This cloth thou dipp'dst in blood of my sweet boy,
And I with tears do wash the blood away.
Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this;
And if thou tell'st the heavy story right, 160
Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears;
Yea, even my foes will shed fast-falling tears,
And say, 'Alas! it was a piteous deed!'
There, take the crown, and with the crown my curse, 164
And in thy need such comfort come to thee
As now I reap at thy too cruel hand!
Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world;
My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads! 168
North. Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin,
I should not for my life but weep with him,
To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul.
Queen. What! weeping-ripe, my Lord Northumberland? 172
Think but upon the wrong he did us all,
And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.
Clif. Here's for my oath; here's for my father's death. [Stabbing him.]
Queen. And here's to right our gentle-hearted king. [Stabbing him.]
York. Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God!
My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee. [Dies.]
Queen. Off with his head, and set it on York gates;
So York may overlook the town of York. 180
159 napkin: handkerchief
160 heavy: grievous
164 Cf. n.
171 inly: inward
172 weeping-ripe: ready for tears
