Yorke. O blood-bespotted Neopolitan, Out-cast of Naples, Englands bloody Scourge, The sonnes of Yorke, thy betters in their birth, Shall be their Fathers baile, and bane to those That for my Surety will refuse the Boyes. Enter Edward and Richard.
See where they come, Ile warrant they'l make it good. Enter Clifford.
Qu. And here comes Clifford to deny their baile
Clif. Health, and all happinesse to my Lord the King
Yor. I thanke thee Clifford: Say, what newes with thee? Nay, do not fright vs with an angry looke: We are thy Soueraigne Clifford, kneele againe; For thy mistaking so, We pardon thee
Clif. This is my King Yorke, I do not mistake, But thou mistakes me much to thinke I do, To Bedlem with him, is the man growne mad
King. I Clifford, a Bedlem and ambitious humor Makes him oppose himselfe against his King
Clif. He is a Traitor, let him to the Tower, And chop away that factious pate of his
Qu. He is arrested, but will not obey: His sonnes (he sayes) shall giue their words for him
Yor. Will you not Sonnes? Edw. I Noble Father, if our words will serue
Rich. And if words will not, then our Weapons shal
Clif. Why what a brood of Traitors haue we heere? Yorke. Looke in a Glasse, and call thy Image so. I am thy King, and thou a false-heart Traitor: Call hither to the stake my two braue Beares, That with the very shaking of their Chaines, They may astonish these fell-lurking Curres, Bid Salsbury and Warwicke come to me. Enter the Earles of Warwicke, and Salisbury.
Clif. Are these thy Beares? Wee'l bate thy Bears to death, And manacle the Berard in their Chaines, If thou dar'st bring them to the bayting place
Rich. Oft haue I seene a hot ore-weening Curre, Run backe and bite, because he was with-held, Who being suffer'd with the Beares fell paw, Hath clapt his taile, betweene his legges and cride, And such a peece of seruice will you do, If you oppose your selues to match Lord Warwicke
Clif. Hence heape of wrath, foule indigested lumpe, As crooked in thy manners, as thy shape
Yor. Nay we shall heate you thorowly anon
Clif. Take heede least by your heate you burne your selues: King. Why Warwicke, hath thy knee forgot to bow? Old Salsbury, shame to thy siluer haire, Thou mad misleader of thy brain-sicke sonne, What wilt thou on thy death-bed play the Ruffian? And seeke for sorrow with thy Spectacles? Oh where is Faith? Oh, where is Loyalty? If it be banisht from the frostie head, Where shall it finde a harbour in the earth? Wilt thou go digge a graue to finde out Warre, And shame thine honourable Age with blood? Why art thou old, and want'st experience? Or wherefore doest abuse it, if thou hast it? For shame in dutie bend thy knee to me, That bowes vnto the graue with mickle age
Sal. My Lord, I haue considered with my selfe The Title of this most renowned Duke, And in my conscience, do repute his grace The rightfull heyre to Englands Royall seate
King. Hast thou not sworne Allegeance vnto me? Sal. I haue
Ki. Canst thou dispense with heauen for such an oath? Sal. It is great sinne, to sweare vnto a sinne: But greater sinne to keepe a sinfull oath: Who can be bound by any solemne Vow To do a murd'rous deede, to rob a man, To force a spotlesse Virgins Chastitie, To reaue the Orphan of his Patrimonie, To wring the Widdow from her custom'd right, And haue no other reason for this wrong, But that he was bound by a solemne Oath? Qu. A subtle Traitor needs no Sophister