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,