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? Clif. So cowards fight, when they can fly no further;

'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 cowar

dice,

"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.

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 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.

[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;

"It is war's prize-] It is the estimation of people at war; the settled opinion.

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 Northumberland,

Come make him stand upon this molehill here;

8

"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.—

That raught - i. e. That reach'd. The antient preterite and participle passive of reach.

this napkin-] A napkin is a handkerchief.

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?
O, '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,

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.

2

3

' And will you pale] i. e. impale, encircle with a crown. to do him dead.] To kill him.

the type i. e. the distinguishing mark; an obsolete use of the word.

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:

+ 'Tis government, that makes them seem divine;] Government, in the language of that time, signified evenness of temper, and decency of manners. JOHNSON.

Septentrio, Lat.

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 North

umberland?

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

gates;

So York may overlook the town of York. [Exeunt.