SCENE VI. Alarm. Enter King Henry alone.

K. HEN. This battle fares like to the morning's war,
When dying clouds contend with growing light,
What time the fhepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day nor night.
Now sways it this way like a mighty fea
Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind;
Now sways it that way, like the self-fame fea
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, breaft to breast,
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 battle; fwearing both,
They profper beft 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 fwain,
To fit upon a hill, as I do now,

To carve out dials queintly, point by point,
Thereby to see 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 time;
So many hours muft I tend my flock;

So many hours must I take my reft;
So many hours must I contemplate!
So many hours muft I sport myself;

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, years,
Paft over, to the end they were created,

Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.

Ah! what a life were this! how fweet, how lovely!
Gives not the haw-thorn bush a sweeter fhade

To fhepherds looking on their filly 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 fhepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted fleep under a frefh tree's fhade,
All which fecure and fweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince's delicates,
His viands fparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched on a curious bed,

When care, miftruft and treafons wait on him.

SCENE VII. Alarm. Enter a fon that had kill'd his father.

SON. Ill blows the wind, that profits nobody.This man, whom hand to hand I flew in fight, May be poffeffed 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 doth me..

-Who's this! Oh God! it is my father's face,
Whom in this conflict I unawares 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 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 those bloody marks,
And no more words, 'till they have flow'd their fill.
K. HEN. O pteous fpectacle ! bloody times!
While 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 bearing his fon.

FATH. Thou that To ftoutly hath refifted me,

Give me thy gold, if thou haft 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 eyes; fee, fee, what showers arise,

Blown with the windy tempeft of my heart

Upon the wounds that kill mine eye and heart.

O pity, God, this miferable age!

What ftratagems, 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

O, that my death would stay these rueful deeds!

O pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity!

The red rofe 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, prefenteth.
Wither one rofe, and let the other flourish!
If you contend a thousand lives muft wither.
SON. How will my mother, for a father's death,
Take on with me, and ne'er be satisfy'd?

[grief;

FATH. How will my wife, for flaughter of my son, Shed feas of tears, and ne'er be satisfy'd?

K. HEN. How will the country, for these woful chances, Mi think the king, and not be fatisfy'd ?

SON. Was ever fon, fo ru'd a father's death?

FATH. Was ever father, fo bemoan'd his fon?

K. HEN. Was ever king, fo griev'd for subjects' woe?
Much is your forrow; mine, ten times fo much.
SON. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill.
[Exit.
FATH. These arms of mine shall be thy winding sheet,

My heart, fweet boy, fhall be thy fepulchre ;
For from my heart thine image ne'er shall go.
My fighing breast shall be thy funeral bell,
And fo obfequious will thy father be,
Sad for the lofs of thee, having no more,

As Priam was for all his valiant fons.

I'll bear thee hence, and let them fight that will;
For I have murder'd, where I fhould not kill.

(Exit.

K. HEN. Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care, Here fits a king, more woeful than you are.

SCENE VIII. Alarms. Excurfions.

queen, prince of Wales, and Exeter.

Enter the

PRIN. Fly, father, fly, for all your friends are dead; And Warwick rages like a chafed bull.

Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit.

Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds

QUEEN. Mount you, my lord, toward Berwick post a

[main.

Having the fearful flying hare in fight,

With fiery eyes sparkling for very wrath,

And bloody fteel grafpt in their ireful hands,

Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain.

ExE. Away, for vengeance comes along with them. --Nay, ftay 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 ftay but love to go

Whither the queen intends. Forward, away!

[Exeunt,

SCENE IX. A loud alarm. Enter Clifford wounded,

[Falling.

CLIF. Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies,
Which, while it lafted, gave king Henry light,
O Lancaster! I fear thy overthrow,
More than my body's parting with my foul.
My love and fear glew'd many friends to thee;
And, now I fall, thy tough commixtures melt,
Impairing Henry, strengthening mis-proud York.
The common people fwarm like fummer flies;
And whither fly the gnats, but to the fun?
And who fhines now but Henry's enemies?