Clif.
Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies,
Which while it lasted, gave King Henry light.
O Lancaster! I fear thy overthrow,
More than my body's parting with my soul.
My love and fear glew'd many friends to thee, [Falling.
And now I fall, thy tough commixtures melt,
Impairing Henry, strengthning mis-proud York;
And whither fly the gnats, but to the sun?
And who shines now, but Henry's enemies?
O Phœbus! hadst thou never giv'n consent
That Phaeton should check thy fiery steeds,
Thy burning car had never scorch'd the earth:
And Henry, hadst thou sway'd as Kings should do,
Or as thy father and his father did,
Giving no ground unto the house of York,
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 bosom; split my breast. [He faints. Alarum and Retreat. Enter Edward, Warwick, Richard, Montague, Clarence, and Soldiers.

Edw.
Now breathe we lords, good fortune bids us pause,
And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks.
Some troops pursue the bloody-minded Queen,
That led calm Henry, though he were a King,
As doth a Sail fill'd with a fretting gust
Command an Argosie to stem the waves.
But think you lords that Clifford fled with them?

War.
No, 'tis impossible he should escape:
For though before his face I speak the word,
Your brother Richard mark'd him for the grave;
And wheresoe'er he is, he's surely dead. [Clifford groans.

Rich.
Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave?
A deadly groan, like life and death's departing.
See who it is.

Edw.
And now the battel's ended,
If friend or foe, let him be gently used.

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 murth'ring 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 his 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 threatning sound,
And his ill-boading tongue no more shall speak.

War.
I think his understanding is bereft:
Speak Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee?
Dark cloudy death o'er-shades his beams of life,
And he nor sees, nor hears us what we say.

Rich.
O would he did; and so perhaps he doth.
'Tis but his policy to counterfeit,
Because he would avoid such bitter taunts
As in the time of death he gave our father.

Cla.
If so thou think'st, vex him with eager words.

Rich.
Clifford, ask mercy, and obtain no grace.

Edw.
Clifford, repent in bootless penitence.

War.
Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults.

Cla.
While we devise fell tortures for thy faults.

Rich.
Thou didst love York, and I am son to York.

Edw.
Thou pitied'st Rutland, I will pity thee.

Cla.
Where's captain Margaret to fence you now?

War.
They mock thee Clifford, swear as thou 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 but two hours life,
That I in all despight might rail at him,
This hand should chop it off; and with the issuing blood
Stifle the villain, whose unstanched thirst
York and young Rutland could not satisfie.

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,

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 t' offend thine ears.
First will I see the coronation,
And then to Britany I'll cross the sea,
T' effect this marriage, so it please my lord.

Edw.
Ev'n as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be;
For on thy shoulder do I build my seat:
And never will I undertake the thing
Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting.
Richard, I will create thee Duke of Glo'ster,
And George of Clarence; Warwick as our self
Shall do and undo, as him pleaseth best.

Rich.
Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Glo'ster,
For Glo'ster's Dukedom is too ominous.

War.
Tut, that's a foolish observation:
Richard, be Duke of Glo'ster: now to London,
To see these honours in possession. [Exeunt.

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