War.
Fore-spent 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.
Smile, gentle heav'n! 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.
Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair;
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Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?

Thy brother's blood 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 fetlocks 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, whiles the foe doth rage;
And look upon, as if the Tragedy
Were plaid 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 given me measure of revenge.

Edw.
O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine,
And in this vow do chain my soul with 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 heav'n may ope,
And give sweet passage to my sinful soul!—
Now, lords, take Leave until we meet again;
Where-e'er it be, in heav'n 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, make we hence amain. [Exeunt. Excursions. Enter Richard, and Clifford.

Rich.
Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone;
Suppose, this arm is for the Duke of York,
And this for Rutland, both bound to revenge,
Wert thou environ'd with a brazen wall.

Clif.
Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone,
This is the hand, that stabb'd thy father York;
And this the hand, that slew thy brother Rutland;
And here's the heart, that triumphs in their death;
And cheers these hands, that slew thy sire and brother,
To execute the like upon thyself:
And so, have at thee. They fight. Warwick enters, Clifford flies.

Rich.
Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase,
For I myself will hunt this wolf to death. [Exeunt.

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