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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; 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! How could'st 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, Ainty, rough, remorseless. · Bid'st thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish : Would'st 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.
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 Would not have touch'd, would not have stain'd with
blood: But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,0, ten times more,—than tigers of Hyrcania. See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears : This cloth thou dipp’dst 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. 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 !
North. 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. Q. Mar What, weeping ripe, my lord Northumber
land ? 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.
: [Stabbing him. Q. Mar. And here's to right our gentle-hearted king.
[Stabbing hina York. Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God!
My soul flies through these wounds, to seek out thee.
[Dies. Q. Mar. Off with his head, and set it on York gates ; So York may overlook the town of York. [Exeunt.
SCENE 1.-A Plain near Mortimer's Cross in Hereford
Drums. Enter Edward and RichARD, with their
Rich. I cannot joy, until I be resolv'd
See how the morning opes her golden gates,
Edw. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?
Rich. Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun; Not separated with the racking clouds, But sever'd in a pale clear-shining sky. See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss, As if they vow'd some league inviolable: Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun. In this the heaven figures some event.
Edw. '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 over-shine the earth, as this the world. Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear Upon my target three fair shining suns. · Rich. Nay, bear three daughters ;-by your leave I
speak it, You love the breeder better than the male.
Enter a Messenger.
Mess. Ah, one that was a woful looker on,
Edw. O, speak no more! for I have heard too much,