Imatges de pàgina
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So fared our father with his enemies; So fled his enemies my warlike father. 'Methinks, 'tis prize enough to be his son. See, how the morning opes her golden gates, And takes her farewell of the glorious sun!1 "How well resembles it the prime of youth, "Trimm'd like a younker, prancing to his love!

Ed. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns? Rich. Three glorious suns, each one a perfect

sun;

Not separated with the racking clouds,?

But sever'd in a pale, clear-shining sky.
See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,
As if they vow'd some league inviolable :

Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun.
In this the heaven figures some event.

Ed. 'Tis wondrous strange, the like yet never
heard of.

I think, it cites us, brother, to the field;
That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet,
Each one already blazing by our meeds,3
Should, notwithstanding, join our lights together,
And overshine the earth, as this the world.
'Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear
Upon my target three fair shining suns.

1 Aurora takes for a time her farewell of the sun, when she

dismisses him to his diurnal course.'-Johnson.

2 i. e. the clouds in rapid, tumultuary motion.

• Merit.

"Rich. Nay, bear three daughters;-by your leave I speak it,

"You love the breeder better than the male.

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Enter MESSENGER.

But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretel
Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?

Mes. Ah, one that was a woful looker-on, When as the noble duke of York was slain, "Your princely father, and my loving lord.

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· Ed. O, speak no more! for I have heard too much.

Rich. Say how he died, for I will hear it all. • Mes. Environed he was with many foes;

And stood against them, as the hope of Troy1 'Against the Greeks, that would have enter'd Troy. But Hercules himself must yield to odds;

• And many strokes, though with a little axe,

'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 ; 'Laugh'd in his face; and, when with grief he

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wept,

• The ruthless queen gave him, to dry his cheeks,

A napkin steeper in the harmless blood

1 Hector.

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'Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain ;

And, after many scorns, many foul taunts,

'They took his head, and on the gates of York

They set the same; and there it doth remain,
The saddest spectacle that e'er I view'd.

Ed. Sweet duke of York, our prop to lean upon; 'Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay! "O Clifford, boisterous Clifford, thou hast slain "The flower of Europe for his chivalry;

"And treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him,

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For, hand to hand, he would have vanquish'd

thee!

Now my soul's palace is become a prison :

Ah, would she break from hence! that this my body

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'Might in the ground be closed up in rest:

For never henceforth shall I joy again;

Never, O, never, shall I see more joy.

Rich. 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 bur

den;

"For self-same wind, that I should speak withal, "Is kindling coals, that fire all my breast,

And burn 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 death, • Or die renowned by attempting it.

Ed. His name that valiant duke hath left with

thee;

His dukedom and his chair with me is left.

Rich. 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.

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March. Enter WARWICK and MONTAGUE, with forces.

War. How now, fair lords? What fare? what news abroad?

Rich. Great lord of Warwick, if we should re

count

Our baleful news, and, at each word's deliverance,
Stab poniards 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.

Ed. O Warwick! Warwick! that Plantagenet, Which held thee dearly as his soul's redemption, Is by the stern lord Clifford done to death.1

War. Ten days ago I drown'd these news in tears;

And now, to add more measure to your woes,
I come to tell you things since then befallen.
After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave father breathed his latest gasp,
Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run,
Were brought me of your loss, and his depart.

J Killed.

I then in London, keeper of the king,

Muster'd my soldiers, gather'd flocks of friends,
And, very well appointed, as I thought,

March'd towards Saint Albans to intercept the queen,

Bearing the king in my behalf along ;
For by my scouts I was advertised,
That she was coming with a full intent
To dash our late decree in parliament,

Touching king Henry's oath and your succession.
Short tale to make, we at Saint Albans met;
Our battles join'd, and both sides fiercely fought;
But, whether 'twas the coldness of the king,
Who look'd full gently on his warlike queen,
That robb'd my soldiers of their hated spleen;
Or whether 'twas report of her success;

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Or more than common fear of Clifford's rigor,

Who thunders to his captives-blood and death,—

I cannot judge: but, to conclude with truth,

Their weapons like to lightning came and went;
Our soldiers', like the night-owl's lazy flight,
'Or like a lazy thrasher with a flail,
Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends.
I cheer'd them up with justice of our cause,
With promise of high pay and great rewards;
But all in vain: they had no heart to fight,
And we, in them, no hope to win the day,
So that we fled; the king unto the queen;
Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and myself,
In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you;
For in the marches here, we heard, you were,

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