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 played in jest by counterfeiting actors?

(Kneeling) 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.

EDWARD (kneeling)

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.

⌈They rise⌉

Now, lords, take leave until we meet again,

Where’er it be, in heaven or in earth.

ICHARD

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 springtime 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

2.4 ⌈Alarums.⌉ Excursions. Enter Richard ⌈at one door⌉ and Lord Clifford ⌈at the other⌉

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 environed 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 hands that slew thy sire and brother

To execute the like upon thyself—

And so, have at thee!

They fight. The Earl of Warwick comes and rescues Richard. Lord Clifford flies

RICHARD

Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase—

For I myself will hunt this wolf to death. Exeunt

2.5 Alarum. Enter King Henry

KING HENRY

This battle fares like to the morning’s war,

When dying clouds contend with growing light,

What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,

Can neither call it perfect day nor night.

Now sways it this way like a mighty sea

Forced by the tide to combat with the wind,

Now sways it that way like the selfsame sea

Forced to retire by fury of the wind.

Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind;

Now one the better, then another best—

Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,

Yet neither conqueror nor conquered.

So is the equal poise of this fell war.

Here on this molehill will I sit me down.

To whom God will, there be the victory.

For Margaret my queen, and Clifford, too,

Have chid me from the battle, swearing both

They prosper best of all when I am thence.

Would I were dead, if God’s good will were so—

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, point by point,

Thereby to see the minutes how they run:

How many makes the hour full complete,

How many hours brings 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,

So many hours must I sport myself,

So many days my ewes have been with young,

So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean,

So many years ere I shall shear the fleece.

So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,

Passed over to the end they were created,

Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.

Ah, what a life were this! How sweet! How lovely!

Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade

To shepherds looking on their seely sheep

Than doth a rich embroidered canopy

To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery?

O yes, it doth—a thousandfold it doth.

And to conclude, the shepherd’s homely curds,