CLIF. Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin.

NORTH. So doth the cony struggle in the net. YORK. So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty;

So true men yield, with robbers so o'ermatch'd. NORTH. What would your grace have done unto him now?

Q. MAR. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,

Come, make him stand upon this molehill here,
That raught at mountains with outstretched arms,
Yet parted but the shadow 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 mess of sons to back you now?
The wanton Edward, and the lusty George?
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.
I prithee, grieve, to make me merry, York.

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 shouldst be mad;
And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus.
Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.
Thou wouldst 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.
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 pale 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.
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, visard-like, unchanging,
Made impudent with use of evil deeds,

I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush.
To tell thee whence thou camest, of whom derived,
Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not
shameless.

Thy father bears the type 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 admired;
The contrary doth make thee wonder'd at:
'Tis government 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.

O tiger'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 bear a woman's face?
Women are soft, mild, pitiful and flexible;

Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.

Bid'st thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish: Wouldst 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,
'Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false French-

woman.

NORTH. Beshrew me, but his passion moves me so That hardly can I check my 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,
O, ten times more, than tigers of Hyrcania.
See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears :
This cloth thou dip'dst 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'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 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.

[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.

[Flourish. Exeunt.

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.

A plain near Mortimer's Cross in Herefordshire. A march. Enter EDWARD, Richard, and their power.

EDW. I wonder how our princely father 'scaped, Or whether he be 'scaped away or no

From Clifford's and Northumberland's pursuit : Had he been ta'en, we should have heard the news; Had he been slain, we should have heard the news;