1. SCENE I. Coventry.
Nay, rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence,
Confess who set thee up and pluck'd thee down?
Call Warwick patron and be penitent,
And thou shalt still remain the Duke of York.
I thought, at least, he would have said the king;
Or did he make the jest against his will?
Is not a dukedom, sir, a goodly gift?
Ay, by my faith, for a poor earl to give;
I'll do thee service for so good a gift.
'T was I that gave the kingdom to thy brother.
Why, then, 't is mine, if but by Warwick's gift.
Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight,
And, weakling, Warwick takes his gift again;
And Henry is my king, Warwick his subject.
But Warwick's king is Edward's prisoner;
And, gallant Warwick, do but answer this:
What is the body when the head is off?
Alas! that Warwick had no more forecast,
But, whiles he thought to steal the single ten,
The king was slily finger'd from the deck!
You left poor Henry at the Bishop's palace,
And ten to one, you'll meet him in the Tower.
'T is even so; yet you are Warwick still.
Come, Warwick, take the time; kneel down, kneel down.
Nay, when? strike now, or else the iron cools.
I had rather chop this hand off at a blow,
And with the other fling it at thy face,
Than bear so low a sail, to strike to thee.
Sail how thou canst, have wind and tide thy friend,
This hand, fast wound about thy coal-black hair,
Shall, whiles thy head is warm and new cut off,
Write in the dust this sentence with thy blood,
'Wind-changing Warwick now can change no more.'