"His body couched in a curious bed, "When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him. Alarum. Enter a Son that has killed his Father, dragging in the dead body. Son. Ill blows the wind that profits nobody. 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 unawares 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 received 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'ercharged with grief. Enter a Father who has killed his Son, with the body in his arms. Father. Thou, that so stoutly hast resisted me, Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold; For I have bought it with a 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 my heart, " Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart! O, pity, God, this miserable age! • What stratagems,1 how fell, how butcherly, Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural, This deadly quarrel daily doth beget! O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon, K. Hen. Woe above woe! grief more than common grief! O, 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 colors of our striving houses: "The one, his purple blood right well resembles; "The other, his pale cheeks, methinks, presenteth. Wither one rose, and let the other florish! 1 Dreadful events. 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! Father. 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 woful chances, Misthink the king, and not be satisfied! Son. Was ever son so rued a father's death? Much is your sorrow; mine ten times so much. my fill. Son. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep [Exit, with the body. "Father. These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet; My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre ; For from my heart thine image ne'er shall go. My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell; 2 "And so obsequious 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. 1 Think ill of. * Careful of obsequies, or funeral rites. |