Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with.
Why come you not? what! multitudes, and fear?
Clif. So cowards fight, when they can fly no fur-
ther;

& doves do peck the falcon's piercing talons;
desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,
Breathe out invectives 'gainst the officers.

York. O Clifford, but bethink thee once again,
And in thy thought o'erran my former time:
And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face;
Aad bite thy tongue, that slanders him with cowar-
dice,

Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this.
C. I will not bandy with thee word for word;
But backle with thee blows, twice two for one.

(Draws.) Q. Mar. Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand

causes,

I would prolong awhile the traitor's life;-
Wrath makes him deaf: speak thou, Northumber-
land.
[unuch,
North Hold, Clifford; do not honour him so
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 sprun him with his foot away?
swar's prize to take all 'vantages;
Aad ten to one is no impeach of valour.

(They lay hands on York, who struggles.)
Chif. Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin.
North. So doth the coney struggle in the net.
(York is taken prisoner.)
York. So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd
booty:

So true men yield, with robbers so o'er-match'd. North. What would your grace have done unto him now?

[berland,

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, 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 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;

Q Mar. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northum-Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.
Come, make him stand upon this molehill here;
That raught at mountains with oustretched arms,
Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.-
What, was it you, that would be England's king?
Wast 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,
Deky, 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.

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

A as, poor York! but that I hate thee deadly
I said lament thy miserable state.

I prythee, grieve to make me merry, York;

Sta

ap, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.
What, bath thy fiery heart so parch'd thine entrails,
That not a tear eau 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.
Thon would'st 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 be 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,
Til 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, ts a fault too, too unpardonable !—

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

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:

(He gives back the handkerchief.)
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, ny 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 Northum-
berland!

Think but upon the wrong he did us all,
And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.
Chif. 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!