* And many strokes, though with a little axe, *Hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak. f By many hands your father was subdu'd; But only slaughter'd by the ireful arm 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: 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, Ah, would sne break from hence! that this my body 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, 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, Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told, The words would add more anguish than the 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. War. Ten days ago I drown'd these news in tears: And now, to add more measure to your woes, I come to tell you things since then befall'n. After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought, Where your brave father breath'd his latest gasp, Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run, Were brought me of your loss, and his depart. I then in London, keeper of the king, Muster'd my soldiers, gather'd flocks of friends, And very well appointed, as I thought, March'd towards Saint Alban's to intercept the queen. Bearing the king in my behalf along: For by my scouts I was advértised, That she was coming with a full intent Touching king Henry's oath, and your succession, Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends. Edw. Where is the duke of Norfolk, gentle War- 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 From your kind aunt, duchess of Burgundy, • With aid of soldiers to this needful war. Rich. 'Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick 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 Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry's head, And wring the awful scepter from his fist; Rich. I know it well, lord Warwick: blame me not; War. Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you out; And now to London all the crew are gone, With all the friends that thou, brave earl of March, Why, Via! to London will we march amain; 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; And he that throws not up his cap for joy, * 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? Mess. The duke of Norfolk sends you word by me, The queen is coming with a puissant host; And craves your company for speedy counsel. 'War. Why then it sorts, brave warriors: Let's away [Exeunt |