[♦] Clif. My liege, the wound that bred this meeting here
Cannot be cured by words; therefore be still.
[♦] Rich. Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword:
By him that made us all, I am resolved
125 That Clifford’s manhood lies upon his tongue.
Edw. Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or no?
A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day,
That ne’er shall dine unless thou yield the crown.
War. If thou deny, their blood upon thy head;
130 For York in justice puts his armour on.