And, in the end being rescued, I have seen

Him caper upright like a wild Morisco,

Shaking the bloody darts as he his bells.

Full often, like a shag-haired crafty kern,

Hath he conversèd with the enemy,

And undiscovered come to me again

And given me notice of their villainies.

This devil here shall be my substitute;

For that John Mortimer, which now is dead,

In face, in gait, in speech, he doth resemble;

By this I shall perceive the commons’ mind,

How they affect the house and claim of York.

Say he be taken, racked, and torturèd,

I know no pain they can inflict upon him

Will make him say I moved him to those arms.

Say that he thrive, as ’tis great like he will,

Why, then from Ireland come I with my strength,

And reap the harvest which that rascal sowed;

For Humphrey being dead, as he shall be,

And Henry put apart, the next for me.

Henry VI Part 3

[I, iv, 1–26] Just as it seemed he had succeeded in wresting the succession to the throne from the weakling Henry VI, York finds himself up against altogether tougher opposition in the shape of the formidable Queen Margaret. They have met in battle, and things are not, York realizes, going his way:

The army of the Queen hath got the field;

My uncles both are slain in rescuing me;

And all my followers to the eager foe

Turn back and fly, like ships before the wind

Or lambs pursued by hunger-starvèd wolves.

My sons, God knows what hath bechancèd them;

But this I know, they have demeaned themselves

Like men born to renown by life or death.

Three times did Richard make a lane to me,

And thrice cried ‘Courage, father! Fight it out!’

And full as oft came Edward to my side,

With purple falchion, painted to the hilt

In blood of those that had encountered him.

And when the hardiest warriors did retire,

Richard cried ‘Charge! And give no foot of ground!’

And cried ‘A crown, or else a glorious tomb!

A sceptre or an earthly sepulchre!’

With this we charged again; but, out, alas!

We budged again; as I have seen a swan

With bootless labour swim against the tide

And spend her strength with overmatching waves.

A short alarum within

Ah, hark! The fatal followers do pursue,

And I am faint and cannot fly their fury;

And were I strong, I would not shun their fury.

The sands are numbered that make up my life;

Here must I stay, and here my life must end.

[II, v, 1–54] Another day, another battle, but Henry VI is more a philosopher than a fighter:

This battle fares like to the morning’s war,

When dying clouds contend with growing light,

What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,

Can neither call it perfect day nor night.

Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea

Forced by the tide to combat with the wind;

Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea