_Rich._ Nay, bear three daughters: by your leave I speak it. [cba041] You love the breeder better than the male. [cba042] _Enter a_ Messenger. But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue? _Mess._ Ah, one that was a woful looker-on ·cba045· When as the noble Duke of York was slain, Your princely father and my loving lord! _Edw._ O, speak no more, for I have heard too much. _Rich._ Say how he died, for I will hear it all. _Mess._ Environed he was with many foes, ·cba050· And stood against them, as the hope of Troy Against the Greeks that would have enter’d Troy. But Hercules himself must yield to odds; And many strokes, though with a little axe, Hew down and fell the hardest-timber’d oak. [cba055] By many hands your father was subdued; But only slaughter’d by the ireful arm Of unrelenting Clifford and the queen, Who crown’d the gracious duke in high despite, Laugh’d in his face; and when with grief he wept, ·cba060· The ruthless queen gave him to dry his cheeks [cba061] A napkin steeped 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 ·cba065· They set the same; and there it doth remain, The saddest spectacle that e’er I view’d. _Edw._ 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 ·cba070· The flower of Europe for his chivalry; And treacherously hast thou vanquish’d him, For hand to hand he would have vanquish’d thee. Now my soul’s palace is become a prison: Ah, would she break from hence, that this my body ·cba075· Might in the ground be closed up in rest! For never henceforth shall I joy again, Never, O never, shall I see more joy! _Rich._ I cannot weep; for all my body’s moisture Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart: ·cba080· Nor can my tongue unload my heart’s great burthen; For selfsame wind that I should speak withal [cba082] Is kindling coals that fires all my breast, [cba083] And burns me up with flames that tears would quench. To weep is to make less the depth of grief: ·cba085· Tears then for babes; blows and revenge for me! Richard, I bear thy name; I’ll venge thy death, Or die renowned by attempting it. _Edw._ His name that valiant duke hath left with thee; His dukedom and his chair with me is left. ·cba090· _Rich._ Nay, if thou be that princely eagle’s bird, Show thy descent by gazing ’gainst the sun: For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say; Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his. [cba094] _March. Enter_ WARWICK, MARQUESS OF MONTAGUE, _and their army_. _War._ How now, fair lords! What fare? what news abroad? [cba095]