Clifford. That is my Office, for my Fathers sake
Queene. Nay stay, let's heare the Orizons hee makes
Yorke. Shee-Wolfe of France, But worse then Wolues of France, Whose Tongue more poysons then the Adders Tooth: How ill-beseeming is it in thy Sex, To triumph like an Amazonian Trull, Vpon their Woes, whom Fortune captiuates? But that thy Face is Vizard-like, vnchanging, Made impudent with vse of euill deedes. I would assay, prowd Queene, to make thee blush. To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom deriu'd, Were shame enough, to shame thee, Wert thou not shamelesse. Thy Father beares the type of King of Naples, Of both the Sicils, and Ierusalem, Yet not so wealthie as an English Yeoman. Hath that poore Monarch taught thee to insult? It needes not, nor it bootes thee not, prowd Queene, Vnlesse the Adage must be verify'd, That Beggers mounted, runne their Horse to death. 'Tis Beautie that doth oft make Women prowd, But God he knowes, thy share thereof is small. 'Tis Vertue, that doth make them most admir'd, The contrary, doth make thee wondred at. 'Tis Gouernment that makes them seeme Diuine, The want thereof, makes thee abhominable. Thou art as opposite to euery good, As the Antipodes are vnto vs, Or as the South to the Septentrion. Oh Tygres Heart, wrapt in a Womans Hide, How could'st thou drayne the Life-blood of the Child, To bid the Father wipe his eyes withall, And yet be seene to beare a Womans face? Women are soft, milde, pittifull, and flexible; Thou, sterne, obdurate, flintie, rough, remorselesse. Bidst thou me rage? why now thou hast thy wish. Would'st haue me weepe? why now thou hast thy will. For raging Wind blowes vp incessant showers, And when the Rage allayes, the Raine begins. These Teares are my sweet Rutlands Obsequies, And euery drop cryes vengeance for his death, 'Gainst thee fell Clifford, and thee false French-woman
Northumb. Beshrew me, but his passions moues me so, That hardly can I check my eyes from Teares
Yorke. That Face of his, The hungry Caniballs would not haue toucht, Would not haue stayn'd with blood: But you are more inhumane, more inexorable, Oh, tenne times more then Tygers of Hyrcania. See, ruthlesse Queene, a haplesse Fathers Teares: This Cloth thou dipd'st in blood of my sweet Boy, And I with Teares doe wash the blood away. Keepe thou the Napkin, and goe boast of this, And if thou tell'st the heauie storie right, Vpon my Soule, the hearers will shed Teares: Yea, euen my Foes will shed fast-falling Teares, And say, Alas, it was a pittious deed. There, take the Crowne, and with the Crowne, my Curse, And in thy need, such comfort come to thee, As now I reape at thy too cruell hand. Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the World, My Soule to Heauen, my Blood vpon your Heads
Northumb. Had he been slaughter-man to all my Kinne, I should not for my Life but weepe with him, To see how inly Sorrow gripes his Soule
Queen. What, weeping ripe, my Lord Northumberland? Thinke but vpon the wrong he did vs all, And that will quickly drie thy melting Teares
Clifford. Heere's for my Oath, heere's for my Fathers Death
Queene. And heere's to right our gentle-hearted King
Yorke. Open thy Gate of Mercy, gracious God, My Soule flyes through these wounds, to seeke out thee
Queene. Off with his Head, and set it on Yorke Gates, So Yorke may ouer-looke the Towne of Yorke.
A March. Enter Edward, Richard, and their power.