To-morrow in the battle think on me, And fall thy edgeless sword: despair, and die!
Enter the Ghost of CLARENCE
GHOST. [To RICHARD]
Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow!
I, that was wash’d to death with fulsome wine, 327
Poor Clarence, by thy guile betray’d to death.
To-morrow in the battle think on me,
And fall thy edgeless sword: despair, and die!
[To RICHMOND] Thou offspring of the house of Lancaster,
The wronged heirs of York do pray for thee:
Good angels guard thy battle! live, and flourish!
