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,