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. 'Rich. Say how he died, for I will hear it all. 'Mess. Environed he was with many foes; And stood against them as the hope of Troy2 * Against the Greeks, that would have enter'd Troy. * But Hercules himself must yield to odds; And many strokes, though with a little axe, *Hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak. 'By many hands your father was subdu'd; But only slaughter'd by the ireful arm Of unrelenting Clifford, and the queen: Who crown'd the gracious duke in high despite; Laugh'd in his face; and, when with grief he wept, The ruthless queen gave him, to dry his cheeks, 'A napkin steeped in the harmless blood Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain: And, after many scorns, many foul taunts, They took his head, and on the gates of York They set the same; and there it doth remain, "The saddest spectacle 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!* O Clifford, boist'rous Clifford, thou hast slain *The flower of Europe for his chivalry; *And treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him, * For, hand to hand, he would have vanquish'd thee! Now my soul's palace is become a prison: Rich. I cannot weep; for all my body's moisture Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart: *Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burden; *For self-same wind, that I should speak withal, * Is kindling coals, that fire all my breast, * And burn me up with flames, that tears would quench. To weep, is to make less the depth of grief: * Tears, then, for babes; blows, and revenge, for me! Richard, I bear thy name, I'll venge thy death, 'Or die renowned by attempting it. Edw. His name that valiant duke hath left with thee; His dukedom and his chair with me is left. Rich. Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird, Show thy descent by gazing 'gainst the sun : For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say; Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his. March. Enter Warwick and Montague, with forces. War. How now, fair lords? What fare? what news abroad? 'Rich. Great lord of Warwick, if we should recount Our baleful news, and, at each word's deliverance, wounds. O valiant lord, the duke of York is slain. Edw. O Warwick! Warwick! that Plantagenet, Which held thee dearly, as his soul's redemption, Is by the stern lord Clifford done to death.3 War. Ten days ago I drown'd these news in tears: Short tale to make,-we at Saint Albans met, Edw. Where is the duke of Norfolk, gentle And when came George from Burgundy to England? 'War. Some six miles off the duke is with the soldiers: And for your brother, he was lately sent Rich. 'Twas odds, belike, when valiant War-wick fled: Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit, War. Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou hear: For thou shalt know, this strong right hand of mine 'Tis love, I bear thy glories, makes me speak. you out; seek And therefore comes my brother Montague. Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong: Rich. Ay, now, methinks, I hear great Warwick speak: Ne'er may he live to see a sunshine day, "That cries-Retire, if Warwick bid him stay. Edw. Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean; And when thou fall'st (as God forbid the hour!) Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forefend! War. No longer earl of March, but duke of York; The next degree is, England's royal throne: For king of England shalt thou be proclaim'd In every borough as we pass along; And he that throws not up his cap for joy, 'Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head. King Edward,-valiant Richard,-Montague,Stay we no longer dreaming of renown, But sound the trumpets, and about our task. * Rich. Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as steel *(As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds,) * I come to pierce it,-or to give thee mine. *Edw. Then strike up, drums;-God, and Saint George, for us! Enter a Messenger. War. How now? what news? SCENE II-Before York. Enter King Henry Queen Margaret, the Prince of Wales, Clifford, and Northumberland, with forces. Q. Mar. Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York. Yonder's the head of that arch-enemy, To see this sight, it irks my very soul.- Clif. My gracious liege, this too much lenity, Which argued thee a most unloving father. Which sometime they have us'd with fearful flight,) Make war with him that climb'd unto their nest, Offering their own lives in their young's defence? For shame, my liege, make them your precedent! Were it not pity that this goodly boy Should lose his birthright by his father's fault; As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep, 'Q. Mar. My lord, cheer up your spirits; our foes are nigh, And this soft courage makes your followers faint. You promis'd knighthood to our forward son; Unsheath your sword, and dub him presently.— Mess. The duke of Norfolk sends you word by Edward, kneel down. K. Hen. Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight; And learn this lesson,-Draw thy sword in right. Prince. My gracious father, by your kingly leave, I'll draw it as apparent to the crown, And in that quarrel use it to the death. Clif. Why, that is spoken like a toward prince (3) Foolishly. Enter a Messenger. Mess. Royal commanders, be in readiness: 'For, with a band of thirty thousand men, Comes Warwick, backing of the duke of York; And, in the towns as they do march along, Proclaims him king, and many fly to him: 'Darraign your battle, for they are at hand. Clif. I would, your highness would depart the field; The queen hath best success when you are absent. Q. Mar. Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fortune. K. Hen. Why, that's my fortune too; therefore I'll stay. North. Be it with resolution then to fight. Prince. My royal father, cheer these noble lords, And hearten those that fight in your defence: Unsheath your sword, good father; cry, Saint George! March. Enter Edward, George, Richard, Warwick, Norfolk, Montague, and Soldiers. Edw. Now, perjur'd Henry! wilt thou kneel for grace, And set thy diadem upon my head; *Or bide the mortal fortune of the field? Q. Mar. Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting boy! Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear, Who should succeed the father, but the son? Clif. Ay, crook-back; here I stand, to answer thee, 'Or any he the proudest of thy sort. Rich. 'Twas you that killed young Rutland, was it not? Clif. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied. Rich. For God's sake, lords, give signal to the fight. War. What say'st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown? you stay. Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently;- As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland; (1) i. e. Arrange your host, put your host in order. (2) It is my firm persuasion. 3) One branded by nature. 4) Gilt is a superficial covering of gold. K. Hen. Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak. Q. Mar. Defy them then, or else hold close thy lips. K. Hen. I pr'ythee, give no limits to my tongue; I am a king, and privileg'd to speak. Clif. My liege, the wound, that bred this meeting here, Cannot be cur'd by words; therefore be still. upon his tongue. Edw. Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or no? A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day, That ne'er shall dine, unless thou yield the crown. For York in justice puts his armour on. War. If thou deny, their blood upon thy head; 'Prince. If that be right, which Warwick says is right, There is no wrong, but every thing is right. Rich. Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands; But like a foul misshapen stigmatic, To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?6 crowns, To make this shameless callet? know herself.- Had slipp'd our claim until another age. 'Geo. But, when we saw our sunshine made thy spring, We set the axe to thy usurping root: Yet, know thou, since we have begun to strike, Q. Mar. Stay, Edward. Edw. No, wrangling woman; we'll no longer stay: (5) Kennel was then pronounced channel. (6) To show thy meanness of birth by thy indecent railing. (7) Drab (8) i. e. A cuckold. 6 These words will cost ten thousand lives to-day. [Exeunt. SCENE III-A field of battle between Towton and Saxton in Yorkshire. Alarums: Excursions. Enter Warwick. War. Forspent with toil, as runners with a race, I lay me down a little while to breathe: For strokes receiv'd, and many blows repaid, Have robb'd my strong-knit sinews of their strength, And, spite of spite, needs must I rest a while. Enter Edward, running. Edw. Smile, gentle heaven! or strike, ungentle death! For this world frowns, and Edward's sun is clouded. War. How now, my lord? what hap? what hope of good? Enter George. *Geo. Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair; 'Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us : "What counsel give you, whither shall we fly? Edw. Bootless is flight, they follow us with wings; And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit. 'Rich. Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself? Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk, Broach'd with the steely point of Clifford's lance: 'And, in the very pangs of death, he cried,— 'Like to a dismal clangor heard from far,Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death! So underneath the belly of their steeds, That stain'd their fetlocks in his smoking blood, "The noble gentleman gave up the ghost. • War. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood: I'll kill my horse, because I will not fly. *Were play'd in jest by counterfeiting actors? "Here on my knee I vow to God above, I'll never pause again, never stand still, 'Till either death hath clos'd these eyes of mine, 'Or fortune given me measure of revenge. Edw. O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine; And, in this vow, do chain my soul to thine.* And ere my knee rise from the earth's cold face, *I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee, Thou setter up and plucker down of kings! 'Beseeching thee,-if with thy will it stands, That to my foes this body must be prey,Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope, And give sweet passage to my sinful soul!Now, lords, take leave until we meet again, Where'er it be, in heaven, or on earth. Rich. Brother, give me thy hand;—and, gentle 'Let me embrace thee in my weary arms:- "Geo. Yet let us all together to our troops, And give them leave to fly that will not stay; And call them pillars, that will stand to us; 'And, if we thrive, promise them such rewards 'As victors wear at the Olympian games: (1) And are mere spectators. *This may plant courage in their quailing2 breasts, For yet is hope of life, and victory.*Fore-slow3 no longer, make we hence amain. [Exeunt. Another part of the SCENE IV.-The same. field. Excursions. Enter Richard and Clifford. 'Rich. Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone: Suppose, this arm is for the duke of York, And this for Rutland; both bound to revenge, Wert thou environ'd with a brazen wall. Clif. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone: This is the hand that stabb'd thy father York; And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland, And here's the heart that triumphs in their death, And cheers these hands, that slew thy sire and brother, To execute the like upon thyself; [They fight. Warwick enters; Clifford flies. When dying clouds contend with growing light; *What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails, Can neither call it perfect day, nor night. Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea, Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind; Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea Forc'd to retire by fury of the wind: Sometime, the flood prevails; and then, the wind; Now, one the better; then, another best; Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered: So is the equal poise of this fell war. *Here on this molehill will I sit me down. * To whom God will, there be the victory! For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too, Have chid me from the battle; swearing both, They prosper best of all when I am thence. 'Would I were dead! if God's good will were so. For what is in this world, but grief and wo? *O God! methinks, it were a happy life, To be no better than a homely swain; * To sit upon a hill, as I do now, * To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run: * How many make the hour full complete, *How many hours bring about the day, * How many days will finish up the year, *How many years a mortal man may live. * When this is known, then to divide the times: *So many hours must I tend my flock; *So many hours must I take my rest; *So many hours must I cóntemplate; * So many hours must I sport myself; *So many days my ewes have been with young; * So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean; *So many years ere I shall shear the fleece: * So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years, * Pass'd over to the end they were created, *Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. * Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely. *Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade *To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, *Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy (2) Sinking into dejection. (3) To fore-slow is to be dilatory, to loiter. To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery? *O, yes it doth; a thousand fold it doth. * And to conclude,-the shepherd's homely curds, * When care, mistrust, and treason, wait on him. Alarum. Enter a Son that has killed his father, dragging in the dead body. Son. Ill blows the wind, that profits nobody.This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight, May be possessed with some store of crowns: And I, that haply take them from him now, May yet ere night yield both my life and them To some man else, as this dead man doth me. 'Who's this?-O God! it is my father's face, "Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill'd. 'O heavy times, begetting such events! From London by the king was I press'd forth; 'My father, being the earl of Warwick's man, Came on the part of York, press'd by his master; 'And I, who at his hands receiv'd my life, Have by my hands of life bereaved him."Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did! And pardon, father, for I knew not thee! My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks; And no more words, till they have flow'd their fill. K. Hen. Opiteous spectacle! O bloody times! Whilst lions war, and battle for their dens, 'Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity.Weep, wretched man, I'll aid thee tear for tear; *And let our hearts, and eyes, like civil war, * Be blind with tears, and break o'ercharg'd with grief. Enter a Father who has killed his son, with the body in his arms. 'Fath. Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me, "Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold; 'For I have bought it with a hundred blows.'But let me see:-is this our foeman's face? Ah, no, no, no, it is mine only son!— Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee, 'K. Hen. How will the country, for these wo- Misthink? the king, and not be satisfied? my fill. Much is your sorrow; mine, ten times so much *My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre; Here sits a king more woful than you are. And Warwick rages like a chafed bull: Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed; 'K. Hen. Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Not that I fear to stay, but love to go Throw up thine eye; see, see, what showers arise, SCENE VI.-The same. A loud alarum. En Blown with the windy tempest of my heart, O, that my death would stay these ruthful deeds! The one, his purple blood right well resembles *The other, his pale cheeks, methinks, present: Wither one rose, and let the other flourish! If you contend, a thousand lives must wither. Son. How will my mother, for a father's death, Take on with me, and ne'er be satisfied? Fath. How will my wife, for slaughter of my ter Clifford, wounded. Clif. Here burns my candle out, ay, here it dies, Had left no mourning widows for our death, And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace. (3) Careful of obsequies, or funeral rites. |