Then let vs backe to cheere our fainting Troupes,
[♦] Lest they retire now we haue left the field.
[♦] War. How now my lords: what hap, what hope of good?
Enter Richard running.
15 Rich. Ah Warwike, why haste thou withdrawne thy selfe?
Thy noble father in the thickest thronges,
Cride still for Warwike his thrise valiant son,
Vntill with thousand swords he was beset,
And manie wounds made in his aged brest,
[20] And as he tottring sate vpon his steede,