« ZurückWeiter »
Clif. Soldiers, away with him.
Tutor. Ah Clifford, murther not this innocent Child,
Left thou be hated both of God and Man.
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 Lyon o'er the wretch,
That trembles under his devouring Paws:
And fo he walks, infulting o'er his Prey,
And fo he comes to rend his Limbs afunder.
Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy Sword,
And not with such a cruel threatning Look.
Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die:
I am too mean a subject of thy wrath,
Be thou reveng'd on Men, and let me live.
Cliff. In vain thou fpeak'ft, poor Boy:
My Father's Blood hath ftopt the paffage
Where thy Words should enter,
Rut. Then let my Father's Blood open it again, He is a Man, and, Clifford, cope with him.
Clif. Had I thy Brethren here, their Lives and thinė Were not revenge fufficient for me:
No, if I digg'd up thy Fore-fathers Graves,
And hung their rotten Coffins up in Chains,
It could not flake mine Ire, nor cafe my Heart.
The fight of any of the Houfe of York,
Is as a fury to torment my Soul:
And 'till I root out their accurfed Line,
And leave not one alive, I live in Hell.
Rut. O let me pray before I take my Death:
To thee, I pray fweet Clifford, pity me.
Clif. Such pity as my Rapier's point affords.
Rut. I never did thee harm; why wilt thou flay me?
Clif. Thy Father hath.
Rut. But 'twas e'er I was born.
Thou haft one Son, for his fake pity me,
Left in revenge thereof, fith God is juft,
He be as miferably flain as I.
Ah, let me live in Prifon all my Days,
And when I give occafion of Offence,
Then let me die, for now thou haft no cause.
Clif. No cause? thy Father flew my Father, therefore die.
Rut. Dii faciant, laudis fumma fit ista tue.
Clif. Plantagenet, I come, Plantagenet.
And this thy Son's Blood cleaving to my Blade,
Shall ruft upon my Weapon, 'till thy Blood
Congeal'd with this, do make me wipe off both.
Alarum. Enter Richard Duke of York.
Tork. The Army of the Queen hath got the Field:
My Uncles both are flain in refcuing me,
And all my Followers, to the eager Foe
Turn back, and fly, like Ships before the Wind,
Or Lambs purfu'd 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 cry'd, Courage, Father, fight it out:
And full as oft come Edward to my fide,
With Purple Falchion, painted to the Hilt
In Blood of thofe that had encountred him;
And when the hardiest Warriors did retire,
Richard cry'd, Charge, and give no foot of Ground,
And cry'd, a Crown, or elfe a glorious Tomb,
A Scepter, or an Earthly Sepulcher.
With this we chatg'd again; but out alas,
We bodg'd again; as I have feen a Swan
With bootless labour fwim against the Tide,
And spend her ftrength with over-matching Waves.
[A fort Alarum within.
Ah hark, the fatal Followers do pursue,
And I am faint, and cannot fly their fury.
And were I ftrong, I would not fhun their fury.
The Sands are numbred that make up my Life,
Here must I stay, and here my Life muft 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 fhot.
North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.
Clif. Ay, to fuch mercy as his ruthless Arm
With downright payment fhew'd unto my Father.
Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his Car,
And made an Evening at the Noon-tide Prick.
York. My Afhes, as the Phoenix, 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 afflict 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 Falcons piercing Talons,
So defperate Thieves, all hopeless of their Lives,
Breath out Invectives 'gainst the Officers.
Tork. Oh, Clifford, but bethink thee once again,
And in thy thought o'er run my former time:
And if thou canft, for blushing, view this Face,
And bite thy Tongue that flanders him with Cowardice,
Whofe frown hath made thee faint and fly e'er this.
Clif. I will not bandy with thee Word for Word,
But buckler with thee Blows twice two for one.
Queen. Hold, valiant Clifford, for a thousand caufes
I would prolong a while the Traitor's Life:
Wrath makes him deaf; fpeak 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 thruft his Hand between his Teeth,
When he might fpurn him with his foot away?
It is Wars prize to take all vantages,
And ten to one is no impeach of Valour.
Clif. Ay, ay, fo ftrives the Woodcock with the Gin.
North. So doth the Cony ftruggle in the Net.
Tork. So triumph Thieves upon their conquer'd Booty,
So true Men yield, with Robbers fo o'er-matcht.
North. What would your Grace have done unto him now?
Queen. Brave Warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,,
Come make him ftand upon this Mole-hill here,
That caught at Mountains with out-ftretched Arms,
Yet parted but the fhadow 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 Defcent?
Where are your mefs of Sons to back you now,
The wanton Edward, and the lufty 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 reft, where is your Darling Rutland ?
Look York, I ftain'd this Napkin with the Blood
That valiant Clifford, with h's 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 Tork, but that I hate thee deadly,
I thould lament thy miferable State.
I prithee grieve, to make me merry, York.
What, hath thy fiery Heart fo parcht thine Intrails,
That not a Tear can fall for Rutland's Death,
Why art thou patient, Man? thou should't 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 sport:
York cannot speak, unlefs he wear a Crown.
A Crown for York-and, Lords, bow low to him:
Hold you his Hands, whilft 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 fhook Hinds with Death,
And will you pale your Head in Henry's Glory,
And rob his Temples of the Diadem,
Now in this Life against the holy Oath?
Oh, 'tis a fault too too unpardonable.
Off with the Crown, and with the Crown his Head,
And whilft we breath take him to do him dead.
Clif. That is my Office, for my Father's fake.
Queen. Nay ftay, let's here the Orizons he makes.
York. She-Wolf of France,
But worse than Wolves of France,
Whofe Tongue more poifons than the Adder's Tooth:
How ill-befeeming is it in thy Sex,
To triumph like an Amazonian Trull,
Upon their Woes, whom Fortune captivates?
But that thy Face is Vizard-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❜ds
Were fhame enough to fhame thee
Wert thou not shameless:
Thy Father bears the Type of King of Naples,
Of both the Sicils and Jerufalem,
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 must 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 wondred 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, remorfelt fs.
Bidft thou me rage? why now thou haft thy with.
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 fweet Rutland's O fequies,
And every drop cries vengeance to his Death,
'Gainft thee, fell Clifford, and thee, falfe French Woman.
North. Befhrew me, but his Paffions move me fo,
That hardly can I check mine Eyes from Tears.