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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. I never did thee harm, Why wilt thou slay me?
Clif. Thy father hath.

Rut. But 'twas ere I was born.
Thou hast one son, for his sake pity me;
Lest, in revenge thereof,—sith God is just,—
He be as miserably slain as I.
Ah, let me live in prison all my days;
And when I give occasion of offence,
Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause.

Clif. No cause?
Thy father slew my father; therefore, die.

[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.
York. The army of the queen hath got the field :
My uncles both are slain in rescuing me;
And all my followers to the eager foe
Turn back, and fly, like ships before the wind,

Or lambs pursu'd by hunger-starved wolves. :
My sons-God knows, what hath bechanced them :
But this I know,—they have demean’d themselves
Like men born to renown, by life, or death.
Three times did Richard make a lane to me;
And thrice cried,—Courage, father ! fight it out !
And full as oft came Edward to my side,
With purple faulchion, painted to the hilt
In blood of those that had encounter'd him:
And when the hardiest warriors did retire,
Richard cried,—Charge! and give no foot of ground!
And cried,—A crown, or else a glorious tomb!
A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre !
With this, we charg'd again : but, out, alas !
We bodg’d again; as I have seen a swan
With bootless labour swim against the tide,
And spend her strength with over-matching waves.

[A short Alarum within.
Ah, hark! the fatal followers do pursue;
And I am faint, and cannot fly their fury:
And, were I strong, I would not shun their fury:
The sands are number'd, that make up my life;
Here must I stay, and here my life must end.


LAND, and Soldiers.
Come, bloody Clifford,—rough Northumberland,-
I dare your quenchless fury to more rage;
I am your butl, and I abide your shot.

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,
And made an evening at the noontide prick.

York. My ashes, as the phænix, may bring forth
A bird, that will revenge upon you all :
And, in that hope, I throw mine eyes to heaven,
Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with.
Why come you not? what! multitudes, and fear?

Clif. So cowards fight, when they can fly no further;
So doves do peck the falcon's piercing talons;
So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,
Breathe out invectives 'gainst the officers.

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;
York cannot speak, unless he wear a crown.-
A crown for York ;-and, lords, bow low to him.-
Hold you his hands, whilst I do set it on.-

[Putting a paper Crown on his Head.
Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king !
Ay, 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 crown'd so soon, and broke his solemn oath ?
As I bethink me, you should not be king,
Till our king Henry had shook hands with death.
And will you pale your head in Henry's glory,
And rob his temples of the diadem,
Now in his life, against your holy oath?
O, 'tis a fault, too too unpardonable ! -
Off with the crown; and, with the crown, his head;
And, whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead.

Clif. That is my office, for my father's sake.
Q. Mar. Nay, stay; let's hear the orisons he makes.
York. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of

Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth!
How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex,
To triumph like an Amazonian trull,
Upon their woes, whom fortune captivates ?
But that thy face is, visor-like, unchanging,
Made impudent with use of evil deeds,
I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush :
To tell thee whence thou cam’st, of whom deriv'd,
Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shame-


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