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And, Henry, hadst thou sway'd as kings should do,
They never then had sprung like summer flies; * I, and ten thousand in this luckless realm, Had left no mourning widows for our death, And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace. For what doth cherish weeds but gentle air? • And what makes robbers bold, but too much lenity? Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds;
No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight: The foe is merciless, and will not pity ; For, at their hands, I have deserv'd no pity. • The air hath got into my deadly wounds, And much effuse of blood doth make me faint: Come, York, and Richard, Warwick, and the rest; 'I stabb'd your father's bosoms, split my breast.
Alarum and Retreat. Enter EDWARD, GEORGE,
RICHARD, MONTAGUE, WARWICK, and Soldiers.
• Edw. Now breathe we, lords ; good fortune bids
us pause, "And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful
Command an argosy to stem the waves.
For, though before his face I speak the words, Your brother Richard mark'd him for the grave: . And, wheresoe'er he is, he's surely dead.
[CLIFFORD groans, and dies. Edw. Whose soul is that which takes her heavy
leave? Rich. A deadly groan, like life and death’s de.
parting 3 Edw. See who it is : and, now the battle's ended, If friend, or foe, let him be gently us’d.
• Rich. Revoke that doom of mercy, for 'tis Clifford; Who not contented that he lopp'd the branch In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth, But set his murdering knife unto the root From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring, 'I mean, our princely father, duke of York. War. From off the gates of York fetch down the
head, Your father's head, which Clifford placed there : • Instead whereof, let this supply the room ; Measure for measure must be answered. Edw. Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our
house, • That nothing sung but death to us and ours: * Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound, ' And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.
[Attendants bring the Body forward. War. I think his understanding is bereft:Speak, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee? Dark cloudy death o'ershades his beams of life, And he nor sees, nor hears us what we say.
3 For separation.
Rich. O, 'would he did! and so, perhaps, he doth; « 'Tis but his policy to counterfeit,
Because he would avoid such bitter taunts,
Geo. If so thou think'st, vex him with eager words. 4
wast wont. · Rich. What, not an oath? nay, then the world
goes hard, • When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath:I know by that, he's dead; And, by my soul, • If this right hand would buy two hours' life, That I in all despite might rail at him, * This hand should chop it off; and with the issuing
blood Stifle the villain, whose unstaunched thirst York and young Rutland could not satisfy. War. Ay, but he's dead : Off with the traitor's
head, And rear it in the place your father's stands. And now to London with triumphant march, There to be crowned England's royal king. • From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France,
Sour words ; words of asperity.
And ask the lady Bona for thy queen: So shalt thou sinew both these lands together ; • And, having France thy friend, thou shalt not
dread The scatter'd foe, that hopes to rise again; For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt, Yet look to have them buz, to offend thine ears. First, will I see the coronation ; * And then to Britany I'll cross the sea, To effect this marriage, so it please my lord.
Edw. Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it
* For on thy shoulder do I build my seat; * And never will I undertake the thing,
Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting.
War. Tut, that's a foolish observation;
ACT III. .
SCENE I. A Chace in the North of England.
Enter Two Keepers, with Cross-bows in their Hands. • 1 Keep. Under this thick grown brakes we'll
shroud ourselves; • For through this laundó anon the deer will come;
And in this covert will we make our stand, 'Culling the principal of all the deer. 2 Keep. I'll stay above the hill, so both may
shoot. * 1 Keep. That cannot be; the noise of thy cross
bow * Will scare the herd, and so my shoot is lost. * Here stand we both, and aim we at the best: * And, for the time shall not seem tedious, * I'll tell thee what befell me on a day, * In this self-place where now we mean to stand. 2 Keep. Here comes a man, let's stay till he be
Enter King HENRY, disguised, with a Prayer-book. K. Hen. From Scotland am I stol'n, even of pure
love, * To greet mine own land with my wishful sight.
No, Harry, Harry, 'tis no land of thine ; * Thy place is fillid, thy scepter wrung from thee, * Thy balm wash'd off, wherewith thou wast anointed:
6 A plain extended between woods.