Complete Plays, The

by William Shakespeare

  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 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.

  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, 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.

  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 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,

  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?

  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,

  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 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,

  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:

  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.

  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;

  So York may overlook the town of York.

  Flourish. Exeunt

  ACT II

  SCENE I. A PLAIN NEAR MORTIMER’S CROSS IN HEREFORDSHIRE.

  A march. Enter Edward, Richard, and their power

  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 watch’d 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, encompass’d round with dogs,

  Who having pinch’d 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.

  See how the morning opes her golden gates,

  And takes her farewell of the glorious sun!

  How well resembles it the prime of youth,

  Trimm’d 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 sever’d in a pale clear-shining sky.

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

  As if they vow’d 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 meed
s,

  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 your leave I speak it,

  You love the breeder better than the male.

  Enter a Messenger

  But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell

  Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?

  Messenger

  Ah, one that was a woful looker-on

  When as 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

  Environed he was with many foes,

  And stood against them, as the hope of Troy

  Against the Greeks that would have enter’d Troy.

  But Hercules himself must yield to odds;

  And many strokes, though with a little axe,

  Hew down and fell the hardest-timber’d oak.

  By many hands your father was subdued;

  But only slaughter’d by the ireful arm

  Of unrelenting Clifford and the queen,

  Who crown’d the gracious duke in high despite,

  Laugh’d 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 view’d.

  Edward

  Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon,

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

  O Clifford, boisterous Clifford! thou hast slain

  The flower of Europe for his chivalry;

  And treacherously hast thou vanquish’d him,

  For hand to hand he would have vanquish’d 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 burthen;

  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

  Richard, I bear thy name; I’ll venge thy death,

  Or die renowned by attempting it.

  Edward

  His name that valiant duke hath left with thee;

  His dukedom and his chair with me is left.

  Richard

  Nay, if thou be that princely eagle’s bird,

  Show thy descent by gazing ’gainst the sun:

  For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say;

  Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his.

  March. Enter Warwick, Montague, and their army

  Warwick

  How now, fair lords! What fare? what news abroad?

  Richard

  Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount

  Our baleful news, and at each word’s deliverance

  Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told,

  The words would add more anguish than the wounds.

  O valiant lord, the Duke of York is slain!

  Edward

  O Warwick, Warwick! that Plantagenet,

  Which held three dearly as his soul’s redemption,

  Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death.

  Warwick

  Ten days ago I drown’d these news in tears;

  And now, to add more measure to your woes,

  I come to tell you things sith then befall’n.

  After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,

  Where your brave father breathed his latest gasp,

  Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run,

  Were brought me of your loss and his depart.

  I, then in London keeper of the king,

  Muster’d my soldiers, gather’d flocks of friends,

  And very well appointed, as I thought,

  March’d toward Saint Alban’s to intercept the queen,

  Bearing the king in my behalf along;

  For by my scouts I was advertised

  That she was coming with a full intent

  To dash our late decree in parliament

  Touching King Henry’s oath and your succession.

  Short tale to make, we at Saint Alban’s met

  Our battles join’d, and both sides fiercely fought:

  But whether ’twas the coldness of the king,

  Who look’d full gently on his warlike queen,

  That robb’d my soldiers of their heated spleen;

  Or whether ’twas report of her success;

  Or more than common fear of Clifford’s rigour,

  Who thunders to his captives blood and death,

  I cannot judge: but to conclude with truth,

  Their weapons like to lightning came and went;

  Our soldiers’, like the night-owl’s lazy flight,

  Or like an idle thresher with a flail,

  Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends.

  I cheer’d them up with justice of our cause,

  With promise of high pay and great rewards:

  But all in vain; they had no heart to fight,

  And we in them no hope to win the day;

  So that we fled; the king unto the queen;

  Lord George your brother, Norfolk and myself,

  In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you:

  For in the marches here we heard you were,

  Making another head to fight again.

  Edward

  Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick?

  And when came George from Burgundy to England?

  Warwick

  Some six miles off the duke is with the soldiers;

  And for your brother, he was lately sent

  From your kind aunt, Duchess of Burgundy,

  With aid of soldiers to this needful war.

  Richard

  ’Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled:

  Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit,

  But ne’er till now his scandal of retire.

  Warwick

  Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou hear;

  For thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine

  Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry’s head,

  And wring the awful sceptre from his fist,

  Were he as famous and as bold in war

  As he is famed for mildness, peace, and prayer.

  Richard

  I know it well, Lord Warwick; blame me not:

  ’Tis love I bear thy glories makes me speak.

  But in this troublous time what’s to be done?

  Shall we go throw away our coats of steel,

  And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns,

  Numbering our Ave-Maries with our beads?

  Or shall we on the helmets of our foes

  Tell our devotion with revengeful arms?

  If for the last, say ay, and to it, lords.

  Warwick

  Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you out;

  And therefore comes my brother Montague.

  Attend me
, lords. The proud insulting queen,

  With Clifford and the haught Northumberland,

  And of their feather many more proud birds,

  Have wrought the easy-melting king like wax.

  He swore consent to your succession,

  His oath enrolled in the parliament;

  And now to London all the crew are gone,

  To frustrate both his oath and what beside

  May make against the house of Lancaster.

  Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong:

  Now, if the help of Norfolk and myself,

  With all the friends that thou, brave Earl of March,

  Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure,

  Will but amount to five and twenty thousand,

  Why, Via! to London will we march amain,

  And once again bestride our foaming steeds,

  And once again cry ‘Charge upon our foes!’

  But never once again turn back and fly.

  Richard

  Ay, now methinks I hear great Warwick speak:

  Ne’er may he live to see a sunshine day,

  That cries ‘Retire,’ if Warwick bid him stay.

  Edward

  Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean;

  And when thou fail’st — as God forbid the hour!—

  Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forfend!

  Warwick

  No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York:

  The next degree is England’s royal throne;

  For King of England shalt thou be proclaim’d

  In every borough as we pass along;

  And he that throws not up his cap for joy

  Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head.

  King Edward, valiant Richard, Montague,

  Stay we no longer, dreaming of renown,

  But sound the trumpets, and about our task.

  Richard

  Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as steel,

  As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds,

  I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine.

  Edward

  Then strike up drums: God and Saint George for us!

  Enter a Messenger

  Warwick

  How now! what news?

  Messenger

  The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me,

  The queen is coming with a puissant host;

  And craves your company for speedy counsel.

  Warwick

  Why then it sorts, brave warriors, let’s away.

  Exeunt

  SCENE II. BEFORE YORK.

  Flourish. Enter King Henry VI, Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, Clifford, and Northumberland, with drum and trumpets

  Queen Margaret

  Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York.

  Yonder’s the head of that arch-enemy

  That sought to be encompass’d with your crown:

  Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?