Rich.
Halt.

Sold.
Halt—halt!

Rich.
How far into the morning is it, friends?

Oxford.
Near four, my lord.

Rich.
'Tis well—
I am glad to find we are such early stirrers.

Oxford.
Methinks the foes less forward than we thought 'em;
Worn as we are, we brave the field before 'em.

Rich.
Come, there looks life in such a cheerful haste;
If dreams should animate a soul resolv'd,
I'm more than pleas'd with those I've had, to-night;
Methought that all the ghosts of them, whose bodies
Richard murder'd, came mourning to my tent,
And rous'd me to revenge 'em.

Oxford.
A good omen, sir—[Trumpets sound a distant March.] hark, the trumpet of
The enemy: it speaks them on the march.

Rich.
Why then let's on, my friends, to face 'em;
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As mild behaviour and humility:

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Let us be tigers in our fierce deportment:
For me, the ransom of my bold attempt
Shall be this body on the earth's cold face;
But if we thrive, the glory of the action
The meanest here shall share his part of:
Advance your standards, draw your willing swords;
Sound drums, and trumpets, boldly and chearfully,
The word's St. George, Richmond, and Victory. [Exeunt. Enter Glo'ster, Catesby, &c.

Glo'st.
Who saw the sun, to-day?

Catesby.
He has not yet broke forth, my lord.

Glo'st.
Then he disdains to shine—for by the clock
He should have brav'd the east an hour ago:
Not shine to-day! Why, what is that to me,
More than to Richmond! for the self-same heav'n,
That frowns on me, looks lowring upon him* ^note. Enter Norfolk, with a paper.

Norfolk.
Prepare, my lord, the foe is in the field.

Glo'st.
Come, bustle, bustle, caparison my horse,
Call forth lord Stanley, bid him bring his power;
Myself will lead the soldiers to the plain. [Exit Catesby.
Well, Norfolk, what think'st thou, now?

Norfolk.
That we shall conquer—but on my tent,
This morning early, was this paper found.

Glo'st. [Reads]
“Jockey of Norfolk, be not too bold;
“For Dicken thy master is bought and sold.”
A weak invention of the enemy!
Come, gentlemen, now each man to his charge,
And, ere we do bestride our foaming steeds,
Remember whom you are to cope withal,
A scum of Britons, rascals, runaways,
Whom their o'er-cloy'd country vomits forth
To desperate adventures, and destruction:

Enter Catesby.
What says lord Stanley?—will he bring his power?

Catesby.
He does refuse, my lord—he will not stir.

Glo'st.
Off with his son George's head.

Norfolk.
My lord, the foe's already past the marsh—
After the battle, let young Stanley die.

Glo'st.
Why, after be it then.
A thousand hearts are swelling in my bosom;
Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head,
Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood;
And thou, our warlike champion, thrice renown'd,
St. George, inspire me with the rage of lions:
Upon 'em—Charge—follow me. [Exeunt. Several Excursions, Soldiers driven across the stage by Glo'ster, &c. Re-enter Glo'ster.

Glo'st.
What ho! young Richmond, ho! 'tis Richard calls;
I hate thee, Harry, for thy blood of Lancaster!
Now if thou dost not hide thee from my sword,
Now while the angry trumpet sounds alarms,
And dying groans transpierce the wounded air;
Richmond, I say, come forth, and singly face me;
Richard is hoarse with daring thee to arms* ^note. [Exit. Enter Catesby and Norfolk in Disorder.

Catesby.
Rescue! rescue! my lord of Norfolk, haste;
The king enacts more wonders than a man,
Daring and opposite to every danger:
His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights,
Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death;
Nay haste, my lord—the day's against us. [Exit.

Enter Glos'ter and Ratcliff.

Glo'st.
A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse.

Ratcliff.
This way, this way, my lord—below yon thicket
Stands a swift horse—away, ruin pursues us;
Withdraw, my lord, for only flight can save you.

Glo'st.
Slave! I have set my life upon a cast,
And I will stand the hazard of the die:
I think there be six Richmonds in the field,
Five have I slain to-day, instead of him:
A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse. [Exeunt. * ^noteRe-enter Glo'ster and Richmond, meeting.

Glo'st.
Of one, or both of us, the time is come.

Rich.
Kind heav'n, I thank thee, for my cause is thine;
If Richard's fit to live, let Richmond fall.

Glo'st.
Thy gallant bearing, Harry, I could 'plaud,
But that the spotted rebel stains the soldier.

Rich.
Nor should thy prowess, Richard, want my praise,
But that thy cruel deeds have stampt thee tyrant,
So thrive my sword, as heav'n's high vengeance draws it.

Glo'st.
My soul and body on the action both.

Rich.
A dreadful lay—here's to decide it. [Fight; Richard falls.

Gle'st.
Perdition catch thy arm—the chance is thine.
But oh! the vast renown thou hast acquir'd,
In conquering Richard, does afflict him more

Than even his body's parting with its soul.
Now let the world no longer be a stage
To feed contention in a lingering act;
But let one spirit of the first-born Cain,
Reign in all bosoms; that, each heart being set
On bloody actions, the rude scene may end,
And darkness be the burier of the dead* ^note. [Dies.

Rich.
Farewel, Richard! and from thy dreadful end
May future kings from tyranny be warn'd;
Had thy aspiring soul but stirr'd in virtue,
With half the spirit it has dar'd in evil,
How might thy fame have grac'd our English annals!
But, as thou art, how fair a page thou'st blotted?
Hark! the glad trumpets speak the field our own. Enter Oxford, Lord Stanley, and Soldiers, with King Richard's Crown.
Oh welcome, friends! my noble father, welcome!
Heav'n and our arms be prais'd, the day is ours;
See there, my lords, stern Richard is no more.

Stanley.
Victorious Richmond, well hast thou acquitted thee!
And see, the just reward that heaven has sent thee:
Amongst the glorious spoils of Bosworth field,
We've found the crown, which now in right is thine :
'Tis doubly thine, by conquest, and by choice.
Long live Henry the Seventh, king of England!

Rich.
Next to just heav'n, my noble countrymen,
I owe my thanks to you, whose love I'm proud of,
And ruling well shall speak my gratitude.
But now, my lords—what friends of us are missing?
Pray tell me, is young George Stanley living?

Stanley.
He is, my liege, and safe in Leicester town,
Whither, if you please, we may withdraw us. Enter Blunt.

Blunt.
My lord, the queen, and fair Elizabeth,
Her beauteous daughter, some few miles off,

Are on their way to gratulate your victory.

Rich.
Ay, there indeed, my toil's rewarded:
Let us prepare to meet 'em, lords—and then,
As we're already bound by solemn vows,
We'll twine the roses red and white together,
And both from one kind stalk shall flourish;
England has long been mad, and scar'd herself;
The brother blindly shed the brother's blood;
The father rashly slaughter'd his own son;
The bloody son, compell'd, has kill'd his sire.
Oh, now, let Henry and Elizabeth,
The true successors of each royal house,
Conjoin'd together, heal those deadly wounds!
And be that wretch of all mankind abhorr'd,
That would reduce those bloody days again;
Ne'er let him live to taste our joy's increase,
That would with treason wound fair England's peace! ^note End of Richard the Third

The Merry Wives of

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