Of unrelenting Clifford and the Queen;

Who crown'd the gracious Duke in high defpight;
Laugh'd in his face; and when with grief he wept,
The ruthless Queen gave him, to dry his cheek,
A napkin fteeped in the harmless blood

Of fweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford flain:
And after
foul taunts,
fcorns, many
many
They took his head, and on the gates of York
They fet the fame; and there it doth remain
The faddeft fpectacle that e'er I view'd.

Edw. Sweet duke of York, our prop to lean upon :
Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no ftay.
Oh Clifford, boift'rous Clifford! thou haft flain
The flower of Europe for his chivalry,
And treacherously haft thou vanquish'd him;
For, hand to hand, he would have vanquish'd thee.
Now my foul's palace is become a prifon :
Ah, would fhe break from hence, that this my body
Might in the ground be clofed up in reft!
For never henceforth fhall I joy again,
Never, oh never, fhall I see more joy.

Rich. I cannot weep; for all my body's moisture
Scarce ferves to quench my furnace-burning heart:
Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burthen:
For felf-fame wind that I fhould speak withal,
Is kindling coals that fire up all my breast;

And burn me up with flames, that tears would quench.
To weep, is to make lefs 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.

Edw. His name that valiant Duke hath left with thee:

His dukedom and his chair with me is left.

Rich. Nay, if thou be that princely Eagle's bird,
Shew thy defcent, by gazing 'gainst the fun:
For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom fay;
Either that's thine, or elfe thou wert not his.

VOL. V:

F

March

And takes her farewel of the glorious fun;
How well resembles it the prime of youth,
Trim'd like a yonker prancing to his love?
Edw. Dazzle mine eyes? or do I fee three funs?
Rich. Three glorious funs, each one a perfect fun
Not separated with the racking clouds,
But fever'd in a pale clear-fhining sky.

See, fee, they join, embrace, and feem to kiss;
As if they vow'd fome league inviolable:

Now are they but one lamp, one light, one fun.
In this the heaven figures fome event.

Edw. 'Tis wondrous ftrange, the like yet never
heard of.

I think, it cites us, brother, to the field;
That we the fons of brave Plantagenet,
Each one already blazing by our meeds,
Should, notwithstanding, join our lights together,
And over-fhine the earth, as this the world.

Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear

Upon my target three fair fhining funs.

Rich. Nay, bear three daughters: by your leave,
I speak it,

You love the breeder better than the male.

Enter a Messenger.

But what art thou, whofe heavy looks foretell
Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue ?

Mef. Ah! one that was a woful looker on,
When as the noble Duke of York was flain;
Your princely father, and my loving lord.

Edw. Oh, fpeak no more! for I have heard too much, Rich. Say, how he dy'd; for I will hear it all. Mef. Environed he was with many foes, And stood againft them, as the hope of Troy Against the Greeks that would have entred Troy. But Hercules himself muft yield to odds; And many ftroaks, though with a little ax, Hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak. By many hands your father was fubdu'd, But only flaughter'd by the ireful arm

Of

Of unrelenting Clifford and the Queen ;

Who crown'd the gracious Duke in high defpight;
Laugh'd in his face; and when with grief he wept,
The ruthless Queen gave him, to dry his cheek,
A napkin fteeped in the harmless blocd

Of fweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain:
And after many scorns, many foul taunts,
They took his head, and on the gates of York
They fet the fame; and there it doth remain
The faddeft fpectacle that e'er I view'd.

Edw. Sweet duke of York, our prop to lean upon :
Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay.
Oh Clifford, boift'rous Clifford! thou haft flain
The flower of Europe for his chivalry,

And treacherously haft thou vanquifh'd him ;
For, hand to hand, he would have vanquish'd thee.
Now my foul's palace is become a prison :

Ah, would the break from hence, that this my body
Might in the ground be closed up in reft!
For never henceforth fhall I joy again,
Never, oh never, fhall I fee more joy.

Rich. I cannot weep; for all my body's moisture
Scarce ferves to quench my furnace-burning heart:
Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great
burthen:
For felf-fame wind that I should speak withal,
Is kindling coals that fire up all my breast;
And burn me up with flames, that tears would quench.
To weep, is to make lefs 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.

Edw. His name that valiant Duke hath left with thee:

His dukedom and his chair with me is left.

Rich. Nay, if thou be that princely Eagle's bird,
Shew thy descent, by gazing 'gainst the fun :
For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom fay;
Either that's thine, or elfe thou wert not his.

VOL. V:

F

March

March. Enter Warwick, Marquis of Montague, and their army.

War. How now, fair Lords? what fare? what news abroad?

Rich. Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount
Our baleful news, and at each word's deliv'rance
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 flain.

Edw. O Warwick! Warwick! That Plantagenet,
Which held thee dearly as his foul's redemption,
Is by the ftern Lord Clifford done to death.

War. Ten days ago I drown'd these news in tears;
And now, to add more measure to your woes,
I come to tell you things fith then befaln.
After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave father breath'd his latest gafp,
Tidings, as fwiftly as the poft could run,
Were brought me of your lofs and his depart.
I then in London, keeper of the King,
Mufter'd my foldiers, gather'd flocks of friends;
March'd towards St. Albans t' intercept the Queen ;
Bearing the King in my behalf along:

For by my scouts I was advertised

That the was coming, with a full intent
To dash our late decree in parliament,

Touching King Henry's oath, and your fucceffion :
Short tale to make, we at St. Albans met,
Our battles join'd, and both fides fiercely fought:
But whether 'twas the coldness of the King,
Who look'd full gently on his warlike Queen,
That robb'd my foldiers of their heated fpleen;
Or whether 'twas report of her fuccefs,
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 foldiers, like the night-owl's lazy flight,
Or like a lazy thrasher with a flail,

Fell

Fell gently down, as if they ftruck their friends.
I cheer'd them up with juftice of our cause,
With promife of high pay and great reward;
But all in vain, they had no heart to fight;
And we, in them, no hope to win the day;
So that we fled; the King, unto the Queen;
Lord George your brother, Norfolk and myself,
In hafte, poft-hafte, are come to join with you:
For in the marches here we heard you were,
Making another head to fight again.

Edw. Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick? And when came George from Burgundy to England? War. Some fix miles off the Duke is with his power; And for your brother, he was lately sent

From your kind aunt, Dutchess of Burgundy,
With aid of foldiers to this needful war.

Rich. 'Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled; Oft have I heard his praises in purfuit,

But ne'er, 'till now, his fcandal of retire.

War. Nor now my fcandal, Richard, doft thou hear: For thou shalt know, this ftrong right hand of mine Can pluck the Diadem from faint Henry's head, And wring the awful scepter from his fift; Were he as famous and as bold in war,

As he is fam'd for mildness, peace and prayer.

Rich. I know it well, Lord Warwick; blame me not; 'Tis love, I bear thy glories, makes me speak. But in this troublous time what's to be done? Shall we go throw away our coats of steel, And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns, Numb'ring our Ave Maries with our beads? Or fhall we on the helmets of our foes Tell our devotion with revengeful arms? If for the laft, fay, ay; and to it, Lords.

War. Why, therefore Warwick came to feek you out; And therefore comes my brother Montague. Attend me, Lords: the proud infulting Queen, With Clifford, and the haught Northumberland, And of their feather many more proud birds, Have wrought the eafie-melting King, like wax.