Richm.
Fellows in arms, and my most loving friends,
Bruis'd underneath the yoke of tyranny,
Thus far into the bowels of the Land
Have we march'd on without impediment;
And here receive we from our father Stanley
Lines of fair comfort and encouragement.
The wretched, bloody, and usurping Boar,
That spoil'd your summer-fields, and fruitful vines,
Swills your warm blood like wash, and makes his trough
In your ^{6 note}embowell'd bosoms; this foul swine
Lies now ev'n in the centre of this Isle,
Near to the town of Leicester, as we learn;
From Tamworth thither is but one day's march.
In God's name, cheerly on, couragious friends,
To reap the harvest of perpetual peace,
By this one bloody trial of sharp war.

Oxf.
Ev'ry man's conscience is a thousand swords,
To fight against that bloody homicide.

Herb.
I doubt not, but his friends will fly to us.

Blunt.
He hath no friends, but who are friends for fear,
Which in his dearest Need will fly from him.

Richm.
All for our vantage—then, in God's name, march.
True hope is swift, and flies with Swallow's wings,
Kings it makes Gods, and meaner creatures Kings. [Exeunt.

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