Shakespeare - First Folio facsimile (1910)/The Third Part of King Henry the Sixth/Act 4 Scene 8

by William Shakespeare

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.
Exeunt.Farewell, sweet Lords, let's meet at Couentry.

King.
Here at the Pallace will I rest a while.
Cousin of Exeter, what thinks 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:
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 agane 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. 

 

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