War. Then 'twas my turne to fly, and now 'tis thine:
Clif. You said so much before, and yet you fled
War. 'Twas not your valor Clifford droue me thence
Nor. No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay
Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reuerently,
Breake off the parley, for scarse I can refraine
The execution of my big-swolne heart
Vpon that Clifford, that cruell Child-killer
Clif. I slew thy Father, cal'st thou him a Child?
Rich. I like a Dastard, and a treacherous Coward,
As thou didd'st kill our tender Brother Rutland,
But ere Sunset, Ile make thee curse the deed
King. Haue done with words (my Lords) and heare
me speake
Qu. Defie them then, or els hold close thy lips
King. I prythee giue no limits to my Tongue,
I am a King, and priuiledg'd to speake
Clif. My Liege, the wound that bred this meeting here,
Cannot be cur'd by Words, therefore be still
Rich. Then Executioner vnsheath thy sword:
By him that made vs all, I am resolu'd,
That Cliffords Manhood, lyes vpon his tongue