The Bodleian First Folio

A digital facsimile of the First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Bodleian Arch. G c.7.



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Reference: o5v - Histories, p. 150

Left Column


The third Part of Henry the Sixt. Thou Richard shalt to the Duke of Norfolke,
[320]
And tell him priuily of our intent. You Edward shall vnto my Lord Cobham, With whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise. In them I trust: for they are Souldiors, Wittie, courteous, liberall, full of spirit.
[325]
While you are thus imploy'd, what resteth more? But that I seeke occasion how to rise, And yet the King not priuie to my Drift, Nor any of the House of Lancaster. Enter Gabriel. But stay, what Newes? Why comm'st thou in such poste?
Gabriel.
[330]
The Queene, With all the Northerne Earles and Lords, Intend here to besiege you in your Castle. She is hard by, with twentie thousand men: And therefore fortifie your Hold, my Lord.
Yorke.
[335]
I, with my Sword. What? think'st thou, that we feare them? Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me, My Brother Mountague shall poste to London. Let Noble Warwicke, Cobham, and the rest,
[340]
Whom we haue left Protectors of the King, With powrefull Pollicie strengthen themselues, And trust not simple Henry, nor his Oathes.
Mount. Brother, I goe: Ile winne them, feare it not. And thus most humbly I doe take my leaue. Exit Mountague. Enter Mortimer, and his Brother. Yorke.
[345]
Sir Iohn, and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine Vnckles, You are come to Sandall in a happie houre. The Armie of the Queene meane to besiege vs.
Iohn. Shee shall not neede, wee'le meete her in the field. Yorke. What, with fiue thousand men? Richard.
[350]
I, with fiue hundred, Father, for a neede. A Woman's generall: what should we feare?
A March afarre off. Edward. I heare their Drummes: Let's set our men in order, And issue forth, and bid them Battaile straight. Yorke.
[355]
Fiue men to twentie: though the oddes be great, I doubt not, Vnckle, of our Victorie. Many a Battaile haue I wonne in France, When as the Enemie hath beene tenne to one: Why should I not now haue the like successe?
Alarum. Exit.
[Act 1, Scene 3] Enter Rutland, and his Tutor. Rutland.
[360]
Ah, whither shall I flye, to scape their hands? Ah Tutor, looke where bloody Clifford comes.
Enter Clifford. Clifford. Chaplaine away, thy Priesthood saues thy life. As for the Brat of this accursed Duke, Whose Father slew my Father, he shall dye. Tutor.
[365]
And I, my Lord, will beare him company.
Clifford. Souldiers, away with him. Tutor. Ah Clifford, murther not this innocent Child, Least thou be hated both of God and Man. Exit.

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Right Column


Clifford. How now? is he dead alreadie?
[370]
Or is it feare, that makes him close his eyes? Ile open them.
Rutland. So looks the pent‑vp Lyon o're the Wretch, That trembles vnder his deuouring Pawes: And so he walkes, insulting o're his Prey,
[375]
And so he comes, to rend his Limbes asunder. Ah gentle Clifford, kill me with thy Sword, And not with such a cruell threatning Looke. Sweet Clifford heare me speake, before I dye: I am too meane a subiect for thy Wrath,
[380]
Be thou reueng'd on men, and let me liue.
Clifford. In vaine thou speak'st, poore Boy: My Fathers blood hath stopt the passage Where thy words should enter. Rutland. Then let my Fathers blood open it againe,
[385]
He is a man, and Clifford cope with him.
Clifford. Had I thy Brethren here, their liues and thine Were not reuenge sufficient for me: No, if I digg'd vp thy fore‑fathers Graues, And hung their rotten Coffins vp in Chaynes,
[390]
It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart. The sight of any of the House of Yorke, Is as a furie to torment my Soule: And till I root out their accursed Line, And leaue not one aliue, I liue in Hell.
[395]
Therefore‑‑‑
Rutland. Oh let me pray, before I take my death: To thee I pray; sweet Clifford pitty me. Clifford. Such pitty as my Rapiers point affords. Rutland. I neuer did thee harme: why wilt thou slay me? Clifford.
[400]
Thy Father hath.
Rutland. But 'twas ere I was borne. Thou hast one Sonne, for his sake pitty me, Least in reuenge thereof, sith God is iust, He be as miserably slaine as I.
[405]
Ah, let me liue in Prison all my dayes, And when I giue occasion of offence, Then let me dye, for now thou hast no cause.
Clifford. No cause? thy Father slew my Father: there­ fore dye. Rutland. Dis faciant laudis summa sit ista tuæ. Clifford.
[410]
Plantagenet, I come Plantagenet: And this thy Sonnes blood cleauing to my Blade, Shall rust vpon my Weapon, till thy blood Congeal'd with this, doe make me wipe off both.
Exit.
[Act 1, Scene 4] Alarum. Enter Richard, Duke of Yorke. Yorke. The Army of the Queene hath got the field:
[415]
My Vnckles both are slaine, in rescuing me; And all my followers, to the eager foe Turne back, and flye, like Ships before the Winde, Or Lambes pursu'd by hunger‑starued Wolues. My Sonnes, God knowes what hath bechanced them:
[420]
But this I know, they haue demean'd themselues Like men borne to Renowne, by Life or Death. Three times did Richard make a Lane to me, And thrice cry'de, Courage Father, fight it out: And full as oft came Edward to my side,
[425]
With Purple Faulchion, painted to the Hilt, In blood of those that had encountred him: And when the hardyest Warriors did retyre, Richard cry'de, Charge, and giue no foot of ground, And cry'de, A Crowne, or else a glorious Tombe, A

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[Act 1, Scene 4] Alarum. Enter Richard, Duke of Yorke. Yorke. The Army of the Queene hath got the field:
[415]
My Vnckles both are slaine, in rescuing me; And all my followers, to the eager foe Turne back, and flye, like Ships before the Winde, Or Lambes pursu'd by hunger‑starued Wolues. My Sonnes, God knowes what hath bechanced them:
[420]
But this I know, they haue demean'd themselues Like men borne to Renowne, by Life or Death. Three times did Richard make a Lane to me, And thrice cry'de, Courage Father, fight it out: And full as oft came Edward to my side,
[425]
With Purple Faulchion, painted to the Hilt, In blood of those that had encountred him: And when the hardyest Warriors did retyre, Richard cry'de, Charge, and giue no foot of ground, And cry'de, A Crowne, or else a glorious Tombe,
[430]
A Scepter, or an Earthly Sepulchre. With this we charg'd againe: but out alas, We bodg'd againe, as l haue seene a Swan With bootlesse labour swimme against the Tyde, And spend her strength with ouer‑matching Waues. A short Alarum within.
[435]
Ah hearke, the fatall followers doe pursue, And I am faint, and cannot flye their furie: And were I strong, I would not shunne their furie. The Sands are numbred, that makes vp my Life, Here must I stay, and here my Life must end. Enter the Queene, Clifford, Northumberland, the young Prince, and Souldiers.
[440]
Come bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland, I dare your quenchlesse furie to more rage; I am your Butt, and I abide your Shot.
Northumb. Yeeld to our mercy, proud Plantagenet. Clifford. I, to such mercy, as his ruthlesse Arme
[445]
With downe‑right payment, shew'd vnto my Father. Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his Carre, And made an Euening at the Noone‑tide Prick.
Yorke. My ashes, as the Phœnix, may bring forth A Bird, that will reuenge vpon you all:
[450]
And in that hope, I throw mine eyes to Heauen, Scorning what ere you can afflict me with. Why come you not? what, multitudes, and feare?
Cliff. So Cowards fight, when they can flye no further, So Doues doe peck the Faulcons piercing Tallons,
[455]
So desperate Theeues, all hopelesse of their Liues, Breathe out Inuectiues 'gainst the Officers.
Yorke. Oh Clifford, but bethinke thee once againe, And in thy thought ore‑run my former time: And if thou canst, for blushing, view this face,
[460]
And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with Cowardice, Whose frowne hath made thee faint and flye ere this.
Clifford. I will not bandie with thee word for word, But buckler with thee blowes twice two for one. Queene. Hold valiant Clifford, for a thousand causes
[465]
I would prolong a while the Traytors Life: Wrath makes him deafe; speake thou Northumberland.
Northumb. Hold Clifford, doe not honor him so much, To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart. What valour were it, when a Curre doth grinne,
[470]
For one to thrust his Hand betweene his Teeth, When he might spurne him with his Foot away? It is Warres prize, to take all Vantages, And tenne to one, is no impeach of Valour.
Clifford. I, I, so striues the Woodcocke with the Gynne. Northumb.
[475]
So doth the Connie struggle in the Net.
York. So triumph Theeues vpon their conquer'd Booty, So True men yeeld with Robbers, so o're‑matcht. Northumb. What would your Grace haue done vnto him now? Queene. Braue Warriors, Clifford, and Northumberland,
[480]
Come make him stand vpon this Mole‑hill here, That raught at Mountaines with out‑stretched Armes, Yet parted but the shadow with his Hand. What, was it you that would be Englands King? Was't you that reuell'd in our Parliament,
[485]
And made a Preachment of you high Descent? Where are your Messe of Sonnes, to back you now? This question mark type has slipped below the line. The wanton Edward, and the lustie George? And where's that valiant Crook‑back Prodigie, Dickie, your Boy, that with his grumbling voyce
[490]
Was wont to cheare his Dad in Mutinies? Or with the rest, where is your Darling, Rutland? Looke Yorke, I stayn'd this Napkin with the blood That valiant Clifford, with his Rapiers point, Made issue from the Bosome of the Boy:
[495]
And if thine eyes can water for his death, I giue thee this to drie thy Cheekes withall. Alas poore Yorke, but that I hate thee deadly, I should lament thy miserable state. I prythee grieue, to make me merry, Yorke.
[500]
What, hath thy fierie heart so parcht thine entrayles, That not a Teare can fall, for Rutlands death? Why art thou patient, man? thou should'st be mad: And I, to make thee mad, doe mock thee thus. Stampe, raue, and fret, that I may sing and dance.
[505]
Thou would'st be fee'd, I see, to make me sport: Yorke cannot speake, vnlesse he weare a Crowne. A Crowne for Yorke; and Lords, bow lowe to him: Hold you his hands, whilest I doe set it on. I marry Sir, now lookes he like a King:
[510]
I, this is he that tooke King Henries Chaire, And this is he was his adopted Heire. But how is it, that great Plantagenet Is crown'd so soone, and broke his solemne Oath? As I bethinke me, you should not be King,
[515]
Till our King Henry had shooke hands with Death. And will you pale your head in Henries Glory, And rob his Temples of the Diademe, Now in his Life, against your holy Oath? Oh 'tis a fault too too vnpardonable.
[520]
Off with the Crowne; and with the Crowne, his Head, And whilest we breathe, take time to doe him dead.
Clifford. That is my Offce, for my Fathers sake. Queene. Nay stay, let's heare the Orizons hee makes. Yorke. Shee‑Wolfe of France,
[525]
But worse then Wolues of France, Whose Tongue more poysons then the Adders Tooth: How ill‑beseeming is it in thy Sex, To triumph like an Amazonian Trull, Vpon their Woes, whom Fortune captiuates?
[530]
But that thy Face is Vizard‑like, vnchanging, Made impudent with vse of euill deedes. I would assay, prowd Queene, to make thee blush. To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom deriu'd, Were shame enough, to shame thee,
[535]
Wert thou not shamelesse. Thy Father beares the type of King of Naples, Of both the Sicils, and Ierusalem, Yet not so wealthie as an English Yeoman. Hath that poore Monarch taught thee to insult?
[540]
It needes not, nor it bootes thee not, prowd Queene, Vnlesse the Adage must be verify'd, That Beggers mounted, runne their Horse to death. 'Tis Beautie that doth oft make Women prowd, But God he knowes, thy share thereof is small.
[545]
'Tis Vertue, that doth make them most admir'd, The contrary, doth make thee wondred at. 'Tis Gouernment that makes them seeme Diuine, The want thereof, makes thee abhominable. Thou art as opposite to euery good,
[550]
As the Antipodes are vnto vs, Or as the South to the Septentrion. Oh Tygres Heart, wrapt in a Womans Hide, How could'st thou drayne the Life‑blood of the Child, To bid the Father wipe his eyes withall,
[555]
And yet be seene to beare a Womans face? Women are soft, milde, pittifull, and flexible; Thou, sterne, obdurate, flintie, rough, remorselesse. Bidst thou me rage? why now thou hast thy wish. Would'st haue me weepe? why now thou hast thy will.
[560]
For raging Wind blowes vp incessant showers, And when the Rage allayes, the Raine begins. These Teares are my sweet Rutlands Obsequies, And euery drop cryes vengeance for his death, 'Gainst thee fell Clifford, and thee false French‑woman.
Northumb.
[565]
Beshrew me, but his passions moues me so, That hardly can I check my eyes from Teares.
Yorke. That Face of his, The hungry Caniballs would not haue toucht, Would not haue stayn'd with blood:
[570]
But you are more inhumane, more inexorable, Oh, tenne times more then Tygers of Hyrcania. See, ruthlesse Queene, a haplesse Fathers Teares: This Cloth thou dipd'st in blood of my sweet Boy, And I with Teares doe wash the blood away.
[575]
Keepe thou the Napkin, and goe boast of this, And if thou tell'st the heauie storie right, Vpon my Soule, the hearers will shed Teares: Yea, euen my Foes will shed fast‑falling Teares, And say, Alas, it was a pittious deed.
[580]
There, take the Crowne, and with the Crowne, my Curse, And in thy need, such comfort come to thee, As now I reape at thy too cruell hand. Hard‑hearted Clifford, take me from the World, My Soule to Heauen, my Blood vpon your Heads.
Northumb.
[585]
Had he been slaughter‑man to all my Kinne, I should not for my Life but weepe with him, To see how inly Sorrow gripes his Soule.
Queene. What, weeping ripe, my Lord Northumberland? Thinke but vpon the wrong he did vs all,
[590]
And that will quickly drie thy melting Teares.
Clifford. Heere's for my Oath, heere's for my Fathers Death. Queene. And heere's to right our gentle‑hearted King. Yorke. Open thy Gate of Mercy, gracious God, My Soule flyes through these wounds, to seeke out thee. Queene.
[595]
Off with his Head, and set it on Yorke Gates, So Yorke may ouer‑looke the Towne of Yorke.
Flourish. Exit.
 

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<div type="scene" n="4" rend="notPresent">
   <head type="supplied">[Act 1, Scene 4]</head>
   <stage rend="italic center" type="mixed">Alarum. Enter Richard, Duke of Yorke.</stage>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-pla">
      <speaker rend="italic">Yorke.</speaker>
      <l n="414">The Army of the Queene hath got the field:</l>
      <l n="415">My Vnckles both are slaine, in rescuing me;</l>
      <l n="416">And all my followers, to the eager foe</l>
      <l n="417">Turne back, and flye, like Ships before the Winde,</l>
      <l n="418">Or Lambes pursu'd by hunger‑starued Wolues.</l>
      <l n="419">My Sonnes, God knowes what hath bechanced them:</l>
      <l n="420">But this I know, they haue demean'd themselues</l>
      <l n="421">Like men borne to Renowne, by Life or Death.</l>
      <l n="422">Three times did<hi rend="italic">Richard</hi>make a Lane to me,</l>
      <l n="423">And thrice cry'de, Courage Father, fight it out:</l>
      <l n="424">And full as oft came<hi rend="italic">Edward</hi>to my side,</l>
      <l n="425">With Purple Faulchion, painted to the Hilt,</l>
      <l n="426">In blood of those that had encountred him:</l>
      <l n="427">And when the hardyest Warriors did retyre,</l>
      <l n="428">
         <hi rend="italic">Richard</hi>cry'de, Charge, and giue no foot of ground,</l>
      <l n="429">And cry'de, A Crowne, or else a glorious Tombe,</l>
      <pb facs="FFimg:axc0507-0.jpg" n="151"/>
      <cb n="1"/>
      <l n="430">A Scepter, or an Earthly Sepulchre.</l>
      <l n="431">With this we charg'd againe: but out alas,</l>
      <l n="432">We bodg'd againe, as l haue seene a Swan</l>
      <l n="433">With bootlesse labour swimme against the Tyde,</l>
      <l n="434">And spend her strength with ouer‑matching Waues.</l>
      <stage rend="italic rightJustified" type="business">A short Alarum within.</stage>
      <l n="435">Ah hearke, the fatall followers doe pursue,</l>
      <l n="436">And I am faint, and cannot flye their furie:</l>
      <l n="437">And were I strong, I would not shunne their furie.</l>
      <l n="438">The Sands are numbred, that makes vp my Life,</l>
      <l n="439">Here must I stay, and here my Life must end.</l>
      <stage rend="italic center" type="entrance">Enter the Queene, Clifford, Northumberland,
      <lb/>the young Prince, and Souldiers.</stage>
      <l n="440">Come bloody<hi rend="italic">Clifford</hi>, rough<hi rend="italic">Northumberland</hi>,</l>
      <l n="441">I dare your quenchlesse furie to more rage;</l>
      <l n="442">I am your Butt, and I abide your Shot.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-nor">
      <speaker rend="italic">Northumb.</speaker>
      <l n="443">Yeeld to our mercy, proud<hi rend="italic">Plantagenet</hi>.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-cli">
      <speaker rend="italic">Clifford.</speaker>
      <l n="444">I, to such mercy, as his ruthlesse Arme</l>
      <l n="445">With downe‑right payment, shew'd vnto my Father.</l>
      <l n="446">Now<hi rend="italic">Phaeton</hi>hath tumbled from his Carre,</l>
      <l n="447">And made an Euening at the Noone‑tide Prick.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-pla">
      <speaker rend="italic">Yorke.</speaker>
      <l n="448">My ashes, as the Phœnix, may bring forth</l>
      <l n="449">A Bird, that will reuenge vpon you all:</l>
      <l n="450">And in that hope, I throw mine eyes to Heauen,</l>
      <l n="451">Scorning what ere you can afflict me with.</l>
      <l n="452">Why come you not? what, multitudes, and feare?</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-cli">
      <speaker rend="italic">Cliff.</speaker>
      <l n="453">So Cowards fight, when they can flye no further,</l>
      <l n="454">So Doues doe peck the Faulcons piercing Tallons,</l>
      <l n="455">So desperate Theeues, all hopelesse of their Liues,</l>
      <l n="456">Breathe out Inuectiues 'gainst the Officers.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-pla">
      <speaker rend="italic">Yorke.</speaker>
      <l n="457">Oh<hi rend="italic">Clifford</hi>, but bethinke thee once againe,</l>
      <l n="458">And in thy thought ore‑run my former time:</l>
      <l n="459">And if thou canst, for blushing, view this face,</l>
      <l n="460">And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with Cowardice,</l>
      <l n="461">Whose frowne hath made thee faint and flye ere this.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-cli">
      <speaker rend="italic">Clifford.</speaker>
      <l n="462">I will not bandie with thee word for word,</l>
      <l n="463">But buckler with thee blowes twice two for one.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-qma">
      <speaker rend="italic">Queene.</speaker>
      <l n="464">Hold valiant<hi rend="italic">Clifford</hi>, for a thousand causes</l>
      <l n="465">I would prolong a while the Traytors Life:</l>
      <l n="466">Wrath makes him deafe; speake thou<hi rend="italic">Northumberland</hi>.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-nor">
      <speaker rend="italic">Northumb.</speaker>
      <l n="467">Hold<hi rend="italic">Clifford</hi>, doe not honor him so much,</l>
      <l n="468">To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart.</l>
      <l n="469">What valour were it, when a Curre doth grinne,</l>
      <l n="470">For one to thrust his Hand betweene his Teeth,</l>
      <l n="471">When he might spurne him with his Foot away?</l>
      <l n="472">It is Warres prize, to take all Vantages,</l>
      <l n="473">And tenne to one, is no impeach of Valour.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-cli">
      <speaker rend="italic">Clifford.</speaker>
      <l n="474">I, I, so striues the Woodcocke with the
      <lb/>Gynne.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-nor">
      <speaker rend="italic">Northumb.</speaker>
      <l n="475">So doth the Connie struggle in the
      <lb/>Net.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-pla">
      <speaker rend="italic">York.</speaker>
      <l n="476">So triumph Theeues vpon their conquer'd Booty,</l>
      <l n="477">So True men yeeld with Robbers, so o're‑matcht.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-nor">
      <speaker rend="italic">Northumb.</speaker>
      <l n="478">What would your Grace haue done vnto
      <lb/>him now?</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-qma">
      <speaker rend="italic">Queene.</speaker>
      <l n="479">Braue Warriors,<hi rend="italic">Clifford</hi>, and<hi rend="italic">Northumberland</hi>,</l>
      <l n="480">Come make him stand vpon this Mole‑hill here,</l>
      <l n="481">That raught at Mountaines with out‑stretched Armes,</l>
      <l n="482">Yet parted but the shadow with his Hand.</l>
      <l n="483">What, was it you that would be Englands King?</l>
      <l n="484">Was't you that reuell'd in our Parliament,</l>
      <l n="485">And made a Preachment of you high Descent?</l>
      <l n="486">Where are your Messe of Sonnes, to back you now?<note type="physical" resp="#ES">This question mark type has slipped below the line.</note>
      </l>
      <l n="487">The wanton<hi rend="italic">Edward</hi>, and the lustie<hi rend="italic">George?</hi>
      </l>
      <cb n="2"/>
      <l n="488">And where's that valiant Crook‑back Prodigie,</l>
      <l n="489">
         <hi rend="italic">Dickie</hi>, your Boy, that with his grumbling voyce</l>
      <l n="490">Was wont to cheare his Dad in Mutinies?</l>
      <l n="491">Or with the rest, where is your Darling,<hi rend="italic">Rutland?</hi>
      </l>
      <l n="492">Looke<hi rend="italic">Yorke</hi>, I stayn'd this Napkin with the blood</l>
      <l n="493">That valiant<hi rend="italic">Clifford</hi>, with his Rapiers point,</l>
      <l n="494">Made issue from the Bosome of the Boy:</l>
      <l n="495">And if thine eyes can water for his death,</l>
      <l n="496">I giue thee this to drie thy Cheekes withall.</l>
      <l n="497">Alas poore<hi rend="italic">Yorke</hi>, but that I hate thee deadly,</l>
      <l n="498">I should lament thy miserable state.</l>
      <l n="499">I prythee grieue, to make me merry,<hi rend="italic">Yorke</hi>.</l>
      <l n="500">What, hath thy fierie heart so parcht thine entrayles,</l>
      <l n="501">That not a Teare can fall, for<hi rend="italic">Rutlands</hi>death?</l>
      <l n="502">Why art thou patient, man? thou should'st be mad:</l>
      <l n="503">And I, to make thee mad, doe mock thee thus.</l>
      <l n="504">Stampe, raue, and fret, that I may sing and dance.</l>
      <l n="505">Thou would'st be fee'd, I see, to make me sport:</l>
      <l n="506">
         <hi rend="italic">Yorke</hi>cannot speake, vnlesse he weare a Crowne.</l>
      <l n="507">A Crowne for<hi rend="italic">Yorke</hi>; and Lords, bow lowe to him:</l>
      <l n="508">Hold you his hands, whilest I doe set it on.</l>
      <l n="509">I marry Sir, now lookes he like a King:</l>
      <l n="510">I, this is he that tooke King<hi rend="italic">Henries</hi>Chaire,</l>
      <l n="511">And this is he was his adopted Heire.</l>
      <l n="512">But how is it, that great<hi rend="italic">Plantagenet</hi>
      </l>
      <l n="513">Is crown'd so soone, and broke his solemne Oath?</l>
      <l n="514">As I bethinke me, you should not be King,</l>
      <l n="515">Till our King<hi rend="italic">Henry</hi>had shooke hands with Death.</l>
      <l n="516">And will you pale your head in<hi rend="italic">Henries</hi>Glory,</l>
      <l n="517">And rob his Temples of the Diademe,</l>
      <l n="518">Now in his Life, against your holy Oath?</l>
      <l n="519">Oh 'tis a fault too too vnpardonable.</l>
      <l n="520">Off with the Crowne; and with the Crowne, his Head,</l>
      <l n="521">And whilest we breathe, take time to doe him dead.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-cli">
      <speaker rend="italic">Clifford.</speaker>
      <l n="522">That is my Offce, for my Fathers sake.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-qma">
      <speaker rend="italic">Queene.</speaker>
      <l n="523">Nay stay, let's heare the Orizons hee
      <lb/>makes.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-pla">
      <speaker rend="italic">Yorke.</speaker>
      <l n="524">Shee‑Wolfe of France,</l>
      <l n="525">But worse then Wolues of France,</l>
      <l n="526">Whose Tongue more poysons then the Adders Tooth:</l>
      <l n="527">How ill‑beseeming is it in thy Sex,</l>
      <l n="528">To triumph like an Amazonian Trull,</l>
      <l n="529">Vpon their Woes, whom Fortune captiuates?</l>
      <l n="530">But that thy Face is Vizard‑like, vnchanging,</l>
      <l n="531">Made impudent with vse of euill deedes.</l>
      <l n="532">I would assay, prowd Queene, to make thee blush.</l>
      <l n="533">To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom deriu'd,</l>
      <l n="534">Were shame enough, to shame thee,</l>
      <l n="535">Wert thou not shamelesse.</l>
      <l n="536">Thy Father beares the type of King of Naples,</l>
      <l n="537">Of both the Sicils, and Ierusalem,</l>
      <l n="538">Yet not so wealthie as an English Yeoman.</l>
      <l n="539">Hath that poore Monarch taught thee to insult?</l>
      <l n="540">It needes not, nor it bootes thee not, prowd Queene,</l>
      <l n="541">Vnlesse the Adage must be verify'd,</l>
      <l n="542">That Beggers mounted, runne their Horse to death.</l>
      <l n="543">'Tis Beautie that doth oft make Women prowd,</l>
      <l n="544">But God he knowes, thy share thereof is small.</l>
      <l n="545">'Tis Vertue, that doth make them most admir'd,</l>
      <l n="546">The contrary, doth make thee wondred at.</l>
      <l n="547">'Tis Gouernment that makes them seeme Diuine,</l>
      <l n="548">The want thereof, makes thee abhominable.</l>
      <l n="549">Thou art as opposite to euery good,</l>
      <l n="550">As the<hi rend="italic">Antipodes</hi>are vnto vs,</l>
      <l n="551">Or as the South to the<hi rend="italic">Septentrion</hi>.</l>
      <l n="552">Oh Tygres Heart, wrapt in a Womans Hide,</l>
      <pb facs="FFimg:axc0508-0.jpg" n="152"/>
      <cb n="1"/>
      <l n="553">How could'st thou drayne the Life‑blood of the Child,</l>
      <l n="554">To bid the Father wipe his eyes withall,</l>
      <l n="555">And yet be seene to beare a Womans face?</l>
      <l n="556">Women are soft, milde, pittifull, and flexible;</l>
      <l n="557">Thou, sterne, obdurate, flintie, rough, remorselesse.</l>
      <l n="558">Bidst thou me rage? why now thou hast thy wish.</l>
      <l n="559">Would'st haue me weepe? why now thou hast thy will.</l>
      <l n="560">For raging Wind blowes vp incessant showers,</l>
      <l n="561">And when the Rage allayes, the Raine begins.</l>
      <l n="562">These Teares are my sweet<hi rend="italic">Rutlands</hi>Obsequies,</l>
      <l n="563">And euery drop cryes vengeance for his death,</l>
      <l n="564">'Gainst thee fell<hi rend="italic">Clifford</hi>, and thee false French‑woman.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-nor">
      <speaker rend="italic">Northumb.</speaker>
      <l n="565">Beshrew me, but his passions moues me so,</l>
      <l n="566">That hardly can I check my eyes from Teares.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-pla">
      <speaker rend="italic">Yorke.</speaker>
      <l n="567">That Face of his,</l>
      <l n="568">The hungry Caniballs would not haue toucht,</l>
      <l n="569">Would not haue stayn'd with blood:</l>
      <l n="570">But you are more inhumane, more inexorable,</l>
      <l n="571">Oh, tenne times more then Tygers of Hyrcania.</l>
      <l n="572">See, ruthlesse Queene, a haplesse Fathers Teares:</l>
      <l n="573">This Cloth thou dipd'st in blood of my sweet Boy,</l>
      <l n="574">And I with Teares doe wash the blood away.</l>
      <l n="575">Keepe thou the Napkin, and goe boast of this,</l>
      <l n="576">And if thou tell'st the heauie storie right,</l>
      <l n="577">Vpon my Soule, the hearers will shed Teares:</l>
      <l n="578">Yea, euen my Foes will shed fast‑falling Teares,</l>
      <l n="579">And say, Alas, it was a pittious deed.</l>
      <l n="580">There, take the Crowne, and with the Crowne, my Curse,</l>
      <l n="581">And in thy need, such comfort come to thee,</l>
      <l n="582">As now I reape at thy too cruell hand.</l>
      <l n="583">Hard‑hearted<hi rend="italic">Clifford</hi>, take me from the World,</l>
      <l n="584">My Soule to Heauen, my Blood vpon your Heads.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-nor">
      <speaker rend="italic">Northumb.</speaker>
      <l n="585">Had he been slaughter‑man to all my Kinne,</l>
      <l n="586">I should not for my Life but weepe with him,</l>
      <l n="587">To see how inly Sorrow gripes his Soule.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-qma">
      <speaker rend="italic">Queene.</speaker>
      <l n="588">What, weeping ripe, my Lord<hi rend="italic">Northumberland?</hi>
      </l>
      <l n="589">Thinke but vpon the wrong he did vs all,</l>
      <l n="590">And that will quickly drie thy melting Teares.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-cli">
      <speaker rend="italic">Clifford.</speaker>
      <l n="591">Heere's for my Oath, heere's for my Fathers
      <lb/>Death.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-qma">
      <speaker rend="italic">Queene.</speaker>
      <l n="592">And heere's to right our gentle‑hearted
      <lb/>King.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-pla">
      <speaker rend="italic">Yorke.</speaker>
      <l n="593">Open thy Gate of Mercy, gracious God,</l>
      <l n="594">My Soule flyes through these wounds, to seeke out thee.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-3h6-qma">
      <speaker rend="italic">Queene.</speaker>
      <l n="595">Off with his Head, and set it on Yorke Gates,</l>
      <l n="596">So<hi rend="italic">Yorke</hi>may ouer‑looke the Towne of Yorke.</l>
   </sp>
   <stage rend="italic rightJustified" type="mixed">Flourish. Exit.</stage>
</div>

        
        

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