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E'en in the battle's heat remember me,
And edgeless fall thy sword!-despair, and die!


P. Ed. Richard, dream on, and see the wand'ring spirits

Of thy young nephews, murder'd in the Tower.
Could not our youth, our innocence, persuade
Thy cruel heart to spare our harmless lives?
Who, but for thee, alas! might have enjoy'd
Our many promis'd years of happiness.
No soul, save thine, but pities our misusage;
Oh, 'twas a cruel deed! therefore, alone,
Unpitying, unpitied shalt thou fall.

K. Hen. The morning's dawn has summon'd me away;

Now, Richard, wake, in all the hells of guilt!
And let that wild despair, which now does prey
Upon thy mangled thoughts, alarm the world.
Awake, Richard, awake! to guilty minds
A terrible example!

[All the GHOSTS sink. Glost. Give me a horse!-bind up my wounds! Have mercy, Heaven!-Ha! soft! 'twas but a


But then so terrible, it shakes my soul!

Cold drops of sweat hang on my trembling flesh;
My blood grows chilly, and I freeze with horror!
Oh, tyrant conscience! how dost thou afflict me!
When I look back, 'tis terrible retreating;
I cannot bear the thought, nor dare repent:
I am but man; and, fate, do thou dispose me!
Who's there?


Catesby. "Tis I, my lord; the early village cock
Has thrice done salutation to the morn.
Your friends are up, and buckle on their armour.

Glost. Oh, Catesby, I have had such horrid dreams! Catesby. Shadows, my lord !-below the soldier's


Glost. Now, by my this day's hopes, shadows, tonight,

Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard,
Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers,
Arm'd all in proof, and led by shallow Richmond.

Catesby. Be more yourself, my lord: consider, sir,
Were it but known a dream had frighted you,
How would your animated foes presume on't!

Glost. Perish that thought!-no, never be it said That fate itself could awe the soul of Richard! Hence, babbling dreams! you threaten here in vain; Conscience, avaunt! Richard's himself again! Hark! the shrill trumpet sounds to horse! away! My soul's in arms, and eager for the fray!



A Wood.


Rich. Halt!

Sold. Halt!-halt!

Rich. How far into the morning is it, friends?
Sir R. Brack. Near four, my lord.
Rich. "Tis well-

I am glad to find we are such early stirrers.

Sir W. Brand. Methinks the foes less forward than we thought them;

Worn as we are, we brave the field before them.

Rich. Come, there looks life in such a cheerful haste.

If dreams should animate a soul resolv❜d,
I'm more than pleas'd with those I've had to-night:
Methought that all the ghosts of them, whose bodies
Richard murder'd, came mourning to my tent,
And rous'd me to revenge them.

Sir W. Brand. A good omen, sir.-[Trumpets sound a distant March.] Hark! the trumpet of The enemy! it speaks them on the march.

Rich. Why, then, let's on, my friends, to face them;

In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man,
As mild behaviour and humility:
But, when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Let us be tigers in our fierce deportment:
For me, the ransom of my bold attempt ·
Shall be this body on the earth's cold face;
But, if we thrive, the glory of the action
The meanest here shall share his part of.
Advance your standards, draw your willing swords;
Sound drums, and trumpets, boldly and cheerfully.
The word's St. George, Richmond, and victory.



Glost. Who saw the sun to-day?

Catesby. He has not yet broke forth, my lord. Glost. Then he disdains to shine-for, by the clock,

He should have brav'd the east an hour ago.
Not shine to-day! why, what is that to me,
More than to Richmond? for the self-same heav'n
That frowns on me, looks low'ring upon him.

Enter NORFOLK, with a Paper.

Nor. Prepare, my lord; the foe is in the field.

Glost. Come, bustle, bustle! caparison my horse; Call forth Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power; Myself will lead the soldiers to the plain.


Well, Norfolk, what think'st thou now?

Nor. That we shall conquer-but on my tent, This morning early, was this paper found. Glost. [Reads.] Jockey of Norfolk, be not too bold, For Dickon, thy master, is bought and sold. A weak invention of the enemy!

Come, gentlemen, now each man to his charge,
And, ere we do bestride our foaming steeds,
Remember whom you are to cope withal;
A scum of Britons, rascals, runaways!
Whom their o'ercloy'd country vomits forth
To desperate adventures and destruction.


What says Lord Stanley? will he bring his power? Catesby. He does refuse, my lord-he will not stir. Glost. Off with his son George's head!

Nor. My lord, the foe's already past the marsh--
After the battle, let young Stanley die.
Glost. Why, after be it then.

A thousand hearts are swelling in
my bosom:
Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head!
Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood!
And thou, our warlike champion, thrice renown'd,
St. George, inspire me with the rage of lions!
Upon them!-Charge! follow me!

[Exeunt. SOLDIERS driven across the Stage, by GLOSTER, &c. Glost. What, ho! young Richmond, ho! 'tis Richard calls!

I hate thee, Harry, for thy blood of Lancaster!
Now, if thou dost not hide thee from my sword,
Now, while the angry trumpet sounds alarms,
And dying groans transpierce the wounded air,

Richmond, I say, come forth, and singly face me!
Richard is hoarse, with daring thee to arms !


Enter CATESBY and NORFOLK, in disorder.

Catesby. Rescue! rescue! My Lord of Norfolk, haste!

The king enacts more wonders than a man,
Daring and opposite to every danger:

His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights,
Seeking for Richmond, in the throat of death;
Nay, haste, my lord!-the day's against us. [Exeunt.


Glost. A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse! Ratcliff. This way, this way, my lord !-below yon thicket

Stands a swift horse-away! ruin pursues us;
Withdraw, my lord, for only flight can save you.
Glost. Slave! I have set my life upon a cast,
And I will stand the hazard of the die.
I think there be six Richmonds in the field!
Five have I slain to-day, instead of him.
A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!


Of one or both of us, the time is come!

Rich. Kind Heaven, I thank thee, for my cause is thine!

If Richard's fit to live, let Richmond fall.

Glost. Thy gallant bearing, Harry, I could 'plaud, But that the spotted rebel stains the soldier.

Rich. Nor should thy prowess, Richard, want my praise,

But that thy cruel deeds have stamp'd thee tyrant.
So thrive my sword, as Heav'n's high vengeance draws

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