him,

That wash'd his father's fortunes forth of France,
And heap'd sedition on his crown at home.
For what hath broach'd this tumult, but thy
pride?

Hadst thou been meek, our title still had slept;
And we, in pity of the gentle king,
Had slipp'd our claim until another age.

Geo. But, when we saw our sunshine made thy spring,

And that thy summer bred us no increase,
We set the axe to thy usurping root:

And though the edge hath something hit ourselves,

Yet know thou, since we have begun to strike, We'll never leave, till we have hewn thee down, Or bath'd thy growing with our heated bloods. Edw. And, in this resolution, I defy thee; Not willing any longer conference,

Since thou deny'st the gentle king to speak.— Sound trumpets!-let our bloody colours wave!And either victory, or else a grave.

Q. Mar. Stay, Edward.

Edw. No, wrangling woman; we'll no longer stay:

These words will cost ten thousand lives to-day. [Exeunt.

War. Forspent with toil, as runners with a race, I lay me down a little while to breathe: For strokes receiv'd, and many blows repaid, Have robb'd my strong-knit sinews of their strength,

And, spite of spite, needs must I rest awhile.

Enter EDWARD, running.

Edw. Smile, gentle heaven! or strike, ungentle death!

For this world frowns, and Edward's sun is clouded.

War. How now, my lord? what hap? what hope of good?

War. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood:

I'll kill my horse, because I will not fly.
Why stand we like soft-hearted women here,
Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage;
And look upon, as if the tragedy
Were play'd in jest by counterfeiting actors?
Here on my knee I vow to God above,
I'll never pause again, never stand still,
Till either death hath clos'd these eyes of mine,
Or fortune given me measure of revenge.

Edw. O Warwick, I do bend my knee with

thine;

And, in this vow, do chain my soul to thine.-
And, ere my knee rise from the earth's cold face,
I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee,
Thou setter up and plucker down of kings!
Beseeching thee,-if with thy will it stands,
That to my foes this body must be prey,―
Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope,
And give sweet passage to my sinful soub!-
Now, lords, take leave, until we meet again,
Where-e'er it be, in heaven, or on earth.

Rich. Brother, give me thy hand ;—and, gentle Warwick,

Let me embrace thee in my weary arms :-
I, that did never weep, now melt with woe,
That winter should cut off our spring-time so.
War. Away, away! Once more, sweet lords,
farewell.

Geo. Yet let us all together to our troops,
And give them leave to fly, that will not stay;
And call them pillars, that will stand to us;
And, if we thrive, promise them such rewards
As victors wear at the Olympian games:
This may plant courage in their quailing breasts;
For yet is hope of life, and victory.-
Fore-slow no longer, make we hence amain.
[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.-The same. Another part of the field.

Excursions. Enter RICHARD and CLIFFORD.

Rich. Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone: Suppose, this arm is for the duke of York, And this for Rutland; both bound to revenge, Wert thou environ'd with a brazen wall.

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 Rut

land;

And here's the heart, that triumphs in their death, And cheers these hands, that slew thy sire and brother,

To execute the like upon thyself;
And so, have at thee.

[They fight. Warwick enters; Clifford
flies.

ing'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 sea,
Fore'd with the tide to combat with the wind;
Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea,
Forc'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:
So is the equal poise of this fell war.
Here on this molehill 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 times:
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;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean;
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Pass'd 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?
U, 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 wait on him.

Alarum. Enter a Son that has killed his Father, dragging in the dead body.

Son. Ill blows the wind, that profits nobody.This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight, May be possessed with some store of crowns: And I, that haply take them from him now, May yet, ere night, yield both my life and them To some man else, as this dead man doth me.— Who's this?-O God! it is my father's face, Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill'd. O heavy times, begetting such events! From London by the king was I press'd forth; My father, being the earl of Warwick's man, 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.Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did!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. Hen. O piteous spectacle! O bloody times! Whilst 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 who has killed his Son, with the body in his arms.

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,
Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart!-
O, pity, God, this miserable age

What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly,
Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural,
This deadly quarrel daily doth beget !-
O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon,
And hath bereft thee of thy life too late!

K. Hen. Woe above woe! grief more than
common grief!

O, that my death would stay these ruthfuldeeds!-
O pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity!—
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 cheeks, methinks, present:
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 satisfied?

Fath. How will my wife, for slaughter of my son, Shed seas of tears, and ne'er be satisfied?

K. Hen. How will the country, for these wocful chances,

Mis-think the king, and not be satisfied?

Son. Was ever son, so ru'd a father's death? Fath. Was ever father, so bemoan'd a son? K. Hen. 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 wind-
ing-sheet;

My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre ;
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. Hen. Sad-hearted men, much overgone
with care,

Here sits a king more woeful than you are.
Alarums: Excursions. Enter Queen MARGA-
RET, 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.
Q. Mar. Mount you, my lord, towards Ber-
wick post amain:

Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds
Having the fearful flying hare in sight,
With fery eyes, sparkling for very wrath,
And bloody steel grasp'd in their ireful hands,
Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain.
Exe. Away! for vengeance comes along with
them:

Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed;
Or else come after, I'll away before.

K. Hen. Nay, take me with thee, good sweet
Exeter;

Not that I fear to stay, but love to go
Whither the queen intends. Forward; away!

SCENE VI.-The same.

[Exeunt.

A loud alarum. Enter CLIFFORD, wounded. Clif. Here burns my candle out, ay, here it dies, Which, while it lasted, 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; And now I fall, thy tough commixtures melt. Impairing Henry, strength'ning mis-proud York, The common people swarm like summer flies: And whither fly the gnats, but to the sun? And who shines now but Henry's enemies? O Phœbus! hadst thou never given consent That Phaeton should check thy fiery steeds, Thy burning car never had scorch'd the earth: And Henry, hadst thousway'd as kings should do, Or as thy father, and his father, did,

Given no ground unto the house of York,
They never then had sprung like summer flies;
I, and ten thousand in this luckless realm,
Had left no mourning widows for our death,
And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace.
For what doth cherish weeds, but gentle air?
And what makes robbers bold, but too much
lenity?

Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds;
No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight:
The foe is merciless, and will not pity;
For, at their hands, I have deserv'd no pity.
The air hath got into my deadly wounds,
And much effuse of blood doth make me faint:-
Come, York, and Richard, Warwick, and the rest;
I stabb'd your father's bosoms, split my breast.
[He faints.

Alarum and retreat. Enter Edward, George, RICHARD, MONTAGUE, WARWICK, and Soldiers.

Edw. Now breathe we, lords; good fortune bids us pause,

And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful

Dark cloudy death o'ershades his beams of life, And he nor sees, nor hears us what we say. Rich. O, 'would he did! and so, perhaps, he doth;

'Tis but his policy to counterfeit, Because he would avoid such bitter taunts, Which in the time of death he gave our father. Geo. If so thou think'st, vex him with eager words.

Rich. Clifford, ask mercy, and obtain no grace. Edw. Clifford, repent in bootless penitence. War. Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults. Geo. While we devise fell tortures for thy faults. Rich. Thou didst love York, and I am son to York.

Edw. Thou pitied'st Rutland, I will pity thee. Geo. 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 two hours' life,
That I in all despite might rail at him,
This hand should chop it off; and with the
issuing blood

Stifle the villain, whose unstaunched thirst
York and young Rutland could not satisfy.

War. Ay, but he's dead: Off with the traitor's head,

And rear it in the place your father's stands.—
And now to London with triumphant march,
There to be crowned England's royal king.
From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France,
And ask the lady Bona for thy queen :
So shalt thou sinew both these lands together;
And, having France thy friend, thou shalt not
dread

The scatter'd foe, that hopes to rise again;
For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt,
Yet look to have them buz, to offend thine ears.
First, will I see the coronation;
And then to Britany I'll cross the sea,
To effect this marriage, so it please my lord.
Edw. Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let
it be:

For on thy shoulder do I build my seat;
And never will I undertake the thing,
Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting.—
Richard, I will create thee duke of Gloster ;-
And George, of Clarence ;-Warwick, as ourself,
Shall do, and undo, as him pleaseth best.

Rich. Let me be duke of Clarence; George,
of Gloster;

For Gloster's dukedom is too ominous.
War. Tut, that's a foolish observation;
Richard, be duke of Gloster: Now to London,
To see these honours in possession. [Exeunt.

To greet mine own land with my wishful sight.
No, Harry, Harry, 'tis no land of thine;
Thy place is fill'd, thy sceptre wrung from thee,
Thy balm wash'd off, wherewith thou wast
anointed :

No bending knee will call thee Cæsar now,
No humble suitors press to speak for right,
No, not a man comes for redress of thee;
For how can I help them, and not myself?

1 Keep. Ay, here's a deer whose skin's a keeper's fee:

This is the quondam king; let's seize upon him. K. Hen. Let me embrace these sour adversities; For wise men say, it is the wisest course.

2 Keep. Why linger we? let us lay hands upon him.

1 Keep. Forbear a while; we'll hear a little