A day will come when York shall claim his own,

And therefore I will take the Nevils’ parts

And make a show of love to proud Duke Humphrey,

And, when I spy advantage, claim the crown,

For that’s the golden mark I seek to hit.

Nor shall proud Lancaster usurp my right,

Nor hold the sceptre in his childish fist,

Nor wear the diadem upon his head,

Whose church-like humours fits not for a crown.

Then, York, be still awhile, till time do serve;

Watch thou, and wake, when others be asleep,

To pry into the secrets of the state,

Till Henry, surfeiting in joys of love

With his new bride and England’s dear-bought queen,

And Humphrey with the peers be fall’n at jars.

Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose,

With whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed,

And in my standard bear the arms of York,

To grapple with the house of Lancaster;

And force perforce I’ll make him yield the crown,

Whose bookish rule hath pulled fair England down.

[III, i, 331–83] Sent to Ireland to put down an insurrection – and, of course, be removed to a safe distance from the English throne – York sees his opportunity at last to turn unhappiness to action. The King is effectively providing him with an army, he reflects, while he himself has other strategies already in hand, including a second uprising – this one a good deal closer to home:

Now, York, or never, steel thy fearful thoughts,

And change misdoubt to resolution;

Be that thou hopest to be, or what thou art

Resign to death; it is not worth th’enjoying.

Let pale-faced fear keep with the mean-born man,

And find no harbour in a royal heart.

Faster than spring-time showers comes thought on thought,

And not a thought but thinks on dignity.

My brain, more busy than the labouring spider,

Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.

Well, nobles, well; ’tis politicly done,

To send me packing with an host of men.

I fear me you but warm the starvèd snake,

Who, cherished in your breasts, will sting your hearts.

’Twas men I lacked, and you will give them me;

I take it kindly; yet be well assured

You put sharp weapons in a madman’s hands.

Whiles I in Ireland nourish a mighty band,

I will stir up in England some black storm

Shall blow ten thousand souls to heaven or hell;

And this fell tempest shall not cease to rage

Until the golden circuit on my head,

Like to the glorious sun’s transparent beams,

Do calm the fury of this mad-bred flaw.

And, for a minister of my intent,

I have seduced a headstrong Kentishman,

John Cade of Ashford,

To make commotion, as full well he can,

Under the tide of John Mortimer.

In Ireland have I seen this stubborn Cade

Oppose himself against a troop of kerns,

And fought so long till that his thighs with darts

Were almost like a sharp-quilled porpentine;