King Henry VI, Part 3 | Page 8

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, 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