A Field of Battle near Barnet. | |
| |
Alarums and Excursions. Enter KING EDWARD, bringing in WARWICK, wounded. | |
| K. Edw. So, lie thou there: die thou, and die our fear; | |
| For Warwick was a bug that fear’d us all. | 4 |
| Now Montague, sit fast; I seek for thee, | |
| That Warwick’s bones may keep thine company. [Exit. | |
| War. Ah! who is nigh? come to me, friend or foe, | |
| And tell me who is victor, York or Warwick? | 8 |
| Why ask I that? my mangled body shows, | |
| My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows, | |
| That I must yield my body to the earth, | |
| And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe. | 12 |
| Thus yields the cedar to the axe’s edge, | |
| Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle, | |
| Under whose shade the ramping lion slept, | |
| Whose top branch overpeer’d Jove’s spreading tree, | 16 |
| And kept low shrubs from winter’s powerful wind. | |
| These eyes, that now are dimm’d with death’s black veil, | |
| Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun, | |
| To search the secret treasons of the world: | 20 |
| The wrinkles in my brows, now fill’d with blood, | |
| Were liken’d oft to kingly sepulchres; | |
| For who liv’d king, but I could dig his grave? | |
| And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow? | 24 |
| Lo! now my glory smear’d in dust and blood; | |
| My parks, my walks, my manors that I had, | |
| Even now forsake me; and, of all my lands | |
| Is nothing left me but my body’s length. | 28 |
| Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? | |
| And, live we how we can, yet die we must. | |
| |
Enter OXFORD and SOMERSET. | |
| Som. Ah! Warwick, Warwick, wert thou as we are, | 32 |
| We might recover all our loss again. | |
| The queen from France hath brought a puissant power; | |
| Even now we heard the news. Ah! couldst thou fly. | |
| War. Why, then, I would not fly. Ah! Montague, | 36 |
| If thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand, | |
| And with thy lips keep in my soul awhile. | |
| Thou lov’st me not; for, brother, if thou didst, | |
| Thy tears would wash this cold congealed blood | 40 |
| That glues my lips and will not let me speak. | |
| Come quickly, Montague, or I am dead. | |
| Som. Ah! Warwick, Montague hath breath’d his last; | |
| And to the latest gasp, cried out for Warwick, | 44 |
| And said, ‘Commend me to my valiant brother.’ | |
| And more he would have said; and more he spoke, | |
| Which sounded like a clamour in a vault, | |
| That mought not be distinguish’d: but at last | 48 |
| I well might hear, deliver’d with a groan, | |
| ‘O! farewell, Warwick!’ | |
| War. Sweet rest his soul! Fly, lords, and save yourselves; | |
| For Warwick bids you all farewell, to meet in heaven. [Dies. | 52 |
| Oxf. Away, away, to meet the queen’s great power. [Exeunt, bearing off WARWICK’S body. | |
