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That raught at mountains with outstretched arms,
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 mess 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 won't 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,
1 fhould lament thy miferable state.

I pr'ythee, grieve, to make me merry, York.
What, hath thy fiery heart fo parch'd thine intrails,.
That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death?

Why art thou patient, man? thou fhould'st be mad;
And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus.
Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may fing and dance.
Thou would't 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, whilft 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 Plantagenet

Is crown'd fo foon, and broke his folemn oath?

As I bethink me, you should 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 holy oath?

Oh, 'tis a fault too too unpardonable.

Off with the crown, and with the crown his head; And whilst we breathe, take him to do him dead.

Clif. That is my office, for my father's fake.

Queen. Nay, ftay, let's hear the orifons he makes..
York. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of.
France,

Whose 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, vizard-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'd,
Were fhame enough to fhame thee, wert thou not shame--
Thy father bears the type of King of Naples,
Of both the Sicils and Jerufalem,

Yet not fo wealthy as an English yeoman..
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,

[lefs..

"That beggars mounted run their horfe to death."
'Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud;
But God he knows thy fhare thereof is small.
'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 oppofite to every good,
As the antipodes are unto us,

Or as the fouth to the feptentrion..

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Oh, tyger's heart wrapt in a woman's hide!
How could't thou drain the life-blood of the child,
To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,

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And yet be feen to wear a woman's face?
Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible;
Thou ftern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.
Bidft thou me rage? why, now chou haft thy with.
Would'st have me weep? why, now thou hast thy will.
For raging wind blows up inceffant fhow'rs,
And when the rage allays, the rain begins..
Thefe tears are my fweet Rutland's oblequies;
And ev'ry drop cries vengeance for his death, [man.
'Gainft thee, fel Clifford; and thee, falfe Frenchwo-

North. Befhrew me but his paffions move me fo, That hardly can I check mine eyes from tears.

York. That face of his the hungry canibals

Would not have touch'd, would not have ftain'd with
But you are more inhumane, more inexorable, [blood:
Oh ten times more, than tygers of Hyrcania.
See, ruthless Queen, a hapless father's tears.
This cloth thou dipp'dft in blood of my fweet boy,
And I with tears do wafh the blood away.
Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this:
And if thou tell' the heavy tory right,
Upon my foul the hearers will fhed tears;
Yea, even my foes will fhed faft-falling tears,
And fay, Alas, it was a piteous deed !".

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There, take the crown, and with the crown my curfe;
And in thy need fuch comfort come to thee,
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 fhould not for my life but weep with him,
To fee how inly forrow gripes his foul.

[land?

Queen. What, weeping-ripe, my Lord NorthumberThink 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.

[Stabbing him. Queen. And here's to right our gentle-hearted King. [Stabs him aljo. York. Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God! My foul flies through these 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.

A C T II. SCENE

Near Mortimer's crofs in Wales.

I.

[Exeunt.

A march. Enter Edward, Richard, and their power.

I

Wonder how our princely father 'fcap'd; Or whether he be 'fcap'd away, or no, From Clifford's and Northumberland's purfuit?

Had he been ta'en, we fhould have heard the news;
Had he been flain, we fhould 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 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 incompass'd round with dogs,
Who having pinch'd a few, and made them cry,
The reft ftand all aloof, and bark at him.
So far'd our father with his enemies,
So fled his enemies my warlike father.
Methinks 'tis pride enough to be his son.
See how the morning opes her golden gates,
And takes her farewel of the glorious fun.
How well resembles it the prime of youth,
Trimm'd like a younker prancing to his love?
Edw. Dazzle mine eyes? or do I fee three funs?
Rich. Three glorious funs, each one a perfect fun;
Not separated with the racking clouds,

But fever'd in a pale clear-fhining sky.

See, fee, they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,

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.

Edav. 'Tis wondrous ftrange, the like yet never heard

I think it cites us, brother, to the field;
That we the fons of brave Plantagenet,
Each one already blazing by our meeds,

Should, notwithstanding, join our lights together,
And overfhine the earth, as this the world.

Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear

Upon my target three fair fhining fans.

[of.

Rich. Nay, bear three daughters:by your leave I. You love the breeder better than the male. [fpeak it, ̧ Enter a Meffenger.

But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretel

Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?

Me. 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 Invironed he was with many foes,
And flood against them, as the hope of Troy
Against the Greeks that would have enter'd Troy,
But Hercules himself must yield to odds;
And many ftrokes, though with a little ax,
Hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.
By many hands your father was fubdu'd,
But only flaughter'd by the ireful arm
Of unrelenting Clifford and the Queen;
Who crown'd the gracious Duke in high defpight;
Laugh'd in his face; and, when with grief he wept,
The ruthless Queen gave him, to dry his cheek,
A napkin fteeped in the harmless blood

Of fweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain :
And, after many fcorns, many foul taunts,
They took his head, and on the gates of York
They fet the fame; and there it doth remain
The faddeft fpectacle that e'er 1 view'd.

Edw. Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon !
Now thou art gone, we have no ftaff, no stay.
Oh Clifford, boift'rous Clifford ! thou haft flain
The flower of Europe for his chivalry,

And treacheroufly haft thou vanquish 'd him;

For, hand to hand, he would have vanquish'd thee.
Now my foul's palace is become a prifon :

Ah, would fhe break from hence, that this my body.
Might in the ground be clofed up in reft!
For never henceforth fhall I joy again,
Never, oh never, fhall I fee more joy.

Rich. I cannot weep; for all my body's moisture
Scarce ferves to quench my furnace-burning heart:
Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burthen :
For th' felf-fame wind that I fhould speak withal,
Is kindling coals that fire up all my breast;
And burn me up with flames, that tears would quench.
To weep, is to make lefs the depth of grief:

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