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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.

SCENE V.

Enter King

Another Part of the Field. Alarum.

HENRY.

460

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 470

480

Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered.
So is the equal poise of this fell war.
Here on this mole-hill will I sit me down.
To whom God will, there be the victory!
For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too,
Have chid me from the battle; swearing both,
They prosper best of all when I am thence.
'Would I were dead! if God's good will were so:
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 swain ;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,
To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run:
How many make the hour full complete,
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 rest;
So many hours must I contemplate ;
So many hours must I sport myself ;
So many days my ewes have been with young;

490
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean;
So many months ere I shall sheer the fleece:
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Past over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah, what a life were this ! how sweet! how lovely!

Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy
To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery? 500
O, yes, it doth; a thousand fold it doth.
And to conclude

the shepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince's delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,
When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him,

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

And pardon, father, for I knew not thee!
My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks ;
And no more words, 'till they have flow'd their fill.

K. Henry. O piteous spectacle! O bloody times !
Whilst lions war, and battle for their dens,
Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity-

530
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 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!

551 The

The red rose 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, presenteth:
Wither one rose, 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 satisfy'd ?

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

chances,
Mis-think the king, and not be satisfy'd ?

Son. Was ever son, so ru'd a father's death?
Fath. Was ever father, so bemoan'd his son ?
K. Henry. Was ever king, so griev'd for subjects'

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 .

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