Shakespeare's First Folio Part 391

Yorke. Shee-Wolfe of France, But worse then Wolues of France, Whose Tongue more poysons then the Adders Tooth: How ill-beseeming is it in thy s.e.x, To triumph like an Amazonian Trull, Vpon their Woes, whom Fortune captiuates?

But that thy Face is Vizard-like, vnchanging, Made impudent with vse of euill deedes.

I would a.s.say, prowd Queene, to make thee blush.

To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom deriu'd, Were shame enough, to shame thee, Wert thou not shamelesse.

Thy Father beares the type of King of Naples, Of both the Sicils, and Ierusalem, Yet not so wealthie as an English Yeoman.

Hath that poore Monarch taught thee to insult?

It needes not, nor it bootes thee not, prowd Queene, Vnlesse the Adage must be verify'd, That Beggers mounted, runne their Horse to death.

'Tis Beautie that doth oft make Women prowd, But G.o.d he knowes, thy share thereof is small.

'Tis Vertue, that doth make them most admir'd, The contrary, doth make thee wondred at.

'Tis Gouernment that makes them seeme Diuine, The want thereof, makes thee abhominable.

Thou art as opposite to euery good, As the Antipodes are vnto vs, Or as the South to the Septentrion.

Oh Tygres Heart, wrapt in a Womans Hide, How could'st thou drayne the Life-blood of the Child, To bid the Father wipe his eyes withall, And yet be seene to beare a Womans face?

Women are soft, milde, pittifull, and flexible; Thou, sterne, obdurate, flintie, rough, remorselesse.

Bidst thou me rage? why now thou hast thy wish.

Would'st haue me weepe? why now thou hast thy will.

For raging Wind blowes vp incessant showers, And when the Rage allayes, the Raine begins.

These Teares are my sweet Rutlands Obsequies, And euery drop cryes vengeance for his death, 'Gainst thee fell Clifford, and thee false French-woman

Northumb. Beshrew me, but his pa.s.sions moues me so, That hardly can I check my eyes from Teares

Yorke. That Face of his, The hungry Canib.a.l.l.s would not haue toucht, Would not haue stayn'd with blood: But you are more inhumane, more inexorable, Oh, tenne times more then Tygers of Hyrcania.

See, ruthlesse Queene, a haplesse Fathers Teares: This Cloth thou dipd'st in blood of my sweet Boy, And I with Teares doe wash the blood away.

Keepe thou the Napkin, and goe boast of this, And if thou tell'st the heauie storie right, Vpon my Soule, the hearers will shed Teares: Yea, euen my Foes will shed fast-falling Teares, And say, Alas, it was a pittious deed.

There, take the Crowne, and with the Crowne, my Curse, And in thy need, such comfort come to thee, As now I reape at thy too cruell hand.

Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the World, My Soule to Heauen, my Blood vpon your Heads

Northumb. Had he been slaughter-man to all my Kinne, I should not for my Life but weepe with him, To see how inly Sorrow gripes his Soule

Queen. What, weeping ripe, my Lord Northumberland?

Thinke but vpon the wrong he did vs all, And that will quickly drie thy melting Teares

Clifford. Heere's for my Oath, heere's for my Fathers Death

Queene. And heere's to right our gentle-hearted King

Yorke. Open thy Gate of Mercy, gracious G.o.d, My Soule flyes through these wounds, to seeke out thee

Queene. Off with his Head, and set it on Yorke Gates, So Yorke may ouer-looke the Towne of Yorke.

Flourish. Exit.

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

Edward. I wonder how our Princely Father scap't: Or whether he be scap't away, or no, From Cliffords and Northumberlands pursuit?

Had he been ta'ne, we should haue heard the newes; Had he beene slaine, we should haue heard the newes: Or had he scap't, me thinkes we should haue heard The happy tidings of his good escape.

How fares my Brother? why is he so sad?

Richard. I cannot ioy, vntill I be resolu'd Where our right valiant Father is become.

I saw him in the Battaile range about, And watcht him how he singled Clifford forth.

Me thought he bore him in the thickest troupe, As doth a Lyon in a Heard of Neat, Or as a Beare encompa.s.s'd round with Dogges: Who hauing pincht a few, and made them cry, The rest stand all aloofe, and barke at him.

So far'd our Father with his Enemies, So fled his Enemies my Warlike Father: Me thinkes 'tis prize enough to be his Sonne.

See how the Morning opes her golden Gates, And takes her farwell of the glorious Sunne.

How well resembles it the prime of Youth, Trimm'd like a Yonker, prauncing to his Loue?

Ed. Dazle mine eyes, or doe I see three Sunnes?

Rich. Three glorious Sunnes, each one a perfect Sunne, Not seperated with the racking Clouds, But seuer'd in a pale cleare-s.h.i.+ning Skye.

See, see, they ioyne, embrace, and seeme to kisse, As if they vow'd some League inuiolable.

Now are they but one Lampe, one Light, one Sunne: In this, the Heauen figures some euent

Edward. 'Tis wondrous strange, The like yet neuer heard of.

I thinke it cites vs (Brother) to the field, That wee, the Sonnes of braue Plantagenet, Each one alreadie blazing by our meedes, Should notwithstanding ioyne our Lights together, And ouer-s.h.i.+ne the Earth, as this the World.

What ere it bodes, hence-forward will I beare Vpon my Targuet three faire s.h.i.+ning Sunnes

Richard. Nay, beare three Daughters: By your leaue, I speake it, You loue the Breeder better then the Male.

Enter one blowing.

But what art thou, whose heauie Lookes fore-tell Some dreadfull story hanging on thy Tongue?

Mess. Ah, one that was a wofull looker on, When as the n.o.ble Duke of Yorke was slaine, Your Princely Father, and my louing Lord

Edward. Oh speake no more, for I haue heard too much

Richard. Say how he dy'de, for I will heare it all

Mess. Enuironed he was with many foes, And stood against them, as the hope of Troy Against the Greekes, that would haue entred Troy.

But Hercules himselfe must yeeld to oddes: And many stroakes, though with a little Axe, Hewes downe and fells the hardest-tymber'd Oake.

By many hands your Father was subdu'd, But onely slaught'red by the irefull Arme Of vn-relenting Clifford, and the Queene: Who crown'd the gracious Duke in high despight, Laugh'd in his face: and when with griefe he wept, The ruthlesse Queene gaue him, to dry his Cheekes, A Napkin, steeped in the harmelesse blood Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slaine: And after many scornes, many foule taunts, They tooke his Head, and on the Gates of Yorke They set the same, and there it doth remaine, The saddest spectacle that ere I view'd

Edward. Sweet Duke of Yorke, our Prop to leane vpon, Now thou art gone, wee haue no Staffe, no Stay.

Oh Clifford, boyst'rous Clifford, thou hast slaine The flowre of Europe, for his Cheualrie, And trecherously hast thou vanquisht him, For hand to hand he would haue vanquisht thee.

Now my Soules Pallace is become a Prison: Ah, would she breake from hence, that this my body Might in the ground be closed vp in rest: For neuer henceforth shall I ioy againe: Neuer, oh neuer shall I see more ioy

Rich. I cannot weepe: for all my bodies moysture Sca.r.s.e serues to quench my Furnace-burning hart: Nor can my tongue vnloade my hearts great burthen, For selfe-same winde that I should speake withall, Is kindling coales that fires all my brest, And burnes me vp with flames, that tears would quench.

To weepe, is to make lesse the depth of greefe: Teares then for Babes; Blowes, and Reuenge for mee.

Richard, I beare thy name, Ile venge thy death, Or dye renowned by attempting it

Ed. His name that valiant Duke hath left with thee: His Dukedome, and his Chaire with me is left

Rich. Nay, if thou be that Princely Eagles Bird, Shew thy descent by gazing 'gainst the Sunne: For Chaire and Dukedome, Throne and Kingdome say, Either that is thine, or else thou wer't not his.

March. Enter Warwicke, Marquesse Mountacute, and their Army.

Warwick. How now faire Lords? What faire? What newes abroad?

Rich. Great Lord of Warwicke, if we should recompt Our balefull newes, and at each words deliuerance Stab Poniards in our flesh, till all were told, The words would adde more anguish then the wounds.

O valiant Lord, the Duke of Yorke is slaine

Edw. O Warwicke, Warwicke, that Plantagenet Which held thee deerely, as his Soules Redemption, Is by the sterne Lord Clifford done to death

War. Ten dayes ago, I drown'd these newes in teares.

And now to adde more measure to your woes, I come to tell you things sith then befalne.

After the b.l.o.o.d.y Fray at Wakefield fought, Where your braue Father breath'd his latest gaspe, Tydings, as swiftly as the Postes could runne, Were brought me of your Losse, and his Depart.

I then in London, keeper of the King, Muster'd my Soldiers, gathered flockes of Friends, Marcht toward S[aint]. Albons, to intercept the Queene, Bearing the King in my behalfe along: For by my Scouts, I was aduertised That she was comming with a full intent To dash our late Decree in Parliament, Touching King Henries Oath, and your Succession: Short Tale to make, we at S[aint]. Albons met, Our Battailes ioyn'd, and both sides fiercely fought: But whether 'twas the coldnesse of the King, Who look'd full gently on his warlike Queene, That robb'd my Soldiers of their heated Spleene.

Or whether 'twas report of her successe, Or more then common feare of Cliffords Rigour, Who thunders to his Captiues, Blood and Death, I cannot iudge: but to conclude with truth, Their Weapons like to Lightning, came and went: Our Souldiers like the Night-Owles lazie flight, Or like a lazie Thresher with a Flaile, Fell gently downe, as if they strucke their Friends.