[50] War. 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.
K. Edw. Sail how thou canst, have wind and tide thy friend,
This hand, fast wound about thy coal-black hair,
55 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.
[♦] War. O cheerful colours! see where Oxford comes!