And whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead.

CLIFFORD

That is my office for my father’s sake.

QUEEN MARGARET

Nay, stay—let’s hear the orisons he makes.

YORK

She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France,

Whose tongue more poisons than the adder’s tooth—

How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex

To triumph like an Amazonian trull

Upon their woes whom fortune captivates!

But that thy face is visor-like, unchanging,

Made impudent with use of evil deeds,

I would essay, proud Queen, to make thee blush.

To tell thee whence thou cam’st, of whom derived,

Were shame enough to shame thee—wert thou not

shameless.

Thy father bears the type of King of Naples,

Of both the Sicils, and Jerusalem—

Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman.

Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult?

It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud Queen,

Unless the adage must be verified

That beggars mounted run their horse to death.

’Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud—

But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small;

‘Tis virtue that doth make them most admired—

The contrary doth make thee wondered 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 wrapped 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.

NORTHUMBERLAND

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 touched, would not have stained

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 dipped‘st 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.

NORTHUMBERLAND

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.

QUEEN MARGARET

What—weeping-ripe, my lord Northumberland?

Think but upon the wrong he did us all,

And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.

CLIFFORD

Here’s for my oath, here’s for my father’s death. He stabs York

QUEEN MARGARET

And here’s to right our gentle-hearted King.

She stabs York

YORK

Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God—

My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee.

⌈He dies⌉

QUEEN MARGARET

Off with his head and set it on York gates,

So York may overlook the town of York.

Flourish. Exeunt with York’s body

2.1 A march. Enter Edward Earl of March and Richard, ⌈with a drummer and soldiers⌉

EDWARD

I wonder how our princely father scaped,

Or whether he be scaped 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 scaped, methinks we should have heard

The happy tidings of his good escape.

How fares my brother? Why is he so sad?

RICHARD

I cannot joy until I be resolved

Where-our right valiant father is become.

I saw him in the battle range about,

And watched 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 encompassed round with dogs,

Who having pinched a few and made them cry,

The rest stand all aloof and bark at him.

So fared our father with his enemies;

So fled his enemies my warlike father.

Methinks ’tis prize enough to be his son.

⌈Three suns appear in the air⌉

See how the morning opes her golden gates