Alarum & Retreat. Enter Edward, Warwicke, Richard, and Soldiers, Montague, & Clarence.
Ed. Now breath we Lords, good fortune bids vs pause, And smooth the frownes of War, with peacefull lookes: Some Troopes pursue the bloody-minded Queene, That led calme Henry, though he were a King, As doth a Saile, fill'd with a fretting Gust Command an Argosie to stemme the Waues. But thinke you (Lords) that Clifford fled with them? War. No, 'tis impossible he should escape: (For though before his face I speake the words) Your Brother Richard markt him for the Graue. And wheresoere he is, hee's surely dead.
Clifford grones
Rich. Whose soule is that which takes hir heauy leaue? A deadly grone, like life and deaths departing. See who it is
Ed. And now the Battailes ended, If Friend or Foe, let him be gently vsed
Rich. Reuoke that doome of mercy, for 'tis Clifford, Who not contented that he lopp'd the Branch In hewing Rutland, when his leaues put forth, But set his murth'ring knife vnto the Roote, From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring, I meane our Princely Father, Duke of Yorke
War. From off the gates of Yorke, fetch down y head, Your Fathers head, which Clifford placed there: In stead whereof, let this supply the roome, Measure for measure, must be answered
Ed. Bring forth that fatall Schreechowle to our house, That nothing sung but death, to vs and ours: Now death shall stop his dismall threatning sound, And his ill-boading tongue, no more shall speake
War. I thinke his vnderstanding is bereft: Speake Clifford, dost thou know who speakes to thee? Darke cloudy death ore-shades his beames of life, And he nor sees, nor heares vs, what we say
Rich. O would he did, and so (perhaps) he doth, 'Tis but his policy to counterfet, Because he would auoid such bitter taunts Which in the time of death he gaue our Father
Cla. If so thou think'st, Vex him with eager Words
Rich. Clifford, aske mercy, and obtaine no grace
Ed. Clifford, repent in bootlesse penitence
War. Clifford, deuise excuses for thy faults
Cla. While we deuise fell Tortures for thy faults
Rich. Thou didd'st loue Yorke, and I am son to Yorke
Edw. Thou pittied'st Rutland, I will pitty thee
Cla. Where's Captaine Margaret, to fence you now? War. They mocke thee Clifford, Sweare as thou was't wont
Ric. What, not an Oath? Nay then the world go's hard When Clifford cannot spare his Friends an oath: I know by that he's dead, and by my Soule, If this right hand would buy two houres life, That I (in all despight) might rayle at him, This hand should chop it off: & with the issuing Blood Stifle the Villaine, whose vnstanched thirst Yorke, and yong Rutland could not satisfie War. I, but he's dead. Of with the Traitors head, And reare it in the place your Fathers stands. And now to London with Triumphant march, There to be crowned Englands Royall King: From whence, shall Warwicke cut the Sea to France, And aske the Ladie Bona for thy Queene: So shalt thou sinow both these Lands together, And hauing France thy Friend, thou shalt not dread The scattred Foe, that hopes to rise againe: For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt, Yet looke to haue them buz to offend thine eares: First, will I see the Coronation, And then to Britanny Ile crosse the Sea, To effect this marriage, so it please my Lord
Ed. Euen as thou wilt sweet Warwicke, let it bee: For in thy shoulder do I builde my Seate; And neuer will I vndertake the thing Wherein thy counsaile and consent is wanting: Richard, I will create thee Duke of Gloucester, And George of Clarence; Warwicke as our Selfe, Shall do, and vndo as him pleaseth best