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 commixtures 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 Phaëthon should check thy fiery steeds,
Thy burning car never had scorched the earth!
And, Henry, hadst thou swayed 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 stabbed your fathers’ bosoms, split my breast.
Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies, Which whiles it lasted gave King Henry light. O Lancaster, I fear your overthrow More than my body’s parting with my soul! My love and fear glued many friends to you; And, now I fall, your tough commixtures 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 you never given consent That Phaëthon should check your fiery steeds, your burning car never had scorched the earth! And, Henry, hadst you swayed as kings should do, Or as your 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 you this day hadst kept your chair in peace. For what does 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 has got into my deadly wounds, And much effuse of blood does make me faint. Come, York and Richard, Warwick, and the rest; I stabbed your fathers’ bosoms, split my breast.
Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies, Which whiles it lasted gave King Henry light. O Lancaster, I fear your overthrow More than my body’s parting with my soul! My love and fear glued many friends to you; And, now I fall, your tough commixtures 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 you never given consent That Phaëthon should check your fiery steeds, your burning car never had scorched the earth! And, Henry, hadst you swayed as kings should do, Or as your 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 you this day hadst kept your chair in peace. For what does 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 won't pity, For at their hands I have deserved no pity. The air has got into my deadly wounds, And much effuse of blood does make me faint. Come, York and Richard, Warwick, and the rest; I stabbed your fathers’ bosoms, split my breast.
they are dead look at the blood proof right here
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, filled with a fretting gust,
Command an argosy to stem the waves.
But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them?
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 does a sail, filled with a fretting gust, Command an argosy to stem the waves. But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them?
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 does a sail, filled with a fretting gust, Command an argosy to stem the waves. But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them?
he got away we had him and he just left proof right here
No, ’tis impossible he should escape;
For, though before his face I speak the words,
Your brother Richard marked him for the grave,
And whereso’er he is, he’s surely dead.
No, ’tis impossible he should escape; For, though before his face I speak the words, Your brother Richard marked him for the grave, And whereso’er he is, he’s surely dead.
No, ’tis impossible he should escape; For, though before his face I speak the words, Your brother Richard marked him for the grave, And whereso’er he is, he’s surely dead.
yeah brutal
Richard is right to be superstitious about Gloucester. The dukedom had a remarkable history of ending badly for its holders. Thomas of Woodstock, 1st Duke of Gloucester, was murdered — almost certainly on orders from Richard II — in 1397. Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester (uncle to Henry VI and protector during his minority), died in suspicious custody in 1447, likely murdered on the orders of the court faction around Margaret of Anjou. The pattern was real enough that Elizabethan audiences would have recognized it. And they would have known what Richard doesn't yet fully know: that his own tenure as Duke of Gloucester ends with him losing everything at Bosworth Field in 1485. Warwick's dismissal — 'that's a foolish observation' — is dramatically ironic: Richard's instinct about the title is historically accurate, and Warwick's reassurance is the first of many things he gets catastrophically wrong.
Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave?
A deadly groan, like life and death’s departing.
Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave? A deadly groan, like life and death’s departing.
Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave? A deadly groan, like life and death’s departing.
they are dead
See who it is; and, now the battle’s ended,
If friend or foe, let him be gently used.
See who it is; and, now the battle’s ended, If friend or foe, let him be gently used.
See who it is; and, now the battle’s ended, If friend or foe, let him be gently used.
hm
Revoke that doom of mercy, for ’tis Clifford,
Who, not contented that he lopped the branch
In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth,
But set his murdering knife unto the root
From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring,
I mean our princely father, Duke of York.
Revoke that doom of mercy, for ’tis Clifford, Who, not contented that he lopped the branch In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth, But set his murdering knife unto the root From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring, I mean our princely father, Duke of York.
Revoke that doom of mercy, for ’tis Clifford, Who, not contented that he lopped the branch In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth, But set his murdering knife unto the root From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring, I mean our princely father, Duke of York.
war blood death everything is chaos
From off the gates of York fetch down the head,
Your father’s head, which Clifford placed there;
Instead whereof let this supply the room.
Measure for measure must be answered.
From off the gates of York fetch down the head, Your father’s head, which Clifford placed there; Instead whereof let this supply the room. Measure for measure must be answered.
From off the gates of York fetch down the head, Your father’s head, which Clifford placed there; Instead whereof let this supply the room. Measure for measure must be answered.
yeah brutal
Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house,
That nothing sung but death to us and ours;
Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound,
And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.
Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house, That nothing sung but death to us and ours; Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound, And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.
Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house, That nothing sung but death to us and ours; Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound, And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.
they are dead
The ritual taunting of Clifford's body is one of the most uncomfortable sequences in the play — not because it's violent, but because it isn't. The Yorkists have been building toward Clifford's destruction since 1-3, when he killed Rutland. Now they have him, and he's already dying. He can't hear them. He can't answer. The revenge they've been promised is structurally unsatisfying because the man who committed the crime is beyond reach. Richard articulates the problem explicitly: he'd cut off his own hand to buy two more hours of Clifford's consciousness so he could actually confront him. The taunts they deliver — 'Clifford, ask mercy and receive no grace' — land on nothing. Civil war's promise of resolution, Shakespeare shows, is routinely broken. The enemy dies before you can look him in the eye.
I think his understanding is bereft.
Speak, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee?
Dark cloudy death o’ershades his beams of life,
And he nor sees nor hears us, what we say.
I think his understanding is bereft. Speak, Clifford, do you know who speaks to you? Dark cloudy death o’ershades his beams of life, And he nor sees nor hears us, what we say.
I think his understanding is bereft. Speak, Clifford, do you know who speaks to you? Dark cloudy death o’ershades his beams of life, And he nor sees nor hears us, what we say.
they are dead
O, would he did, and so, perhaps, he doth!
’Tis but his policy to counterfeit,
Because he would avoid such bitter taunts
Which in the time of death he gave our father.
O, would he did, and so, perhaps, he does! ’Tis but his policy to counterfeit, Because he would avoid such bitter taunts Which in the time of death he gave our father.
O, would he did, and so, perhaps, he does! ’Tis but his policy to counterfeit, Because he would avoid such bitter taunts Which in the time of death he gave our father.
they are dead
If so thou think’st, vex him with eager words.
If so you think’st, vex him with eager words.
If so you think’st, vex him with eager words.
hm
Clifford, ask mercy, and obtain no grace.
Clifford, ask mercy, and obtain no grace.
Clifford, ask mercy, and obtain no grace.
hm
Clifford, repent in bootless penitence.
Clifford, repent in bootless penitence.
Clifford, repent in bootless penitence.
hm
Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults.
Clifford, devise excuses for your faults.
Clifford, devise excuses for your faults.
hm
While we devise fell tortures for thy faults.
While we devise fell tortures for your faults.
While we devise fell tortures for your faults.
hm
In one speech (2-6-027), Warwick plans the next ten years: coronation, French marriage alliance, permanent Yorkist security. He speaks with the confidence of a man who has just won a war and cannot imagine a world that doesn't bend to his will. And everything he says is technically correct as a strategic plan. The problem is what he doesn't say: that Edward is impulsive and unpredictable; that the French marriage depends on Edward's cooperation; that Warwick's own pride will not survive being made a fool of. The plan works perfectly until Edward secretly marries Lady Grey, humiliating Warwick in front of the French court. In retrospect, this speech reads as the beginning of Warwick's fall: he is planning a future that requires Edward to be something Edward is not. Keep watching — the gap between Warwick's plans and Edward's actual behavior will drive the second half of the play.
Thou didst love York, and I am son to York.
you did love York, and I am son to York.
you did love York, and I am son to York.
hm
Thou pitied’st Rutland, I will pity thee.
you pitied’st Rutland, I will pity you.
you pitied’st Rutland, I will pity you.
hm
Where’s Captain Margaret to fence you now?
Where’s Captain Margaret to fence you now?
Where’s Captain Margaret to fence you now?
hm
They mock thee, Clifford; swear as thou wast wont.
They mock you, Clifford; swear as you were wont.
They mock you, Clifford; swear as you were wont.
hm
What, not an oath? Nay then, the world goes hard
When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath.
I know by that he’s dead; and, by my soul,
If this right hand would buy but two hours’ life,
That I in all despite might rail at him,
This hand should chop it off, and with the issuing blood
Stifle the villain whose unstaunched thirst
York and young Rutland could not satisfy.
What, not an oath? no then, the world goes hard When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath. I know by that he’s dead; and, by my soul, If this right hand would buy but two hours’ life, That I in all despite might rail at him, This hand should chop it off, and with the issuing blood Stifle the villain whose unstaunched thirst York and young Rutland could not satisfy.
What, not an oath? no then, the world goes hard When Clifford can't spare his friends an oath. I know by that he’s dead; and, by my soul, If this right hand would buy but two hours’ life, That I in all despite might rail at him, This hand should chop it off, and with the issuing blood Stifle the villain whose unstaunched thirst York and young Rutland could not satisfy.
proof right here
Ay, but he’s dead. Off with the traitor’s head,
And rear it in the place your father’s stands.
And now to London with triumphant march,
There to be crowned England’s royal king;
From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France,
And ask the Lady Bona for thy queen.
So shalt thou sinew both these lands together,
And, having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread
The scattered foe that hopes to rise again;
For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt,
Yet look to have them buzz to offend thine ears.
First will I see the coronation,
And then to Brittany I’ll cross the sea
To effect this marriage, so it please my lord.
Ay, but he’s dead. Off with the traitor’s head, And rear it in the place your father’s stands. And now to London with triumphant march, There to be crowned England’s royal king; From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France, And ask the Lady Bona for your queen. So shall you sinew both these lands together, And, having France your friend, you shall not dread The scattered foe that hopes to rise again; For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt, Yet look to have them buzz to offend your ears. First will I see the coronation, And then to Brittany I’ll cross the sea To effect this marriage, so it please my lord.
Ay, but he’s dead. Off with the traitor’s head, And rear it in the place your father’s stands. And now to London with triumphant march, There to be crowned England’s royal king; From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France, And ask the Lady Bona for your queen. So shall you sinew both these lands together, And, having France your friend, you shall not dread The scattered foe that hopes to rise again; For though they can't greatly sting to hurt, Yet look to have them buzz to offend your ears. First will I see the coronation, And then to Brittany I’ll cross the sea To effect this marriage, so it please my lord.
war blood death everything is chaos
Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be;
For in thy shoulder do I build my seat,
And never will I undertake the thing
Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting.
Richard, I will create thee Duke of Gloucester;
And George, of Clarence. Warwick, as ourself,
Shall do and undo as him pleaseth best.
Even as you will, sweet Warwick, let it be; For in your shoulder do I build my seat, And never will I undertake the thing Wherein your counsel and consent is wanting. Richard, I will create you Duke of Gloucester; And George, of Clarence. Warwick, as ourself, Shall do and undo as him pleaseth best.
Even as you will, sweet Warwick, let it be; For in your shoulder do I build my seat, And never will I undertake the thing Wherein your counsel and consent is wanting. Richard, I will create you Duke of Gloucester; And George, of Clarence. Warwick, as ourself, Shall do and undo as him pleaseth best.
war blood death everything is chaos
Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloucester,
For Gloucester’s dukedom is too ominous.
Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloucester, For Gloucester’s dukedom is too ominous.
Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloucester, For Gloucester’s dukedom is too ominous.
hm
Tut, that’s a foolish observation.
Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London,
To see these honours in possession.
Tut, that’s a foolish observation. Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London, To see these honours in possession.
Tut, that’s a foolish observation. Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London, To see these honours in possession.
yeah brutal
The Reckoning
Clifford gets the rare gift of a soliloquy before death — time to assess what he has done and what it cost. Then the men he lived to destroy arrive and find nothing left to defeat, only a body to insult. There's something hollow about the victory scene: Clifford can't hear them, the revenge is incomplete, and in the midst of triumph Edward hands Richard a title that Richard himself says sounds like bad luck. The scene ends with everyone marching toward London and a coronation — but the last note is Richard, already thinking about how many lives stand between him and what he really wants.
If this happened today…
Your company's biggest obstacle — the competitor who crushed your father's firm and made your family's life hell — has just gone bankrupt. Your team shows up at their empty office to gloat, but the CEO is already in a coma, hours from death. You all take turns saying things he can't hear, then your boss hands you a job title you've been told is cursed — every previous holder ended badly. You say so out loud. Your boss brushes it off. Everyone goes to the victory party. You stay behind for a moment. You're already thinking about who's between you and the top spot.