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And we, in pity of the gentle King,

Had slipp'd our claim until another age.

GEORGE.

But when we saw our sunshine made thy spring,

And that thy summer bred us no increase,

We set the axe to thy usurping root;

And though the edge hath something hit ourselves,

Yet know thou, since we have begun to strike,

We'll never leave till we have hewn thee down,

Or bath'd thy growing with our heated bloods.

EDWARD.

And in this resolution I defy thee;

Not willing any longer conference,

Since thou deniest the gentle King to speak.

Sound trumpets; let our bloody colours wave,

And either victory or else a grave!

QUEEN MARGARET.

Stay, Edward.

EDWARD.

No, wrangling woman, we'll no longer stay;

These words will cost ten thousand lives this day.

Exeunt

SCENE III. A field of battle between Towton and Saxton, in Yorkshire

Alarum; excursions. Enter WARWICK

WARWICK.

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

Have robb'd my strong-knit sinews of their strength,

And spite of spite needs must I rest awhile.

Enter EDWARD, running

EDWARD.

Smile, gentle heaven, or strike, ungentle death;

For this world frowns, and Edward's sun is clouded.

WARWICK.

How now, my lord. What hap? What hope of good?

Enter GEORGE

GEORGE.

Our hap is lost, our hope but sad despair;

Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us.

What counsel give you? Whither shall we fly?

EDWARD.

Bootless is flight: they follow us with wings;

And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit.

Enter RICHARD

RICHARD.

Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?

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 cried,

Like to a dismal clangor heard from far,

'Warwick, revenge! Brother, revenge my death.'

So, underneath the belly of their steeds,

That stain'd their fetlocks in his smoking blood,

The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.

WARWICK.

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 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

Or fortune given me measure of revenge.

EDWARD.

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 heaven may ope

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.

RICHARD.

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.

WARWICK.

Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell.

GEORGE.

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.

Forslow no longer; make we hence amain. Exeunt

SCENE IV. Another part of the field

Excursions. Enter RICHARD and CLIFFORD

RICHARD.

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.

CLIFFORD.

Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone.

This is the hand that stabbed 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