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| Character | Clifford | |
|---|---|---|
| Gender | Male | |
| Age Range(s) | Adult (36-50), Senior (>50) | |
| Type of monologue / Character is | Dying, Lamenting | |
| Type | Dramatic | |
| Period | Renaissance | |
| Genre | Historical, Drama | |
| Description | Clifford dies | |
| Location | ACT II, Scene 6 | |
Summary
In the first scene of the play the Duke of York organizes a revolt against King Henry VI and wins. However, he promises King Henry VI that he will let him rule England until his death. The Duke of York will be his successor. York's sons, Edward and Richard, persuade their father to break his promise and seize the crown before Henry's death. York is persuaded to fight against Henry's army.
The two opposing sides fight and York is killed. York's army, however, prevails and the king flees with his army. Clifford, one of the king's soldiers, enters the scene with an arrow in his neck. He is dying. He knows he is about to die and that is the end for King Henry. He laments the fact that King Henry VI didn't rule as strongly as his father or else York's army could have never won.
The two opposing sides fight and York is killed. York's army, however, prevails and the king flees with his army. Clifford, one of the king's soldiers, enters the scene with an arrow in his neck. He is dying. He knows he is about to die and that is the end for King Henry. He laments the fact that King Henry VI didn't rule as strongly as his father or else York's army could have never won.
Written by Administrator
| Excerpt |
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| CLIFFORD Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies, Which, whiles it lasted, gave King Henry light. O Lancaster, I fear thy overthrow More than my body's parting with my soul! My love and fear glued many friends to thee; And, now I fall, thy tough commixture melts. Impairing Henry, strengthening misproud York, The common people swarm like summer flies; And whither fly the gnats but to the sun? And who shines now but Henry's enemies? O Phoebus, hadst thou never given consent That Phaethon should cheque thy fiery steeds, Thy burning car never had scorch'd the earth! And, Henry, hadst thou sway'd as kings should do, Or as thy father and his father did, Giving no ground unto the house of York, They never then had sprung like summer flies; I and ten thousand in this luckless realm Had left no mourning widows for our death; And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace. For what doth cherish weeds but gentle air? 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: The foe is merciless, and will not pity; For at their hands I have deserved no pity. 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. |
