'Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud; 128
But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small:
'Tis virtue that doth make them most admir'd;
The contrary doth make thee wonder'd at:
'Tis that makes them seem divine; 132
The want thereof makes thee abominable.
Thou art as opposite to every good
As the Antipodes are unto us,
Or as the south to the . 136
How couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child,
To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,
And yet be seen to bear a woman's face? 140
Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible;
Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.
Bidd'st thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish:
Wouldst have me weep? why, now thou hast thy will; 144
For raging wind blows up incessant showers,
And when the rage , the rain begins.
These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies,
And every drop cries vengeance for his death, 148
'Gainst thee, Clifford, and thee, false French-woman.
That hardly can I check my eyes from tears.
York. That face of his the hungry cannibals 152
Would not have touch'd, would not have stain'd with blood;
But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,—
O! ten times more, than tigers of .
See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears: 156