King Henry VI, Part 3 | Page 8

William Shakespeare
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.]
CLIFFORD.
Ay, ay; so strives the woodcock with the gin.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
So doth the cony struggle in the net.
[York is taken prisoner.]

YORK.
So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty;
So true
men yield, with robbers so o'ermatch'd.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
What would your grace have done unto
him now?
QUEEN MARGARET.
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;
Stamp, rave, and
fret, that I may sing and dance.
What, hath thy fiery heart so parch'd
thine entrails
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.
Thou wouldst be feed, 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 whilst 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, 't is 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.
CLIFFORD.
That is my office, for my father's sake.
QUEEN MARGARET.
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!
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.
'T is beauty that
doth oft make women proud;
But, God he knows, thy share thereof is
small.
'T is virtue that doth make them most admir'd;
The contrary
doth make thee wond'red at.
'T is 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 bear 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.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Beshrew me, but his passion moves 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 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,
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