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 French

woman.

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 tygers 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.

ACT II. SCENE 1.

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 farewel 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? Mes. 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.

Mes. Environed he was with many foes;

* And stood against them, as the hope of Troy
* 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 despight; '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 leán

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: