WARWICK | |
In Warwickshire I have true-hearted friends, | |
| | Not mutinous in peace, yet bold in war; | 10 |
| | Those will I muster up: and thou, son Clarence, | |
| | Shalt stir up in Suffolk, Norfolk, and in Kent, | |
| | The knights and gentlemen to come with thee: | |
| | Thou, brother Montague, in Buckingham, | |
| | Northampton and in Leicestershire, shalt find | 15 |
| | Men well inclined to hear what thou command'st: | |
| | And thou, brave Oxford, wondrous well beloved, | |
| | In Oxfordshire shalt muster up thy friends. | |
| | My sovereign, with the loving citizens, | |
| | Like to his island girt in with the ocean, | 20 |
| | Or modest Dian circled with her nymphs, | |
| | Shall rest in London till we come to him. | |
| | Fair lords, take leave and stand not to reply. | |
| | Farewell, my sovereign. | |
KING HENRY VI | |
That's not my fear; my meed hath got me fame: | |
| | I have not stopp'd mine ears to their demands, | |
| | Nor posted off their suits with slow delays; | 40 |
| | My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds, | |
| | My mildness hath allay'd their swelling griefs, | |
| | My mercy dried their water-flowing tears; | |
| | I have not been desirous of their wealth, | |
| | Nor much oppress'd them with great subsidies. | 45 |
| | Nor forward of revenge, though they much err'd: | |
| | Then why should they love Edward more than me? | |
| | No, Exeter, these graces challenge grace: | |
| | And when the lion fawns upon the lamb, | |
| | The lamb will never cease to follow him. | 50 |
| | [Shout within. 'A Lancaster! A Lancaster!'] |
KING EDWARD IV | |
Seize on the shame-faced Henry, bear him hence; | |
| | And once again proclaim us King of England. | |
| | You are the fount that makes small brooks to flow: | |
| | Now stops thy spring; my sea sha$l suck them dry, | 55 |
| | And swell so much the higher by their ebb. | |
| | Hence with him to the Tower; let him not speak. | |
| | [Exeunt some with KING HENRY VI] |
| | And, lords, towards Coventry bend we our course | |
| | Where peremptory Warwick now remains: | |
| | The sun shines hot; and, if we use delay, | 60 |
| | Cold biting winter mars our hoped-for hay. | |
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