When as the enemy hath been ten to one; Why should I not now have the like success? [Alarum. Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

SCENE III.. · Plains near Sandal Castle.

The same.

Alarum. Enter 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

Tutor.

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. Tut. And I, my lord, will bear him company. Clif. Soldiers, away with him.

Tut. Ah, Clifford ! murder not this innocent child, Lest thou be hated both of God and man.

[Exit, forced off by Soldiers. 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 threat'ning look. Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die ; I am too mean a subject for thy wrath, Be thou reveng'd on men, and let me live. Clif. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy; my father's blood

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.
[CLIFFORD stabs him.
Rul. Di faciant, laudis summa sit ista tuæ !
[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.

Or lambs pursu'd by hungry 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 cried, — Courage, father! fight it out!
And full as oft came Edward to my side,
With purple faulchion, painted to the hilt
In blood of those that had encounter'd him:
And when the hardiest warriors did retire,
Richard cried,—Charge! and give no foot of ground!
And cried, · A crown, or else a glorious tomb!
A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre !
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 QUEEN Margaret, CliffORD, NORTHUMBER
LAND, 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, show'd unto my father.
Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his car,
And made an evening at the noontide 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 heaven,
Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with.
Why come you not! what! multitudes, and fear?
Chif. So cowards fight, when they can fly no fur-
ther;

So doves do peck the falcon's piercing talons;
So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,
Breathe out invectives 'gainst the officers.

York. 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 coward
dice,

Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly cre this Clif. I will not bandy with thee word for word; But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one.

[Draws

Q. Mar. Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand

causes,

I would prolong awhile the traitor's life: Wrath makes him deaf: speak thou, Northumberland. North. Hold, Clifford; do not honour him

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.

[They lay hands on YORK, who struggles. Clif. Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin. North. So doth the coney 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-match'd. North. What would your grace have done unto him now?

Q. Mar. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northum-
berland,

Come, make him stand upon this molehill here;
That raught at mountains with outstretched 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 pr'ythee, grieve, to make me merry, York;
Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.
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.
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?
0, '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.
Q. Mar. Nay, stay; let's hear the orisons 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, visor-like, unchanging,
Made impudent with use of evil deeds,

would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush: Io 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 verified, —
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, tiger's heart, wrapp'd 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.

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

York. That face of his the hungry cannibals Would not have touch'd, would not have stain'd with blood:

But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,
O, ten times more, than tigers of Hyrcania.
See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears:
This cloth thou dipp'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:
[He gives back the handkerchief.
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 heaven, 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.

Q: Mar. 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.

Q. Mar. 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.

Q. Mar. Off with his head, and set it on York

SCENE I.-A Plain near Mortimer's Cross in Herefordshire.

Drums. Enter EDWARD, and RICHARD, with their Forces, marching.

Edw. I wonder, how our princely father 'scap'd; Or whether he be 'scap'd away, or no, From Clifford's and Northumberland's pursuit ; Had he been ta'en, we should have heard the news; Had he been slain, we should have heard the news; Or, had he 'scap'd, methinks, we should have heard The happy tidings of his good escape. · How fares my brother? why is he so sad?

Rich. I cannot joy, until I be resolv'd
Where our right valiant father is become.
I saw him in the battle range about;

And watch'd him, how he singled Clifford forth.
Methought, he bore him in the thickest troop,
As doth a lion in a herd of neat:

Or as a bear, encompass'd round with dogs;
Who having pinch'd a few, and made them cry,
The rest stand all aloof, and bark at him.
So far'd our father with his enemies;
•So fled his enemies my warlike father;
. Methinks, 'tis prize enough to be his son.
See how the morning opes her golden gates,
And takes her farewell of the glorious sun!
How well resembles it the prime of youth,
Trimm'd like a younker, prancing to his love!
Edw. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?
Rich. Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun;
Not separated with the racking clouds,
But sever'd in a pale clear-shining sky.
See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,
As if they "ow'd some league inviolable :
Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun.
In this the heaven figures some event.

Edw. 'Tis wondrous strange, the like yet never beard of.

I think, it cites us, brother, to the field;
That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet,
Each one already blazing by our meeds,
Should, notwithstanding, join our lights together,
And over-shine the earth, as this the world.
Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear
Upon my target three fair shining suns.
Rich. Nay, bear three daughters;
leave I speak it,

You love the breeder better than the male.

Enter a Messenger.

by your

But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretel
Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?

Mess. Ah, one that was a woful looker on,
When as the noble duke of York was slain,
Your princely father, and my loving lord.
Edw. O, speak no more! for I have heard too
much.

Rich. Say how he died, for I will hear it all. Mess. Environed he was with many foes; And stood against them, as the hope of Troy Against the Greeks, that would have enter'd Troy. But Hercules himself must yield to odds; And many strokes, though with a little axe, Hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.

By many hands your father was subdu'd;
But only slaughter'd by the ireful arm
of unrelenting Clifford, and the queen :
Who crown'd the gracious duke, in high despite;
Laugh'd in his face; and, when with grief he wept,
The ruthless queen gave him, to dry his cheeks,
A napkin steeped in the harmless blood
Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain :
And, after many scorns, many foul taunts,
They took his head, and on the gates of York
They set the same; and there it doth remain,
The saddest spectacle that e'er I view'd.

Edw. Sweet duke of York, our prop to lean upon;
Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay!—
O Clifford, boist'rous Clifford, thou hast slain
The flower of Europe for his chivalry;
And treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him,
For, hand to hand, he would have vanquish'd thee!-
Now my soul's palace is become a prison:
Ah, would she break from hence! that this my body
Might in the ground be closed up in rest:
For neyer henceforth shall I joy again,
Never, O never, shall I see more joy.

Rich. I cannot weep; for all my body's moisture Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart : Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burden; For self-same wind, that I should speak withal, Is kindling coals, that fire all my breast, And burn me up with flames, that tears would quench. To weep, is to inake less the depth of grief: Tears, then, for babes; blows, and revenge for me!-Richard, I bear thy name, I'll venge thy death, Or die renowned by attempting it.

Edw. His name that valiant duke hath left with

thee;

His dukedom and his chair with me is left.

Rich. Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird,
Show thy descent by gazing 'gainst the sun :
For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say;
Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his.
March.

Enter WARWICK and MoNtague, with
Forces.

War. How now, fair lords? What fare? what news abroad?

Rich. Great lord of Warwick, if we should recount Our baleful news, and, at each word's deliverance, Stab poniards in our flesh, till all were told, The words would add more anguish than the wounds. O valiant lord, the duke of York is slain.

Edw. O Warwick! Warwick! that Plantagenet Which held thee dearly, as his soul's redemption, Is by the stern lord Clifford done to death.

War. Ten days ago I drown'd these news in tears: And now, to add more measure to your woes, I come to tell you things since then befall'n. After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought, Where your brave father breath'd his latest gasp. Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run, Were brought me of your loss, and his depart. I then in London, keeper of the king, Muster'd my soldiers, gather'd flocks of friends, And very well appointed, as I thought, March'd towards Saint Alban's to intercept the

queen,

Bearing the king in my behalf along:
For by my scouts I was advertised,
That she was coming with a full intent
To dash our late decree in parliament,
Touching king Henry's oath, and your succession.
Short tale to make, we at Saint Alban's met,
Our battles join'd, and both sides fiercely fought:
But, whether 'twas the coldness of the king,
Who look'd full gently on his warlike queen ;
That robb'd my soldiers of their hated spleen ;
Or whether 'twas report of her success;
Or more than common fear of Clifford's rigour,
Who thunders to his captives — blood and death,
I cannot judge: but, to conclude with truth,
Their weapons like to lightning came and went;
Our soldiers-like the night-owl's lazy flight,
Or like a lazy thrasher with a flail,
Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends.
I cheer'd them up with justice of our cause,
With promise of high pay, and great rewards:
But all in vain; they had no heart to fight,
And we, in them, no hope to win the day,
So that we fled the king, unto the queen;
Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and myself,
In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you;
For in the marches here, we heard, you were,
Making another head to fight again.

Edw. Where is the duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick ?

And when came George from Burgundy to England? War. Some six miles off the duke is with the

soldiers :

And for your brother, he was lately sent
From your kind aunt, duchess of Burgundy,
With aid of soldiers to this needful war.

Rich. 'Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick

fled:

Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit,
But ne'er, till now, his scandal of retire.

War. Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou

hear;

For thou shalt know, this strong right hand of mine
Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry's head,
And wring the awful scepter from his fist;
Were he as famous and as bold in war,

As he is fam'd for mildness, peace, and prayer.
Rich. I know it well, lord Warwick: blame me
not;

Tis love, I bear thy glories, makes me speak.
But, in this troublous time, what's to be done?
Shall we go throw away our coats of steel,
And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns,
Numbering our Ave-Maries with our beads?
Or shall we on the helmets of our foes
Tell our devotion with revengeful arms?
If for the last, say, Ay, and to it, lords.
War. Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you

out;

And therefore comes my brother Montague.
Attend me,
lords. The proud insulting queen,
With Clifford, and the haught Northumberland,
And of their feather, many more proud birds,
Have wrought the easy melting king like wax.
He swore consent to your succession,
His oath enrolled in the parliament;
And now to London all the crew are gone,
To frustrate both his oath, and what beside
May make against the house of Lancaster.
Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong:
Now, if the help of Norfolk, and myself,

With all the friends that thou, brave earl of March,
Amongst the loving Welchman canst procure,
Will but amount to five and twenty thousand,
Why, Via! to London will we march amain;
And once again bestride our foaming steeds,
And once again cry → Charge upon our foes!
But never once again turn back, and fly.

Rich. Ay, now, methinks, I hear great Warwick speak:

Ne'er may he live to see a sunshine day,
That cries Retire, if Warwick bid him stay.

Edw. Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean; And when thou fall'st (as God forbid the hour!) Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forefend !

War. No longer earl of March, but duke of York;
The next degree is, England's royal throne:
For king of England shalt thou be proclaim'd
In every borough as we pass along;

And he that throws not up his cap for joy,
Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head.
King Edward, valiant Richard, — Montague,
Stay we no longer dreaming of renown,
But sound the trumpets, and about our task.
Rich. Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as
steel,

(As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds,)
come to pierce it, or to give thee mine.
Edw. Then strike up, drums ;- God, and Saint
George, for us!

Q. Mar. Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York.

Yonder's the head of that arch-enemy,
That sought to be encompass'd with your crown:
Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?
K. Hen. Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear
their wreck;

To see this sight, it irks my very soul.
Withhold revenge, dear God! 'tis not my fault,
Not wittingly have I infring'd my vow.

Clif. My gracious liege, this too much lenity
And harmful pity must be laid aside.
To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?
Not to the beast that would usurp their den..
Whose hand is that, the forest bear doth lick?
Not his, that spoils her young before her face.
Who 'scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting?
Not he that sets his foot upon her back.

The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on;
And doves will peck, in safeguard of their brood.
Ambitious York did level at thy crown,
Thou smiling, while he knit his angry brows:
He, but a duke, would have his son a king,
And raise his issue, like a loving sire;
Thou, being a king, bless'd with a goodly son,
Didst yield consent to disinherit him,
Which argued thee a most unloving father.