K. Rich.
Here pitch our Tents, even here in Bosworth field.
My lord of Surrey, why look you so sad?

Surr.
My heart is ten times lighter than my looks.

K. Rich.
My lord of Norfolk,—

Nor.
Here, most gracious Liege.

K. Rich.
Norfolk, we must have knocks: ha, must we not?

Nor.
We must both give and take, my gracious lord.

K. Rich.
Up with my tent, here will I lye to night;
But where to morrow?—well, all's one for that.
Who hath descry'd the number of the traitors?

Nor.
Six, or sev'n, thousand is their utmost Power.

K. Rich.
Why, our Battalion trebles that account:
Besides, the King's name is a tower of strength,
Which they upon the adverse faction want.
Up with the tent: come, noble gentlemen,
Let us survey the vantage of the ground.
Call for some men of sound direction:
Let's want no discipline, make no delay;
For, lords, to morrow is a busie day. [Exeunt.

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