Clif. How now! is he dead already? Or is it fear
That makes him close his eyes? I'll open them.
Rut. So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch 12
That trembles under his devouring paws;
And so he walks, insulting o'er his prey,
And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder.
Ah! gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword, 16
And not with such a cruel threatening look.
Sweet Clifford! hear me speak before I die:
I am too mean a subject for thy wrath;
Be thou reveng'd on men, and let me live. 20
Clif. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy; my father's blood
Hath stopp'd the passage where thy words should enter.
Rut. Then let my father's blood open it again:
He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him. 24
Clif. Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine
Were not revenge sufficient for me;
No, if I digg'd up thy forefathers' graves,
And hung their rotten coffins up in chains, 28
It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart.
The sight of any of the house of York
Is as a fury to torment my soul;
And till I root out their accursed line, 32
And leave not one alive, I live in hell.
Therefore— [Lifting his hand.]
Rut. O! let me pray before I take my death.
To thee I pray; sweet Clifford, pity me! 36
Clif. Such pity as my rapier's point affords.
Rut. I never did thee harm: why wilt thou slay me?
Clif. Thy father hath.
Rut. But 'twas ere I was born.
12 pent-up: caged, rendered fierce
14 insulting: exulting in triumph
39 ere I was born; cf. n.
