| Warwick |
Then, gentle Clarence, welcome unto Warwick;
And welcome, Somerset: I hold it cowardice
To rest mistrustful where a noble heart
Hath pawnβd an open hand in sign of love;
Else might I think that Clarence, Edwardβs brother,
Were but a feigned friend to our proceedings:
But welcome, sweet Clarence; my daughter shall be thine.
And now what rests but, in nightβs coverture,
Thy brother being carelessly encampβd,
His soldiers lurking in the towns about,
And but attended by a simple guard,
We may surprise and take him at our pleasure?
Our scouts have found the adventure very easy:
That as Ulysses and stout Diomede
With sleight and manhood stole to Rhesusβ tents,
And brought from thence the Thracian fatal steeds,
So we, well coverβd with the nightβs black mantle,
At unawares may beat down Edwardβs guard
And seize himself; I say not, slaughter him,
For I intend but only to surprise him.
You that will follow me to this attempt,
Applaud the name of Henry with your leader. They all cry, βHenry!β
Why, then, letβs on our way in silent sort:
For Warwick and his friends, God and Saint George! Exeunt.
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