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 earthy Sepulchre.
With this we charg'd again; but out! alas,
^{9 note}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 alarm 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 * ^notenoon-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 further;
So Doves do peck the Faulcon'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. [Draws.

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?
^{1 note}

And ten to one is no impeach of valour. [They lay hands on York, who struggles.

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

North.
So doth the cony struggle in the net. [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 stained ^{2 note}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 shouldst be mad;
And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus:
Stamp, rave and fret, that I may sing and dance.
Thou wouldst 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.
^{3 note}'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 couldst 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.
Wouldst 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 Cannibals
Would not have touch'd, ^{4 note}

But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,
Oh ten times more, than tygers of Hyrcania.
See, ruthless Queen, a hapless father's tears,
This cloth thou dip'dst in blood of my sweet boy,
And I with tears do wash the blood away.
Keep thou the napkin, 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!”— [He gives back the handkerchief.
There—Take the crown; and, with the crown my curse.
And 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 heav'n, my blood upon your heads.

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. [Stabs him.

York.
Open the 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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