SCENE VI. Alarum. Enter King Henry alone.

K. Henry. This battle fares like to the morning's war,
When dying clouds contend with growing light;
What time the fhepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day nor night,
Now fways it this way, like a mighty fea
Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind;
Now fways it that way, like the felf-fame fea
Forc'd to retire by fury of the wind.

Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind;
Now one the better, then another beft;
Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,
Yet neither conqueror nor conquered;
So is the equal poife of this fell war.
Here on this 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 battle, 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?
O God! methinks it were a happy life

• To be no better than a homely fwain;
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 make 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 time;
• So many hours must I tend my flock,
So many hours must I take my reft,
So many hours mult I contemplate,
So many hours must I fport myself,

So many days my ews have been with young,
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean,
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 fweet, how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn-bufh a fweeter (hade

To fhepherds looking on their filly theep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy

To Kings, that fear their fubjects' treachery?
O yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth,

And, to conclude, the fhepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leathern bottle,
His wonted fleep under a fresh tree's shade,
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, 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;
And let our hearts and eyes, like civil war,

Be blind with tears, and break o'ercharg'd with grief,

Enter a Father, bearing his fon.
Fath. Thou that fo 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 fon !

Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee,

Throw up thine eyes; fee, fee, what showers arife,
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 grief;

O that my death would stay thefe rueful deeds!
O pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity!

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,
The other his pale cheek, methinks, prefenteth.
Wither one rofe, and let the other flourish!

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;
For from my heart thine image ne'er fhall go,

My fighing breast shall 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 fons.

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 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
Having the fearful flying hare in fight,
With fiery eyes fparkling for very wrath,
And bloody fteel grafp'd 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 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,
Which while it lafted, gave King Henry light.
O Lancaster! I fear thy overthrow,

More than my body's parting with my foul.

My love and fear glew'd many friends to thee. [Falling.
And now I fall, thy tough commixtures melt,
Impairing Henry, ftrength'ning mif proud York.
The common people fwarm like fummer-flies ;
And whither fly the gnats, but to the fun?
And who fhines now, but Henry's enemies?
O Phœbus! hadft thou never giv'n consent

That Phaeton fhould check thy fiery feeds,

Thy burning car had never fcorch'd the earth:
And, Henry, hadst thou fway'd as Kings fhould do,
Or as thy father and his father did,

Giving no ground unto the house of York,
They never then had sprung like fummer flies.

I and ten thousand in this luckless realm
Had left no mourning widows for our death;
And thou this day hadft kept thy chair in peace.
For what doth cherish weeds, but gentle air?
And what makes robbers bold, but too much lenity?
Bootlefs are plaints, and curelefs are my wounds;
No way to fly, nor ftrength to hold out flight.
The foe is merciless, and will not pity;
For at their hands I have deserved no pity.
The air hath got into my deadly wounds,
And much effufe of blood doth make me faint.
Come, York, and Richard, Warwick, and the reft;
I ftabb'd your fathers' bofoms, split my breaft.

[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.
Some troops pursue the bloody-minded Queen,
That led calm Henry, though he were a King,
As doth a fail fill'd with a fretting gust,
Command an argofie to stem the waves.

But think you, Lords, that Clifford fled with them?
War. No; 'tis impoffible he should escape :
For though before his face I fpeak the word,
Your brother Richard mark'd him for the grave;
And wherefoe'er he is, he's furely dead.

[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;