|ACT II SCENE III
|A field of battle between Towton and Saxton, in Yorkshire.
|[Alarum. Excursions. Enter WARWICK]
|Forspent with toil, as runners with a race,
|I lay me down a little while to breathe;
|For strokes received, 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]
|Smile, gentle heaven! or strike, ungentle death!
|For this world frowns, and Edward's sun is clouded.
|How now, my lord! what hap? what hope of good?
|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?
|Bootless is flight, they follow us with wings;
|And weak we are and cannot shun pursuit.
|Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?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 clangour 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.
|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 closed these eyes of mine
|Or fortune given me measure of revenge.
|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 they 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.
|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.
|Away, away! Once more, sweet lords farewell.
|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.