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Than Jephtha s, when he sacrific'd his daughter.
I am so sorry for my trespass made,
That, to deserve well at my brother's hands,
I here proclaim myself thy mortal foe;
With resolution, wheresoe'er I meet thee,
(As I will meet thee, if thou stir abroad,)
To plague thee for thy foul misleading me.
And so, proud-hearted Warwick, I defy thee,
And to my brother turn my blushing checks. -
Pardon me, Edward, I will make amends;
And, Richard, do not frown upon my faults,
For I will henceforth be no more unconstant.

K. Edw. Now welcome more, and ten times more belov'd,

Than if thou never hadst deserv'd our hate.

Glo. Welcome, good Clarence; this is brotherlike.

War. O passing traitor, perjur'd, and unjust!
K. Edw. What, Warwick, wilt thou leave the
town, and fight?

Or shall we beat the stones about thine ears?
War. Alas, I am not coop'd here for defence:
I will away towards Barnet presently,
And bid thee battle, Edward, if thou dar'st.

K. Edw. Yes, Warwick, Edward dares, and leads the way:

Lords, to the field; Saint George, and victory. [March. Exeunt.

SCENE II. -A Field of Battle near Barnet. Alarums, and Excursions. Enter KING EDWARD, bringing in WARWICK wounded.

K. Edw. So, lie thou there: die thou, and die our fear;

For Warwick was a bug, that fear'd us all.
Now, Montague, sit fast; I seek for thee,
That Warwick's bones may keep thine company.


War. Ah, who is nigh! come to me friend or foe, And tell me, who is victor, York, or Warwick? Why ask I that? my mangled body shows,

My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows,

That I must yield my body to the earth,
And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe.
Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge,
Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle,
Under whose shade the ramping lion slept :
Whose top-branch overpeer'd Jove's spreading tree.,
And kept low shrubs from winter's powerful wind.
These eyes, that now are dimm'd with death's

black veil,

Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun,
To search the secret treasons of the world:
The wrinkles in my brows, now fill'd with blood,
Were liken'd oft to kingly sepulchres;
For who liv'd king, but I could dig his grave?
And who durst smile, when Warwick bent his

Lo, now my glory smear'd in dust and blood!
My parks, my walks, my manors that I had,
Even now forsake me; and of all my lands,
Is nothing left me, but my body's length!
Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust?
And, live we how we can, yet die we must.
Enter OXFORd and Somerset.

Som. Ah, Warwick, Warwick! wert thou as we are,

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And we are grac'd with wreaths of victory.
But, in the midst of this bright-shining day,
I spy a black, suspicious, threat'ning cloud,
That will encounter with our gionous sun,
Ere he attain his easeful western bed:

I mean, my lords, -those powers, that the queen
Hath rais'd in Gallia, have arriv'd our coast,
And, as we hear, march on to fight with us.

Clar. A little gale will soon disperse that cloua,
And blow it to the source from whence it came:
Thy very beams will dry those vapours up;
For every cloud engenders not a storm.

Glo. The queen is valu'd thirty thousand strong, And Somerset, with Oxford, fled to her; If she have time to breathe, be well assur'd, Her faction will be full as strong as ours.

K. Edw. We are advértis'd by our loving friends, That they do hold their course toward Tewksbury; We having now the best at Barnet field, Will thither straight, For willingness rids way: And, as we march, our strength will be augmented In every county as we go along. Strike up the drum; cry ·

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Courage! and away. [Exeunt.

- Plains near Tewksbury.


Q. Mar. Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss,

But cheerly seek how to redress their harms.
What though the mast be now blown over-board
The cable broke, the holding anchor lost,
And half our sailors swallow'd in the flood;

Yet lives our pilot still: Is't meet, that he
Should leave the helm, and like a fearful lad,
With tearful eyes add water to the sea,

And give more strength to that which hath too much;
Whiles, in his moan, the ship splits on the rock,
Which industry and courage might have sav'd?
Ah, what a shame! ah, what a fault were this!
Say, Warwick was our anchor; What of that?
And Montague our top-mast; What of him?
Our slaughter'd friends the tackles; What of these?
Why, is not Oxford here another anchor?
And Somerset another goodly mast?

The friends of France our shrouds and tacklings?
And, though unskilful, why not Ned and I
For once allow'd the skilful pilot's charge?
We will not from the helm, to sit and weep;

But keep our course, though the rough wind say no,

From shelves and rocks that threaten us with wreck.
As good to chide the waves, as speak them fair.
And what is Edward, but a ruthless sea?
What Clarence, but a quicksand of deceit
And Richard, but a ragged fatal rock?
All these the enemies to our poor bark.
Say, you can swim; alas, 'tis but a while :
Tread on the sand; why there you quickly sink :
Bestride the rock; the tide will wash you off,
Or else you famish, that's a threefold death.
This speak I, lords, to let you understand,
In case some one of you would fly from us,
That there's no hop'd-for mercy with the brothers,
More than with ruthless waves, with sands and

Why, courage, then! what cannot be avoided,
Twere childish weakness to lament, or fear.

Prince. Methinks, a woman of this valiant


Should, if a coward heard her speak these words,
Infuse his breast with magnanimity,
And make him, naked, foil a man at arms.
I speak not this, as doubting any here:
For, did I but suspect a fearful man,
He should have leave to go away betimes;
Lest, in our need, he might infect another,
And make him of like spirit to himself.
If any such be here, as God forbid !
Let him depart, before we need his help.

Orf. Women and children of so high a courage! And warriors faint! why, 'twere perpetual shame. O, brave young prince! thy famous grandfather Doth live again in thee; Long may'st thou live, To bear his image, and renew his glories!

Som. And he that will not fight for such a hope, Go home to bed, and, like the owl by day, If he arise, be mock'd and wonder'd at. Q. Mar. Thanks, gentle Somerset ; ford, thanks. Prince. And take his thanks, that yet hath nothing else.

Enter a Messenger.

-sweet Ox

Mess. Prepare you, lords, for Edward is at hand, Ready to fight; therefore be resolute.

Orf. I thought no less it is his policy, To haste thus fast, to find us unprovided.

Som. But he's deceiv'd, we are in readiness.

Q. Mar. This cheers my heart, to see your forwardness.

Orf. Here pitch our battle; hence we will not budge.

March. Enter, at a distance, KING EDWARD,

K. Edw. Brave followers, yonder stands the thorny wood,

Which, by the heavens' assistance, and your strength,
Must by the roots be hewn up yet ere night.
I need not add more fuel to your fire,
For, well I wot, ye blaze to burn them out:
Give signal to the fight, and to it, lords.

Q. Mar. Lords, knights, and gentlemen, what I should say,

My tears gainsay; for every word I speak,
see, I drink the water of mine eyes.
Therefore, no more but this :


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Henry, your sove

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Suppose, that I am now my father's mouth;
Resign thy chair, and, where I stand, kneel thou,
Whilst I propose the self-same words to thee,
Which, traitor, thou would'st have me answer to.
Q. Mar. Ah, that thy father had been so re-

Glo. That you might still have worn the petticoat,

And ne'er have stol'n the breech from Lancaster. rince. Let Æsop fable in a winter's night; His currish riddles sort not with this place. Glo By heaven, brat, I'll plague you for tha: word.

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Glo. Clarence, excuse me to the king my brother; I'll hence to London on a serious matter:

Ere ye come there, be sure to hear some news.
Clar. What? what?

Glo. The Tower! the Tower!


Q. Mar. O, Ned, sweet Ned! speak to thy mother, boy!.

Canst thou not speak?- O traitors! murderers!
They, that stabb'd Cæsar, shed no blood at all,
Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame,
If this foul deed were by, to equal it.
He was a man this, in respect, a child;
And men ne'er spend their fury on a child.
's worse than murderer, that I may name it?
No, no; my heart will burst, an if I speak :
And I will speak, that so my heart may burst.
Butchers and villains, bloody cannibals !
How sweet a plant have you untimely cropp'd!
You have no children, butchers! if you had,
The thought of them would have stirr'd up remorse:
But, if you ever chance to have a child,
Look in his youth to have him so cut off,

As, deathsmen! you have rid this sweet young prince!

K. Edw. Away with her; go, bear her hence perforce.

Q. Mar. Nay, never bear me hence, despatch me here;

Here sheath thy sword, I'll pardon thee
my death:
What! wilt thou not? then, Clarence, do it thou.
Clar. By heaven, I will not do thee so much ease.
Q. Mar. Good Clarence, do; sweet Clarence, do

thou do it.

Clar. Didst thou not hear me swear, I would not do it?

Q. Mar. So come to you, and yours, as to this prince! [Exit, led out forcibly.

K. Edw. Where's Richard gone? Clar. To London, all in post; and, as I guess, To make a bloody supper in the Tower.

K. Edw. He's sudden, if a thing comes in his head. Now march we hence: discharge the common sort With pay and thanks, and let's away to London, And see our gentle queen how well she fares; By this, I hope, she hath a son for me.


SCENE VI. · - London. A Room in the Tower. KING HENRY is discovered sitting with a book in his hand, the Lieutenant attending. Enter GLOSter. Glo. Good day, my lord! What, at your book so hard?

K. Hen. Ay, my good lord: My lord, I should say rather:

'Tis sin to flatter, good was little better : Good Gloster, and good devil, were alike, And both preposterous; therefore, not good lord. Glo. Sirrah, leave us to ourselves; we must con[Exit Lieutenant.


K. Hen. So flies the reckless shepherd from the wolf:

So first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece, And next his throat unto the butcher's knife. What scene of death hath Roscius now to act? Glo. Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; The thief doth fear each bush an officer.

K. Hen. The bird, that hath been limed in a bush, With trembling wings misdoubteth every bush : And I, the hapless male to one sweet bird, Have now the fatal object in my eye,

Where my poor young was lim'd, was caught, and kill'd.

Glo. Why, what a peevish fool was that of Crete, That taught his son the office of a fowl? And yet, for all his wings, the fool was drown'd. K. Hen. I, Dædalus; my poor boy, Icarus; Thy father, Minos, that denied our course; The sun, that sear'd the wings of my sweet boy, Thy brother Edward; and thyself, the sea, Whose envious gulf did swallow up his life. Ah, kill me with thy weapon, not with words! My breast can better brook thy dagger's point, Than can my ears that tragick history. But wherefore dost thou come? is't for my life? Glo. Think'st thou, I am an executioner? K. Hen. A persecutor, I am sure, thou art, If murdering innocents be executing, Why, then thou art an executioner.

Glo. Thy son I kill'd for his presumption. K. Hen. Hadst thou been kill'd, when first thou didst presume,

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Thou hadst not liv'd to kill a son of mine.
And thus I prophecy, that many a thousand,
Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear;
And many an old man's sigh, and many a widow s
And many an orphan's water-standing eye,
Men for their sons, wives for their husbands' fate,

Q. Mar. Ay, but thou usest to forswear thy- And orphans for their parents' timeless death, self:

'Twas sin before, but now 'tis charity.

What! wilt thou not? where is that devil's butcher, Hard-favour'd Richard? Richard, where art thou? Thou art not here: Murder is thy alms-deed; Petitioners for blood thou ne'er put'st back.

K. Edw. Away, I say; I charge ye, bear her hence.

Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born.
The owl shriek'd at thy birth, an evil sign;
The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time;
Dogs howl'd, and hideous tempests shook down trees ;
The raven rook'd her on the chimney's top,
And chattering pies in dismal discords sung.
Thy mother felt more than a mother's pain,

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- I sent thee thither, [Stabs him again.

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I, that have neither pity, love, nor fear.
Indeed, 'tis true, that Henry told me of;
For I have often heard my mother say,
I came into the world with my legs forward :
Had I not reason, think ye, to make haste,
And seek their ruin that usurp'd our right?
The midwife wonder'd: and the women cried,
O, Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth!
And so I was; which plainly signified
That I should snarl, and bite, and play the dog.
Then, since the heavens have shap'd my body so,
Let hell make crook'd my mind to answer it.

I have no brother, I am like no brother:

And this word-love, which greybeards call divine,
Be resident in men like one another,
And not in me; I am myself alone.

Re-purchas'd with the blood of enemies.
What valiant foe-men, like to autumn's corn,
Have we mow'd down, in tops of all their pride?
Three dukes of Somerset, threefold renown'd
For hardy and undoubted champions :
Two Cliffords, as the father and the son,
And two Northumberlands: two braver men
Ne'er spurr'd their coursers at the trumpet's sound.
With them, the two brave bears, Warwick and

That in their chains fetter'd the kingly lion,
And made the forest tremble when they roar'd.
Thus have we swept suspicion from our seat,
And made our footstool of security. –
Come hither, Bess, and let me kiss my boy:
Young Ned, for thee, thine unc'es, and myself,
Have in our armours watch'd the winter's night;
Went all a foot in summer's scalding heat,
That thou might'st repossess the crown in peace;
And of our labours thou shalt reap the gain.

Glo. I'll blast his harvest, if your head were laid;
For yet I am not look'd on in the world.
This shoulder was ordain'd so thick, to heave;
And heave it shall some weight, or break my

Work thou the way, and thou shalt execute.

[Aside. K. Edw. Clarence, and Gloster, love my lovely queen,

And kiss your princely nephew, brothers both. Clar. The duty, that I owe unto your majesty,

I seal upon the lips of this sweet babe.

K. Edw. Thanks, noble Clarence; worthy brother, thanks.

Glo. And, that I love the tree from whence thou


Witness the loving kiss I give the fruit : — To say the truth, so Judas kiss'd his master; all hail ! when as he meant — all harm.



K. Edw. Now am I seated as my soul delights, Having my country's peace, and brothers' loves. Clar. What will your grace have done with Margaret?

Clarence, beware; thou keep'st me from the light; And cried
But I will sort a pitchy day for thee:
For I will buz abroad such prophecies,
That Edward shall be fearful of his life;
And, then, to purge his fear, I'll be thy death.
King Henry, and the prince his son, are gone :
Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest
Counting myself but bad, till I be best.
I'll throw thy body in another room,
And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom.


SCENE VII.-The same. A Room in the Palace. KING EDWARD is discovered sitting on his throne; QUEEN ELIZABETH with the infant PRINCE, CLARENCE, GLOSTER, HASTINGS, and others, near him. K. Edw. Once more we sit in England's royal throne,

Reignier, her father, to the king of France
Hath pawn'd the Sicils and Jerusalem,
And hither have they sent it for her ransome.
K. Edw. Away with her, and waft her hence to

And now what rests, but that we spend the time
With stately triumphs, mirthful comick shows,
Such as befit the pleasures of the court?
Sound, drums and trumpets! farewell, sour

For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy.


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ACT 1.

Glo. Now is the winter of our discontent, Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds, that lowr'd upon our house, In the deep bosom of the ocean bury'd. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments; Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front; And now instead of mounting barbed steeds, To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, · He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber, To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

But I,

that am not shap'd for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty ; To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am cúrtail'd of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable, That dogs bark at me, as I halt by them; Why I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time; Unless to spy my shadow in the sun, And descant on mine own deformity; And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, To entertain these fair well-spoken days. —

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