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And leave not one alive, I live in hell.
[Lifting his hand. Rut. O, let me pray before I take my death :To thee I pray ; Sweet Clifford, pity me!
Clif. Such pity as my rapier's point affords.
Rut. But 'twas ere I was born.
Clif. No cause?
[CLIFFORD stabs him. Rut. Dii faciant, laudis summa sit ista tua! [Dies.
Clif. Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet ! And this thy son's blood, cleaving to my blade, Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood, Congeald with this, do make me wipe off both. [Exit.
ORD stabs 23.
!! I coma na sit ista
Shall as thy son
SCENE IV.- The same.
Alarum. Enter YORK.
Or lambs pursu'd by hunger-starved wolves. :
[A short Alarum within.
Enter Queen MARGARET, CLIFFORD, NORTHUMBER
LAND, and Soldiers.
North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.
Clif. Ay, to such mercy, as his ruthless arm, With downright payment, show'd unto my father.
Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his car,
York. My ashes, as the phænix, may bring forth
Clif. So cowards fight, when they can fly no further;
York. 0, Clifford, but bethink thee once again, And in thy thought o'er-run my former time: And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face; And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with cowardice, Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this.
Clif. I will not bandy with thee word for word; But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one. [Draws.
Q. Mar. Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand causes, I would prolong awhile the traitor's life :Wrath makes him deaf: speak thou, Northumberland.
North. Hold, Clifford; do not honour him so much, To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart : What valour were it, when a cur doth grin, For one to thrust his hand between his teeth, When he might spurn him with his foot away? It is war's prize, to take all vantages; And ten to one is no impeach of valour.
[They lay hands on YORK, who struggles. Clif. Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin. North. So doth the coney struggle in the net.
(York is taken prisoner.
And teams prizeht spurn
ad the lo back yolescenti
York. So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty; So true men yield, with robbers so o'er-match’d. North. What would your grace have done unto him
now? Q. Mar. Brave warriors, Clifford, and Northumber
land, Come make him stand upon this molehill here; That raught at mountains with outstretched arms, Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.What! was it you, that would be England's king ? Was't you, that revelld 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? And where's that valiant crook-back prodigy, Dicky your boy, that, with his grumbling voice, Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies? Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland ? Look, York; I stain'd this napkin with the blood, That valiant Clifford, with his rapier's point, Made issue from the bosom of the boy: And, if thine eyes can water for his death, I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal. Alas, poor York! but that I hate thee deadly, I should lament thy miserable state. I pr’ythee, grieve, to make me merry, York; Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance. What, hath thy fiery heart so parch'd thine entrails, That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death? Why art thou patient, man? thou should'st be mad; And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus.
Thou would'st be fee'd, I see, to make me sport;
[Putting a paper Crown on his Head.
Clif. That is my office, for my father's sake.