Exeunt.
Flourish. Enter the King, Warwicke, Mountague,
Clarence, Oxford, and Somerset.
War. What counsaile, Lords? Edward from Belgia,
With hastie Germanes, and blunt Hollanders,
Hath pass'd in safetie through the Narrow Seas,
And with his troupes doth march amaine to London,
And many giddie people flock to him.
King. Let's leuie men, and beat him backe againe.
Clar. A little fire is quickly trodden out,
Which being suffer'd, Riuers cannot quench.
War. In Warwickshire I haue true-hearted friends,
Not mutinous in peace, yet bold in Warre,
Those will I muster vp: and thou Sonne Clarence
Shalt stirre vp in Suffolke, Norfolke, and in Kent,
The Knights and Gentlemen, to come with thee.
Thou Brother Mountague, in Buckingham,
Northampton, and in Leicestershire, shalt find
Men well enclin'd to heare what thou command'st.
And thou, braue Oxford, wondrous well belou'd,
In Oxfordshire shalt muster vp thy friends.
My Soueraigne, with the louing Citizens,
Like to his Iland, gyrt in with the Ocean,
Or modest Dyan, circled with her Nymphs,
Shall rest in London, till we come to him:
Faire Lords take leaue, and stand not to reply.
Farewell my Soueraigne.
King. Farewell my Hector, and my Troyes true hope.
Clar. In signe of truth, I kisse your Highnesse Hand.
King. Well-minded Clarence, be thou fortunate.
Mount. Comfort, my Lord, and so I take my leaue.
Oxf. And thus I seale my truth, and bid adieu.
King. Sweet Oxford, and my louing Mountague,
And all at once, once more a happy farewell.
War. Farewell, sweet Lords, let's meet at Couentry.
Exeunt.
King. Here at the Pallace will I rest a while.
Cousin of Exeter, what thinkes your Lordship?
Me thinkes, the Power that Edward hath in field,
Should not be able to encounter mine.
Exet. The doubt is, that he will seduce the rest.
King. That's not my feare, my meed hath got me fame:
I haue not stopt mine eares to their demands,
Nor posted off their suites with slow delayes,
My pittie hath beene balme to heale their wounds,
My mildnesse hath allay'd their swelling griefes,
My mercie dry'd their water-flowing teares.
I haue not been desirous of their wealth,
Nor much opprest them with great Subsidies,
Nor forward of reuenge, though they much err'd.
Then why should they loue Edward more then me?
No Exeter, these Graces challenge Grace:
q2 And
168The third Part of Henry the Sixt.
And when the Lyon fawnes vpon the Lambe,
The Lambe will neuer cease to follow him.
Shout within, A Lancaster, A Lancaster.
Exet. Hearke, hearke, my Lord, what Shouts are
these?
Enter Edward and his Souldiers.
Edw. Seize on the shamefac'd Henry, beare him hence,
And once againe proclaime vs King of England.
You are the Fount, that makes small Brookes to flow,
Now stops thy Spring, my Sea shall suck them dry,
And swell so much the higher, by their ebbe.
Hence with him to the Tower, let him not speake.
Exit with King Henry.
And Lords, towards Couentry bend we our course,
Where peremptorie Warwicke now remaines:
The Sunne shines hot, and if we vse delay,
Cold biting Winter marres our hop'd-for Hay.
Rich. Away betimes, before his forces ioyne,
And take the great-growne Traytor vnawares:
Braue Warriors, march amaine towards Couentry.
Exeunt.
Enter Warwicke, the Maior of Couentry, two
Messengers, and others vpon the Walls.
War. Where is the Post that came from valiant Oxford?
How farre hence is thy Lord, mine honest fellow?
Mess. 1. By this at Dunsmore, marching hitherward.
War. How farre off is our Brother Mountague?
Where is the Post that came from Mountague?
Mess. 2. By this at Daintry, with a puissant troope.
Enter Someruile.
War. Say Someruile, what sayes my louing Sonne?
And by thy guesse, how nigh is Clarence now?
Someru. At Southam I did leaue him with his forces,
And doe expect him here some two howres hence.
War. Then Clarence is at hand, I heare his Drumme.
Someru. It is not his, my Lord, here Southam lyes:
The Drum your Honor heares, marcheth from Warwicke.
War. Who should that be? belike vnlook'd for friends.
Someru. They are at hand, and you shall quickly know.
March. Flourish. Enter Edward, Richard,
and Souldiers.
Edw. Goe, Trumpet, to the Walls, and sound a Parle.
Rich. See how the surly Warwicke mans the Wall.
War. Oh vnbid spight, is sportfull Edward come?
Where slept our Scouts, or how are they seduc'd,
That we could heare no newes of his repayre.
Edw. Now Warwicke, wilt thou ope the Citie Gates,
Speake gentle words, and humbly bend thy Knee,
Call Edward King, and at his hands begge Mercy,
And he shall pardon thee these Outrages?
War. Nay rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence,
Confesse who set thee vp, and pluckt thee downe,
Call Warwicke Patron, and be penitent,
And thou shalt still remaine the Duke of Yorke.
Rich. I thought at least he would haue said the King,
Or did he make the Ieast against his will?
War. Is not a Dukedome, Sir, a goodly gift?
Rich. I, by my faith, for a poore Earle to giue,
Ile doe thee seruice for so good a gift.
War. 'Twas I that gaue the Kingdome to thy Bro-
ther.
Edw. Why then 'tis mine, if but by Warwickes gift.
War. Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight:
And Weakeling, Warwicke takes his gift againe,
And Henry is my King, Warwicke his Subiect.
Edw. But Warwickes King is Edwards Prisoner:
And gallant Warwicke, doe but answer this,
What is the Body, when the Head is off?
Rich. Alas, that Warwicke had no more fore-cast,
But whiles he thought to steale the single Ten,
The King was slyly finger'd from the Deck:
You left poore Henry at the Bishops Pallace,
And tenne to one you'le meet him in the Tower.
Edw. 'Tis euen so, yet you are Warwicke still.
Rich. Come Warwicke,
Take the time, kneele downe, kneele downe:
Nay when? strike now, or else the Iron cooles.
War. I had rather chop this Hand off at a blow,
And with the other, fling it at thy face,
Then beare so low a sayle, to strike to thee.
Edw. Sayle how thou canst,
Haue Winde and Tyde thy friend,
This Hand, fast wound about thy coale-black hayre,
Shall, whiles thy Head is warme, and new cut off,
Write in the dust this Sentence with thy blood,
Wind-changing Warwicke now can change no more.
Enter Oxford, with Drumme and Colours.
War. Oh chearefull Colours, see where Oxford comes.
Oxf. Oxford, Oxford, for Lancaster.
Rich. The Gates are open, let vs enter too.
Edw. So other foes may set vpon our backs.
Stand we in good array: for they no doubt
Will issue out againe, and bid vs battaile;
If not, the Citie being but of small defence,
Wee'le quickly rowze the Traitors in the same.
War. Oh welcome Oxford, for we want thy helpe.
Enter Mountague, with Drumme and Colours.
Mount. Mountague, Mountague, for Lancaster.
Rich. Thou and thy Brother both shall buy this Treason
Euen with the dearest blood your bodies beare.
Edw. The harder matcht, the greater Victorie,
My minde presageth happy gaine, and Conquest.
Enter Somerset, with Drumme and Colours.
Som. Somerset, Somerset, for Lancaster.
Rich. Two of thy Name, both Dukes of Somerset,
Haue sold their Liues vnto the House of Yorke,
And thou shalt be the third, if this Sword hold.
Enter Clarence, with Drumme and Colours.
War. And loe, where George of Clarence sweepes along,
Of force enough to bid his Brother Battaile:
With whom, in vpright zeale to right, preuailes
More then the nature of a Brothers Loue.
Come Clarence, come: thou wilt, if Warwicke call.
Clar. Father of Warwick, know you what this meanes?
Looke here, I throw my infamie at thee:
I will not ruinate my Fathers House,
Who gaue his blood to lyme the stones together,
And set vp Lancaster. Why, trowest thou, Warwicke,
That Clarence is so harsh, so blunt vnnaturall,
To bend the fatall Instruments of Warre
Against
The third Part of Henry the Sixt. 169
Against his Brother, and his lawfull King.
Perhaps thou wilt obiect my holy Oath:
To keepe that Oath, were more impietie,
Then Iephah, when he sacrific'd his Daughter.
I am so sorry for my Trespas made,
That to deserue well at my Brothers hands,
I here proclayme my selfe thy mortall foe:
With resolution, wheresoe're I meet thee,
(As I will meet thee, if thou stirre abroad)
To plague thee, for thy foule mis-leading me.
And so, prowd-hearted Warwicke, I defie thee,
And to my Brother turne my blushing Cheekes.
Pardon me Edward, I will make amends:
And Richard, doe not frowne vpon my faults,
For I will henceforth be no more vnconstant.
Edw. Now welcome more, and ten times more belou'd,
Then if thou neuer hadst deseru'd our hate.
Rich. Welcome good Clarence, this is Brother-like.
Warw. Oh passing Traytor, periur'd and vniust.
Edw. What Warwicke,
Wilt thou leaue the Towne, and fight?
Or shall we beat the Stones about thine Eares?
Warw. Alas, I am not coop'd here for defence:
I will away towards Barnet presently,
And bid thee Battaile, Edward, if thou dar'st.
Edw. Yes Warwicke, Edward dares, and leads the way:
Lords to the field: Saint George, and Victorie. Exeunt.