For what hath broach'd this tumult, but thy pride? Hadst thou been meek, our title still had slept: And we, in pity of the gentle king, Had slipp'd our claim until another age. 'Geo. But, when we saw our sunshine made thy spring, "And that thy summer bred us no increase, And though the edge hath something hit ourselves, Since thou deny'st the gentle king to speak.- Q. Mar. Stay, Edward. Edw. No, wrangling woman; we'll no longer stay; These words will cost ten thousand lives to-day. SCENE III. [Exeunt. A Field of Battle between Towton and Saxton in Yorkshire. Alarums: Excursions. Enter WARWICK. War. Forspent with toil, as runners with a race, I lay me down a little while to breathe: we saw our sunshine made thy spring, And that thy summer bred us no increase,] When we saw that by favouring thee we made thee grow in fortune, but that we received no advantage from thy fortune flourishing by our favour, we then resolved to destroy thee, and determined to try some other means, though our first efforts have failed. A Field of Battle, &c.] We should read near Towton. Shakspeare has here, perhaps, intentionally thrown three dif ferent actions into one. For strokes receiv'd, and many blows repaid, Enter EDWARD running. Edw. Smile, gentle heaven! or strike, ungentle death! For this world frowns, and Edward's sun is clouded. War. How now, my lord? what hap? what hope of good? Enter GEOrge. * Geo. Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair; "Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us : What counsel give you, whither shall we fly? Edw. Bootless is flight, they follow us with wings; And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit. Enter RICHARD. Rich. Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?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. 'War. Then let the earth be drunken with our I'll kill my horse because I will not fly. And look upon,] And are mere spectators. * Were play'd in jest by counterfeiting actors? Till either death hath clos'd these eyes of mine, 'Or fortune given me measure of revenge. Edw. 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, 'Rich. 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. War. Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell. "Geo. 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. * Fore-slow no longer,' make we hence amain. [Exeunt. Beseeching thee,] That is, beseeching the divine power. 9 quailing - i. e. sinking into dejection. Forc-slow no longer,] To fore-slow is to be dilatory, to loiter. The same. Excursions. SCENE IV. Another Part of the Field. Enter RICHARD and CLIFford. "Rich. Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone: 'Suppose, this arm is for the duke of York, And this for Rutland; both bound to revenge, 'Wert thou environ'd with a brazen wall. Clif. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone: This is the hand that stabb'd thy father York; And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland; And here's the heart, that triumphs in their death, And cheers these hands, that slew thy sire and brother, To execute the like upon thyself; And so, have at thee. [They fight. WARWICK enters; CLIFFORD Rich. Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase; For I myself will hunt this wolf to death. SCENE V. [Exeunt. Another Part of the Field. Alarum. Enter King HENRY. *K. Hen. This battle fares like to the morning's war, * When dying clouds contend with growing light; * What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails, * Can neither call it perfect day, nor night. Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea, Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind; Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea Forc'd to retire by fury of the wind: Sometime, the flood prevails; and then, the wind: Now, one the better; then, another best; Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered: So is the equal poise of this fell war. *Here on this molehill, will I sit me down. * To whom God will, there be the victory! For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too, Have chid me from the battle; swearing both, They prosper best of all when I am thence. 'Would I were dead! if God's good will were so : For what is in this world, but grief and woe? * O God! methinks it were a happy life,2 To be no better than a homely swain; *To sit upon a hill as I do now, * To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, * So many days my ewes have been with young; 2 - methinks, it were a happy life,] This speech is mournful and soft, exquisitely suited to the character of the King, and makes a pleasing interchange, by affording, amidst the tumult and horror of the battle, an unexpected glimpse of rural innocence and pastoral tranquillity. JOHNSON, |