War.
^{5 note}Forspent with toil, as runners with a race,
I lay me down a little while to breathe:
For strokes receiv'd, and many blows repaid,
Have robb'd my strong-knit sinews of their strength,
And, spight of spight, needs must I rest a while. Enter Edward, running.

Edw.
^{6 note}



Smile, gentle heaven! or strike, ungentle death!
For this world frowns, and Edward's sun is clouded.

War.
How now, my lord? what hap? what hope of good? Enter Clarence.

Cla.
^{7 note}




Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair; 9Q0845
Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us:
What counsel give you? whither shall we fly?

Edw.
Bootless is flight, they follow us with wings;
And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit. Enter Richard.

Rich.
Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?
^{8 note}

Broach'd with the steely point of Clifford's lance:
And, in the very pangs of death, he cry'd,—
Like to a dismal clangor heard from far,—
Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death!
So underneath the belly of their steeds,
That stain'd their fetlocks in his smoking blood,
The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.

War.
Then let the earth be drunken with our blood:
I'll kill my horse, because I will not fly^{9 note}

Edw.
O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine;
^{1 note}
And, in this vow, do chain my soul to thine.—
And, ere my knee rise from the earth's cold face,
I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to Thee,

Thou setter up and plucker down of kings!
Beseeching thee,—if with thy will it stands,
That to my foes this body must be prey,—
Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope,
And give sweet passage to my sinful soul!—
Now, lords, take leave until we meet again,
Where-e'er it be, in heaven, or on earth.

Rich.
Brother, give me thy hand;—and, gentle Warwick,
Let me embrace thee in my weary arms:—
I, that did never weep, now melt with woe,
That winter should cut off our spring-time so.

War.
Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewel.

Cla.
Yet let us all together to our troops:
And give them leave to fly that will not stay;
And call them pillars, that will stand to us;
And, if we thrive, promise them such rewards
As victors wear at the Olympian games:
This may plant courage in their quailing breasts;
For yet is hope of life, and victory.—
Fore-slow no longer^{2 note}

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