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.
My life is ending here; yes, it dies now, While it lasted, it gave King Henry the light of power. Oh Lancaster, I fear your destruction More than I fear my own soul leaving my body! My love and my fear bound many friends to you; But now that I'm falling, your strong bonds are melting, Weakening Henry, making York stronger and more arrogant. The common people swarm like summer flies; Where do flies go except toward the sun? And who shines brightly now except Henry's enemies? Oh sun god, if you had never allowed Phaeton to drive your flaming horses, Your burning chariot would never have scorched the earth! And Henry, if you had ruled as kings should rule, Or as your father and grandfather did, Refusing to give ground to the House of York, They would never have risen like summer flies; I and ten thousand others in this unlucky kingdom Would have left no grieving widows because of our deaths, And you would have kept your throne in peace today. What nourishes weeds except gentle air? What makes criminals bold except too much mercy? Complaints are useless, and my wounds cannot be healed; There's no way to escape, no strength left to try. The enemy is merciless and will not show me mercy, Because I deserve no mercy from their hands. The air has entered my fatal wounds, And the great loss of blood makes me faint. Come, York and Richard, Warwick, and the rest; I stabbed your fathers' hearts, I split my own.
I'm dying right here—that's it, I'm done. While I was alive, I was Henry's greatest strength. But Lancaster, I'm more scared of what happens to you Than I am of losing my own life. My loyalty and fear kept your friends by your side; Now that I'm going down, all those bonds are breaking, Ruining Henry and building up York's power instead. People are just following power like flies go to the sun; They chase the light—and right now the light is York. If the sun god had never let Phaeton drive those fire horses, That burning chariot never would have scorched the earth. Henry, if you had ruled like a real king should— Like your father and grandfather did, Standing up to York and never backing down— Then none of this would have happened; people wouldn't be switching sides like insects. Thousands of us, including me, wouldn't have died, And you'd still have your crown and your peace. Gentle treatment just helps weeds grow. Too much forgiveness just makes people braver about doing wrong. There's nothing I can do now, no healing for these wounds; I can't run, I can't fight anymore. My enemies won't show me any mercy, And honestly, I deserve none after what I've done. Blood is pouring out of these deep wounds, And I'm fading away. York, Richard, Warwick—I'm done. I stabbed your fathers, and now it's my turn.
i'm dying my life was keeping henry strong everything falls apart now i stabbed ur dads u got me back that's fair
and Soldiers.
and Soldiers.
along with his soldiers.
& soldiers
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 let's pause and catch our breath, lords. Fortune tells us to rest And replace the anger of war with peaceful expressions. Some troops are chasing the fierce-hearted Queen Who controlled the gentle Henry, even though he was a king, Like how a sail swollen with a strong wind Commands a large merchant ship through the waves. But do you think, lords, that Clifford escaped with them?
Let's stop and breathe for a second, everyone. We've won, so let's relax. Put away the fighting look and start looking peaceful. Some of our troops are going after that fierce Queen Who basically controlled Henry even though he was supposed to be king— She pushed him around like a sail pushes a ship through the waves. But here's the question: do you think Clifford got away with her?
taking a breath queen pushed henry around like he wasn't even king clifford prob ran w/ her
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, it's impossible he could escape; Because even though I'm saying this in front of him now, Your brother Richard targeted him for death, And wherever he is, he's definitely dead.
No way. He can't have gotten away. Richard marked him down, and even if he's somewhere else, He's a dead man.
no way richard marked him he's dead
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, leaving in this heavy way? A deadly sound, like the moment when life and death are parting.
Whose soul is that leaving us? That's the sound of death happening right now—when someone's leaving the world.
that groan somebody's dying rn
See who it is; and, now the battle’s ended,
If friend or foe, let him be gently used.
Find out who it is; and now that the battle's finished, Whether friend or enemy, let him be treated gently.
Find out who that is; and look, the fighting's over. Whoever it is—friend or enemy—treat them with respect.
check who it is be nice to em
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.
Take back that mercy sentence, because it's Clifford, Who wasn't satisfied with cutting down the branch By killing Rutland when he was still young, But put his murdering knife against the root From which that young, tender growth came, I mean our noble father, the Duke of York.
Forget that mercy—it's Clifford. He killed Rutland when he was just a kid, But that wasn't enough for him. He went after our father, the Duke of York—the whole tree. He didn't stop at branches; he went for the root.
no mercy clifford killed rutland AND dad he went for everything
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.
Take your father's head down from the gates of York, The head that Clifford put there; Let this one—Clifford's—take its place instead. Revenge must be equal.
Take your father's head down from those gates. Clifford put it there—let's put his head there instead. That's how revenge works: an eye for an eye.
take dad's head down put clifford's head up instead even trade
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 out that deadly bird of death to our house, That only sang songs of death to us and our family; Now death will silence his terrible, threatening sound, And his evil-promising tongue will never speak again.
Bring out that bird of death—Clifford. All he ever did was bring destruction and dying to our family. Now death is finally going to shut him up, And his awful predictions won't hurt anyone anymore.
clifford's been nothing but death for us now he's done talking
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 mind is gone. Speak, Clifford—do you know who's speaking to you? Dark, cloudy death is covering his light of life, And he can't see or hear what we're saying.
His mind's already gone. Clifford, do you even know we're talking to you? Death is taking over—he can't see or hear us anymore.
he's already gone can't hear us death's taking over
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.
I wish he could hear us, and maybe he actually does! It's just his strategy to pretend, Because he wants to avoid the bitter insults That he gave to our father when he was dying.
Maybe he can hear us though. He's probably faking it to get out of listening to us, Just like he mocked our father when he was dying. He's trying to avoid the same thing happening to him.
he's prob faking he did it to dad too trying to avoid the same treatment
If so thou think’st, vex him with eager words.
If that's what you think, upset him with sharp words.
If you think he's faking, then let's get to him with words.
hit em w/ words then
Clifford, ask mercy, and obtain no grace.
Clifford, ask for mercy, and you won't get any.
Clifford, beg for mercy if you want. You won't get it.
beg all u want
Clifford, repent in bootless penitence.
Clifford, feel sorry for yourself, but it won't help.
Clifford, you can feel all the remorse you want. It won't matter.
sorry won't help
Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults.
Clifford, come up with excuses for what you've done.
Clifford, go ahead and make your excuses.
make ur excuses
While we devise fell tortures for thy faults.
While we plan cruel punishments for what you've done.
While you're coming up with excuses, we're planning how to make you pay.
while ur talking we're planning ur pain
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 loved York, and I'm York's son.
You went after York. Well, I'm his son.
u killed york im his son
Thou pitied’st Rutland, I will pity thee.
You pitied Rutland, and I'll pity you the same way.
You were so 'kind' to Rutland. Now I'll be 'kind' to you the same way.
u pitied rutland i'll pity u the same
Where’s Captain Margaret to fence you now?
Where's Captain Margaret to protect you now?
Where's Margaret now to save you?
where's margaret 2 save u
They mock thee, Clifford; swear as thou wast wont.
They mock you, Clifford; swear like you usually do.
We're mocking you, Clifford. Come on, curse us out like you usually do.
come on clifford swear at us
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 even a curse? No, when the world is this cruel, When Clifford won't even give his enemies one curse. I know by that silence he's dead; and by my soul, If this right hand could buy just two hours of life, So that I could spend it completely scorning him, This hand should cut itself off, and with the pouring blood Choke the man whose endless thirst for blood York and young Rutland couldn't even satisfy.
Not even an insult? That's when you know the world's in trouble, When Clifford's too dead to even curse us out. His silence is his death sentence. And honestly, if I could spend just two more hours Yelling at him and insulting him, I'd cut off my own hand to do it. He was so hungry for blood—he killed our father and our brother And he still wanted more. That's the kind of monster he was.
no curse = he's dead wish i had 2 hrs left to yell at him i'd cut my own hand off for that he couldn't stop killing wanted more blood always
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.
Yes, but he's dead. Cut off the traitor's head, And put it in the place where your father's head stands. And now let's march to London with victory, To crown Edward as England's king; From there I will cross the sea to France, And ask Lady Bona to be your queen. So you will bind these two kingdoms together, And with France as your friend, you won't need to fear The scattered enemies who hope to rise again; Even if they can't hurt us much, Still expect them to annoy us. First I'll see the coronation, And then I'll cross the sea to Brittany To arrange this marriage, if it pleases you.
Yeah, he's dead. Cut his head off. Put it where your father's head is—that's only fair. Now we march to London in victory, and we crown Edward as king. After that, I'm going to France to get Lady Bona as your queen. Once we're married to France, you'll have both kingdoms on your side. The enemies left aren't much threat anymore—they can't do real damage— But they're still annoying. I'll see the coronation first, Then I'm heading to Brittany to make sure this marriage happens.
he's dead his head's coming down we march to london crown edward king i'm getting lady bona from france france becomes ur ally we're set
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.
Do it exactly as you want, dear Warwick; Because I'm building my power on your support, And I'll never do anything Without your advice and approval. Richard, I'm making you Duke of Gloucester; And George, Duke of Clarence. Warwick, like me, Can do and undo whatever pleases him.
Do it however you think is best, Warwick. I'm trusting you completely—my whole position depends on you. I won't make any big decisions without you. Richard, you're Duke of Gloucester now. George, you're Duke of Clarence. And Warwick, you basically have my authority. Do what you think is right.
do it ur way warwick ur my right hand richard = duke of gloucester george = duke of clarence warwick u got full power
Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloucester,
For Gloucester’s dukedom is too ominous.
Let me be Duke of Clarence, and George be Duke of Gloucester, Because the Gloucester title is too unlucky.
Swap with me—I'll take Clarence, you take Gloucester. Gloucester's got bad luck written all over it.
swap w/ me gloucester = bad luck
Tut, that’s a foolish observation.
Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London,
To see these honours in possession.
Stop, that's silly thinking. Richard, you're Duke of Gloucester. Now let's go to London, To officially take these titles.
That's ridiculous. Forget the superstition. Richard, you're Duke of Gloucester. Let's get to London And make this official.
stop ur duke of gloucester lets go to london
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.