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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.
The queen’s army has taken the field: Both my uncles were killed trying to save me; And all my followers have turned and fled, Like ships running from the wind, Or lambs chased by starving wolves. My sons, God knows what has happened to them: But I do know this: they’ve acted like men Who were meant for greatness, whether in life or death. Three times Richard made a path for me. And three times cried, "Courage, father! Fight on!" And just as often, Edward came to my side, His sword red with the blood of those who fought him: And when the bravest warriors began to retreat, Richard cried, "Charge! Don’t give up an inch!" And shouted, "A crown, or a glorious grave! A scepter, or a tomb!" With this, we charged again, but alas! We failed again, just like I’ve seen a swan Struggling against the tide, Wasting her strength against the waves.
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.
Ah, listen! The deadly enemies are chasing me; And I’m so weak I can’t escape their rage: And even if I were strong, I wouldn’t run from them: The days of my life are numbered; Here I must stay, and here my life will end.
Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland, I dare your quenchless fury to more rage: I am your butt, and I abide your shot.
Come, bloody Clifford, fierce Northumberland, I challenge your endless fury to more rage: I am your target, and I’ll take your shot.
Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.
Surrender to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.
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.
Yes, to the same mercy that his cruel hand, With full payment, showed to my father. Now Phaethon has fallen from his chariot, And brought night in the middle of the day.
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?
My ashes, like the phoenix, might give birth to A bird that will get revenge on all of you: And with that hope, I look up to heaven, Rejecting anything you try to do to hurt me. Why aren’t you coming? What’s this? You’re afraid of so many people?
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.
Cowards fight when they can’t run away anymore; Doves peck at the falcon’s sharp claws; Desperate thieves, hopeless about their lives, Curse the officers who catch them.
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!
Oh, Clifford, think again, And remember my past actions; And, if you’re capable of feeling ashamed, look at this face, And bite your tongue for calling him a coward Whose angry stare has already made you falter and run away before!
I will not bandy with thee word for word, But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one.
I won’t argue with you word for word, But I’ll fight you, two hits for one.
Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand causes I would prolong awhile the traitor’s life. Wrath makes him deaf: speak thou, Northumberland.
Stop, brave Clifford! For a thousand reasons, I want to keep the traitor alive a bit longer. Anger makes him deaf: you speak, 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.
Stop, Clifford! Don’t give him that much honor By pricking your finger, even to hurt his heart: What kind of bravery is it, when a dog bares its teeth, For someone to stick his hand in its mouth, When he could just kick it away with his foot? War is about taking every advantage; And being ten times stronger is no shame in bravery.
Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin.
Yes, yes, that’s how the woodcock struggles with the trap.
So doth the cony struggle in the net.
And that’s how the rabbit struggles in the net.
So triumph thieves upon their conquer’d booty; So true men yield, with robbers so o’ermatch’d.
That’s how thieves celebrate after stealing their loot; That’s how honest men give in when they’re outmatched by robbers.
What would your grace have done unto him now?
What would you have done to him now, your grace?
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.
Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland, Come, let him stand on this little hill here, He who once reached for mountains with outstretched arms, Yet only touched the shadow with his hand. What’s this? Was it you who wanted to be England’s king? Was it you who enjoyed our parliament, And boasted about your noble ancestry? Where are your sons now to support you? The spoiled Edward, and the strong George? And where is that brave hunchback, little Dicky, The boy whose grumbling voice Used to cheer his father during rebellions? Or, where is your darling Rutland, along with the rest? Look, York: I stained this napkin with the blood That brave Clifford, with his sword, made flow from the boy’s chest; And if your eyes can weep for his death, I give you this to wipe your tears away. Poor York! If I didn’t hate you so much, I might mourn your sorry state. Please, grieve, to make me happy, York. What, has your fiery heart so dried up your insides That no tear can fall for Rutland’s death? Why are you so calm, man? You should be furious; And to make you furious, I mock you like this. Stamp, rant, and fume, so I can sing and dance. You’d be paid, I see, to amuse me: York can’t speak, unless he wears a crown. A crown for York! And, lords, bow down to him: Hold his hands, while I put it on him.
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.
Yes, indeed, sir, now he looks like a king! Yes, this is the one who took King Henry’s throne, And this is the one who was his adopted heir. But how is it that the great Plantagenet Is crowned so soon, and broke his solemn oath? Now that I think of it, you shouldn’t be king Until our King Henry had shaken hands with death. And will you steal Henry’s glory, And rob his temples of the crown, While he is still alive, breaking your sacred oath? Oh, it’s a mistake that’s utterly unforgivable! Off with the crown, and with it, his head; And while we still breathe, let’s finish him off.
That is my office, for my father’s sake.
That’s my job, for my father’s sake.
Nay, stay; lets hear the orisons he makes.
No, wait; let’s hear the prayers he’s saying.
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.
You she-wolf of France, but worse than the wolves of France, Your tongue poisons more than the bite of a snake! How disgraceful it is for you, as a woman, To celebrate, like a shameless Amazon, The misfortunes of those whom fate has captured! If your face weren’t like a mask, always the same, Made bold by the repeated use of evil deeds, I would try, proud queen, to make you feel ashamed. To tell you where you came from, and who your ancestors were, Would be shame enough to embarrass you, if you weren’t so shameless. Your father was the King of Naples, Ruler of both Sicily and Jerusalem, Yet he was not as wealthy as a common English farmer. Has that poor king taught you to insult people? You don’t need to know that, nor would it matter to you, proud queen, Unless the saying must be true, That beggars who rise too high destroy themselves. It’s beauty that often makes women proud; But God knows, you have very little of that: It’s virtue that makes women most admired; The opposite makes you the one people talk about: It’s good leadership that makes women seem divine; The lack of that makes you vile: You are as opposite to all that is good As the Antipodes are to us, Or as the south is to the north. Oh, tiger’s heart wrapped in a woman’s skin! How could you drain the life from the child, And tell the father to wipe his eyes with it, And still be seen with a woman’s face? Women are soft, gentle, compassionate, and flexible; But you are hard, stubborn, cold, rough, and merciless. Do you want me to rage? Well, now you’ve got your wish: Do you want me to cry? Well, now you’ve got your way: Because when the wind rages, it brings constant rain, And when the rage fades, the rain continues. These tears are my sweet Rutland’s funeral rites: And every drop cries for revenge for his death, Against you, cruel Clifford, and you, false Frenchwoman.
Beshrew me, but his passion moves me so That hardly can I cheque my eyes from tears.
Curse me, but his anger moves me so That I can hardly stop myself from crying.
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!
His face, the hungry cannibals Would never have touched, never have stained with blood: But you are even more inhuman, more merciless, Oh, ten times worse than tigers from Hyrcania. Look, ruthless queen, at the tears of a miserable father: This cloth you dipped in the blood of my sweet boy, And I wash it with my tears. Keep the napkin, and go brag about this: And if you tell the full story correctly, I swear, the people who hear it will cry; Even my enemies will shed tears, And say, "Alas, that was a terrible thing!" Take the crown, and with it, my curse; And when you need help, may you receive the same fate That I now get from your cruel hand! Cold-hearted Clifford, take me out of this world: My soul to heaven, my blood on your heads!
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.
If he had killed all my family, I would still, for my life, weep with him. To see how deeply sorrow grips his soul.
What, weeping-ripe, my Lord Northumberland? Think but upon the wrong he did us all, And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.
What, crying already, my Lord Northumberland? Think only of the wrong he did to all of us, And that will quickly stop your tears from flowing.
Here’s for my oath, here’s for my father’s death.
Here’s for my oath, here’s for my father’s death.
And here’s to right our gentle-hearted king.
And here’s to avenge our gentle-hearted king.
Open Thy gate of mercy, gracious God! My soul flies through these wounds to seek out Thee.
Open, God, your gate of mercy! My soul flies through these wounds to find you.
Off with his head, and set it on York gates; So York may overlook the town of York.
Off with his head, and put it on the gates of York; So York can look down on the city of York.