Another Part of the Plains. | |
| |
Alarum. Enter YORK. | |
| York. The army of the queen hath got the field: | |
| My uncles both are slain in rescuing me; | 4 |
| And all my followers to the eager foe | |
| Turn back and fly, like ships before the wind, | |
| Or lambs pursu’d by hunger-starved wolves. | |
| My sons, God knows what hath bechanced them: | 8 |
| 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!’ | 12 |
| And full as oft came Edward to my side, | |
| With purple falchion, painted to the hilt | |
| In blood of those that had encounter’d him: | |
| And when the hardiest warriors did retire, | 16 |
| 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! | 20 |
| 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; | 24 |
| 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. | 28 |
| |
Enter QUEEN MARGARET, CLIFFORD, NORTHUMBERLAND, the young PRINCE, and Soldiers. | |
| Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland, | |
| I dare your quenchless fury to more rage: | |
| I am your butt, and I abide your shot. | 32 |
| 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 Phæthon hath tumbled from his car, | 36 |
| And made an evening at the noontide prick. | |
| York. My ashes, as the phœnix, may bring forth | |
| A bird that will revenge upon you all; | |
| And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heaven, | 40 |
| 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; | 44 |
| 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; | 48 |
| And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face, | |
| And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with cowardice | |
| Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this. | |
| Clif. I will not bandy with thee word for word, | 52 |
| 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. | 56 |
| 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, | 60 |
| 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. | 64 |
| North. So doth the cony 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-matched. | |
| North. What would your Grace have done unto him now? | 68 |
| Q. Mar. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland, | |
| Come, make him stand upon this molehill here, | |
| That raught at mountains with outstretched arms, | |
| Yet parted but the shadow with his hand. | 72 |
| 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? | 76 |
| 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? | 80 |
| 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; | 84 |
| 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. | 88 |
| I prithee grieve, to make me merry, York. | |
| 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 shouldst be mad; | 92 |
| And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus. | |
| Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance. | |
| Thou wouldst be fee’d, I see, to make me sport: | |
| York cannot speak unless he wear a crown. | 96 |
| 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; | 100 |
| 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 | 104 |
| 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? | 108 |
| 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. | 112 |
| 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 | 116 |
| 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, | 120 |
| 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, | 124 |
| 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, | 128 |
| 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: | 132 |
| ’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. | 136 |
| 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! | 140 |
| How couldst 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; | 144 |
| Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. | |
| Bidd’st thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish: | |
| Wouldst have me weep? why, now thou hast thy will; | |
| For raging wind blows up incessant showers, | 148 |
| 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. | 152 |
| North. Beshrew me, but his passion moves 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; | 156 |
| 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, | 160 |
| And I with tears do wash the blood away. | |
| Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this; [Giving back the handkerchief. | |
| And if thou tell’st the heavy story right, | |
| Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears; | 164 |
| 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 | 168 |
| 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, | 172 |
| 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, | 176 |
| 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! | 180 |
| 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. [Flourish. Exeunt. | |
