And takes her farewell of the glorious sun.

How well resembles it the prime of youth,

Trimmed like a younker prancing to his love!

EDWARD

Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?

RICHARD

Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun;

Not separated with the racking clouds,

But severed in a pale clear-shining sky.

⌈The three suns begin to join⌉

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

As if they vowed some league inviolable.

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

In this the heaven figures some event.

EDWARD

’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.

RICHARD

Nay, bear three daughters—by your leave I speak it—

You love the breeder better than the male.

Enter one blowing

But what art thou whose heavy looks foretell

Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?

MESSENGER

Ah, one that was a woeful looker-on

Whenas the noble Duke of York was slain—

Your princely father and my loving lord.

EDWARD

O, speak no more, for I have heard too much.

RICHARD

Say how he died, for I will hear it all.

MESSENGER

Environèd he was with many foes,

And stood against them as the hope of Troy

Against the Greeks that would have entered Troy.

But Hercules himself must yield to odds;

And many strokes, though with a little axe,

Hews down and fells the hardest-timbered oak.

By many hands your father was subdued,

But only slaughtered by the ireful arm

Of unrelenting Clifford and the Queen,

Who crowned the gracious Duke in high despite,

Laughed 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 viewed.

EDWARD

Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon,

Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay.

O Clifford, boist’rous Clifford—thou hast slain

The flower of Europe for his chivalry,

And treacherously hast thou vanquished him—

For hand to hand he would have vanquished 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.

RICHARD

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 selfsame wind that I should speak withal

Is kindling coals that fires all my breast,

And burns 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.

EDWARD

His name that valiant Duke hath left with thee,

His dukedom and his chair with me is left.

RICHARD

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 the Earl of Warwick and the Marquis of Montague ⌈with drummers, an ensign, and soldiers⌉

WARWICK

How now, fair lords? What fare? What news abroad?

RICHARD

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.

EDWARD

O Warwick, Warwick! That Plantagenet,

Which held thee dearly as his soul’s redemption,

Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death.

WARWICK

Ten days ago I drowned these news in tears.

And now, to add more measure to your woes,

I come to tell you things sith then befall’n.

After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,

Where your brave father breathed his latest gasp,

Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run,

Were brought me of your loss and his depart.

I then in London, keeper of the King,

Mustered my soldiers, gathered flocks of friends,

And, very well appointed as I thought,

Marched toward Saint Albans to intercept the Queen,

Bearing the King in my behalf along—

For by my scouts I was advertised

That she was coming with a full intent

To dash our late decree in Parliament

Touching King Henry’s oath and your succession.