William Shakespeare: The Complete Works 2nd Edition (60 page)
Read William Shakespeare: The Complete Works 2nd Edition Online
Authors: William Shakespeare
Tags: #Drama, #Literary Criticism, #Shakespeare
BOOK: William Shakespeare: The Complete Works 2nd Edition
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NORTHUMBERLAND
Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.
CLIFFORD
Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm,
With downright payment, showed unto my father.
Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his car,
And made an evening at the noontide prick.
With downright payment, showed unto my father.
Now Phaeton 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?
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?
CLIFFORD
So cowards fight when they can fly no further;
So doves do peck the falcon’s piercing talons;
So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,
Breathe out invectives ’gainst the officers.
So doves do peck the falcon’s piercing talons;
So 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’errun 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.
And in thy thought o’errun 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.
CLIFFORD
I will not bandy with thee word for word,
But buckle with thee blows twice two for one.
But buckle with thee blows twice two for one.
⌈
He draws his sword
⌉
QUEEN MARGARET
Hold, valiant Clifford: for a thousand causes
I would prolong a while the traitor’s life.
Wrath makes him deaf—speak thou, Northumberland.
I would prolong a while the traitor’s life.
Wrath makes him deaf—speak thou, Northumberland.
NORTHUMBERLAND
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
⌈
fight and
⌉
take York
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
⌈
fight and
⌉
take York
CLIFFORD
Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin.
NORTHUMBERLAND
So doth the cony struggle in the net.
YORK
So triumph thieves upon their conquered booty,
So true men yield, with robbers so o’ermatched.
So true men yield, with robbers so o’ermatched.
NORTHUMBERLAND (
to the Queen
)
to the Queen
)
What would your grace have done unto him now?
QUEEN MARGARET
Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,
Come make him stand upon this molehill here,
That wrought at mountains with outstretched arms
Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.
(
To York
) What—was it you that would be England’s
king?
Was’t you that revelled 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 crookback prodigy,
Dickie, 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 stained this napkin with the blood
That valiant Clifford with his rapier’s point
Made issue from the bosom of thy 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 parched 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.
(To her men)
A crown for York, and, lords, bow low to
him.
Hold you his hands whilst I do set it on.
Come make him stand upon this molehill here,
That wrought at mountains with outstretched arms
Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.
(
To York
) What—was it you that would be England’s
king?
Was’t you that revelled 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 crookback prodigy,
Dickie, 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 stained this napkin with the blood
That valiant Clifford with his rapier’s point
Made issue from the bosom of thy 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 parched 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.
(To her men)
A crown for York, and, lords, bow low to
him.
Hold you his hands whilst I do set it on.
She puts a paper crown on York’s 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 crowned 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,
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 crowned 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,
⌈
She knocks it from his head
⌉
and with the crown his head,
And whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead.
CLIFFORD
That is my office for my father’s sake.
QUEEN MARGARET
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 essay, proud Queen, to make thee blush.
To tell thee whence thou cam’st, of whom derived,
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 admired—
The contrary doth make thee wondered 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 wrapped 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 up 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 Frenchwoman.
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 essay, proud Queen, to make thee blush.
To tell thee whence thou cam’st, of whom derived,
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 admired—
The contrary doth make thee wondered 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 wrapped 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 up 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 Frenchwoman.
NORTHUMBERLAND
Beshrew me, but his passions move me so
That hardly can I check my eyes from tears.
That hardly can I check my eyes from tears.
YORK
That face of his the hungry cannibals
Would not have touched, would not have stained
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 dipped‘st in blood of my sweet boy,
And I with tears do wash the blood away.
Keep thou the napkin and go boast of this,
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.
Would not have touched, would not have stained
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 dipped‘st in blood of my sweet boy,
And I with tears do wash the blood away.
Keep thou the napkin and go boast of this,
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.
NORTHUMBERLAND
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.
I should not, for my life, but weep with him,
To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul.
QUEEN MARGARET
What—weeping-ripe, my lord Northumberland?
Think but upon the wrong he did us all,
And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.
Think but upon the wrong he did us all,
And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.
CLIFFORD
Here’s for my oath, here’s for my father’s death. He stabs York
QUEEN MARGARET
And here’s to right our gentle-hearted King.
She stabs York
YORK
Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God—
My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee.
My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee.
⌈
He dies
⌉
QUEEN MARGARET
Off with his head and set it on York gates,
So York may overlook the town of York.
So York may overlook the town of York.
Flourish. Exeunt with York’s body
A march. Enter Edward Earl of March and Richard,
⌈
with a drummer and soldiers
⌉
EDWARD
I wonder how our princely father scaped,
Or whether he be scaped away or no
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 scaped, methinks we should have heard
The happy tidings of his good escape.
How fares my brother? Why is he so sad?
Or whether he be scaped away or no
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 scaped, methinks we should have heard
The happy tidings of his good escape.
How fares my brother? Why is he so sad?
RICHARD
I cannot joy until I be resolved
Where-our right valiant father is become.
I saw him in the battle range about,
And watched him how he singled Clifford forth.
Methought he bore him in the thickest troop,
As doth a lion in a herd of neat;
Or as a bear encompassed round with dogs,
Who having pinched a few and made them cry,
The rest stand all aloof and bark at him.
So fared our father with his enemies;
So fled his enemies my warlike father.
Methinks ’tis prize enough to be his son.
Where-our right valiant father is become.
I saw him in the battle range about,
And watched him how he singled Clifford forth.
Methought he bore him in the thickest troop,
As doth a lion in a herd of neat;
Or as a bear encompassed round with dogs,
Who having pinched a few and made them cry,
The rest stand all aloof and bark at him.
So fared our father with his enemies;
So fled his enemies my warlike father.
Methinks ’tis prize enough to be his son.
⌈
Three suns appear in the air
⌉
See how the morning opes her golden gates
And takes her farewell of the glorious sun.
How well resembles it the prime of youth,
Trimmed like a younker prancing to his love!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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
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