William Shakespeare's Third Part of King Henry the Sixth in the complete original text.
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Third Part of King Henry the Sixth

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Act I. Scene IV.

Scene IV.—Another Part of the Plains.

Alarum. Enter YORK.

York. The army of the queen hath got the
field:
My uncles both are slain in rescuing me;
And all my followers to the eager foe
Turn back and fly, like ships before the wind,
Or lambs pursu'd by hunger-starved wolves.
My sons. God knows what hath bechanc'd them:
But this I know, they have demean'd themselves
Like men born to renown by life or death.
Three times did Richard make a lane to me,
And thrice cried, 'Courage, father! fight it
out!'
And full as oft came Edward to my side,
With purple falchion, painted to the hilt
In blood of those that had encounter'd him:
And when the hardiest warriors did retire,
Richard cried, 'Charge! and give no foot of
ground!'
And cried,' A crown, or else a glorious tomb!
A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre!'
With this, we charg'd again; but, out, alas!
We bodg'd again: as I have seen a swan
With bootless labour swim against the tide,
And spend her strength with over-matching
waves. [A short alarum within.
Ah, hark! the fatal followers do pursue;
And I am faint and cannot fly their fury;
And were I strong I would not shun their
fury:
The sands are number'd that make up my life;
Here must I stay, and here my life must end.

Enter QUEEN MARGARET, CLIFFORD,
NORTHUMBERLAND, the young PRINCE,
and Soldiers. Come, bloody Clifford, rough
Northumberland, I dare your quenchless fury to
more rage:
I am your butt, and I abide your shot.
North. Yield to our mercy, proud Planta-
genet.
Clif. Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm
With downright payment show'd unto my fa-
ther.
Now Phæthon hath tumbled from his car,
And made an evening at the noontide prick.
York. My ashes, as the phoenix, may bring
forth
A bird that will revenge upon you all;
And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heaven,
Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with.
Why come you not? what! multitudes, and fear?
Clif. So cowards fight when they can fly no
further;
go doves do peck the falcon's piercing talons;
go desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,
Breathe out invectives 'gainst the officers.
York. O Clifford! but bethink thee once
again,
And in thy thought o'er-run my former time;
And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face,
And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with
cowardice
Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere
this.
Clif. I will not bandy with thee word for
word,
But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one.
[Draws.
Q. Mar. Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand
causes
I would prolong awhile the traitor's life.
Wrath makes him deaf: speak thou, Northum-
berland.
North. Hold, Clifford! do not honour him so
much
To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart.
What valour were it, when a cur doth grin,
For one to thrust his hand between his teeth,
When he might spurn him with his foot away?
It is war's prize to take all vantages,
And ten to one is no impeach of valour.
[They lay hands on YORK, who struggles.
Clif. Ay, ay; so strives the woodcock with the
gin.
North. So doth the cony struggle in the net.
[YORK is taken prisoner.
York. So triumph thieves upon their con-
quer'd booty;
So true men yield, with robbers so o'er-match'd.
North. What would your Grace have done
unto him now?
Q. Mar. Brave warriors, Clifford and North-
umberland,
Come, make him stand upon this molehill here,
That raught at mountains with outstretched
arms,
Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.
What! was it you that would be England's
king? I
Was't you that revell'd in our parliament,
And made a preachment of your high descent?
Where are your mess of sons to back you now?
The wanton Edward, and the lusty George?
And where's that valiant crook-back prodigy,
Dicky your boy, that with his grumbling voice
Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies?
Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland?
Look, York: I stain'd this napkin with the
blood
That valiant Clifford with his rapier's point
Made issue from the bosom of the boy;
And if thine eyes can water for his death,
I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal.
Alas, poor York! but that I hate thee deadly,
I should lament thy miserable state.
I prithee grieve, to make me merry, York.
What! hath thy fiery heart so parch'd thine
entrails
That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death?
Why art thou patient, man? thou shouldst be
mad;
And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus.
Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and
dance.
Thou wouldst be fee'd, I see, to make me sport;
York cannot speak unless he wear a crown.
A crown for York! and, lords, bow low to him:
Hold you his hands whilst I do set it on.
[Putting a paper crown on his head.
Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king!
Ay, this is he that took King Henry's chair;
And this is he was his adopted heir.
But how is it that great Plantagenet
Is crown'd so soon, and broke his solemn oath?
As I bethink me, you should not be king
Till our King Henry had shook hands with
death.
And will you pale your head in Henry's glory,
And rob his temples of the diadem,
Now in his life, against your holy oath?
O! 'tis a fault too-too unpardonable.
Off with the crown; and, with the crown, his
head;
And, whilst we breathe, take time to do him
dead.
Clif. That is my office, for my father's sake.
Q. Mar. 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 assay, proud queen, to make thee
blush:
To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom
deriv'd,
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 admir'd;
The contrary doth make thee wonder'd 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 wrapp'd 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 tip 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 French-
woman.
North. Beshrew me, but his passion moves
me so
That hardly can I check my eyes from tears.
York. That face of his the hungry cannibals
Would not have touch'd, would not have stain'd
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 dipp'dst in blood of my sweet
boy,
And I with tears do wash the blood away.
Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this;
[Giving back the handkerchief,
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!
North. 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.
Q. Mar. What! weeping-ripe, my Lord North-
umberland?
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.
Q. Mar. And here's to right our gentle-
hearted king. [Stabbing him.
York. Open thy gate of mercy, gracious
God!
My soul flies through these wounds to seek out
thee. [Dies.
Q. Mar. Off with his head, and set it on York
gates;
So York may overlook the town of York.
[Flourish. Exeunt.
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