The rest, that love me, rise, and follow me.
Hast. Woe, woe, for England! not a whit for me; 80
For I, too fond, might have prevented this.
Stanley did dream the boar did rase our helms;
And I did scorn it, and disdain to fly.
Three times to-day my foot-cloth horse did stumble, 84
And started when he look'd upon the Tower,
As loath to bear me to the slaughter-house.
O! now I need the priest that spake to me:
I now repent I told the pursuivant, 88
As too triumphing, how mine enemies
To-day at Pomfret bloodily were butcher'd
And I myself secure in grace and favour.
O Margaret, Margaret! now thy heavy curse 92
Is lighted on poor Hastings' wretched head.
Rat. Come, come, dispatch; the duke would be at dinner:
Make a short shrift, he longs to see your head.
Hast. O momentary grace of mortal men, 96
Which we more hunt for than the grace of God!
Who builds his hope in air of your good looks,
Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast;
Ready with every nod to tumble down 100
Into the fatal bowels of the deep.
Lov. Come, come, dispatch; 'tis bootless to exclaim.
Hast. O bloody Richard! miserable England!
I prophesy the fearfull'st time to thee 104
That ever wretched age hath look'd upon.
Come, lead me to the block; bear him my head:
81 fond: foolish
84 foot-cloth; cf. n.
95 shrift: confession
98 air . . . looks; cf. n.
99 drunken . . . mast; cf. n.
102 bootless: useless
