The Same. |
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A loud alarum. Enter CLIFFORD, wounded. |
Clif. Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies, |
Which, while it lasted, gave King Henry light. |
O Lancaster! I fear thy overthrow |
More than my body's parting with my soul. |
My love and fear glu'd many friends to thee; |
And, now I fall, thy tough commixtures melt, |
Impairing Henry, strengthening misproud York: |
The common people swarm like summer flies; |
And whither fly the gnats but to the sun? |
And who shines now but Henry's enemies? |
O Phœbus! hadst thou never given consent |
That Phæthon should check thy fiery steeds, |
Thy burning car never had scorch'd the earth; |
And, Henry, hadst thou sway'd as kings should do, |
Or as thy father and his father did, |
Giving no ground unto the house of York, |
They never then had sprung like summer flies; |
I and ten thousand in this luckless realm |
Had left no mourning widows for our death, |
And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace. |
For what doth cherish weeds but gentle air? |
And what makes robbers bold but too much lenity? |
Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds; |
No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight: |
The foe is merciless, and will not pity; |
For at their hands I have deserv'd no pity. |
The air hath got into my deadly wounds, |
And much effuse of blood doth make me faint. |
Come, York and Richard, Warwick and the rest; |
I stabb'd your fathers' bosoms, split my breast. [He faints. |
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Alarum and Retreat. Enter EDWARD, GEORGE, RICHARD, MONTAGUE, WARWICK, and Soldiers. |
Edw. Now breathe we, lords: good fortune bids us pause, |
And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks. |
Some troops pursue the bloody-minded queen, |
That led calm Henry, though he were a king, |
As doth a sail, fill'd with a fretting gust, |
Command an argosy to stem the waves. |
But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them? |
War. No, 'tis impossible he should escape; |
For, though before his face I speak the words, |
Your brother Richard mark'd him for the grave; |
And wheresoe'er he is, he's surely dead. [CLIFFORD groans and dies. |
Edw. Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave? |
Rich. A deadly groan, like life and death's departing. |
Edw. See who it is: and now the battle's ended, |
If friend or foe let him be gently us'd. |
Rich. Revoke that doom of mercy, for 'tis Clifford; |
Who not contented that he lopp'd the branch |
In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth, |
But set his murd'ring knife unto the root |
From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring, |
I mean our princely father, Duke of York. |
War. From off the gates of York fetch down the head, |
Your father's head, which Clifford placed there; |
Instead whereof let this supply the room: |
Measure for measure must be answered. |
Edw. Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house, |
That nothing sung but death to us and ours: |
Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound, |
And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak. [Attendants bring the body forward. |
War. I think his understanding is bereft. |
Speak, Clifford; dost thou know who speaks to thee? |
Dark cloudy death o'ershades his beams of life, |
And he nor sees, nor hears us what we say. |
Rich. O! would he did; and so perhaps he doth: |
'Tis but his policy to counterfeit, |
Because he would avoid such bitter taunts |
Which in the time of death he gave our father. |
Geo. If so thou think'st, vex him with eager words. |
Rich. Clifford! ask mercy and obtain no grace. |
Edw. Clifford, repent in bootless penitence. |
War. Clifford! devise excuses for thy faults. |
Geo. While we devise fell tortures for thy faults. |
Rich. Thou didst love York, and I am son to York. |
Edw. Thou pitiedst Rutland, I will pity thee. |
Geo. Where's Captain Margaret, to fence you now? |
War. They mock thee, Clifford: swear as thou wast wont. |
Rich. What! not an oath? nay, then the world goes hard |
When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath. |
I know by that he's dead; and, by my soul, |
If this right hand would buy two hours' life, |
That I in all despite might rail at him, |
This hand should chop it off, and with the issuing blood |
Stifle the villain whose unstaunched thirst |
York and young Rutland could not satisfy. |
War. Ay, but he's dead: off with the traitor's head, |
And rear it in the place your father's stands. |
And now to London with triumphant march, |
There to be crowned England's royal king: |
From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France, |
And ask the Lady Bona for thy queen. |
So shalt thou sinew both these lands together; |
And, having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread |
The scatter'd foe that hopes to rise again; |
For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt, |
Yet look to have them buzz to offend thine ears. |
First will I see the coronation; |
And then to Brittany I'll cross the sea, |
To effect this marriage, so it please my lord. |
Edw. Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be; |
For on thy shoulder do I build my seat, |
And never will I undertake the thing |
Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting. |
Richard, I will create thee Duke of Gloucester; |
And George, of Clarence; Warwick, as ourself, |
Shall do and undo as him pleaseth best. |
Rich. Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloucester, |
For Gloucester's dukedom is too ominous. |
War. Tut! that's a foolish observation: |
Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London, |
To see these honours in possession. [Exeunt. |
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