QUEEN MARGARET
Brave
warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,
Come,
make him stand upon this molehill here,
That
raught 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 descent?
Where
are your mess of sons to back you now?
The
wanton Edward, and the lusty George?
And
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 the blood
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 deadly,
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 crown.
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 adopted heir.
But
how is it that great Plantagenet
Is
crown'd 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,
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.