Clif. Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless Arm
With downright payment shew'd unto my Father.
Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his Car,
And made an Evening at the Noon-tide Prick.

York. My Alhes, as the Phoenix, may bring forth
A Bird, that will revenge upon you all:
And in that hope I throw mine Eyes to Heav'n,
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 farther,
So Doves do peck the Falcons piercing Talons,
So desperate Thieves, all hopeless of their Lives,
Breath out Invectives 'gainst the Officers.

York. Oh, Clifford, but bethink thee once again,
And in thy thought o'er-run my former time:
And if thou canst, for blushing, view this Face,
And bite thy Tongue that slanders him with Cowardices
Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly e'er this.

Clif. I will not bandy with thee Word for Word,
But buckler with thee Blows twice two for one.

Queen, Hold, valiant Clifford, for a thousand causes
I would prolong a while 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.
What Valour were it, when a Cur doth grin,
For one to thrust his Hand between his Teeth,
When he might spurn him with his foot away?
It is Wars prize to take all vantages,
And ten to one is no impeach of Valour.

Clif. Ay, ay, so strives the Woodcock with the Gin.
North. So doth the Cony struggle in the Net.
York. So triumph Thieves upon their conquer'd Booty,
So true Men yield, with Robbers so o'er-matcht.
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 caught at Mountains with out-stretched Arms,
Yet parted but the shadow with his Hand.
What, was it you that would be England's King?,
Was't you that revell'd in our Parliament,

And

And made a Preachment of your high Defcent?
Where are your mess of Sons to back you now,
The wanton Edward, and the lufty George?
And where's that valiant Crook-back Prodigy,
Dicky, your Boy, that with his grumoling voice
Was wont to cheer his Dad in Metinies?
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;
And if thine Eyes can water for his Death,
I give thee this to dry thy Cheeks witha!.
Alas, poor York, but that I hate thee deadly,
I should lament thy miferable State.
I prithee grieve, to make me merry, York.
What, hath thy fiery Heart so parcht thine Intrails,
That not a Tear can fall for Ruiland's Death,
Why art thou patient, Man? thou should'st be mad :
And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus;
Sramp, rave and fret, that I may fing and dance.
Thou would'st be fee'd, I fee, to make me sport:
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 Henry's Chair,
And this is he was his adopted Heir.

But how is it, that great Plantaganet

Is crown'd so soon, and broke his folemn Oath?
As I bethink me, you should not be King,

'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 Diad.m,
Now in this Life against the holy Outh?
Oh, 'tis a fault too too unpardonable.
Off with the Crown, and with the Crown his Head,
And whilst we breath take him to do him dead..
Clif. That is my Office, for my Father's fake.
Queen. Nay stay, let's here the Orizons he makes.
York. She-Wolf of France,

But worse than Wolves of France,

Whofe

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?
But that thy Face is Vizard-like, unchanging,
Made impudent with use of evil Deeds,

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,
Of both the Sicils and Jerusalem,
Yet not so wealthy as an English Yeomar.
Hath that poor Monarch taught thee to insult?
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 share thereof is small.
'Tis Virtue that doth make them most admir'd,
The contrary doth make thee wondred at.
'Tis Government that makes 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.

Oh Tyger's Heart, wrapt 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 wear a Woman's Face ?
Women are soft, mild, pitiful and flexible;
Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.
Bidst thou me rage? why now thou hast thy with.
Would'st have me weep? why now thou hast thy will.
For raging Wind blows up incessant Show'rs,
And when the rage allays, the Rain begins.
These Tears are my sweet Rutland's Obsequies,
And every drop cries vengeance to his Death,
'Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false French Woman.
North. Beshrew me, but his Passions move me so,

That hardly can I check mine Eyes from Tears.
VOL. IV.

C

York.

:

- York. That Face of his,

The hungry Cannibals would not have toucht,
Would not have stain'd the Roses just with Blood:
But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,
Oh ten times more, than Tygers of Hyrcania.
See, ruthless Queen, a hapless Father's Tears:
This Cloth thou dip'dst in Blood of my sweet Boy,
And I with Tears do wash the Blood away.
Keep thou the Napkin, and go boaft of this,
And if thou tell'st the heavy Story right,
Upon my Soul, the Hearers will shed Tears:
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 Curfe.
And in thy need, fuch comfort come to ther,
As now I reap at thy too cruel Hand.
Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the World,
My Soul to Heav'n, my Blood upon your Heads.
North. Had he been Slaughter-man to all my Kin,
I should not for my Life but weep with him,
To see how inly Sorrow gripes his Soul.

Queen. 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.
Quen. 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 feck out thee. [Dies. Queen. Off with his Head, and set it on York Gates,

So York may overlook the Town of York.

ACT II. SCENE I.

[Exeunt.

A March. Enter Edward, Richard, and their Power.

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

Had he been flain, we should have heard the News;
Or had he fcap'd, methinks we should have heard
The happy Tidings of his good escape.
How fares my Brother? why is he so sad?

Rich. I cannot joy, until I be resolv'd,
Where our right valiant Father is become.
I faw him in the Battel range about,
And watcht him how he fingled Clifford forth,
Methought he bore him in the thickeft Troop,
As doth a Lion in a Herd of Neat;
Or as a Bear encompass'd round with Dogs,
Who having pincht a few, and made them cry,
The rest 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 Son.
See how the Morning opes her Golden Gates,
And takes her farewel of the glorious Sun,
How well resembles it the prime of Youth,
Trim'd like a Yonker, prancing to his Love?
Edow. Dazle mine Eyes? or do I see three Suns?
Rich. Three glorious Suns, each one a perfect Sun,

Not feparated with the racking Clouds.
But fever'd in a pale clear-shining Sky.
See, see they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,
As if they vow'd some League inviolable:
Now are they but one Lamp, one Light, one Sun.
In this the Heaven figures some Event.
Edw. 'Tis wondrous strange,

The like yet never heard of.
I think it cites us, Brother, to the Field,
That we, the Sons of brave Plantagenet,
Each one already blazing by our Meeds,
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 leave, I speak it,
You love the Breeder better than the Male,