SC. VII. eag
Rich. A Clifford a Clifford.
Clif. A Richard a Richard.
Rich. Now Clifford, for Yorke & young Rutlands death,
This thirsty sword that longs to drinke thy bloud,
[5] Shall lop thy limmes, and slise thy cursed hart,
For to reuenge the murders thou hast made.
Clif. Now Richard, I am with thee here alone,
This is the hand that stabd thy father Yorke,
And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland,
[10] And heres the heart that triumphs in their deathes,
And cheeres these hands that slew thy sire and brother,
To execute the like vpon thy selfe,
And so haue at thee.