‘Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death!’
[20] So, underneath the belly of their steeds,
That stain’d their fetlocks in his smoking blood,
The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.
War. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood:
I’ll kill my horse, because I will not fly.
25 Why stand we like soft-hearted women here,
[♦] Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage;
[♦] And look upon, as if the tragedy
[♦] Were play’d in jest by counterfeiting actors?