CLIFFORD.
Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine
Were not revenge sufficient for me.
No, if I digged 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.]
RUTLAND.
O, let me pray before I take my death!
To thee I pray; sweet Clifford, pity me!
CLIFFORD.
Such pity as my rapier’s point affords.
RUTLAND.
I never did thee harm; why wilt thou slay me?
CLIFFORD.
Thy father hath.
RUTLAND.
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.
CLIFFORD.
No cause? Thy father slew my father; therefore die.
[Clifford stabs him.]
RUTLAND.
Di faciant laudis summa sit ista tuae!