Henry vi part 3, p.8
Henry VI, Part 3,
p.8
11
RUTLAND
So looks the pent-up lion o’er the wretch
12
That trembles under his devouring paws;
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And so he walks, insulting o’er his prey;
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And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder.
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Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword
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And not with such a cruel threat’ning look.
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Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die.
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I am too mean a subject for thy wrath.
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Be thou revenged on men, and let me live.
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CLIFFORD
In vain thou speak’st, poor boy. My father’s blood
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Hath stopped the passage where thy words should
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enter.
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RUTLAND
Then let my father’s blood open it again;
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He is a man and, Clifford, cope with him.
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CLIFFORD
Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine
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Were not revenge sufficient for me.
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No, if I digged up thy forefathers’ graves
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And hung their rotten coffins up in chains,
29
It could not slake mine ire nor ease my heart.
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The sight of any of the house of York
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Is as a fury to torment my soul,
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And till I root out their accursèd line
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And leave not one alive, I live in hell.
34
Therefore—
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RUTLAND
O, let me pray before I take my death!
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To thee I pray: sweet Clifford, pity me!
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CLIFFORD
Such pity as my rapier’s point affords.
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RUTLAND
I never did thee harm. Why wilt thou slay me?
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CLIFFORD
Thy father hath.
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RUTLAND But ’twas ere I was born.
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Thou hast one son; for his sake pity me,
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Lest in revenge thereof, sith God is just,
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He be as miserably slain as I.
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Ah, let me live in prison all my days,
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And when I give occasion of offense
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Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause.
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CLIFFORD
No cause? Thy father slew my father; therefore die.
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RUTLAND
Di faciant laudis summa sit ista tuae!
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CLIFFORD
Plantagenet, I come, Plantagenet!
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And this thy son’s blood, cleaving to my blade,
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Shall rust upon my weapon till thy blood,
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Congealed with this, do make me wipe off both.
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He exits,
Alarum. Enter Richard, Duke of York,
white rose.>
YORK
The army of the Queen hath got the field.
1
My uncles both are slain in rescuing me;
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And all my followers to the eager foe
3
Turn back and fly like ships before the wind,
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Or lambs pursued by hunger-starvèd wolves.
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My sons, God knows what hath bechancèd them;
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But this I know: they have demeaned themselves
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Like men borne to renown by life or death.
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Three times did Richard make a lane to me
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And thrice cried “Courage, father, fight it out!”
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And full as oft came Edward to my side,
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With purple falchion painted to the hilt
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In blood of those that had encountered him;
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And when the hardiest warriors did retire,
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Richard cried “Charge, and give no foot of ground!”
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And cried “A crown or else a glorious tomb;
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A scepter or an earthly sepulcher!”
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With this we charged again; but, out alas,
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We
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With bootless labor swim against the tide
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And spend her strength with over-matching waves.
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A short alarum within.
Ah, hark, the fatal followers do pursue,
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And I am faint and cannot fly their fury;
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And were I strong, I would not shun their fury.
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The sands are numbered that makes up my life.
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Here must I stay, and here my life must end.
26
Enter Queen
the young Prince
Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,
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I dare your quenchless fury to more rage.
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I am your butt, and I abide your shot.
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NORTHUMBERLAND
Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.
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CLIFFORD
Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm
31
With downright payment showed unto my father.
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Now Phaëton hath tumbled from his car
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And made an evening at the noontide prick.
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YORK
My ashes, as the Phoenix’, may bring forth
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A bird that will revenge upon you all;
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And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heaven,
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Scorning whate’er you can afflict me with.
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Why come you not? What, multitudes, and fear?
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CLIFFORD
So cowards fight when they can fly no further;
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So doves do peck the falcon’s piercing talons;
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So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,
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Breathe out invectives ’gainst the officers.
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YORK
O Clifford, but bethink thee once again
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And in thy thought o’errun my former time;
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And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face
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And bite thy tongue that slanders him with cowardice
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Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this.
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CLIFFORD
I will not bandy with thee word for word,
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But buckler with thee blows twice two for one.
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QUEEN MARGARET
Hold, valiant Clifford, for a thousand causes
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I would prolong a while the traitor’s life.—
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Wrath makes him deaf; speak thou, Northumberland.
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NORTHUMBERLAND
Hold, Clifford, do not honor him so much
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To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart.
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What valor were it when a cur doth grin
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For one to thrust his hand between his teeth,
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When he might spurn him with his foot away?
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It is war’s prize to take all vantages,
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And ten to one is no impeach of valor.
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CLIFFORD
Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin.
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NORTHUMBERLAND
So doth the coney struggle in the net.
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YORK
So triumph thieves upon their conquered booty;
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So true men yield with robbers, so o’ermatched.
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NORTHUMBERLAND,
What would your Grace have done unto him now?
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QUEEN MARGARET
Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,
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Come, make him stand upon this molehill here
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That raught at mountains with outstretchèd arms,
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Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.
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What, was it you that would be England’s king?
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Was’t you that reveled in our parliament
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And made a preachment of your high descent?
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Where are your mess of sons to back you now,
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The wanton Edward and the lusty George?
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And where’s that valiant crookback prodigy,
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Dickie, your boy, that with his grumbling voice
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Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies?
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Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland?
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Look, York, I stained this napkin with the blood
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That valiant Clifford with his rapier’s point
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Made issue from the bosom of the boy;
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And if thine eyes can water for his death,
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I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal.
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Alas, poor York, but that I hate thee deadly
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I should lament thy miserable state.
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I prithee grieve to make me merry, York.
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What, hath thy fiery heart so parched thine entrails
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That not a tear can fall for Rutland’s death?
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Why art thou patient, man? Thou shouldst be mad;
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And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus.
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Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.
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Thou would’st be fee’d, I see, to make me sport.—
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York cannot speak unless he wear a crown.
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A crown for York!
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And, lords, bow low to him.
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Hold you his hands whilst I do set it on.
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Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king.
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Ay, this is he that took King Henry’s chair,
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And this is he was his adopted heir.
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But how is it that great Plantagenet
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Is crowned so soon and broke his solemn oath?—
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As I bethink me, you should not be king
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Till our King Henry had shook hands with Death.
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And will you pale your head in Henry’s glory
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And rob his temples of the diadem
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Now, in his life, against your holy oath?
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O, ’tis a fault too too unpardonable.
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Off with the crown and, with the crown, his head;
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And whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead.
109
CLIFFORD
That is my office, for my father’s sake.
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QUEEN MARGARET
Nay, stay, let’s hear the orisons he makes.
111
YORK
She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of
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France,
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Whose tongue more poisons than the adder’s tooth:
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How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex
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To triumph like an Amazonian trull
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Upon their woes whom Fortune captivates.
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But that thy face is vizard-like, unchanging,
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Made impudent with use of evil deeds,
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I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush.
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To tell thee whence thou cam’st, of whom derived,
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Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not
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shameless.
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Thy father bears the type of King of Naples,
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Of both the Sicils, and Jerusalem,
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Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman.
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Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult?
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It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen,
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Unless the adage must be verified
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That beggars mounted run their horse to death.
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’Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud,
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But God He knows thy share thereof is small.
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’Tis virtue that doth make them most admired;
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The contrary doth make thee wondered at.
134
’Tis government that makes them seem divine;
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The want thereof makes thee abominable.
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Thou art as opposite to every good
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As the Antipodes are unto us
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Or as the south to the Septentrion.
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O, tiger’s heart wrapped in a woman’s hide,
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How couldst thou drain the lifeblood of the child
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To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,
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And yet be seen to bear a woman’s face?
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Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible;
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Thou, stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.
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Bidd’st thou me rage? Why, now thou hast thy wish.
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Wouldst have me weep? Why, now thou hast thy will;
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For raging wind blows up incessant showers,
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