Thy father bears the type of king of Naples, 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 make 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, 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 Frenchwoman. [me so, North. Beshrew me, but his passions move That hardly can I check my eyes from tears. York. That face of his the hungry cannibals Would not have tonch'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, And, in thy need, such comfort come to thee, Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world; I should not for my life but weep with him, Q. Mar. What, weeping-ripe, my Lord Nor- Think but upon the wrong he did us all, 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. ACT II. [Exeunt. SCENE I. A Plain near Mortimer's Cross in Drums. Enter EDWARD and RICHARD, with 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. And watch'd him how he singled Clifford forth. Or as a bear encompass'd round with dogs; Edw. 'Tis wondrous strange, the like yet never I think, it cites us, brother, to the field; And overshine the earth, as this the world. Rich. Nay, bear three daughters ;-by your You love the breeder better than the male. Enter a Messenger. But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell 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, 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; 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: Might in the ground be closed up in rest: Rich. I cannot weep; for all my body's mois ture Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart: Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burden; For selfsame 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 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; 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 deliver ance, 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, queen, Bearing the king in my behalf along: |