Vnsheath your sword, sweet father crie Saint George.
Clif. Pitch we our battell heere, for hence wee will not moue.
Enter the house of Yorke.
[♦] Edward. Now periurde Henrie wilt thou yeelde thy crowne,
80 And kneele for mercie at thy soueraignes feete?
Queen. Go rate thy minions proud insulting boy,
Becomes it thee to be thus malepert,
Before thy king and lawfull soueraigne?
Edw. I am his king, and he should bend his knee,
85 I was adopted heire by his consent.