War. And loe, where George of Clarence sweepes along, Of force enough to bid his Brother Battaile: With whom, in vpright zeale to right, preuailes More then the nature of a Brothers Loue. Come Clarence, come: thou wilt, if Warwicke call
Clar. Father of Warwicke, know you what this meanes? Looke here, I throw my infamie at thee: I will not ruinate my Fathers House, Who gaue his blood to lyme the stones together, And set vp Lancaster. Why, trowest thou, Warwicke, That Clarence is so harsh, so blunt, vnnaturall, To bend the fatall Instruments of Warre Against his Brother, and his lawfull King. Perhaps thou wilt obiect my holy Oath: To keepe that Oath, were more impietie, Then Iephah, when he sacrific'd his Daughter. I am so sorry for my Trespas made, That to deserue well at my Brothers hands, I here proclayme my selfe thy mortall foe: With resolution, wheresoe're I meet thee, (As I will meet thee, if thou stirre abroad) To plague thee, for thy foule mis-leading me. And so, prowd-hearted Warwicke, I defie thee, And to my Brother turne my blushing Cheekes. Pardon me Edward, I will make amends: And Richard, doe not frowne vpon my faults, For I will henceforth be no more vnconstant
Edw. Now welcome more, and ten times more belou'd, Then if thou neuer hadst deseru'd our hate
Rich. Welcome good Clarence, this is Brother-like
Warw. Oh passing Traytor, periur'd and vniust
Edw. What Warwicke, Wilt thou leaue the Towne, and fight? Or shall we beat the Stones about thine Eares? Warw. Alas, I am not coop'd here for defence: I will away towards Barnet presently, And bid thee Battaile, Edward, if thou dar'st
Edw. Yes Warwicke, Edward dares, and leads the way: Lords to the field: Saint George, and Victorie.
March. Warwicke and his companie followes.
Alarum, and Excursions. Enter Edward bringing forth Warwicke wounded.
Edw. So, lye thou there: dye thou, and dye our feare, For Warwicke was a Bugge that fear'd vs all. Now Mountague sit fast, I seeke for thee, That Warwickes Bones may keepe thine companie. Enter.
Warw. Ah, who is nigh? come to me, friend, or foe, And tell me who is Victor, Yorke, or Warwicke? Why aske I that? my mangled body shewes, My blood, my want of strength, my sicke heart shewes, That I must yeeld my body to the Earth, And by my fall, the conquest to my foe. Thus yeelds the Cedar to the Axes edge, Whose Armes gaue shelter to the Princely Eagle, Vnder whose shade the ramping Lyon slept, Whose top-branch ouer-peer'd Ioues spreading Tree, And kept low Shrubs from Winters pow'rfull Winde. These Eyes, that now are dim'd with Deaths black Veyle, Haue beene as piercing as the Mid-day Sunne, To search the secret Treasons of the World: The Wrinckles in my Browes, now fill'd with blood, Were lik'ned oft to Kingly Sepulchers: For who liu'd King, but I could digge his Graue? And who durst smile, when Warwicke bent his Brow? Loe, now my Glory smear'd in dust and blood. My Parkes, my Walkes, my Mannors that I had, Euen now forsake me; and of all my Lands, Is nothing left me, but my bodies length. Why, what is Pompe, Rule, Reigne, but Earth and Dust? And liue we how we can, yet dye we must. Enter Oxford and Somerset.
Som. Ah Warwicke, Warwicke, wert thou as we are, We might recouer all our Losse againe: The Queene from France hath brought a puissant power. Euen now we heard the newes: ah, could'st thou flye
Warw. Why then I would not flye. Ah Mountague, If thou be there, sweet Brother, take my Hand, And with thy Lippes keepe in my Soule a while. Thou lou'st me not: for, Brother, if thou did'st, Thy teares would wash this cold congealed blood, That glewes my Lippes, and will not let me speake. Come quickly Mountague, or I am dead