Say how he died, for I will hear it all.
Environed he was with many foes,
And stood against them, as the hope of Troy
Against the Greeks that
would have enter'd Troy.
But Hercules himself must yield to odds;
And many strokes, though with a little
Hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.
By many hands your father was subdued;
But only slaughter'd
by the ireful arm
Of unrelenting Clifford and the queen,
Who crown'd the gracious duke in high despite,
in his face; and when with grief he wept,
The ruthless queen gave him to dry his cheeks
A napkin steeped
in the harmless blood
Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain:
And after many scorns, many foul
They took his head, and on the gates of York
They set the same; and there it doth remain,
saddest spectacle that e'er I view'd.
Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon,
Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay.
boisterous Clifford! thou hast slain
The flower of Europe for his chivalry;
And treacherously hast thou
For hand to hand he would have vanquish'd thee.
Now my soul's palace is become a
Ah, would she break from hence, that this my body
Might in the ground be closed up in rest!
never henceforth shall I joy again,
Never, O never shall I see more joy!
I cannot weep; for all my body's moisture
Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart:
Nor can my
tongue unload my heart's great burthen;
For selfsame wind that I should speak withal
Is kindling coals
that fires all my breast,
And burns me up with flames that tears would quench.
To weep is to make less
the depth of grief:
Tears then for babes; blows and revenge for me
Richard, I bear thy name; I'll venge thy
Or die renowned by attempting it.
His name that valiant duke hath left with thee;
His dukedom and his chair with me is left.
Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird,
Show thy descent by gazing 'gainst the sun:
For chair and dukedom,
throne and kingdom say;
Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his.
March. Enter WARWICK, MONTAGUE, and their army
How now, fair lords! What fare? what news abroad?
Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount
Our baleful news, and at each word's deliverance
in our flesh till all were told,
The words would add more anguish than the wounds.
O valiant lord, the
Duke of York is slain!
O Warwick, Warwick! that Plantagenet,
Which held three dearly as his soul's redemption,
Is by the stern
Lord Clifford done to death.
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