Clif. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy; my father's blood Hath stopp'd the passage where thy words should enter. Clif. Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine Were not revenge sufficient for me; No, if I digg'd up thy forefathers' graves, And hung their rotten coffins up in chains, It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart. And till I root out their accursed line, Lifting his hand. Rut. O let me pray before I take my death. Rut. I never did thee harm: why wilt thou slay me? Rut. But 'twas ere I was born. Thou hast one son; for his sake pity me, Lest in revenge thereof, sith God is just, Ah! let me live in prison all my days; And when I give occasion of offence, Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause. Thy father slew my father; therefore, die. Stabs him. Rut. Di faciant laudis summa sit ista tuæ! Clif. Plantagenet ! I come, Plantagenet ! And this thy son's blood cleaving to my blade Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood, Congeal'd with this, do make me wipe off both. Dies. Exit. SCENE IV.-Another Part of the Field. Alarum. Enter YORK. York. The army of the queen hath got the field: Turn back and fly, like ships before the wind, And when the hardiest warriors did retire, * Richard cried, Charge! and give no foot of ground!' And cried, 'A crown, or else a glorious tomb! A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre !' With this, we charg'd again; but, out, alas! Ah, hark! the fatal followers do pursue ; Enter Queen Margaret, Clifford, NorthumbER- Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland, I am your butt, and I abide your shot. North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet. York. My ashes, as the phoenix, may bring forth A bird that will revenge upon you all; And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heaven, York. O Clifford ! but bethink thee once again, Draws. Q. Mar. Hold, valiant Clifford! fora thousand causes I would prolong awhile the traitor's life. Wrath makes him deaf: speak thou, Northumberland. North. Hold, Clifford ! do not honour him so much To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart. What valour were it, when a cur doth grin, For one to thrust his hand between his teeth, When he might spurn him with his foot away? It is war's prize to take all vantages, And ten to one is no impeach of valour. They lay hands on YORK, who struggles. Clif. Ay, ay; so strives the woodcock with the gin. North. So doth the cony struggle in the net. York. So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty; So true men yield, with robbers so o'ermatch'd. North. What would your grace have done unto him now? Q. Mar. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland, Come, make him stand upon this molehill here, Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland ? I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal. Alas, poor York! but that I hate thee deadly, I should lament thy miserable state. I prithee grieve, to make me merry, York. Putting a paper crown on his head. Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king! But how is it that great Plantagenet Is crown'd so soon, and broke his solemn oath? Till our King Henry had shook hands with death. Now in his life, against your holy oath ? Off with the crown; and, with the crown, his head; Q. Mar. Nay, stay; let 's hear the orisons he makes. York. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France, Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth! How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex To triumph like an Amazonian trull, Upon their woes whom fortune captivates ! I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush: Thy father bears the type of King of Naples, Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman. Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult? That beggars mounted run their horse to death. |