Yor.
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. [Alarum heard.
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 ^note up my life;
Here must I stay, and here my life must end. Enter Queen, Clifford, Northumberland, and Soldiers.
Come, bloody Clifford,—rough Northumberland,—
I dare your quenchless fury to more rage;
I am your but, and I abide your shot.

Nor^th.
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 tumbl'd from his car,
And made an evening at the noon-tide prick.

Yor.
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 heaven,
Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with.
Why come you not? what! multitudes, and fear?

Cli.
So cowards fight, when they can fly no farther;
So doves do peck the falcon's piercing talons;
So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,
Breath out invectives 'gainst the officers.

Yor.
O, 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.

Cli.
I will not bandy with thee word for word;
But buckle ^note with thee blows, twice two for one. [assailing him.

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

Nor^th.
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. [joins with Cli.

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

Nor^th.
So doth the coney struggle in the net.

Yor.
So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty;
So true men yield, with robbers so o'er-match'd. [falls his Sword.

Nor^th.
What would your grace have done unto him now?

Que.
Brave warriors, Clifford, and Northumberland,
Come make him stand upon this mole-hill here;
That raught at mountains with out-stretched arms, ^note
Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.—
What! was it you, that would be England's king?
Was't you, that revel'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 ^note prodigy,
Dicky your boy, that, with his grumbling voice,
Was wont to chear 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 ^note issue from the bosom of the boy:
And, if thine eyes can water for his death,
I give thee this &dagger2; 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 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.
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.— [they give her a paper Crown.
Hold you his hands, whilst I do set it on.— [puts it upon his Head.
Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king!
Ay, this is he that took king Henry's chair;
And this is ^note he was his adopted heir.—
But how is it, that great Plantagenet
Is crown'd so soon, and broke ^note 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?
O, 'tis a fault too too unpardonable!—
Off with the crown; and, with the crown, his head;
And, whilst we breath, take time to do him dead.

Cli.
That is my office, for my father's death. ^note

Que.
Nay, stay; let's hear the orisons he makes.

Yor.
She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France,
Whose tongue more poisons ^note than the adder's tooth!
How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex,
To triumph, like an Amazonian trull,
Upon their woes ^note, whom fortune captivates?
But that thy face is vizard-like, unchanging,
Made impudent with use ^note of evil deeds,
I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush:
To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom ^note 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.
O tygress' ^note 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 bear a woman's face?
Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible;
Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.
Bid'st 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 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,—
'Gainst thee, fell Clifford,—and thee, false French-woman.

Nor^th.
Beshrew me, but his passions move ^note me so,
That hardly can I check my eyes ^note from tears.

Yor.
That face of his14Q0839 the hungry cannibals
Would not have touch'd, would not have stain'd with blood ^note:
But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,—
O, 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 &dagger2; 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 &dagger2; 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 heaven, my blood upon your heads!

Nor^th.
Had he been slaughter-man of all ^note my kin,
I could ^note not for my life but weep with him,
To see how inly ^note sorrow gripes his soul.

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

Cli.
Here's † for my oath, here's † for my father's death.

Que.
And here's † to right our gentle-hearted king. [stabbing him.

Yor.
Open thy gate ^note of mercy, gracious God!
My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee. [dies.

Que.
Off with his head, and set it on York gates;—
So York may over-look the town of York. [Exeunt.

Previous section