Many a battle have I won in France, When as the enemy hath been ten to one; Why should I not now have the like success? [Alarum. Exeunt. SCENE III. Plains near Sandal Castle. Alarums: Excursions. Enter RUTLAND, and his Tutor. Rut. Ah, whither shall I fly to 'scape their hands? Ah, tutor! look where bloody Clifford comes! Enter CLIFFORD, and Soldiers. Clif. Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy life. As for the brat of this accursed duke, Whose father slew my father, he shall die. Tut. And I, my lord, will bear him company. Clif. Soldiers, away with him. Tut. Ah, Clifford! murder not this innocent child, Lest thou be hated both of God and man. [Exit, forced off by Soldiers. Clif. How now! is he dead already? Or, is it fear, That makes him close his eyes?-I'll open them. Rut. So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch That trembles under his devouring paws: And so he walks, insulting o'er his prey; And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder.Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword, And not with such a cruel threatening look. Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die ;I am too mean a subject for thy wrath, Be thou reveng'd on men, and let me live. Clif. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy; my father's blood Hath stopp'd the passage where thy words should enter. Rut. Then let my father's blood open it again; Were not revenge sufficient for me, It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart. [Lifting his hand. Rut. O, let me pray before I take my death:To thee I pray; sweet Clifford, pity me! Clif. Such pity as my rapier's point affords. Rut. I never did thee harm: Why wilt thou slay me? Clif. Thy father hath. Rut. But 'twas ere I was born. Ah, let me live in prison all my days; Thy father slew my father; therefore die. [CLIFFORD stabs him. Rut. Dii faciant, laudis summa sit ista tua! [Dies. Clif. Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet! And this thy son's blood cleaving to my blade, Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood, Congeal'd with this, do make me wipe off both. [Exit. SCENE IV. The same. Alarum. Enter YORK. York. The army of the queen hath got the field: My uncles both are slain in rescuing me; 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: 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! And full as oft came Edward to my side, With purple falchion painted to the hilt With this we charg'd again: but, out, alas! waves. Ah, hark! the fatal followers do pursue; I dare your quenchless fury to more rage; 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 Phaeton hath tumbled from his car, York. My ashes, as the Phoenix, may bring forth 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'errun my former time: 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; 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: 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; So true men yield, with robbers so o'ermatch'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; Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland? 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. Hold you his hands, whilst I do set it on.— Is crown'd so soon, and broke his solemn oath? Now in his life, against your holy oath? Off with the crown; and, with the crown his head; [dead. And, whilst we breathe, take time to do him 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, 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. |