SCENE VI. Alarum. Enter King Henry alone. K. Henry. This battle fares like to the morning's war, Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind; • To be no better than a homely fwain; To carve out dials queintly, point by point, So many days my ews have been with young, So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years. Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah! what a life were this! how fweet, how lovely! To fhepherds looking on their filly theep, To Kings, that fear their fubjects' treachery? And, to conclude, the fhepherd's homely curds, When care, mistrust, and treasons wait on him. Alarum. Enter a Son that had kill'd his Father. Son. Ill blows the wind that profits no body.This man, whom hand to hand I flew in fight, May be poffeffed with fome 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 to me. Who's this? oh God! it is my father's face, Whom in this conflict I un'wares have kill'd. Oh heavy times, begetting fuch events! From London by the King was I prefs'd forth; My father, being the Earl of Warwick's man, Came on the part of York, prefs'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 fhall wipe away thefe bloody marks: And no more words till they have flow'd their fill. K. Henry. O piteous fpectacle? O bloody times! While lions war and battle for their dens, Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity. Weep, wretched man, I'll aid thee tear for tear; Be blind with tears, and break o'ercharg'd with grief, Enter a Father, bearing his fon. Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee, Throw up thine eyes; fee, fee, what showers arife, Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart. What ftratagems, how fell, how butcherly, K. Henry. Woe above woe, grief more than common grief; O that my death would stay thefe rueful deeds! The red rofe and the white are on his face, The fatal colours of our striving houses. The one his purple blood right well resembles, If you contend, a thoufand 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 fon, Shed feas of tears, and ne'er be fatisfy'd! K. Henry. How will the country, for thefe woful Mif-think the King, and not be fatisfy'd ! [chances, Son. Was ever fon fo ru'd a father's death! Fath. Was ever father fo bemoan'd his fon! K. Henry. Was ever King fo griev'd for fubjects' woe! Much is your forrow, mine ten times fo much. Son. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill. [Exit. Fath. Thefe arms of mine fhall be thy winding-fheet, My heart, fweet boy, fhall be thy fepulchre; My fighing breast shall be thy funeral-bell. Sad for the lofs of thee, having no more, I'll bear thee hence, and let them fight that will; [Exit. K. Henry. Sad-hearted men, much overgone with Here fits a King more woeful than you are. SCENE VIII. [care, Alarum. Excurfions. Enter the Queen, Prince of Wales, and Exeter. Prince. Fly, father, fly; for all your friends And Warwick rages like a chafed bull: Away! for death doth hold us in purfuit. are fled, Queen. Mount you, my Lord, toward Berwick post amain. Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds Exe. Away; for vengeance comes along with them. K. Henry. Nay, take me with thee, good fweet ExeNot that I fear to ftay, but love to go [ter, Whither the Queen intends. Forward, away! [Exeunt. SCENE IX. A loud alarum. Enter Clifford wounded. Clif. Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies, More than my body's parting with my foul. My love and fear glew'd many friends to thee. [Falling. That Phaeton fhould check thy fiery feeds, Thy burning car had never fcorch'd the earth: Giving no ground unto the house of York, I and ten thousand in this luckless realm [He faints. Alarum, and retreat. Enter Edward, Warwick, Richard, Montague, Clarence, and foldiers. Edw. Now breathe we, Lords, good fortune bids us pause, And fmooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks. But think you, Lords, that Clifford fled with them? [Clifford grones. Rich. Whofe foul is that which takes her heavy leave? A deadly groan, like life in death departing. See who it is. Edw. And now the battle's ended, If friend or foe, let him be gently used. Rich. Revoke that doom of mercy, for 'tis Clifford; |