Queen. Hold, valiant Clifford; for a thousand . I would prolong a while the traitor's life. [caufes -Wrath makes him deaf. Speak thou, Northumberland.
North. Hold, Clifford, do not honour him fo 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 fpurn 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, fo ftrives the woodcock with the gin. North. So doth the coney ftruggle in the net. [York is taken prisoner. York. So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd‹ booty;
So true men yield, with robbers fo o'ermatch'd. 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 raught at mountains with out-ftretched arins, Yet parted but the fhadow 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 defcent?
Where are your mefs of fons to back you now,
The wanton Edward and the lufty George!
And where's that valiant crook-back'd prodigy,
Dicky your boy, that with his grumbling voice
Was wont to cheer his Dad in mutinies?
Or, with the reft, where is your darling Rutland?
Look, York; I ftain'd this napkin with the blood
That valiant Clifford with his rapier's point
Made iffue from the bofom 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 pr'ythee, grieve, to make me merry, York..
What, hath thy fiery heart fo parch'd thine entrails,
That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death?
Why art thou patient, man? thou shouldst be mad;
And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus:
Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may fing and dance,
Thou wouldst be fee'd, I fee, to make me fport:
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's 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 fhould not be king
Till our King Henry had fhook 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 boly oath ?
Oh, '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 fake.
Queen. Nay, ftay, let's hear the oraifons he makes.
York. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves
of France,
Whofe tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth! How ill-befeeming is it in thy fex
To triumph, like an Amazonian trull,
Upon their woes whom fortune captivates?
But that thy face is, vizor-like, unchanging,.
Made impudent with use of evil deeds,
I would affay, proud Queen, to make thee blush.
To tell thee whence thou cam'ft, of whom deriv’ð,
Were flame enough to fhame thee, wert thou not
fhameless:
Thy father bears the type of King of Naples,
Of both the Sicils and Jerufalem,
Yet not fo wealthy as an English yeomin.
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 fhare thereof is fall. 'Tis virtue that doth make them most admir'd; The contrary doth make thee wonder'd at. 'Tis government * that makes them feem 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 heart wrapt in a woman's hide!
How couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child,
To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,
And yet be feen to wear a woman's face?
Women are foft, mild, pitiful and flexible,
Thou ftern, obdurate, flinity, rough, remorfelefs.
Bidft thou me rage? why, now thou haft thy wish.
Would't have me weep? why, now thou haft thy will.
For raging wind blows up inceflant how'rs,
And when the rage aliays, the rain begins.
Thefe tears are my fweet Ruland's obfequies,
And every drop cries vengeance for his death,
'Gainft thee, fell Clifford, and thee, falie French
North. Behrew me but his paffions move me fo,, That hardly can I check mine eyes from tears.
York. That face of his the hungry cannibals Would not have touch'd, would not have ftain'd with blood;
But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,
Oh ten times more, than tygers of Hyrcania.
See, ruthlefs Queen, a hapless father's tears;
This cloth thou dip'dft in blood of my fweet boy,
And I with tears do wash the blood away.
Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this;
And, if thou tell'it the heavy story right,
Upon my foul the hearers will thed tears;
Yea, even my foes will fhed faft-falling tears,
And fay,
Alas, it was a piteous deed!".
[He gives back the handkerchief.: Government, in the language of that time, fignified evenness of temper and decency of manners. Johnjon
There-take the crown; and with the crown my
And in thy need fuch comfort come to thee, [curfe.
As now I reap at thy too cruel hand!
Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world,
My foul to heav'n, my blood upon your heads.
North. Had he been flaughter-man to all my kin,
I thould not for my life but weep with him,
To fee how inly-forrow gripes his foul.
Queen. What, weeping ripe, my Lord NorthumThink but upon the wrong he did us all, [berland? And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.
Clif. Here's for my oath, here's for my father's
[Stabbing him. Queen And here's to right our gentle-hearted King. [Stabs him: York. Open the gate of mercy, gracious God! My foul flies through thefe wounds to feek out thee..
[Dies. Queen. Off with his head, and fet it on York gates; So York may overlook the town of York. [Exeunt.
ACT II SCENE I.
Near Mortimer's Grofs in Wales..
A March. Enter Edward, Richard, and their power.
Edward:
Wonder how our princely father 'fcap'd,
Or whether he be 'cap'd away or no,
From Clifford's and Northumberland's purfuit?
Had he been ta’en, we should have heard the news;
Had he been flain, we fhould have heard the news
Or had he 'cap'd, methinks, we should have heard
The happy tidings of his good efcape.
How fares my brother? why is he fo fad?
Rich. I cannot joy, until I be refolv'd
Where our right valiant father is become..
I faw him in the battle range about;
And watch'd him how he fingled 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 reft 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 fon.
See how the morning opes her golden gates,
And takes her farewell of the glorious fun;
How well resembles it the prime of youth,
Trim'd like a yonker prancing to his love?
Edw. Dazzle mine eyes? or do I fee three funs?
Rich. Three glorious funs, each one a perfect fun,
Not feparated with the racking clouds,
But fever'd in a pale clear-fhining sky.
See, fee, they join, embrace, and feem to kifs,
As if they vow'd fome league inviolable;
Now are they but one lamp, one light, one fun..
In this the heaven figures fome event.
Edw. 'Tis wond'rous ftrange, the like yet never I think it cites us, brother, to the field; [heard of That we the fons of brave Plantagenet, Each one already blazing by our meeds,. Should, notwithstanding, join our lights together, And over-fhine the earth, as this the world. Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear Upon my target three fair fhining funs.
Rich. Nay, bear three daughters.By your leave, I speak it,
You love the breeder better than the male.
But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell
Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?
Meff. Ah! one that was a woful looker on,
When as the noble Duke of York was flain,
Your princely father, and my loving Lord,
Edw. Oh, fpeak no more! for I have heard too
much.
Rich. Say how he dy'd; for I will hear it all.
Me Environed he was with many foes,
And food against them, as the hope of Troy
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