K. Edw.
So, lye thou there: die thou, and die our Fear;
For Warwick was a bug, that scar'd us all.
Now, Montague, sit fast, I seek for thee;
That Warwick's bones may keep thine company. [Exit.

War.
Ah, who is nigh? come to me, friend, or foe,
And tell me, who is victor, York, or Warwick?
Why ask I that? my mangled body shews,
My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shews,
That I must yield my body to the earth,
And, by my Fall, the Conquest to my foe.
Thus yields the Cedar to the ax's edge,
Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle;

Under whose shade the ramping lion slept,
Whose top branch over-peer'd Jove's spreading tree,
And kept low shrubs from winter's pow'rful wind.
These eyes, that now are dim'd with death's black veil,
Have been as piercing as the mid-day Sun,
To search the secret treasons of the world.
The wrinkles in my brow, now fill'd with blood,
Were lik'ned oft to kingly sepulchres:
For who liv'd King, but I could dig his grave?
And who durst smile, when Warwick bent his brow?
Lo! now my glory smear'd in dust and blood,
My parks, my walks, my manors that I had,
Ev'n now forsake me; and of all my lands
Is nothing left me, but my body's length.
Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust?
And live we how we can, yet die we must. Enter Oxford and Somerset.

Som.
Ah, Warwick, Warwick, wert thou as we are,
We might recover all our loss again:
The Queen from France hath brought a puissant Pow'r:
Ev'n now we heard the news: ah, could'st thou fly!

War.
Why, then I would not fly.—Ah, Montague,
If thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand,
And with thy lips keep in my soul a while.
Thou lov'st me not; for, brother, if thou didst,
Thy tears would wash this cold congealed blood,
That glews my lips, and will not let me speak.
Come quickly, Montague, or I am dead.

Som.
Ah Warwick, Montague hath breath'd his last,
And to the latest gasp cry'd out for Warwick:
And said, Commend me to my valiant brother.
And more he would have said, and more he spoke,
^{1 note}Which sounded like a clamour in a vault,

That might not be distinguish'd; but at last
I well might hear deliver'd with a groan,
O, farewel, Warwick!—

War.
Sweetly rest his soul!
Fly, lords, and save yourselves; for Warwick bids
You all farewel, to meet again in heaven. [Dies.

Oxf.
Away, away, to meet the Queen's great power. [They bear away his Body, and Exeunt.

Previous section

Next section