'Tis virtue that doth make them most admir'd;
The contrary doth make thee wonder'd at:
'Tis 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.

Bidd'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. North. Beshrew me, but his passions move 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!
North. 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.

Q. Mar. What! weeping-ripe, my Lord Northumberland ?

Think but upon the wrong he did us all,

And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.

Clif. Here's for my oath; here's for my father's

death.

Stabbing him.

Q. Mar. 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.

Q. Mar. 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.

Edw. 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?

Rich. 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 enemies my war-like father :
Methinks 'tis prize enough to be his son.
See how the morning opes her golden gates,
And takes her farewell of the glorious sun;
How well resembles it the prime of youth,
Trimm'd like a younker prancing to his love.

Edw. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?
Rich. Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun;

Not separated with the racking clouds,

But sever'd in a pale clear-shining sky.

See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,

As if they vow'd some league inviolable:

Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun.

In this the heaven figures some event.

Edw. 'Tis wondrous strange, the like yet never heard of.

I think it cites us, brother, to the field,
That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet,
Each one already blazing by our meeds,

Should notwithstanding join our lights together,
And over-shine the earth, as this the world.
Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear
Upon my target three fair-shining suns.

Rich. Nay, bear three daughters: by your leave I

speak it,

You love the breeder better than the male.

Enter a Messenger.

But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell
Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?

Mess. Ah! one that was a woeful looker-on
When as the noble Duke of York was slain,
Your princely father and my loving lord.

Edw. O! speak no more, for I have heard too

much.

Rich. Say how he died, for I will hear it all.
Mess. Environed he was with many foes,

And stood against them, as the hope of Troy
Against the Greeks that would have enter'd Troy.
But Hercules himself must yield to odds;
And many strokes, though with a little axe,
Hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.
By many hands your father was subdu'd ;
But only slaughter'd by the ireful arm
Of unrelenting Clifford and the queen,

Who crown'd the gracious duke in high despite ;
Laugh'd in his face; and, when with grief he wept,
The ruthless queen gave him to dry his cheeks

A napkin steeped in the harmless blood

Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain :
And after many scorns, many foul taunts,

They took his head, and on the gates of York
They set the same; and there it doth remain,
The saddest spectacle 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 stay.

O Clifford boisterous Clifford ! thou hast slain

The flower of Europe for his chivalry;

And treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him,

For hand to hand he would have vanquish'd thee.
Now my soul's palace is become a prison :

Ah! would she break from hence, that this my body
Might in the ground be closed up in rest,
For never henceforth shall I joy again,
Never, O! never, shall I see more joy.

Rich. I cannot weep, for all my body's moisture
Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart:
Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burden;
For self-same wind that I should speak withal
Is kindling coals that fire all my breast,

And burn me up with flames that tears would quench.
To weep is to make less 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,
Show thy descent by gazing 'gainst the sun:
For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say;
Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his.

March. Enter WARWICK and MONTAGUE, with their Army.

War. How now, fair lords! What fare? what news abroad?

Rich. Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount Our baleful news, and at each word's deliverance Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told,

The words would add more anguish than the wounds. O valiant lord! the Duke of York is slain.

Edw. O Warwick! Warwick! that Plantagenet Which held thee dearly as his soul's redemption, Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death.

War. Ten days ago I drown'd these news in tears,