And made an evening at the noontide prick.

YORK	My ashes, as the phoenix, may bring forth
	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;
	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'er-run my former time;
	And, if though 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 buckle with thee blows, twice two for one.

QUEEN MARGARET	Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand causes
	I would prolong awhile the traitor's life.
	Wrath makes him deaf: speak thou, Northumberland.

NORTHUMBERLAND	Hold, Clifford! do not honour him so much
	To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart:
	What valour 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 valour.

	[They lay hands on YORK, who struggles]

CLIFFORD	Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin.

NORTHUMBERLAND	So doth the cony struggle in the net.

YORK	So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty;
	So true men yield, with robbers so o'ermatch'd.

NORTHUMBERLAND	What would your grace have done unto him now?

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.

CLIFFORD	That is my office, for my father's sake.

QUEEN MARGARET	Nay, stay; lets 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
	To triumph, like an Amazonian trull,