The Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works

by William Shakespeare

  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 digged 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 hell.

  Therefore—

  RUTLAND

  O, let me pray before I take my death.

  ⌈Kneeling⌉ 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 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.

  CLIFFORD

  No cause? Thy father slew my father, therefore die. He stabs him

  RUTLAND

  Dii faciant laudis summa sit ista tuae. He dies

  CLIFFORD

  Plantagenet—I come, Plantagenet!

  And this thy son’s blood cleaving to my blade

  Shall rust upon my weapon till thy blood,

  Congealed with this, do make me wipe off both.

  Exit with Rutland’s body ⌈and soldiers⌉

  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 pursued by hunger-starved wolves.

  My sons—God knows what hath bechancèd them.

  But this I know—they have demeaned 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 encountered 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 charged again—but out, alas—

  We bodged 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 numbered that makes up my life.

  Here must I stay, and here my life must end.

  Enter Queen Margaret, Lord Clifford, the Earl of

  Northumberland, and the young Prince Edward,

  with 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.

  CLIFFORD

  Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm,

  With downright payment, showed unto my father.

  Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his car,

  And made an evening at the noontide prick.

  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—multitudes, 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 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.

  ⌈He draws his sword⌉

  QUEEN MARGARET

  Hold, valiant Clifford: for a thousand causes

  I would prolong a while 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.

  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 ⌈fight and⌉ take York

  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 conquered booty,

  So true men yield, with robbers so o’ermatched.

  NORTHUMBERLAND (to the Queen)

  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 wrought at mountains with outstretched arms

  Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.

  (To York) What—was it you that would be England’s

  king?

  Was’t you that revelled 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 crookback prodigy,

  Dickie, 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 stained this napkin with the blood

  That valiant Clifford with his rapier’s point

  Made issue from the bosom of thy 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 parched 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.

  (To her men) A crown for York, and, lords, bow low to

  him.

  Hold you
his hands whilst I do set it on.

  She puts a paper crown on York’s 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 crowned 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, unpardonable.

  Off with the crown,

  ⌈She knocks it from his head⌉

  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.

  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!

  But that thy face is visor-like, unchanging,

  Made impudent with use of evil deeds,

  I would essay, proud Queen, to make thee blush.

  To tell thee whence thou cam’st, of whom derived,

  Were shame enough to shame thee—wert thou 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,

  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—

  The contrary doth make thee wondered 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,

  Or as the south to the septentrion.

  O tiger’s heart wrapped 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?

  Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible—

  Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.

  Bidd‘st 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,

  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.

  NORTHUMBERLAND

  Beshrew me, but his passions move me so

  That hardly can I check my eyes from tears.

  YORK

  That face of his the hungry cannibals

  Would not have touched, would not have stained

  with blood—

  But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,

  O, ten times more than tigers of Hyrcania.

  See, ruthless Queen, a hapless father’s tears.

  This cloth thou dipped‘st in blood of my sweet boy,

  And I with tears do wash the blood away.

  Keep thou the napkin and go boast of this,

  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:

  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,

  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.

  CLIFFORD

  Here’s for my oath, here’s for my father’s death. He stabs York

  QUEEN MARGARET

  And here’s to right our gentle-hearted King.

  She stabs York

  YORK

  Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God—

  My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee.

  ⌈He dies⌉

  QUEEN MARGARET

  Off with his head and set it on York gates,

  So York may overlook the town of York.

  Flourish. Exeunt with York’s body

  2.1 A march. Enter Edward Earl of March and Richard, ⌈with a drummer and soldiers⌉

  EDWARD

  I wonder how our princely father scaped,

  Or whether he be scaped away or no

  From Clifford’s and Northumberland’s pursuit.

  Had he been ta’en we should have heard the news;

  Had he been slain we should have heard the news;

  Or had he scaped, methinks we should have heard

  The happy tidings of his good escape.

  How fares my brother? Why is he so sad?

  RICHARD

  I cannot joy until I be resolved

  Where-our right valiant father is become.

  I saw him in the battle range about,

  And watched him how he singled Clifford forth.

  Methought he bore him in the thickest troop,

  As doth a lion in a herd of neat;

  Or as a bear encompassed round with dogs,

  Who having pinched a few and made them cry,

  The rest stand all aloof and bark at him.

  So fared our father with his enemies;

  So fled his enemies my warlike father.

  Methinks ’tis prize enough to be his son.

  ⌈Three suns appear in the air⌉

  See how the morning opes her golden gates

  And takes her farewell of the glorious sun.

  How well resembles it the prime of youth,

  Trimmed like a younker prancing to his love!

  EDWARD

  Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?

  RICHARD

  Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun;

  Not separated with the racking clouds,

  But severed in a pale clear-shining sky.

  ⌈The three suns begin to join⌉

  See, see—they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,

  As if they vowed some league inviolable.

  Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun.

  In this the heaven figures some event.

  EDWARD

  ’Tis wondrous strange, the like yet never heard of.

  I think it cites us, brother, to the field,

  That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet,

  Each one already blazing by our meeds,

  Should notwithstanding join our lights together

  And over-shine the earth as this the world.

  Whate’er it bodes, henceforward will I bear

  Upon my target three fair-shining suns.

  RICHARD

  Nay, bear three daughters—by you
r leave I speak it—

  You love the breeder better than the male.

  Enter one blowing

  But what art thou whose heavy looks foretell

  Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?

  MESSENGER

  Ah, one that was a woeful looker-on

  Whenas the noble Duke of York was slain—

  Your princely father and my loving lord.

  EDWARD

  O, speak no more, for I have heard too much.

  RICHARD

  Say how he died, for I will hear it all.

  MESSENGER

  Environèd he was with many foes,

  And stood against them as the hope of Troy

  Against the Greeks that would have entered Troy.

  But Hercules himself must yield to odds;

  And many strokes, though with a little axe,

  Hews down and fells the hardest-timbered oak.

  By many hands your father was subdued,

  But only slaughtered by the ireful arm

  Of unrelenting Clifford and the Queen,

  Who crowned the gracious Duke in high despite,

  Laughed in his face, and when with grief he wept,

  The ruthless Queen gave him to dry his cheeks

  A napkin steeped in the harmless blood

  Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain;

  And after many scorns, many foul taunts,

  They took his head, and on the gates of York

  They set the same; and there it doth remain,

  The saddest spectacle that e’er I viewed.

  EDWARD

  Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon,

  Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay.

  O Clifford, boist’rous Clifford—thou hast slain

  The flower of Europe for his chivalry,

  And treacherously hast thou vanquished him—

  For hand to hand he would have vanquished thee.

  Now my soul’s palace is become a prison.

  Ah, would she break from hence that this my body

  Might in the ground be closed up in rest.

  For never henceforth shall I joy again—

  Never, O never, shall I see more joy.

  RICHARD

  I cannot weep, for all my body’s moisture

  Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart;

  Nor can my tongue unload my heart’s great burden,

  For selfsame wind that I should speak withal

  Is kindling coals that fires all my breast,

  And burns me up with flames that tears would quench.

  To weep is to make less the depth of grief;

  Tears, then, for babes—blows and revenge for me!