[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.
RICHARD.
O, would he did, and so, perhaps, he doth!
’Tis but his policy to counterfeit,
Because he would avoid such bitter taunts
Which in the time of death he gave our father.
GEORGE.
If so thou think’st, vex him with eager words.
RICHARD.
Clifford, ask mercy, and obtain no grace.
EDWARD.
Clifford, repent in bootless penitence.
WARWICK.
Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults.
GEORGE.
While we devise fell tortures for thy faults.
RICHARD.
Thou didst love York, and I am son to York.
EDWARD.
Thou pitied’st Rutland, I will pity thee.