York complete text
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York. Richard, enough; I will be king, or die. | 1.2.35
        Brother, thou shalt to London presently, | 1.2.36
        And whet on Warwick to this enterprise. | 1.2.37
        Thou, Richard, shalt to the Duke of Norfolk, | 1.2.38
        And tell him privily of our intent. | 1.2.39
        You Edward, shall unto my Lord Cobham, | 1.2.40
        With whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise: | 1.2.41
        In them I trust; for they are soldiers, | 1.2.42
        Witty, courteous, liberal, full of spirit. | 1.2.43
        While you are thus employ'd, what resteth more, | 1.2.44
        But that I seek occasion how to rise, | 1.2.45
        And yet the king not privy to my drift, | 1.2.46
        Nor any of the house of Lancaster? | 1.2.47
Enter a Messenger
|         But, stay: what news? Why comest thou in such post? | 1.2.48
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York. The army of the queen hath got the field: | 1.4.1
        My uncles both are slain in rescuing me; | 1.4.2
        And all my followers to the eager foe | 1.4.3
        Turn back and fly, like ships before the wind | 1.4.4
        Or lambs pursued by hunger-starved wolves. | 1.4.5
        My sons, God knows what hath bechanced them: | 1.4.6
        But this I know, they have demean'd themselves | 1.4.7
        Like men born to renown by life or death. | 1.4.8
        Three times did Richard make a lane to me. | 1.4.9
        And thrice cried 'Courage, father! fight it out!' | 1.4.10
        And full as oft came Edward to my side, | 1.4.11
        With purple falchion, painted to the hilt | 1.4.12
        In blood of those that had encounter'd him: | 1.4.13
        And when the hardiest warriors did retire, | 1.4.14
        Richard cried 'Charge! and give no foot of ground!' | 1.4.15
        And cried 'A crown, or else a glorious tomb! | 1.4.16
        A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre!' | 1.4.17
        With this, we charged again: but, out, alas! | 1.4.18
        We bodged again; as I have seen a swan | 1.4.19
        With bootless labour swim against the tide | 1.4.20
        And spend her strength with over-matching waves. | 1.4.21
A short alarum within
|         Ah, hark! the fatal followers do pursue; | 1.4.22
        And I am faint and cannot fly their fury: | 1.4.23
        And were I strong, I would not shun their fury: | 1.4.24
        The sands are number'd that make up my life; | 1.4.25
        Here must I stay, and here my life must end. | 1.4.26
Enter QUEEN MARGARET, CLIFFORD, NORTHUMBERLAND, PRINCE EDWARD, and Soldiers
|         Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland, | 1.4.27
        I dare your quenchless fury to more rage: | 1.4.28
        I am your butt, and I abide your shot. | 1.4.29
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York. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France, | 1.4.111
        Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth! | 1.4.112
        How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex | 1.4.113
        To triumph, like an Amazonian trull, | 1.4.114
        Upon their woes whom fortune captivates! | 1.4.115
        But that thy face is, vizard-like, unchanging, | 1.4.116
        Made impudent with use of evil deeds, | 1.4.117
        I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush. | 1.4.118
        To tell thee whence thou camest, of whom derived, | 1.4.119
        Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless. | 1.4.120
        Thy father bears the type of King of Naples, | 1.4.121
        Of both the Sicils and Jerusalem, | 1.4.122
        Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman. | 1.4.123
        Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult? | 1.4.124
        It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen, | 1.4.125
        Unless the adage must be verified, | 1.4.126
        That beggars mounted run their horse to death. | 1.4.127
        'Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud; | 1.4.128
        But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small: | 1.4.129
        'Tis virtue that doth make them most admired; | 1.4.130
        The contrary doth make thee wonder'd at: | 1.4.131
        'Tis government that makes them seem divine; | 1.4.132
        The want thereof makes thee abominable: | 1.4.133
        Thou art as opposite to every good | 1.4.134
        As the Antipodes are unto us, | 1.4.135
        Or as the south to the septentrion. | 1.4.136
        O tiger's heart wrapt in a woman's hide! | 1.4.137
        How couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child, | 1.4.138
        To bid the father wipe his eyes withal, | 1.4.139
        And yet be seen to bear a woman's face? | 1.4.140
        Women are soft, mild, pitiful and flexible; | 1.4.141
        Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. | 1.4.142
        Bids't thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish: | 1.4.143
        Wouldst have me weep? why, now thou hast thy will: | 1.4.144
        For raging wind blows up incessant showers, | 1.4.145
        And when the rage allays, the rain begins. | 1.4.146
        These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies: | 1.4.147
        And every drop cries vengeance for his death, | 1.4.148
        'Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false | 1.4.149
        Frenchwoman. | 1.4.150
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York. That face of his the hungry cannibals | 1.4.153
        Would not have touch'd, would not have stain'd with blood: | 1.4.154
        But you are more inhuman, more inexorable, | 1.4.155
        O, ten times more, than tigers of Hyrcania. | 1.4.156
        See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears: | 1.4.157
        This cloth thou dip'dst in blood of my sweet boy, | 1.4.158
        And I with tears do wash the blood away. | 1.4.159
        Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this: | 1.4.160
        And if thou tell'st the heavy story right, | 1.4.161
        Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears; | 1.4.162
        Yea even my foes will shed fast-falling tears, | 1.4.163
        And say 'Alas, it was a piteous deed!' | 1.4.164
        There, take the crown, and, with the crown, my curse; | 1.4.165
        And in thy need such comfort come to thee | 1.4.166
        As now I reap at thy too cruel hand! | 1.4.167
        Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world: | 1.4.168
        My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads! | 1.4.169
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