Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death!"

So, underneath the belly of their steeds,

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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,
Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage;
And look upon,3 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,
Till either death hath clos'd these eyes of
mine,

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Or fortune given me measure of revenge. Ede. O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine;

And give sweet passage to my sinful soul![Rising] 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:
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'

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.— Forslow G no longer, make we hence amain. [Exeunt.]

SCENE IV. Another part of the field. Excursions. Enter RICHARD and CLIFFORD from opposite sides.

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;

Rich. Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone.—(Act ii. 4. 1.)

To execute the like upon thyself; And so, have at thee!

[They fight.

For I myself will hunt this wolf to death.

SCENE V.

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[Exeunt.

Another part of the field.

For what is in this world but grief and woe?
O God! methinks it were a happy life,
To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,

To carve out dials quaintly,2 point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run,-
How many make the hour3 full complete;
How many hours bring about the day;
How many days will finish up the year;

How many years a mortal man may live.
[When this is known, then to divide the

times,

So many hours must I tend my flock; So many hours must I take my rest; So many hours must I contemplate;

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1 Fell, fierce.

Warwick enters; Clifford flies.

2 Quaintly, cunningly, artfully.

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3 Hour, pronounced as a dissyllable throughout this passage.

Enter on the other side a Yorkist Soldier,

bringing in a dead body.

Y. Sol. Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me, Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold; For I have bought it with an hundred blows.-But let me see: is this our foeman's face? Ah, no, no, no, it is mine only son! Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee,

Throw up thine eye! see, see what showers arise,

Blown with the windy tempest of my heart, Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart!

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O, pity, God, this miserable age!--
What stratagems,1 how fell,2 how butcherly,
Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural,
This deadly quarrel daily doth beget!
{[O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon,
And hath bereft thee of thy life too late!]
K. Hen. Woe above woe! grief more than
common grief!

O that my death would stay these ruthful deeds!

O, pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity!

The red rose and the white are on his face, The fatal colours of our striving houses: {[The one his purple blood right well resembles; The other his pale cheek, methinks, presenteth:3]

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L. Sol. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill. [Exit with the body.

Y. Sol. These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet;

My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre,—
For from my heart thine image ne'er shall go;
[My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell;
And so obsequious will thy father be,
E'en for the loss of thee, having no more,
As Priam was for all his valiant sons.]
I'll bear thee hence; and let them fight that
will,

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For I have murder'd where I should not kill. [Exit with the body.

K. Hen. Sad-hearted men, much overgone? with care,

Here sits a king more woeful than you are. Alarums: excursions. Enter Queen Margaret, PRINCE OF WALES, and EXETER.

Prince. Fly, father, fly! for all your friends are fled,

And Warwick rages like a chafed bull:
Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit.
Q. Mar. Mount you, my lord; towards
Berwick post amain:

Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds