Clarence, excuse me to the King my brother.
I’ll hence to London on a serious matter.
Ere ye come there, be sure to hear some news.

GEORGE.
What? What?

RICHARD.
The Tower, the Tower!

[Exit.]

QUEEN MARGARET.
O Ned, sweet Ned, speak to thy mother, boy.
Canst thou not speak? O traitors, murderers!
They that stabbed Caesar shed no blood at all,
Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame,
If this foul deed were by to equal it.
He was a man; this, in respect, a child,
And men ne’er spend their fury on a child.
What’s worse than murderer, that I may name it?
No, no, my heart will burst an if I speak;
And I will speak, that so my heart may burst.
Butchers and villains, bloody cannibals!
How sweet a plant have you untimely cropped!
You have no children, butchers; if you had,
The thought of them would have stirred up remorse.
But if you ever chance to have a child,
Look in his youth to have him so cut off
As, deathsmen, you have rid this sweet young prince!

KING EDWARD.
Away with her; go bear her hence perforce.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Nay, never bear me hence, dispatch me here.
Here sheathe thy sword; I’ll pardon thee my death.
What, wilt thou not? Then, Clarence, do it thou.

GEORGE.
By heaven, I will not do thee so much ease.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Good Clarence, do; sweet Clarence, do thou do it.

GEORGE.
Didst thou not hear me swear I would not do it?

QUEEN MARGARET.
Ay, but thou usest to forswear thyself.
’Twas sin before, but now ’tis charity.
What, wilt thou not? Where is that devil’s butcher, Richard,
Hard-favoured Richard? Richard, where art thou?
Thou art not here. Murder is thy alms-deed;
Petitioners for blood thou ne’er putt’st back.

KING EDWARD.
Away, I say! I charge ye, bear her hence.

QUEEN MARGARET.
So come to you and yours as to this prince!

[She is taken out.]

KING EDWARD.
Where’s Richard gone?

GEORGE.
To London all in post, and, as I guess,
To make a bloody supper in the Tower.

KING EDWARD.
He’s sudden if a thing comes in his head.
Now march we hence. Discharge the common sort
With pay and thanks, and let’s away to London
And see our gentle Queen how well she fares.
By this, I hope, she hath a son for me.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE VI. London. The Tower

Enter King Henry and Richard, with the Lieutenant on the walls.

RICHARD.
Good day, my lord. What, at your book so hard?

KING HENRY.
Ay, my good lord—my lord, I should say rather.
’Tis sin to flatter; “good” was little better:
“Good Gloucester” and “good devil” were alike,
And both preposterous; therefore, not “good lord”.

RICHARD.
Sirrah, leave us to ourselves; we must confer.

[Exit Lieutenant.]

KING HENRY.
So flies the reckless shepherd from the wolf;
So first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece,
And next his throat unto the butcher’s knife.
What scene of death hath Roscius now to act?

RICHARD.
Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind;
The thief doth fear each bush an officer.

KING HENRY.
The bird that hath been limed in a bush
With trembling wings misdoubteth every bush;
And I, the hapless male to one sweet bird,
Have now the fatal object in my eye
Where my poor young was limed, was caught, and killed.

RICHARD.
Why, what a peevish fool was that of Crete
That taught his son the office of a fowl!
And yet, for all his wings, the fool was drowned.

KING HENRY.
I, Daedalus; my poor boy, Icarus;
Thy father, Minos, that denied our course;
The sun that seared the wings of my sweet boy,
Thy brother Edward; and thyself, the sea
Whose envious gulf did swallow up his life.
Ah, kill me with thy weapon, not with words!
My breast can better brook thy dagger’s point
Than can my ears that tragic history.
But wherefore dost thou come? Is ’t for my life?

RICHARD.
Think’st thou I am an executioner?

KING HENRY.
A persecutor I am sure thou art.
If murdering innocents be executing,
Why, then thou art an executioner.

RICHARD.
Thy son I killed for his presumption.

KING HENRY.
Hadst thou been killed when first thou didst presume,
Thou hadst not lived to kill a son of mine.
And thus I prophesy: that many a thousand
Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear,
And many an old man’s sigh, and many a widow’s,
And many an orphan’s water-standing eye,
Men for their sons’, wives for their husbands’,
Orphans for their parents’ timeless death,
Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born.
The owl shrieked at thy birth, an evil sign;
The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time;
Dogs howled, and hideous tempest shook down trees;
The raven rooked her on the chimney’s top,
And chatt’ring pies in dismal discord sung;
Thy mother felt more than a mother’s pain,
And yet brought forth less than a mother’s hope,
To wit, an indigested and deformed lump,
Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree.
Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born,
To signify thou cam’st to bite the world;
And, if the rest be true which I have heard,
Thou cam’st—

RICHARD.
I’ll hear no more. Die, prophet, in thy speech.

[Stabs him.]

For this, amongst the rest, was I ordained.

KING HENRY.
Ay, and for much more slaughter after this.
O God, forgive my sins, and pardon thee!

[Dies.]

RICHARD.
What, will the aspiring blood of Lancaster
Sink in the ground? I thought it would have mounted.
See how my sword weeps for the poor King’s death.
O, may such purple tears be always shed
From those that wish the downfall of our house!
If any spark of life be yet remaining,
Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither—

[Stabs him again.]

I that have neither pity, love, nor fear.
Indeed, ’tis true that Henry told me of,
For I have often heard my mother say
I came into the world with my legs forward.
Had I not reason, think ye, to make haste
And seek their ruin that usurped our right?
The midwife wondered, and the women cried
“O, Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth!”
And so I was, which plainly signified
That I should snarl, and bite, and play the dog.
Then, since the heavens have shaped my body so,
Let hell make crooked my mind to answer it.
I have no brother, I am like no brother;
And this word “love,” which greybeards call divine,
Be resident in men like one another,
And not in me. I am myself alone.
Clarence, beware; thou keep’st me from the light,
But I will sort a pitchy day for thee;
For I will buzz abroad such prophecies
That Edward shall be fearful of his life;
And then, to purge his fear, I’ll be thy death.
King Henry and the Prince his son are gone;
Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest,
Counting myself but bad till I be best.
I’ll throw thy body in another room,
And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom.

[Exit with the body.]

SCENE VII. London. The Palace

Flourish. Enter King Edward, Queen Elizabeth, George, Richard, Hastings, Nurse, carrying infant Prince Edward, and Attendants.

KING EDWARD.
Once more we sit in England’s royal throne,
Repurchased with the blood of enemies.
What valiant foemen, like to autumn’s corn,
Have we mowed down in tops of all their pride!
Three Dukes of Somerset, threefold renowned
For hardy and undoubted champions;
Two Cliffords, as the father and the son;
And two Northumberlands; two braver men
Ne’er spurred their coursers at the trumpet’s sound;
With them the two brave bears, Warwick and Montague,
That in their chains fettered the kingly lion
And made the forest tremble when they roared.
Thus have we swept suspicion from our seat
And made our footstool of security.
Come hither, Bess, and let me kiss my boy.
Young Ned, for thee thine uncles and myself
Have in our armours watched the winter’s night,
Went all afoot in summer’s scalding heat,
That thou mightst repossess the crown in peace;
And of our labours thou shalt reap the gain.

RICHARD.
[Aside.] I’ll blast his harvest, if your head were laid;
For yet I am not looked on in the world.
This shoulder was ordained so thick to heave,
And heave it shall some weight or break my back.
Work thou the way, and that shall execute.

KING EDWARD.
Clarence and Gloucester, love my lovely Queen;
And kiss your princely nephew, brothers both.

GEORGE.
The duty that I owe unto your Majesty
I seal upon the lips of this sweet babe.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Thanks, noble Clarence; worthy brother, thanks.

RICHARD.
And, that I love the tree from whence thou sprang’st,
Witness the loving kiss I give the fruit.
[Aside.] To say the truth, so Judas kissed his master
And cried “All hail!” when as he meant all harm.

KING EDWARD.
Now am I seated as my soul delights,
Having my country’s peace and brothers’ loves.

GEORGE.
What will your Grace have done with Margaret?
Reignier, her father, to the King of France
Hath pawned the Sicils and Jerusalem,
And hither have they sent it for her ransom.

KING EDWARD.
Away with her and waft her hence to France.
And now what rests but that we spend the time
With stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows,
Such as befits the pleasure of the court?
Sound drums and trumpets! Farewell, sour annoy!
For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy.

[Exeunt.]

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