Revoke that doom of mercy, for 't is Clifford,
Who, not contented that he lopp'd the branch,
In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth,
But set his murthering knife unto the root
From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring;
I mean our princely father, Duke of York.

WARWICK.
From off the gates of York fetch down the head,
Your father's head, which Clifford placed there;
Instead whereof, let this supply the room.
Measure for measure must be answered.

EDWARD.
Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house,
That nothing sung but death to us and ours;
Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound,
And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.

[Soldiers bring the body forward.]

WARWICK.
I think his understanding is bereft.--
Speak, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee?--
Dark cloudy death o'ershades his beams of life,
And he nor sees nor hears us, what we say.

RICHARD.
O, would he did! and so, perhaps, he doth;
'T is but his policy to counterfeit,