Rut.
Ah, whither shall I fly to scape their hands!
Ah, tutor! look, where bloody Clifford comes! Enter Clifford, and Soldiers, pursuing.

Cli.
Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy life.
As for the brat of this accursed duke,—
His father slew my father, he shall die.

Tut.
And I, my lord, will bear him company.

Cli.
Soldiers, away with him.

Tut.
Ah, Clifford, murther not this innocent child,
Lest thou be hated both of heaven and man. [Exit, forc'd off.

Cli.
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 reveng'd on men, and let me live.

Cli.
In vain thou speak'st, poor boy; my father's blood
Hath stopt the passage where thy words should enter.

Rut.
Then let my father's blood open it again;
He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him.

Cli.
Had I thy brethren here, their lives, and thine,
Were not revenge sufficient for me:
No, if I dig'd up thy fore-fathers' graves,
And hung their rotten coffins up in chains,
It could not shake 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—

Rut.
O, let me pray before I take my death:—
To thee I pray; Sweet Clifford, pity me!

Cli.
Such pity as my rapier's point affords.

Rut.
I never did thee harm; Why wilt thou slay me?

Cli.
Thy father hath.

Rut.
But 'twas ere I was born.
Thou hast one son, for his sake pity me;
Lest, in revenge thereof,—sith Heav'n 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.

Cli.
No cause?
Thy father slew my father; therefore, die. [stabbing him.

Rut.
Dii faciant, laudis summa sit ista tuæ! [dies.

Cli.
Plantagenet! I come Plantagenet!
And this thy son's blood, cleaving to my blade,
Shall rust upon my weapon, 'till thy blood,
Congeal'd with this, do make me wipe off both. [Exit‡ ^note.

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