EDWARD.
Now breathe we, lords. Good fortune bids us pause
And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks.
Some troops pursue the bloody-minded Queen
That led calm Henry, though he were a king,
As doth a sail, filled with a fretting gust,
Command an argosy to stem the waves.
But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them?
WARWICK.
No, ’tis impossible he should escape;
For, though before his face I speak the words,
Your brother Richard marked him for the grave,
And whereso’er he is, he’s surely dead.
[Clifford groans and dies.]
RICHARD.
Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave?
A deadly groan, like life and death’s departing.
EDWARD.
See who it is; and, now the battle’s ended,
If friend or foe, let him be gently used.
RICHARD.
Revoke that doom of mercy, for ’tis Clifford,
Who, not contented that he lopped the branch
In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth,
But set his murdering knife unto the root
From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring,
I mean our princely father, Duke of York.
WARWICK.
From off the gates of York fetch down the head,
Your father’s head, which Clifford placed there;
Instead whereof let this supply the room.
Measure for measure must be answered.
EDWARD.
Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house,
That nothing sung but death to us and ours;
Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound,
And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.
[Soldiers bring the body forward.]
WARWICK.
I think his understanding is bereft.
Speak, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee?
Dark cloudy death o’ershades his beams of life,
And he nor sees nor hears us, what we say.