Clif. I slew thy Father, cal'st thou him a Child? Rich. I like a Dastard, and a treacherous Coward, As thou didd'st kill our tender Brother Rutland, But ere Sunset, Ile make thee curse the deed
King. Haue done with words (my Lords) and heare me speake
Qu. Defie them then, or els hold close thy lips
King. I prythee giue no limits to my Tongue, I am a King, and priuiledg'd to speake
Clif. My Liege, the wound that bred this meeting here, Cannot be cur'd by Words, therefore be still
Rich. Then Executioner vnsheath thy sword: By him that made vs all, I am resolu'd, That Cliffords Manhood, lyes vpon his tongue
Ed. Say Henry, shall I haue my right, or no: A thousand men haue broke their Fasts to day, That ne're shall dine, vnlesse thou yeeld the Crowne
War. If thou deny, their Blood vpon thy head, For Yorke in iustice put's his Armour on
Pr.Ed. If that be right, which Warwick saies is right, There is no wrong, but euery thing is right
War. Who euer got thee, there thy Mother stands, For well I wot, thou hast thy Mothers tongue
Qu. But thou art neyther like thy Sire nor Damme, But like a foule mishapen Stygmaticke, Mark'd by the Destinies to be auoided, As venome Toades, or Lizards dreadfull stings
Rich. Iron of Naples, hid with English gilt, Whose Father beares the Title of a King, (As if a Channell should be call'd the Sea) Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught, To let thy tongue detect thy base-borne heart
Ed. A wispe of straw were worth a thousand Crowns, To make this shamelesse Callet know her selfe: Helen of Greece was fayrer farre then thou, Although thy Husband may be Menelaus; And ne're was Agamemnons Brother wrong'd By that false Woman, as this King by thee. His Father reuel'd in the heart of France, And tam'd the King, and made the Dolphin stoope: And had he match'd according to his State, He might haue kept that glory to this day. But when he tooke a begger to his bed, And grac'd thy poore Sire with his Bridall day, Euen then that Sun-shine brew'd a showre for him, That washt his Fathers fortunes forth of France, And heap'd sedition on his Crowne at home: For what hath broach'd this tumult but thy Pride? Had'st thou bene meeke, our Title still had slept, And we in pitty of the Gentle King, Had slipt our Claime, vntill another Age
Cla. But when we saw, our Sunshine made thy Spring, And that thy Summer bred vs no increase, We set the Axe to thy vsurping Roote: And though the edge hath something hit our selues, Yet know thou, since we haue begun to strike, Wee'l neuer leaue, till we haue hewne thee downe, Or bath'd thy growing, with our heated bloods
Edw. And in this resolution, I defie thee, Not willing any longer Conference, Since thou denied'st the gentle King to speake. Sound Trumpets, let our bloody Colours waue, And either Victorie, or else a Graue
Qu. Stay Edward
Ed. No wrangling Woman, wee'l no longer stay, These words will cost ten thousand liues this day.
Alarum. Excursions. Enter Warwicke.
War. Fore-spent with Toile, as Runners with a Race, I lay me downe a little while to breath: For strokes receiu'd, and many blowes repaid, Haue robb'd my strong knit sinewes of their strength, And spight of spight, needs must I rest a-while. Enter Edward running.
Ed. Smile gentle heauen, or strike vngentle death, For this world frownes, and Edwards Sunne is clowded