This is how the furious lion stands over the wretch
who trembles under his greedy paws;
this is how he walks, contemptuous of his victim,
and so he comes to tear his body apart.
Ah, kind Clifford, kill me with your sword,
and not with such a cruel threatening look.
Kind Clifford, listen to me before you kill me:
I am too lowly a victim for your anger;
take your revenge on men, and let me live.
CLIFFORD.
In vain thou speak'st, poor boy; my father's blood
Hath stopp'd the passage where thy words should enter.
You are begging in vain, poor boy; my ears
are deaf due to the death of my father.
RUTLAND.
Then let my father's blood open it again;
He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him.
Then let my father's blood make you hear;
he is a man, Clifford, attack 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 hell.
Therefore--
If I had all your family here, their lives and yours
would not be enough to give me revenge.
No; if I dug up your ancestor's graves
and hung their rotting coffins up in chains,
it would not assuage my anger nor ease my pain.
Seeing anyone from the house of York
makes me so angry that it tortures my soul;
until I have destroyed the whole family,
leaving not one person alive, I am living in hell.
Therefore–
RUTLAND.
O, let me pray before I take my death!--
To thee I pray; sweet Clifford, pity me!
Oh, let me pray before I die!
I pray to you; sweet Clifford, have pity on me!
CLIFFORD.
Such pity as my rapier's point affords.
I'll give you as much pity as the point of my sword can allow.
RUTLAND.
I never did thee harm; why wilt thou slay me?
I never did you any harm; why do you want to kill me?
CLIFFORD.
Thy father hath.
Your father did me harm.
RUTLAND.
But 't was 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.
But that was before I was born.
You have a son; pity me for his sake,
in case God takes justified revenge and
sees that he is killed as miserably as I am.
Ah, let me live in prison for my whole life,
and when I actually do something wrong,
let me die for that, at the moment you have no justification.
CLIFFORD.
No cause?
Thy father slew my father; therefore, die. [Clifford stabs him.]
No justification?
Your father killed my father; so, you shall die.
RUTLAND.
Dii faciant laudis summa sit ista tuae! [Dies.]
May the gods make this the action for which you become most famous!
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.
Plantagenet! I'm coming, Plantagenet!
This blood of your son's sticking to my blade
will rust on my weapon until your blood
mixes with his, when I'll wipe them both off.
[Exit.]
[Alarum. Enter 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.
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!'
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 budg'd again, as I have seen a swan
With bootless labour swim against the tide
And spend her strength with overmatching 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 make up my life;
Here must I stay, and here my life must end.--
[Enter QUEEN MARGARET, CLIFFORD,
NORTHUMBERLAND, and Soldiers]
Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,
I dare your quenchless fury to more rage.
I am your butt, and I abide your shot.
The Queen's army has won the battle.
Both my uncles have been killed trying to rescue me;
and all my followers have turned away from the pressing
enemy and fled like ships running with the wind,
or lambs pursued by starving wolves.
My sons–God knows what has happened to them;
but I know this–they behaved themselves
like men who were born to live or die gloriously.
Three times Richard cut through to me,
and three times he cried out “Courage, father! Keep fighting!"
And just as many times Edward came to my side
with his sword painted purple to the hilt
with the blood of those he had fought;
and when the greatest warriors retreated
Richard cried “Charge! Don't give an inch!"
And shouted, “We must have the crown, or a glorious tomb!
The sceptre, or the grave!"
At that, we charged again; but, alas, in vain!
We tried again, as I have seen a swan
swimming fruitlessly against the tide,
exhausting herself against the stronger waves.
Ah, listen! The deadly followers are chasing,
and I am weak and cannot escape their fury;
if I were strong, I would not try to avoid it.
My time is growing short;
I must say here, and here my life must end.
[Enter QUEEN MARGARET, CLIFFORD,
NORTHUMBERLAND, and Soldiers]
Come, bloodthirsty Clifford, rough Northumberland,
continue with your endless anger;
I'm your target, and I'm waiting for your shot.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.
Surrender to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.
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 prick.
Yes, to the same mercy that his ruthless arm
gave to my father.
Now the sun has fallen from its orbit,
and turned midday into evening.
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?
My ashes, like the Phoenix, might give birth
to a bird that will have revenge on you all;
and with that hope I turn my eyes to heaven,
rejecting whatever you can attack me with.
Why don't you come on? What! Crowds of you, and afraid?
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.
So cowards stand and fight when they can't run any more;
so doves peck at the piercing claws of the falcon;
this is how desperate thieves, having lost all hope,
curse the officers who come to arrest them.
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.
O Clifford, I ask you just think again,
and run your mind over the person I was;
and if you're not ashamed look at my face,
and curb your tongue, which falsely accuses me of cowardice,
when before today you have run away from my frown.
CLIFFORD.
I will not bandy with thee word for word,
But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one.
I will not exchange words with you,
but I will swap blows, exchanging four 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.
Wait, brave Clifford! There are a thousand reasons
that I want to keep the traitor alive for a while.
Anger has deafened him; Northumberland, you speak.
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.
Wait, Clifford! Don't do him the honour of even
pricking your finger, even if it's to wound his heart.
What bravery is there, when a cur snarls at you,
in thrusting your hand between its teeth,
when you could push him away with your foot?
In war the winners take everything,
and having greater forces does not show a lack of honour.
[They lay hands on York, who struggles.]
CLIFFORD.
Ay, ay; so strives the woodcock with the gin.
There you are, that's how the woodcock struggles in a trap.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
So doth the cony struggle in the net.
It's how the rabbit struggles in the net.
[York is taken prisoner.]
YORK.
So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty;
So true men yield, with robbers so o'ermatch'd.
This is how thieves win their stolen property;
it's how true men surrender, overwhelmed by robbers.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
What would your grace have done unto him now?
What does your grace want done with 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 lusty George?
And where's that valiant crook-back prodigy,
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
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;
Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.
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.
Thou wouldst be feed, 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, 't is 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.
Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,
come, make him stand upon this molehill,
the one who raged at mountains with his outstretched arms,
though his hands only fell on the shadows.
What! Are you the one who wants to be the King of England?
Was it you who put on a show in our Parliament,
telling us all about your noble birth?
Where's that rabble of sons to help you now?
The reckless Edward and the lusty George?
And where's that brave hunchback lad,
your boy Dicky, who with his whining voice
liked to cheer on his dad's rebellion?
Or, along with the rest of them, where is your darling Rutland?
Look, York; I dipped this napkin in the blood
that brave Clifford made run from the boy's heart
with the point of his rapier,
and, if you cry at his death,
I give you this to dry your cheeks.
Alas, poor York! If I didn't hate you so much
I wou
ld be sorry for your miserable condition.
Please, grieve to make me happy, York;
Stamp, rant and rave, so that I can sing and dance.
What, has your fiery heart so dried up your insides
that you cannot shed a tear for the death of Rutland?
Why are you so calm, man? You should be going mad;
and I am mocking you like this to make you mad.
I see that you have to be paid, to entertain me;
York cannot speak unless he wears a crown–
bring a crown for York!–And, lords, bow low to him–
you hold his hands while I put it on him–
[Putting a paper crown on his head]
Yes, now he certainly looks like a king, sir.
Yes, this is the one who stole King Henry's throne;
this is the one who was adopted as his heir–
but why has great Plantagenet been
crowned so early and broken his solemn oath?
As far as I know, you should not be King
until our King Henry was dead.
And you want to cover your head with Henry's glory,
and steal the crown from his head, while he's still alive, against your holy oath?
Oh, this is inexcusable behaviour–
take off the crown, and take off his head at the same time!
We shall remain alive, but make sure he's dead.
CLIFFORD.
That is my office, for my father's sake.
That's my job, to repay my father.
QUEEN MARGARET.
Nay, stay; let's hear the orisons he makes.
No, wait; let's hear his speeches.
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!
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) Page 159