Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless.

Thy father bears the type of king of Naples,
Of both the Sicils, and Jerusalem,

Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman.
Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult?
It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen;
Unless the adage must be verified,

That beggars, mounted, run their horse to death.
"T is beauty that doth oft make women proud;
But God he knows thy share thereof is small:
"T is virtue that doth make them most admir'd;
The contrary doth make thee wonder'd at:
'Tis government that makes them seem divine;
The want thereof makes thee abominable:
Thou art as opposite to every good

As the Antipodes are unto us,

Or as the south to the septentrion.

O, tiger's heart, wrapp'd in a woman's hide!

How couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child,
To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,
And yet be seen to bear a woman's face?
Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible;
Thou, stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.
Bidd'st thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish:
Wouldst have me weep? why, now thou hast thy will:
For raging wind blows up incessant showers,
And when the rage allays the rain begins.
These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies;
And every drop cries vengeance for his death,
'Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false Frenchwoman.
North. Beshrew me, but his passions move me so
That hardly can I check my eyes from tears.
York. That face of his the hungry cannibals

Would not have touch'd, would not have stain'd with blood:

But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,
O, ten times inore, than tigers of Hyrcania.
See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears:
This cloth thou dipp'dst in blood of my sweet boy,
And I with tears do wash the blood away.
Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this:

[He gives back the handkerchief

And, if thou tell'st the heavy story right,
Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears:
Yea, even my foes will shed fast-falling tears,
And say,-Alas it was a piteous deed!—
There, take the crown, and with the crown my curse,
And, in thy need, such comfort come to thee
As now I reap at thy too cruel hand!
Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world;
My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads!
North. Had he been slaughterman to all my kin,
I should not for my life but weep with him,
To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul.

Q. Mar. What, weeping-ripe, my lord Northumber land?

Think but upon the wrong he did us all,
And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.
Clif. Here's for my oath, here's for my father's death.

[Stabbing him. Q. Mar. And here 's to right our gentle-hearted king. [Stabbing him

York. Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God! My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee.

Q. Mar. Off with his head, and set it on York gates: So York may overlook the town of York.

[Dies.

[Exeunt.

fordshire.

Drums. Enter EDWARD and RICHARD, with their

Forces, marching.

Edw. I wonder how our princely father 'scap'd;
Or whether he be 'scap'd away, or no,

From Clifford's and Northumberland's pursuit ;
Had he been ta'en, we should have heard the news;
Had he been slain, we should have heard the news;
Or, had he 'scap'd, methinks we should have heard
The happy tidings of his good escape.
How fares my brother? why is he so sad?
Rich. I cannot joy, until I be resolv'd
Where our right valiant father is become.
i saw him in the battle range about ;
And watch'd him, how he singled Clifford forth.
Methought, he bore him in the thickest troop
As doth a lion in a herd of neat:

Or as a bear, encompass'd round with dogs;
Who having pinch'd a few, and made them cry,
The rest stand all aloof, and bark at him.
So far'd our father with his enemies;
Sc fled his enemies my warlike father;
Methinks, 't is prize enough to be his son.
See how the morning opes her golden gates,
And takes her farewell of the glorious sun!
How well resembles it the prime of youth,
Trimm'd like a younker, prancing to his love!

Edw. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?
Rich. Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun.
Not separated with the racking clouds,
But sever'd in a pale clear-shining sky.
See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,
As if they vow'd some league inviolable:

In this the heaven figures some event.

Edo. T is wondrous strange, the like yet never heard of.

I think it cites us, brother, to the field;
That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet,
Each one already blazing by our meeds,
Should, notwithstanding, join our lights together,
And overshine the earth, as this the world.
Whate er it bodes, henceforward will I bear
Upon my target three fair shining suns.
Rich. Nay, bear three daughters ;--by your leave I
speak it,

You love the breeder better than the male.

Enter a Messenger.

But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell
Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?
Mess. Ah, one that was a woeful looker on,
When as the noble duke of York was slain,
Your princely father, and my loving lord.
Edi. O, speak no more! for I have heard too much
Rich. Say how he died, for I will hear it all.
Mess. Environed he was with many foes;
And stood against them, as the hope of Troy
Against the Greeks that would have enter'd Troy.
But Hercules himself must yield to odds;
And many strokes, though with a little axe,
Hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.
By many hands your father was subdued;
But only slaughter'd by the ireful arm
Of unrelenting Clifford and the queen:
Who crown'd the gracious duke, in high despite:
Laugh'd in is face; and, when with grief he well,

a Meeds-merits.

The ruthless queen gave him, to dry his cheeks,
A napkin steeped in the harmless blood

Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain:
And, after many scorns, many foul taunts,
They took his head, and on the gates of York
They set the same; and there it doth remain,
The saddest spectacle that e'er I view`d.

Edw. Sweet duke of York, our prop to lean upon,
Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay!
O Clifford, boist rous Clifford, thou hast slain
The flower of Europe for his chivalry;
And treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him,
For, hand to hand, he would have vanquish'd thee!
Now my soul's palace is become a prison:

Ah, would she break from hence! that this my body
Might in the ground be closed up in rest:
For never henceforth shall I joy again,
Never, O never, shall I see more joy.

Rich. I cannot weep; for all my body's moisture
Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart:
Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burthen;
For self-same wind, that I should speak withal,
1s kindling coals that fire all my breast,
And burn me up with flames that tears would quench.
To weep is to make less the depth of grief:
Tears, then, for babes; blows and revenge for me!-
Richard, I bear thy nanie, I'll venge thy death,
Or die renowned by attempting it.

Edw. His name that valiant duke hath left with thee; His dukedom and his chair with me is left.

Rich. Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird,
Show thy descent by gazing gainst the sun :
For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say;
Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his.

March. Enter WARWICK and MONTAGUE, with
Forces.

War. How now, fair lords? What fare? what news abroad?

Rich. Great lord of Warwick, if we should recount Our baleful news, and at each word's deliverance Stab poniards in our flesh, till all were told,

The words would add more anguish than the wounds.
O valiant lord, the duke of York is slain.

Edw. O Warwick! Warwick! that Plantagenet
Which held thee dearly as his soul's redemption,
Is by the stern lord Clifford done to death."

War. Ten days ago I drown'd these news in tears:
And now, to add more measure to your woes,
I come to tell you things sith then befallen.
After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave father breath'd his latest gasp,
Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run,
Were brought me of your loss, and his depart.
I then in Loudon, keeper of the king,
Muster'd my soldiers, gather'd flocks of friends,
And very well appointed, as I thought,

March'd towards St. Alban's to intercept the queen,
Bearing the king in my behalf along:
For by my scouts I was advertised
That she was coming with a full intent
To dash our late decree in parliament,
Touching king Henry's oath and your succession.
Short tale to make, we at St. Alban's met,
Our battles join'd, and both sides fiercely fought:
But, whether 't was the coldness of the king,
Who look'd full gently on his warlike queen,
That robb'd my soldiers of their heated spleen;
Or whether 't was report of her success;
Or more than common fear of Clifford's rigour,
Who thunders to his captives-blood and death,
I cannot judge: but, to conclude with truth,
Their weapons like to lightning came and went;
Our soldiers-like the night-owl's lazy flight,

Or like a lazy thresher with a flail-
Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends.
I cheer'd them up with justice of our cause,
With promise of high pay and great rewards:
But all in vain; they had no heart to fight,
And we, in them, no hope to win the day,
So that we fled: the king unto the queen;
Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and myself,
In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you;
For in the marches here, we heard, you were
Making another head to fight again.

Edw. Where is the duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick ? And when came George from Burgundy to England? War. Some six miles off the duke is with the soldiers: And for your brother, he was lately sent From your kind aunt, duchess of Burgundy, With aid of soldiers to this needful war.

Rich. 'T was odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled: Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit, But ne'er, till now, his scandal of retire.

War. Nor now my scandal. Richard, dost thou her, For thou shalt know, this strong right hand of mine Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry's head, And wring the awful sceptre from his fist, Were he as famous and as bold in war, As he is fam'd for mildness, peace, and prayer. Rich. I know it well, lord Warwick; blame me not 'T is love I bear thy glories makes me speak. But, in this troublous time, what 's to be done? Shall we go throw away our coats of steel, And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns, Numbering our Ave-Maries with our beads? Or shall we on the helmets of our foes Tell our devotion with revengeful arms? If for the last, say. Ay, and to it, lords.

War. Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you out,
And therefore comes my brother Montague.
Attend me, lords. The proud insulting queen,
With Clifford and the haught Northumberland,
And of their feather many more proud birds,
Have wrought the easy melting king like wax.
He swore consent to your succession,
His oath enrolled in the parliament;
And now to London all the crew are gone,
To frustrate both his oath, and what beside
May make against the house of Lancaster.
Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong:
Now, if the help of Norfolk, and myself,

With all the friends that thou, brave earl of March,
Amongst the loving Welshinen canst procure,
Will but amount to five-and-twenty thousand,
Why, Via! to London will we march amain;
And once again bestride our foaming steeds,
And once again cry-Charge upon our foes!
But never once again turn back and fly.

Rich. Ay, now, methinks, I hear great Warwick speak :

Ne'er may he live to see a sunshine day
That cries-Retire, if Warwick bid him stay.

Edw. Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean; And when thou fail'st (as God forbid the hour!) Must Edward fall, which peril Heaven forefend !

War. No longer earl of March, but duke of York;
The next degree is England's royal throne:
For king of England shalt thou be proclaim'd
In every borough as we pass along;
And he that throws not up his cap for joy

Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head.
King Edward, valiant Richard, Montague,
Stay we no longer dreaming of renown,
But sound the trumpets, and about our task.

Rich. Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as steci, (As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds,)

I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine.

Enter a Messenger.

War. How now? what news?

Mess. The duke of Norfolk sends you word by me, The queen is coming with a puissant host; And craves your company for speedy counsel. War. Why, then it sorts, brave warriors; Let's away. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.-Before York.

Enter KING HENRY, QUEEN MARGARET, the PRINCE OF WALES, CLIFFORD, and NORTHUMBERLAND, with Forces.

Q. Mar. Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York.

Yonder 's the head of that arch-enemy

That sought to be encompass'd with your crown:
Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?

K. Hen. Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their wrack ;

To see this sight, it irks my very soul.
Withhold revenge, dear God! 't is not my fault,
Nor wittingly have I infring'd my vow.

Clif. My gracious liege, this too much lenity
And harmful pity must be laid aside.
To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?
Not to the beast that would usurp their den.
Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick?
Not his that spoils her young before her face.
Who 'scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting?
Not he that sets his foot upon her back.

The smallest worm will turn being trodden on;
And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood.
Ambitious York did level at thy crown,
Thou smiling, while he knit his angry brows:
He, but a duke, would have his son a king,
And raise his issue, like a loving sire;

Thou, being a king, bless'd with a goodly son,
Didst yield consent to disinherit him,
Which argued thee a most unloving father.
Unreasonable creatures feed their young;
And though man's face be fearful to their eyes,
Yet, in protection of their tender ones,

Who hath not seen them (even with those wings
Which sometime they have used with fearful flight)
Make war with him that climb'd unto their nest,
Offering their own lives in their youngs' defence?
For shame, my liege, make them your precedent!
'Vere it not pity that this goodly boy
Should lose his birthright by his father's fault;
And long hereafter say unto his child,-
"What my great-grandfather and grandsire got,
My careless father fondly gave away"?
Ah, what a shame were this! Look on the boy;
And let his manly face, which promiseth
Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart

To hold thine own, and leave thine own with him.
K. Hen. Full well hath Clifford play'd the orator,
Inferring arguments of mighty force.

But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear
That things ill got had ever bad success?
And happy always was it for that son,
Whose father for his hoarding went to hell?
I'll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind;
And 'would my father had left me no more!
For all the rest is held at such a rate
As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep,
Than in possession any jct of pleasure.

Ah, cousin York! 'would thy best friends did know
How it doth grieve me that thy head is here!

Q. Mar. My lord, cheer up your spirits; our foes
are nigh,

You promis'd knighthood to our forward son; Unsheathe your sword, and dub him presently. Edward, kneel down.

K. Hen.

Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight;
And learn this lesson,-Draw thy sword in right.
Prince. My gracious father, by your kingly leave,
I'll draw it as apparent to the crown,
And in that quarrel use it to the death.

Clif. Why, that is spoken like a toward prince.
Enter a Messenger.

Mess. Royal commanders, be in readiness:
For, with a band of thirty thousand men,
Comes Warwick backing of the duke of York;
And in the towns, as they do march along,
Proclaims him king, and many fly to him:
Darraign your battle, for they are at hand.

a

Clif. I would your highness would depart the field; The queen hath best success when you are absent. Q. Mar. Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fin

tune.

K. Hen. Why, that 's my fortune too; therefore I'll

stay.

North. Be it with resolution then to fight.

Prince. My royal father, cheer these noble lords, And hearten those that fight in your defence: Unsheathe your sword, good father; cry, "Sant George!

March. Enter EDWARD, GEORGE, RICHARD, WAR-
WICK, NORFOLK, MONTAGUE, and Soldiers.
Edw. Now, perjur'd Henry! wilt thou kneel for grace
And set thy diadem upon my head;

Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?

Q. Mar. Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting bøy! Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms,

Before thy sovereign, and thy lawful king?

Edw. I am his king, and he should bow his knee,

I was adopted heir by his consent:

Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear,
You, that are king though he do wear the crown,
Have caus'd him, by new act of parliament,
To blot out me and put his own son in.

Clif. And reason too;

Who should succeed the father but the son?

Rich. Are you there, butcher ?-O, I cannot speak. Clif. Ay, crook-back; here I stand, to answer thee, Or any he the proudest of thy sort.

Rich. "T was you that kill'd young Rutland, was it

not?

Clif. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied.
Rich For God's sake, lords, give signal to the fight.
War. What say'st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the
crown?

Q. Mar. Why, how now, long-tongued Warwick! dare you speak?

When you and I met at St. Alban's last,
Your legs did better service than your hands.

War. Then 't was my turn to fly, and now 't is thine.
Clif. You said so much before, and yet you fled.
War. T was not your valour, Clifford, drove me

thence.

North. No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay.

Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently;
Break off the parley; for scarce I can refrain
The execution of my big-swoln heart

Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.

Clif. I slew thy father: Call'st thou him a child? Rich. Ay, like a dastard, and a treacherous coward As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland: But, ere sunset, I'll make thee curse the deed.

Darraign-prepare.

Cannot be cur'd by words; therefore be still.

Rich. Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword:
By Him that made us all, I am resolv'd
That Clifford's manhood lies upon his tongue.

Edw. Say, Henry, shall I have my right or no?
A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day,
That ne'er shall dine unless thou yield the crown.
War. If thou deny, their blood upon thy head;
For York in justice puts his armour on.

Prince. If that be right which Warwick says is right, There is no wrong, but everything is right.

Rich. Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands ; For, well I wot, thou hast thy mother's tongue.

Q. Mar. But thou art neither like thy sire nor dam; But like a foul mis-shapen stigmatic, Mark'd by the destinies to be avoided, As venom toads, or lizards' dreadful stings.

Rich. Iron of Naples, hid with English gilt, Whose father bears the title of a king, (As if a channel should be call'd the sea,) Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught, To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?

Edw. A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns,
To make this shameless callet know herself.
Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,
Although thy husband may be Menelaus;
And ne'er was Agamemuon's brother wrong'd
By that false woman as this king by thee.
His father revell'd in the heart of France,

And tam'd the king, and made the dauphin stoop:
And had he match'd according to his state,
He might have kept that glory to this day:
But when he took a beggar to his bed,
And grac'd thy poor sire with his bridal day,
Even then that sunshine brew'd a shower for 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.
Edie. And, in this resolution, I defy thee;
Not willing any longer conference,

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

Q. Mar. Stay, Edward.

Edo. No, wrangling woman; we 'll no longer stay: These words will cost ten thousand lives to-day.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III-A Field of Battle between Towton and Saxton in Yorkshire.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter WARWICK. War. Forspent with toil, as runners with a race, I lay me down a little while to breathe :

Stigmatic. See Note on Henry VI., Part II.,' Act V., Scene 1.

Channel: equivalent to what we now call a kena

Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death!"
So underneath the belly of their steeds,
That stain'd their fetlocks in his smoking blood,
The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.

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 hope, And give sweet passage to my sinful soul! Now, lords, take leave until we meet again, Where'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.

Chf. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone:
This is the hand that stabb'd thy father York;
Fore slow-delay-loiter.

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

[They fight. WARWICK enters; CLIFFORD flies. Rich. Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase ; For I myself will hunt this wolf to death. [Exeunt.

SCENE V.-Another Part of the Field.

Alarum. Enter KING HENRY.

K. Hen. 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 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, the flood prevails; and then, the wind:
Now, one the better; then, another best;
Both tugging to he 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?
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 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 unawares have kill'd.
O neavy 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!
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'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 commən

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 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 woefu chances,

Mis-think the king, and not be satisfied!

Son. Was ever son so rued 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 winding. 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 murther'd where I should not kill.

[Exit, with the body.

Stratagems here means disastrous events-not merely th events of war, its surprises and suares.

b Obsequious-performing obsequies.