_Clif._ Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies, [cbf001] Which, whiles it lasted, gave King Henry light. [cbf002] O Lancaster, I fear thy overthrow [cbf003] More than my body’s parting with my soul! My love and fear glued many friends to thee; [cbf005] And, now I fall, thy tough commixture melts. [cbf006] Impairing Henry, strengthening misproud York, The common people swarm like summer flies; [cbf008] And whither fly the gnats but to the sun? [cbf009] And who shines now but Henry’s enemies? [cbf010] O Phœbus, hadst thou never given consent That Phaëthon should check thy fiery steeds, [cbf012] Thy burning car never had scorch’d the earth! [cbf013] And, Henry, hadst thou sway’d as kings should do, Or as thy father and his father did, [cbf015] Giving no ground unto the house of York, They never then had sprung like summer flies; [cbf017] I and ten thousand in this luckless realm Had left no mourning widows for our death; [cbf019] And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace. ·cbf020· For what doth cherish weeds but gentle air? [cbf021] And what makes robbers bold but too much lenity? Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds; No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight: [cbf024] The foe is merciless, and will not pity; ·cbf025· For at their hands I have deserved no pity. [cbf026] The air hath got into my deadly wounds, And much effuse of blood doth make me faint. Come, York and Richard, Warwick and the rest; I stabb’d your fathers’ bosoms, split my breast. [cbf030] [_He faints._ _Alarum and retreat. Enter_, EDWARD, GEORGE, RICHARD, MONTAGUE, WARWICK, _and_ SOLDIERS, _Edw._ Now breathe we, lords: good fortune bids us pause, And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks. Some troops pursue the bloody-minded queen, That led calm Henry, though he were a king, As doth a sail, fill’d with a fretting gust, ·cbf035· Command an argosy to stem the waves. But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them? _War._ No, ’tis impossible he should escape; For, though before his face I speak the words, [cbf039] Your brother Richard mark’d him for the grave: ·cbf040· And wheresoe’er he is, he’s surely dead. [cbf041] [_Clifford groans, and dies._ _Edw._ Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave? [cbf042] _Rich._ A deadly groan, like life and death’s departing. [cbf043] _Edw._ See who it is: and, now the battle’s ended, If friend or foe, let him be gently used. ·cbf045· _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 [cbf049] From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring, ·cbf050· I mean our princely father, Duke of York.