SCENE II.-Before York.

Enter KING HENRY. QUEEN MARGARET, the PRINCE OF WALES, CLIFFORD, and NORTHUMBERLAND, with Forces.

2., Mar. Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York.

Yonder's the head of that arch-enemy

That sought to be encompass'd with your crown: Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord? K. Hen. Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their wreck ;

To see this sight, it irks my very soul. Withhold revenge, dear God! 'tis not my fault, Not wittingly have I infringed my vow.

Clif. 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, bless'd 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 climb'd 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. K. Hen. Full well hath Clifford play'd 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! 2. Mar. 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.

K. Hen. Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight; And learn this lesson,—draw thy sword in right. Prince. 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.

Clif. Why, that is spoken like a toward prince.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. 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.

Clif. I would your highness would depart the field:

The queen hath best success when you are absent. 2. Mar. Ay, good my lord, and leave us to

our fortune.

K. Hen. Why, that's my fortune too; therefore I'll stay.

North. Be it with resolution then to fight.

Prince. 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.

Edw. Now, perjured Henry! wilt thou kneel for grace,

And set thy diadem upon my head;

Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?

2. Mar. Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting boy!

VOL. VIII.

3

Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms,

Before thy sovereign, and thy lawful king? Edw. 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.

Clif. And reason too;

Who should succeed the father but the son? Rich. Are you there, butcher?-O, I cannot speak!

Clif. Ay, crook-back; here I stand, to answer thee,

Or any he the proudest of thy sort.

Rich. 'Twas you that kill'd young Rutland, was it not?

Clif. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied. Rich. For God s sake, lords, give signal to the fight.

War. What say'st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown?

2. Mar. 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.
War. Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis
thine.

Clif. You said so much before, and yet you fled.

War. 'Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence.

North. No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay.

Rich. 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.

Clif. I slew thy father: call'st thou him a child?
Rich. 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.
K. Hen, Have done with words, my lords,
and hear me speak.

2. Mar. Defy them then, or else hold close

thy lips.

K. Hen. I pr'ythee, give no

tongue;

limits to my

I am a king, and privileged to speak.

Clif. My liege, the wound that bred this meeting here

Cannot be cured by words; therefore be still.

Rich. Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword: By him that made us all, am resolved That Clifford's manhood lies upon his tongue. Edw. Say, Henry, shall I have my right or

no?

A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day, That ne'er shall dine unless thou yield the crown. War. If thou deny, their blood upon thy head; For York in justice puts his armour on.

Prince. If that be right which Warwick says is right,

There is no wrong, but everything is right. Rich. Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands;

For, well I wot, thou hast thy mother's tongue. 2. Mar. But thou art neither like thy sire nor

dam ;

But like a foul mis-shapen stigmatic,