Rich. I know it well Lord Warwick, blame me not, 'Tis loue I beare thy glories make me speake: But in this troublous time, what's to be done? Shall we go throw away our Coates of Steele, And wrap our bodies in blacke mourning Gownes, Numb'ring our Aue-Maries with our Beads? Or shall we on the Helmets of our Foes Tell our Deuotion with reuengefull Armes? If for the last, say I, and to it Lords

War. Why therefore Warwick came to seek you out, And therefore comes my Brother Mountague: Attend me Lords, the proud insulting Queene, With Clifford, and the haught Northumberland, And of their Feather, many moe proud Birds, Haue wrought the easie-melting King, like Wax. He swore consent to your Succession, His Oath enrolled in the Parliament. And now to London all the crew are gone, To frustrate both his Oath, and what beside May make against the house of Lancaster. Their power (I thinke) is thirty thousand strong: Now, if the helpe of Norfolke, and my selfe, With all the Friends that thou braue Earle of March, Among'st the louing Welshmen can'st procure, Will but amount to fiue and twenty thousand, Why Via, to London will we march, And once againe, bestride our foaming Steeds, And once againe cry Charge vpon our Foes, But neuer once againe turne backe and flye

Rich. I, now me thinks I heare great Warwick speak; Ne're may he liue to see a Sun-shine day, That cries Retire, if Warwicke bid him stay

Ed. Lord Warwicke, on thy shoulder will I leane, And when thou failst (as God forbid the houre) Must Edward fall, which perill heauen forefend

War. No longer Earle of March, but Duke of Yorke: The next degree, is Englands Royall Throne: For King of England shalt thou be proclaim'd In euery Burrough as we passe along, And he that throwes not vp his cap for ioy, Shall for the Fault make forfeit of his head. King Edward, valiant Richard Mountague: Stay we no longer, dreaming of Renowne. But sound the Trumpets, and about our Taske

Rich. Then Clifford, were thy heart as hard as Steele, As thou hast shewne it flintie by thy deeds, I come to pierce it, or to giue thee mine

Ed. Then strike vp Drums, God and S[aint]. George for vs. Enter a Messenger.

War. How now? what newes? Mes. The Duke of Norfolke sends you word by me, The Queene is comming with a puissant Hoast, And craues your company, for speedy counsell

War. Why then it sorts, braue Warriors, let's away.

Exeunt. Omnes.

Flourish. Enter the King, the Queene, Clifford, Northum[berland] and Yong Prince, with Drumme and Trumpettes.

Qu. Welcome my Lord, to this braue town of Yorke, Yonders the head of that Arch-enemy, That sought to be incompast with your Crowne. Doth not the obiect cheere your heart, my Lord

K. I, as the rockes cheare them that feare their wrack, To see this sight, it irkes my very soule: With-hold reuenge (deere God) 'tis not my fault, Nor wittingly haue I infring'd my Vow

Clif. My gracious Liege, this too much lenity And harmfull pitty must be layd aside: To whom do Lyons cast their gentle Lookes? Not to the Beast, that would vsurpe their Den. Whose hand is that the Forrest Beare doth licke? Not his that spoyles her yong before her face. Who scapes the lurking Serpents mortall sting? Not he that sets his foot vpon her backe. The smallest Worme will turne, being troden on, And Doues will pecke in safegard of their Brood. Ambitious Yorke, did leuell at thy Crowne, Thou smiling, while he knit his angry browes. He but a Duke, would haue his Sonne a King, And raise his issue like a louing Sire. Thou being a King, blest with a goodly sonne, Did'st yeeld consent to disinherit him: Which argued thee a most vnlouing Father. Vnreasonable Creatures feed their young, And though mans face be fearefull to their eyes, Yet in protection of their tender ones, Who hath not seene them euen with those wings, Which sometime they haue vs'd with fearfull flight, Make warre with him that climb'd vnto their nest, Offering their owne liues in their yongs defence? For shame, my Liege, make them your President: Were it not pitty that this goodly Boy Should loose his Birth-right by his Fathers fault, And long heereafter say vnto his childe, What my great Grandfather, and Grandsire got, My carelesse Father fondly gaue away. Ah, what a shame were this? Looke on the Boy, And let his manly face, which promiseth Successefull Fortune steele thy melting heart, To hold thine owne, and leaue thine owne with him

William Shakespeare
Classic Literature Library

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