I wonder how our princely father scaped,

Or whether he be scaped away or no

From Clifford’s and Northumberland’s pursuit.

Had he been ta’en, we should have heard the news;

Had he been slain, we should have heard the news;

Or had he scaped, methinks we should have heard

The happy tidings of his good escape.

How fares my brother? Why is he so sad?

I cannot joy until I be resolved

Where our right valiant father is become.

I saw him in the battle range about,

And watched him how he singled Clifford forth.

Methought he bore him in the thickest troop

As doth a lion in a herd of neat;

Or as a bear, encompassed round with dogs,

Who having pinched a few and made them cry,

The rest stand all aloof and bark at him.

So fared our father with his enemies;

So fled his enemies my warlike father.

Methinks ’tis pride enough to be his son.

See how the morning opes her golden gates

And takes her farewell of the glorious sun.

How well resembles it the prime of youth,

Trimmed like a younker prancing to his love!

Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?

Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun;

Not separated with the racking clouds,

But severed in a pale clear-shining sky.

See, see, they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,

As if they vowed some league inviolable.

Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun.

In this the heaven figures some event.

’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 overshine the earth, as this the world.

Whate’er it bodes, henceforward will I bear

Upon my target three fair shining suns.

Nay, bear three daughters: by your leave I speak it,

You love the breeder better than the male.

But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell

Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?

Ah, one that was a woeful looker-on

When as the noble Duke of York was slain,

Your princely father and my loving lord.

O, speak no more, for I have heard too much!

Say how he died, for I will hear it all.

Environed he was with many foes,

And stood against them as the hope of Troy

Against the Greeks that would have entered Troy.

But Hercules himself must yield to odds;

And many strokes, though with a little axe,

Hews down and fell the hardest-timbered oak.

By many hands your father was subdued,

But only slaughtered by the ireful arm

Of unrelenting Clifford and the Queen,

Who crowned the gracious duke in high despite,

Laughed in his face; and when with grief he wept,

The ruthless Queen gave him to dry his cheeks

A napkin steeped in the harmless blood

Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain.

And after many scorns, many foul taunts,

They took his head, and on the gates of York

They set the same; and there it doth remain,

The saddest spectacle that e’er I viewed.

Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon,

Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay.

O Clifford, boisterous Clifford, thou hast slain

The flower of Europe for his chivalry;

And treacherously hast thou vanquished him,

For hand to hand he would have vanquished thee.

Now my soul’s palace is become a prison.

Ah, would she break from hence, that this my body

Might in the ground be closed up in rest!

For never henceforth shall I joy again;

Never, O, never, shall I see more joy!

I cannot weep, for all my body’s moisture

Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart;

Nor can my tongue unload my heart’s great burthen,

For selfsame wind that I should speak withal

Is kindling coals that fires all my breast

And burns 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.

His name that valiant duke hath left with thee;

His dukedom and his chair with me is left.

Nay, if thou be that princely eagle’s bird,

Show thy descent by gazing ’gainst the sun;

For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say,

Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his.

March. Enter Warwick, Marquess Montague and their army.

How now, fair lords! What fare? What news abroad?

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 slain!

O, Warwick, Warwick, that Plantagenet

Which held thee dearly as his soul’s redemption

Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death.

Ten days ago I drowned these news in tears,

And now, to add more measure to your woes,

I come to tell you things sith then befall’n.

After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,

Where your brave father breathed his latest gasp,

Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run,

Were brought me of your loss and his depart.

I, then in London, keeper of the King,

Mustered my soldiers, gathered flocks of friends,

And very well appointed, as I thought,

Marched toward Saint Albans to intercept the Queen,

Bearing the King in my behalf along;

For by my scouts I was advertised

That she was coming with a full intent

To dash our late decree in Parliament

Touching King Henry’s oath and your succession.

Short tale to make, we at Saint Albans met,

Our battles joined, and both sides fiercely fought.

But, whether ’twas the coldness of the King,

Who looked full gently on his warlike Queen,

That robbed 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-owl’s lazy flight,

Or like an idle thresher with a flail,

Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends.

I cheered them up with justice of our cause,

With promise of high pay and great rewards,

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 myself,

In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you;

For in the Marches here we heard you were,

Making another head to fight again.

Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick?

And when came George from Burgundy to England?

Some six miles off the Duke is with the soldiers;

And for your brother, he was lately sent

From your kind aunt, Duchess of Burgundy,

With aid of soldiers to this needful war.

’Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled.

Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit,

But ne’er till now his scandal of retire.

Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou hear;

For thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine

Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry’s head

And wring the awful sceptre from his fist,

Were he as famous and as bold in war

As he is famed for mildness, peace, and prayer.

I know it well, Lord Warwick; blame me not.

’Tis love I bear thy glories makes me speak.

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,

Numbering our Ave-Maries with our beads?

Or shall we on the helmets of our foes

Tell our devotion with revengeful arms?

If for the last, say ay, and to it, lords.

Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you out,

And therefore comes my brother Montague.

Attend me, lords. The proud insulting Queen,

With Clifford and the haught Northumberland,

And of their feather many moe proud birds,

Have wrought the easy-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 think, is thirty thousand strong.

Now, if the help of Norfolk and myself,

With all the friends that thou, brave Earl of March,

Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure,

Will but amount to five and twenty thousand,

Why, _via_, to London will we march amain,

And once again bestride our foaming steeds,

And once again cry “Charge upon our foes!”

But never once again turn back and fly.

Ay, now methinks I hear great Warwick speak.

Ne’er may he live to see a sunshine day

That cries “Retire,” if Warwick bid him stay.

Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean;

And when thou fail’st—as God forbid the hour!—

Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forfend!

No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York.

The next degree is England’s royal throne;

For King of England shalt thou be proclaimed

In every borough as we pass along,

And he that throws not up his cap for joy

Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head.

King Edward, valiant Richard, Montague,

Stay we no longer dreaming of renown,

But sound the trumpets and about our task.

Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as steel,

As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds,

I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine.

Then strike up, drums! God and Saint George for us!

How now, what news?

The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me,

The Queen is coming with a puissant host,

And craves your company for speedy counsel.

Why then it sorts; brave warriors, let’s away.