A monologue from the play by Christopher Marlowe
NOTE: This monologue is reprinted from The Works. Christopher Marlowe. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1910.
QUEEN: Brave warriors, Clifford & Northumberland,
Come make him stand upon this molehill here,
That aimed at mountaines with outstretched arm,
And parted but the shadow with his hand.
Was it you that ruled 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?
Or where is that valiant crookback prodigy?
Dicky your boy, that with his grumbling voice,
Was wont to cheat his dad in mutinies?
Or amongst the rest, where is your darling Rutland?
Look Yorke? I dipped this napkin in the blood,
That valiant Clifford with his rapiers point,
Made issue from the bosom of thy boy.
And if thine eyes can water for his death,
I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withall.
Alas poor York. But that I hate thee much,
I should lament thy miserable state.
I prithee grieve to make me merry, York.
Stamp, rave and fret, that I may sing and dance.
What? hath thy fiery heart so parched thine entrails,
That not a tear can fall for Rutland’s death?
Thou wouuldst be feed, I see, to make me sport.
York cannot speak, unless he wear a crown.
A crown for York? and Lords bow low to him.
So: hold you his hands, while I do set it on.
I, now looks he like a king?
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 crowned so soon, and broke his holy oath,
As I bethink me you should not be king,
Till our Henry had shook hands with death
And will you impale your head with Henry’s glory,
And rob his temples of the Diadem
Now in his life against your holy oath?
Oh, tis a fault too too unpardonable.
Off with the crown, and with the crown his head.