(As if a channel fhould be call'd the fea)

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

Edw. A wilp of ftraw were worth a thousand crowns,
To make this fhameless Callat know herself.
Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,
Although thy husband 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 State,
He might have kept that glory to this day.
But when he took a beggar to his bed,
And grac'd thy poor Sire 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 fet the ax to thy ufurping root;

And though the edge hath fomething hit ourselves,
Yet know thou, fince we have begun to ftrike,
We'll never leave 'till we have hewn thee down,
Or bath'd thy Growing with our heated bloo ds.
Edw. And in this refolution I defie thee

Not willing any longer conference,

Since thou deny'ft the gentle King to speak.
Sound trumpets, let our bloody Colours wave,
And either Victory, or elfe a Grave,

Queen. Stay, Edward

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. I lay me down a little while to breathe:

TORE fpent with toil, as runners with a race,

For ftrokes receiv'd, and many blows repaid,
Have robb'd my ftrong-knit finews of their ftrength;
And, fpight of fpight, needs muft I reft a while.

Enter Edward running.

Edw. Smile, gentle heav'n! or strike, ungentle death! For this world frowns, and Edward's Sun 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 counsel give you? whither shall we fly?

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

Enter Richard.

Rich. Ah, Warwick, why haft thou withdrawn thyfelf?

Thy brother's blood the thirfty earth hath drunk, (5) Broach'd

(5) Thy Brother's Blood the thirfly Earth bath drunk,] This Paffage, from the Variation of the Copies, gave me ΠΟ little Perplexity. The old Quarto applies this Defcription to the Death of Salisbury, Warwick's Father. But this was a notorious Deviation from the Truth of History. For the Earl of Salisbury in the Battle at Wakefield, wherein Richard Duke of Fork loft his Life, was taken prifoner, beheaded at Pomfret, and his Head, together with the Duke of York's fix'd over York

Gates

Broach'd with the fteely point of Clifford's lance:
And in the very pangs of death he cry'd,
(Like to a difmal clangor heard from far)
Warwick, revenge; brother, revenge my death.
So underneath the belly of their Steeds,

That ftain'd their fetlocks in his fmoaking blood,
The noble Gentleman gave up the ghost.

War. Then let the Earth be drunken with our blood;

I'll kill my horfe, because I will not fly:

Why ftand we like foft-hearted women here,
Wailing our loffes, whiles the foe doth rage;
And look upon, as if the Tragedy
Were plaid in jeft by connterfeiting Actors?
Here on my knee I vow to God above,
I'll never paufe again, never ftand still,
Till either Death hath clos'd these eyes of mine,
Or Fortune given me measure of revenge.

Edw. Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine,
And in this vow do chain my foul to thine,
And ere my knee rife from the earth's cold face,
I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee,
Thou fetter up, and plucker down, of Kings!
Befeeching thee, (if with thy will it ftands
That to my foes this body must be prey)
Yet that thy brazen gates of heav'n may ope,
And give fweet paffage to my finful foul.-
Now, lords, take Leave until we meet again,
Where-e'er it be, in heav'n or on earth.

Gates. 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 mentioned, is no Perfon in the Drama: and his Death is only an incidental Piece of Hiftory. Confulting the Chronicles, upon this Action at Ferribridge, I find him to have been a natural Son of Salisbury, (in that respect, a Brother to Warwick;) and esteem'd a valiant young Gentleman.

Rich. Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle Warwick,

Let me embrace thee in my weary arms:

1, that did never weep, now melt with woe; That winter should cut off our fpring-time fo.

War. Away, away: once more, fweet lords, farewel. Cla. Yet let us altogether to our troops; And give them leave to fly, that will not stay; And call them pillars, that will ftand to us; And, if we thrive, promise them fuch rewards, As Victors wear at the Olympian Games. This may plant courage in their quailing breasts, For yet is hope of life and victory;

Fore flow no longer, make we hence amain.

Excurfions. Enter Richard, and Clifford.

[Exeunt.

Rich. Now, Clifford, I have fingled thee alone;
Suppofe, this arm is for the Duke of York,
And this for Rutland, both bound to revenge,
Wert thou environ'd with a brazen wall.

Clif. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone,
This is the hand, that ftabb'd thy father York;
And this the hand, that flew thy brother Rutland;
And here's the heart, that triumphs in their death;
And cheers thefe hands, that flew thy fire and brother,
To execute the like upon thyself:

And fo, have at thee.

They fight. Warwick enters, Clifford flies. Rich. Nay, Warwick, fingle out some other chase, For I myfelf will hunt this wolf to death.

Alarum. Enter King Henry alone.

[Exeunt.

K. Henry. This battle fares like to the morning's war, When dying clouds contend with growing light; What time the fhepherd, blowing of his nails, Can neither call it perfect day nor night. Now fways it this way, like a mighty fea Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind; Now ways it that way, like the self-fame fea

Forc'd

Forc'd to retire by fury of the wind.

Sometime, the flood prevails; and then, the wind;
Now, one the better; then, another beft;
Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,
Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered;
So is the equal poize of this fell war.
Here on this mole hill will I fit me down:
To whom God will, there be the victory!
For Margaret my Queen and Clifford too
Have chid me from the battle; fwearing both,
They profper best of all when I am thence.
Would I were dead, if God's good will were fo:
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 fwain;
To fit upon a hill, as I do now,

To carve out Dials queintly, point by point,
Thereby to fee the minutes how they run:
How many makes the hour full compleat,
How many
hours bring 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 time;
So many hours, muft I tend my flock;
So many hours, muft I take my reft;
So many hours, muft I contemplate;
So many hours, muft I fport myfelf;

So many days, my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks, ere the fools will yean;
poor
So many months, ere 1 fhall fheer the fleece:
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Paft over, to the end they were created,

Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.

Ah! what a life were this! how fweet, how lovely!
Gives not the haw-thorn bush a sweeter fhade
To fhepherds looking on their filly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy
To Kings, that fear their fubjects' treachery?
O, yes, it doth; a thoufand fold it doth.
And, to conclude, the fhepherd's homely curds,