WARWICK.
I wonder how the King escap'd our Hands?

York.
While we pursu'd the Horsemen of the North,
He slily stole away, and left his Men:
Whereat the great Lord of Northumberland,
Whose warlike Ears could never brook Retreat,
Chear'd up the drooping Army, and himself,
Lord Clifford and Lord Stafford all a breast,
Charg'd our main Battel's Front; and breaking in,
Were by the Swords of common Soldiers slain.

Edw.
Lord Stafford's Father, Duke of Buckingham,
Is either slain or wounded dangerous.
I cleft his Beaver with a down-right blow:
That this is true, Father, behold his Blood.

Mount.
And, Brother, here's the Earl of Wiltshire's Blood,
Whom I encountred as the Battels join'd.

Rich.
Speak thou for me, and tell them what I did.

York.
Richard hath best deserv'd of all my Sons:
But is your Grace dead, my Lord of Somerset?

Norf.
Such hope have all the Line of John of Gaunt.

Rich.
Thus do I hope to shake King Henry's Head.

War.
And so do I, victorious Prince of York.
Before I see thee seated in the Throne,
Which now the House of Lancaster usurps,
I vow by Heav'n, these Eyes shall never close.
This is the Palace of the fearful King,
And this the Regal Seat; possess it York,
For this is thine, and not King Henry's Heirs.

York.
Assist me then, sweet Warwick, and I will;
For hither we have broken in by force.

Norf.
We'll all assist you; he that flies shall die.

York.
Thanks, gentle Norfolk; stay by me my Lords,
And Soldiers stay and lodge by me this Night. [They go up.

War.
And when the King comes, offer him no violence,
Unless he seek to thrust you out by force.

York.
The Queen this day here holds her Parliament,
But little thinks we shall be of her Counsel;
By Words or Blows here let us win our right.

Rich.
Arm'd as we are, let's stay within this House.

War.
The bloody Parliament shall this be call'd,
Unless Plantagenet, Duke of York, be King,
And bashful Henry depos'd, whose Cowardise
Hath made us by-words to our Enemies.

York.
Then leave me not, my Lords, be resolute,
I mean to take possession of my Right.

War.
Neither the King, nor he that loves him best,
The proudest He that holds up Lancaster,
Dares stir a Wing, if Warwick shake his Bells.
I'll plant Plantagenet, root him up who dare:
Resolve thee Richard, claim the English Crown. Enter King Henry, Clifford, Northumberland, Westmorland, Exeter, and others.

K. Henry.
My Lords, look where the sturdy Rebel sits,
Even in the Chair of State; belike he means,
Back'd by the Power of Warwick, that false Peer,
To aspire unto the Crown, and Reign as King,
Earl of Northumberland, he slew thy Father,

And thine, Lord Clifford, and you have both vow'd revenge
On him, his Sons, his Favourites, and his Friends.

North.
If I be not, Heav'ns be reveng'd on me.

Clif.
The hope thereof makes Clifford mourn in Steel.

West.
What, shall we suffer this? Let's pluck him down.
My Heart for anger burns, I cannot brook it.

K. Henry.
Be patient, gentle Earl of Westmorland.

Clif.
Patience is for Poltroons, and such is he:
He durst not sit there had your Father liv'd.
My gracious Lord, here in the Parliament
Let us assail the Family of York.

North.
Well hast thou spoken, Cousin be it so.

K. Henry.
Ah, know you not the City favours them,
And they have Troops of Soldiers at their beck?

West.
But when the Duke is slain, they'll quickly fly.

K. Henry.
Far be the thought of this from Henry's Heart,
To make a Shambles of the Parliament House.
Cousin of Exeter, Frowns, Words, and Threats,
Shall be the War that Henry means to use.
Thou factious Duke of York, descend my Throne,
And kneel for Grace and Mercy at my Feet,
I am thy Soveraign.

York.
Henry I am thine.

Exe.

For shame come down, he made thee Duke of York.

York.
It was my Inheritance, as the Earldom was.

Exe.
Thy Father was a Traitor to the Crown.

War.
Exeter thou art a Traitor to the Crown,
In following this usurping Henry.

Clif.
Whom should he follow, but his natural King?

War.
True, Clifford, and that's Richard Duke of York.

K. Henry.
And shall I stand, and thou sit in my Throne?

York.
It must and shall be so, content thy self.

War.
Be Duke of Lancaster, let him be King.

West.
He is both King and Duke of Lancaster,
And that the Lord of Westmorland shall maintain.

War.
And Warwick shall disprove it. You forget,
That we are those which chas'd you from the Field,
And slew your Fathers, and with Colours spread
March'd through the City to the Palace Gates.

North.
Yes, Wawick, I remember it to my grief.
And by his Soul, thou and thy House shall rue it.

West.
Plantagenet, of thee and these thy Sons,
Thy Kinsmen, and thy Friends, I'll have more lives
Than drops of Blood were in my Father's Veins.

Clif.
Urge it no more, lest that instead of words
I send thee, Warwick, such a Messenger,
As shall revenge his Death, before I stir.

War.
Poor Clifford! how I scorn his worthless Threats.

York.
Will you, we shew our Title to the Crown?
If not, our Swords shall plead it in the Field.

K. Henry.
What Title hast thou, Traitor, to the Crown?
Thy Father was, as thou art, Duke of York,
Thy Grandfather Roger Mortimer, Earl of March.
I am the Son of Henry the Fifth,
Who made the Dauphin and the French to stoop,
And seiz'd upon their Towns and Provinces.

War.
Talk not of France, sith thou hast lost it all.

K. Henry.
The Lord Protector lost it, and not I;
When I was Crown'd I was but nine Months old.

Rich.
You are old enough now,
And yet methinks you lose:
Father, tear the Crown from the Usurper's Head.

Edw.
Sweet Father do so, set it on your Head.

Mount.
Good Brother,
As thou lov'st and honourest Arms,
Let's fight it out, and not stand cavelling thus.

Rich.

Sound Drums and Trumpets, and the King will fly.

York.

Sons, Peace.

K. Henry.
Peace thou, and give King Henry leave to speak.

War.
Plantagenet shall speak first: Hear him Lords,
And be you silent and attentive too,
For he that interrupts him, shall not live.

K. Henry.
Think'st thou that I will leave my Kingly Throne,
Wherein my Grandsire and my Father sat?
No; first shall War unpeople this my Realm;
Ay, and their Colours often born in France,
And now in England, to our Hearts great Sorrow,
Shall be my Winding-sheet: Why faint you, Lords?
My Title's good, and better far than his.

War.
But prove it, Henry, and thou shalt be King.

K. Henry.
Henry the Fourth by Conquest got the Crown.

York.
'Twas by Rebellion against his King.

K. Henry.
I know not what to say, my Title's weak:
Tell me, may not a King adopt an Heir?

York.
What then?

K. Henry.
And if he may, then am I lawful King:
For Richard, in the view of many Lords,
Resign'd the Crown to Henry the Fourth,
Whose Heir my Father was, and I am his.

York.
He rose against him, being his Soveraign,
And made him to resign his Crown perforce.

War.
Suppose, my Lords, he did it unconstrain'd,
Think you 'twere prejudicial to his Crown?

Exe.
No; for he could not so resign his Crown,
But that the next Heir should succeed and reign.

K. Henry.
Art thou against us, Duke of Exeter?

Exe.
His is the right, and therefore pardon me.

York.
Why whisper you, my Lords, and answer not?

Exe.
My Conscience tells me, he is lawful King.

K. Henry.
All will revolt from me, and turn to him.

North.
Plantagenet, for all the claim thou lay'st,
Think not, that Henry shall be depos'd.

War.
Depos'd he shall be, in despite of all.

North.
Thou art deceiv'd:
'Tis not thy Southern Power
Of Essex, Norfolk, Suffolk, nor of Kent,
Which makes thee thus presumptuous and proud,
Can set the Duke up in despight of me.

Clif.
King Henry, be thy Title right or wrong,
Lord Clifford vows to fight in thy defence;
May that ground gape, and swallow me alive,
Where I shall kneel to him that slew my Father.

K. Henry.
Oh Clifford, how thy words revive my Heart.

York.
Henry of Lancaster, resign thy Crown:
What mutter you, or what conspire you, Lords?

War.
Do right unto this Princely Duke of York,
Or I will fill the House with armed Men,
And o'er the Chair of State, where now he sits,
Write up his Title with usurping Blood. [He stamps with his foot, and the Soldiers shew themselves.

K. Henry.
My Lord of Warwick, hear me but one word;
Let me for this time reign as King.

York.
Confirm the Crown to me, and to mine Heirs,
And thou shalt Reign in quiet while thou liv'st.

K. Henry.
I am content: Richard Plantagenet,
Enjoy the Kingdom after my decease.

Clif.
What wrong is this unto the Prince, your Son?

War.
What good is this to England, and himself?

West.
Base, fearful, and despairing Henry!

Clif.
How hast thou injur'd both thy self and us!

West.
I cannot stay to hear these Articles.

North.
Nor I.

Clif.
Come Cousin, let us tell the Queen these News.

West.
Farewel, faint-hearted and degenerate King,
In whose cold Blood no spark of Honour bides.

North.
Be thou a prey unto the House of York,
And die in Bands, for this unmanly deed.

Clif.
In dreadful War, may'st thou be overcome,
Or live in Peace abandon'd and despis'd. [Exeunt Nor. Cliff. Westm.

War.
Turn this way, Henry, and regard them not.

Exe.
They seek revenge, and therefore will not yield.

K. Henry.
Ah Exeter!—

War.
Why should you sigh, my Lord?

K. Henry.
Not for my self, Lord Warwick, but my Son,
Whom I unnaturally shall disinherit.
But be it as it may; I here entail
The Crown to thee, and to thine Heirs for ever;
Conditionally, that here you take an Oath,
To cease this Civil War; and whilst I live,
To honour me as thy King and Soveraign:
Neither by Treason nor Hostility,
To seek to put me down, and Reign thy self.

York.
This Oath I willingly take, and will perform.

War.
Long live King Henry: Plantagenet, embrace him.

K. Henry.
And long live thou, and these thy forward Sons.

York.
Now York and Lancaster are reconcil'd.

Exe.
Accurst be he that seeks to make them Foes. Sonet. Here they come down.

York.
Farewel, my gracious Lord, I'll to my Castle.

War.
And I'll keep London with my Soldiers.

Norf.
And I to Norfolk with my Followers.

Mount.
And I unto the Sea from whence I came. [Exe.

K. Henry.
And I with grief and sorrow to the Court. Enter the Queen, and the Prince of Wales.

Exe.
Here comes the Queen,
Whose looks bewray her anger:
I'll steal away.

K. Henry.
Exeter so will I: [Going.

Queen.
Nay, go not from me I will follow thee—

K. Henry.
Be patient, gentle Queen, and I will stay.

Queen.
Who can be patient in such extreams?
Ah wretched Man! would I had dy'd a Maid,
And never seen thee, never born thee Son,
Seeing thou hast prov'd so unnatural a Father.
Hath he deserv'd to lose his Birth-right thus?
Hadst thou but lov'd him half so much as I,
Or felt that pain which I did for him once,
Or nourisht him, as I did with my Blood;
Thou wouldst have left thy dearest Heart-blood there,
Rather than made that Savage Duke thine Heir,
And disinherited thine only Son.

Prince.
Father, you cannot disinherit me:
If you be King, why should not I succeed?

K. Henry.
Pardon me, Margaret; pardon me, sweet Son;
The Earl of Warwick and the Duke enforc'd me.

Queen.
Enforc'd thee? art thou King, and wilt be forc'd?
I shame to hear thee speak; ah timorous Wretch!
Thou hast undone thy self, thy Son, and me,
And given unto the House of York such head,
As thou shalt Reign but by their sufferance.
To entail him and his Heirs unto the Crown,
What is it, but to make thy Sepulchre,
And creep into it far before thy time?
Warwick is Chancellor, and the Lord of Calais,
Stern Faulconbridge commands the narrow Seas,
The Duke is made Protector of the Realm,
And yet shalt thou be safe? such safety finds
The trembling Lamb, invironed with Wolves.
Had I been there, which am a silly Woman,
The Soldiers should have toss'd me on their Pikes,
Before I would have granted to that Act.

But thou preferr'st thy Life before thine honour.
And seeing thou dost, I here divorce my self,
Both from thy Table, Henry, and thy Bed,
Until that Act of Parliament be repealed,
Whereby my Son is disinherited.
The Northern Lords, that have forsworn thy Colours,
Will follow mine, if once they see them spread:
And spread they shall be, to thy soul disgrace,
And utter ruin of the House of York,
Thus do I leave thee; come Son, let's away,
Our Army is ready, come, we'll after them.

K. Henry.
Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me speak.

Queen.

Thou hast spoke too much already; get thee gone.

K. Henry.
Gentle Son Edward, thou wilt stay with me?

Queen.
Ay, to be murther'd by his Enemies.

Prince.
When I return with Victory from the Field,
I'll see your Grace; 'till then I'll follow her.

Queen.
Come, Son, away, we may not linger thus. [Exeunt Queen and Prince.

K. Henry.
Poor Queen,
How love to me, and to her Son,
Hath made her break out into terms of Rage.
Reveng'd may she be on that hateful Duke,
Whose haughty Spirit, winged with desire,
Will cost my Crown, and like an empty Eagle,
Tire on the Flesh of me, and of my Son.
The loss of those three Lords torments my Heart;
I'll write unto them, and entreat them fair;
Come, Cousin, you shall be the Messenger.

Exe.
And I hope shall reconcile them all. [Exit. Enter Richard, Edward, and Mountague.

Rich.
Brother, though I be youngest, give me leave.

Edw.
No, I can better play the Orator.

Mount.
But I have reasons strong and forcible. Enter the Duke of York.

York.
Why, how now Sons and Brother, at a strife?
What is your Quarrel? how began it first?

Edw.
No Quarrel, but a slight Contention.

York.
About what?

Rich.
About that which concerns your Grace and us,
The Crown of England, Father, which is yours.

York.
Mine, Boy? not 'till King Henry be dead.

Rich.
Your Right depends not on his Life, or Death.

Edw.
Now, you are Heir, therefore enjoy it now:
By giving the House of Lancaster leave to breathe,
It will out-run you, Father, in the end.

York.
I took an Oath, that he should quietly Reign.

Edw.
But for a Kingdom any Oath may be broken:
I would break a thousand Oaths to Reign one Year.

Rich.
No; God forbid your Grace should be forsworn.

York.
I shall be, if I claim by open War.

Rich.
I'll prove the contrary, if you'll hear me speak.

York.
Thou can'st not, Son, it is impossible.

Rich.
An Oath is of no moment, being not took
Before a true and lawful Magistrate,
That hath Authority over him that Swears.
Henry had none, but did usurp the Place.
Then seeing 'twas he that made you to depose,
Your Oath, my Lord, is vain and frivolous.
Therefore to Arms: and, Father, do but think,
How sweet a thing it is to wear a Crown,
Within whose Circuit is Elysium,
And all that Poets feign of Bliss and Joy.
Why do we linger thus? I cannot rest,
Until the white Rose that I wear, be dy'd
Even in the lukewarm Blood of Henry's Heart.

York.
Richard, enough: I will be King, or die.
Brother, thou shalt to London presently,
And whet on Warwick to this Enterprize.
Thou, Richard, shalt go to the Duke of Norfolk,
And tell him privily of our intent.
You, Edward, shall unto my Lord Cobham,
With whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise.
In them I trust; for they are Soldiers,
Witty, courteous, liberal, full of Spirit.
While you are thus employ'd, what resteth more,
But that I seek occasion how to rise?
And yet the King not privy to my drift,
Nor any of the House of Lancaster. Enter Gabriel.
But stay, what News? why com'st thou in such post?

Gab.
The Queen,

With all the Northern Earls and Lords,
Intend here to besiege you in your Castle.
She is hard by, with twenty thousand Men;
And therefore fortifie your Hold, my Lord.

York.
Ay, with my Sword.
What, think'st thou that we fear them?
Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me,
My Brother Montague shall post to London.
Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest,
Whom we have left Protectors of the King,
With powerful Policy strengthen themselves,
And trust not simple Henry, nor his Oaths.

Mont.
Brother, I go: I'll win them, fear it not.
And thus most humbly I do take my leave. [Exit Montague. Enter Sir John Mortimer, and Sir Hugh Mortimer.

York.
Sir John, and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine Uncles,
You are come to Sandal in a happy hour.
The Army of the Queen means to besiege us.

Sir John.
She shall not need, we'll meet her in the Field.

York.
What, with five thousand Men?

Rich.
Ay, with five hundred, Father, for a need.
A Woman's General; what should we fear? [A march afar off.

Edw.
I hear their Drums:
Let's set our Men in order,
And issue forth, and bid them Battel streight.

York.
Five Men to twenty, though the odds be great,
I doubt not, Uncle, of our Victory.
Many a Battel have I won in France,
When as the Enemy hath been ten to one:
Why should I not now have the like Success? [Alarum. Exit. Enter Rutland, and his Tutor.

Rut.
Ah, whether shall I flie, to scape their Hands?
Ah, Tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes. Enter Clifford.

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 with him.

Tutor.
Ah Clifford, murther not this innocent Child,
Lest thou be hated both of God and Man. [Exit.

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 Lyon 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 it again,
He is a Man, and, Clifford, cope 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 Fore-fathers 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 e'er 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.

Rut.
Dii faciant, laudis summa sit ista tuæ. [Stabs him.

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 come Edward to my side,
With Purple Falchion, painted to the Hilt
In Blood of those that had encountred 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 numbred 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 Falcons piercing Talons,
So desperate Thieves, all hopeless of their Lives,
Breath 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 Cowardice,
Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly e'er this.

Clif.
I will not bandy with thee Word for Word,
But buckler with thee Blows twice two for one.

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 Wars 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.

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 caught 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 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 prithee grieve, to make me merry, York.
What, hath thy fiery Heart so parcht thine Intrails,
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 Plantaganet
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 this Life against the holy Oath?
Oh, 'tis a fault too too unpardonable.
Off with the Crown, and with the Crown his Head,
And whilst we breath take him to do him dead.

Clif.
That is my Office, for my Father's sake.

Queen.
Nay stay, let's here the Orizons 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 Vizard-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 wondred 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 every drop cries vengeance to 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 toucht,
Would not have stain'd the Roses just with Blood:
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.
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.

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

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.