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 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 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 opposite to every good,
As the Antipodes are unto us,

Or as the south to the septentrion.

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;
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,

18

'Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false French

woman.

North. Beshrew me, but his passions move 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 dipp'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 North-
umberland?

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 [Dies.

thee.

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

SCENE 1.-A Plain near Mortimer's Cross in Herefordshire.

A March. Enter EDWARD, and RICHARD, with their Power.

Edw. I wonder, how our princely father 'scap'd; Or whether he be 'scap'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 slain, we should 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 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:

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.
So far'd our father with his enemies;
So fled his enemies my warlike father:
Methinks, 'tis prize enough to be his son.
See, how the morning opes her golden gates,
And takes her farewell of the glorious sun:
How well resembles it the prime of youth,
Trimm'd like a younker, prancing to his love!

Edw. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns? Rich. Three glorious suns, each one a perfect

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.

Rich. Nay, bear three daughters: by your leave
I speak it;

You love the breeder better than the male.

Enter a Messenger tired and panting, as from hasty flight.

But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretel
Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?

Mess. Ah! one that was a woful looker on,
When as the noble duke of York was slain,
Your princely father, and my loving lord.
Edw. O! speak no more, for I have heard too
much.

Rich. Say, how he died, for I will hear it all. Mess. Environed he was with many foes; And stood against them, as the hope of Troy Against the Greeks, that would have enter'd Troy. But Hercules himself must yield to odds; And many strokes, though with a little axe, Hew down, and fell the hardest-timber'd oak. By many hands your father was subdu'd; But only slaughter'd by the ireful arm 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

Edw. Sweet duke of York! our prop to lean

upon,

Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay.
O Clifford! boisterous 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 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,
For never henceforth shall I joy again;
Never, O! never, shall I see more joy.

Rich. I cannot weep, for all my body's moisture
Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart;
Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burden,
For self-same wind, that I should speak withal,
Is kindling coals that fire all my breast,

And burn me up with flames that tears would quench.

To weep is to make less the depth of grief. Tears, then, for babes; blows, and revenge, for me!

Richard, I bear thy name; I'll venge thy death, Or die renowned by attempting it.

Edw. His name that valiant duke hath left with thee;

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 their Army.

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,
The words would add more anguish than the 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.

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 sith then befallen.
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,
March'd towards Saint Alban's to intercept the

queen,

Bearing the king in my behalf along;
For by my scouts I was advertised,
That she was coming with a full intent
To dash our late decree in parliament,
Touching king Henry's oath, and your succession.
Short tale to make,-we at Saint Alban's 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 heated 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,
Or like a lazy thrasher with a flail,—
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;
Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and myself,
In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you;
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 England?

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 Warwick 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,
Numbering 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,
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 fail'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?

Mess. The duke of Norfolk sends you word by

me,

To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?
Not to the beast that would usurp their den.
Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick?
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.
Unreasonable creatures feed their young;
And though man's face be fearful to their eyes,
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?
For shame, my liege! make them your precedent.
Were it not pity, that this goodly boy
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 fondly gave away."

Ah! what a shame were this. Look on the boy;
And let his manly face, which promiseth
Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart

To hold thine own, and leave thine own with him. 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.Edward, kneel down.

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

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. Royal commanders, be in readiness: For, with a band of thirty thousand men, Comes Warwick, backing of the duke of York; And, in the towns as they do march along, Proclaims him king, and many fly to him. Darraign your battle, for they are at hand.

Clif. I would, your highness would depart the field:

The queen hath best success when you are absent. Q. Mar. Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fortune.

K. Hen. Why, that's my fortune too; therefore I'll stay.

North. Be it with resolution, then, to fight.

Prince. My royal father, cheer these noble lords, And hearten those that fight in your defence. Unsheath your sword, good father: cry, "Saint George!"

March. Enter EDWARD, GEORGE, RICHARD, WARWICK, NORFOLK, MONTAGUE, and Soldiers. Edw. Now, perjur'd Henry, wilt thou kneel for grace,

And set thy diadem upon my head,

Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?

Q. Mar. Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting boy: Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms, Before thy sovereign, and thy lawful king?

Edw. I am his king, and he should bow his knee: I was adopted heir by his consent;

Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear,
You, that are king, though he do wear the crown,
Have caus'd him, by new act of parliament,
To blot out me, and put his own son in.
Clif. And reason too:

Who should succeed the father, but the son?
Rich. Are you there, butcher ?-O! I cannot

speak.

Clif. Ay, crook-back; here I stand, to answer thee,

Or any he the proudest of thy sort.

Rich. 'Twas you that kill'd young Rutland, was

it not?

Clif. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied. Rich. For God's sake, lords, give signal to the fight.

War. What say'st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown?

Q. Mar. Why, how now, long-tongu'd Warwick! dare you speak?

When you and I met at Saint Alban's last,
Your legs did better service than your hands.
War. Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis
thine.

Clif. You said so much before, and yet you fled. War. 'Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence.

North. No, nor your manhood, that durst make you stay.

Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently. Break off the parley; for scarce I can refrain The execution of my big-swoln heart Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.

Clif. I slew thy father: call'st thou him a child! Rich. Ay, like a dastard, and a treacherous coward,

As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland;
But ere sun-set I'll make thee curse the deed.

K. Hen. Have done with words, my lords, and

hear me speak.

Q. Mar. Defy them then, or else hold close thy lips.

K. Hen. I pr'ythee, give no limits to my tongue: I am a king, and privileg'd to speak.

Clif. My liege, the wound, that bred this meeting here,

Cannot be cur'd by words; therefore be still.
Rich. Then, executioner, unsheath thy sword.
By him that made us all, I am resolv'd,
That Clifford's manhood lies upon his tongue.

Edw. Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or no? A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day,