Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
Clif, Now Richard, I am with thee heere alone,
Clif, This is the hand that stabb'd thy Father Yorke,
Clif, And this the hand, that slew thy Brother Rutland,
Clif, And here's the heart, that triumphs in their death,
Clif, And cheeres these hands, that slew thy Sire and Brother,
Clif, To execute the like vpon thy selfe,
Clif, And so haue at thee.
Clif, They Fight, Warwicke comes, Clifford flies.
Rich. Rich.
Rich. Nay Warwicke, single out some other Chace,
Rich. For I my selfe will hunt this Wolfe to death.
Rich. Exeunt.
Rich. [Act 2, Scene 5]
Rich. Alarum. Enter King Henry alone.
Hen. Hen.
Hen. This battell fares like to the mornings Warre,
Hen. When dying clouds contend, with growing light,
Hen. What time the Shepheard blowing of his nailes,
Hen. Can neither call it perfect day, nor night.
Hen. Now swayes it this way, like a Mighty Sea,