CLIFFORD.
Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy life.
As for the brat of this accursed duke
Whose father slew my father, he shall die.

TUTOR.
And I, my lord, will bear him company.

CLIFFORD.
Soldiers, away with him!

TUTOR.
Ah, Clifford, murder not this innocent child,
Lest thou be hated both of God and man.

[Exit, forced off by Soldiers.]

CLIFFORD.
How now! is he dead already? Or is it fear
That makes him close his eyes?--I'll open them.

RUTLAND.
So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch
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,
And not with such a cruel threat'ning look.
Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die:
I am too mean a subject for thy wrath;