Thou hast undone thyself, thy son, and me;
And given unto the house of York such head,
As thou shalt reign but by their sufferance.
To entail bim and his heirs unto the crown,
What is it, but to make thy sepulchre,
And creep into it far before thy time?
Warwick is chancellor, and the lord of Calais ;
Stern Faulconbridge commands the narrow seas;
The duke is made protector of the realm;
And yet shalt thou be safe? such safety finds
The trembling lamb environed with wolves.
Had I been there, which am a silly woman,
The soldiers should have toss'd me on their
pikes

Before I would have granted to that act.
But thou preferr'st thy life before thine honour:
And, seeing thou dost, I here divorce myself,
Both from thy table, Henry, and thy bed,
Until that act of parliament be repeal'd,
Whereby my son is disinherited.

The northern lords, that have forsworn thy colours,

Will follow mine, if once they see them spread:
And spread they shall be; to thy foul disgrace,
And utter ruin of the house of York.
Thus do I leave thee:-Come, son, let's away;
Our army's ready; come, we'll after them.

K. Hen. Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me
speak.

Q. Mar. Thou hast spoke too much already; get thee gone.

K. Hen. Gentle son Edward, thou wilt stay with me?

Q. Mar. Ay, to be murther'd by his enemies. Prince. When I return with victory from the field

I'll see your grace: till then, I'll follow her. Q. Mar. Come, son, away; we may not linger thus.

[Exeunt QUEEN MARGARET and the PRINCE. K. Hen. Poor queen! how love to me, and

to her son, Hath made her break out into terms of rage! Reveng'd may she be on that hateful duke; Whose haughty spirit, winged with desire, Will cost my crown, and, like an empty eagle, Tire on the flesh of me and of my son! The loss of those three lords torments my heart: I'll write unto them, and cutreat them fair;Come, cousin, you shall be the messenger. Ere. And I, I hope, shall reconcile them all. [Exeunt.

a Cost. Warburton, and with him Steevens, maintain that the true word is coast- Will coast the crown "-will hover about the crown. It is unnecessary to turn a plain expression into a metaphor.

HISTORIES.-VOL. II. M

York. Thou canst not, son; it is impossible.

Rich. An oath is of no moment, being not took Before a true and lawful magistrate, That hath authority over him that swears: Henry had none, but did usurp the place; Then, seeing 't was he that made you to depose, Your oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous. Therefore, to arms. And, father, do but think How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown; Within whose circuit is Elysium, And all that poets feign of bliss and joy. Why do we linger thus? I cannot rest, Until the white rose that I wear be dyed Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry's heart. York. Richard, enough; I will be king, or die. Brother, thou shalt to London presently,

a Lord Chedworth quotes Cicero as the authority for this opinion:-"Si violandum est jus, regnandi gratiâ violandum est aliis rebus pietatem colas." (De Officiis, 1. 3.) 161

And whet on Warwick to this enterprise.
Thou, Richard, shalt unto the duke of Norfolk,
And tell him privily of our intent.

You, Edward, shall unto my lord Cobham,
With whom the Kentish men will willingly rise:
In them I trust; for they are soldiers,
Witty, courteous, liberal, full of spirit.
While you are thus employ'd, what resteth more,
But that I seek occasion how to rise,
And yet the king not privy to my drift,
Nor any of the house of Lancaster ?

Enter a Messenger.

But, stay; What news? why com'st thou in such post?

Mess. The queen, with all the northern earls and lords,

Intend here to besiege you in your castle :
She is hard by with twenty thousand men ;
And therefore fortify your hold, my lord.

York. Ay, with my sword. What! think'st thou that we fear them?

Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me;
My brother Montague shall post to London :
Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest,
Whom we have left protectors of the king,
With powerful policy strengthen themselves,
And trust not simple Henry, nor his oaths.
Mont. Brother, I go; I'll win them, fear it
not:

And thus most humbly I do take my leave.

[Exit.

Enter Sir JOHN and Sir HUGH MORTIMER. York. Sir John, and sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles !

You are come to Sandal in a happy hour;
The army of the queen mean to besiege us.
Sir John. She shall not need, we'll meet her
in the field.

York. What, with five thousand men?
Rich. Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need.
A woman's general; what should we fear?
[A march afar off.
Edo. I hear their drums; let's set our men

SCENE III.-Plains near Sandal Castle.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter RUTLAND, and his Tutor.

Rut. Ah, whither shall I fly to 'scape their hands?

Ah, tutor! lock where bloody Clifford comes !

Enter CLIFFORD and Soldiers.

Clif. Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy life.

As for the brat of this accursed duke,
Whose father slew my father, he shall die.
Tut. And I, my lord, will bear him company.
Clif. Soldiers, away with him.

Tut. Ah, Clifford! murther not this innocent child,

Lest thou be hated both of God and man.

[Exit, forced off by Soldiers. Clif. How now! is he dead already? Or is it

fear

That makes him close his eyes?-I'll open them.

Rut. So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch That trembles under his devouring paws: And so he walks, insulting o'er his prey; And so he comes, to rend his limbs asunder. Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword, And not with such a cruel threat'ning look. Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die: I am too mean a subject for thy wrath; Be thou reveng❜d on men, and let me live. Claf. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy; my father's blood

Hath stopp'd the passage where thy words should

enter.

open

Rut. Then let father's blood my it again; He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him. Clif. Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine

Were not revenge sufficient for me;
No, if I digg'd up thy forefathers' graves,
And hung their rotten coffins up in chains,
It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart.
The sight of any of the house of York
Is as a fury to torment my soul ;

And till I root out their accursed line,
And leave not one alive, I live in hell.
Therefore-
[Lifting his hand.
Rut. O, let me pray before I take death:-
my
To thee I pray: Sweet Clifford, pity me!
Clif. Such pity as my rapier's point affords.
Rut. I never did thee harm: Why wilt thou
slay me?
Clif. Thy father hath.

Rut.

But 't was ere I was born.

Thou hast one son, for his sake pity me;
Lest in revenge thereof,-sith God is just,—
He be as miserably slain as I.

Ah, let me live in prison all my days;
And when I give occasion of offence,

Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause.
Clif. No cause?

Thy father slew my father; therefore, die.
[CLIFFORD stabs him.
Rut. Dii faciant, laudis summa sit ista tuæ!
[Dies.
Clif. Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet!
And this thy son's blood, cleaving to my blade,
Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood,
Congeal'd with this, do make me wipe off both.
[Exit.

SCENE IV.-The same.

Alarum. Enter YORK.

York. The army of the queen hath got the field;

My uncles both are slain in rescuing me;
And all my followers to the eager foe
Turn back, and fly, like ships before the wind,
Or lambs pursued by hunger-starved wolves.
My sons-God knows, what hath bechanced

them:

But this I know,--they have demean'd themselves

Like men born to renown, by life, or death.
Three times did Richard make a lane to me;
And thrice cried,—‘Courage, father! fight it out!'
And full as oft came Edward to my side,
With purple faulchion, painted to the hilt
In blood of those that had encounter'd him :
And when the hardiest warriors did retire,
Richard cried,-'Charge! and give no foot of
ground!'

waves.

And cried,-'A crown, or else a glorious tomb!
A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre !'
With this, we charg'd again: but, out, alas!
We bodg'd again; as I have seen a swan
With bootless labour swim against the tide,
And spend her strength with over-matching
[A short 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 QUEEN MARGARET, CLIFFORD, NORTHUM-
BERLAND, and Soldiers.

a Bodg'd. Johnson would read budy'd. Steevens thinks that body'd here means "we boggled, made bad or bungling work of our attempt to rally." Body'd is from the French bouger, to stir.

M 2

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.
Cliff. Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm,
With downright payment, show'd unto my father.
Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his car,
And made an evening at the noontide prick.
York. My ashes, as the phoenix, may bring
forth
A bird that will revenge upon you
all:
And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heaven,
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
further;

So doves do peck the falcon's piercing talons; So 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'er-run my former time: And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face; And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with cowardice,

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. [Draws.

Q. Mar. Hold, valiant Clifford ! for a thousand

causes,

I would prolong awhile the 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.

[They lay hands on YORK, who struggles. Clif. 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'ermatch'd. North. What would your grace have done

unto him now?

Q. Mar. Brave warriors, Clifford and North

umberland,

163

Come, make him stand upon this molehill here; That raught at mountains with outstretched

arms,

Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.
What! was it you that would be England's king?
Was 't 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,
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 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.
Alas, poor York! but that I hate thee deadly
I should lament thy miserable state.

I prithee, grieve, to make me merry, York. What, hath thy fiery heart so parch'd thine entrails,

That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death? Why art thou patient, man? thou shouldst be mad;

And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus. Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.b

Thou wouldst 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 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 soon, and broke his solemn 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?
O, 't is a fault too, toc unpardonable!

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

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

a Raught. The ancient preterite of to reach.

b We place this line as in the folio. In the 'True Tragedy' its position is after

"I prithee, grieve, to make me merry, York." c Pule, impale-encircle.

Clif. That is my office, for my father's sake. Q. Mar. Nay, stay; let's hear the orisons be 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, vizor-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:

Wouldst 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-

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 qucen, 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, 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 gentlehearted king. [Stabbing him. York. Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God! My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee. [Dies.

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

So York may overlook the town of York.

[Exeunt