CLIFFORD

The hope thereof, makes Clifford mourn in Steel. Patience is for Poultroones, such as he: He durst not fit there, had your Father lived. My gracious Lord, here in the Parliament Let us assail the Family of York. Whom should he follow, but his natural King? King Henry, be thy Title right or wrong, Lord Clifford vows to fight in thy defence: May that ground gape, and swallow me alive, Where I shall kneel to him that slew my Father. What wrong is this unto the Prince, your Son? How hast thou injured both thy self and us? Come Cousin, let us tell the Queen these News. Chaplain away, thy Priesthood saves thy life. As for the Brat of this accursed Duke, Whose Father slew my Father, he shall die. Soldiers, away with him. How now? is he dead already? Or is it fear, that makes him close his eyes? I'll open them. In vain thou speakest, poor Boy: My Father's blood hath stopped the passage Where thy words should enter. Had I thy Brothers here, their lives and thine Were not revenge sufficient for me: No, if I dug up thy forefathers Graves, And hung their rotten Coffins up in Chains, It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart. The sighed 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— Such pity as my Rapiers point affords. Thy Father hath. No cause? thy Father slew my Father: there before die. Plantagenet, I come Plantagenet: And this thy Sons blood cleaving to my Blade, Shall rust upon my Weapon, till thy blood Congealed with this, do make me wipe off both. I, to such mercy, as his ruthless Arm With downright payment, showed unto my Father. Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his Car, And made and Evening at the Noontide Prick. I will not bandy with thee word for word, But buckler with thee blows twice two for one. I, I, so strives the Woodcock with the Gin. That is my Office, for my Father's sake. Here's for my Oath, here's for my Father's Death. Urge it no more, left that in stead of words, I send thee, Warwick, such a Messenger, As shall revenge his death, before I stir. In dreadful War mayest thou be overcome, Or live in peace abandoned and despised. So Cowards fight, when they can fly no further, So Doves do peck the Falcons piercing Talons, So desperate Thieves, all hopeless of their Lives, Breathe out Invectives against the Officers. My gracious Liege, this too much lenity And harmful pity must be laid aside: To whom do Lyons cast their gentle Looks? Not to the Beast, that would usurp their Den. Whose hand is that the Forest Bear does lick? Not his that spoils her young before her face. Who escapes the lurking Serpents mortal sting? Not he that sets his foot upon her back. The smallest Worm will turn, being trodden on, And Doves will peck in safeguard of their Brood. Ambitious York, did level at thy Crown, Thou smiling, while he knit his angry brows. He but a Duke, would have his Son a King, And raise his issue Like a loving Sire. Thou being a King, blessed with a goodly son, Didst yield consent to disinherit him: Which argued thee a most unloving Father. Unreasonable Creatures feed their young, And though men face be fearful to their eyes, Yet in protection of their tender ones, Who hath not seen them even with those wings, Which sometime they have used with fearful flight, Make war with him that climbed unto their nest, Offering their own lives in their yongs defence? For shame, my Liege, make them your President: Were it not pity that this goodly Boy Should lose his Birthright by his Father's fault, And long hereafter say unto his child, What my great Grandfather, and Grandsire God, My careless Father fondly gave away. Ah, what a shame were this? Look on the Boy, And let his manly face, which promises Successful Fortune steel thy melting heart, To hold thine own, and leave thine own with him. Why that is spoken Like a towards Prince. I would your Highness would depart the field, The Queen hath best success when you are absent. And reason too, Who should succeed the Father, but the Son. I Crookback, here I stand to answer thee, Or any he, the proudest of thy sort. I, and old York, and yet not satisfied. You said so much before, and yet you fled. I slew thy Father, callest thou him a Child? My Liege, the wound that bred this meeting here, Cannot be cured by Words, therefore be still. Now Richard, I am with thee here alone, This is the hand that stabbed thy Father York, And this the hand, that slew thy Brother Rutland, And here's the heart, that triumphs in their death, And cheers these hands, that slew thy Sire and Brother, To execute the Like upon thy self, And so have at thee. Here burns my Candle out; I, here it die, Which while it lasted, gave King Henry light. Oh Lancaster! I fear thy overthrow, More then my Bodies parting with my Soul: My Love and Fear, glued many Friends to thee, And now I fallen. Thy tough Commixtures melts, Impairing Henry, strengthening misproud York; And whither fly the Gnats, but to the Sun? And who shines now, but Henries Enemies? Oh Phœbus! hadst thou never given consent, That Phaeton should check thy fiery Steeds, Thy burning Car never had scorched the earth. And Henry, hadst thou swayed 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, Head left no mourning Widow's for our death, And thou this day, hadst kept thy Chair in peace. For what does 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 deserved no pity. The air hath God into my deadly Wounds, And much effuse of blood, does make me faint: Come York, and Richard, Warwick, and the rest, I stabbed your Father's bosoms; Split my breast.