Chapter 108

Richard. An Oath is of no moment, being not tooke Before a true and lawfull Magistrate, That hath authoritie ouer him that sweares. Henry had none, but did vsurpe the place. Then seeing 'twas he that made you to depose, Your Oath, my Lord, is vaine and friuolous. Therefore to Armes: and Father doe but thinke, How sweet a thing it is to weare a Crowne, Within whose Circuit is Elizium, And all that Poets faine of Blisse and Ioy. Why doe we linger thus? I cannot rest, Vntill the White Rose that I weare, be dy'de Euen in the luke-warme blood of Henries heart

Yorke. Richard ynough: I will be King, or dye. Brother, thou shalt to London presently, And whet on Warwick to this Enterprise. Thou Richard shalt to the Duke of Norfolke, And tell him priuily of our intent. You Edward shall vnto my Lord Cobham, With whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise. In them I trust: for they are Souldiors, Wittie, courteous, liberall, full of spirit. While you are thus imploy'd, what resteth more? But that I seeke occasion how to rise, And yet the King not priuie to my Drift, Nor any of the House of Lancaster. Enter Gabriel.

But stay, what Newes? Why comm'st thou in such poste? Gabriel. The Queene, With all the Northerne Earles and Lords, Intend here to besiege you in your Castle. She is hard by, with twentie thousand men: And therefore fortifie your Hold, my Lord

Yorke. I, with my Sword. What? think'st thou, that we feare them? Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me, My Brother Mountague shall poste to London. Let Noble Warwicke, Cobham, and the rest, Whom we haue left Protectors of the King, With powrefull Pollicie strengthen themselues, And trust not simple Henry, nor his Oathes

Mount. Brother, I goe: Ile winne them, feare it not. And thus most humbly I doe take my leaue.

Exit Mountague.

Enter Mortimer, and his Brother.

York. Sir Iohn, and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine Vnckles, You are come to Sandall in a happie houre. The Armie of the Queene meane to besiege vs

Iohn. Shee shall not neede, wee'le meete her in the field

Yorke. What, with fiue thousand men? Richard. I, with fiue hundred, Father, for a neede. A Woman's generall: what should we feare?

A March afarre off.

Edward. I heare their Drummes: Let's set our men in order, And issue forth, and bid them Battaile straight

Yorke. Fiue men to twentie: though the oddes be great, I doubt not, Vnckle, of our Victorie. Many a Battaile haue I wonne in France, When as the Enemie hath beene tenne to one: Why should I not now haue the like successe?

Alarum. Exit.

Enter Rutland, and his Tutor.

Rutland. Ah, whither shall I flye, to scape their hands? Ah Tutor, looke where bloody Clifford comes. Enter Clifford.

Clifford. Chaplaine away, thy Priesthood saues thy life. As for the Brat of this accursed Duke, Whose Father slew my Father, he shall dye

Tutor. And I, my Lord, will beare him company

Clifford. Souldiers, away with him

Tutor. Ah Clifford, murther not this innocent Child, Least thou be hated both of God and Man. 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 passage 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 Hell. 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 God 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 tuæ

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 Ships before the Winde, Or Lambes pursu'd by hunger-starued Wolues. My Sonnes, God 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 bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland, I dare your quenchlesse furie to more rage: I am your Butt, 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 Phæton hath tumbled from his Carre, And made an Euening at the Noone-tide Prick

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, multitudes, 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 blushing, 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 prick 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 Woodcocke 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 lustie George? And where's that valiant Crook-back Prodigie, Dickie, 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

Yorke. Shee-Wolfe of France, But worse then Wolues of France, Whose Tongue more poysons then the Adders Tooth: How ill-beseeming is it in thy Sex, To triumph like an Amazonian Trull, Vpon their Woes, whom Fortune captiuates? But that thy Face is Vizard-like, vnchanging, Made impudent with vse of euill deedes. I would assay, prowd Queene, to make thee blush. To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom deriu'd, Were shame enough, to shame thee, Wert thou not shamelesse. Thy Father beares the type of King of Naples, Of both the Sicils, and Ierusalem, Yet not so wealthie as an English Yeoman. Hath that poore Monarch taught thee to insult? It needes not, nor it bootes thee not, prowd Queene, Vnlesse the Adage must be verify'd, That Beggers mounted, runne their Horse to death. 'Tis Beautie that doth oft make Women prowd, But God he knowes, thy share thereof is small. 'Tis Vertue, that doth make them most admir'd, The contrary, doth make thee wondred at. 'Tis Gouernment that makes them seeme Diuine, The want thereof, makes thee abhominable. Thou art as opposite to euery good, As the Antipodes are vnto vs, Or as the South to the Septentrion. Oh Tygres Heart, wrapt in a Womans Hide, How could'st thou drayne the Life-blood of the Child, To bid the Father wipe his eyes withall, And yet be seene to beare a Womans face? Women are soft, milde, pittifull, and flexible; Thou, sterne, obdurate, flintie, rough, remorselesse. Bidst thou me rage? why now thou hast thy wish. Would'st haue me weepe? why now thou hast thy will. For raging Wind blowes vp incessant showers, And when the Rage allayes, the Raine begins. These Teares are my sweet Rutlands Obsequies, And euery drop cryes vengeance for his death, 'Gainst thee fell Clifford, and thee false French-woman

Northumb. Beshrew me, but his passions moues me so, That hardly can I check my eyes from Teares

Yorke. That Face of his, The hungry Caniballs would not haue toucht, Would not haue stayn'd with blood: But you are more inhumane, more inexorable, Oh, tenne times more then Tygers of Hyrcania. See, ruthlesse Queene, a haplesse Fathers Teares: This Cloth thou dipd'st in blood of my sweet Boy, And I with Teares doe wash the blood away. Keepe thou the Napkin, and goe boast of this, And if thou tell'st the heauie storie right, Vpon my Soule, the hearers will shed Teares: Yea, euen my Foes will shed fast-falling Teares, And say, Alas, it was a pittious deed. There, take the Crowne, and with the Crowne, my Curse, And in thy need, such comfort come to thee, As now I reape at thy too cruell hand. Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the World, My Soule to Heauen, my Blood vpon your Heads

Northumb. Had he been slaughter-man to all my Kinne, I should not for my Life but weepe with him, To see how inly Sorrow gripes his Soule

Queen. What, weeping ripe, my Lord Northumberland? Thinke but vpon the wrong he did vs all, And that will quickly drie thy melting Teares

Clifford. Heere's for my Oath, heere's for my Fathers Death

Queene. And heere's to right our gentle-hearted King

Yorke. Open thy Gate of Mercy, gracious God, My Soule flyes through these wounds, to seeke out thee

Queene. Off with his Head, and set it on Yorke Gates, So Yorke may ouer-looke the Towne of Yorke.

Flourish. Exit.

A March. Enter Edward, Richard, and their power.

Edward. I wonder how our Princely Father scap't: Or whether he be scap't away, or no, From Cliffords and Northumberlands pursuit? Had he been ta'ne, we should haue heard the newes; Had he beene slaine, we should haue heard the newes: Or had he scap't, me thinkes we should haue heard The happy tidings of his good escape. How fares my Brother? why is he so sad? Richard. I cannot ioy, vntill I be resolu'd Where our right valiant Father is become. I saw him in the Battaile range about, And watcht him how he singled Clifford forth. Me thought he bore him in the thickest troupe, As doth a Lyon in a Heard of Neat, Or as a Beare encompass'd round with Dogges: Who hauing pincht a few, and made them cry, The rest stand all aloofe, and barke at him. So far'd our Father with his Enemies, So fled his Enemies my Warlike Father: Me thinkes 'tis prize enough to be his Sonne. See how the Morning opes her golden Gates, And takes her farwell of the glorious Sunne. How well resembles it the prime of Youth, Trimm'd like a Yonker, prauncing to his Loue? Ed. Dazle mine eyes, or doe I see three Sunnes? Rich. Three glorious Sunnes, each one a perfect Sunne, Not seperated with the racking Clouds, But seuer'd in a pale cleare-shining Skye. See, see, they ioyne, embrace, and seeme to kisse, As if they vow'd some League inuiolable. Now are they but one Lampe, one Light, one Sunne: In this, the Heauen figures some euent

Edward. 'Tis wondrous strange, The like yet neuer heard of. I thinke it cites vs (Brother) to the field, That wee, the Sonnes of braue Plantagenet, Each one alreadie blazing by our meedes, Should notwithstanding ioyne our Lights together, And ouer-shine the Earth, as this the World. What ere it bodes, hence-forward will I beare Vpon my Targuet three faire shining Sunnes

Richard. Nay, beare three Daughters: By your leaue, I speake it, You loue the Breeder better then the Male. Enter one blowing.

But what art thou, whose heauie Lookes fore-tell Some dreadfull story hanging on thy Tongue? Mess. Ah, one that was a wofull looker on, When as the Noble Duke of Yorke was slaine, Your Princely Father, and my louing Lord

Edward. Oh speake no more, for I haue heard too much

Richard. Say how he dy'de, for I will heare it all

Mess. Enuironed he was with many foes, And stood against them, as the hope of Troy Against the Greekes, that would haue entred Troy. But Hercules himselfe must yeeld to oddes: And many stroakes, though with a little Axe, Hewes downe and fells the hardest-tymber'd Oake. By many hands your Father was subdu'd, But onely slaught'red by the irefull Arme Of vn-relenting Clifford, and the Queene: Who crown'd the gracious Duke in high despight, Laugh'd in his face: and when with griefe he wept, The ruthlesse Queene gaue him, to dry his Cheekes, A Napkin, steeped in the harmelesse blood Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slaine: And after many scornes, many foule taunts, They tooke his Head, and on the Gates of Yorke They set the same, and there it doth remaine, The saddest spectacle that ere I view'd

Edward. Sweet Duke of Yorke, our Prop to leane vpon, Now thou art gone, wee haue no Staffe, no Stay. Oh Clifford, boyst'rous Clifford, thou hast slaine The flowre of Europe, for his Cheualrie, And trecherously hast thou vanquisht him, For hand to hand he would haue vanquisht thee. Now my Soules Pallace is become a Prison: Ah, would she breake from hence, that this my body Might in the ground be closed vp in rest: For neuer henceforth shall I ioy againe: Neuer, oh neuer shall I see more ioy

Rich. I cannot weepe: for all my bodies moysture Scarse serues to quench my Furnace-burning hart: Nor can my tongue vnloade my hearts great burthen, For selfe-same winde that I should speake withall, Is kindling coales that fires all my brest, And burnes me vp with flames, that tears would quench. To weepe, is to make lesse the depth of greefe: Teares then for Babes; Blowes, and Reuenge for mee. Richard, I beare thy name, Ile venge thy death, Or dye renowned by attempting it

Ed. His name that valiant Duke hath left with thee: His Dukedome, and his Chaire with me is left

Rich. Nay, if thou be that Princely Eagles Bird, Shew thy descent by gazing 'gainst the Sunne: For Chaire and Dukedome, Throne and Kingdome say, Either that is thine, or else thou wer't not his.

March. Enter Warwicke, Marquesse Mountacute, and their Army.

Warwick. How now faire Lords? What faire? What newes abroad? Rich. Great Lord of Warwicke, if we should recompt Our balefull newes, and at each words deliuerance Stab Poniards in our flesh, till all were told, The words would adde more anguish then the wounds. O valiant Lord, the Duke of Yorke is slaine

Edw. O Warwicke, Warwicke, that Plantagenet Which held thee deerely, as his Soules Redemption, Is by the sterne Lord Clifford done to death

War. Ten dayes ago, I drown'd these newes in teares. And now to adde more measure to your woes, I come to tell you things sith then befalne. After the bloody Fray at Wakefield fought, Where your braue Father breath'd his latest gaspe, Tydings, as swiftly as the Postes could runne, Were brought me of your Losse, and his Depart. I then in London, keeper of the King, Muster'd my Soldiers, gathered flockes of Friends, Marcht toward S[aint]. Albons, to intercept the Queene, Bearing the King in my behalfe along: For by my Scouts, I was aduertised That she was comming with a full intent To dash our late Decree in Parliament, Touching King Henries Oath, and your Succession: Short Tale to make, we at S[aint]. Albons met, Our Battailes ioyn'd, and both sides fiercely fought: But whether 'twas the coldnesse of the King, Who look'd full gently on his warlike Queene, That robb'd my Soldiers of their heated Spleene. Or whether 'twas report of her successe, Or more then common feare of Cliffords Rigour, Who thunders to his Captiues, Blood and Death, I cannot iudge: but to conclude with truth, Their Weapons like to Lightning, came and went: Our Souldiers like the Night-Owles lazie flight, Or like a lazie Thresher with a Flaile, Fell gently downe, as if they strucke their Friends. I cheer'd them vp with iustice of our Cause, With promise of high pay, and great Rewards: But all in vaine, they had no heart to fight, And we (in them) no hope to win the day, So that we fled: the King vnto the Queene, Lord George, your Brother, Norfolke, and my Selfe, In haste, post haste, are come to ioyne with you: For in the Marches heere we heard you were, Making another Head, to fight againe

Ed. Where is the Duke of Norfolke, gentle Warwick? And when came George from Burgundy to England? War. Some six miles off the Duke is with the Soldiers, And for your Brother he was lately sent From your kinde Aunt Dutchesse of Burgundie, With ayde of Souldiers to this needfull Warre

Rich. 'Twas oddes belike, when valiant Warwick fled; Oft haue I heard his praises in Pursuite, But ne're till now, his Scandall of Retire

War. Nor now my Scandall Richard, dost thou heare: For thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine, Can plucke the Diadem from faint Henries head, And wring the awefull Scepter from his Fist, Were he as famous, and as bold in Warre, As he is fam'd for Mildnesse, Peace, and Prayer

Rich. I know it well Lord Warwick, blame me not, 'Tis loue I beare thy glories make me speake: But in this troublous time, what's to be done? Shall we go throw away our Coates of Steele, And wrap our bodies in blacke mourning Gownes, Numb'ring our Aue-Maries with our Beads? Or shall we on the Helmets of our Foes Tell our Deuotion with reuengefull Armes? If for the last, say I, and to it Lords

War. Why therefore Warwick came to seek you out, And therefore comes my Brother Mountague: Attend me Lords, the proud insulting Queene, With Clifford, and the haught Northumberland, And of their Feather, many moe proud Birds, Haue wrought the easie-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 thinke) is thirty thousand strong: Now, if the helpe of Norfolke, and my selfe, With all the Friends that thou braue Earle of March, Among'st the louing Welshmen can'st procure, Will but amount to fiue and twenty thousand, Why Via, to London will we march, And once againe, bestride our foaming Steeds, And once againe cry Charge vpon our Foes, But neuer once againe turne backe and flye

Rich. I, now me thinks I heare great Warwick speak; Ne're may he liue to see a Sun-shine day, That cries Retire, if Warwicke bid him stay

Ed. Lord Warwicke, on thy shoulder will I leane, And when thou failst (as God forbid the houre) Must Edward fall, which perill heauen forefend

War. No longer Earle of March, but Duke of Yorke: The next degree, is Englands Royall Throne: For King of England shalt thou be proclaim'd In euery Burrough as we passe along, And he that throwes not vp his cap for ioy, Shall for the Fault make forfeit of his head. King Edward, valiant Richard Mountague: Stay we no longer, dreaming of Renowne. But sound the Trumpets, and about our Taske

Rich. Then Clifford, were thy heart as hard as Steele, As thou hast shewne it flintie by thy deeds, I come to pierce it, or to giue thee mine

Ed. Then strike vp Drums, God and S[aint]. George for vs. Enter a Messenger.

War. How now? what newes? Mes. The Duke of Norfolke sends you word by me, The Queene is comming with a puissant Hoast, And craues your company, for speedy counsell

War. Why then it sorts, braue Warriors, let's away.

Exeunt. Omnes.

Flourish. Enter the King, the Queene, Clifford, Northum[berland] and Yong Prince, with Drumme and Trumpettes.

Qu. Welcome my Lord, to this braue town of Yorke, Yonders the head of that Arch-enemy, That sought to be incompast with your Crowne. Doth not the obiect cheere your heart, my Lord

K. I, as the rockes cheare them that feare their wrack, To see this sight, it irkes my very soule: With-hold reuenge (deere God) 'tis not my fault, Nor wittingly haue I infring'd my Vow