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To reap the harvest of perpetual peace

By this one bloody trial of sharp war.

Oxf. Every man's conscience is a thousand men,

To fight against this guilty homicide.

Herb. I doubt not but his friends will turn to us.

Blunt. He hath no friends but what are friends for fear,

Which in his dearest need will fly from him.

Richm. All for our vantage: then, in God's name, march:

True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings;

Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings.

Exeunt Omnes.

K. Rich. Here pitch our tent, even here in Bosworth field.

My Lord of Surrey, why look you so sad?

Sur. My heart is ten times lighter than my looks.

K. Rich. My Lord of Norfolk,—

Nor. Here, most gracious liege.

K. Rich. Norfolk, we must have knocks; ha! must we not?

Nor. We must both give and take, my loving lord.

K. Rich. Up with my tent! here will I lie to-night;

But where to-morrow? Well, all's one for that.

Who hath descried the number of the traitors?

 20 friends for fear; cf. n.  Scene Three S. d. Earl of Surrey; cf. n.

9 descried: caught sight of

