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 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,
I should lament thy miserable state.

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 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

1

Is crown'd fo foon, hath 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 whilft we breathe take time to do him dead.
Clif. That is my office, for my father's fake..
Q. Mar. Nay, ftay, let's hear the orifons he makes.

York.

York. She-wolf of France, but worfe than wolves of France,
Whofe tongue more poifons 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 shameless:
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 fmall.
'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 opposite 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't 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 ftern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.
Bidft thou me rage? why, now thou haft thy wish.
Would'st 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,
VOL. IV.

Gainft

'Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, falfe French woman.
North. Befhrew me but his paffions move me so,
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 rofes

juft i' th' bud:`
3 'You're more inhuman, more inexorable,
Oh ten times more, than tygers of Hyrcania.
See, ruthless Queen, a hapless father's tears:
This cloth thou dip'dft in blood of my fweet boy,
And I with tears do wash the blood away.
Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this;
And if thou tell'ft the heavy ftory 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.

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 should not for my life but weep with him,

To see how inly forrow gripes his foul.

Q. Mar. 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.

[Stabbing him. Q. Mar. And here's to right our gentle-hearted King.

[Stabs him alfo. York. Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God! My foul flies through thefe wounds, to feek out thee. [Dies. Q. Mar. Off with his head, and fet it on York gates; So York may overlook the town of York.

2 juft with blood: or, juic'd with blood:

[Exeunt.

3 But you are

ACT

ACT II.

SCENE I

The Marches of WALES.

A March. Enter Edward Plantagenet, Richard Plan tagenet, and their Power.

EDWARD.

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 should have heard the news;
Had he been flain, we fhould have heard the news;
Or had he 'scap'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 watcht 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 pincht 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.

Edw. 'See how the morning opes her golden gates,
And takes her farewel of the glorious fun;
How well resembles it the prime of youth,
Trim'd like a younker prancing to his love!
Dazzle mine eyes? or do I fee three funs?

O 2

4 These four lines given to Rich, in former editions.

Rich.

Rich. Three glorious funs, each one a perfect fun,
Not feparated with the racking clouds,
But fever'd in a pale clear-fhining sky.

See, fee, they join, embrace, and feem to kifs,
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.

[of.

Edw. 'Tis wond'rous 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 over-fhine the earth, as this the world.
Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear

Upon my target three fair fhining funs.

[it,

Rich. Nay, bear three daughters: by your leave, I speak You love the breeder better than the male.

Enter a Meffenger.

But what art thou, whofe heavy looks foretel
Some dreadful ftory 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 ftood 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 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