And made a Preachment of your High Defcent?
Where are your mefs of Sons to back you now,
The wanton Edward, and the lufty 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 reft, where is your Darling Rutland?
Look Tork, I ftain'd this Napkin with the Blood
That valiant Clifford, with h's Rapier's point,
Made iffue from the bofom of the Boy;
And if thine Eyes can water for his Death,
I give thee this to dry thy Cheeks withal.
Alas, poor Tork, but that I hate thee deadly,
I fhould lament thy miferable State.

I prithee grieve, to make me merry, Tork.
What, hath thy fiery Heart fo parcht thine Intrails,
That not a Tear can fall for Rutland's Death,
Why art thou patient, Man? thou should'st be mad:
And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus;
Stamp, rave and fret, that I may fing and dance.
Thou would't be fee'd, I fee, to make me sport:
York cannot fpeak, unlefs he wear a Crown.
A Crown for York-and, Lords, bow low to him:
Hold you his Hands, whilft I do fet 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 fo foon, and broke his folemn Oath?
As I bethink me, you should not be King,

'Till our King Henry had fhook Hinds with Death,
And will you pale your Head in Henry's Glory,
And rob his Temples of the Diadem,

Now in this Life against the holy Oath?
Oh, 'tis a fault too too unpardonable.

Off with the Crown, and with the Crown his Head,
And whilft we breath take him to do him dead.
Clif. That is my Office, for my Father's fake.
Queen. Nay ftay, let's here the Orizons he makes.
Tork. She-Wolf of France,

But worse than Wolves of France,

Whofe

Whofe Tongue more poifons than the Adder's Tooth:
How ill-befeeming 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 ufe of evil Deeds,

I would affay, proud Queen, to make thee blush.
To tell thee whence thou cam'ft, of whom deriv'd,
Were fhame enough to fhame thee

Wert thou not fhameless:

Thy Father bears the Type of King of Naples,
Of both the Sicils and Jerufalem,

Yet not fo wealthy as an English Yeoman.
Hath that poor Monarch taught thee to infult?
It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud Queen;
Unless the Adage must be verify'd,

That Beggars mounted run their Horse to Death.
'Tis Beauty that doth oft make Women proud,
But God he knows, thy fhare thereof is fmall.
'Tis Virtue that doth make them moft admir'd.
The contrary doth make thee wondred at.
'Tis Government that makes them feem Divine,
The want thereof makes thee abominable.
Thou art as oppofite to every good,

As the Antipodes are unto us,

Or as the South to the Septentrion.

Oh Tyger's Heart, wrapt in a Woman's Hide,
How could't thou drain the Life-blood of the Childs
To bid the Father wipe his Eyes withal,

And yet be feen to wear a Woman's Face?
Women are foft, mild, pitiful and flexible;

Thou ftern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorfele fs.
Bidft thou me rage? why now thou haft thy with.
Would't have me weep? why now thou haft thy will.
For raging Wind blows up inceffant Show'rs..
And when the rage allays, the Rain begins.
Thefe Tears are my fweet Rutland's Oof quies,
And every drop cries vengeance to his Death,

'Gainft thee, fell Clifford, and thee, falfe French Woman.
North. Befhrew me, but his Paffions move me fo,
That hardly can I check mine Eyes from Tears.
C

VOL. IV.

York.

Tork. That Face of his,

The hungry Cannibals would not have toucht,
Would not have ftain'd the Rofes juft with Blood:
But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,
Oh ten times more, than Tygers of Hyrcania.
See, ruthless Queen, a hapless Father's Tears:
This Cloth thou dip'dft in Blood of my fweet Boy,
And I with Tears do wash the Blood away.
Keep thou the Napkin, and go boast of this,
And if thou tell'ft the heavy Story right,
Upon my Soul, the Hearers will shed Tears:
Yea, even my Foes will fhed faft-falling Tears,
And fay, alas, it was a piteous Deed.

There take the Crown, and, with the Crown, my Curfe
And in thy need, fuch comfort come to thee,
As now I reap at thy too cruel Hand.

Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the World,
My Soul to Heav'n, my Blood upon your Heads.
North. Had he been Slaughter-man to all my Kin,
I should not for my Life but weep with him,

To fee how inly Sorrow gripes his Soul.

Queen. What, weeping ripe, my Lord Northumberland? Think but upon the wrong he did us all,

And that will quickly dry thy melting Tears.

Clif. Here's for my Oath, here's for my Father's Death. Queen. And here's to right our gentle-hearted King.

[Stabbing him. York. Open thy Gate of Mercy, gracious God. My Soul flies through thefe Wounds, to feek out thee. [Dies. Queen. Off with his Head, and fet it on York Gates, So York may overlook the Town of York.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

[Exeunt.

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

Edw. I

Wonder how our Princely Father fcap'd; Or whether he be fcap'd away, or no, From Clifford's, and Northumberland's purfuit?

Had he been ta'en we should have heard the News;

Had

Had he been flain, we fhould have heard the News;
Or had he fcap'd, methinks we should have heard
The happy Tidings of his good efcape.
How fares my Brother? why is he fo fad?
Rich. I cannot joy, until I be refolv❜d,
Where our right valiant Father is become.
I faw him in the Battel range about,

And watcht him how he fingled Clifford forth,
Methought be bore him in the thickest Troop,
As doth a Lion in a Herd of Neat;

Or as a Bear encompafs'd round with Dogs,
Who having pincht a few, and made them cry,
The reft ftand all aloof, and bark at him.
So far'd 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 farewel of the glorious Sun,
How well resembles it the prime of Youth,
Trim'd like a Yonker, prancing to his Love?
Edw. Dazle mine Eyes? or do I fee three Suns?
Rich. Three glorious Suns, each one a perfe& Sun,
Not separated with the racking Clouds,
But fever'd in a pale clear-fhining Sky.

See, fee they join, embrace, and feem to kifs,
As if they vow'd fome League inviolable:

Now are they but one Lamp, one Light, one Suna
In this the Heaven figures fome Event.
Edw. 'Tis wondrous ftrange,

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 over-fhine the Earth, as this the World,
Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear
Upon my Target three fair fhining Suns.
Rich. Nay, bear three Daughters:

By your leave, I sp ak it,

You love the Breeder better than the Male.

Enter a Messenger.

But what art thou, whofe heavy Looks foretel
Some dreadful Story hanging on thy Tongue?"
Mef. Ah, one that was a woful looker on,
When as the Noble Duke of York was flain,
Your Princely Father, and my loving Lord.
Edw. Ob, fpeak no more! for I have heard too much.
Rich. Say how he dy'd, for I will hear it all.
Mef. Environed he was with many Foes,
And ftood against them, as the hope of Troy
Against the Greeks, that would have entred Troy.
But Hercules himself muft yield to odds;
And many Stroaks, though with a little Ax,
Hews down and fells the hardeft-timber'd Oak.
By many Hands your Father was fubdu'd,
But only flaughter'd by the ireful Arm,
Of unrelenting Clifford, and the Queen:

Who crown'd the gracious Duke in high defpight,
Laugh'd in his Face; and when with grief he wept,
The ruthless Queen gave him, to dry his Check,
A Napkin, fteeped in the harmless Blood
Of fweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford flain:
And after many Scorns, many foul Taunts,
They took his Head, and on the Gates of York
They fet the fame, and there it doth remain,
The faddeft fpectacle that e'er I view'd.

Edw. Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon,
Now thou art gone, we have no Staff, no Stay,
Oh Clifford, boift'rous Clifford, thou haft flain
The Flower of Europe for his Chivalry,
And treacherously haft thou vanquish'd him,
For Hand to Hand he would have vanquish'd thee.
Now my Soul's Palace is become a Prison:
Ab, would fhe break from hence, that this my Body
Might in the Ground be closed up in reft;
For never henceforth fhall I joy again,
Never, oh never fhall I fee more joy.

Rich. I cannot weep, for all my Body's moisture
Scarce ferves to quench my Furnace-burning Heart:
Nor can my Tongue unload my Heart's great burthen,
For felf-fame Wind that I should speak withal,