The Arden Shakespeare Complete Works
Page 232
And trust not simple Henry nor his oaths.
MONTAGUE Brother, I go; I’ll win them, fear it not:
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And thus most humbly I do take my leave. Exit.
Enter SIR JOHN and Sir Hugh Mortimer.
YORK Sir John and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles,
You are come to Sandal in a happy hour;
The army of the Queen mean to besiege us.
SIR JOHN
She shall not need; we’ll meet her in the field.
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YORK What, with five thousand men!
RICHARD Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need.
A woman’s general; what should we fear?
[A march afar off.]
EDWARD I hear their drums: let’s set our men in order,
And issue forth and bid them battle straight.
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YORK Five men to twenty! Though the odds be great,
I doubt not, uncles, of our victory.
Many a battle have I won in France,
When as the enemy hath been ten to one:
Why should I not now have the like success? Exeunt.
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1.3 Alarums. Enter RUTLAND and his Tutor.
RUTLAND Ah, whither shall I fly to scape their hands?
Ah, tutor, look where bloody 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.
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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 God and man.
Exit, dragged off by soldiers.
CLIFFORD How now! is he dead already? Or is it fear
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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 in sunder.
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Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword,
And not with such a cruel threatening 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.
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CLIFFORD
In vain thou speak’st, poor boy; my father’s blood
Hath stopp’d the passage 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
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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
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Is as a Fury to torment my soul;
And till I root out their accursed line
And leave not one alive, I live in hell.
Therefore – [lifting his hand]
RUTLAND O, let me pray before I take my death!
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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,
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Lest in revenge thereof, sith God 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.
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CLIFFORD Thy father slew my father; therefore die.
[Stabs him.]
RUTLAND Di faciant laudis summa sit ista tuae!
CLIFFORD Plantagenet, I come, Plantagenet!
And this thy son’s blood cleaving to my blade
Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood,
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Congeal’d with this, do make me wipe off both. Exit.
1.4 Alarum. Enter RICHARD, 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 ships before the wind,
Or lambs pursu’d by hunger-starved wolves.
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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!’
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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!’
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Edward, ‘A crown, or else a glorious tomb!
A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre!’
With this we charg’d again: but out alas!
We budg’d again; as I have seen a swan
With bootless labour swim against the tide
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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 makes up my life;
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Here must I stay, and here my life must end.
Enter QUEEN MARGARET, CLIFFORD, NORTHUMBERLAND, the young PRINCE 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.
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CLIFFORD Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm
With downright payment show’d unto my father.
Now Phaëthon hath tumbled from his car,
And made an evening at the noontide prick.
YORK My ashes, like the phoenix, may bring forth
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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;
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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;
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And, if thou 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.
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[Draws.]
QUEEN MARGARET
Hold, valiant Clifford; for a thousand causes
I would prolong awhile the traitor’s life.
&
nbsp; 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.
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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.
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[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’er-match’d.
NORTHUMBERLAND
What would your Grace have done unto him now?
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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?
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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,
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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
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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.
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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 should’st be mad;
And I to make thee mad do mock thee thus.
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Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.
Thou would’st 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.
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[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?
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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?
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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; let’s hear the orisons he makes.
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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!
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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 cam’st, of whom deriv’d,
Were shame enough to shame thee, wert not shameless.
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;
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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.