Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this;
And if thou tell'ft the heavy Story right,
Upon my foul the hearers will fhed tears:
Yea, even my foes will shed faft-falling tears,
And fay, alas, it was a piteous deed.
There take the crown, and, with the crown my curfe.
And in thy need fuch comfort come to thee,
As now I reap at thy too cruel hand.
Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world,
My foul to heav'n, my blood upon your heads.
North. Had he been flaughter-man to all my kin,
I fhould not for my life but weep with him,
To fee how inly forrow gripes his foul.
Queen. What, weeping ripe, my lord Northumberland?
Think but upon the wrong he did us all,
And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.
Clif. Here's for my oath, here's for my father's death.
[Stabbing him.
Queen. And here's to right our gentle-hearted King,
York. Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God.
My foul flies through thefe wounds, to feek out thee.
[Dies Queen. Off with his head, and fet it on York gates;
So York may overlook the town of York,
A March. Enter Edward, Richard, and their Power.
Wonder how our princely father fcap'd ;
Or whether he be fcap'd away, or no,
From Clifford's and Northumberland's
purfuit?
Had he been ta'en, we should have
heard the news;
Had he been fain, we should have heard the news
Or had he fcap'd, methinks we should have heard
The happy tidings of his good efcape.
How fares my brother? why is he fo fad?
Rich. I cannot joy, until I be refolv'd
Where our right valiant father is become.
I faw him in the battel range about,
And watcht him how he fingled Clifford forth;
Methought he bore him in the thickest troop,
As doth a lion in a herd of neat ;
Or as a bear encompass'd round with dogs,
Who having pincht a few and made them cry,
The reft ftand all aloof and bark at him.
So far'd our father with his enemies,
So fled his enemies my warlike father:
Methinks 'tis prize enough to be his fon.
See how the morning opes her golden gates,
And takes her farewel of the glorious fun;
How well refembles it the prime of youth,.
Trim'd like a yonker prancing to his love?
Edw. Dazle mine eyes or do I fee three funs?
Rich. Three glorious funs, each one a perfect fun, Not feparated with the racking clouds,
But fever'd in a pale clear fhining sky.
See, fee they join, embrace, and feem to kifs,
As if they vow'd fome league inviolable :
Now are they but one lamp, one light, one fun.
In this the heaven figures fome event.
Edw. 'Tis wondr'ous ftrange, the like yet never
I think it cites us, brother, to the field,
That we the fons of brave Plantagenet,
Each one already blazing by our meeds,
Should notwithstanding join our lights together,
And over-fhine the earth, as this the world.
Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear
Upon my target three fair fhining funs.
Rich. Nay, bear three daughters: by your leave, I
freak it,
You love the breeder better than the male.
But what art thou, whofe heavy looks foretel
Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?`
Mef. Ah one that was a woful looker on
When as the noble Duke of York was fláin,
Your princely father, and my loving lord.
Edw. Oh fpeak no more! for I have heard too
much.
Rich. Say how he dy'd, for I will hear it all.
Mef. Environed he was with many foes,
And ftood against them, as the hope of Troy
Against the Greeks that would have entred Troy,
But Hercules himself muft yield to odds;
And many ftroaks, though with a little ax,
Hew down and fell the hardest timber'd oak.
By many hands your father was fubdu'd,
But only flaughter'd by the ireful arm
Of unrelenting Clifford and the Queen;
Who crown'd the gracious Duke in high defpight,
Laugh'd in his face; and when with grief he wept,
The ruthless Queen gave him, to dry his cheek,
A napkin fteeped in the harmless blood
Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford flain:
And after many fcorns, many
foul taunts,
They took his head, and on the gates of York
They fet the fame, and there it doth remain
The faddeft fpectacle that e'er I view'd.
Edw. Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon,
Now thou art gone we have no staff, no stay.
Oh Clifford, boift'rous Clifford, thou haft flain'
The flower of Europe for his chivalry,
And treacherously haft thou vanquish'd him ;
For hand to hand he would have vanquish'd thee.
Now my foul's palace is become a prifon :
Ah, would fhe break from hence, that this my body
Might in the ground be clofed up in reft;
For never henceforth fhall I joy again,
Never, oh never fhall I fee more joy.
Rich. I cannot weep, for all my body's moisture Scarce ferves to quench my furnace-burning heart: Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great For felf fame wind that I fhould speak withal Is kindling coals that fire up all my breaft, And burn me up with flames that tears would quench. To weep, is to make lefs the depth of grief: Tears then for babes blows and
for me! revenge Richard, I bear thy name, I'll venge thy death, Or die renowned by attempting it.
Edw. His name that valiant Duke hath left with
His Dukedom and his chair with me is left.
Rich. Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird,
Shew thy defcent, by gazing 'gainst the fun :
For chair and Dukedom, throne and kingdom fay,
Either that's thine, or elfe thou wert not his.
March. Enter Warwick, Marquis of Montague, and their army.
War. How now, fair lords? what fare? what news abroad?
Rich. Great lord of Warwick, if we should recount Our baleful news, and at each words deliv'rance Stab poniards in our flefh till all were told,
The words would add more anguish than the wounds.
O valiant lord, the Duke of York is flain.
Edw. O Warwick Warwick! that Plantagenet
Which held thee dearly as his foul's redemption,
Is by the stern lord Clifford done to death.
War. Ten days ago I drown'd these news in tears;
And now, to add more measure to your woes,
I come to tell you things fith then befaln.
After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave father breath'd his latest gasp,
Tidings, as fwiftly as the poft could run,
Were brought me of your lofs and his depart.
I then in London, keeper of the King,
Mufter'd my foldiers, gather'd flocks of friends,
March'd towards St. Albans t' intercept the Queen,
Bearing the King in my behalf along:
For by my scouts I was advertifed
That he was coming, with a full intent
To dash our late decree in parliament,
Touching King Henry's oath, and your fucceffion:
Short tale to make, we at St. Albans met,
Our battels join'd, and both fides fiercely fought :
But whether 'twas the coldness of the King,
Who look'd full gently on his warlike Queen,
That robb'd my foldiers of their heated fpleen;
Or whether 'twas report of her fuccefs,
Or more than common fear of Clifford's rigour,
Who thunders to his captives blood and death,
I cannot judge: but to conclude with truth,
Their weapons like to lightning came and went ;
Our foldiers like the night-owl's lazy flight,
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