And leave not one alive, I live in hell. Therefore [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,- 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. Thy father slew my father; therefore, die. [CLIFFORD stabs him. Rut. Di faciant, laudis summa sit ista tuæ! And this thy son's blood, cleaving to my blade, Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood, [Dies. Congeal'd with this, do make me wipe off both. [Exit. 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: With this, we charg'd again: but, out, alas! Ah, hark! the fatal followers do pursue; Enter Queen MARGARET, CLIFFORD, NORTHUMBER- Come, bloody Clifford,―rough Northumberland,- North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet. Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his car, And made an evening at the noontide prick. And, in that hope, I throw mine eyes to heaven, York. O, Clifford, but bethink thee once again, 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. 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; I pr'ythee, grieve, to make me merry, York; Thou would'st be fee'd, I see, to make me sport; - A crown for York; and, lords, bow low to him.- [Putting a paper Crown on his Head. Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king! Is crown'd so soon, and broke his solemn oath? Till our king Henry had shook hands with death. 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; Q. Mar. Nay, stay; let's hear the orisons he makes. Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth! To triumph like an Amazonian trull, Upon their woes, whom fortune captivates? 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 less. |