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 waves.

A short alarum within

Ah, hark—the fatal followers do pursue,

And I am faint and cannot fly their fury;

And were I strong, I would not shun their fury.

The sands are numbered that makes up my life.

Here must I stay, and here my life must end.

Enter Queen Margaret, Lord Clifford, the Earl of

Northumberland, and the young Prince Edward,

with soldiers

Come bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland—

I dare your quenchless fury to more rage!

I am your butt, and I abide your shot.

NORTHUMBERLAND

Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.

CLIFFORD

Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm,

With downright payment, showed 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?

CLIFFORD

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.

CLIFFORD

I will not bandy with thee word for word,

But buckle with thee blows twice two for one.

⌈He draws his sword⌉

QUEEN MARGARET

Hold, valiant Clifford: for a thousand causes

I would prolong a while the traitor’s life.

Wrath makes him deaf—speak thou, Northumberland.

NORTHUMBERLAND

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 ⌈fight and⌉ take York

CLIFFORD

Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin.

NORTHUMBERLAND

So doth the cony struggle in the net.

YORK

So triumph thieves upon their conquered booty,

So true men yield, with robbers so o’ermatched.

NORTHUMBERLAND (to the Queen)

What would your grace have done unto him now?

QUEEN MARGARET

Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,

Come make him stand upon this molehill here,

That wrought at mountains with outstretched arms

Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.

(To York) What—was it you that would be England’s

king?

Was’t you that revelled in our Parliament,

And made a preachment 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 crookback prodigy,

Dickie, 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 stained this napkin with the blood

That valiant Clifford with his rapier’s point

Made issue from the bosom of thy 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 prithee, grieve, to make me merry, York.

What—hath thy fiery heart so parched 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.

(To her men) A crown for York, and, lords, bow low to

him.

Hold you his hands whilst I do set it on.

She puts a paper crown on York’s 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 crowned 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, too, unpardonable.

Off with the crown,

⌈She knocks it from his head⌉

and with the crown his head,