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,

[Draws.

QUEEN. Hold, valiant Clifford; for a thoufand caufes 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 war's prize to take all 'vantages;

And ten to one is no impeach of valour.

[They lay hands on York, who struggles.

CLIF. Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin.
NORTH. So doth the cony struggle in the net.

[York is taken prisoner. YORK. So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty; So true men yield with robbers fo o'er-matcht,

NORTH. What would your grace have done unto him

now?

QUEEN. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland, Come make him ftand upon this mole-hill here; That raught at mountains with out-ftretched 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 descent ? Where are your mefs 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 VOL. IV. Z

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 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 miferable state.

I pr'ythee, grieve, to make me merry, York.
What, hath thy fiery heart so parcht thine entrails,
That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death?
Why art thou patient, man? thou shouldst be mad;
And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus:
Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may fing and dance.
Thou wouldst 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, fir, now looks he like a king:
Ay, this is he that took king Henry's chair;
And this is he, was his adopted heir.
And 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 time to do him dead.
CLIFF. 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 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 vizor-like, unchanging,
Made impudent with ufe 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 shame thee, wert thou not fhame

lefs :

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 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 couldst 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.
Wouldst have me weep? why, now thou haft thy will.
For raging wind blows up incessant show'rs,
And when the rage allays, the rain begins.
These tears are my fweet Rutland's obfequies;
And ev'ry drop cries vengeance for his death,

"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 cannibals

Would not have touch'd, would not have stain'd 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'ft in blood of my sweet 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 story right,
Upon my foul, the hearers will shed tears,
Yea, even my foes will fhed faft-falling tears,
And fay, "Alas, it was a piteous deed!"'

[He gives back the handkerchief.
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 fout to heav'n, my blood upon your heads.

NORTH. Had he been slaughter man to all my kin,

I could 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.

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.

YORK. Open the gate of mercy, gracious God! My foul flies through these wounds to feek out thee. [Dies. QUEEN. Off with his head and set it on York gates; So York may overlook the town of York.

ACT II.

[Exeunt.

SCENE I.

I

Near Mortimer's Crofs in Wales.

A march. Enter Edward, Richard, and their power.
ED WAR D.

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 fhould have heard the news;
Or had he fcap'd, methinks, we should have heard
The happy tidings of his good escape.

How fare's my brother, why is he fo fad?

RICH. I cannot joy, until I be resolv'd Where our right valiant father is become. I faw him in the battle range about;