thy father. And thine, Lord Clifford; and you both have vow'd revenge On him, his sons, his favourites and his friends. If I be not, heavens be revenged on me! The hope thereof makes Clifford mourn in steel. What, shall we suffer this? let's pluck him down: My heart for anger burns; I cannot brook it. Be patient, gentle Earl of Westmoreland. Patience is for poltroons, such as he: He durst not sit there, had your father lived. My gracious lord, here in the parliament Let us assail the family of York. Well hast thou spoken, cousin: be it so. Ah, know you not the city favours them, And they have troops of soldiers at their beck? But when the duke is slain, they'll quickly fly. Far be the thought of this from Henry's heart, To make a shambles of the parliament-house! Cousin of Exeter, frowns, words and threats Shall be the war that Henry means to use. Thou factious Duke of York, descend my throne, and kneel for grace and mercy at my feet; I am thy sovereign. I am thine. For shame, come down: he made thee Duke of York. 'Twas my inheritance, as the earldom was. Thy father was a traitor to the crown. Exeter, thou art a traitor to the crown In following this usurping Henry. Whom should he follow but his natural king? True, Clifford; and that's Richard Duke of York. And shall I stand, and thou sit in my throne? It must and shall be so: content thyself. Be Duke of Lancaster; let him be king. He is both king and Duke of Lancaster; And that the Lord of Westmoreland shall maintain. And Warwick shall disprove it. You forget That we are those which chased you from the field And slew your fathers, and with colours spread March'd through the city to the palace gates. Yes, Warwick, I remember it to my grief; And, by his soul, thou and thy house shall rue it. Plantagenet, of thee and these thy sons, Thy kinsman and thy friends, I'll have more lives Than drops of blood were in my father's veins. Urge it no more; lest that, instead of words, I send thee, Warwick, such a messenger As shall revenge his death before I stir. Poor Clifford! how I scorn his worthless threats! Will you we show our title to the crown? If not, our swords shall plead it in the field. What title hast thou, traitor, to the crown? Thy father was, as thou art, Duke of York; Thy grandfather, Roger Mortimer,