Enter CLIFFoRD and Soldiers. -: Clif. Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy life. As for the brat of this accursed duke, Whose father slew my father,"—he shall die. Tut. And I, my lord, will bear him company. Clif. Soldiers, away with him. Tut. Ah, Clifford murder not this innocent child, * Lest thou be hated both of God and man. . . . [Evit, forced off by Soldiers. Clif. How now ! is he dead already ? Or, is it fear That makes him close his eyes?—I’ll open them. ‘ Rut. So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch * That trembles under his devouring paws: And so he walks, insulting o'er his prey; * And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder.— . * Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword, And not with such a cruel, threat’ning look. Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die;— I am too mean a subject for thy wrath ; Be thou revenged on men, and let me live. Clif. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy; my father's - blood - Hath stopped the passage where thy words should - enter. + 2. Rut. Then let my father's blood open it again; He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him. _{ Clif. Had I thy brethren here, their lives, and thine, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Were not revenge sufficient for me. No, if I digged up thy forefathers’ graves, And hung their rotten coffins up in chains, It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart. The sight of any of the house of York Is as a fury to torment my soul; * And till I root out their accursed line, ‘And leave not one alive, I live in hell,

Therefore— fifting his land.

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 P × . . . . . . . - Thy father slew my father; therefore, die. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . [CLIFFORD stabs him. summa sit ista tude!” Clif Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet! And this thy son's blood, cleaving to my blade, Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood, Congealed with this, do make me wipe off both. [Exit.

Rut. Dii faciant, laudis

SCENE IV. The same.

Alarum. Enter York.

York. The army of the queen hath got

‘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 pursued by hunger-starved wolves.
‘My sons—God knows what hath bechanced them;

the field.

But this I know, they have demeaned 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 falchion, painted to the hilt
‘In blood of those that had encountered 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 charged again; but, out, alas !
‘We bodged’ again; as I have seen a swan
“With bootless labor swim against the tide,
‘And spend her strength with overmatching 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 numbered that make up my life;
‘Here must I stay, and here my life must end.

Enter QUEEN MARGARET, CLIFFoRD, NoKTHUMBERLAND, and Soldiers.

* Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,—
‘I dare your quenchless fury to more rage;
* I am your butt, and I abide your shot.
North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.
Clif Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm,
With downright payment, showed unto my father.
Now Phaëton hath tumbled from his car,
And made an evening at the noontide prick.”
York. My ashes, as the Phoenix, 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 P.
Clif. So cowards fight, when they can fly no further;
* So doves do peck whe falcon's piercing talons;
So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,
Breathe out invectives 'gainst the officers. .
York. O, Clifford, but bethink thee once again,
‘And in thy thought o'errun 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 honor him so much,
To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart.
What valor 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 valor.
[They lay hands on York, who struggles.
Clif. Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin.
North. So doth the cony struggle in the net.
[YoRK is taken prisoner.
York. So triumph thieves upon their conquered
booty; , - y
So true men yield, with robbers so o'ermatched.
North. What would your grace have done unto him
now P

Q. Mar. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland, . . . . . . 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 P Was’t you that revelled in our parliament, And made a preachment of your high descent? Where are your mess of sons to back you now P The wanton Edward, and the lusty George P. ‘And where's that valiant, crookback prodigy, Dicky, your boy, that, with his grumbling voice, Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies f Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland P Look, York; I stained 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 parched thine entrails, That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death? *Why art thou patient, man P thou shouldst be mad; * And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus. Thou wouldst 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.— Hold you his hands, whilst I do set it on.— [Putting a paper crown on his head.”