be bound by any solemn vow To do a murderous deed, to rob a man, To force a spotless virgin's chastity, To reave the orphan of his patrimony, To wring the widow from her custom'd right, And have no other reason for this wrong But that he was bound by a solemn oath? A subtle traitor needs no sophister. Call Buckingham, and bid him arm himself. Call Buckingham, and all the friends thou hast, I am resolved for death or dignity. The first I warrant thee, if dreams prove true. You were best to go to bed and dream again, To keep thee from the tempest of the field. I am resolved to bear a greater storm Than any thou canst conjure up to-day; And that I'll write upon thy burgonet, Might I but know thee by thy household badge. Now, by my father's badge, old Nevil's crest, The rampant bear chain'd to the ragged staff, This day I'll wear aloft my burgonet, As on a mountain top the cedar shows That keeps his leaves in spite of any storm, Even to affright thee with the view thereof. And from thy burgonet I'll rend thy bear And tread it under foot with all contempt, Despite the bear-ward that protects the bear. And so to arms, victorious father, To quell the rebels and their complices. Fie! charity, for shame! speak not in spite, For you shall sup with Jesu Christ to-night. Foul stigmatic, that's more than thou canst tell. If not in heaven, you'll surely sup in hell. Clifford of Cumberland, 'tis Warwick calls: And if thou dost not hide thee from the bear, Now, when the angry trumpet sounds alarum And dead men's cries do fill the empty air, Clifford, I say, come forth and fight with me: Proud northern lord, Clifford of Cumberland, Warwick is hoarse with calling thee to arms. How now, my noble lord? what, all afoot? The deadly-handed Clifford slew my steed, But match to match I have encounter'd him And made a prey for carrion kites and crows Even of the bonny beast he loved so well. Of one or both of us the time is come. Hold, Warwick, seek thee out some other chase, For I myself must hunt this deer to death. Then, nobly, York; 'tis for a crown thou fight'st. As I intend, Clifford, to thrive to-day, It grieves my soul to leave thee unassail'd. What seest thou in me, York? why dost thou pause? With thy brave bearing should I be in love, But that thou art so fast mine enemy. Nor should thy prowess