Enter Richard.

Rich. Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thy felf?
• Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk,
Broach'd with the steely point of Clifford's lance:
And in the very pangs of death he cry'd,
(Like to a dismal clangor heard from far)
Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death!
So underneath the belly of his steeds,
That stain'd their fet-locks in his smoaking blood,
The noble gentleman gave up the ghoft.

War. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood;
I'll kill my horse because I will not fly:
Why stand we like foft-hearted women here,
Wailing our loffes, whiles the foe doth rage,
And look upon, as if the tragedy
Were plaid 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 foul to thine.
And ere my knee rife 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 heav'n may ope,
And give sweet passage to my finful foul.
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 fpring-time fo.

:

War.

(a) It was not the Marquiss of Montague who was flain in this battle, but a natural brother of the Earl of Warwick. Theobald.

War. Away, away: once more, sweet Lords, farewel!

Cla. Yet let us altogether 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-flow no longer, make we hence amain.

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.

[Exeunt.

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 flew thy fire and brother
To execute the like upon thy self;
And fo have at thee.

They fight. Warwick enters, Clifford flies.
Rich. Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase,

For I my felf will hunt this wolf to death.

[Exeunt.

K.Henry. This battel 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 the self-same sea Forc'd by 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

Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind;
Now one the better, then another beft,
Both tugging to be victors, breast to breaft,
Yet neither conqueror nor conquered;
So is the equal poize 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 battel, swearing both
They profper best 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 swain,
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 times
So many hours must I tend my flock,
So many hours must I take my reft,
So many hours must I contemplate,
So many hours must I sport my self;
So many days my ewes have been with young,
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 haw-thorn bush a sweeter shade

To shepherds looking on their filly sheep,

Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy

To Kings that fear their fubjects treachery ?

O yes

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 fleep under a fresh tree's shade,
All which fecure 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 treasons wait on him.

Alarum. Enter a Son, bearing his Father.

Son. Ill blows the wind that profits no body.
This man, whom hand to hand I flew in fight,
May be poffefsed 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 prest forth,
My father being the Earl of Warwick's man
Came on the part of York, preft by his master,
And I, who at his hands received 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. Henry. O piteous spectacle! O bloody times!

Whiles 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'er-charg'd with grief.

Enter

Enter a Father, bearing his Son.

Fath. Thou that so stoutly haft resisted me,
Give me thy gold, if thou hast 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 eye; see, see what showers arife,
Blown with the windy tempest of my heart
Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart.
O pity, God, this miferable 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 late,
And hath bereft thee of thy life too'foon.

[grief!

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 rose and the white are on his face,
The fatal colours of our striving houses.
The one his purple blood right well refembles,
The other his pale cheek, methinks, prefenteth:
Wither one rofe, and let the other flourish!
If you contend, a thousand lives munt 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 chances,
Mif-think the King, and not be fatisfy'd!
Son. Was ever son so rued a father's death?
Fath. Was ever father so bemoan'd his fon?
K. Henry. Was ever King fo griev'd for fubjects woe?
Much is your forrow; mine, ten times so much.

Son. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill. [Exit.

P2

Fath.