William Shakespeare's Third Part of King Henry the Sixth in the complete original text.
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Third Part of King Henry the Sixth

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Act II. Scene II.

Scene II.—Before York.

Flourish. Enter KING HENRY, QUEEN
MARGARET, the PRINCE OF WALES,
CLIFFORD, and NORTHUMBERLAND,
with drums and trumpets.

Q. Mar. Welcome, my lord, to this brave
town of York.
Yonder's the head of that arch-enemy,
That sought to be encompass'd with your
crown:
Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?
K. Hen. 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 infring'd my vow.
Clif. 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 bis that spoils her young before her face.
Who 'scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting?
Not be 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, bless'd with a goodly son,
Didst yield consent to disinherit him,
Which argu'd 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 us'd with fearful
flight,
Make war with him that climb'd 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.
K. Hen. 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!
Q. Mar. My lord, cheer up your spirits: our
foes are nigh,
And this soft courage makes your followers faint.
You promis'd knighthood to our forward son:
Unsheathe your sword, and dub him presently.
Edward, kneel down.
K. Hen. Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight;
And learn this lesson, draw thy sword in right.
Prince. 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.
Clif. Why, that is spoken like a toward prince.
Enter a Messenger.
Mess. 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.
Clif. I would your highness would depart the
field:
The queen Hath best success when you are
absent.
Q. Mar. Ay, good my lord, and leave us to
our fortune.
K. Hen. Why, that's my fortune too; there-
fore I'll stay.
North. Be it with resolution then to fight.
Prince. 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.
Edw. Now, perjur'd Henry, wilt thou kneel
for grace,
And set thy diadem upon my head;
Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?
Q. Mar. Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting
boy!
Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms
Before thy sovereign and thy lawful king?
Edw. 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 caus'd him, by new act of parliament,
To blot out me, and put his own son in.
Clif. And reason too:
Who should succeed the father but the son?
Rich. Are you there, butcher? O! l cannot
speak.
Clif. Ay, crook-back; here I stand to answer
thee,
Or any he the proudest of thy sort.
Rich. 'Twas you that killed young Rutland,
was it not?
Clif. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied.
Rich. For God's sake, lords, give signal to the
fight.
War. What sayst thou, Henry, wilt thou yield
the crown?
Q. Mar. Why, how now, long-tongu'd War-
wick! dare you speak?
When you and I met at Saint Alban's last,
Your legs did better service than your hands.
War. Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis
thine.
Clif. You said so much before, and yet you
fled.
War. 'Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove
me thence.
North. No, nor your manhood that durst
make you stay.
Rich. 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.
Clif. I slew thy father: call'st thou him a
child?
Rich. Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous
coward,
As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland;
But ere sun-set I'll make thee curse the deed.
K. Hen. Have done with words, my lords, and
hear me speak.
Q. Mar. Defy them, then, or else hold close
thy lips.
K. Hen. I prithee, give no limits to my
tongue:
I am a king, and privileg'd to speak.
Clif. My liege, the wound that bred this
meeting here
Cannot be cur'd by words; therefore be still.
Rich. Then, executioner, unsheathe thy
sword.
By him that made us all, I am resolv'd
That Clifford's manhood lies upon his tongue.
Edw. Say, Henry, shall I have my right or no?
A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day,
That ne'er shall dine unless thou yield the
crown.
War. If thou deny, their blood upon thy
head;
For York in justice puts his armour on.
Prince. If that be right which Warwick says
is right,
There is no wrong, but everything is right.
Rich. Whoever got thee, there thy mother
stands;
For well I wot thou hast thy mother's tongue.
Q. Mar. But thou art neither like thy sire nor
dam,
But like a foul misshapen stigmatic,
Mark'd by the destinies to be avoided,
As venom toads, or lizards' dreadful stings.
Rich. Iron of Naples hid with English gilt,
Whose father bears the title of a king,—
As if a channel should be call'd the sea,—
Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art
extraught,
To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?
Edw. 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 wrong'd
By that false woman as this king by thee.
His father revell'd in the heart of France,
And tam'd the king, and made the Dauphin
stoop;
And had he match'd according to his state,
He might have kept that glory to this day;
But when he took a beggar to his bed,
And grac'd thy poor sire with his bridal day,
Even then that sunshine brew'd a shower for
him,
That wash'd his father's fortunes forth of France,
And heap'd sedition on his crown at home.
For what hath broach'd this tumult but thy
pride?
Hadst thou been meek our title still had slept,
And we, in pity of the gentle king,
Had slipp'd our claim until another age.
Geo. 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 our-
selves,
Yet know thou, since we have begun to strike,
We'll never leave, till we have hewn thee down,
Or bath'd thy growing with our heated bloods.
Edw. And in this resolution I defy thee; I
Not willing any longer conference,
Since thou deny'st the gentle king to speak.
Sound trumpets!—let our bloody colours wave!
And either victory, or else a grave.
Q. Mar. Stay, Edward.
Edw. No, wrangling woman, we'll no longer
stay:
These words will cost ten thousand lives this day.
[Exeunt.
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