Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand causes
I would prolong awhile the traitor's life.
Wrath makes him
deaf: speak thou, Northumberland.
Hold, Clifford! do not honour him so much
To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart:
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
Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin.
So doth the cony struggle in the net.
So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty;
So true men yield, with robbers so o'ermatch'd.
What would your grace have done unto him now?
Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,
Come, make him stand upon this molehill here,
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
Where are your mess of sons to back you now?
The wanton Edward, and the lusty George?
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
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
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
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
But how is it that great Plantagenet
Is crown'd so soon, and broke his solemn oath?
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?
'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.
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