A March. Enter Edward, Richard, and their Power.
Edw. Wonder how our Princely Father fcap'd;
Or whether he be fcap'd away, or no,"
From Clifford's and Northumberland's purfuit?
Had he been ta'en we should have heard the News;
Had he been flain, we fhould have heard the News;
Or had he fcap'd, methinks we should have heard
The happy Tidings of his good efcape.
How fares my Brother? why is he fo fad?
Rich. I cannot joy, until I be refolv❜d,
Where our right valiant Father is become.
1 faw him in the Battel range about,
And watcht him how he fingled Cifford forth,
Methought be bore him in the thickest Troop,
As doth a Lion in a Herd of Neat;
Or as a Bear encompass'd round with Dogs,
Who having pincht a few, and made them cry,
The reft ftand all aloof, and bark at him.
So far'd our Father with his Enemies,
So fled his Enemies my warlike Father:
Methinks 'tis prize enough to be his Son.
See how the Morning opes her Golden Gates,
And takes her farewel of the glorious Sun,
How well resembles it the prime of Youth,
Trim'd like a Yonker, pranching to his Love?
Edw. Dazle mine Eyes? or do I fee three Suns?
Rich. Three glorious Suns, each one a perfect Sun,
Not separated with the racking Clouds,
But fever'd in a pale clear fhining Sky.
See, fee thy join, embrace, and feem to kifs,
As if they vow'd some League inviolable:
Now are they but one Lamp, one Light, one Sun.
In this the Heaven figures fome Event.
Edw. Tis wondrous strange,
The like yet never heard of.
I think it cites us, Brother to the Field,
That we, the Sons 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 Suns.
Rich. Nay, bear three Daughters:
By your leave, I speak it,
You love the Breeder better then the Male.
Enter a Messenger.
But what art thou, whofe heavy Looks foretel
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 ftood against them, as the hope of Troy
Against the Greeks, that would have entred Troy.
But Hercules himself muft yield to odds;
And many Stroaks, though with a little Ax,
Hews down and fells the hardest-timber'd Oak.
By many Hands your Father was fubdu'd,
But only flaughter'd by the ireful Arm,
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 ruthlefs Queen gave him, to dry his Cheek,
A Napkin, fteeped in the harmless Blood
Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford flain:
And after many Scorns, many foul Taunts,
They took his Head, and on the Gates 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 treacheroufly haft thou vanquish'd him,
For Hand to Hand he would have vanquish'd thee!
Now my Soul's Palace is become a Prifon :
Ah, would fhe 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 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 less 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 Sun:
For Chair and Dukedom, Throne and Kingdom fay,
Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his.
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 deliverance 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 Soul's Redemption,
Is by the ftern Lord Clifford done to Death.
War. Ten days ago I drown'd thefe News n 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 Gasp,
Tidings, as fwiftly as the Pofts could run,
Were brought me of your Lofs, and his depart.
I then in London, Keeper of the King,
Mufter'd my Soldiers, gather'd flocks of Friends,
March'd towards St. Albans to intercept the Queen,
Bearing the King in my behalf along:
For by my Scouts I was advertised
That fhe was coming, with a full intent
To dafh our late Decree in Parliament,
Touching King Henry's Oath, and your Succeffion:
Short Tale to make, we at St. Albans met,
Our Battels 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 Soldiers of their heated Spleen;
Or whether 'twas report of her Success,
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 Soldiers like the Night-Owi's lazy flight,
Or like a lazy Threather with a Flail,
Fell gently down, as if thy 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 my self,
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 frorn Burgundy to England?
War. Some fix miles off the Duke is with the Soldiers; And for your Brother, he was lately fent
From your kind Aunt, Dutchefs of Burgundy,
With aid of Soldiers to this needful War.
Rich. 'Twas odds belike when valiant Warwick fled; Oft have I heard his Praifes in Purfuit,
But ne'er, till now, his Scandal of Retire.
War Nor now my Scandal, 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, And he is fam'd for Mildnefs, Peace and Prayer.
Rich. I know it well, Lord Warwick, blame me not, 'Tis love I bear thy Glories makes me fpeak. 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;
He wore confent to your Succeffion,
His Oath enrolled in the Parliament,
And now to London all the Crew are gone,
To fruftrate both his Oath, and what befide
May make against the Houfe of Lancafler
Their Power, I think, is thirty thoufind ftrong:
Now if the help of Norfolk, and my felf,
With all the Friends that thou brave Earl of March,
Amongst the loving Welchmen, canft procure,
Will but amount to five and twenty thousand,
Why Via! to London will we march,
And once again beftride our foaming Steeds,
And once again cry, Charge upon our Focs,
But never once again turn back and fly.
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