Rut.
Ah, whither shall I fly, to scape their hands?
Ah, Tutor, look, where bloody Clifford comes. Enter Clifford, and Soldiers.

Clif.
Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy life;
As for the Brat of this accursed Duke,
Whose father slew my father, he shall die.

Tutor.
And I, my lord, will bear him company.

Clif.
Soldiers, away, and drag him hence perforce.

Tutor.
Ah! Clifford, murther not this innocent child,
Lest thou be hated both of God and man. [Exit, drag'd off.

Clif.
How now? is he dead already? or, is it fear
That makes him close his eyes? I'll open them.

Rut.
So looks the pent-up Lion o'er the wretch
That trembles under his devouring paws;
And so he walks insulting o'er his prey,
And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder.
Ah gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword,
And not with such a cruel threatning look.
Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die:
I am too mean a Subject of thy wrath,
Be thou reveng'd on men, and let me live.

Clif.
In vain thou speak'st, poor boy: my father's blood
Hath stopt the passage where thy words should enter.

Rut.
Then let my father's blood open't again:
He is a man, and, Clifford, coape with him.

Clif.
Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine
Were not Revenge sufficient for me:
No, if I digg'd up thy forefathers' graves,
And hung their rotten coffins up in chains,
It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart.
The sight of any of the House of York

Is as a Fury to torment my soul:
And till I root out their accursed Line,
And leave not one alive, I live in hell.
Therefore—

Rut.
O let me pray, before I take my death:
To thee I pray—sweet Clifford, pity me.

Clif.
Such pity, as my rapier's point affords.

Rut.
I never did thee harm; why wilt thou slay me?

Clif.
Thy father hath.

Rut.
But 'twas, ere I was born.
Thou hast one son, for his sake pity me;
Lest, in revenge thereof, (sith God is just)
He be as miserably slain as I.
Ah, let me live in prison all my days,
And when I give occasion of offence,
Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause.

Clif.
No cause!
Thy father slew my father, therefore die. [Clif. stabs him.

Rut.
Dii faciant, laudis summa sit ista tuæ!(6) ^note [Dies.

Clif.
Plantagenet, I come, Plantagenet!
And this thy son's blood cleaving to my blade
Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood,
Congeal'd with this, do make me wipe off both. [Exit. Alarum. Enter Richard Duke of York.

York.
The army of the Queen hath got the field:
My Uncles both are slain in rescuing me,
And all my Followers to the eager foe
Turn Back, and fly like ships before the wind,
Or lambs pursu'd 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 cry'd, 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;
And cry'd, a Crown, or else a glorious tomb,
A Scepter or an earthly Sepulcher.
With this we charg'd again; but out! alas,
We bodg'd again; as I have seen a Swan
With bootless labour swim against the tide,
And spend her strength with over-matching waves. [A short alarum within.
Ah! hark, the fatal followers do pursue,
And I am faint and cannot fly their fury,
And were I strong, I would not shun their fury.
The sands are number'd, that make up my life;
Here must I stay, and here my life must end. Enter the Queen, Clifford, Northumberland, the Prince of Wales, and Soldiers.
Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,
I dare your quenchless fury to more Rage:
I am your Butt, and I abide your Shot.

North.
Yield to our Mercy, proud Plantagenet.

Clif.
Ay, to such Mercy as his ruthless arm
With downright payment shew'd unto my father.
Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his Car,
And made an evening at the noon-tide prick.

York.
My ashes, as the Phœnix, may bring forth
A bird that will revenge upon you all:
And in that Hope I throw mine eyes to heav'n,
Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with.
Why come you not? what! multitudes and fear?

Clif.
So cowards fight, when they can fly no farther;
So Doves do peck the Falcon's piercing talons;
So desp'rate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,
Breathe out invectives 'gainst the officers.

York.
Oh Clifford, but bethink thee once again,
And in thy thought o'er-run my former time;
And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face,

And bite thy tongue that slanders him with cowardise,
Whose frown hath made thee faint, and fly ere this.

Clif.
I will not bandy with thee word for word,
But buckle with thee blows twice two for one.(7) ^note

Queen.
Hold, valiant Clifford; for a thousand causes
I would prolong a while the traitor's life:
Wrath makes him deaf; speak thou, Northumberland.

North.
Hold, Clifford; do not honour him so much,
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?
It is war's prize to take all vantages;
And ten to one is no impeach of valour.

Clif.
Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin.

North.
So doth the cony struggle in the net. [In the Struggle York is taken Prisoner.

York.
So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty;
So true men yield, with robbers so o'er-matcht.

North.
What would your Grace have done unto him now?

Queen.
Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,
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?
Was't you, that revell'd in our Parliament,
And made a preachment of your high Descent?
Where are your mess of sons to back you now,
The wanton Edward, and the lusty George?
And where's that valiant crook-back'd Prodigy,
Dicky your boy, that with his grumbling voice
Was wont to cheer his Dad in mutinies?
Or with the rest, where is your darling Rutland?
Look, York; I stain'd this napkin with the blood,
That valiant Clifford with his rapier's point
Made issue from the bosom of the boy:
And if thine eyes can water for his death,
I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal.
Alas! poor York; but that I hate thee deadly,
I should lament thy miserable state.
I pr'ythee, grieve, to make me merry, York.
What, hath thy fiery heart so parcht 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:
Stamp, rave and fret, that I may sing and dance.
Thou would'st be fee'd, I see, to make me sport:
York cannot speak, unless he wear a Crown.
A Crown for York—and, lords, bow low to him:
Hold you his hands, whilst I do set it on. [Putting a Paper Crown on his head.
Ay, marry, Sir, now looks he like a King:
Ay, this is he, that took King Henry's chair;
And this is he, was his adopted heir.
But how is it, that great Plantagenet
Is crown'd so soon, and broke his solemn oath?
As I bethink me, you should not be King
Till our King Henry had shook hands with death.
And will you pale your head in Henry's Glory,
And rob his Temples of the Diadem,
Now in his life, against your holy oath?
Oh, 'tis a fault too too unpardonable:
Off with the Crown; and with the Crown, his head;
And whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead.

Clif.
That is my office, for my father's sake.

Queen.
Nay, stay, let's hear the Oraisons he makes

York.
She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France,
Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth!
How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex
To triumph, like an Amazonian trull,
Upon their woes, whom fortune captivates?
But that thy face is, vizor-like, unchanging,
Made impudent with use of evil deeds,
I would assay, proud Queen, to make thee blush.
To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom deriv'd,
Were Shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless:
Thy father bears the type of King of Naples,
Of both the Sicils and Jerusalem,
Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman.
Hath that poor Monarch taught thee to insult?
It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud Queen,
Unless the Adage must be verify'd,
“That beggars, mounted, run their horse to death.”
'Tis Beauty, that doth oft make women proud;
But, God, he knows, thy share thereof is small.
'Tis Virtue, that doth make them most admir'd;
The contrary doth make thee wonder'd at.
'Tis Government, that makes them seem divine;
The want thereof makes thee abominable.
Thou art as opposite to every good,
As the Antipodes are unto us,
Or as the South to the Septentrion.
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, pitiful and flexible;
Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.
Bidst thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy Wish.
Would'st have me weep? why, now thou hast thy Will.
For raging wind blows up incessant show'rs.

And when the rage allays, the rain begins.
These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies;
And ev'ry drop cries vengeance for his death,
'Gainst thee, fell Clifford; and thee, false French woman.

North.
Beshrew me, but his passions move me so;
That hardly can I check mine eyes from tears.

York.
That face of his
The hungry Canibals would not have touch'd,
Would not have stain'd the roses juic'd with blood:(8) ^note

North.
Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin,
I should not for my life but weep with him,
To see how inly Sorrow gripes his soul.

Queen.
What, weeping-ripe, my lord Northumberland?
Think but upon the wrong he did us all,
And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.

Clif.
Here's for my oath, here's for my father's death. [Stabbing him.

Queen.
And here's to right our gentle-hearted King.

York.
Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God!
My soul flies through these wounds, to seek out thee. [Dies.

Queen.
Off with his Head, and set it on York gates;
So York may overlook the Town of York. [Exeunt.

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