3. SCENE III. A field of battle between Towton.
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.
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.
Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell.
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.