The wanton Edward, and the lufty George? where's that vialiant crook-back'd Prodigy,
r boy, that with his grumbling voice
Was wontheer his Dad in mutinies?
Or, with the reft, here is your darling Rutland?
Look, York; I ftain'd napkin with the blood,
That valiant Clifford with his apier's point
Made iffue from the bofom of the buy:
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 fhould lament thy miferable ftate.
I pr'ythee, grieve, to make me merry, York.
What, hath thy fiery heart fo parcht 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:
Stamp, rave and fret, that I may fing and dance.
Thou would'st be fee'd, I fee, to make me fport:
York cannot fpeak, 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 fhould 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 whilft we breathe, take time to do him dead.
Clif. That is my office, for my father's fake.
Queen. Nay, ftay, let's hear the Oraifons he makes.
York. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of
Whofe 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, vizor-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
fhameless:
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,
"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 seem 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 Septentrion.
Oh, tyger's heart wrapt in a woman's hide!
How could'ft thou drain the life-blood of the child,
To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,
And yet be feen to wear a woman's face?
Women are soft, mild, pitiful and flexible;
Thou ftern, obdurate, Ainty, rough, remorfelefs.
Bidft thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish.
Would't have me weep? why, now thou haft thy will.
For raging wind blows up inceffant show'rs,
And when the rage allays, the rain begins.
Thefe tears are my fweet Rutland's obfequies;
And ev'ry drop cries vengeance for his death,
'Gainft thee, fell Clifford; and thee, falfe French woman. 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 the roses juic'd with blood: (4)
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 dit 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'it the heavy story right,
Upon my foul, the hearers will fhed tears,
Yea, even my foes will shed fast-falling tears,
And fay, "Alas, it was a piteous deed!-
There, take the crown; and, with the crown my curse.
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 should not for my life but weep with him,
To see how inly forrow gripes his foul.
Queen. What, weeping-ripe, my Lord Northumberland? Think but upon the wrong he did us all,
And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.
(4) Would not have ftain'd the Rofes just with Blood.] This Reading we dériv'd from the 2d Folio Edition. The old Quarte and the aft Folio Impreffior exhibit the Paffage thus,
That Face of bis the hungry Canibals
Would not bave touch'd, would not have ftain'd with Blood. But how are we to understand, Staining the Roses just with Blood? Can the Poet mean, that the Canibals would not have just ftain'd the Rofes in his Cheeks with Blood? The Pofition of the Words is forc'd, to admit of this Construction: and, just, feems a very idle Expletive. The Conjecture, with whlch I have reftor'd the Text, I think, retrieves the Poet's Thought. Would not bave ftain'd the Roses juic'd with Blood. i. e. would not have fpilt that Blood, whofe Juices fhone thro his young Cheeks, bright as the Vermilion Dye in Rofes.
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. York. Open the gate of mercy, gracious God! My foul flies through thefe wounds, to feek out thee.
Queen Off with his head and fet it on York gates; So York may overlook the town of York.
SCENE, near Mortimer's Cross in Wales.
A March. Enter Edward, Richard, and their Power
Wonder, how our princely father 'fcap'd;
Or whether he be 'fcap'd away, or no,
From Clifford's and Northumberland's pursuit ?
Had he been ta'en, we should have heard the news;
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 fo fad?
Rich. I cannot joy, until I be refolv'd
Where our right-valiant father is become.
I faw him in the battel 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, encompass'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 prize enough to be his fon.
See, how the morning opes her golden gates,
And takes her farewel of the glorious fun;
do I fee three funs?
How well refembles it the prime of youth,
Trim'd like a yonker prancing to his love?
Edw. Dazzle mine eyes?
Rich. Three glorious funs, each one a perfect fun;
Not feparated with the racking clouds,
See, fee, they join, embrace, and feem to kiss;
But fever'd in a pale clear-fhining sky.
As if they vow'd fome league inviolable:
lamp, one light, one fun.
In this the heaven figures fome event.
this is wondrous ftrange, the like yet never
I think, it cites us, brother, to the field;
That we the fons of brave Plantagenet,
already blazing by our meeds,
Should, notwithstanding, join our lights together,
And over-thine the earth, as this the world.
Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear
Upon my target three fair fhining funs.
Rich. Nay, bear three daughters:
You love the breeder better than the male.
But what art thou, whofe heavy looks foretell
Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue ?
Mef. 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.
Mef. Environed he was with many foes,
And ítood against them, as the hope of Troy
Against the Greeks that would have entred Troy.
But Hercules himself muft yield to odds;
And many ftroaks, 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
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