Warwick.
Where is the Post, that came from valiant Oxford?
How far hence is thy Lord, mine honest fellow?

1 Mes.
By this at Dunsmore, marching hither-ward.

War.
How far off is our brother Montague?
—Where is the Post, that came from Montague?

2 Mes.
By this at Daintry, with a puissant troop. Enter Somerville.

War.
Say, Somerville, what says my loving son?
And by thy guess how nigh is Clarence now?

Somerv.
At Southam I did leave him with his forces,
And do expect him here some two hours hence.

War.
Then Clarence is at hand, I hear his drum.

Somerv.
It is not his, my Lord; here Southam lies.
The drum, your Honour hears, marcheth from Warwick.

War.
Who should that be? belike, unlook'd-for friends.

Somerv.
They are at hand, and you shall quickly know. March. Flourish. Enter King Edward, Gloucester, and Soldiers.

K. Edw.
Go, trumpet, to the walls, and sound a parle.

Glo.
See, how the surly Warwick mans the wall.

War.
Oh, unbid spight! is sportful Edward come?
Where slept our scouts, or how are they seduc'd,
That we could hear no news of his repair?

K. Edw.
Now, Warwick, wilt thou ope the city-gates,
Speak gentle words, and humbly bend thy knee?
Call Edward King, and at his hands beg mercy,
And he shall pardon thee these outrages.

War.
Nay, rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence,
Confess who set thee up and pluck'd thee down?
Call Warwick patron, and be penitent,
And thou shalt still remain the Duke of York.

Glo.
I thought, at least, he would have said the King;
Or did he make the jest against his will?

War.
Is not a Dukedom, Sir, a goodly gift?

Glo.
Ay, by my faith, for a poor Earl to give:
I'll do thee service for so good a gift.

War.
'Twas I, that gave the Kingdom to thy brother.

K. Edw.
Why, then 'tis mine, if but by Warwick's gift.

War.
Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight,
And, Weakling, Warwick takes his gift again;
And Henry is my King, Warwick his subject.

K. Edw.
But Warwick's King is Edward's prisoner;
And, gallant Warwick, do but answer this,
What is the body when the head is off?

Glo.
Alas! that Warwick had no more fore-cast,
But while he thought to steal the single ten,
The King was slily finger'd from the Deck;
You left poor Henry at the Bishop's palace,
And, ten to one, you'll meet him in the Tower.

K. Edw.
'Tis even so; yet you are Warwick still.

Glo.
Come, Warwick, take the time, kneel down, kneel down.
Nay, when? Strike now, or else the iron cools.

War.
I'd rather chop this hand off at a blow,

And with the other fling it at thy face,
Than bear so low a sail, to strike to thee.

K. Edw.
Sail, how thou canst; have wind and tide thy friend;
This hand fast wound about thy coal-black hair
Shall, while thy head is warm and new cut off,
Write in the dust this sentence with thy blood;
Wind-changing Warwick now can change no more.

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