Page 815 - Shakespeare - Vol. 1

MESSENGER

Environèd he was with many foes [50]
And stood against them, as the hope of Troy
Against the Greeks that would have entered Troy.
But Hercules himself must yield to odds;
And many strokes, though with a little axe,
Hews down and fells the hardest-timbered oak. [55]
By many hands your father was subdued,
But only slaughtered by the ireful arm
Of unrelenting Clifford and the queen,
Who crowned the gracious duke in high despite,
Laughed in his face and, when with grief he wept, [60]
The ruthless queen gave him to dry his cheeks
A napkin steepèd in the harmless blood
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 [65]
They set the same; and there it doth remain,
The saddest spectacle that e’er I viewed.

EDWARD

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 [70]
The flower of Europe for his chivalry,
And treacherously hast thou vanquished him,
For hand to hand he would have vanquished thee.
Now my soul’s palace is become a prison:
Ah, would she break from hence that this my body [75]
Might in the ground be closèd up in rest!
For never henceforth shall I joy again,
Never, O never, shall I see more joy!

RICHARD

I cannot weep, for all my body’s moisture
Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart; [80]
Nor can my tongue unload my heart’s great burden,
For selfsame wind that I should speak withal
Is kindling coals that fires all my breast
And burns me up with flames that tears would quench.
To weep is to make less the depth of grief: [85]