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Ah Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thy self?
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 his 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 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 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 thy self,
And so have at thee. They fight. Warwick enters, Clifford flies.

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

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