War.
Fore-spent ^note with toil, as runners with a race,
I lay me down a little while to breath:
For strokes receiv'd, and many blows repay'd,
Have rob'd my strong-knit sinews of their strength,
That, spight of spight, needs must I rest a while. Enter Edward, running.

Edw.
Smile, gentle heaven! ^note 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 George.

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

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

Ric.
Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?
Thy brother's blood14Q0843 the thirsty earth hath drunk,
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 fet-locks in his smoaking 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.
Why stand we like soft-hearted women here,
Wailing our losses, while the foe doth rage;
And look upon, as if the tragedy
Were play'd in jest by counterfeiting actors?
Here on my † knee I vow to God above,
I'll never pause again, never stand still,
'Till either death hath clos'd these eyes of mine,
Or fortune giv'n me measure of revenge.

Edw.
O Warwick, I do bend † my knee with thine;
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 in earth.

Ric.
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.

Geo.
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, make we hence amain. [Exeunt.

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