Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
War. War.
War. Nor now my Scandall Richard, dost thou heare:
War. For thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine,
War. Can plucke the Diadem from faint Henries head,
War. And wring the awefull Scepter from his Fist,
War. Were he as famous, and as bold in Warre,
War. As he is fam'd for Mildnesse, Peace, and Prayer.
Rich. Rich.
Rich. I know it well Lord Warwick, blame me not,
Rich. 'Tis loue I beare thy glories make me speake:
Rich. But in this troublous time, what's to be done?
Rich. Shall we go throw away our Coates of Steele,
Rich. And wrap our bodies in blacke mourning Gownes,
Rich. Numb'ring our Aue‑Maries with our Beads?
Rich. Or shall we on the Helmets of our Foes
Rich. Tell our Deuotion with reuengefull Armes?
Rich. If for the last, say I, and to it Lords.
War. Why therefore Warwick came to seek you out,
War. And therefore comes my Brother Mountague: