A Plain near Mortimer’s Cross in Herefordshire. | |
| |
Drums. Enter EDWARD and RICHARD, with their Forces, marching. | |
| Edw. I wonder how our princely father ’scap’d, | |
| Or whether he be ’scap’d away or no | 4 |
| 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 ’scap’d, methinks we should have heard | 8 |
| The happy tidings of his good escape. | |
| How fares my brother? why is he so sad? | |
| Rich. I cannot joy until I be resolv’d | |
| Where our right valiant father is become. | 12 |
| I saw him in the battle range about, | |
| And watch’d him how he singled Clifford forth. | |
| Methought he bore him in the thickest troop | |
| As doth a lion in a herd of neat; | 16 |
| Or as a bear, encompass’d round with dogs, | |
| Who having pinch’d a few and made them cry, | |
| The rest stand all aloof and bark at him. | |
| So far’d our father with his enemies; | 20 |
| So fled his enemies my war-like father: | |
| Methinks, ’tis prize enough to be his son. | |
| See how the morning opes her golden gates, | |
| And takes her farewell of the glorious sun; | 24 |
| How well resembles it the prime of youth, | |
| Trimm’d like a younker prancing to his love. | |
| Edw. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns? | |
| Rich. Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun; | 28 |
| Not separated with the racking clouds, | |
| But sever’d in a pale clear-shining sky. | |
| See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss, | |
| As if they vow’d some league inviolable: | 32 |
| Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun. | |
| In this the heaven figures some event. | |
| Edw. ’Tis wondrous strange, the like yet never heard of. | |
| I think it cites us, brother, to the field; | 36 |
| 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. | 40 |
| Whate’er it bodes, henceforward will I bear | |
| Upon my target three fair-shining suns. | |
| Rich. Nay, bear three daughters: by your leave I speak it, | |
| You love the breeder better than the male. | 44 |
| |
Enter a Messenger. | |
| But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell | |
| Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue? | |
| Mess. Ah! one that was a woeful looker-on, | 48 |
| When as the noble Duke of York was slain, | |
| Your princely father, and my loving lord. | |
| Edw. O! speak no more, for I have heard too much. | |
| Rich. Say how he died, for I will hear it all. | 52 |
| Mess. Environed he was with many foes, | |
| And stood against them, as the hope of Troy | |
| Against the Greeks that would have enter’d Troy. | |
| But Hercules himself must yield to odds; | 56 |
| And many strokes, though with a little axe, | |
| Hew down and fell the hardest-timber’d oak. | |
| By many hands your father was subdu’d; | |
| But only slaughter’d by the ireful arm | 60 |
| Of unrelenting Clifford and the queen, | |
| Who crown’d the gracious duke in high despite; | |
| Laugh’d in his face; and when with grief he wept, | |
| The ruthless queen gave him to dry his cheeks, | 64 |
| 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 | 68 |
| They set the same; and there it doth remain, | |
| The saddest spectacle 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! | 72 |
| O Clifford! boist’rous Clifford! thou hast slain | |
| The flower of Europe for his chivalry; | |
| And treacherously hast thou vanquish’d him, | |
| For hand to hand he would have vanquish’d thee. | 76 |
| 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, | 80 |
| Never, O! never, shall I see more joy. | |
| Rich. 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; | 84 |
| For self-same wind, that I should speak withal | |
| Is kindling coals that fire all my breast, | |
| And burn me up with flames, that tears would quench. | |
| To weep is to make less the depth of grief: | 88 |
| 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. | |
| Edw. His name that valiant duke hath left with thee; | 92 |
| His dukedom and his chair with me is left. | |
| Rich. 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; | 96 |
| Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his. | |
| |
March. Enter WARWICK and the MARQUESS OF MONTAGUE, with Forces. | |
| War. How now, fair lords! What fare? what news abroad? | |
| Rich. Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount | 100 |
| Our baleful news, and at each word’s deliv’rance | |
| 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. | 104 |
| Edw. O Warwick! Warwick! that Plantagenet | |
| Which held thee dearly as his soul’s redemption, | |
| Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death. | |
| War. Ten days ago I drown’d these news in tears, | 108 |
| And now, to add more measure to your woes, | |
| I come to tell you things sith then befallen. | |
| After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought, | |
| Where your brave father breath’d his latest gasp, | 112 |
| 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, | |
| Muster’d my soldiers, gather’d flocks of friends, | 116 |
| And very well appointed, as I thought, | |
| March’d towards Saint Alban’s to intercept the queen, | |
| Bearing the king in my behalf along; | |
| For by my scouts I was advertised | 120 |
| That she was coming with a full intent | |
| To dash our late decree in parliament, | |
| Touching King Henry’s oath and your succession. | |
| Short tale to make, we at Saint Alban’s met, | 124 |
| Our battles join’d, and both sides fiercely fought: | |
| But whether ’twas the coldness of the king, | |
| Who look’d full gently on his war-like queen, | |
| That robb’d my soldiers of their heated spleen; | 128 |
| Or whether ’twas report of her success; | |
| 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, | 132 |
| Their weapons like to lightning came and went; | |
| Our soldiers’—like the night-owl’s lazy flight, | |
| Or like a lazy thresher with a flail— | |
| Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends. | 136 |
| I cheer’d them up with justice of our cause, | |
| With promise of high pay, and great rewards: | |
| But all in vain; they had no heart to fight, | |
| And we in them no hope to win the day; | 140 |
| So that we fled: the king unto the queen; | |
| Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and myself, | |
| In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you; | |
| For in the marches here we heard you were, | 144 |
| Making another head to fight again. | |
| Edw. Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick? | |
| And when came George from Burgundy to England? | |
| War. Some six miles off the duke is with the soldiers; | 148 |
| And for your brother, he was lately sent | |
| From your kind aunt, Duchess of Burgundy, | |
| With aid of soldiers to this needful war. | |
| Rich. ’Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled: | 152 |
| Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit, | |
| But ne’er till now his scandal of retire. | |
| War. Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou hear; | |
| For thou shalt know, this strong right hand of mine | 156 |
| Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry’s head, | |
| And wring the awful sceptre from his fist, | |
| Were he as famous; and as bold in war | |
| As he is fam’d for mildness, peace, and prayer. | 160 |
| Rich. I know it well, Lord Warwick; blame me not: | |
| ’Tis love I bear thy glories makes me speak. | |
| But, in this troublous time what’s to be done? | |
| Shall we go throw away our coats of steel, | 164 |
| And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns, | |
| Numb’ring our Ave-Maries with our beads? | |
| Or shall we on the helmets of our foes | |
| Tell our devotion with revengeful arms? | 168 |
| If for the last, say ‘Ay,’ and to it, lords. | |
| War. Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you out; | |
| And therefore comes my brother Montague. | |
| Attend me, lords. The proud insulting queen, | 172 |
| With Clifford and the haught Northumberland, | |
| And of their feather many more proud birds, | |
| Have wrought the easy-melting king like wax. | |
| He swore consent to your succession, | 176 |
| His oath enrolled in the parliament; | |
| And now to London all the crew are gone, | |
| To frustrate both his oath and what beside | |
| May make against the house of Lancaster. | 180 |
| Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong: | |
| Now, if the help of Norfolk and myself, | |
| With all the friends that thou, brave Earl of March, | |
| Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure, | 184 |
| Will but amount to five and twenty thousand, | |
| Why, Via! to London will we march amain, | |
| And once again bestride our foaming steeds, | |
| And once again cry, ‘Charge upon our foes!’ | 188 |
| But never once again turn back and fly. | |
| Rich. Ay, now methinks I hear great Warwick speak: | |
| Ne’er may he live to see a sunshine day, | |
| That cries ‘Retire,’ if Warwick bid him stay. | 192 |
| Edw. Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean; | |
| And when thou fail’st—as God forbid the hour!— | |
| Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forfend! | |
| War. No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York: | 196 |
| The next degree is England’s royal throne; | |
| For King of England shalt thou be proclaim’d | |
| In every borough as we pass along; | |
| And he that throws not up his cap for joy | 200 |
| Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head. | |
| King Edward, valiant Richard, Montague, | |
| Stay we no longer dreaming of renown, | |
| But sound the trumpets, and about our task. | 204 |
| Rich. Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as steel,— | |
| As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds,— | |
| I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine. | |
| Edw. Then strike up, drums! God, and Saint George for us! | 208 |
| |
Enter a Messenger. | |
| War. How now! what news? | |
| Mess. The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me, | |
| The queen is coming with a puissant host; | 212 |
| And craves your company for speedy counsel. | |
| War. Why then it sorts; brave warriors, let’s away. [Exeunt. | |
