York.
The army of the Queen hath got the field,
And all my followers to the eager foe
Turn back, and fly like ships before the wind,
Or lambs pursued by hunger-starved wolves.
—My sons,—God knows what hath bechanced them!
But this I know—they have demean'd themselves
Like men born to renown by life or death.
Three times did Richard make a lane to me,
And thrice cried, “Courage, Father! Fight it out.”
And full as oft came Edward to my side
With purple falchion, painted to the hilt
In blood of those that had encounter'd him.
And, when the hardiest warriors did retire,
Richard cry'd, “Charge! and give no foot of ground.
“A glorious crown! or else a glorious tomb!
A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre!”
With this, we charged again; but out, alas!
Again we turn'd—as I have seen a swan
With bootless labour swim against the tide,
And spend her strength with over-matching waves. (Alarum.)
Ah! hark!—the fatal followers do pursue,
And I am faint, and cannot fly their fury.
The sands are number'd that make up my life,—
Here must I stay—and here my life must end. (Sits on a bank.)

Enter Clifford, Buckingham, and Soldiers.
Come, bloody Clifford! dangerous Buckingham!
I dare your quenchless fury to more rage.
See here your butt, who will abide your shot.

Buck.
Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet!

Cliff.
Aye—to such mercy as his ruthless arm,
With downright payment shew'd unto my father.
Now Phaëton hath tumbled from his car,
And made an evening at the noon-tide point.

York.
Mine ashes, as the Phœnix, shall bring forth
A bird that will revenge me on you all.
And in that hope I throw mine eyes to Heaven,
Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with. (Rises and assumes an attitude of defence.)
Why come ye not? What!—Multitudes—and fear?

Cliff.
So cowards fight, when they can fly no farther,
So doves do peck the Falcon's piercing talons.

York.
Oh Clifford, but bethink thee once again,
And in thy thought out-run my former time;
Then, if thou canst for blushing, view this face,
And bite thy tongue that slanders him with cowardice,
Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere now. Enter Queen Margaret and Soldiers.

Queen.
Hold, Clifford! Do not honour him so far,
To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart.
What valour were it, when a cur doth grin,
For one to thrust his hand between his teeth,
When he might spurn him with his foot away. [Soldiers advance, surround York, and chain him.]

Cliff.
Aye, aye—So strives the Woodcock with the gin.

Buck.
So doth the Cony struggle in the net.

York.
So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty!
So true men yield, by robbers over-match'd!

Queen.
Brave Warriors, Buckingham and Cumberland!
Come, make him stand upon this mole-hill here,
That raught at mountains with out-stretched arms,
Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.
—What! Was it you that would be England's king?
Where are your troops of sons to back you now?—
The wanton Edward, and the lusty George;
And he, that valiant, crook-back'd prodigy,
Richard, your boy, that with his grumbling voice
Was wont to cheer you in your mutinies?
Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland? (Presenting to him a bloody handkerchief.)
Look, York! I stain'd this kerchief with the blood
That valiant Clifford, with his rapier's point,
Made issue from the bosom of your child.
And, if thine eyes can water for his death,
I give thee this, to dry thy cheeks withal.
What! hath thy fiery heart so parch'd thine entrails
That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death?
Why art thou patient, man? thou should'st be mad—
And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus.—
  York cannot speak, unless he wear a crown.
—A crown for York!—And, Lords, bow low to him.

York.
She-wolf of France!—but worse than wolves of France!
Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth—
Oh tyger's heart, wrapt in a woman's hide!
How could'st thou drain the life blood of the child,
To bid the Father wipe his eyes withal,

And yet be seen to wear a woman's face?
Women are soft, mild, piteous, flexible—
Thou, stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, relentless.
Bid'st thou me rage?—Why, now thou hast thy will.
Would'st have me weep?—Why, now thou hast thy wish.
“For raging wind blows up incessant showers,
And, when the rage allays, the rain begins.”
These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies;
And every drop cries vengeance for his death.
That face of his
The hungry Cannibals would not have touch'd,
Would not have stain'd the roses just i' th' bud.
You're more inhuman, more inexorable,
—Oh ten times more!—than tygers of Hyrcania.
See, ruthless Queen, a wretched Father's tears!
This cloth thou dipp'dst in blood of my sweet boy,
And I with tears do wash the blood away.
Keep thou the kerchief, and go boast of this!
And, if thou tell'st the heavy story right,
Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears—
—Yea—even my foes will shed fast-falling tears,—
And say, “Alas! it was a piteous deed.”
—Oh! In thy need such comfort come to thee,
As now I reap at thy too cruel hand!
—Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world.
My soul to Heaven! My blood upon thy head!

“Buck.
Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin,
I could not, for my life, but weep with him.”

“Cliff.
Here's for my oath—here's for my father's death.” [Stabs him. York dies.]

“Queen.
Off with his head! And set it on York gates.
So York may overlook the town of York.

Flourish. Enter King Henry, with all the Red rose party.
Welcome, my Lord, to this brave battle field!
Yonder's the corse of that arch-enemy,
That sought to be encompass'd with your crown. (King Henry turns away his eyes.)
Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?

King.
Aye—as the rocks cheer him that fears a wreck.
To see this sight it irks my very soul.
Withold revenge, sweet Heaven! 'Tis not my fault;
Nor wittingly have I infringed my vow.”

“Cliff.
My gracious Lord, this too much lenity,
And harmful pity, must be laid aside.
To whom do Lions cast their gentle looks?
Not to the beast that would usurp their den.
Whose hand is that, the forest Bear doth lick?
This that spoils her young before her face.
Who 'scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting?
Not he that sets his foot upon her back.
The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on;
And Doves will peck, in safeguard of their brood.

“King.
Yet, tell me, Clifford! Didst thou never hear
That Heaven hath vengeance yet in store for blood?
Ah, Cousin York! Would thy best friends did know
How it doth grieve my soul to see thee thus!

“Queen.
My Lord, cheer up your spirits—our foes are nigh;
And this soft courage makes your followers faint.” Enter Buckingham.

“Buck.
Royal commanders, be in readiness!
For with a band of thirty thousand men
Comes Warwick, with the valiant Sons of York.”

“King.
Why so it is—Thus vengeance treads on Crime.
Oh pardon me, just Heaven, and shield my Son!”

“Queen.
Go, my good Lord, and leave us to our fortune.”

“King.
Why, that's my fortune too; and I will stay.

“Cliff.
Be it with steady purpose, then, to fight.
My royal Master, cheer these noble Lords,
And hearten those that fight in your defence!
Unsheath your sword, good Henry—Cry, Saint George!” [Flourish of Drums and Trumpets. The Curtain falls.] THE END.

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