Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York.

Yonder’s the head of that arch-enemy

That sought to be encompassed with your crown.

Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?

Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their wrack!

To see this sight, it irks my very soul.

Withhold revenge, dear God! ’Tis not my fault,

Nor wittingly have I infringed my vow.

My gracious liege, this too much lenity

And harmful pity must be laid aside.

To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?

Not to the beast that would usurp their den.

Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick?

Not his that spoils her young before her face.

Who scapes the lurking serpent’s mortal sting?

Not he that sets his foot upon her back.

The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on,

And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood.

Ambitious York did level at thy crown,

Thou smiling while he knit his angry brows.

He, but a duke, would have his son a king,

And raise his issue like a loving sire;

Thou, being a king, blest with a goodly son,

Didst yield consent to disinherit him,

Which argued thee a most unloving father.

Unreasonable creatures feed their young;

And though man’s face be fearful to their eyes,

Yet, in protection of their tender ones,

Who hath not seen them, even with those wings

Which sometime they have used with fearful flight,

Make war with him that climbed unto their nest,

Offering their own lives in their young’s defence?

For shame, my liege, make them your precedent.

Were it not pity that this goodly boy

Should lose his birthright by his father’s fault,

And long hereafter say unto his child,

“What my great-grandfather and grandsire got,

My careless father fondly gave away?”

Ah, what a shame were this! Look on the boy,

And let his manly face, which promiseth

Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart

To hold thine own and leave thine own with him.

Full well hath Clifford played the orator,

Inferring arguments of mighty force.

But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear

That things ill got had ever bad success?

And happy always was it for that son

Whose father for his hoarding went to hell?

I’ll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind,

And would my father had left me no more;

For all the rest is held at such a rate

As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep

Than in possession any jot of pleasure.

Ah, cousin York, would thy best friends did know

How it doth grieve me that thy head is here!

My lord, cheer up your spirits; our foes are nigh,

And this soft courage makes your followers faint.

You promised knighthood to our forward son.

Unsheathe your sword and dub him presently.—

Edward, kneel down.

Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight;

And learn this lesson: draw thy sword in right.

My gracious father, by your kingly leave,

I’ll draw it as apparent to the crown,

And in that quarrel use it to the death.

Why, that is spoken like a toward prince.

Royal commanders, be in readiness;

For with a band of thirty thousand men

Comes Warwick, backing of the Duke of York,

And in the towns, as they do march along,

Proclaims him king, and many fly to him.

Darraign your battle, for they are at hand.

I would your highness would depart the field.

The Queen hath best success when you are absent.

Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fortune.

Why, that’s my fortune too; therefore I’ll stay.

Be it with resolution then to fight.

My royal father, cheer these noble lords,

And hearten those that fight in your defence.

Unsheathe your sword, good father; cry “Saint George!”

March. Enter Edward, George, Richard, Warwick, Norfolk, Montague and

Soldiers.

Now, perjured Henry, wilt thou kneel for grace

And set thy diadem upon my head,

Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?

Go rate thy minions, proud insulting boy!

Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms

Before thy sovereign and thy lawful king?

I am his king, and he should bow his knee.

I was adopted heir by his consent.

Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear,

You that are king, though he do wear the crown,

Have caused him by new act of Parliament

To blot out me and put his own son in.

And reason too:

Who should succeed the father but the son?

Are you there, butcher? O, I cannot speak!

Ay, crook-back; here I stand, to answer thee,

Or any he, the proudest of thy sort.

’Twas you that killed young Rutland, was it not?

Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied.

For God’s sake, lords, give signal to the fight.

What sayst thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown?

Why, how now, long-tongued Warwick, dare you speak?

When you and I met at Saint Albans last,

Your legs did better service than your hands.

Then ’twas my turn to fly, and now ’tis thine.

You said so much before, and yet you fled.

’Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence.

No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay.

Northumberland, I hold thee reverently.

Break off the parley; for scarce I can refrain

The execution of my big-swoln heart

Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.

I slew thy father; call’st thou him a child?

Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward,

As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland,

But ere sunset I’ll make thee curse the deed.

Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak.

Defy them then, or else hold close thy lips.

I prithee, give no limits to my tongue.

I am a king, and privileged to speak.

My liege, the wound that bred this meeting here

Cannot be cured by words; therefore be still.

Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword.

By Him that made us all, I am resolved

That Clifford’s manhood lies upon his tongue.

Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or no?

A thousand men have broke their fasts today

That ne’er shall dine unless thou yield the crown.

If thou deny, their blood upon thy head;

For York in justice puts his armour on.

If that be right which Warwick says is right,

There is no wrong, but everything is right.

Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands;

For well I wot thou hast thy mother’s tongue.

But thou art neither like thy sire nor dam,

But like a foul misshapen stigmatic,

Marked by the Destinies to be avoided,

As venom toads or lizards’ dreadful stings.

Iron of Naples, hid with English gilt,

Whose father bears the title of a king,

As if a channel should be called the sea,

Sham’st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,

To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?

A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns

To make this shameless callet know herself.

Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,

Although thy husband may be Menelaus;

And ne’er was Agamemnon’s brother wronged

By that false woman as this king by thee.

His father revelled in the heart of France,

And tamed the King, and made the Dauphin stoop;

And had he matched according to his state,

He might have kept that glory to this day;

But when he took a beggar to his bed

And graced thy poor sire with his bridal day,

Even then that sunshine brewed a shower for him

That washed his father’s fortunes forth of France

And heaped sedition on his crown at home.

For what hath broached this tumult but thy pride?

Hadst thou been meek, our title still had slept;

And we, in pity of the gentle king,

Had slipped our claim until another age.

But when we saw our sunshine made thy spring,

And that thy summer bred us no increase,

We set the axe to thy usurping root;

And though the edge hath something hit ourselves,

Yet know thou, since we have begun to strike,

We’ll never leave till we have hewn thee down

Or bathed thy growing with our heated bloods.

And in this resolution I defy thee;

Not willing any longer conference,

Since thou deniest the gentle King to speak.

Sound trumpets! Let our bloody colours wave;

And either victory or else a grave!

Stay, Edward.

No, wrangling woman, we’ll no longer stay.

These words will cost ten thousand lives this day.