So, lie thou there. Die thou, and die our fear,

For Warwick was a bug that feared us all.

Now, Montague, sit fast; I seek for thee,

That Warwick’s bones may keep thine company.

Ah, who is nigh? Come to me, friend or foe,

And tell me who is victor, York or Warwick?

Why ask I that? My mangled body shows,

My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows

That I must yield my body to the earth

And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe.

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 overpeered Jove’s spreading tree,

And kept low shrubs from winter’s pow’rful wind.

These eyes, that now are dimmed with death’s black veil,

Have been as piercing as the midday sun,

To search the secret treasons of the world;

The wrinkles in my brows, now filled with blood,

Were likened oft to kingly sepulchres,

For who lived King but I could dig his grave?

And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow?

Lo, now my glory smeared 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.

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, couldst thou fly!

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 lov’st 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.

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 cannon in a vault,

That mought not be distinguished; but at last

I well might hear, delivered with a groan,

“O farewell, Warwick!”

Sweet rest his soul! Fly, lords, and save yourselves,

For Warwick bids you all farewell, to meet in heaven.

Away, away, to meet the Queen’s great power!