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SCENE 11-A room in Sandal Castle, near Wakefield, in Yorkshire. Enter Edward, Richard, and Montague.

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Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me ;My brother Montague shall post to London : *Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest, *Whom we have left protectors of the king,

• Rich. Brother, though I be youngest, give me With powerful policy strengthen themselves,

leave.

Edw. No, I can better play the orator.
Mont. But I have reasons strong and forcible.
Enter York.

York. Why, how now, sons and brother, at a
strife?

'What is your quarrel? how began it first?

Edw. No quarrel, but a slight contention. York. About what?

Rich. About that which concerns your grace, and us;

The crown of England, father, which is yours.

York. Mine, boy? not till king Henry be dead. * Rich. Your right depends not on his life, or

death.

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I'd break a thousand oaths, to reign one year. 'Rich. No; God forbid, your grace should be forsworn.

York. I shall be, if I claim by open war. Rich. I'll prove the contrary, if you'll hear me speak.

• York. Thou canst not, son; it is impossible. Rich An oath is of no moment, being not took Before a true and lawful magistrate, That hath authority over him that swears:

Henry had none, but did usurp the place; Then, seeing 'twas he that made you to depose, Your oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous. Therefore, to arms. * And, father, do but think, *How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown; * Within whose circuit is Elysium, *And all that poets feign of bliss and joy. *Why do we linger thus? I cannot rest, * Until the white rose, that I wear, be died Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry's heart. York. Richard, enough; I will be king, or die.

'Brother, thou shalt to London presently,

And whet on Warwick to this enterprise.Thou, Richard, shalt unto the duke of Norfolk, And tell him privily of our intent.

You, Edward, shall unto my lord Cobham, With whom the Kentish-men will willingly rise: In them I trust; for they are soldiers, 'Witty and courteous, liberal, full of spirit.'While you are thus employ'd, what resteth more, But that I seek occasion how to rise; And yet the king not privy to my drift, Nor any of the house of Lancaster?

Enter a Messenger.

But, stay; What news? Why com'st thou in such post?

Mess. The queen, with all the northern earls and lords,

Intend here to besiege you in your castle : She is hard by with twenty thousand men; And therefore fortify your hold, my lord. *York. Ay, with my sword. What! think'st thou, that we fear them?

(1) Of sound judgment.

*And trust not simple Henry, nor his oaths. *Mont. Brother, I go; I'll win them, fear it not: *And thus most humbly I do take my leave. [Ex. Enter Sir John and Sir Hugh Mortimer. York. Sir John, and sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles!

You are come to Sandal in a happy hour; The army of the queen mean to besiege us.

Sir John. She shail not need, we'll meet her in the field.

'York. What, with five thousand men? Rich. Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need. A woman's general; what should we fear? [A march afar off.

'Edw. I hear their drums; let's set our men in order;

And issue forth, and bid them battle straight. 'York. Five men to twenty-though the odds be great,

I doubt not, uncle, of our victory.

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 threat'ning look. Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die ;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; He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him.

Clif. Had I thy brethren here, their lives, and thine,

Were not revenge sufficient for me;
No, if I digg'd up thy forefathers' graves,
And hung their rotten coffins up in chains,
It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart.
The sight of any of the house of York
Is as a fury to torment my soul;

And till I root out their accursed line, And leave not one alive, I live in hell. Therefore [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.
Thou hast one son, for his sake pity me;
Lest, in revenge thereof,-sith God is just,-
He be as miserably slain as I.

Ah, let me live in prison all my days;
And when I give occasion of offence,

Then let me die, for new thou hast no cause.
Clif. No cause?

Thy father slew my father; therefore, die.
[Clifford stabs him.
Rut. Dii faciant, laudis summa sit ista tuæ !2
[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

In blood of those that had encounter'd him:
And when the hardiest warriors did retire,
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!
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;
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.
Enter Queen Margaret, Clifford, Northumberland,
and Soldiers.

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'Why come you not? what! multitudes, and fear? Clif. So cowards fight, when they can fly no further;

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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'er-run 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.

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Come, make him stand upon this mole-hill here;
That raught at mountains with outstretched arms,
What! was it you, that would be England's king?
Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.—
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;
The wanton Edward, and the lusty George?

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And where's that valiant crook-back prodigy, Dicky your boy, that, with his grumbling voice, Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies?

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 withal.
Alas, poor York! but that I hate thee deadly,
I should lament thy miserable state.

3

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. Thou would'st be fee'd, I see, 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 set it on.[Putting a paper crown on his head.

(3) i. e. We boggled, made bad or bungling work of our attempt to rally.

(4) Noontide point on the dial. (5) Honest men, (6) Reached. (7) Handkerchief.

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 so soon, and broke his solemn oath?
As i bethink me, you should not be king,
Till our king Henry had shook hands with death.
And will you palel your head in Henry's glory,
And rob his temples of the diadem,
Now in his life, against your holy oath?
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.2
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,
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,

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 types of king of Naples,
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;
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:
"Tis virtue, that doth make them most admir'd;
The contrary doth make thee wonder'd at:
'Tis government,4 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.5

O, tiger's heart, wrapp'd 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 bear a woman's face?

Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible;

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Thou, stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. 'Bid'st thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish: Would'st have me weep? why, now thou hast thy

will:

For raging wind blows up incessant showers, And, when the rage allays, the rain begins. These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies; And every drop cries vengeance for his death,

And I with tears do wash the blood away.
Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this:

(He gives back the handkerchief.

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

curse;

And, in thy need, such comfort come to thee,
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,
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 Northum-
berland?

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.
[Stabbing him.

Q. Mar. 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 seek out
thee.
[Dies.

Q. Mar. Off with his head, and set it on York gates;

So York may overlook the town of York. [Exeunt.

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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 saw him in the battle range about;
And watch'd him, how he singled Clifford forth.
Methought, he bore him? in the thickest troop,
As doth a lion in a herd of neat :8

*Or as a bear, encompass'd round with dogs;
*Who having pinch'd a few, and made them cry,
*The rest stand all aloof, and bark at him.

"'Gainst thee, fell Clifford,-and thee, false French-* So far'd our father with his enemies;

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But sever'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.

'His dukedom and his chair with me is left.
Rich. Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird,
Show thy descent by gazing 'gainst the sun :
For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say;
Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his.
March. Enter Warwick and Montague, with
forces.

War. How now, fair lords? What fare? what
news abroad?

'Rich. Great lord of Warwick, if we should
recount

Our baleful news, and, at each word's deliverance,
Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told,

Rich. Nay, bear three daughters;-by your The words would add more anguish than the leave I speak it,

*You love the breeder better than the male/

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Of unrelenting Clifford, and the queen:

'Who crown'd the gracious duke in high despite;
Laugh'd in his face; and, when with grief he wept,
The ruthless queen gave him, to dry his cheeks,
A napkin steeped in the harmless blood
Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain:
And, after many scorns, many foul taunts,

wounds.

O valiant lord, the duke of York is slain.

Edw. O Warwick! Warwick! that Plantagenet, Which held thee dearly, as his soul's redemption, Is by the stern lord Clifford done to death. 3

War. Ten days ago I drown'd these news in

tears:

And now, to add more measure to your woes,
I come to tell you things since then befall'n.
After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave father breath'd his latest gasp,
Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run,
Were brought me of your loss, and his depart.
I then in London, keeper of the king,
Muster'd my soldiers, gather'd flocks of friends,
And very well appointed, as I thought,
March'd towards Saint Albans, to intercept the
queen,

Bearing the king in my behalf along:
For by my scouts I was advértised,
That she was coming with a full intent
To dash our late decree in parliament,
Touching king Henry's oath, and your succes-

sion.

Short tale to make,-we at Saint Albans met,
Our battles join'd, and both sides fiercely fought:
But, whether 'twas the coldness of the king,
Who look'd full gently on his warlike queen,
That robb'd my soldiers of their hated spleen;
Or whether 'twas report of her success;
Or more than common fear of Clifford's rigour,
Who thunders to his captives-blood and death,
I cannot judge: but, to conclude with truth,
Their weapons like to lightning came and went;
Our soldiers'-like the night-owl's lazy flight,

They took his head, and on the gates of York
They set the same; and there it doth remain,
The saddest spectacle that e'er I view'd.
Edw. Sweet duke of York, our prop to lean upon;
Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay!-
*O Clifford, boist'rous Clifford, thou hast slain
*The flower of Europe for his chivalry;
* And treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him,
*For, hand to hand, he would have vanquish'd'Or like a lazy thrasher with a flail,—

thee!

Now my soul's palace is become a prison:

Ah, would she break from hence! that this my body
Might in the ground be closed up in rest:

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Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends. I cheer'd them up with justice of our cause, With promise of high pay, and great rewards: But all in vain; they had no heart to fight, And we, in them, no hope to win the day, So that we fled; the king, unto the queen; Rich. I cannot weep; for all my body's moisture Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and myself, Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart:In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you;

For never henceforth shall I joy again,

Never, O never, shall I see more joy.

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For in the marches here, we heard, you were,
Making another head to fight again.

Edw. Where is the duke of Norfolk, gentle
Warwick?

And when came George from Burgundy to Eng-
land?

War. Some six miles off the duke is with the
soldiers:

And for your brother, he was lately sent
From your kind aunt, duchess of Burgundy,
With aid of soldiers to this needful war,

Rich. 'Twas odds, belike, when valiant War-
wick fled:

Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit,
But ne'er, till now, his scandal of retire.

War. Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou

hear:

For thou shalt know, this strong right hand of mine
Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry's head,
And wring the awful sceptre from his fist;
Were he as famous and as bold in war,
As he is fam'd for mildness, peace, and prayer.
Rich. I know it well, lord Warwick: blame me
not;

'Tis love, I bear thy glories, makes me speak.
But, in this troublous time, what's to be done?
Shall we go throw away our coats of steel,
And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns,
Numb'ring our Ave-Maries with our beads?
Or shall we on the helmets of our foes
Tell our devotion with revengeful arms?
If for the last, say-Ay, and to it, lords.
War. Why, therefore Warwick came to seek

you out;

And therefore comes my brother Montague.
Attend me, lords. The proud insulting queen,
With Clifford, and the haught! Northumberland,
And of their feather, many more proud birds,
Have wrought the easy-melting king like wax.
He swore consent to your succession,
His oath enrolled in the parliament;
And now to London all the crew are gone,
To frustrate both his oath, and what beside
May make against the house of Lancaster.

Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong:
Now, if the help of Norfolk, and myself,
With all the friends that thou, brave earl of March,
Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure,
Will but amount to five and twenty thousand,
Why, via! to London will we march amain;
And once again bestride our foaming steeds,
And once again cry-Charge upon our foes!
But never once again turn back, and fly.

Rich. Ay, now, methinks, I hear great Warwick speak:

Ne'er may he live to see a sunshine day,

That cries-Retire, if Warwick bid him stay. Edw. Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean;

And when thou fall'st (as God forbid the hour!) Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forefend! War. No longer earl of March, but duke of York;

'The next degree is, England's royal throne:
For king of England shalt thou be proclaim'd
In every borough as we pass along;
And he that throws not up his cap for joy,
• Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head.
King Edward,-valiant Richard,-Montague,—
Stay we no longer dreaming of renown,

But sound the trumpets, and about our task.
* Rich. Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard

as steel

*(As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds,) * I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine. *Edw. Then strike up, drums ;-God, and Saint George, for us!

Enter a Messenger.

War. How now? what news?

SCENE II-Before York. Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret, the Prince of Wales, Clifford, and Northumberland, with forces.

Q. Mar. Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York.

Yonder's the head of that arch-enemy,
That sought to be encompass'd with your crown:
Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?
'K. Hen. Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear
their wreck ;-

To see this sight, it irks my very soul.-
Withhold revenge, dear God! 'tis not my fault,
Not wittingly have I infring'd my vow.

Clif. My gracious liege, this too much lenity,
And harmful pity, must be laid aside.
To whom do lions cast their gentle looks.?
Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick?
Not to the beast that would usurp their den.
Not his, that spoils her young before her face.
Who 'scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting?
Not he, that sets his foot upon her back.
The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on;
And doves will peck, in safeguard of their brood.
Ambitious York did level at thy crown,
Thou smiling, while he knit his angry brows:
He, but a duke, would have his son a king,
And raise his issue, like a loving sire;
Thou, being a king, bless'd with a goodly son,
Didst yield consent to disinherit him,

Which argued thee a most unloving father.
And though man's face be fearful to their eyes,
Unreasonable creatures feed their young:
Yet, in protection of their tender ones,

Who hath not seen them (even with those wings

Which sometime they have us'd with fearful flight,)
Make war with him that climb'd unto their nest,
Offering their own lives in their young's defence?
Were it not pity that this goodly boy
For shame, my liege, make them your precedent!

Should lose his birthright by his father's fault;
And long hereafter say unto his child,-
What

my great-grandfather and grandsire got,
My careless father fondly3 gave away?
Ah, what a shame were this! Look on the boy;
And let his manly face, which promiseth
To hold thine own, and leave thine own with him.
Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart,
K. Hen. Full well hath Clifford play'd the orator,
Inferring arguments of mighty force.

But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear,-
That things ill got had ever bad success?
And happy always was it for that son,
Whose father for his hoarding went to hell?
I'll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind;
And 'would, my father had left me no more!
For all the rest is held at such a rate,

As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep,
Than in possession any jot of pleasure.
Ah, cousin York! 'would thy best friends did know,
How it doth grieve me that thy head is here!
'Q. Mar. My lord, cheer up your spirits; our

foes are nigh,

And this soft courage makes your followers faint. 'You promis'd knighthood to our forward son; Unsheath your sword, and dub him presently.-.

Mess. The duke of Norfolk sends you word by Edward, kneel down.

me,

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K. Hen. Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight;
And learn this lesson,-Draw thy sword in right.
I'll draw it as apparent to the crown,
Prince. My gracious father, by your kingly leave,
And in that quarrel use it to the death.
Clif. Why, that is spoken like a toward prince.
(3) Foolishly.

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