The Works of William Shakespeare [Cambridge Edition] [Vol. 5 of 9] · William Shakespeare
SCENE III.
Alarmes, and then enter the yong Earle of _Rutland_ and his Tutor. _Tutor._ Oh flie my Lord, lets leaue the Castell, And flie to _Wakefield_ straight. Enter _Clifford_. _Rut._ O Tutor, looke where bloudie _Clifford_ comes. _Clif._ Chaplin awaie, thy Priesthood saues thy life, [eac004] As for the brat of that accursed Duke ·eac005· Whose father slew my father, he shall die. _Tutor_ Oh _Clifford_ spare this tender Lord, least Heauen reuenge it on thy head: Oh saue his life. [eac008] _Clif._ Soldiers awaie and drag him hence perforce: Awaie with the villaine. _Exit_ the Chaplein. [eac010] How now, what dead alreadie? or is it feare that Makes him close his eies? Ile open them. _Rut._ So lookes the pent vp Lion on the lambe, And so he walkes insulting ouer his praie, [eac014] And so he turnes againe to rend his limmes in sunder, ·eac015· Oh _Clifford_, kill me with thy sword, and Not with such a cruell threatning looke, I am too meane a subiect for thy wrath, [eac018] Be thou reuengde on men, and let me liue. _Clif._ In vaine thou speakest poore boy: my fathers ·eac020· Bloud hath stopt the passage where thy words shoulde enter. [eac021] _Rut._ Then let my fathers blood ope it againe? he is a [eac022] Man, and _Clifford_ cope with him.
_Clif._ Had I thy brethren here, their liues and thine Were not reuenge sufficient for me. ·eac025· Or should _I_ dig vp thy forefathers graues, And hang their rotten coffins vp in chaines, It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my hart. The sight of anie of the house of _Yorke_, Is as a furie to torment my soule. ·eac030· Therefore till _I_ root out that curssed line And leaue not one on earth, _I_le liue in hell therefore. _Rut._ Oh let me praie, before _I_ take my death. To thee _I_ praie: Sweet _Clifford_ pittie me. _Clif._ _I_, such pitie as my rapiers point affords. ·eac035· _Rut._ _I_ neuer did thee hurt, wherefore wilt thou kill mee? _Clif._ Thy father hath. _Rut._ But twas ere _I_ was borne: [eac038] Thou hast one sonne, for his sake pittie me, Least in reuenge thereof, sith God is iust, ·eac040· He be as miserablie slaine as _I_. Oh, let me liue in prison all my daies, And when _I_ giue occasion for offence, Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause. _Clif._ No cause? Thy Father slew my father, therefore Die. ·eac045· _Plantagenet_ I come _Plantagenet_, And this thy sonnes bloud cleauing to my blade, Shall rust vpon my weapon, till thy bloud Congeald with his, doe make me wipe off both. _Exit._
Alarmes, Enter the Duke of _Yorke solus_. _Yorke_ Ah _Yorke_, post to thy castell, saue thy life, ·eac050· The goale is lost thou house of _Lancaster_, [eac051] Thrise happie chance is it for thee and thine, That heauen abridgde my daies and cals me hence, But God knowes what chance hath betide my sonnes: But this I know they haue demeand themselues, ·eac055· Like men borne to renowne by life or death: _T_hree times this daie came _Richard_ to my sight, And cried courage Father: Victorie or death. And twise so oft came _Edward_ to my view, With purple Faulchen painted to the hilts, ·eac060· In bloud of those whom he had slaughtered. Oh harke, _I_ heare the drums? No waie to flie: [eac062] No waie to saue my life? And heere _I_ staie: And heere my life must end. Enter the _Queene_, _Clifford_, _Northumberland_, and souldiers. Come bloudie _Clifford_, rough _Northumberland_, I dare your quenchlesse furie to more bloud: This is the But, and this abides your shot. _Northum._ Yeeld to our mercies proud _Plantagenet_. _Clif._ I, to such mercie as his ruthfull arme With downe right paiment lent vnto my father, ·eac070· Now _Phaeton_ hath tumbled from his carre, And made an euening at the noone tide pricke. _York._ My ashes like the _Phœnix_ maie bring forth A bird that will reuenge it on you all, And in that hope I cast mine eies to heauen, ·eac075· Skorning what ere you can afflict me with: Why staie you Lords? what, multitudes and feare?
_Clif._ So cowards fight when they can flie no longer: So Doues doe pecke the Rauens piersing tallents: So desperate theeues all hopelesse of their liues, ·eac080· Breath out inuectives gainst the officers. [eac081] _York._ Oh _Clifford_, yet bethinke thee once againe, And in thy minde orerun my former time: And bite thy toung that slaunderst him with cowardise, Whose verie looke hath made thee quake ere this. ·eac085· _Clif._ I will not bandie with thee word for word, But buckle with thee blowes twise two for one. _Queene._ Hold valiant _Clifford_ for a thousand causes, I would prolong the traitors life a while. Wrath makes him death, speake thou _Northumberland_. [eac090] _Nor._ Hold _Clifford_, doe not honour him so much, To pricke thy finger though to wound his hart: What valure were it when a curre doth grin, [eac093] For one to thrust his hand betweene his teeth, When he might spurne him with his foote awaie? ·eac095· Tis warres prise to take all aduantages, And ten to one, is no impeach in warres. Fight and take him. _Clif._ I, I, so striues the Woodcocke with the gin. _North._ So doth the cunnie struggle with the net. _York._ So triumphs theeues vpon their conquered [eac100] Bootie: So true men yeeld by robbers ouermatcht. [eac101] _North._ What will your grace haue done with him?
_Queen._ Braue warriors, _Clifford_ & _Northumberland_ Come make him stand vpon this molehill here, That aimde at mountaines with outstretched arme, ·eac105· And parted but the shaddow with his hand. Was it you that reuelde in our Parlement, And made a prechment of your high descent? Where are your messe of sonnes to backe you now? The wanton _Edward_, and the lustie _George_? ·eac110· Or where is that valiant _Crookbackt_ prodegie? [eac111] Dickey your boy, that with his grumbling voice, Was wont to cheare his Dad in mutinies? Or amongst the rest, where is your darling _Rutland_? [eac114] Looke _Yorke_? I dipt this napkin in the bloud, ·eac115· That valiant _Clifford_ with his rapiers point, [eac116] Made issue from the bosome of thy boy. And if thine eies can water for his death, I giue thee this to drie thy cheeks withall. Alas poore _Yorke_? But that I hate thee much, ·eac120· _I_ should lament thy miserable state? [eac121] I prethee greeue to make me merrie _Yorke_? [eac122] Stamp, raue and fret, that I maie sing and dance. What? hath thy fierie hart so parcht thine entrailes, [eac124] That not a teare can fall for _Rutlands_ death? ·eac125· Thou wouldst be feede I see to make me sport. _Yorke_ cannot speake, vnlesse he weare a crowne. A crowne for _Yorke_? and Lords bow low to him. [eac128] So: hold you his hands, whilst _I_ doe set it on. [eac129] I, now lookes he like a king? [eac130] This is he that tooke king _Henries_ chaire, And this is he was his adopted aire. [eac132] But how is it that great _Plantagenet_, Is crownd so soone, and broke his holie oath, As I bethinke me you should not be king, ·eac135· Till our _Henry_ had shooke hands with death, And will you impale your head with _Henries_ glorie, And rob his temples of the Diadem Now in his life against your holie oath? Oh, tis a fault too too vnpardonable. ·eac140· Off with the crowne, and with the crowne his head, And whilst we breath, take time to doe him dead.
_North._ Beshrew me but his passions moue me so, As hardlie can I checke mine eies from teares. [eac185] _York._ That face of his the hungrie Cannibals Could not haue tucht, would not haue staind with bloud But you are more inhumaine, more inexorable, O ten times more then Tygers of _Arcadia_. See ruthlesse _Queene_ a haplesse fathers teares. ·eac190· This cloth thou dipts in bloud of my sweet boy, And loe with teares I wash the bloud awaie. Keepe thou the napkin and go boast of that, And if thou tell the heauie storie well, [eac194] Vpon my soule the hearers will sheed teares, [eac195] I, euen my foes will sheed fast falling teares, [eac196] And saie, alas, it was a pitteous deed. Here, take the crowne, and with the crowne my curse, And in thy need such comfort come to thee, As now _I_ reape at thy two cruell hands. [eac200] Hard-harted _Clifford_, take me from the world, [eac201] My soule to heauen, my bloud vpon your heads. _North._ Had he bin slaughterman of all my kin, _I_ could not chuse but weepe with him to see, How inlie anger gripes his hart. [eac205] _Quee._ What weeping ripe, my Lorde _Northumberland_? Thinke but vpon the wrong he did vs all, And that will quicklie drie your melting tears. _Clif._ _T_hears for my oath, thears for my fathers death. [eac209] _Queene._ And thears to right our gentle harted kind. [eac210] _York._ Open thy gates of mercie gratious God, My soule flies foorth to meet with thee. _Queene._ Off with his head and set it on _Yorke_ Gates, So _Yorke_ maie ouerlooke the towne of _Yorke_. _Exeunt omnes._
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.