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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.

O, 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, flinty, 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,

O, 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 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.

[Stabbing him.

Q. Mar. 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.

Q. Mar. Off with his head, and set it on York gates; So York may overlook the town of York.

[Exeunt.

VOL. VIII.

ACT II.

SCENE I.—A Plain near Mortimer's Cross in Herefordshire.

Drums. Enter EDWARD and RICHARD, with their Forces, marching.

Edw. I wonder, how our princely father 'scap'd;
Or whether he be 'scap'd 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 'scap'd, methinks, we should have heard
The happy tidings of his good escape.—
How fares my brother? why is he so sad?
Rich. I cannot joy, until I be resolv'd
Where our right valiant father is become.
I saw him in the battle range about;

And watch'd 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, encompass'd round with dogs;
Who having pinch'd a few, and made them cry,
The rest stand 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 farewell of the glorious sun!
How well resembles it the prime of youth,
Trimm'd like a younker, prancing to his love!
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.

But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretel
Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?

Mess. Ah, one that was a woful looker on,
When as the noble duke of York was slain,
Your princely father, and my loving lord.

Edw. O, speak no more! for I have heard too much.

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