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. Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun. Ed. 'Tis wondrous strange, the like yet never I think, it cites us, brother, to the field; 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. Enter MESSENGER. But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretel 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. · 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 wept, • The ruthless queen gave him, to dry his cheeks, A napkin steeper in the harmless blood 1 Hector. '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, 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, 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 '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. 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, 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, J Killed. I then in London, keeper of the king, Muster'd my soldiers, gather'd flocks of friends, March'd towards Saint Albans to intercept the queen, Bearing the king in my behalf along ; Touching king Henry's oath and your succession. 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; |