Shakespeare's First Folio Part 390

Enter.

Clifford. How now? is he dead alreadie?

Or is it feare, that makes him close his eyes?

Ile open them

Rutland. So looks the pent-vp Lyon o're the Wretch, That trembles vnder his deuouring Pawes: And so he walkes, insulting o're his Prey, And so he comes, to rend his Limbes asunder.

Ah gentle Clifford, kill me with thy Sword, And not with such a cruell threatning Looke.

Sweet Clifford heare me speake, before I dye: I am too meane a subiect for thy Wrath, Be thou reueng'd on men, and let me liue

Clifford. In vaine thou speak'st, poore Boy: My Fathers blood hath stopt the pa.s.sage Where thy words should enter

Rutland. Then let my Fathers blood open it againe, He is a man, and Clifford cope with him

Clifford. Had I thy Brethren here, their liues and thine Were not reuenge sufficient for me: No, if I digg'd vp thy fore-fathers Graues, And hung their rotten Coffins vp in Chaynes, It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart.

The sight of any of the House of Yorke, Is as a furie to torment my Soule: And till I root out their accursed Line, And leaue not one aliue, I liue in h.e.l.l.

Therefore- Rutland. Oh let me pray, before I take my death: To thee I pray; sweet Clifford pitty me

Clifford. Such pitty as my Rapiers point affords

Rutland. I neuer did thee harme: why wilt thou slay me?

Clifford. Thy Father hath

Rutland. But 'twas ere I was borne.

Thou hast one Sonne, for his sake pitty me, Least in reuenge thereof, sith G.o.d is iust, He be as miserably slaine as I.

Ah, let me liue in Prison all my dayes, And when I giue occasion of offence, Then let me dye, for now thou hast no cause

Clifford. No cause? thy Father slew my Father: therefore dye

Rutland. Dij faciant laudis summa sit ista tuae

Clifford. Plantagenet, I come Plantagenet: And this thy Sonnes blood cleauing to my Blade, Shall rust vpon my Weapon, till thy blood Congeal'd with this, doe make me wipe off both.

Enter.

Alarum. Enter Richard, Duke of Yorke.

Yorke. The Army of the Queene hath got the field: My Vnckles both are slaine, in rescuing me; And all my followers, to the eager foe Turne back, and flye, like s.h.i.+ps before the Winde, Or Lambes pursu'd by hunger-starued Wolues.

My Sonnes, G.o.d knowes what hath bechanced them: But this I know, they haue demean'd themselues Like men borne to Renowne, by Life or Death.

Three times did Richard make a Lane to me, And thrice cry'de, 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 encountred him: And when the hardyest Warriors did retyre, Richard cry'de, Charge, and giue no foot of ground, And cry'de, A Crowne, or else a glorious Tombe, A Scepter, or an Earthly Sepulchre.

With this we charg'd againe: but out alas, We bodg'd againe, as I haue seene a Swan With bootlesse labour swimme against the Tyde, And spend her strength with ouer-matching Waues.

A short Alarum within.

Ah hearke, the fatall followers doe pursue, And I am faint, and cannot flye their furie: And were I strong, I would not shunne their furie, The Sands are numbred, that makes vp my Life, Here must I stay, and here my Life must end.

Enter the Queene, Clifford, Northumberland, the young Prince, and Souldiers.

Come b.l.o.o.d.y Clifford, rough Northumberland, I dare your quenchlesse furie to more rage: I am your b.u.t.t, and I abide your Shot

Northumb. Yeeld to our mercy, proud Plantagenet

Clifford. I, to such mercy, as his ruthlesse Arme With downe-right payment, shew'd vnto my Father.

Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his Carre, And made an Euening at the Noone-tide p.r.i.c.k

Yorke. My ashes, as the Phoenix, may bring forth A Bird, that will reuenge vpon you all: And in that hope, I throw mine eyes to Heauen, Scorning what ere you can afflict me with.

Why come you not? what, mult.i.tudes, and feare?

Cliff. So Cowards fight, when they can flye no further, So Doues doe peck the Faulcons piercing Tallons, So desperate Theeues, all hopelesse of their Liues, Breathe out Inuectiues 'gainst the Officers

Yorke. Oh Clifford, but bethinke thee once againe, And in thy thought ore-run 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 frowne hath made thee faint and flye ere this

Clifford. I will not bandie with thee word for word, But buckler with thee blowes twice two for one

Queene. Hold valiant Clifford, for a thousand causes I would prolong a while the Traytors Life: Wrath makes him deafe; speake thou Northumberland

Northumb. Hold Clifford, doe not honor him so much, To p.r.i.c.k thy finger, though to wound his heart.

What valour were it, when a Curre doth grinne, For one to thrust his Hand betweene his Teeth, When he might spurne him with his Foot away?

It is Warres prize, to take all Vantages, And tenne to one, is no impeach of Valour

Clifford. I, I, so striues the Woodc.o.c.ke with the Gynne

Northumb. So doth the Connie struggle in the Net

York. So triumph Theeues vpon their conquer'd Booty, So True men yeeld with Robbers, so o're-matcht

Northumb. What would your Grace haue done vnto him now?

Queene. Braue Warriors, Clifford and Northumberland, Come make him stand vpon this Mole-hill here, That raught at Mountaines with out-stretched Armes, Yet parted but the shadow with his Hand.

What, was it you that would be Englands King?

Was't you that reuell'd in our Parliament, And made a Preachment of your high Descent?

Where are your Messe of Sonnes, to back you now?

The wanton Edward, and the l.u.s.tie George?

And where's that valiant Crook-back Prodigie, d.i.c.kie, your Boy, that with his grumbling voyce Was wont to cheare his Dad in Mutinies?

Or with the rest, where is your Darling, Rutland?

Looke Yorke, I stayn'd this Napkin with the blood That valiant Clifford, with his Rapiers point, Made issue from the Bosome of the Boy: And if thine eyes can water for his death, I giue thee this to drie thy Cheekes withall.

Alas poore Yorke, but that I hate thee deadly, I should lament thy miserable state.

I prythee grieue, to make me merry, Yorke.

What, hath thy fierie heart so parcht thine entrayles, That not a Teare can fall, for Rutlands death?

Why art thou patient, man? thou should'st be mad: And I, to make thee mad, doe mock thee thus.

Stampe, raue, and fret, that I may sing and dance.

Thou would'st be fee'd, I see, to make me sport: Yorke cannot speake, vnlesse he weare a Crowne.

A Crowne for Yorke; and Lords, bow lowe to him: Hold you his hands, whilest I doe set it on.

I marry Sir, now lookes he like a King: I, this is he that tooke King Henries Chaire, And this is he was his adopted Heire.

But how is it, that great Plantagenet Is crown'd so soone, and broke his solemne Oath?

As I bethinke me, you should not be King, Till our King Henry had shooke hands with Death.

And will you pale your head in Henries Glory, And rob his Temples of the Diademe, Now in his Life, against your holy Oath?

Oh 'tis a fault too too vnpardonable.

Off with the Crowne; and with the Crowne, his Head, And whilest we breathe, take time to doe him dead

Clifford. That is my Office, for my Fathers sake

Queene. Nay stay, let's heare the Orizons hee makes