And what makes robbers bold but too much lenity?
Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds;
[♦] No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight:
25 The foe is merciless, and will not pity;
[♦] For at their hands I have deserved no pity.
The air hath got into my deadly wounds,
And much effuse of blood doth make me faint.
Come, York and Richard, Warwick and the rest;
[30] I stabb’d your fathers’ bosoms, split my breast. [He faints.
Alarum and retreat. Enter, EDWARD, GEORGE, RICHARD, MONTAGUE, WARWICK, and SOLDIERS,