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A Field of Battle between Towton and Saxton, in Yorkshire. | |
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Alarums: Excursions. Enter WARWICK. | |
| War. Forspent with toil, as runners with a race, | |
| I lay me down a little while to breathe; | |
| For strokes receiv’d, and many blows repaid, | 5 |
| Have robb’d my strong-knit sinews of their strength, | |
| And spite of spite needs must I rest a while. | |
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Enter EDWARD, running. | |
| Edw. Smile, gentle heaven! or strike, ungentle death! | |
| For this world frowns, and Edward’s sun is clouded. | 10 |
| War. How now, my lord! what hap? what hope of good? | |
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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 shall we fly? | 15 |
| Edw. Bootless is flight, they follow us with wings; | |
| And weak we are and cannot shun pursuit. | |
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Enter RICHARD. | |
| Rich. Ah! Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself? | |
| Thy brother’s blood the thirsty earth hath drunk, | 20 |
| Broach’d with the steely point of Clifford’s lance; | |
| And in the very pangs of death he cried, | |
| Like to a dismal clangor heard from far, | |
| ‘Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death!’ | |
| So, underneath the belly of their steeds, | 25 |
| That stain’d their fetlocks in his smoking 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, | 30 |
| Wailing our losses, whiles 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 | 35 |
| 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, | 40 |
| 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, | 45 |
| And give sweet passage to my sinful soul! | |
| Now, lords, take leave until we meet again, | |
| Where’er it be, in heaven or in earth. | |
| Rich. Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle Warwick, | |
| Let me embrace thee in my weary arms: | 50 |
| 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, farewell. | |
| Geo. Yet let us all together to our troops, | |
| And give them leave to fly that will not stay, | 55 |
| 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. | 60 |
| Forslow no longer; make we hence amain. [Exeunt. | |
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