Rich.
Thus far into the bowels of the land
Have we march'd on without impediment.
Glo'ster, the bloody and devouring boar,
Whose ravenous appetite has spoil'd your fields,
Laid this rich country waste, and rudely cropt
Its ripen'd hopes of fair posterity,
Is now even in the center of the isle,
As we're inform'd, near to the town of Leicester:
From Tamworth thither is but one day's march;
And here receive we from our father Stanley,
Lines of fair comfort and encouragement,
Such as will help and animate our cause;

On which let's cheerly on, courageous friends,
To reap the harvest of a lasting peace,
Or fame more lasting from a well-fought war.

Oxford.
Your words have fire, my lord, and warm our men,
Who look'd, methought, but cold before—dishearten'd
With the unequal numbers of the foe.

Rich.
Why, double 'em still, our cause would conquer 'em.
Thrice is he arm'd, that has his quarrel just;
And he but naked, tho' lock'd up in steel,
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted:
The very weight of Glo'ster's guilt shall crush him.

Blunt.
His best friends, no doubt, will soon be ours.

Oxford.
He has no friends, but what are such thro' fear.

Rich.
And we no foes, but what are such to heav'n.
Then doubt not, heav'n's for us—let's on, my friends.
True hope ne'er tires, but mounts with eagle's wing;
Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings. [Exeunt.

Next section