Warwick

Warwick
I wonder how the King escaped our hands.
York
While we pursued the horsemen of the north,
He slyly stole away and left his men;
Whereat the great lord of Northumberland,
Whose warlike ears could never brook retreat,
Cheered up the drooping army; and himself,
Lord Clifford, and Lord Stafford, all abreast,
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Warwick
Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou hear?
For thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine
Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry’s head
And wring the awful scepter from his fist,
Were he as famous and as bold in war
As he is famed for mildness, peace, and prayer.
Richard
I know it well,
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Suffolk
Within the Temple Hall we were too loud;
The garden here is more convenient.
Plantagenet
Then say at once if I maintained the truth,
Or else was wrangling Somerset in th’ error?
Suffolk
Faith, I have been a truant in the law
And never yet could frame my will to it,
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Plantagenet
How I am braved, and must perforce endure it!
Warwick
This blot that they object against your house
Shall be whipped out in the next parliament,
Called for the truce of Winchester and Gloucester;
And if thou be not then created York,
I will not live to be accounted Warwick.

And here I prophesy: this brawl today,
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Henry IV
Then you perceive the body of our kingdom
How foul it is, what rank diseases grow,
And with what danger near the heart of it.
Warwick
It is but as a body yet distempered,
Which to his former strength may be restored
With good advice and little medicine.
My Lord Northumberland will soon be cooled.
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King
Where is the crown? Who took it from my pillow?
Warwick 
When we withdrew, my liege, we left it here.
King
The Prince hath ta’en it hence. Go seek him out.
Is he so hasty that he doth suppose my sleep my death?
Find him, my Lord of Warwick. Chide him hither.
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Pucelle
Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts?
Then, Joan, discover thine infirmity,
That warranteth by law to be thy privilege:
I am with child, you bloody homicides.
Murder not then the fruit within my womb,
Although you hale me to a violent death.
York
Now heaven forfend, the holy maid with child?

May never glorious sun reflex his beams
Upon the country where you make abode,
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