That hardly can I check mine eyes from tears.
York. That face of his
The hungry Canibals would not have touch'd,
Would not have ftain'd the roses juic'd with blood: (4)
But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,
Oh ten times more, than tygers of Hyrcania.
See, ruthlefs Queen, a hapless father's tears:
This cloth thou dip'ft in blood of my fweet boy,
And I with tears do wash the blood away.
Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this;
And, if thou tell'ft the heavy ftory right,
Upon my foul, the hearers will shed tears,
Yea, even my foes will fhed faft-falling tears,
And say, "Alas, it was a piteous deed !".
There, take the crown; and with the crown, my curse.
And in thy need fuch comfort come to thee,
As now I reap at thy too cruel hand!
Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world,
My foul to heav'n, my blood upon your heads,
North. Had he been flaughter-man to all my kin,
I fhould not for my life but weep with him,
To fee how inly forrow gripes his foul.
Queen. What, weeping-ripe, my Lord Northumberland ?
Think but upon the wrong he did us all,
And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.
(4) Would not have flain'd the Rofes juft with Blood.] This Reading we deriv'd from the 2d Folie Edition. The old Quarto and the rft Folio Impreffion exhibit the Paffage thus.
That Face of bis the hungry Canibals
Would not have touch'd, would not have ftain'd with Blood.
But how are we to understand, Staining the Rofes just with Blood? Can the Poet mean, that the Canibals wou'd not have juft ftain'd the Rofes in his Cheeks with Blood; The Pofition of the Words is forc'd, to admit of this Construction: and, juft, feems a very idle Expletive. The Conjecture, with which I have reftor'd the Text, I think, retrieves the Poet's Thought.
Would not have ftain'd the Rofes jaic'd with Blood.
j.e. would not have fpilt that Blood, whofe Juices fhone through his young Cheeks, bright as the Vermillion Dye in Rofes.
Clif. Here's for my oath, here's for my father's death. [Stabbing him. Queen. And here's to right our gentle-hearted King. York. Open the gate of mercy, gracious God! My foul flies through these wounds, to feek out thee.
Queen. Off with his head and fet it on York gates; So York may overlook the town of York.
SCENE, near Mortimer's Crofs in Wales..
A March. Enter Edward, Richard, and their Power.
Wonder, how our princely father 'scap'd ; Or whether he be 'fcap'd away, or no, From Clifford's and Northumberland's purfuit?
Had he been ta'en, we fhould have heard the news;
Had he been flain, we should have heard the news;
Or had he 'fap'd, methinks, we should have heard
The happy tidings of his good escape.
How fares my brother? why is he so fad?
Rich. I cannot joy, until I be refolv'd
Where our right-valiant father is become.
I faw him in the battle range about;
And watch'd him, how he fingled Clifford forth;
Methought, he bore him in the thickest troop,
As doth a lion in a herd of neat ;
Or as a bear, encompafs'd round with dogs,
Who having pinch'd a few and made them cry,
The reft ftand all aloof and bark at him.
So far'd our father with his enemies,
So fled his enemies my warlike father:
Methinks, 'tis prize enough to be his fon.
See, how the morning opes her golden gates,
And takes her farewel of the glorious fun;
How well resembles it the prime of youth,
Trim'd like a yonker prancing to his love?
Edw. Dazzle mine eyes? or do I fee three funs?
Rich. Three glorious funs, each one a perfect fun;
Not separated with the racking clouds,
But fever'd in a pale clear-fhining fky.
See, fee, they join, embrace, and feem to kiss;
As if they vow'd fome league inviolable :
Now are they but one lamp, one light, one fun.
In this the heaven figures fome event.
Edw.'Tis wondrous frange, the like yet never heard of
I think, it cites us, brother, to the field;
That we the fons of brave Plantagenet,
Each one already blazing by our meeds,
Should, notwithstanding, join our lights together,
And over-fhine the earth, as this the world.
Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear
Upon my target three fair thining funs.
Rich. Nay, bear three daughters:by your leave,
I speak it,
You love the breeder better than the male.
But what art thou, whofe heavy looks foretel
Some dreadful ftory hanging on thy tongue?
Mef. Ah! one that was a woful looker on,
When as the noble Duke of York was flain
Your princely father, and my loving Lord.
Edw. Oh, fpeak no more! for I have heard too much. Rich. Say, how he dy'd; for I will hear it all. Mef. Environed he was with many foes, And food against them, as the hope of Troy Against the Greeks that would have entred Troy. But Hercules himself muft yield to odds; And many ftroaks, though with a little ax, Hew down and fell the hardeft-timber'd oak. By many hands your father was fubdu'd, But only flaughter'd by the ireful arm
Of unrelenting Clifford and the Queen;
Who crown'd the gracious Duke in high defpight;
Laugh'd in his face; and, when with grief he wept,
The ruthlefs Queen gave him to dry his cheek,
A napkin fteeped in the harmless blood
Of fweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford flain;
And, after many fcorns, many foul taunts,
They took his head, and on the gates of York
They fet the fame; and there it doth remain
The faddeft fpectacle that e'er I view'd.
Edw. Sweet duke of York, our prop to lean upon!
Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no ftay.
Oh Clifford, boift'rous Clifford ! thou haft flain
The flower of Europe for his chivalry,
And treacherously haft thou vanquish'd him;
For, hand to hand, he would have vanquifh'd thee.
Now my foul's palace is become a prifon :
Ah, would fhe break from hence, that this my body
Might in the ground be clofed up in rest!
For never henceforth fhall I joy again.
Never, oh never, fhall I fee more joy.
Rich. I cannot weep; for all my body's moisture
Scarce ferves to quench my furnace-burning heart:
Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burden:
For felf-fame wind, that I fhould speak withal,
Is kindling coals that fire up all my breaft!
And burn me up with flames, that tears would quench.
To weep is to make lefs 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.
Edw. His name that valiant Duke hath left with thee: His dukedom and his chair with me is left.
Rich. Nay, if thou be that princely Eagle's bird, Shew thy defcent, by gazing 'gainst the fun : For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom fay; Either that's thine, or elfe thou wert not his.
Enter Warwick, Marquis of Montague, and their army.
War. How now, fair Lords? what fare? what news abroad?
Rich. Great Lord of Warwick, if we fhould recount Our baleful news, and at each word's deliv'rance Stab poniards in our flefh till all were told;
The words would add more anguish than the wounds. O valiant Lord, the Duke of York is flain.
Edw. O Warwick! Warwick! That Plantagenet, Which held thee dearly as his foul's redemption, Is by the ftern Lord Clifford done to death.
War. Ten days ago I drown'd these news in tears;
And now, to add more measure to your woes,
I come to tell you things fith then befal'n.
After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave father breath'd his latest g afp,
Tidings, as fwiftly as the poft could run,
Were brought me of your lofs and his depart.
I then in London, keeper of the King,.
Mufter'd my Soldiers, gather'd flocks of friends:
March'd towards St. Albans t' intercept the Queen ;
Bearing the King in my behalf along:
For by my fcouts I was advertised
That he was coming, with a full intent
To dafh our late decree in parliament,
Touching King Henry's oath, and your fucceffion :
Short tale to make, we at St. Albans met,
Our battles join'd, and both fides fiercely fought:
But whether 'twas the coldnefs of the King,
Who look'd full gently on his warlike Queen,
That robb'd my foldiers of their hated spleen;
Or whether 'twas report of her fuccefs,
Or more than common fear of Clifford's rigour,
Who thunders to his captives blood and death,
'I cannot judge: but to conclude with truth,
Their weapons, like to lightning, came and went;
Our foldiers, like the night-owl's lazy flight,
Or like a lazy thrasher with a flail.
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