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* To sit upon a hill, as I do now,
* To carve out dials quaintly, poirt by point,

Thereby to see the minutes how they run :
* How many make the hour full complete,
* How many hours bring about the day,
* How, many days will finish

up
the

year,
* How many years a mortal man may live.
* When this is known, then to divide the times :
* So many hours must I tend

my flock; So many

hours must I take my rest;
* So many hours must I contemplate;
* So many hours must I sport myself;
* So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many
weeks ere the

poor
fools will

yean; So many years ere I shall sheer the fleece: * So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years, * Pass'd over to the end they were created, * Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.

Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely! * Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade

To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, * Than doth a rich embroider'd

canopy * To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery? * O, yes it doth; a thousand fold it doth. * And to conclude,--the shepherd's homely, curds, * His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, * His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade, * All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, * Is far beyond a prince's delicates, * His viands sparkling in a golden cup, * His body couched in a curious bed, * When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him,

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Alarum. Enter a Son that has killed his Father,

dragging in the dead Body. Son. Ill blows the wind, that profits no-body.-' This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight,

May be possessed with some store of crowns : * And I, that haply take them from him now, * May yet ere night yield both my life and them * To some man else, as this dead man doth me. "Who's this ?-O God! it is my father's face, " Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill'd.

O heavy times, begetting such events ! * From London by the king was I press'd forth ; • My father, being the earl of Warwick's man, • Came on the part of York, press’d by his master;

And I, who at his hands receiv'd my life, • Have by my hands of life bereaved him.• Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did ! And pardon, father, for I knew not thee!

My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks; * And no more words, till they have flow'd their fill.

K. Hen. O piteous spectacle! O bloody times ! Whilst lions war, and battle for their dens, · Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity.* Weep, wretched man, I'll aid thee tear for tear; * And let our hearts, and eyes, like civil war, * Be blind with tears, and break o'ercharg’d with

grief.

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Enter a Father, who has killed his Son, with the

Body in his Arms. Fath. Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me, • Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold;

my heart,

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• For I have bought it with an hundred blows.

But let me see:- is this our foeman's face? 'Ah, no, no, no, it is mine only son !-* Ah,' boy, if any life be left in thee, * Throw up thine eye; see, see, what showers arise, * Blown with the windy tempest of * Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart!0, pity, God, this miserable age! What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly, • Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural, * This deadly quarrel daily doth beget! • O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon, • And hath bereft thee of thy life too late! K. Hen. Woe above woe! grief more than com

mon grief! 0, that

my

death would stay these ruthful deeds! * O pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity! The red rose and the white are on his face, The fatal colours of our striving houses : * The one, his purple blood right well resembles ; * The other, his pale cheeks, methinks, present : Wither one rose, and let the other flourish! 'If you contend, a thousand lives must wither.

Son. How will my mother, for a father's death, Take on with me, and ne'er be satisfied ?

Fath. How will my wife, for slaughter of my son, 'Shed seas of tears, and ne'er be satisfied ? K. Hen. How will the country, for these woeful

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chances, Misthink' the king, and not be satisfied ?

9 This word here means dreadful events.

I Think unfavourably of.

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Son. Was ever son, so ru'd a father's death? Fath. Was ever father, so bemoan'd a son ? K. Hen. Was ever king, so griev'd for subjects'

woe? • Much is your sorrow; mine, ten times so much. - Son. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my

[Exit, with the Body. * Fath. These arms of mine shall be thy winding

sheet; My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre ; * For from

my heart thine iniage ne'er shall go. * My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell ; * And so obsequious 2 will thy father be, * Sad for the loss of thee, having no more, * As Priam was for all his valiant sons. I'll bear thee hence; and let them fight that will, For I have murder'd where I should not kill.

[Exit, with the Body. K. Hen. Sad-hearted men, much

overgone with care, Here sits a king more woeful than you are.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter Queen MARGARET,

Prince of Wales, and EXETER, Prince. Fly, father, fly! for all your friends are

fed, And Warwick rages

like a chafed bull : Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit. Q. Mar. Mount you, my lord, towards Berwick

post amain : • Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds

2 Careful of obsequies, or funeral rites.

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Having the fearful flying hare in sight, • With fiery eyes, sparkling for very wrath,

And bloody steel grasp'd in their ireful hands, • Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain. Exe. Away! for vengeance comes along with

them : Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed; Or else come after, I'll

away

before. K. Hen. Nay, take me with thee, good sweet

Exeter ; • Not that I fear to stay, but love to go * Whither the queen intends. Forward ; away!

[Exeunt.

SCENE VI.

The same.

A loud Alarum. Enter CLIFFORD, wounded.

*Clif. Here burns my candle out, ay, here it dies, Which, while it lasted, gave king Henry light. 0, Lancaster! I fear thy overthrow, More than my body's parting with my soul. My love, and fear, glew'd many friends to thee; * And, now I fall, thy tough commixtures melt. Impairing Henry, strength’ning mis-proud York, The common people swarm like summer flies: And whither fly the gnats, but to the sun? And who shines now but Henry's enemies? O Phæbus ! hadst thou never given consent That Phaeton should check thy fiery steeds, Thy burning car never had scorch'd the earth :

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