I that did never' weep, now melt with woe;
That Winter should cut off our Spring-time fo.
War. Away, away:
Once more, fweet Lords, farewel.
Cla. Yet let us all together to our Troops;
And give them leave to dy that will not ftay;
And call them Pillars that will stand to us;
And if we thrive, promise them fuch Rewards
As Victors wear at the Olympian Games.
This may plant Courage in their quailing Breafts,
For yet is hope of Life and Victory;
Fore-flow no longer, make we hence amain.
Excurfions. Enter Richard and Clifford.
Rich. Now, Clifford, I have fingled thee alone,
Suppofe this Arm is for the Duke of York,
And this for Rutland, both bound to revenge,
Wert thou environ'd with a Brazen Wall.
Clif. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone, This is the Hand that ftabb'd thy Father Tork. And this the Hand that flew thy Brother Rutland, And here's the Heart that triumphs in their Death, And cheers thefe Hands that flew thy Sire and Brother, To execute the like upon thy fel,
They fight. Warwick enters, Clifford flies.
Rich. Nay Warwick, fingle out fome other Chace, For I my felf will hunt this Wolf to death.
Alarum. Enter King Henry alone.
K. Henry. This Battel fares like to the Morning's War, When dying Clouds contend with growing Light, What time the Shepherd blowing of his Nails, Can neither call it perfect Day nor Night.
Now fways it this way, like the self-fame Sea,
Forc'd by the Tide to combat with the Wind:
Now fways it that way, like the felf-fame Sea,
Forc'd to retire by fury of the Wind..
Sometime, the Flood prevails, and then the Wind,
Now, one the better, then another best,
Both tugging to be Victors, Breaft to Breast,
Yet neither Conqueror, nor conquered;
So is the equal poize of this fell War.
Here on chis Mole-hill will I fit me down,
To whom God will, there be the Victory:
For Margaret my Queen, and Clifford too
Have chid me from the Battel, fwearing both,
They profper beft of all when I am thence.
Would I were dead, if God's good Will were fo:
For what is in this World, but Grief and Woe?
Oh God! methinks it were a happy Life,
To be no better than a homely Swain,
To fit upon a Hill, as I do now,
To carve out Dials queintly, Point by Point,
Thereby to fee the Minutes how they run:
How many makes the hour full compleat,
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 reft,
So many hours must I contemplate,
So many
hours must I fport my felf,
So many Days my Ewes have been with young,
So many Weeks ere the poor Fools will Éan,
So many Months ere I fhall fheer the Fleece:
So Minutes, Hours, Days, Weeks, Months and Years,
Paft over, to the end they were created,
Would bring white Hairs unto a quiet Grave.
Ah! what a Life were this? how tweet, how lovely?
Gives not the Haw-thorn Bufh a fweeter fhade
To Shepherds, looking on their filly Sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd Canopy
To Kings, that fear their Subjects treachery?
yes, it doth, a thousand-fold it doth,
And to conclude, the Shepherds homely Curds,
His cold thin drink out of his Leather Bottel,
His wonted fleep, under a fresh Tree's fhade,
All which fecure, and fweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a Prince's Delicates,
His Viands fparkling in a golden Cup,
His Body couched in a curious Bed,
When Care, Miftrust and Treasens wait on him:
Alarum. Enter a Son that had kill'd his Father at one Door, and a Father that had kill'd his Son at another Door.
Son. Ill blows the Wind that profits no Body,
This Man whom hand to hand I flew in Fight,
May be poffeffed 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 fome Man elfe, as this dead Man doth me.
Who's this? Oh God! it is my Father's Face,
Whom in this Conflict, I, unawares, have kill'd:
Oh heavy times! begetting fuch Events.
From London, by the King was I prest forth,
My Father being the Earl of Warwick's Man
Came on the part of York, preft 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 fhall wipe away these bloody Marks:
And no more Words, 'till they have flow'd their fill.
K. Henry. O piteous fpectacle! O bloody times!
Whiles Lions War, and Battel 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'er-charg'd with Grief.
Enter a Father, bearing of his Son.
Fath. Thou that so ftoutly haft refifted me, Give me thy Gold, if thou haft any Gold: For I have bought it with an hundred Blows. But let me fee: Is this our Foe-man's Face? Ah, no, no, no, it is my only Son.
Ah Boy, if any Life be left in thee,
Throw up thine Eye; fee, fee, what showers arise,
Blown with the windy Tempeft of
my Heart, Upon thy wounds, that kill mine Eye and Heart. O pity, God, this miferable Age!
What ftratagems? how fell? how butcherly?
Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural,
This deadly quarrel daily doth beget;
O Boy! thy Father gave thee Life too foon,
And hath bereft thee of thy Life too late.
K. Henry. Woe above woe; grief, more than common
O that my Death would stay these rueful deeds:
O pity, pity, gentle Heaven, pity.
The red Rofe and the white are on his Face,
The fatal Colours of our ftriving Houses.
The one his purple Blood, right well resembles,
The other his pale Cheek, methinks, presenteth:
Wither one Rofe, 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 fatisfy'd?
Fath. How will my Wife, for flaughter of my Son, Shed Seas of Tears, and ne'er be fatisfy'd?
K. Henry. How will the Country, for thefe woful chances, Mifs-think the King, and not be fatisfy'd?
Son. Was ever Son fo rew'd a Father's Death?
Fath. Was ever Father fo bemoan'd his Son?
K. Henry. Was ever King fo griev'd for Subjects woe?
Much is your Sorrow; mine, ten times fo much.
Son. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill.
Fath. These Arms of mine fhall be thy Winding-fheet,
My Heart, fweet Boy, fhall be thy Sepulcher,
For from my Heart thine Image ne'er fhall go.
My fighing Breaft fhall be thy Funeral Bell:
And fo obfequious will thy Father be.
Sad for the lofs 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 murther'd where I fhould not kill.
[Exit: K. Henry. Sad-hearted Men, much overgone with Care; Here fits a King, more woful than you are,
Alarums. Excurfions. Enter the Queen, Prince of
Wales, and Exeter.
Prince. Fly, Father, fly; for all your Friends are fled;
And Warwick rages like a chafed Bull:
Away, for Death doth hold us in pursuit.
Queen. Mount you my Lord, towards Berwick poft a
· Edward and Richard like a brace of Grey-hounds,
Having the fearful flying Hare in fight,
With fiery Eyes, fparkling for very wrath,
And bloody Steel grafpe in their ireful Hands,
Are at our backs, and therefore hence amain.
Exe Away; for vengeance comes along with them. Nay, ftay not to expoftulate, make speed.
Or elfe come after, I'll away before.
K. Henry. Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exeter ; Not that I fear to ftay, but love to go
Whither the Queen intends. Forward, away. [Exeunt
A loud Alarum. Enter Clifford wounded.
Clif. Here burns my Candle out; ay, here it dies,
Which whiles it lafted, gave King Henry light.
O Lancaster! I fear thy overthrow,
More than my Body's parting with my Soul:
My Love and Fear glew'd many Friends to thee, [Falling.
And now I fall, thy tough Commixtures melt,
Impairing Henry, ftrengthning mifs-proud York;
And whither fly the Gnats, but to the Sun ?
And who fhines now, but Henry's Enemies?
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