WARWICK.
Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight;
And, weakling, Warwick takes his gift again;
And Henry is my King, Warwick his subject.
KING EDWARD.
But Warwick’s king is Edward’s prisoner;
And, gallant Warwick, do but answer this:
What is the body when the head is off?
RICHARD.
Alas, that Warwick had no more forecast,
But, whiles he thought to steal the single ten,
The king was slily fingered from the deck!
You left poor Henry at the Bishop’s palace,
And ten to one you’ll meet him in the Tower.
KING EDWARD.
’Tis even so; yet you are Warwick still.
RICHARD.
Come, Warwick, take the time; kneel down, kneel down.
Nay, when? Strike now, or else the iron cools.
WARWICK.
I had rather chop this hand off at a blow
And with the other fling it at thy face,
Than bear so low a sail to strike to thee.
KING EDWARD.
Sail how thou canst, have wind and tide thy friend,
This hand, fast wound about thy coal-black hair,
Shall, whiles thy head is warm and new cut off,
Write in the dust this sentence with thy blood:
“Wind-changing Warwick now can change no more.”
Enter Oxford with drum and colours.
WARWICK.
O cheerful colours! See where Oxford comes!
OXFORD.
Oxford, Oxford, for Lancaster!