Original Text |
Translated Text |
| Source: Folger Shakespeare Library |
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Alarum. Enter Richard, Duke of York, wearing the
white rose. YORK
The army of the Queen hath got the field.
My uncles both are slain in rescuing me;
And all my followers to the eager foe
Turn back and fly like ships before the wind,
Or lambs pursued by hunger-starvèd wolves. 5
My sons, God knows what hath bechancèd them;
But this I know: they have demeaned themselves
Like men borne to renown by life or death.
Three times did Richard make a lane to me
And thrice cried “Courage, father, fight it out!” 10
And full as oft came Edward to my side,
With purple falchion painted to the hilt
In blood of those that had encountered him;
And when the hardiest warriors did retire,
Richard cried “Charge, and give no foot of ground!” 15
And cried “A crown or else a glorious tomb;
A scepter or an earthly sepulcher!”
With this we charged again; but, out alas,
We budged again, as I have seen a swan
With bootless labor swim against the tide 20
And spend her strength with over-matching waves.
A short alarum within.
Ah, hark, the fatal followers do pursue,
And I am faint and cannot fly their fury;
And were I strong, I would not shun their fury.
The sands are numbered that makes up my life. 25
Here must I stay, and here my life must end. Enter Queen Margaret, Clifford, Northumberland,
the young Prince Edward, and Soldiers,
all wearing the red rose. Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,
I dare your quenchless fury to more rage.
I am your butt, and I abide your shot. | York delivers a soliloquy on the battlefield. He's proud of how hard his men fought, but it just wasn't their day. Margaret's army was bigger and better, and now they've got him surrounded. Just then, Margaret, Clifford, Northumberland, and Prince Edward enter. York knows they've got something terrible in store for him, but he refuses to give in; he will rise from the ashes like a phoenix. |
Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet. 30 CLIFFORD
Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm
With downright payment showed unto my father.
Now Phaëton hath tumbled from his car
And made an evening at the noontide prick. YORK
My ashes, as the Phoenix’, may bring forth 35
A bird that will revenge upon you all;
And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heaven,
Scorning whate’er you can afflict me with.
Why come you not? What, multitudes, and fear? CLIFFORD
So cowards fight when they can fly no further; 40
So doves do peck the falcon’s piercing talons;
So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,
Breathe out invectives ’gainst the officers. YORK
O Clifford, but bethink thee once again
And in thy thought o’errun my former time; 45
And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face
And bite thy tongue that slanders him with cowardice
Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this. CLIFFORD
I will not bandy with thee word for word,
But buckler with thee blows twice two for one. 50 QUEEN MARGARET
Hold, valiant Clifford, for a thousand causes
I would prolong a while the traitor’s life.—
Wrath makes him deaf; speak thou, Northumberland. NORTHUMBERLAND
Hold, Clifford, do not honor him so much
To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart. 55
What valor 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 valor. 60
They attack York. CLIFFORD
Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin. NORTHUMBERLAND
So doth the coney struggle in the net. YORK
So triumph thieves upon their conquered booty;
So true men yield with robbers, so o’ermatched.
York is overcome. NORTHUMBERLAND, to Queen Margaret
What would your Grace have done unto him now? 65 | Clifford says that's cute, but they've got something better planned. He,
Northumberland, and York fight, and Clifford is ready to finish York
off, but Margaret has other ideas. |
QUEEN MARGARET
Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,
Come, make him stand upon this molehill here
That raught at mountains with outstretchèd arms,
Yet parted but the shadow with his hand. They place York on a small prominence. What, was it you that would be England’s king? 70
Was ’t you that reveled in our parliament
And made a preachment of your high descent?
Where are your mess of sons to back you now,
The wanton Edward and the lusty George?
And where’s that valiant crookback prodigy, 75
Dickie, 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 stained this napkin with the blood
That valiant Clifford with his rapier’s point 80
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. She gives him a bloody cloth. Alas, poor York, but that I hate thee deadly
I should lament thy miserable state. 85
I prithee grieve to make me merry, York.
What, hath thy fiery heart so parched 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. 90
Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.
Thou would’st be fee’d, I see, to make me sport.—
York cannot speak unless he wear a crown.
A crown for York! She is handed a paper crown. And, lords, bow low to him. 95
Hold you his hands whilst I do set it on. She puts the crown on York’s 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 adopted heir.
But how is it that great Plantagenet 100
Is crowned so soon and broke his solemn oath?—
As I 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 105
Now, in his life, against your holy oath?
O, ’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. | Margaret delivers a long speech about York wanting to be king. She mocks him and asks him where his son Rutland is. Oh, that's right. Did she not mention that he died? She waves a handkerchief dipped in Rutland's blood up in York's face. Um, yeah—not so nice. When York doesn't cry over his dead son, Margaret thinks he's messing with them. She claims that York is deliberately not speaking until he's got a crown on his head. Her solution? She puts a paper crown on his head. Look at England's king! Margaret reminds York that his deal with Henry was only good as long as he didn't fight to win the crown before Henry died. Oops. Looks like he broke that deal. |
CLIFFORD
That is my office, for my father’s sake. 110 QUEEN MARGARET
Nay, stay, let’s hear the orisons he makes. YORK
She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of
France,
Whose tongue more poisons than the adder’s tooth:
How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex 115
To triumph like an Amazonian trull
Upon their woes whom Fortune captivates.
But that thy face is vizard-like, unchanging,
Made impudent with use of evil deeds,
I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush. 120
To tell thee whence thou cam’st, of whom derived,
Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not
shameless.
Thy father bears the type of King of Naples,
Of both the Sicils, and Jerusalem, 125
Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman.
Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult?
It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen,
Unless the adage must be verified
That beggars mounted run their horse to death. 130
’Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud,
But God He knows thy share thereof is small.
’Tis virtue that doth make them most admired;
The contrary doth make thee wondered at.
’Tis government that makes them seem divine; 135
The want thereof makes thee abominable.
Thou art as opposite to every good
As the Antipodes are unto us
Or as the south to the Septentrion.
O, tiger’s heart wrapped in a woman’s hide, 140
How couldst thou drain the lifeblood of the child
To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,
And yet be seen to bear a woman’s face?
Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible;
Thou, stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. 145
Bidd’st thou me rage? Why, now thou hast thy wish.
Wouldst have me weep? Why, now thou hast thy will;
For raging wind blows up incessant showers,
And when the rage allays, the rain begins.
These tears are my sweet Rutland’s obsequies, 150
And every drop cries vengeance for his death
’Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false
Frenchwoman! | York finally responds by saying how unnatural it is for a woman to lead an army. He calls Margaret a "she-wolf" and "Amazonian trull" (prostitute) with a "poison" tongue. Then York launches into a speech about how women are "soft, mild, pitiful and flexible" and about how Margaret's nothing like what a woman should be; she's more of a tiger disguised as a woman. He calls her a cannibal for pushing his son's blood in his face. |
NORTHUMBERLAND, aside
Beshrew me, but his passions moves me so
That hardly can I check my eyes from tears. 155 YORK
That face of his the hungry cannibals
Would not have touched, would not have stained
with blood;
But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,
O, ten times more than tigers of Hyrcania. 160
See, ruthless queen, a hapless father’s tears.
This cloth thou dipped’st in blood of my sweet boy,
And I with tears do wash the blood away. He hands her the cloth. Keep thou the napkin and go boast of this;
And if thou tell’st the heavy story right, 165
Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears.
Yea, even my foes will shed fast-falling tears
And say “Alas, it was a piteous deed.” He hands her the paper crown. There, take the crown and, with the crown, my
curse, 170
And in thy need such comfort come to thee
As now I reap at thy too cruel hand.—
Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world,
My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads. NORTHUMBERLAND
Had he been slaughterman to all my kin, 175
I should not for my life but weep with him
To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul. | Northumberland is moved by the whole thing and wants to "weep," but Margaret and Clifford don't show an ounce of remorse. |
QUEEN MARGARET
What, weeping ripe, my Lord Northumberland?
Think but upon the wrong he did us all,
And that will quickly dry thy melting tears. 180 CLIFFORD, stabbing York twice
Here’s for my oath; here’s for my father’s death! QUEEN MARGARET, stabbing York
And here’s to right our gentle-hearted king. YORK
Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God.
My soul flies through these wounds to seek out Thee.
He dies. QUEEN MARGARET
Off with his head, and set it on York gates, 185
So York may overlook the town of York. Flourish. They exit, Soldiers carrying York’s body. | Margaret and Clifford take turns stabbing York until he does. Then
Margaret orders for his dead body to be put up on the city gates for all
to see. |