Clif. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy; my father's blood

Hath stopp'd the passage where thy words should

enter.

Rut. Then let my father's blood open it again; He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him.

Clif. Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine

Were not revenge sufficient for me;

No, if I digg'd up thy forefathers' graves,
And hung their rotten coffins up in chains,
It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart.
The sight of any of the house of York
Is as a fury to torment my soul;

And till I root out their accursed line,
And leave not one alive, I live in hell.
Therefore-

[Lifting his hand.

Rut. O, let me pray before I take my death :--To thee I pray sweet Clifford, pity me!

Clif. Such pity as my rapier's point affords. Rut. I never did thee harm: why wilt thou slay me?

Clif. Thy father hath.

Rut.

But 'twas 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.
Clif. No cause ?

Thy father slew my father; therefore, die.
[CLIFFORD stabs him.
Rut. Di faciant, laudis summa sit ista tuæ!

[Dies.

Clif. 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 pursued by hunger-starved wolves.
My sons-God knows what hath bechancèd
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 faulchion, painted to the hilt
In blood of those that had encounter'd 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 charged again: but, out, alas!
We bodged again; as I have seen a swan
With bootless labour swim against the tide,

And spend her strength with over-matching [A short alarum within. Ah, hark! the fatal followers do pursue;

waves.

And I am faint, and cannot fly their fury:

And were I strong I would not shun their fury;

VOL. VIII.

2

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,

dare your quenchless fury to more rage; I am your butt, and I abide your shot.

North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet. Clif. Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm, With downright payment, show'd unto my father. Now Phaeton 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?
Clif. 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.
Clif. I will not bandy with thee word for word;
But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one.
[Draws.

2. Mar. Hold, valiant Clifford ! for a thou

sand causes,

I would prolong awhile the traitor's life :Wrath makes him deaf: speak thou, Northumberland.

North. 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. Cliff. Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin. North. So doth the coney 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. North. What would your grace have done unto him now?

2. Mar. 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 peachment 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 pr'ythee, grieve, to make me merry, York. 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.
Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.
Thou wouldst be fee'd, 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, 'tis a fault 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 sake. 2. Mar. Nay, stay; let's hear the orisons he makes.