Another part of the field of battle between Sandal Castle and Wakefield.
(Richard Duke of York; Queen Margaret; Clifford; Northumberland; Prince Edward; Soldiers)
York, alone, abandoned by his fleeing soldiers, his strongest defenders dead, is overtaken by the Queen and Clifford. They mock at him, falling from so high an ambition, torment him with Rutland’s death, and place a paper crown on his head. He proudly replies to the king, reproaching her for her cruelty, and his tears for his dead son move even Northumberland. Clifford and Margaret stab him, and the Queen orders that his head be set up on the gates of York. (180 lines)
Alarum. Enter Richard Duke of York.
The army of the Queen hath got the field:
My uncles both are slain in rescuing me;
And all my followers to the eager foe
Turn back and fly, like ships before the wind,
Or lambs pursu’d by hunger-starved wolves.
My sons, God knows what hath bechanced them;
But this I know, they have demean’d themselves
Like men born to renown by life or death.
Three times did Richard make a lane to me,
And thrice cried, “Courage, father! Fight it out!”
And full as oft came Edward to my side
With purple falchion, painted to the hilt
In blood of those that had encount’red him.
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,
We bodg’d again, as I have seen a swan
With bootless labor swim against the tide,
And spend her strength with overmatching waves.
A short alarum within.
Ah, hark, the fatal followers do pursue,
And I am faint, and cannot fly their fury;
And were I strong, I would not shun their fury.
The sands are numb’red that makes up my life,
Here must I stay, and here my life must end.
Enter the Queen Margaret, Clifford, Northumberland, the young Prince Edward, and Soldiers.
Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,
I dare your quenchless fury to more rage.
I am your butt, and I abide your shot.
Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.
Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm
With downright payment show’d unto my father.
Now Phaëton hath tumbled from his car,
And made an evening at the noontide prick.
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,
Scorning what e’er you can afflict me with.
Why come you not? What, multitudes, and fear?
So cowards fight when they can fly no further,
So doves do peck the falcon’s piercing talons,
So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,
Breathe out invectives ’gainst the officers.
O Clifford, but bethink thee once again,
And in thy thought o’errun my former time;
And if thou canst for blushing, view this face,
And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with cowardice
Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this!
I will not bandy with thee word for word,
But buckler with thee blows, twice two for one.
Hold, valiant Clifford! For a thousand causes
I would prolong a while the traitor’s life.
Wrath makes him deaf; speak thou, Northumberland.
Hold, Clifford, do not honor him so much
To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart.
What valor 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 valor.
They lay hands on York, who struggles.
Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin.
So doth the cony struggle in the net.
So triumph thieves upon their conquer’d booty,
So true men yield, with robbers so o’ermatch’d.
What would your Grace have done unto him now?
Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,
Come make him stand upon this molehill here
That raught at mountains with outstretched arms,
Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.
What, was it you that would be England’s king?
Was’t you that revell’d in our parliament,
And made a preachment of your high descent?
Where are your mess of sons to back you now,
The wanton Edward, and the lusty George?
And where’s that valiant crook-back prodigy,
Dicky, your boy, that with his grumbling voice
Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies?
Or with the rest, where is your darling, Rutland?
Look, York, I stain’d this napkin with the blood
That valiant Clifford with his rapier’s point
Made issue from the bosom of the boy;
And if thine eyes can water for his death,
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.
What, hath thy fiery heart so parch’d thine entrils
That not a tear can fall for Rutland’s death?
Why art thou patient, man? Thou shouldst be mad;
And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus.
Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.
Thou wouldst be fee’d, I see, to make me sport:
York cannot speak unless he wear a crown.
A crown for York! And, lords, bow low to him;
Hold you his hands whilest I do set it on.
Putting a paper crown on his head.
Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king!
Ay, this is he that took King Henry’s chair,
And this is he was his adopted heir.
But how is it that great Plantagenet
Is crown’d so soon, and broke his solemn oath?
As I bethink me, you should not be king
Till our King Henry had shook hands with death.
And will you pale your head in Henry’s glory,
And rob his temples of the diadem,
Now in his life, against your holy oath?
O, ’tis a fault too too unpardonable!
Off with the crown; and, with the crown, his head,
And whilest we breathe, take time to do him dead.
That is my office, for my father’s sake.
Nay, stay, let’s hear the orisons he makes.
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!
But that thy face is vizard-like, unchanging,
Made impudent with use of evil deeds,
I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush.
To tell thee whence thou cam’st, of whom deriv’d,
Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless.
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 wond’red 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 couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child,
To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,
And yet be seen to wear 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:
Wouldst 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.
Beshrew me, but his passions moves me so
That hardly can I check my eyes from tears.
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,
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!
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.
What, weeping-ripe, my Lord Northumberland?
Think but upon the wrong he did us all,
And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.
Here’s for my oath, here’s for my father’s death.
And here’s to right our gentle-hearted king.
Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God!
My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee.
Off with his head, and set it on York gates,
So York may overlook the town of York.