Rut.
Ah, whither shall I fly to scape their hands?
Ah, tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes. Enter Clifford.

Clif.
Chaplain away, thy priesthood saves thy life;
As for the brat of this accursed Duke,
Whose father slew my father, he shall die.

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

Clif.
Soldiers, away with him.

Tutor.
Ah Clifford, murther not this innocent child,
Lest thou be hated both of God and man. [Exit.

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 threatning look.
Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die:
I am too mean a subject of thy wrath,
Be thou reveng'd on men, and let me live.

Clif.
In vain thou speak'st, poor boy: my father's blood
Hath stop the passage where thy words should enter.

Rut.
Then let my father's blood open't 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 digg'd 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—

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. [Clif. stabs him.

Rut.
Diî faciant laudis summa sit ista tuæ!

Clif.
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.

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