Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king! Is crown'd so soon, and broke his solemn oath? 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? I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush: Thy father bears the type of king of Naples, That beggars, mounted, run their horse to death. 'Tis government, that makes them seem divine; 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: And, in thy need, such comfort came to thee, 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 gates; So York may overlook the town of York. [Exeunt. '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-* *Or as a bear, encompass'd round with dogs; 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 I think it cites us, brother, to the field; Each one already blazing by our meeds,1 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;-by your You love the breeder better than the male. 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: '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 Short tale to make,-we at Saint Albans met, Ah, would she break from hence! that this my body With promise of high pay, and great rewards: 'Might in the ground be closed up in rest: 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, To weep, is to make 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; But all in vain; they had no heart to fight, Edw. Where is the duke of Norfolk, gentle And when came George from Burgundy to Eng land? 'War. Some six miles off the duke is with the 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 | SCENE II.-Before York. Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret, the Prince of Wales, Clifford, and Northumberland, with forces. hear: For thou shalt know, this strong right hand of mine not; 'Tis love, I bear thy glories, makes me speak. Q. Mar. Welcome, my lord, to this brave town Yonder's the head of that arch-enemy, To see this sight, it irks my very soul.- Cliff. My gracious liege, this too much lenity, And therefore comes my brother Montague. 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 lean; I of '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,) I come to pierce it,-or to give thee mine." * Edw. Then strike up, drums ;-God, and Saint George, for us! Enter a Messenger. War. How now? what news? Not his, that spoils her young before her face. Which argued thee a most unloving father. Who hath not seen them (even with those wings Should lose his birthright by his father's fault; Ah, what a shame were this! Look on the boy! But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear,- As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep, 'Than in possession any jot of pleasure. Ah, cousin York! 'would thy best friends did know 'How it doth grieve me that thy head is here! 'Q. Mar. My lord, cheer up your spirits; our foes are nigh, And this soft courage makes your followers faint. 'You promis'd knighthood to our forward son; Unsheath your sword, and dub him presently. Mess. The duke of Norfolk sends you word by Edward, kneel down. me, The queen is coming with a puissant host? And craves vour company for speedy counsel. War. Why then it sorts, brave warriors: Let's away. (1) Lofty. [Exeunt. (2) Why then things are as they should be. K. Hen. Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight; And learn this lesson,-Draw thy sword in right. I'll draw it as apparent to the crown, Prince. My gracious father, by your kingly leave, And in that quarrel use it to the death. Cliff. Why, that is spoken like a toward prince. (3) Foolishly. K. Hen. Why, that's fortune too; my therefore I'll stay. March. Enter Edward, George, Richard, War- And set thy diadem upon my head; Q. Mar. Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting boy! 'Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms, 'Before thy sovereign, and thy lawful king? Edw. I am his king, and he should bow his knee; I was adopted heir by his consent: K. Hen. Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak. Q. Mar. Defy them then, or else hold close thy lips. K. Hen. I pr'ythee, give no limits to my tongue; I am a king, and privileg'd to speak. Clif. My liege, the wound, that bred this meet- Cannot be cur'd by words; therefore be still. 'Prince. If that be right, which Warwick says There is no wrong, but every thing is right. But like a foul misshapen stigmatic, As venom toads, or lizards' dreadful stings. Rich. Iron of Naples, hid with English gilt, Whose father bears the title of a king (As if a channel' should be call'd the sea,) Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught, let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?" Edw. A wisp of straw were worth a thousand Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear, Who should succeed the father, but the son? 'Clif. Ay, crook-back; here I stand, to answer Or any he the proudest of thy sort. Rich. 'Twas you that killed young Rutland, was it not? crowns, To make this shameless callet' know herself.— *Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou, Although thy husband may be Menelaus; By that false woman, as this king by thee. Clif. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied. Rich. For God's sake, lords, give signal to the fight. War. What say'st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown? Q. Mar. Why, how now, long-tongued When you and I met at Saint Albans last, Clif. You said so much before, and yet you fled. 'North. No, nor your manhood, that durst make you stay. Had slipp'd our claim until another age. 'Geo. But, when we saw our sunshine made thy And that thy summer bred us no increase, Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently;-Or bath'd thy growing with our heated bloods. Clif. I slew thy father: Call'st thou him a child? As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland ; (1) i. e. Arrange your host, put your host in order. (3) One branded by nature. (4) Gilt is a superficial covering of gold. Edw. And, in this resolution, I defy thee; Q. Mar. Stay, Edward. Edw. No, wrangling woman; we'll no longer stay: (5) Kennel was then pronounced channel. (6) To show thy meanness of birth by thy inde cent railing. (7) Drab. (8) i. e. A cuckold. This may plant courage in their quailing? breasts ; [Ereunt. * For yet is hope of life, and victory. These words will cost ten thousand lives to-day. *Geo. Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair; 'Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us: 'What counsel give you, whither shall we fly? Edw. Bootless is flight, they follow us with wings; 'And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit. Enter Richard. Rich. Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn | thyself? 'Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk, 'Broach'd with the steely point of Clifford's lance; And, in the very pangs of death, he cried,Like to a dismal clangor heard from far,— Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death! 'So underneath the belly of their steeds, 'That stain'd their fetlocks in his smoking blood, 'The noble gentleman gave up the ghost. War. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood: I'll kill my horse, because I will not fly. *Why stand we like soft-hearted women here, *Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage; And look upon,' as if the tragedy *Were play'd in jest by counterfeiting actors? Here on my knee I vow to God above, I'll never pause again, never stand still, 'Till either death hath clos'd these eyes of mine, 'Or fortune given me measure of revenge. Elo. O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine; And, in this vow, do chain my soul to thine.4 And ere my knee rise from the earth's cold face, : I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee, Thou setter up and plucker down of kings!! Beseeching thee,-if with thy will it stands, That to my foes this body must be prey,→ 'Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope, And give sweet passage to my sinful soul!Now, lords, take leave until we meet again, Where'er it be, in heaven, or on earth. Rich. Brother, give me thy hand :and, gentle Warwick, "Let me embrace thee in my weary arms :'I, that did never weep, now melt with wo, 'That winter should cut off our spring-time so. 'War. Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell. Geo. Yet let us all together to our troops, 'And give them leave to fly that will not stay; And call them pillars, that will stand to us; And, if we thrive, promise them such rewards 'As victors wear at the Olympian games: (1) And are mere spectators. Fore-slow' no longer, make we hence amain. [Exeunt. SCENE_IV.-The same. Another part of the field. Excursions. Enter Richard and Clifford. Rich. Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone: Suppose, this arm is for the duke of York, And this for Rutland; both bound to revenge, 'Wert thou environ'd with a brazen wall. Clif. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone: This is the hand that stabb'd thy father York, And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland; And here's the heart that triumphs in their death, And cheers these hands, that slew thy sire and To execute the like upon thyself ; brother, And so, have at thee. [They fight. Warwick enters; Clifford flies. 'Rich. Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase; [Exe. 'For I myself will hunt this wolf to death. SCENE V.-Another part of the field. Alarum. Enter King Henry. K. Hen. This battle fares like to the morning's war, * When dying clouds contend with growing light ; * What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails, * Can neither call it perfect day, nor night. Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea, Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind; ، Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea 'Forc'd to retire by fury of the wind: 'Sometime, the flood prevails; and then, the wind; (Now, one the better; then, another best; ، Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered: So is the equal poise of this fell war. * Here on this molehill will I sit me down. * To whom God will, there be the victory ! 'For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too, 'Have chid me from the battle; swearing both, "They prosper best of all when I am thence. "Would I were dead! if God's good will were so: For what is in this world, but grief and wo? * O God! methinks, it were a happy life,. 'To be no better than a homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, * To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, * When this is known, then to divide the times : * So many hours must I contemplate; * So many hours must I sport myself: * So many days my ewes have been with young ; * So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean ; So many years ere I shall shear the fleece: * Sominutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years, Pass'd over to the end they were created, * Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. * Ah, what a life were this! how sweet; how lovely ! * Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade * To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, *Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy (2) Sinking into dejection. (3) To fore-slow is to be dilatory, to loiter |