King Henry VI, Part 3 | Page 9

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!
NORTHUMBERLAND.
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.
QUEEN MARGARET.
What! weeping-ripe, my Lord
Northumberland?
Think but upon the wrong he did us all,
And that
will quickly dry thy melting tears.
CLIFFORD.
Here's for my oath, here's for my father's death.
[Stabbing him.]
QUEEN MARGARET.
And here's to right our gentle-hearted king.

[Stabbing him.]
YORK.
Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God!
My soul flies
through these wounds to seek out thee.
[Dies.]
QUEEN MARGARET.
Off with his head, and set it on York gates;

So York may overlook the town of York.
[Flourish. Exeunt.]
ACT II.
SCENE I. A plain near Mortimer's Cross in Herefordshire.
[A march. Enter EDWARD and RICHARD, with their Power.]
EDWARD.
I wonder how our princely father scap'd,
Or whether he
be scap'd away or no
From Clifford's and Northumberland's pursuit.

Had he been ta'en, we should have heard the news;
Had he been
slain, we should have heard the news;
Or had he scap'd, methinks we
should have heard
The happy tidings of his good escape.--
How
fares my brother? why is he so sad?
RICHARD.
I cannot joy until I be resolv'd
Where our right valiant
father is become.
I saw him in the battle range about,
And watch'd
him how he singled Clifford forth.
Methought he bore him in the
thickest troop
As doth a lion in a herd of neat;
Or as a bear,
encompass'd round with dogs,
Who having pinch'd a few and made
them cry,
The rest stand all aloof and bark at him.
So far'd our
father with his enemies;
So fled his enemies my warlike father.

Methinks 'tis pride enough to be his son.--
See how the morning opes
her golden gates
And takes her farewell of the glorious sun.
How
well resembles it the prime of youth,
Trimm'd like a younker
prancing to his love!

EDWARD.
Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?
RICHARD.
Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun;
Not
separated with the racking clouds,
But sever'd in a pale clear-shining
sky.
See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,
As if they vow'd
some league inviolable;
Now are they but one lamp, one light, one
sun.
In this the heaven figures some event.
EDWARD.
'T is wondrous strange, the like yet never heard of.
I
think it cites us, brother, to the field,
That we, the sons of brave
Plantagenet,
Each one already blazing by our meeds,
Should,
notwithstanding, join our lights together,
And overshine the earth, as
this the world.
Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear
Upon
my target three fair shining suns.
RICHARD.
Nay, bear three daughters; by your leave I speak it,

You love the breeder better than the male.--
[Enter a Messenger.]
But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell
Some dreadful story
hanging on thy tongue?
MESSENGER.
Ah, one that was a woeful looker-on
When as the
noble Duke of York was slain,
Your princely father and my loving
lord.
EDWARD.
O, speak no more, for I have heard too much!
RICHARD.
Say how he died, for I will hear it all.
MESSENGER.
Environed he was with many foes,
And stood
against them as the hope of Troy
Against the Greeks that would have
ent'red Troy.
But Hercules himself must yield to odds;
And many
strokes, though with a little axe,
Hew down and fell the

hardest-timber'd oak.
By many hands your father was subdu'd,
But
only slaught'red by the ireful arm
Of unrelenting Clifford and the
queen,
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.
And, after many scorns,
many foul taunts,
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.
EDWARD.
Sweet Duke of York! our prop to lean upon,
Now thou
art gone, we have no staff, no stay.
O Clifford! boisterous Clifford!
thou hast slain
The flower of Europe for his chivalry;
And
treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him,
For hand to hand he would
have vanquish'd thee.
Now my soul's palace is become a prison.
Ah,
would she break from hence, that this my body
Might in the ground
be closed up in rest!
For never henceforth shall I joy again,
Never,
O, never, shall I see more joy!
RICHARD.
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 burthen,
For selfsame wind that I should
speak withal
Is kindling coals that fires all my breast
And burns 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.
EDWARD.
His name that valiant duke hath left