Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
Rich. In hewing Rutland, when his leaues put forth,
Rich. But set his murth'ring knife vnto the Roote,
Rich. From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring,
Rich. I meane our Princely Father, Duke of Yorke.
War. War.
War. From off the gates of Yorke, fetch down yͤ the head,
War. Your Fathers head, which Ciifford placed there:
War. In stead whereof, let this supply the roome,
War. Measure for measure, must be answered.
Ed. Ed.
Ed. Bring forth that fatall Schreechowle to our house,
Ed. That nothing sung but death, to vs and ours:
Ed. Now death shall stop his dismall threatning sound,
Ed. And his ill‑boading tongue, no more shall speake.
War. I thinke is vnderstanding is bereft:
War. Speake Clifford, dost thou know who speakes to thee?
War. Darke cloudy death ore‑shades his beames of life,
War. And he nor sees, nor heares vs, what we say.
Rich. Rich.