| ACT I SCENE IV | Another part of the field. | |
| [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. | 5 |
| 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!' | 10 |
| And full as oft came Edward to my side, |
| With purple falchion, 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!' | 15 |
| And cried 'A crown, or else a glorious tomb! |
| A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre!' |
| With this, we charged again: but, out, alas! |
| We bodged again; as I have seen a swan |
| With bootless labour swim against the tide | 20 |
| And spend her strength with over-matching waves. |
[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; | 25 |
| Here must I stay, and here my life must end. |
[
Enter QUEEN MARGARET, CLIFFORD, NORTHUMBERLAND,
PRINCE EDWARD, and Soldiers
] |
| Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland, |
| I dare your quenchless fury to more rage: |
| I am your butt, and I abide your shot. |
| NORTHUMBERLAND | Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet. | 30 |
| CLIFFORD | Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm, |
| With downright payment, show'd unto my father. |
| Now Phaethon hath tumbled from his car, |
| And made an evening at the noontide prick. |
| YORK | My ashes, as the phoenix, may bring forth | 35 |
| 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? |
| CLIFFORD | So cowards fight when they can fly no further; | 40 |
| 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; | 45 |
| And, if though 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! |
| CLIFFORD | I will not bandy with thee word for word, |
| But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one. | 50 |
| QUEEN MARGARET | Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand causes |
| I would prolong awhile the traitor's life. |
| Wrath makes him deaf: speak thou, Northumberland. |
| NORTHUMBERLAND | Hold, Clifford! do not honour him so much |
| To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart: | 55 |
| 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. | 60 |
| [They lay hands on YORK, who struggles] |
| CLIFFORD | Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin. |
| NORTHUMBERLAND | So doth the cony struggle in the net. |
| YORK | So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty;
|
| So true men yield, with robbers so o'ermatch'd. |
| NORTHUMBERLAND | What would your grace have done unto him now? | 65 |
| QUEEN MARGARET | Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland, |
| 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? | 70 |
| 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, | 75 |
| 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, | 80 |
| 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. | 85 |
| 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. | 90 |
| Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance. |
| 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. | 95 |
[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? | 100 |
| 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? | 105 |
| O, 'tis a fault too too unpardonable! |
| Off with the crown, and with the crown his head; |
| And, whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead. |
| CLIFFORD | That is my office, for my father's sake. |
| QUEEN MARGARET | Nay, stay; lets hear the orisons he makes. | 110 |
| 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! | 115 |
| But that thy face is, vizard-like, unchanging, |
| Made impudent with use of evil deeds, |
| I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush. |
| To tell thee whence thou camest, of whom derived, |
| Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless. | 120 |
| 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, | 125 |
| 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 admired; | 130 |
| 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, | 135 |
| Or as the south to the septentrion. |
| O tiger's heart wrapt 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? | 140 |
| Women are soft, mild, pitiful and flexible; |
| Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. |
| Bids't 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, | 145 |
| 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 |
| Frenchwoman. | 150 |
| NORTHUMBERLAND | Beshrew me, but his passion moves me so |
| That hardly can I cheque 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, | 155 |
| O, ten times more, than tigers of Hyrcania. |
| See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears: |
| This cloth thou dip'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: | 160 |
| 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; | 165 |
| 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! |
| NORTHUMBERLAND | Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin, | 170 |
| I should not for my life but weep with him. |
| To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul. |
| QUEEN MARGARET | What, weeping-ripe, my Lord Northumberland? |
| Think but upon the wrong he did us all, |
| And that will quickly dry thy melting tears. | 175 |
| CLIFFORD | Here's for my oath, here's for my father's death. |
| [Stabbing him] |
| QUEEN MARGARET | And here's to right our gentle-hearted king. |
| [Stabbing him] |
| YORK | Open Thy gate of mercy, gracious God! |
| My soul flies through these wounds to seek out Thee. |
| [Dies] |
| QUEEN MARGARET | Off with his head, and set it on York gates; | 180 |
| So York may overlook the town of York. |
[Flourish. Exeunt] |
The Essential Student History Quiz (with answers and illustrations)