King Henry VI, Part 3 | Page 7

alive, I live in hell.?Therefore--
RUTLAND.?O, let me pray before I take my death!--?To thee I pray; sweet Clifford, pity me!
CLIFFORD.?Such pity as my rapier's point affords.
RUTLAND.?I never did thee harm; why wilt thou slay me?
CLIFFORD.?Thy father hath.
RUTLAND.?But 't was ere I was born.?Thou hast one son; for his sake pity me,?Lest in revenge thereof, sith God is just,?He be as miserably slain as I.?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.
CLIFFORD.?No cause??Thy father slew my father; therefore, die. [Clifford stabs him.]
RUTLAND.?Dii faciant laudis summa sit ista tuae! [Dies.]
CLIFFORD.?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.
[Exit.]
SCENE IV. The Same
[Alarum. Enter YORK.]
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 budg'd again, as I have seen a swan?With bootless labour 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 number'd that make up my life;?Here must I stay, and here my life must end.--
[Enter QUEEN MARGARET, CLIFFORD,?NORTHUMBERLAND, and Soldiers]
Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,?I dare your quenchless fury to more rage.?I am your butt, and I abide your shot.
NORTHUMBERLAND.?Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.
CLIFFORD.?Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm?With downright payment show'd unto my father.?Now Phaethon hath tumbled from his car,?And made an evening at the noontide prick.
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?Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with.?Why come you not?--what! multitudes, and fear?
CLIFFORD.?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.
YORK.?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.
CLIFFORD.?I will not bandy with thee word for word,?But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one.
QUEEN MARGARET.?Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand causes?I would prolong awhile the traitor's life.--?Wrath makes him deaf; speak thou, Northumberland.
NORTHUMBERLAND.?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.]
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