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And thrice cry'd, Courage, father! fight it out:
And full as oft came Edward to my side,
With purple falchion painted to the hilt
In blood of those, that had encounter'd him :
And when the hardiest warriors did retire,
Richard cry'd, Charge! and give no foot of ground;
And cry'd, a crown, or else a glorious tomb,
A scepter or an earthly fepulcher.
With this we charg'd again ; bat out! alas,
We bodg'd again; as I have seen a fwan
With bootless labour swim against the tide,
And spend her strength with over-matching waves.
[A port alarum within.
Ah! hark, the fatal followers do pursue,
And I am faint and cannot fly their fury,
And were I strong, I would not shun their fury.
The sands are number'd, that make up my life ;
Here must I stay, and here my life must end.
Enter the Queen, Clifford, Northumberland, the Prince
of Wales, and Soldiers.
Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,
I dare your quenchless fury to more rage :
I am your butt, and I abide your shot.
North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.
Clif. Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm
With downright payment few'd unto my father.
Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his car,
And made an evening at the noon-tide prick.
York. My ashes, as the Phænix, may bring forth
A bird that will revenge upon you all :
And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heav'n,
Scorning whate'er you can aflict me with.
Why come you not? what! multitudes and fear?
Clif. So cowards fight, when they can fly no farther ;
So doves do peck the falcon's piercing talons ;
So desp'rate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,
Breathe out invectives 'gainst the officers.
York. Oh Cliford, but bethink thee once again, And in thy thought o'er-run my former time;
And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face,
And bite thy tongue that flanders him with cowardise,
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. (7)
Queen. Hold, valiant Clifford; for a thousand causes I would prolong a while thë 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.
Clif. Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin. North. So doth the coney struggle in the net.
[In the fruggle York is taken Prisoner. York. So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty ; So true men yield, with robbers fo o'ermatch'd. North. What would your Grace have done unto him now?
Queen. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland, Come make him stand upon this mole-hill here ; That raught at mountains with out-stretched arms, Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.
(7) And buckler with thee blows twice two for one.] This is the reading of all the impressions, from the first folio downwards. But, to buckler, is to defend; which certainly is not Clifford's meaning here : And in that sense we have the word afterwards in this very
Can Oxford that did ever fence the right,
Now buckler falfhood with a pedigree? Mr. Pope, who pretends to have collated the old quarto, might have observ'd the reading is there, as I have restor'd it to the text, buckle i. e. cope, Aruggle with. So before, in 1 Henry VI.
In single combat thou thalt buckle with me.
-All our general force
Might, with a sally of the very town,
Be buckled with.
And hell too strong for me to buckle with.
you, that would be England's King ?
that reveli'd in our parliament,
And made a preachment of your high defcent?
Where are your mess of sons to back you now,
The wanton Edward, and the lusty George ?
And where's that valiant crook-back'd 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 staind this napkin with the blood,
That valiant Clifford with his rapier's point
Made issue 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 thould lament thy miserable state.
I pr’ythee, grieve, to make me merry, York.
What, hath thy fiery heart fo parch'd 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 sport :
York cannot speak, unless he wear a crown.
A crown for York-and, Lords, bow low to him :
his hands, while 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 foon, and broke his solemn oath?
As I bethink me, you should not be King
Till our King Henry had thook 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.
Clif. That is my office, for my father's fake.
Queen. Nay, stay, let us hear the oraisons he makes.
York. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of
Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth!
How ill-beteening is it in thy fex
To triunph like an Amazonian trull,
Upon their woes, whom fortune captivates ?
But that thy face is, vizor like, unchanging,
Made impudent with use of evil deeds,
I woulu ailay, proud Queen, to make thee blush.
To tell thee whence thou cam'ft, of whom deriv’d,
Were she me enough to shame thee, wert thou not shame.
Thy father bears the type of King of Naples, [lefs :
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 verify'd,
" 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 feem 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.
Oh, tyger's heart wrapt in a woman's hide !
How could it 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 stern, obdurate, Aipty, rough, remorseless.
Bidft thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish.
Would'fi have me weep. why, now thou hast thy will.
For raging wind blows up incessant show'rs,
And when the rage allays, the rain begins.
These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies ;