Enter the Queen, Clifford, Northumberland, the
Prince of Wales, and Soldiers.

Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,
I dare your quenchlefs fury to more Rage,
I am your Butt, and I abide your Shot.

North. Yield to our Mercy, proud Plantagenet.
Clif. Ay, to fuch Mercy as his ruthless arm
With downright payment fhew'd unto my father.
Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his Car,

*

And made an evening at the noon-tide prick.

York. My afhes, as the Phoenix, may bring forth A bird that will revenge upon you all,

And in that Hope I throw mines eyes to heav'n,
Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with.

Why come you not? what! multitudes and fear?
Clif. So cowards fight, when they can fly no further;
So Doves do peck the Faulcon's piercing talons;
So defp'rate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,
Breathe out invectives 'gainst the officers.

York. Oh Clifford, but bethink thee once again,
And in thy thought o'er-run my former time;
And, if thou canft for blufhing, view this face,
And bite thy tongue that flanders him with cowardise,
Whose frown hath made thee faint, and fly ere this.

Clif. I will not bandy with thee word for word.
But buckle with thee blows twice two for one. [Draws.
Queen. Hold, valiant Clifford; for a thoufand caufes
I would prolong a while the traitor's life.

-Wrath makes him deaf. Speak thou, Northumberland.
North. Hold, Clifford; do not honour him fo 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 fpurn him with his foot away?
It is war's prize to take all 'vantages;

Noon-tide prick, or noon-tide point on the dial.

It is war's PRIZE-] Read PRAISE. WARBURTON.

I think the old reading right, which means, that all vantages are in war lawful prize; that is, may be lawfully taken and ujed. K 4 And

And ten to one is no impeach of valour.

[They lay bands on York, who firuggles.

Clif. Ay, ay, fo ftrives the woodcock with the gin, North. So doth the cony ftruggle in the net, [York is taken Prifoner, York. So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty; So true men yield with robbers fo o'er-matcht.

North. What would your Grace have done unto him now?

Queen. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland, Come make him ftand upon this mole-hill here; That raught at mountains with out-ftretched arms, Yet parted but the fhadow 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 Defcent? Where are your mefs of fons to back you now, The wanton Edward, and the lufty George! And where's that valiant crook-back'd Prodigy, Dicky your boy, that with his grumbling voice Was wont to cheer his Dad in mutinies?

2.

Or, with the reft, where is your darling Rutland?
Look Fork; I ftained this napkin with the blood,
That valiant Clifford with his rapier's point
Made iffue from the bofom 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 fhould lament thy miferable ftate,

I pr'ythee, grieve, to make me merry, York.
What, hath thy fiery heart fo parcht thine Entrails,
That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death?
Why art thou patient, man? thou fhouldft be mad;
And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus:
Stamp, rave and fret, that I may fing and dance.
Thou wouldst be feed, I fee, to make me sport:

7 This napkin.] A napkin is an handkerchief.

Yerk

York cannot speak, unless he wear a Crown.
A Crown for Tork-and, Lords, bow low to him:
Hold you his hands, whilst I do fet 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 fo foon, and broke his folemn bath?
As I bethink me, you fhould not be King
Till our King Henry had fhook 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?
Oh, 'tis a fault too too unpardonable.

Off with the Crown; and with the Crown his head;
And whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead.
Cliff. That is my office, for my father's fake.

Queen. Nay, ftay, let's hear the Oraifons he makes. York. She-wolf of France, but worfe than wolves of France,

Whose tongue more poifons than the adder's tooth! How ill befeeming is it in thy fex

To triumph, like an Amazonian trull,

Upon their woes, whom fortune captivates ?
But that thy face is vizor-like, unchanging,
Made impudent with ufe of evil deeds,

I would affay, proud Queen, to make thee blush.
To tell thee whence thou cam'ft, of whom deriv'd,
Were fhame enough to fhame thee, wert thou not
fhameless:

Thy father bears the type of King of Naples,
Of both the Sicils and Jerufalem,

Yet not fo wealthy as an English yeoman.
Hath that poor monarch taught thee to infult?
It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud Queen,
Unless the adage must be verify'd,

That beggars, mounted, run their horfe to death."

'Tis Beauty that doth oft make women proud; But God he knows thy fhare thereof is fmall. 'Tis virtue that doth make them most admir'd; The contrary doth make thee wonder'd at.

3 'Tis government that makes them seem divine; The want thereof makes thee abominable. Thou art as oppofite to every good,

As the Antipodes are unto us,

Or as the fouth to the Septentrion.

Oh, tyger's heart, wrapt in a woman's hide!
How couldft 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 foft, mild, pitiful, and flexible;
Thou ftern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorfelefs.
Bidft thou me rage? why, now thou haft thy wish.
Wouldft have me weep? why now thou haft thy will.
For raging wind blows up inceffant show'rs,
And when the rage allays, the rain begins.
These tears are my sweet Rutland's obfequies;
And ev'ry drop cries vengeance for his death,

'Gainft thee, fell Clifford, and thee, falfe French wo

man.

North. Befhrew me, but his paffions move me so; That hardly can I check mine eyes from tears. York. That face of his the hungry Cannibals Would not have touch'd,

with blood:

4

would not have stain'd

But

3 'Tis government that makes them feem divine] Government, in the language of that time, fignified evenness of temper, and decency of manners.

• Would not have fain'd the rofes juft WITH BLOOD ;] So the fecond folio nonfenfically reads the paffage; but the old quarto, and first folio editions of

better authority have it thus, That face of his the hungry canibals

Would not have touch'd, would

not have ftain'd with blood. And this is fenfe. Could any one now have believed that an editor of common understanding fhould reject this, and faften upon the nonfer fe of a latter

edition

But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,
Oh ten times more than tygers of Hyrcania.
See, ruthless Queen, a hapless father's tears,
This cloth thou dip'dft in blood of my fweet boy,
And I with tears do wash the blood away.
Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this;
And, if thou tell'ft the heavy story right,
Upon my foul, the hearers will shed tears,
Yea, even my foes will fhed faft-falling tears,
And fay,
"Alas, it was a piteous deed!"

[He gives back the bandkerchief. There-Take the crown; and, with the crown my curfe.

And in thy need fuch comfort come to thee,
As now I reap at thy too cruel hand!

Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world,
My foul to heav'n, my blood upon your heads.
North. Had he been flaughter man to all my kin,
I should not for my life but weep with him,
To see how inly forrow gripes his foul.

Queen. What, weeping ripe my Lord Northumber
land?

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. Queen. And here's to right our gentle-hearted King. [Stabs bim. York. Open the gate of mercy, gracious God! My foul flies through thefe wounds to feek out thee.

edition only becaufe it afforded matter of conjecture: And yet Mr. Theobald will needs correct, rofes juft with blood, to rofes juic'd with blood, that is, change one blundering Editor's nonfenfe for another's, But if there ever was

[Dies.