That to my foes this body must be prey,
[40] Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope,
And give sweet passage to my sinful soul!
Now, lords, take leave until we meet again,
[♦] Where’er it be, in heaven or in earth.
[♦] Rich. Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle Warwick,
45 Let me embrace thee in my weary arms:
I, that did never weep, now melt with woe
That winter should cut off our spring-time so.
[♦] War. Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell.