604How could'st thou drayne the Life-blood of the Child,

605To bid the Father wipe his eyes withall,

606And yet be seene to beare a Womans face?

607Women are soft, milde, pittifull, and flexible;

608Thou, sterne, obdurate, flintie, rough, remorselesse.

609Bidst thou me rage? why now thou hast thy wish.

610Would'st haue me weepe? why now thou hast thy will.

611For raging Wind blowes vp incessant showers,

612And when the Rage allayes, the Raine begins.

613These Teares are my sweet Rutlands Obsequies,

614And euery drop cryes vengeance for his death,

615'Gainst thee fell Clifford, and thee false French-woman.

616 Northumb. Beshrew me, but his passions moues me so,

617That hardly can I check my eyes from Teares.

618Yorke. That Face of his,

619The hungry Caniballs would not haue toucht,

620Would not haue stayn'd with blood:

621But you are more inhumane, more inexorable,

622Oh, tenne times more then Tygers of Hyrcania.

623See, ruthlesse Queene, a haplesse Fathers Teares:

624This Cloth thou dipd'st in blood of my sweet Boy,

625And I with Teares doe wash the blood away.

626Keepe thou the Napkin, and goe boast of this,

627And if thou tell'st the heauie storie right,

628Vpon my Soule, the hearers will shed Teares:

629Yea, euen my Foes will shed fast-falling Teares,

630And say, Alas, it was a pittious deed.

631There, take the Crowne, and with the Crowne, my Curse,

632And in thy need, such comfort come to thee,

633As now I reape at thy too cruell hand.

634Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the World,

635My Soule to Heauen, my Blood vpon your Heads.

636 Northumb. Had he been slaughter-man to all my Kinne,

637I should not for my Life but weepe with him,

638To see how inly Sorrow gripes his Soule.

639 Queen. What, weeping ripe, my Lord Northumberland?

640Thinke but vpon the wrong he did vs all,

641And that will quickly drie thy melting Teares.

642 Clifford. Heere's for my Oath, heere's for my Fathers

643Death.

644 Queene. And heere's to right our gentle-hearted

645King.

646Yorke. Open thy Gate of Mercy, gracious God,

647My Soule flyes through these wounds, to seeke out thee.

648Queene. Off with his Head, and set it on Yorke Gates,

649So Yorke may ouer-looke the Towne of Yorke.

653Edward. I wonder how our Princely Father scap't:

654Or whether he be scap't away, or no,

655From Cliffords and Northumberlands pursuit?

656Had he been ta'ne, we should haue heard the newes;

657Had he beene slaine, we should haue heard the newes:

658Or had he scap't, me thinkes we should haue heard

659The happy tidings of his good escape.

660How fares my Brother? why is he so sad?

661Richard. I cannot ioy, vntill I be resolu'd

662Where our right valiant Father is become.

663I saw him in the Battaile range about,

664And watcht him how he singled Clifford forth.

665Me thought he bore him in the thickest troupe,

666As doth a Lyon in a Heard of Neat,

667Or as a Beare encompass'd round with Dogges:

668Who hauing pincht a few, and made them cry,

669The rest stand all aloofe, and barke at him.

670So far'd our Father with his Enemies,

671So fled his Enemies my Warlike Father:

672Me thinkes 'tis prize enough to be his Sonne.

673See how the Morning opes her golden Gates,

674And takes her farwell of the glorious Sunne.

675How well resembles it the prime of Youth,

676Trimm'd like a Yonker, prauncing to his Loue?

677Ed. Dazle mine eyes, or doe I see three Sunnes?

678 Rich. Three glorious Sunnes, each one a perfect Sunne,

679Not seperated with the racking Clouds,

680But seuer'd in a pale cleare-shining Skye.

681See, see, they ioyne, embrace, and seeme to kisse,

682As if they vow'd some League inuiolable.

683Now are they but one Lampe, one Light, one Sunne:

684In this, the Heauen figures some euent.

685Edward. 'Tis wondrous strange,

686The like yet neuer heard of.

687I thinke it cites vs (Brother) to the field,

688That wee, the Sonnes of braue Plantagenet,

689Each one alreadie blazing by our meedes,

690Should notwithstanding ioyne our Lights together,

691And ouer-shine the Earth, as this the World.

692What ere it bodes, hence-forward will I beare

693Vpon my Targuet three faire shining Sunnes.

694Richard. Nay, beare three Daughters:

695By your leaue, I speake it,

696You loue the Breeder better then the Male.

698But what art thou, whose heauie Lookes fore-tell

699Some dreadfull story hanging on thy Tongue?

700Mess. Ah, one that was a wofull looker on,

701When as the Noble Duke of Yorke was slaine,

702Your Princely Father, and my louing Lord.

703 Edward. Oh speake no more, for I haue heard too

704much.

705Richard. Say how he dy'de, for I will heare it all.

706Mess. Enuironed he was with many foes,

707And stood against them, as the hope of Troy

708Against the Greekes, that would haue entred Troy.

709But Hercules himselfe must yeeld to oddes:

710And many stroakes, though with a little Axe,

711Hewes downe and fells the hardest-tymber'd Oake.

712By many hands your Father was subdu'd,

713But onely slaught'red by the irefull Arme

714Of vn-relenting Clifford, and the Queene:

715Who crown'd the gracious Duke in high despight,

716Laugh'd in his face: and when with griefe he wept,

717The ruthlesse Queene gaue him, to dry his Cheekes,

718A Napkin, steeped in the harmelesse blood

719Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slaine:

720And after many scornes, many foule taunts,

721They tooke his Head, and on the Gates of Yorke

722They set the same, and there it doth remaine,

723The saddest spectacle that ere I view'd.

724 Edward. Sweet Duke of Yorke, our Prop to leane vpon,

725Now thou art gone, wee haue no Staffe, no Stay.

726Oh Clifford, boyst'rous Clifford, thou hast slaine

727The flowre of Europe, for his Cheualrie,

728And trecherously hast thou vanquisht him,

729For hand to hand he would haue vanquisht thee.

730Now my Soules Pallace is become a Prison:

731Ah, would she breake from hence, that this my body