A Field of Battle between Towton and Saxton, in Yorkshire. |
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Alarums: Excursions. Enter WARWICK. |
War. Forspent with toil, as runners with a race, |
I lay me down a little while to breathe; |
For strokes receiv'd, and many blows repaid, |
Have robb'd my strong-knit sinews of their strength, |
And spite of spite needs must I rest a while. |
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Enter EDWARD, running. |
Edw. Smile, gentle heaven! or strike, ungentle death! |
For this world frowns, and Edward's sun is clouded. |
War. How now, my lord! what hap? what hope of good? |
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Enter GEORGE. |
Geo. Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair, |
Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us. |
What counsel give you? whither shall we fly? |
Edw. Bootless is flight, they follow us with wings; |
And weak we are and cannot shun pursuit. |
|
Enter RICHARD. |
Rich. Ah! Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself? |
Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk, |
Broach'd with the steely point of Clifford's lance; |
And in the very pangs of death he cried, |
Like to a dismal clangor heard from far, |
'Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death!' |
So, underneath the belly of their steeds, |
That stain'd their fetlocks in his smoking blood, |
The noble gentleman gave up the ghost. |
War. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood: |
I'll kill my horse because I will not fly. |
Why stand we like soft-hearted women here, |
Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage; |
And look upon, as if the tragedy |
Were play'd in jest by counterfeiting actors? |
Here on my knee I vow to God above, |
I'll never pause again, never stand still |
Till either death hath clos'd these eyes of mine, |
Or fortune given me measure of revenge. |
Edw. O Warwick! I do bend my knee with thine; |
And in this vow do chain my soul to thine. |
And, ere my knee rise from the earth's cold face, |
I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee, |
Thou setter up and plucker down of kings, |
Beseeching thee, if with thy will it stands |
That to my foes this body must be prey, |
Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope, |
And give sweet passage to my sinful soul! |
Now, lords, take leave until we meet again, |
Where'er it be, in heaven or in earth. |
Rich. Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle Warwick, |
Let me embrace thee in my weary arms: |
I, that did never weep, now melt with woe |
That winter should cut off our spring-time so. |
War. Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell. |
Geo. Yet let us all together to our troops, |
And give them leave to fly that will not stay, |
And call them pillars that will stand to us; |
And if we thrive, promise them such rewards |
As victors wear at the Olympian games. |
This may plant courage in their quailing breasts; |
For yet is hope of life and victory. |
Forslow no longer; make we hence amain. [Exeunt. |
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