While you are thus employed, what resteth more And yet the King not privy to my drift, Nor any of the house of Lancaster. Enter Messenger.. But stay, what news? why com'ft thou in fuch poft ? Intend here to befiege you in your caftle. She is hard by, with twenty thousand men ; York. Ay, with my fword. What! think'ft thou, that we fear them? Edward and Richard, you fhall stay with me;. Mont. Brother, I go; I'll win them, fear it not. [Exit Montague. Enter Sir John Mortimer, 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 means to besiege us.. Sir John. She fhall not need, we'll meet her in the field. mifing Epithet, in York's behalf, from the Kentishmen being fo witty? I can't be so partial, however, to my own Country, as to let this compliment pafs. I make no doubt to read; -For they are Soldiers, Wealthy, and courteous, liberal, full of Spirit. Now thefe 5 Characteristicks answer to lord Say's Defcription of them in the preceding Play. Kent, in the Commentaries Cæfar writ; Is term'd the civil'ft Place in all this ifle; York. York. What, with five thousand men? Rich. Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need. A woman's General; what should we fear? [A March afar off. Edw. I hear their drums: let's fet our men in order, And iffue forth and bid them battle ftrait. York. Five men to twenty! though the odds be great, I doubt not, Uncle, of our victory. Many a battel have I won in France, When as the enemy hath been ten to one: [Alarum. Exeunt. SCENE, a Field of Battle betwixt Sandal-Castle Rut. and Wakefield. Enter Rutland and his Tutor. H, whither fhall I fly to 'fcape their hands? comes. Enter Clifford, and Soldiers. Clif. Chaplain, away! thy priesthood faves thy life; As for the Brat of this acurfed Duke, Whofe father flew my father, he shall die. Tutor. Ard I, my lord, will bear him company. Clif. Soldiers, away, and drag him hence perforce, Tutor. Ah! Clifford, murther not this innocent child, Left thou be hated both of God and man, [Exit, dragg'd off. Clif. How now? is he dead already? or, is it fear Sweet Sweet Clifford, hear me fpeak before I die: Clif. In vain thou fpeak'ft, poor boy: my father's Hath ftopt the paffage where thy words should enter. Clif. Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine Were not Revenge fufficient for me: No, if I digg'd up thy forefathers' graves. And till I root out their accurfed Line, death: Rut. O let me pray, before I take my Rut. I never did thee harm; why wilt thou slay me? Rut. But 'twas ere I was born. Thou hast one fon, for his fake pity me; Left in revenge thereof, (fith God is juft) He be as miferably flain as I, Ah, let me live in prifon all my days, Thy father flew my father, therefore die. [Dies. [Clif. ftabs him. Rut. Dii faciant, laudis fumma fit ifta tue! Clif. Plantagenet, I come, Plantagenet! And this thy fon's blood cleaving to my blade Congeal'd with this, do make me wipe off both. [Exit. Alarum, Alarum. Enter Richard Duke of York. York. The Army of the Queen hath got the field: My Uncles both are flain in refcuing me, And all my Followers to the eager foe With this we charg'd again; but out! alas, And I am faint and cannot fly their fury, Enter the Queen, Clifford, Northumberland, the Prince of Wales, and Soldiers. Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland, North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet. A bird. A bird that will revenge upon you all : fear? Clif. So cowards fight, when the can fly no farther York. Oh Clifford, but bethink thee once again, Queen. Hold, valiant Clifford; for a thousand causes And ten to one is no impeach of valour. Clif. Ay, ay, fo ftrives the woodcock with the gin. [In the Struggle York is taken Prifoner. York. So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty : So true men yield, with robbers fo o'er-matcht.. North. What would your Grace have done unto him now? Queen. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland, Come make him ftand upon this mole-hill here; That raught at mountains with out-stretched arms, Yet parted but the fhadow with his hand. What! was it you, that would be England's King? Was't you, that revell'd in our Parliament, And made a preachment of your high Defcent? Where are your mess of fons to back you now, The |