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Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge, |
Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle, |
Under whose shade the ramping lion slept, |
Whose top-branch overpeer'd Jove's spreading tree |
And kept low shrubs from winter's powerful wind. |
These eyes, that now are dimm'd with death's black veil, |
Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun, |
To search the secret treasons of the world: |
The wrinkles in my brows, now filled with blood, |
Were liken'd oft to kingly sepulchres; |
For who lived king, but I could dig his grave? |
And who durst mine when Warwick bent his brow? |
Lo, now my glory smear'd in dust and blood! |
My parks, my walks, my manors that I had. |
Even now forsake me, and of all my lands |
Is nothing left me but my body's length. |
Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? |
And, live we how we can, yet die we must. |
SOMERSET: |
Ah, Warwick, Warwick! wert thou as we are. |
We might recover all our loss again; |
The queen from France hath brought a puissant power: |
Even now we heard the news: ah, could'st thou fly! |
WARWICK: |
Why, then I would not fly. Ah, Montague, |
If thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand. |
And with thy lips keep in my soul awhile! |
Thou lovest me not; for, brother, if thou didst, |
Thy tears would wash this cold congealed blood |
That glues my lips and will not let me speak. |
Come quickly, Montague, or I am dead. |
SOMERSET: |
Ah, Warwick! Montague hath breathed his last; |
And to the latest gasp cried out for Warwick, |
And said 'Commend me to my valiant brother.' |
And more he would have said, and more he spoke, |
Which sounded like a clamour in a vault, |
That mought not be distinguished; but at last |
I well might hear, delivered with a groan, |
'O, farewell, Warwick!' |
WARWICK: |
Sweet rest his soul! Fly, lords, and save yourselves; |
For Warwick bids you all farewell to meet in heaven. |
OXFORD: |
Away, away, to meet the queen's great power! |
3 KING HENRY VI |
KING EDWARD IV: |
Thus far our fortune keeps an upward course, |
And we are graced with wreaths of victory. |
But, in the midst of this bright-shining day, |
I spy a black, suspicious, threatening cloud, |
That will encounter with our glorious sun, |
Ere he attain his easeful western bed: |
I mean, my lords, those powers that the queen |
Hath raised in Gallia have arrived our coast |
And, as we hear, march on to fight with us. |
CLARENCE: |
A little gale will soon disperse that cloud |
And blow it to the source from whence it came: |
The very beams will dry those vapours up, |
For every cloud engenders not a storm. |
GLOUCESTER: |
The queen is valued thirty thousand strong, |
And Somerset, with Oxford fled to her: |
If she have time to breathe be well assured |
Her faction will be full as strong as ours. |
KING EDWARD IV: |
We are advertised by our loving friends |
That they do hold their course toward Tewksbury: |
We, having now the best at Barnet field, |
Will thither straight, for willingness rids way; |
And, as we march, our strength will be augmented |
In every county as we go along. |
Strike up the drum; cry 'Courage!' and away. |
3 KING HENRY VI |
QUEEN MARGARET: |
Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss, |
But cheerly seek how to redress their harms. |
What though the mast be now blown overboard, |
The cable broke, the holding-anchor lost, |
And half our sailors swallow'd in the flood? |
Yet lives our pilot still. Is't meet that he |
Should leave the helm and like a fearful lad |
With tearful eyes add water to the sea |
And give more strength to that which hath too much, |
Whiles, in his moan, the ship splits on the rock, |
Which industry and courage might have saved? |
Ah, what a shame! ah, what a fault were this! |
Say Warwick was our anchor; what of that? |
And Montague our topmost; what of him? |
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