Part 79

YORK. Five men to twenty! Though the odds be great, I doubt not, uncle, of our victory. Many a battle have I won in France Whenas the enemy hath been ten to one. Why should I not now have the like success?

[_Alarum. Exeunt._]

SCENE III. Plains near Sandal Castle

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.

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 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 asunder. Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword, And not with such a cruel threat’ning look. Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die. I am too mean a subject for thy wrath; Be thou revenged on men, and let me live.

CLIFFORD. In vain thou speak’st, poor boy; my father’s blood Hath stopped 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 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—

[_Lifting his hand._]

RUTLAND. O, let me pray before I take my death! 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.

[_Clifford stabs him._]

RUTLAND. _Di faciant laudis summa sit ista tuae!_

[_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._]

SCENE IV. The Same

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 bechanced 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 budged 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, Clifford, Northumberland, the young Prince Edward 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.

CLIFFORD. Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm With downright payment showed unto my father. Now Phaëthon 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.

QUEEN MARGARET. Hold, valiant Clifford; for a thousand causes I would prolong awhile 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 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 is taken prisoner._]

YORK. So triumph thieves upon their conquered booty; So true men yield, with robbers so o’ermatched.

NORTHUMBERLAND. 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 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 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 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 stained 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 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 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.

[_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 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, 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 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 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. Bid’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 passion moves 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.

[_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 and 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 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 pride 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, 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. 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 overshine 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, 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 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 entered Troy. But Hercules himself must yield to odds; And many strokes, though with a little axe, Hews down and fell 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, boisterous 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 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, Marquess 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 thee dearly as his soul’s redemption Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death.

WARWICK. Ten days ago I drowned 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, Mustered my soldiers, gathered flocks of friends, And very well appointed, as I thought, Marched toward Saint Albans 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 Albans met, Our battles joined, and both sides fiercely fought. But, whether ’twas the coldness of the King, Who looked full gently on his warlike Queen, That robbed 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 cheered 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 moe 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 proclaimed 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, Queen Margaret, the Prince of Wales, Clifford and Northumberland with drums 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 encompassed with your crown. Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?

KING HENRY. Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their wrack! To see this sight, it irks my very soul. Withhold revenge, dear God! ’Tis not my fault, Nor wittingly have I infringed my vow.

CLIFFORD. My gracious liege, this too much lenity And harmful pity must be laid aside. To whom do lions cast their gentle looks? Not to the beast that would usurp their den. Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick? Not his that spoils her young before her face. Who scapes the lurking serpent’s mortal sting? Not he that sets his foot upon her back. The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on, And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood. Ambitious York did level at thy crown, Thou smiling while he knit his angry brows. He, but a duke, would have his son a king, And raise his issue like a loving sire; Thou, being a king, blest with a goodly son, Didst yield consent to disinherit him, Which argued thee a most unloving father. Unreasonable creatures feed their young; And though man’s face be fearful to their eyes, Yet, in protection of their tender ones, Who hath not seen them, even with those wings Which sometime they have used with fearful flight, Make war with him that climbed unto their nest, Offering their own lives in their young’s defence? For shame, my liege, make them your precedent. Were it not pity that this goodly boy Should lose his birthright by his father’s fault, And long hereafter say unto his child, “What my great-grandfather and grandsire got, My careless father fondly gave away?” Ah, what a shame were this! Look on the boy, And let his manly face, which promiseth Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart To hold thine own and leave thine own with him.

KING HENRY. Full well hath Clifford played the orator, Inferring arguments of mighty force. But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear That things ill got had ever bad success? And happy always was it for that son Whose father for his hoarding went to hell? I’ll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind, And would my father had left me no more; For all the rest is held at such a rate As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep Than in possession any jot of pleasure. Ah, cousin York, would thy best friends did know How it doth grieve me that thy head is here!

QUEEN MARGARET. My lord, cheer up your spirits; our foes are nigh, And this soft courage makes your followers faint. You promised knighthood to our forward son. Unsheathe your sword and dub him presently.— Edward, kneel down.

KING HENRY. Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight; And learn this lesson: draw thy sword in right.