Alarum. Excursions. Enter Warwicke.

War. Fore-spent with Toile, as Runners with a Race,
I lay me downe a little while to breath:
For strokes receiu'd, and many blowes repaid,
Haue robb'd my strong knit sinewes of their strength,
And spight of spight, needs must I rest a-while.
Enter Edward running.

Ed. Smile gentle heauen, or strike vngentle death,
For this world frownes, and Edwards Sunne is clowded

War. How now my Lord, what happe? what hope of
good?
Enter Clarence

Cla. Our hap is losse, our hope but sad dispaire,
Our rankes are broke, and ruine followes vs.
What counsaile giue you? whether shall we flye?
Ed. Bootlesse is flight, they follow vs with Wings,
And weake we are, and cannot shun pursuite.
Enter Richard.

Rich. Ah Warwicke, why hast y withdrawn thy selfe?
Thy Brothers blood the thirsty earth hath drunk,
Broach'd with the Steely point of Cliffords Launce:
And in the very pangs of death, he cryde,
Like to a dismall Clangor heard from farre,
Warwicke, reuenge; Brother, reuenge my death.