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And reason too:
Who should succeed the father but the son?
RICHARD:
Are you there, butcher? O, I cannot speak!
CLIFFORD:
Ay, crook-back, here I stand to answer thee,
Or any he the proudest of thy sort.
RICHARD:
'Twas you that kill'd young Rutland, was it not?
CLIFFORD:
Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied.
RICHARD:
For God's sake, lords, give signal to the fight.
WARWICK:
What say'st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown?
QUEEN MARGARET:
Why, how now, long-tongued Warwick! dare you speak?
When you and I met at Saint Alban's last,
Your legs did better service than your hands.
WARWICK:
Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine.
CLIFFORD:
You said so much before, and yet you fled.
WARWICK:
'Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence.
NORTHUMBERLAND:
No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay.
RICHARD:
Northumberland, I hold thee reverently.
Break off the parley; for scarce I can refrain
The execution of my big-swoln heart
Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.
CLIFFORD:
I slew thy father, call'st thou him a child?
RICHARD:
Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward,
As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland;
But ere sunset I'll make thee curse the deed.
KING HENRY VI:
Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak.
QUEEN MARGARET:
Defy them then, or else hold close thy lips.
KING HENRY VI:
I prithee, give no limits to my tongue:
I am a king, and privileged to speak.
CLIFFORD:
My liege, the wound that bred this meeting here
Cannot be cured by words; therefore be still.
RICHARD:
Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword:
By him that made us all, I am resolved
that Clifford's manhood lies upon his tongue.
EDWARD:
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.
WARWICK:
If thou deny, their blood upon thy head;
For York in justice puts his armour on.
PRINCE EDWARD:
If that be right which Warwick says is right,
There is no wrong, but every thing is right.
RICHARD:
Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands;
For, well I wot, thou hast thy mother's tongue.
QUEEN MARGARET:
But thou art neither like thy sire nor dam;
But like a foul mis-shapen stigmatic,
Mark'd by the destinies to be avoided,
As venom toads, or lizards' dreadful stings.
RICHARD:
Iron of Naples hid with English gilt,
Whose father bears the title of a king,--
As if a channel should be call'd the sea,--
Shamest thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,