Oxf. Let's levy men, and beat him back again. Clar. A little fire is quickly trodden out; Which, being suffer'd, rivers cannot quench. War. In Warwickshire I have true-hearted friends, Not mutinous in peace, yet bold in war; Those will I muster up-and thou, son Clarence, K. Hen. Farewell, my Hector, and my Troy's true hope. K. Hen. Sweet Oxford, and my loving Montague, K. Hen. Here at the palace will I rest a while. Cousin of Exeter, what thinks your lordship? Methinks, the power, that Edward hath in field, Ere. The doubt is, that he will seduce the rest. K. Hen. 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; The lamb will never cease to follow him. [Shout within. A Lancaster! A Lancaster! Exe. Hark, hark, my lord! what shouts are these? Enter King EDWARD, GLOSTER, and Soldiers. And once again proclaim us king of England.— [Exeunt some with King HENRY. And, lords, towards Coventry bend we our course, Where perem ory Warwick now remains: The sun shines hot, and, if we use delay, Glo. Away betimes, before his forces join, [Exeunt. ACT V. SCENE I.-Coventry. Enter, upon the Walls, WARWICK, the Mayor of Coventry, Two Messengers, and Others. War. Where is the post that came from valiant Oxford? How far hence is thy lord, mine honest fellow? 1 Mess. By this at Dunsmore, marching hitherward. War. How far off is our brother Montague?— Where is the post that came from Montague? 2 Mess. By this at Daintry, with a puissant troop. Enter Sir JOHN SOMERVILLE. War. Say, Somerville, what says my loving son? [Drum heard. War. Then Clarence is at hand, I hear his drum. Som. It is not his, my lord; here Southam lies; The drum, your honour hears, marcheth from Warwick. War. Who should that be? belike, unlook'd-for friends. Som. They are at hand, and you shall quickly know. 2 Drums. Enter King EDWARD, GLOSTER, and Forces, marching. K. Edw. Go, trumpet, to the walls, and sound a parle. Glo. See how the surly Warwick mans the walls. War. O, unbid spite! is sportful Edward come? Where slept our scouts, or how are they seduc'd, That we could hear no news of his repair? K. Edw. Now, Warwick, wilt thou ope the city gates, Speak gentle words, and humbly bend thy knee?— Call Edward-king, and at his hands beg mercy, And he shall pardon thee these outrages. War. Nay, rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence, Confess who set thee up and pluck'd thee down?— Call Warwick-patron, and be penitent, And thou shalt still remain the duke of York. Glo. I thought, at least, he would have said the king; Or did he make the jest against his will? War. Is not a dukedom, sir, a goodly gift? Glo. Ay, by my faith, for a poor earl to give; I'll do thee service for so good a gift. War. 'Twas I, that gave the kingdom to thy brother. K. Edw. Why, then, 'tis mine, if but by Warwick's gift. War. Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight: And, weakling, Warwick takes his gift again; K. Edw. But Warwick's king is Edward's prisoner: Glo. Alas, that Warwick had no more forecast, But, whiles he thought to steal the single ten, |