_Marg._ Ha!--So near! Who is't that leads their power?

_Mess._ The Marquis of Montague, so please your Majesty. [_Exit._

_Marg._ Then he shall find us ready. Now, my lords!

Remember, half our hopes rest on this onset.-- Some one prepare the King. [_A KNIGHT enters the Tent._ If on the border Of England, here, we cut but boldly through The troops opposed to intercept our pa.s.sage, The afterwork is easy:-- Where's my young son!--then, like a rolling flood, That once has broke its mound, we'll pour upon The affrighted country, sweeping all before Our flood of power, till we penetrate The very heart on't.---- Go, bring the Prince of Wales!--Now, gallant soldiers, Fight l.u.s.tily to-day, and all the rest Is sport and holiday.

_Enter an OFFICER with the young PRINCE._

My son!--my boy.

Come to thy mother's bosom! Heaven, who sees The anxious workings of a parent's heart, Knows what I feel for thee! Alas! alas!

It grieves me sore to have thee here, my child!

The rough, unkindly blasts of pitiless war Suit not thy tender years.

_Prince._ Why, mother, Mustn't I be a soldier? And 'tis time I should begin my exercise--by and bye 'Twill be too late to learn--and yet I wish That I were bigger now, for your sake, mother.

_Marg._ Why, boy?

_Prince._ Oh! you know well enough, for all your asking.

Do you think, if I were strong enough to fight, I'd let these raw-boned fellows plague you so?

_Marg._ My sweet, brave boy!--Come, lords, and gentlemen; Let us go cheerily to work! If woman, In whose weak, yielding breast, nature puts forth Her softest composition, can shake off Her idle fears,--what may not you perform?

And you shall see me now, steel'd by th' occasion, So far uns.e.x myself, that tho' grim death (Breaking the pale of time) shall stride the field, With slaught'rous step,--and, prematurely, plunge His dart in vigorous bosoms, till the earth Is purple-dyed in gore--still will I stand Fix'd as the oak, when tempests sweep the forest.

But, still, one woman's fear--one touch of nature, Tugs at my heartstrings--'tis for thee, my child!

--Oh! may the white-robed angel, That watches over baby innocence, Hear a fond mother's prayer, and in the battle Cast his protecting mantle round thee!--On-- Away. [_Exit._

_Gregory._ I shall never know how to set about the business I am put upon. Of all the sports of the field, I never went a man shooting before in my life:--and, yet, when the lady, with the bra.s.s bason on her head, begins to talk big, there is a warm glow about one, that--gad!

I begin to think 'tis courage;--for I don't know how to describe it; and never felt any thing like it before. [_Alarm._] Zouns! no it e'n't--if it is, my courage is of a plaguy hot nature; for the very sound of a battle has thrown me into a perspiration. Oh! my poor mistress's man! Oh! I wish we were at home, and I was comfortably laid up in our damp garret, with a fine twinging fit of the rheumatism.

[_Huzza._] Mercy on us!--here's a whole posse, too, coming the other way. I'm in for it! but, if there is such a thing as the protecting mantle they talk'd of, I hope 'tis a pure large one; and there'll be room enough to lap up me, and my mistress in the tail on't. [_Exit._

SCENE IV.

_The Field._

_Enter LA VARENNE, followed by the FOOL._

_La Var._ Death and shame!

Are these the rough, and hardy northern men, That were to back my Normans? Why, they fly, Like skimming shadows, o'er a mountain's side, Chased by the sun.

_Fool._ True; the heat of the battle is too strong for their cold const.i.tutions.

_La Var._ Here, sirrah, take this token to the King:-- Go with your utmost speed: entreat him, quickly, To bring his forces in reserve. This effort Restores, or kills, our hope.--Yet I'll fight all out; I'll shake these pillars of the White-rose House Till the whole building totters, tho' its fall Should crush me in the ruins. [_Exit._

_Fool._ Well said, Sampson--that's a bold fellow, and I'm on his side.

Red roses for ever!

_Enter a SOLDIER, of the White Rose Party._

_Soldier._ Now, fellow, speak! tell me who you fight for.

_Fool._ Marry, will I, very willingly. Pray canst tell who has the best of the battle?

_Soldier._ The White Rose, to be sure: we are the strongest.

_Fool._ Thank you, friend: pa.s.s on--I'm on your side. [_Exit SOLDIER._]

A low clown, now, might stagger at this shifting; but your true, court-bred fool, always cuts the cloth of his conscience to the fashion of the times. [_Exit._

_Enter GREGORY and ADELINE, hastily._

_Gregory._ Run, run, madam! follow a blockhead's advice, and run, or 'tis all over with us.

_Adeline._ Whither shall I fly! Fatigue and despair so wear and press me, I scarcely know what course to take.

_Gregory._ Take to your legs, madam! Get on now, or we shall never be able to get off. Come, my dear, good, Lady Adeline! Lord! Lord! only to see now, what little resolution people have, that they can't run away when there's danger. [_Shout._] Plague on your shouting! Since they must make soldiers of us--the light troops against the field, say I!

[_Exit, running, followed by ADELINE._

_Alarm--Shout--and Retreat sounded._

SCENE V.

_Open Country._

_Enter the MARQUIS OF MONTAGUE, EGBERT, and other LORDS of the White Rose Party, SOLDIERS, &c._

_Mont._ Cheerly, my valiant friends! the field is ours.

The scatter'd Roses of the Lancasters, Now deeper tinted, blush a double red, In shame of this defeat. Oh! this will much Rejoice King Edward!--Say, has any friend Made Henry sure?

_Egbert._ He is escaped alone, my lord! and Margaret, Who, with her little son, went, hand in hand, Hovering about the field, with anxious hope, Ev'n to the very last; when she perceived Her lines broke thro'--her troops almost dispersed,-- She hung upon her boy, in silent anguish, Till the big tear dropt in his lily neck: Then, kissing him, as by a sudden impulse, Which mothers feel, she s.n.a.t.c.h'd him to her bosom, And fled with her young treasure in her arms:---- Nature so spoke in't, that our very soldiers Were soften'd at the scene, and, dull'd with pity, Grew sluggish in pursuit.

_Mont._ Well, let them go:-- Their cause is, now, become so weak, and sickly, That, tho' the head exist, to plot fresh mischief, They will want limbs to execute,--Their House, (Once strong and mighty,) like a a palsied Hercules, Must, now, lament it has outlived its powers.-- Meantime, as we return, in pride of conquest, Let us impress the minds of Englishmen With new-won glories of the House of York.

Strike drum!--Sound trumpet!--Let the air be rent, With high and martial songs of victory.

GRAND CHORUS.

_Strike!--the G.o.d of Conquest sheds_ _His choicest laurels on our heads:_ _Mars, with fury-darting eye,_ _Smooths his brow, and stalks before us;_ _Leading our triumphant chorus,_ _Hand in hand, with victory._ _And hark! the thund'ring drum, and fife's shrill tone,_ _With brazen trumpet's clang, proclaim the day our own._

[_Huzzas._

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.