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Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible ;
Or as a bear, encompass'd round with dogs; Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. Who having pinchd a few, and made them cry, Bidd'st thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish : The rest stand all aloof, and bark at him. Would'st have me weep? why, now thou hast thy will: So far'd our father with his enemies; For raging wind blows up incessant showers.
So fled his enemies my warlike father ;
Methinks, 'tis prize enough to be his son.
Trimm'd like a younker, praneing to his love ! North. Beshrew me, but his passions move me so,
Edw. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see thine sups? That hardly can I check my eyes from tears.
Rich. Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun ; York. That face of his the hungry cannibals Not separated with the racking clouds, Would not have touch'd, would not have staind with But sever'd in a pale clear-shining sky. blood :
See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss, But you are more inhuman, more inexorable, As if they vow'd some league inviolable : O, ten times more, -than tigers of Hyrcania.
Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun, See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears :
In this the heaven figures some event. This cloth thou dipp'dst in blood of my sweet boy, Edw. 'Tis wondrous strange, the like yet berer And I with tears do wash the blood away.
heard of. Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this:
I think, it cites us, brother, to the field; [He gives back the handkerchief: || That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet, And, if thou tell'st the heavy story right,
Each one already blazing by our meeds, Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears ;
Should, notwithstanding, join our lights together, Yea, even my foes will shed fast-falling tears,
And over-shine the earth, as this the world. And say,-Alas, it was a piteous deel!
Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear There, take the crown, and, with the crown. my curse; Upon my target three fair shining suns. And, in thy need, such comfort come to thee,
Rich. Nay, bear three daughters ;-by yonr leave! As now I reap at thy too cruel hand !
speak it, Heard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world ;
You love the breeder better than the male.My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads !
Enter a Messenger. North. Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin,
But what art thou, whose heavy looks for tel I should not for my life but weep with him,
Some dreaful story hanging on thy tongue? To see how inly sorrow gripes his soitl.
Mess. Ah, one that was a woeful looker 0ll, l. Mar. What, weeping-ripe, my lord Northumber
When as the noble duke of York was slain, land?
Your princely, father, and my loving lord. Think but upon the wrong he did us all,
Edw. O, speak no more! for I have heart too much. And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.
Rich. Say how he died, for I will hear it all. Clif. Here's for my oath, here's for my father's
Mess. E..vironed be was with many foes ; death.
And stood against them, as the hope of Troy Q. Mar. And here's to right our gentle-hearted king Against the Greeks that would have enter'd Tros.
But Hercules himself nust yield to odds : York. Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God!
And many strokes, though with a little axe, My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee.
Hew down and fell the hardest timberd oak. (Dies.
By many hauds your father was subdud; Q. Mar. Off with his head, and set it on York gates?
But only slaughter'd by the ireful arm
Of unrelenting Clifford, and the queen:
Laugh'd in his face; and, when with grief he stepona
The ruthless queen gave him, to dry bis checking
A napkin steeped in the harmless blood SCENE 1.-A Plain near Mortimer's Crass in Herefordshire. Drums. Enter Edward and Richard, And, after u any scorns, many foul taunts,
Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain : with their Forces, marching.
They took his head, and on the gates of York Edrvard.
They set the sanze ; and there it doth remain, I WONDER, how our princely father 'scap'd ; The saddest spectacle that ere I viewd. Or whether he be 'scap'd away, or no,
Edw. Sweet duke of York, our prop to lean upan From Clifford's and Northumberland's pursuit; Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay! Had he been ta'en, we should have heard the news; O Clifford, boisterous Clifford, thou hast slain Had he been slain, we should have heard the news; The flower of Europe for his chivalry; Or, had he 'scap'd, methinks, we should have heard And treacherously hast thou vanquish him, l'he happy tidings of his good escape
Fur, hand to hand, he would have vanquish'd theel How fares iny brother? why is he so sad ?
Now my soul's palace is become a prison: Rich. I cannot joy, until I be resolvid
Ah, would she break from bence! that this my body Where our right valiant father is become.
Might in the ground be closed up
in rest : I saw him in the battle range about;
For never benceforth shall I joy again, And watch'd him, how he singled Clifford forth. Never, O never, shall I see more joy. Methought, he bore him in the thickest urvop,
Rich. I cannot weep; for all my body's moisture As doth a liop in a herd of neat:
Searce serves to quench my furnace-burning beart:
Nor ean my tongue unload my heart's great burden ; From your kind aunt, duchess of Burgundy,
Rich. 'Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled:
But ne'er till now, his scandal of retire.
Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry's head,
Were he as famous and as bold in war,
Rich. I know it well, lord Warwick : blame me not;
Shall we go throw away our coats of steel, March. Enter Warwick and Montague, with Forces.
And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns, War. How pow, fair lords? What fare? what news | Numb’ring our Ave-Maries with our beads ? abroad?
Or shall we on the helmets of our foes Rich. Great lord of Warwick, if we should recount Tell our devotion with revengeful arms? Our baleful news, and, at each word's deliverance, If for the last, say-Ay; and to it, lords. Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told,
War. Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you out;
Attend me, lords. The proud insulting queen,
Have wrought the easy-melting king like wax.
And now to London all the crew are gone,
To frustrate both his oath, and what beside Where your brave father breath'd his latest gasp, May make against the house of Lancaster. Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run,
Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong: Were brought me of your loss, and his depart. Now, if the help of Norfolk, and myself, I then in London, keeper of the king,
With all the friends that thou, brave earl of March, Master'd my soldiers, gather'd flocks of friends, Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure, And very well appointed, as I thought,
Will but amount to five and twenty thousand, . March'd towards Saint Albans to intercept the queen, Why, Via! to London will we mareh amain ; Bearing the king in my behalf along :
And once again bestride our foaming steeds, For by my scouts I was advertised,
And once again cry-Charge upon our foes ! That she was coming with a full intent,
But never once again turn back, and fly. To dash our late deeree in parliament,
Rich. Ay, now, methinks, I hear great Warwick Touching king Henry's oath, and your succession.
speak : Short tale to make, we at Saint Albans met,
Ne'er may he live to see a sunshine day,
Edw. Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean;
War. No longer earl of March, but duke of York ;
King Edward, -valiant Richard, --Montague,
But sound the trumpets, and about our task.
(As thou bast shown it flinty by thy deeds,) And we, in them, no hope to win the day,
I come to pierce it-ur to give thee mine. So that we fled; the king, unto the queen;
Edw. Then strike up, drums ;-God, and St. George, Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and myself,
for us! In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you; For in the marehes here, we heard, you were,
Enter a Messenger. Making another head to fight again.
War. How now? what news? Edw. Where is the duke of Norfolk, gentle War Mes. The duke of Norfolk sends you word by me, wiek?
The qneen is coming with a puissant host ; And when came George from Burgundy to England ? And craves your company for sperdy counsel.
War. Some six miles off the duke is with the soldiers : War. Why then it sorts, brave warriors: Let's away. Add for your brother,-he was lately sent
SCENE 11.–Before York. Enter King Henry, Queen || I'll draw it as apparent to the erown,
Margaret, the Prince of Wales, Clifford, and North And in that quarrel use it to the death. umberland, with Forces.
Clif. Why, that is spoken like a toward prinee.
Enter a Messenger. l. Mar. Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York.
Mes. Royal commanders, be in readiness ; Yonder's the head of that arch-enemy,
For, with a band of thirty thousand men,
Comes Warwick, backing of the duke of York;
Darraign your battle, for they are at hand.
Clif. I would, your highness would depart the field; Withhold revenge, dear God ! 'uis not my fault,
The queen hath best success when you are absent. Not wittingly have I infring'd my vow.
l. Mar. Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our for. Clif. My gracious liege, this too much lenity And harmful pity, must be laid aside.
K. Hen. Why, that's my fortunc too; therefore I'll To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?
stay. Not to the beast that would usurp their den.
North. Be it with resolution then to fight. Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick?
Prince. My royal father, cheer these noble lords, Not his, that spoils her young before her face. And hearten those that fight in your
defence: Wbo 'scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting? Unshenth your sword, good father; cry, Saint George! Not he, that sets his foot upon her back. The smallest worm will turn, being troulden on;
March. Enter Edward, George, Richard, Warwick, And doves will peek, in safeguard of their brood.
Norfolk, Montague, and Soldiers. Ambitious York did level at thy crown,
Edw. Now, perjur'd Henry! wilt thou kneel for Thou, smiling, while he knit his angry brows:
grace, He, but a duke, would have his son a king,
And set thy diadem upon my head; And raise his issue, like a loving sire ;
Or bide the mortal fortune of the field? Thou, being a king, bless'd with a goodly son,
Q. Mar. Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting boy! Didst yield consent to disinherit him,
Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms, Which argued thee a most unloving father.
Before thy sovereign, and thy lawful king? Unreasonable creatures feed their young :
Edw. I am his king, and he should bow his knee; And though man's face be fearful to their eyes, I was adopted heir by his consent : Yet, in protection of their tender ones,
Since when, his oath is broke ; for, as I hear,
Clif. And reason too ;
Rich. Are you there, butcher?-0, I cannot speak! Should lose his birthright by his father's fault;
Clif. Ay, crook-back; here I stand, to answer thee, And long hereafter say unto his child,-
Or any he the proudest of thy sort. What my great-grandfather and grandsire got, Richo 'Twas you that kill'd young Roland, was it My careless father fondly gave away!
not? Ah, what a shame were this ! Look on the boy;
Clif. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied. And let hvis manly face, which promiseth
Rich. For God's sake, lords, give signal to the fight: Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart,
Iar. What say'st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the To hold thine own, and leave thine own with him.
crown? K. Hen. Full well hath Clifford play'd the orator, Q. Mar. Why, how now, long-tongu'd Warwick! Inferring arguments of mighty force.
dare you speak ? But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear, When you and I met at Saint Albans last, That things ill got had ever bad success ?
Your legs did better service than your hands. And happy always was it for that son,
War. Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine Whose father for his hoarding went to hell ?
Clif. You said so much before, and yet you flede I'll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind,
War. 'l'was not your valour, Clifford, drove me And 'would, my father had left me no more !
thence. For all the rest is held at such a rate,
North. No, nor your manhood, that durst make you As brings a thousand-fuld more care to keep,
stay. Than in possession any jot of pleasure.
Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently ;Ah, cousin York! 'would thy best friends did know, Break off the parle ; for scarcc I can refrain Ilow it doth grieve me that thy head is here! The execution of my big-swoln heart l. Mar. My lord, cheer up your spirits ; our foes
Upon that Clifford, that cruel child·killer. are migh,
Clif. I slew thy father: Callist thou him a child ? And this soft courage makes your followers foint.
Rich. Ay, like a dastard, and a treacherous coward, You promis'd knighthood to our forward son ;
As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland; Unsheath your sword, and dub him presentiys
But, ere sun-set, I'll make thee curse the deed. Edward, kneel down.
K. Hen. Have done with words, my lords, and hear K. Hen. Edward Plantagenet, arise a kniglit;
me speak, And learn this lesson,-Draw thy sword in right. 2. Mar. Defy them then, or else hold close thy lips.
Prince. My gracious father, by your kingly leave, K. Hen. I priythee, give no limits to my tongue;
I am a king, and privileg'd to speak.
And, spite of spite, needs must I rest a while. Clif. My liege, the wound, that bred this meeting
Enter Edward, running. here, Cannot be curd by words; therefore be still.
Edw. Smile, gentle heaven! or strike, ungentle
death! Rich. Then, executioner, unsheath thy sword:
For this world frowns, and Edward's sun is clouded. By him that made us all I am resolvid, That Clifford's manhood lies upon his tongue.
War. How now, my lord ? what hap? what hope of Edw. Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or no?
Geo. Our hap is lost, our hope but sad despair ; War. If thou deny, their blood upon thy head;
Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us : For York in justice puts his armour on.
What counsel give yon? whither shall we fly? Prince. If that be right, which Warwick says is
Edw, Bootless is flight, they follow us with wings; right,
And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit. There is no wrong, but every thing is right.
Enter Richard. Rich. Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands ; Rich. Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyFor, well I wot, thou hast thy mother's tongue.
self? l. Mar. But thou art neither like thy sire, nor dam; Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk, But like a foul misshapen stigmatic,
Broach'd with the steely point of Clifford's lance: Mark'd by the destinies to be avoided,
And, in the very pangs of death, he cried, -
Like to a dismal clangor heard from far,-
So underneath the belly of their steeds, (As if a channel should be call’d the sea.)
That staind their fetlocks in his smoaking blood, Sham'st thou pot, knowing whence thou art extraught, | The noble gentleman gave up the ghost. To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?
War. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood : Edw. A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns, I'll kill my horse, because I will not fly. To make this shameless callet know herself. Why stand we like soft-hearted women here, Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,
Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage;
And look upon, as if the tragedy
Here on my knee I vow to God above,
I'll never pause again, never stand still,
Or fortune given me measure of revenge.
Edw. O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine'; But, when he took a beggar to his bed,
And, in this vow, do chain my soul to thine.And grac'd thy poor sire with his bridal day; And, ere my knee rise from the earth's cold face, Even then that sunshine brewd a shower for him, I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee, That washid his father's fortunes forth of France, Thou setter up and plucker down of kings! And heap'd sedition on his crown at home.
Beseeching thee,-if with thy will it stands, For what bath broachd this tumult, but thy pride ? That to my foes this body must be prey,Hadst thou been meek, our title still had slept; Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope, And we, in pity of the gentle king,
And give sweet passage to my sinful soul ! Had slipp'd our claim until another age.
- Now, lords, take leave until we meet again, Geo. But, when we saw our sunshine made thy | Where'er it be, in heaven, or on earth. spring,
Rich. Brother, give me thy hand, and, gentle WarAnd that thy summer bred us no increase,
wick, We set the axe to thy usurping root:
Let me embrace thee in my weary arms :-
War. Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell.
And give them leave to fly that will not stay;
And call them pillars, that will stand to us;
This may plant courage in their quailing breasts ; Q. Mar. Stay, Edward.
For yet is hope of life, and victory:Edw. No, wrangling woman ; we'll no longer stay: Foreslow no longer, make we hence amain. [Exeunt. These words will cost ten thousand lives today.
[E.reunt.SCENE IV.-The same. Another part of the Field,
Excursions. Enter Richard and Clifford. SCENE III.- A Field of Battle between Towton and
Rich. Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone: Sa.rton in Yorkshire. Alarums : Excursions. E11
Suppose, this arm is for the duke of Yorki, ter Warwick.
And this for Rutland; both bound to revenge, War. Forspent with toil, as runners with a race,
Wert thou environd with a brazen wall. I lay me down a little while to breathe :
Clif. Now, Richard, I am with thee bere alone: For strokes receiv'd, and many blows repaid,
This is the land, that stabb'd thy futher York ; Have robbd my strong-knit sinews of their strength, And this the hand, that slew thy brother Ritland:
And here's the heart, that triumpbs in their death, May yet ere niglit yield both my life and theri
Who's this ?- God! it is my father's fase,
Whom in this conflict I unvares have kill'd
Caine on the part of York, pressd by his master;
And I, who at his hands receiv'd my life, ter King Henry.
Have by my hands, of life bereaved him.K. Hen. This battle fares like to the morning's war,
Parlon me, God, I knew not what I did -
And pardon, father, for I knew not thee! -
My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks;
And no more words, till they have flow'd their fill. Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea,
K. Hen. O piteous spectacle! O bloody times ! Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind;
Whilst lions war, and battle for their dens, Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea
Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity. Forc'd to retire, by fury of the wind :
Weep, wretched man, I'll aid the tear for tear; Sometime, the flood prevails; and then, the wind :
And let our hearts, and eyes, like civil war, Now, one the better; then, another best;
Be blind with tears, and break o'ercharg'd with grief. Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, Yet neither conqneror, nor conquered :
Enter a Father, who has killed his Son, with the Body So is the equal poise of this fell war.
in his arms. Here on this mole-hill will I sit me down.
Fath. Thou, that so stoutly hast resisted me, To whom God will, there be the victory!
Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold; For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too,
For I have bought it with an hundred blows.Have chid me from the battle ; swearing both,
But let me see-Is this our foeman's face? They prosper best of all when I am thence.
Ah, no, no, no, it is mine only son 'Would I were dead ! it God's good will were so:
Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee, For what is in this world, but grief and woc?
Throw up thine eye; see, see, what showers arise, O God! methinks, it were a happy life,
Blown with the windy tempest of my heart, To be no better than a homely swain;
Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart. To sit upon a hill, as I do now,
0, pity, God, this miserable age!To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
What stratagems, bow fell, how butcherly, Thereby to see the minutes how they run:
Erroneous, mutinons, and unnatural, How many make the hour full complete,
This deadly quarrel daily doth beget !How many hours bring about the day,
O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon, How many days will finish up the year,
And hath bereft thee of thy life too late! How many years a mortal man may live.
K. Hen. Woe above woe! grief more than common When this is known then to divide the times :
grief! So many hours must I tend my flock;
0, that my death would stay these ruthful deeds! So many hours must I take my rest;
O pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity!So many hours must I contemplate ;
The red rose and the white, are on his face, So many hours must I sport myself;
The fatal colours of our striving houses : So many days my ewes have been with young ;
The one, his purple blood right well reseinbles ; So many weeks ere the poor fools will yetın;
The other, his pale cheeks, methinks. present. So many years ere I shall shear the fleece;
Wither one rose, and let the other flourish! So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
If you contend, a thousand lives must wither. Pass'd over to the end they were created,
Son. How will my mother, for a father's death, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Take on with me, and ne'er be satisfied? Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
Fath. How will my wife, for slaughter of my son, Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
Shed seas of tears, and ne'er be satisfied ? To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,
K. Hen. How will the country, for these woeful Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy
chances, To kings, that ftar their subjects' treachery?
Mis-think the king, and not be satisfied! O, yes it doth; a thousand fold it doth.
Son. Was ever son, so rued a father's death? And to conclude, - the shepherd's homely curds,
Fath. Was ever father, so bemoand a son ? His cold thin drink out of his leather buttle,
K. Hen. Was ever king so griev'd for subjects' woei His wonted sleep under a fresh erce's shade,
Much is your sorrow; mine, ten times so much. All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
Son. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fil. Is far beyond a prince's delicates,
[Exit with the body. His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
Fath. These arms of mine shall be thy winding His body couched in a curious bed,
sheet; When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.
My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre ; Alarum. Enter a Son that has killed his Father, drag.
For from my heart thine image ne'er shall go.
My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell;
As Priam was for all his valiant sons.
I'll bear thee lunce; and let them fight that will,