Warw monologue — King Henry VI, Part 3

Ah, who is nigh? come to me, friend, or foe, And tell me who is Victor, Yorke, or Warwicke? Why aske I that? my mangled body shewes, My blood, my want of strength, my sicke heart shewes, That I must yeeld my body to the Earth, And by my fall, the conquest to my foe. Thus yeelds the Cedar to the Axes edge, Whose Armes gaue shelter to the Princely Eagle, Vnder whose shade the ramping Lyon slept, Whose top-branch ouer-peer'd Ioues spreading Tree, And kept low Shrubs from Winters pow'rfull Winde. These Eyes, that now are dim'd with Deaths black Veyle, Haue beene as piercing as the Mid-day Sunne, To search the secret Treasons of the World: The Wrinckles in my Browes, now fill'd with blood, Were lik'ned oft to Kingly Sepulchers: For who liu'd King, but I could digge his Graue? And who durst smile, when Warwicke bent his Brow? Loe, now my Glory smear'd in dust and blood. My Parkes, my Walkes, my Mannors that I had, Euen now forsake me; and of all my Lands, Is nothing left me, but my bodies length. Why, what is Pompe, Rule, Reigne, but Earth and Dust? And liue we how we can, yet dye we must. Enter Oxford and Somerset.