Offering their own lives in their young's defence?
For fhame, my Liege, make them your precedent.
Were it not pity, that this goodly boy

Should lofe his birth-right by his father's fault;
And long hereafter fay unto his child,
What my great Grandfather and grandfire got,
My careless father fondly gave away!

Ah, what a fhame was this! look on the boy,
And let his manly face, which promiseth
Successful fortune, fteel thy melting heart

To hold thine own, and leave thine own with him.
K. Henry. Full well hath Clifford plaid the orator,
Inferring arguments of mighty force:

But, Clifford, tell me, didft thou never hear,
That things ill got had ever bad fuccefs?
And happy always was it for that fon, (10)
Whofe father for his hoarding went to hell?
I'll leave my fon my virtuous deeds behind;
And would, my father had left me no more!
For all the reft is held at fuch a rate,
As brings a thoufand fold more care to keep,
Than in poffeffion any jot of pleasure.

Ah, coufin York; would, thy best friends did know,
How it doth grieve me that thy head is here!

[nigh;
Queen. My Lord, cheer up your fpirits, our foes are
And this foft courage makes your followers faint:
You promis'd Knighthood to our forward fon,
Unheath your fword, and dub him presently.
Edward, kneel down.

K. Henry. Edward Plantagenet, arife a Knight; And learn this leffon, draw thy fword in right.

(10) And happy always was it for that fon,

Whofe father for bis boarding went to bell.] Mr. Roque and Mr. Pope in this pointing have err'd with fome of the old impreflions, and quite fubverted the poet's meaning. They make the King affert a fentiment, which he, in fact, is calling in queftion. I have reftor'd the true pointing from the old Quarto, which Mr. Pope would have us believe he had collated. The King would argue thus; "Tho' 'tis "a general faying, that the fon is happy, whofe miferly father goes "to the devil; yet is every fuch fon, without exception, happy, in having had fuch a parfimonious father?"

Prince.

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 fpoken like a toward Prince.

Enter a Meffenger.

Mef. 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 Highnefs would depart the field:
The Queen hath beft fuccefs, when you are abfent.
Queen. Ay, good my Lord, and leave us to our fortune.
K. Henry. Why, that's my fortune too; therefore I'll
North. Be it with refolution then to fight. [ftay.
Prince. My royal father, cheer these noble Lords,
And hearten thofe that fight in your defence:
Unfheath your sword, good father; cry, St. George!
March. Enter Edward, Warwick, Richard, Clarence,
Norfolk, Montague, and Soldiers.

Edw. Now, perjur'd Henry, wilt thou kneel for grace, And fet thy diadem upon my head;

Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?

Queen. Go rate thy minions, proud infulting boy. 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 confent;

Since when, his oath is broke; for as I hear,

You that are King, though he do wear the crown,
Have caus'd him by new act of parliament

To blot out me, and put his own fon in.

Clif. And reafon too:

Who thould fucceed the father, but the fon?

Rich. Are you there, butcher? O, I cannot speak. Clif. Ay, crook-back, here I ftand to answer thee, Or any he, the proudest of thy fort.

F 4

Rich.

Rich. "Twas you that kill'd young Rutland, was it not? Clif. Ay, and old Fork, and yet not fatisfy'd.

Rich. For God's fake, Lords, give fignal to the fight.. War. What fay'ft thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown? Queen. Why, how now, long-tongu'd Warwick, dare you speak?

When you and I met at St. Albans last,

Your legs did better fervice than your hands.

War. Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine. Clif. You faid fo much before, and yet you fled. War. 'Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence. North. No, nor your manhood, that durft make you stay. Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently. Break off the parle, for fcarce I can refrain The execution of my big-fwoln heart

Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.

Clif. I flew thy father, call'ft thou him a child? Rich. Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward, As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland:

But, ere fun fet, I'll make thee curfe the deed.

K. Henry. Have done with words, my Lords, and hear me speak.

Queen. Defy them then, or else hold close thy lips: K. Henry. I pr'ythee, give no limits to my tongue; I am a King, and privileg'd to fpeak.

[here, Clif. My Liege, the wound, that bred this meeting Cannot be cur'd by words; therefore be still.

Rich. Then, executioner, unheath thy sword :

By him that made us all, I am refolv'd
That Clifford's manhood lies upon his tongue.
Edw. Say, Henry, fhall I have my right, or no?
A thousand men have broke their fafts to-day,
That ne'er fhall dine, unless thou yield the crown.
War. If thou deny, their blood upon thy head!
For York in juftice puts his armour on.

Prince. If that be right, which Warwick fays is right, There is no wrong, but every thing is right.

Rich. Who ever got thee, there thy mother ftands, For, well I wot, thou haft thy mother's tongue. Queen. But thou art neither like thy fire nor dam,

But

1

But like a foul mif- fhapen ftigmatick,
Mark'd by the deftinies to be avoided;

As venomous toads, or lizards dreadful ftings..
Rich. Iron of Naples hid with English gilt,
Whose father bears the title of a King,

(As if a channel should be call'd the sea)

Sham'ft thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,,
To let thy tongue detect thy bafe-born heart?

Edw. A wifp of straw were worth a thousand crowns
To make this fhameless callet know herself.
Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,
Although thy hufband may be Menelaus;
And ne'er was Agamemnon's brother wrong'd'
By that false woman, as this King by thee.
His father revell'd in the heart of France,
And tam'd the King, and made the Dauphin ftoop
And had he match'd according to his ftate,
He might have kept that glory to this day..
But when he took a beggar to his bed,
And grac'd thy poor fire with his bridal-day,.
Even then that fun-fhine brew'd a show'r for him
That wash'd his father's fortunes forth of France,
And heap'd fedition on his crown at home :

For what hath broach'd this tumult, but thy pride ♪
Hadft thou been meek, our title still had flept;
And we, in pity of the gentle King,

Had flipt our claim until another age..

Cla. But when we faw, our fun-fhine made thy fpring, And that thy fummer bred us no increase,,

We set the axe to thy ufurping root;

And though the edge hath fomething hit ourselves,
Yet know thou, fince we have begun to strike,
'We'll never leave till we have hewn thee down,.
Or bath'd thy growing with our heated bloods..
Edw. And in this refolution I defy thee;

Not willing any longer conference,
Since thou deny'dft the gentle King to speak..
Sound trumpets, let our bloody colours wave,
And either victory, or elfe a grave..

Queen, Stay, Edward

F 5

Edw..

Edw. No, wrangling woman, we'll no longer ftay: These words will coft ten thousand lives this day.

[Exeunt omnes.

SCENE changes to a Field of Battle at Ferribridge in Yorkshire.

Alarum. Excurfions. Enter Warwick.

War. Fore-fpent with toil, as runners with a race,

a

For ftrokes receiv'd, and many blows repaid,

Have robb'd my strong-knit finews of their ftrength;
And, fpight of fpight, needs must I reft awhile.

Enter Edward running.

Edw. Smile, gentle heav'n! or ftrike, ungentle death! For this world frowns, and Edward's fun is clouded. War. How now, my Lord, what hap? what hope of good? Enter Clarence.

Cla. Our hap is lofs, our hope but fad despair;
Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us.
What counfel give you? whither shall we fly?

Edw. Bootlefs is flight, they follow us with wings; And weak we are, and cannot fhun pursuit.

Enter Richard.

Rich. Ah, Warwick, why haft thou withdrawn thyself? Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk, (11) ' Broach'd

(11) Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth bath drunk,] This paffage, from the variation of the copies, gave me no little perplexity. The old 4to applies this description to the death of Salisbury, Warwick's father. But this was a notorious deviation from the truth of hiftory. For the Earl of Salisbury in the battle at Wakefield, wherein Richard Duke of York loft his life, was taken prifoner, beheaded at Pomfret, and his head, together with the Duke of York's, fix'd over Yorkgates. Then, the only brother of Warwick, introduc'd in this play, is the Marquifs of Montacute; (or Montague, as he is call'd by our author:) but he does not die, till ten years after, in the battle at Barnet; where Warwick likewife was kill'd. The truth is, the brother, here mention'd, is no perfon in the Drama; and his death

is