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Clif. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone : This is the hand, that stabb'd thy father York; And this the hand, that slew thy brother Rutland; And here's the heart, that triumphs in their death, And cheers these hands, that slew thy sire and brother,
451 To execute the like upon thyself; And so, have at thee.
[They fight. WARWICK enters, CLIFFORD flies. Rich. Nay, Warwick, single out some other chace; For I myself will hunt this wolf to death. [Exeunt.
Another Part of the Field. Alarum.
K. Henry. This battle 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 sways it this way, like a mighty ser, Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind : Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea Fore'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, breast to breast,
Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered.
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
the shepherd's homely curds,
Alarum. Enter a Son that had killed his Father,
Son. Ill blows the wind, that profits nobody. This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight,
511 May be possessed of some store of crowns ? And I, that haply take them from him now, May yet ere night yield both my life and them To soine man else, as this dead man doth me. Who's this?--Oh God! it is my father's face, Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill'd. Oh heavy times, begetting such events! From London by the king was I press'd forth; My father, being the earl of Warwick's man, 520 Came on the part of York, press'd by his master; And I, who at his hands receiv'd my life, Have by my hands of life bereaved him.. Hardon ine, God, I knew not what I did!
And pardon, father, for I knew not thee!
K. Henry. O piteous spectacle! O bloody times !
Enter a Father, bearing his Son. Fath. Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me, Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold; For I have bought it with an 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, 541 Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart ! 0, pity, God, this miserable age! What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly, Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural, This deadly quarrel daily both beget! O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon, And hath bereft thee of thy life too late! K. Henry. Woe above woe! grief more than com
mon 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 other, his pale cheek, methinks, presenteth:
Son. How will my mother, for a father's death,
Fath. How will my wife, for slaughter of my son, Shed seas of tears, and ne'er be satisfy'd ?
561 K. Henry: How will the country, for these woful
Son. Was ever son, so ru'd a father's death?
woe? Much is your sorrow; mine, ten times so much. Son. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill.
(Exit, with the Body. Fath. These arms of mine shall be thy winding
sheet; My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre ; 570 For from my heart thine image ne'er shall go. My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell ; 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.
K. Henry .