Rich. I cannot weepe: for all my bodies moysture Scarse serues to quench my Furnace-burning hart: Nor can my tongue vnloade my hearts great burthen, For selfe-same winde that I should speake withall, Is kindling coales that fires all my brest, And burnes me vp with flames, that tears would quench. To weepe, is to make lesse the depth of greefe: Teares then for Babes; Blowes, and Reuenge for mee. Richard, I beare thy name, Ile venge thy death, Or dye renowned by attempting it

Ed. His name that valiant Duke hath left with thee: His Dukedome, and his Chaire with me is left

Rich. Nay, if thou be that Princely Eagles Bird, Shew thy descent by gazing 'gainst the Sunne: For Chaire and Dukedome, Throne and Kingdome say, Either that is thine, or else thou wer't not his.

March. Enter Warwicke, Marquesse Mountacute, and their Army.

Warwick. How now faire Lords? What faire? What newes abroad? Rich. Great Lord of Warwicke, if we should recompt Our balefull newes, and at each words deliuerance Stab Poniards in our flesh, till all were told, The words would adde more anguish then the wounds. O valiant Lord, the Duke of Yorke is slaine

Edw. O Warwicke, Warwicke, that Plantagenet Which held thee deerely, as his Soules Redemption, Is by the sterne Lord Clifford done to death

War. Ten dayes ago, I drown'd these newes in teares. And now to adde more measure to your woes, I come to tell you things sith then befalne. After the bloody Fray at Wakefield fought, Where your braue Father breath'd his latest gaspe, Tydings, as swiftly as the Postes could runne, Were brought me of your Losse, and his Depart. I then in London, keeper of the King, Muster'd my Soldiers, gathered flockes of Friends, Marcht toward S[aint]. Albons, to intercept the Queene, Bearing the King in my behalfe along: For by my Scouts, I was aduertised That she was comming with a full intent To dash our late Decree in Parliament, Touching King Henries Oath, and your Succession: Short Tale to make, we at S[aint]. Albons met, Our Battailes ioyn'd, and both sides fiercely fought: But whether 'twas the coldnesse of the King, Who look'd full gently on his warlike Queene, That robb'd my Soldiers of their heated Spleene. Or whether 'twas report of her successe, Or more then common feare of Cliffords Rigour, Who thunders to his Captiues, Blood and Death, I cannot iudge: but to conclude with truth, Their Weapons like to Lightning, came and went: Our Souldiers like the Night-Owles lazie flight, Or like a lazie Thresher with a Flaile, Fell gently downe, as if they strucke their Friends. I cheer'd them vp with iustice of our Cause, With promise of high pay, and great Rewards: But all in vaine, they had no heart to fight, And we (in them) no hope to win the day, So that we fled: the King vnto the Queene, Lord George, your Brother, Norfolke, and my Selfe, In haste, post haste, are come to ioyne with you: For in the Marches heere we heard you were, Making another Head, to fight againe

Ed. Where is the Duke of Norfolke, gentle Warwick? And when came George from Burgundy to England? War. Some six miles off the Duke is with the Soldiers, And for your Brother he was lately sent From your kinde Aunt Dutchesse of Burgundie, With ayde of Souldiers to this needfull Warre

Rich. 'Twas oddes belike, when valiant Warwick fled; Oft haue I heard his praises in Pursuite, But ne're till now, his Scandall of Retire

War. Nor now my Scandall Richard, dost thou heare: For thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine, Can plucke the Diadem from faint Henries head, And wring the awefull Scepter from his Fist, Were he as famous, and as bold in Warre, As he is fam'd for Mildnesse, Peace, and Prayer

William Shakespeare
Classic Literature Library

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