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What! was it you, that would be England's King?
Was't you, that reveli'd in our parliament,
And made a preachment of your high defcent?
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
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 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 should lament thy miferable 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't 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, while I do fet 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 fo foon, and broke his folemn 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 ?

Oh, 'tis a fault too too unpardonable:

Off with the crown; and with the crown, his head;

And whilft we breathe, take time to do him dead.

Clif. That is my office, for my father's fake.

Queen. Nay, ftay, let us hear the oraifons he makes.
York. She-wolf of France, but worfe than wolves of
France,

Whofe tongue more poifons than the adder's tooth!
How ill-beleeming 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 blufh.
To tell thee whence thou cam'ft, of whom deriv'd,

[lefs:

Were fhame enough to fhame thee, wert thou not shame-
Thy father bears the type of King of Naples,
Of both the Sicils and ferufalem,

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 muft 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 fmall.
'Tis virtue, that doth make them moft'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 oppofite 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't thou drain the life-blood of the child,
To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,

And yet be feen to wear a woman's face?
Women are foft, mild, pitiful and flexible;
Thou ftern, obdurate, Alinty, rough, remorfelefs.
Bidft thou me rage? why, now thou haft thy wish.
Would't have me weep? why, now thou haft thy will.
For raging wind blows up inceffant show'rs,
And when the rage allays, the rain begins.
Thefe tears are my feet Rutland's obfequies;

And

And ev'ry drop cries vengeance for his death,

'Gainft thee, fell Clifford; and thee, false French woman.
North. Befhrew me, but his paffions move me fo;
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 ftain'd the roses juic'd with blood: (8)
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 shed fast-falling tears,
And fay, Alas, it was a piteous deed!-

There, take the crown; and, with the crown, my curse,
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 foul to heav'n, my blood upon your heads.
North. Had he been flaughter-man to all my kin,

I should not for my life but weep with him,
To fee how inly forrow gripes his foul.

Queen. What, weeping-ripe, my Lord Northumberland? Think but upon the wrong he did us all,

(8) Would not bave ftain'd the rofes juft with blood.] This reading we deriv'd from the 2d folio edition. The old 4to and the first Folie impreffion exhibit the paffage thus.

That face of bis the hungry cannibals

Would not have touch'd, would not have flain'd with blood. But how are we to understand, staining the roses just with blood? Can the poet mean, that the cannibals would not have just ftain'd the roses in his cheeks with blood? The pofition of the words is forc'd, to admit of this conftruction: and, juft, feems a very idle expletive. The conjecture, which I gave in print fome time ago, and with which I have now restor❜d the text, I am very willing to think, retrieves the poet's thought.

Would not have ftain'd the rofes juic'd with blood. i. e. would not have fpilt that blood, whofe juices fhone thro' his young cheeks, bright as the vermilion dye in roses,

And

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.
York. Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God!
My foul flies through these wounds, to feek out thee.

[Dies.

Queen. Off with his head, and fet it on York gates; So York may overlook the town of York.

[Exeunt.

A CT II.

SCENE, near Mortimer's Crofs in Wales.

A March. Enter Edward, Richard, and their Power.

I

EDWARD:

Wonder, how our princely Father fcap'd;
Or whether he be fcap'd away, or no,
From Clifford's and Northumberland's purfuit?
Had he been ta'en, we should have heard the news;
Had he been flain, we should have heard the news;
Or had he fcap'd, methinks, we should have heard
The happy tidings of his good escape.
How fares my brother? why is he fo fad?
Rich. I cannot joy, until I be refolv'd
Where our right valiant father is become.
I faw him in the battle range about;

And watch'd him, how he fingled Clifford forth;
Methought, he bore him in the thickest troop,
As doth a lion in a herd of neat ;

Or as a bear, encompafs'd round with dogs,
Who having pincht a few and made them cry,
The reft ftand all aloof and bark at him.
So far'd our father with his enemies,
So fled his enemies my warlike father:

Methinks,

Methinks, 'tis prize enough to be his fon.
See, how the morning opes her golden gates,
And takes her farewel of the glorious fun;
How well resembles it the prime of youth,
Trim'd like a yonker prancing to his love?
Edw. Dazzle mine eyes? or do I see three funs?
Rich. Three glorious funs, each one a perfect fun;
Not feparated with the racking clouds,

But fever'd in a pale, clear fhining sky.
See, fee, they join, embrace, and feem to kifs;
As if they vow'd fome league inviolable:

Now are they but one lamp, one light, one fun.
In this the heaven figures fome event..

Edw. 'Tis wondrous flrange, the like yet never heard of.
1 think, it cites us, brother, to the field;
That we the fons of brave Plantagenet,
Each one already blazing by our meeds,
Should notwithstanding join our lights together,
And over-fhine the earth, as this the world.
Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear
Upon my target three fair fhining funs.

[fpeak it,

Rich. Nay, bear three daughters: -by your leave I You love the breeder better than the male.

Enter a Meffenger.

But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretel
Some dreadful ftory hanging on thy tongue?
Mef. Ah! one that was a woeful looker on,
When as the noble Duke of York was flain;
Your princely father, and my loving Lord.

Edw. Oh, fpeak no more! for I have heard too much.
Rich. Say, how he dy'd; for I will hear it all.
Mef. Environed he was with many foes,

And flood against them, as the hope of Troy
Against the Greeks that would have entered Troy.
But Hercules himself muft yield to odds ;
And many ftroaks, though with a little ax,
Hew down and fell the hardest timber'd oak.
By many hands your father was fubdu'd,
But only flaughter'd by the ireful arm

Of

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