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Aet I.

19 THIRD PART OF
Fork. Ay, with my sword. What! think'st thou

that we fear them!
Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me;-
My brother Montague shall post to London:
Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest,
Whom we have left protectors of the king,
With powerful policy strengthen themselves,
And trust not simple Henry, nor bis oaths.

Mont. Brother, 1 go; I'll win them, fear it not
And thus most humbly I do take my leave. (Esl.
Eater Sir JOHN and Sir HUGH MORTIMER.
York, Sir John, and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mios

uncles !
You are come to Sandal in a happy hour;
The army of the queen mean to besiege us.
Sir Jata. She shall not need, we'll meet her in

the field.
York. What, with fire thousand men !
Rich. Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need.
A woman's general; What should we fear?

(A march afar of
Edo. I hear their drums; let's set our men in

order;
And issue forth, and bid them battle straight.
York. Five mea to twenty!-though the odds be

great,
I doubt not, uncle, of our victory.
Many a battle have I won in France,
When as the enemy hath been ten to one;
Why should I not now have the like success!

(Alarun. Exeunt.
SCENE III.

Plains near Sandal Castle.
dlarums: Escursions. Enter RUTLAND and

Ais Tutor.
Rut. Ah, whither shall I fly to 'scape their hands!
Ah, tutor! look, where bloody Clifford comes!

Enter CLIFFORD, and Soldiers.
Clif. Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy life.
As for the brat of this accursed duke,
Whose father slew my father, --he shall die.
Tut. And I, my lord, will bear him company.
Clif. Soldiers, away with him.

Sc.3. KING HENRY VI.

13 Tut. Ah, Clifford ! murder not this innocent child, Lest thou be hated both of God and man.

[Exit, forced off by Soldiers.
Clif. How now! is he dead already ? Or, is it fear,
That makes him close his eyes : -1'11 open them.

Rut. 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 reveng'd on men, and let me live.
Clif. In vain thou speak’st, poor boy; my father's

blood
Hath stopp'd the passage, where thy words should

enter.
Rut. Then let my father's blood open it again;
He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him.

Clif. 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 slack mine ire, nor ease rey heart.
The sight of any of the house of York
Is as a fury to torment my soul;
And till I root ont their accursed line,
And leave not one alive, I live in hell.
Therefore

[Lifting his hand.
Rut, o, let me pray before I take my death :-
To
thee I pray; Sweet Clifford, pity me!
Cuf. Such pity as my rapier's point affords.
Rut. I never did thee harm; Why wilt thou
Clif. Thy father hath.

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.

Cuf. No cause?
Thy father slew my father; therefore, die.

(Clifford stabs kim.
Rut. Dui faciant, laudis summa sie ista tuæ ! [Dics.

115

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Clif. Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet ! And this thy son's blood cleaving to my blade, Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood, Cengeal'd with this, do make me wipe off both

[Exit.
SCENE IV.

The same.
AlarumEnter 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 renowa, by life, or death.
Three times did Richard make

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 encounter'd 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 tomo !
Asceptre, or an earthly sepulchre !
With this, we charg'd again: but, out, alas!
We bodg'd 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 tithin.
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, NOR-

THUMBERLAND, and Soldiers.
Come, bloody Clifford, -rough Northumberland,
I dare your quenchless fury to more rage ;
I am your butt, and I abide your shot.

North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.
Clif. Ay, to such mercy, as his ruthless arm,
With downright payment, show'd unto my father.
Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his car,
And made an evening at the noontide psick.

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THIRD PART OR

Act 1.
14. 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

SCENE IV.

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 wiad,
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 --Couruge, father ! Aight it out!
And full as oft came Edward to my side,
With purple falchion, painted to the hilt
In blood of those that had encounter'd him:
And when the hardiest

warriors did retire,
Richard cried, ---Charge! and give no footed 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 bodg'd again; as I have seen a swan
With bootless labour swim against the tide,
And spend her strength with over-matching waves.

[4 skort Alaruns 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, NOR-

THUMBERLAND, and Soldiers.
Come, bloody Clifford, -rough Northumberland --
I dare your quenchless fury to more rage;
I am your butt, and I abide your shot.

Norih. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.
Clif. Ay, to such mercy, as his ruthless arm,
With downright payment, show'd unto my father.
Now Phaeton

hath tumbled from his car,
And made an evening at the noontide prick.

Sc.4. KING HENRY VI.

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?
Clif. 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'er-run my former time
And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face ;
And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with cow-

ardice,
Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this.

Cuif. I will not bandy with thee word for word;
But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one,

[Draws.
2. Mar. Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand

causes,
I would prolong awhile the traitor's life:
Wrath makes him deaf: speak thou, Northumberland.

North. Hoid, 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.
Clif. Ay,

ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin.
North. So doth the coney, struggle in the net.

York is taken prisoner.
York. So triumph thieves upon their conquer'a
So true men yield with robbers so o'ermatch'a.
North. What would your grace have done unto

him now?
Q. Mar. Brave warriors, Clifford, and Northum-

berland,
Come, make him stand upon this molehill here ;
That raught at mountains with out-stretched 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?

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How ill hecmind is it in thy sex,

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,

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 dry thy cheeks withal.
Alas, poor York! but that I hate thee deadly,
I should lament thy miserable state.
I pr'ythee, grieve, to make me merry

York;
Stamp, rave, and fret,

that I may sing and dance.
What, hath thy fiery heart so parch'd thy 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 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? off with the crown;

and, with the crown, his head; And, whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead. Clis. That is my office, for my father's sake. 9. Mar. Nay, stay;

let's hear the orisons he makes. York. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves

of France,
Whose more poisons than the adder's tooth !
To triumph like an Amazonian trai,
Upon their woes, whom fortune captivates ?
But that thy face is, visor-like, unchanging,
Made impudent with use of evil deeds,

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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; 1 stain'd

this napkin with the bloed,
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.
Alus, poor York! but that I hate thee deadly,
I should lament thy miserable state.
I prythee, grieve, to make me merry, York;
Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dann
What, hath thy fiery heart so parch'd

thy entrala
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 fee'd, I see, to make me speed;
York cannot speak, unless he wear a crown-
Hold you his hands, whilst I do set it on.-
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 her.-
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,
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!
0, 'tis a fault too too un pardonable !
Off with the crown; and, with the crown, his head;
And, whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead.

Cly. That is my office, for my father's sake,
York. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves

of France,
How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex,
To triumph like an Amazonian trall,
Upon their woes, wbom fortune captivates !
But that thy face is, visor-like, unchanging,
Made impudent with use of evil deeds,

17
would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush:
To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom deriv'd,
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 admir'd 3
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.
0, tiger's heart, wrapp'd in a woman's hide!
To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,
Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible;
Thou stern, obdurate, Ainty, rough, remorseless.
Bid'st thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish:
Would'st have me weep? why, now thou hast thy
For raging wind blows up incessant showers,
These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies ;
And
'Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false French-

every drop cries vengeance for his death,

woman.
North. 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

with blood :
But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,
See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears:
This doth thou dipp'ast in blood of my sweet boy,
And I with tears do wash the blood away.
Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this:

(He gives back the handkerchief,

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