Enter a Father, bearing of his Sen.
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.
Sen. 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 these 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. Thefe 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 grafpt 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 Exeter; Not that I fear to ftay, but love to go
Whither the Queen intends.
Forward, away. [Exerais.
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 miss-proud York;
And whither fly the Gnats, but to the Sun?
And who fhines now, but Henry's Enemies?
O Phoebus! hadft thou never giv'n confent,
That Phaeton fhould check thy fiery Steeds,
Thy burning Car never had scorch'd the Earth.
And Henry, hadft 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 Summer Flies,
1, and ten thousand in this lucklefs 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 cureless are my Wounds,
No way to fly, nor ftrength to hold out flight;
The Foe is mercilefs, and will not pity:
For at their Hands I have deferv'd 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 Father's Bofom; fplit my Breaft.
[He faints. Alarum and Retreat. Enter Edward, Warwick, Richard, Mountague, Clarence, and Soldiers.
Edw. Now breathe we Lords, good Fortune bids us pawfe,
And smooth the frowns of War with peaceful Looks:
Some Troops purfue the bloody-minded Queen,
That led calm Henry, though he were a King,
As doth a Sail fill'd with a fretting Guft,
Command an Argofie to ftem the Waves:
But think you Lords, that Clifford fled with them?
War. No, 'tis impoffible he fhould efcape:
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 groans.
Rich. Whofe Soul is that, which takes her heavy leave?
A deadly groan, like Life and Death's departing.
Edw. And now the Battel's ended,
If Friend or Foe, let him be gently used.
Rich. Revoke that doom of Mercy, for 'tis Clifford, Who not contented that he lopp'd the Branch In hewing Rutland, when his Leaves put forth, But fet his murth'ring Knife unto the Root, From whence that tender Spray did fweetly spring, I mean our Princely Father, Duke of York.
War. From off the Gates of York fetch down the Head, Your Father's Head, which Clifford placed there: Inftead whereof, let his fupply the room.
Measure for Measure must be answered.
Edw. Bring forth that fatal Screech-owl to our House, That nothing fung but Death to us and ours: Now Death fhall ftop his difmal threatning found, And his ill-boading Tongue no more fhall speak. War. I think his Understanding is bereft: Speak Clifford, doft thou know who speaks to thee? Dark cloudy Death o'er-fhades his Beams of Life, And he nor fees, nor hears us, what we fay.
Rich. O would he did; and fo, perhaps, he doth, 'Tis but his Policy to counterfeit,
Because he would avoid fuch bitter taunts
Which in the time of Death he
Cla. If fo thou think'st,
Vex him with eager words.
Rich. Clifford, ask Mercy, and obtain no Grace.
Edw. Clifford, repent in bootlefs Penitence.
War. Clifford, devife Excufes for thy Faults.
Cla. While we devise fell Tortures of thy Faults.
Rich. Thou didst love York, and I am Son to York,
Edw. Thou pitied'ft Rutland, I will pity thee,
Cla. Where's Captain Margaret, to fence you now?
War. They mock thee, Clifford,
Swear, as thou wast wont.
Rich. What, not an Oath! Nay, then the World goes hard, When Clifford cannot spare his Friends an Oath:
I know by that he's dead, and by my Soul,
If this right Hand would buy but two hours Life,
That I, in all defpight, might rail at him,
This hand should chop it off; and with the iffuing Blood Stifle the Villain, whofe unftanched thirst
York, and young Rutland, could not fatisfie.
War. Ay, but he's dead. Off with the Traitor's Head,
And rear it in the place your Father's ftands,
And now to London with triumphant march,
There to be crowned England's Royal King:
From whence fhall Warwick cut the Sea to France,
And ask the Lady Bona for thy Queen.
So fhalt thou finew both thefe Lands together,
And having France thy Friend, thou shalt not dread
The fcatter'd Foe, that hopes to rise again:
For though they cannot greatly fting to hurt,
Yet look to have them buz to offend thine Ears:
Firft will I fee the Coronation,
And then to Britany I'll cross the Sea,
To effect this Marriage, fo it please my Lord.
Edw. Even as thou wilt, fweet Warwick, let it be;
For on thy Shoulder do I build my Seat
And never will I undertake the thing
Wherein thy Counsel and Confent is wanting.
Richard, I will create thee Duke of Glo'ster,
And George of Clarence; Warwick as our self
Shall do, and undo, as him pleaseth best.
Rich. Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Glofter,
For Glo'fter's Dukedom is too ominous.
War. Tut, that's a foolish Obfervation:
Richard, be Duke of Glo'fter: Now to London,
To fee thefe honours in poffeffion.
|