Field of Battle between Sandal Castle and Wakefield. |
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Alarums: Excursions. Enter RUTLAND and his Tutor. |
Rut. Ah, whither shall I fly to 'scape their hands? |
Ah! tutor, look, where bloody Clifford comes! |
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Enter CLIFFORD and Soldiers. |
Clif. Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy life. |
As for the brat of this accursed duke, |
Whose father slew my father, he shall die. |
Tut. And I, my lord, will bear him company. |
Clif. Soldiers, away with him. |
Tut. Ah! Clifford, murder not this innocent child, |
Lest thou be hated both of God and man! [Exit, forced off by Soldiers. |
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 threatening 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. |
Clif. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy; my father's blood |
Hath stopp'd 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. |
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— [Lifting his hand. |
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. [Stabs him. |
Rut. Dii faciant laudis summa sit ista tuœ! [Dies. |
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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