K.
O God of battels steele my souldiers harts,
Take from them now the sence of rekconing,
That the apposed multitudes which stand before them,
May not appall their courage.
O not to day, not to day ô God,
Thinke on the fault my father made,
In compassing the crowne.
I Richards bodie haue interred new,
And on it hath bestowd more contrite teares,
Then from it issued forced drops of blood:
A hundred men haue I in yearly pay,
Which euery day their withered hands hold vp
To heauen to pardon blood,
And I haue built two chanceries, more wil I do:
Tho all that I can do, is all too litle. Enter Gloster.

Glost.
My Lord.

King.
My brother Glosters voyce.

Glost.
My Lord, the Army stayes vpon your presence.

King.
Stay Gloster stay, and I will go with thee,
The day my friends, and all things stayes for me.

Previous section

Next section