Then let me die, for now thou haft no caufe. Clif. No cause? thy Father flew my Father, therefore die. [Stabs him.
Rut. Dii faciant, laudis fumma fit ista tua.
Clif. Plantagenet, I come, Plantagenet.
And this thy Son's Blood cleaving to my Blade,
Shall ruft upon my Weapon, 'till thy Blood
Congeal'd with this, do make me wipe off both.
Alarum. Enter Richard Duke of York.
York. The Army of the Queen hath got the Field:
My Uncles both are flain 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 fide,
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 chatg'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.
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
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 Phoenix, 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 lufty 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 miferable 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 fing and dance.
Thou would'st be fee'd, I fee, 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 fet 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 fo foon, and broke his folemn Oath ?
As I bethink me, you should not be King,
'Till our King Henry had hook 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 whilft we breath take him to do him dead.
Clif. That is my Office, for my Father's fake.
Queen. Nay stay, let's here the Orizons he makess
York. She-Wolf of France,
But worse than Wolves of France,
Whose Tongue more poisons than the Adder's Tooth:
How ill-befeeming 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 affay, proud Queen, to make thee blush.
To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom deriv'd,
Were shame enough to shame thee
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 infult?
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 Heat, wrapt in a Woman's Hide,
How could'it 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 Ruiland's Off quies,
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 fo,
That hardly can I check mine Eyes from Tears.
VOL. IV.
York.
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'ft the heavy Story right,
Upon my Soul, the Hearers will shed Tears:
Yea, even my Foes will shed faft-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 fee 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.
York. Open thy Gate of Mercy, gracious God. My Soul flies through these Wounds, to seekout thee. [Dies. Queen. Off with his Head, and set it on York Gates,
So York may overlook the Town of York.
A March. Enter Edward, Richard, and their Power.
Wonder how our Princely Father scap'd;
Or whether he be scap'd away, or no,
Fpom Clifford's, and Northumberland's pursuit?
Had he been ta'en we should have heard the News;
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