Henry VI, Part III: Full Text

     Enter RICHARD, EDWARD, and MONTAGUE

RICHARD: Brother, though I be youngest, give me leave.

EDWARD: No, I can better play the orator.

MONTAGUE: But I have reasons strong and forcible.

    Enter YORK

YORK: Why, how now, sons and brother! at a strife?
    What is your quarrel? how began it first?

EDWARD: No quarrel, but a slight contention.

YORK: About what?

RICHARD: About that which concerns your grace and us;
    The crown of England, father, which is yours.

YORK: Mine boy? not till King Henry be dead.

RICHARD: Your right depends not on his life or death.

EDWARD: Now you are heir, therefore enjoy it now:
    By giving the house of Lancaster leave to breathe,
    It will outrun you, father, in the end.

YORK: I took an oath that he should quietly reign.

EDWARD: But for a kingdom any oath may be broken:
    I would break a thousand oaths to reign one year.

RICHARD: No; God forbid your grace should be forsworn.

YORK: I shall be, if I claim by open war.

RICHARD: I'll prove the contrary, if you'll hear me speak.

YORK: Thou canst not, son; it is impossible.

RICHARD: An oath is of no moment, being not took
    Before a true and lawful magistrate,
    That hath authority over him that swears:
    Henry had none, but did usurp the place;
    Then, seeing 'twas he that made you to depose,
    Your oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous.
    Therefore, to arms! And, father, do but think
    How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown;
    Within whose circuit is Elysium
    And all that poets feign of bliss and joy.
    Why do we finger thus? I cannot rest
    Until the white rose that I wear be dyed
    Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry's heart.

YORK: Richard, enough; I will be king, or die.
    Brother, thou shalt to London presently,
    And whet on Warwick to this enterprise.
    Thou, Richard, shalt to the Duke of Norfolk,
    And tell him privily of our intent.
    You Edward, shall unto my Lord Cobham,
    With whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise:
    In them I trust; for they are soldiers,
    Witty, courteous, liberal, full of spirit.
    While you are thus employ'd, what resteth more,
    But that I seek occasion how to rise,
    And yet the king not privy to my drift,
    Nor any of the house of Lancaster?

    Enter a Messenger
    But, stay: what news? Why comest thou in such post?

Messenger: The queen with all the northern earls and lords
    Intend here to besiege you in your castle:
    She is hard by with twenty thousand men;
    And therefore fortify your hold, my lord.

YORK: Ay, with my sword. What! think'st thou that we fear them?
    Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me;
    My brother Montague shall post to London:
    Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest,
    Whom we have left protectors of the king,
    With powerful policy strengthen themselves,
    And trust not simple Henry nor his oaths.

MONTAGUE: Brother, I go; I'll win them, fear it not:
    And thus most humbly I do take my leave.

    Exit

    Enter JOHN MORTIMER and HUGH MORTIMER
    Sir John and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles,
    You are come to Sandal in a happy hour;
    The army of the queen mean to besiege us.

JOHN MORTIMER: She shall not need; we'll meet her in the field.

YORK: What, with five thousand men?

RICHARD: Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need:
    A woman's general; what should we fear?

    A march afar off

EDWARD: I hear their drums: let's set our men in order,
    And issue forth and bid them battle straight.

YORK: Five men to twenty! though the odds be great,
    I doubt not, uncle, of our victory.
    Many a battle have I won in France,
    When as the enemy hath been ten to one:
    Why should I not now have the like success?

    Alarum. Exeunt

     Alarums. Enter RUTLAND and his Tutor

RUTLAND: Ah, whither shall I fly to 'scape their hands?
    Ah, tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes!

    Enter CLIFFORD and Soldiers

CLIFFORD: Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy life.
    As for the brat of this accursed duke,
    Whose father slew my father, he shall die.

Tutor: And I, my lord, will bear him company.

CLIFFORD: Soldiers, away with him!

Tutor: Ah, Clifford, murder not this innocent child,
    Lest thou be hated both of God and man!

    Exit, dragged off by Soldiers

CLIFFORD: How now! is he dead already? or is it fear
    That makes him close his eyes? I'll open them.

RUTLAND: So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch
    That trembles under his devouring paws;
    And so he walks, insulting o'er his prey,
    And so he comes, to rend his limbs asunder.
    Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword,
    And not with such a cruel threatening look.
    Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die.
    I am too mean a subject for thy wrath:
    Be thou revenged on men, and let me live.

CLIFFORD: In vain thou speak'st, poor boy; my father's blood
    Hath stopp'd the passage where thy words should enter.

RUTLAND: Then let my father's blood open it again:
    He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him.

CLIFFORD: Had thy brethren here, their lives and thine
    Were not revenge sufficient for me;
    No, if I digg'd up thy forefathers' graves
    And hung their rotten coffins up in chains,
    It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart.
    The sight of any of the house of York
    Is as a fury to torment my soul;
    And till I root out their accursed line
    And leave not one alive, I live in hell.
    Therefore--

    Lifting his hand

RUTLAND: O, let me pray before I take my death!
    To thee I pray; sweet Clifford, pity me!

CLIFFORD: Such pity as my rapier's point affords.

RUTLAND: I never did thee harm: why wilt thou slay me?

CLIFFORD: Thy father hath.

RUTLAND: But 'twas ere I was born.
    Thou hast one son; for his sake pity me,
    Lest in revenge thereof, sith God is just,
    He be as miserably slain as I.
    Ah, let me live in prison all my days;
    And when I give occasion of offence,
    Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause.

CLIFFORD: No cause!
    Thy father slew my father; therefore, die.

    Stabs him

RUTLAND: Di faciant laudis summa sit ista tuae!

    Dies

CLIFFORD: Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet!
    And this thy son's blood cleaving to my blade
    Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood,
    Congeal'd with this, do make me wipe off both.

    Exit

     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 pursued by hunger-starved wolves.
    My sons, God knows what hath bechanced 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 charged again: but, out, alas!
    We bodged 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, PRINCE EDWARD, and Soldiers
    Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,
    I dare your quenchless fury to more rage:
    I am your butt, and I abide your shot.

NORTHUMBERLAND: Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.

CLIFFORD: Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm,
    With downright payment, show'd unto my father.
    Now Phaethon 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?

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.

YORK: O Clifford, but bethink thee once again,
    And in thy thought o'er-run my former time;
    And, if though 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.

QUEEN MARGARET: Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand causes
    I would prolong awhile 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 lay hands on YORK, who struggles

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 conquer'd booty;
    So true men yield, with robbers so o'ermatch'd.

NORTHUMBERLAND: 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 raught at mountains with outstretched arms,
    Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.
    What! was it you that would be England's king?
    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.

CLIFFORD: That is my office, for my father's sake.

QUEEN MARGARET: Nay, stay; lets 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, vizard-like, unchanging,
    Made impudent with use of evil deeds,
    I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush.
    To tell thee whence thou camest, 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 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 wrapt 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.
    Bids't 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 passion moves me so
    That hardly can I cheque 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 dip'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:
    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.

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.

CLIFFORD: Here's for my oath, here's for my father's death.

    Stabbing him

QUEEN MARGARET: 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

QUEEN MARGARET: Off with his head, and set it on York gates;
    So York may overlook the town of York.

    Flourish. Exeunt