Warw. And Warwick shall disproue it. You forget,
That we are those which chas'd you from the field,
And slew your Fathers, and with Colours spread
Marcht through the Citie to the Pallace Gates
Northumb. Yes Warwicke, I remember it to my griefe,
And by his Soule, thou and thy House shall rue it
Westm. Plantagenet, of thee and these thy Sonnes,
Thy Kinsmen, and thy Friends, Ile haue more liues
Then drops of bloud were in my Fathers Veines
Cliff. Vrge it no more, lest that in stead of words,
I send thee, Warwicke, such a Messenger,
As shall reuenge his death, before I stirre
Warw. Poore Clifford, how I scorne his worthlesse
Threats
Plant. Will you we shew our Title to the Crowne?
If not, our Swords shall pleade it in the field
Henry. What Title hast thou Traytor to the Crowne?
My Father was as thou art, Duke of Yorke,
Thy Grandfather Roger Mortimer, Earle of March.
I am the Sonne of Henry the Fift,
Who made the Dolphin and the French to stoupe,
And seiz'd vpon their Townes and Prouinces
Warw. Talke not of France, sith thou hast lost it all
Henry. The Lord Protector lost it, and not I:
When I was crown'd, I was but nine moneths old
Rich. You are old enough now,
And yet me thinkes you loose:
Father teare the Crowne from the Vsurpers Head