Enter Clarence.

Cla. Our hap is losse, our hope but sad dispaire, Our rankes are broke, and ruine followes us. What counsaile give you? whether shall we flye?

Ed. Bootlesse is flight, they follow us with Wings, And weake we are, and cannot shun pursuite.

Enter Richard.

Rich. Ah Warwicke, why hast thou withdrawn thy selfe?

Thy Brothers blood the thirsty earth hath drunk,
Broach'd with the Steely point of Cliffords Launce:
And in the very pangs of death, he cryde,
Like to a dismall Clangor heard from farre,
Warwicke, revenge; Brother, revenge my death.
So underneath the belly of their Steeds,

That stain'd their Fetlockes in his smoaking blood,
The Noble Gentleman gave up the ghost.

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War. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood: Ile kill my Horse, because I will not flye: Why stand we like soft-hearted women heere, Wayling our losses, whiles the Foe doth Rage, And looke upon, as if the Tragedie Were plaid in jest, by counterfetting Actors. Heere on my knee, I vow to God above, Ile never pawse againe, never stand still,

Till either death hath clos'd these eyes of mine,

Or Fortune given me measure of Revenge.

Ed. Oh Warwicke, I do bend my knee with thine, And in this vow do chaine my soule to thine: And ere my knee rise from the Earths cold face, I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee, Thou setter up, and plucker downe of Kings:

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THE TOWER OF LONDON FROM TOWER HILL.

(The building crowned with the four towers on the corners is Cæsar's Tower, or the White Tower.)

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 sinfull soule.
Now Lords, take leave untill we meete againe,
Where ere it be, in heaven, or in earth.

Rich. Brother,

Give me thy hand, and gentle Warwicke,
Let me imbrace thee in my weary armes:
I that did never weepe, now melt with wo,
That Winter should cut off our Spring-time so.
War. Away, away:

Once more sweet Lords farwell.

Cla. Yet let us altogether to our Troopes,
And give them leave to flye, that will not stay:
And call them Pillars that will stand to us:
And if we thrive, promise them such rewards
As Victors weare at the Olympian Games.
This may plant courage in their quailing breasts,
For yet is hope of Life and Victory:
Foreslow1 no longer, make we hence amaine.

[Scene iv.

Excursions.

Another part of the field.]

Enter Richard and Clifford.

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1 delay Exeunt

Rich. Now Clifford, I have singled thee alone,
Suppose this arme is for the Duke of Yorke,
And this for Rutland, both bound to revenge,
Wer't thou inviron'd with a Brazen wall.

Clif, Now Richard, I am with thee heere alone, This is the hand that stabb'd thy Father Yorke, And this the hand, that slew thy Brother Rutland, And here's the heart, that triumphs in their death, 49-50. I 1.-POPE. 54-5. I 1.-Q.

And cheeres these hands, that slew thy Sire and Brother, To execute the like upon thy selfe,

And so have at thee.

They Fight, Warwicke comes, Clifford flies.

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Rich. Nay Warwicke, single out some other Chace, For I my selfe will hunt this Wolfe to death. Exeunt.

[Scene v.

Alarum.

Another part of the field.]

Enter King Henry alone.

Hen. This battell fares like to the mornings Warre,
When dying clouds contend, with growing light,
What time the Shepheard blowing of his nailes,
Can neither call it perfect day, nor night.
Now swayes it this way, like a Mighty Sea,
Forc'd by the Tide, to combat with the Winde:
Now swayes it that way, like the selfe-same Sea,
Forc'd to retyre by furie of the Winde.

Sometime, the Flood prevailes; and than the Winde:
Now, one the better: then, another best;
Both tugging to be Victors, brest to brest:
Yet neither Conqueror, nor Conquered.
So is the equall poise of this fell Warre.
Heere on this Mole-hill will I sit me downe,
To whom God will, there be the Victorie:
For Margaret my Queene, and Clifford too
Have chid me from the Battell: Swearing both,
They prosper best of all when I am thence.
Would I were dead, if Gods good will were so;
For what is in this world, but Greefe and Woe.
Oh God! me thinkes it were a happy life,
To be no better then a homely Swaine,
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,

To carve out Dialls queintly, point by point,

II

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