The Complete Works of William Shakespeare Part 212

Alarum. Enter RUTLAND and his TUTOR

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

Ah, tutor, look where b.l.o.o.d.y Clifford comes!

Enter CLIFFORD and soldiers

CLIFFORD. Chaplain, away! Thy priesthood saves thy life.

As for the brat of this accursed duke, Whose father slew my father, he shall die.

TUTOR. And I, my lord, will bear him company.

CLIFFORD. Soldiers, away with him!

TUTOR. Ah, Clifford, murder not this innocent child, Lest thou be hated both of G.o.d and man.

Exit, forced off by soldiers CLIFFORD. How now, is he dead already? Or is it fear That makes him close his eyes? I'll open them.

RUTLAND. 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.

CLIFFORD. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy; my father's blood Hath stopp'd the pa.s.sage where thy words should enter.

RUTLAND. Then let my father's blood open it again: He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him.

CLIFFORD. 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 h.e.l.l.

Therefore- RUTLAND. O, let me pray before I take my death!

To thee I pray: sweet Clifford, pity me.

CLIFFORD. Such pity as my rapier's point affords.

RUTLAND. I never did thee harm; why wilt thou slay me?

CLIFFORD. Thy father hath.

RUTLAND. But 'twas ere I was born.

Thou hast one son; for his sake pity me, Lest in revenge thereof, sith G.o.d 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.

CLIFFORD. No cause!

Thy father slew my father; therefore, die. [Stabs him]

RUTLAND. Di faciant laudis summa sit ista tuae! [Dies]

CLIFFORD. 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.

Another part of the field

Alarum. Enter the DUKE OF 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 s.h.i.+ps before the wind, Or lambs pursu'd by hunger-starved wolves.

My sons- G.o.d 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 falchion, painted to the hilt In blood of those that had encount'red him.

And when the hardiest warriors did retire, Richard cried 'Charge, and give no foot of ground!'

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 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 numb'red that make up my life; Here must I stay, and here my life must end.

Enter QUEEN MARGARET, CLIFFORD, NORTHUMBERLAND, the PRINCE OF WALES, and soldiers

Come, b.l.o.o.d.y Clifford, rough Northumberland, I dare your quenchless fury to more rage; I am your b.u.t.t, and I abide your shot.

NORTHUMBERLAND. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.

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 p.r.i.c.k.

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! mult.i.tudes, and fear?

CLIFFORD. 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'errun my former time; And, if thou canst for blus.h.i.+ng, 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 buckler with thee blows, twice two for one.

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 p.r.i.c.k 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]

CLIFFORD. Ay, ay, so strives the woodc.o.c.k 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'er-match'd.

NORTHUMBERLAND. What would your Grace have done unto him now?

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?

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 l.u.s.ty George?

And where's that valiant crook-back prodigy, d.i.c.ky 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.

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, 'tis a fault too too Off with the crown and with the crown his head; And, whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead.