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Enter EDWARD, running.

Ed. Smile, gentle heaven! or strike, ungentle death!

For this world frowns, and Edward's sun 18 clouded.

War. How now, my lord? what hap? what hope of good?

Enter GEORGE.

George. 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?

Ed. Bootless is flight; they follow us with wings;

And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit.

Enter RICHARD.

Rich. Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?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.

• 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, 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.

Ed. 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 on 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.

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 quailing1 breasts, "For yet is hope of life and victory.

"Fore-slow 2 no longer; make we hence amain.

SCENE IV.

[Exeunt.

The same.

Excursions.

Another part of the field.

Enter RICHARD and CLIFFORD.

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; 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. Warwick enters; Clifford flies. Rich. Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase;

For I myself will hunt this wolf to death.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

Another part of the field.

Alarum.

Enter KING HENRY.

"K. Hen. 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

it that sways

way,

like the self-same 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 mole-hill 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 make the hour 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;
"So many hours must I sport myself;

"So many days my ewes have been with young;
"So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean;
"So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:

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

years,

"Pass'd 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 silly sheep, “ Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy "To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery? "O, yes, it doth; a thousand fold it doth. "And to conclude, the shepherd's homely curds; "His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, "His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade, "All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, "Is far beyond a prince's delicates, "His viands sparkling in a golden cup,