[♦] And wheresoe’er he is, he’s surely dead. [Clifford groans, and dies.
[♦] Edw. Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave?
[♦] Rich. A deadly groan, like life and death’s departing.
Edw. See who it is: and, now the battle’s ended,
45 If friend or foe, let him be gently used.
Rich. Revoke that doom of mercy, for ’tis Clifford;
Who not contented that he lopp’d the branch
In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth,
[♦] But set his murdering knife unto the root
50 From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring,