READ STUDY GUIDE: Act II, Scenes iii-vi |
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Act II, Scene iii
| [Alarums. 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| Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?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.] |
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