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SCENE VI. Alarum. Enter King Henry alone,
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 fways it this way, like a mighty sea Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind; Now (ways 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, breast to breast, Yet neither conqueror nor conquered ; So is the equal poise 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, swearing both, They prosper best of all when I am thence. Would I were dead, if God's good will were so a 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 twain ; • 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
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 relt, • So many hours mult i contemplate, • So many hours must I sport myself; . So many days my ews have been with young,
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean, • So many months ere I shall sheer the feere : • So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years, . . Part 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 !
S C E N E VII.
Son. Ill blows the wind that profits no body.--This man, whom hand to hand I flew 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 fome man elle, 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 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 life, Have by my hands of life bereaved hina. 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 ! While lions war and battle for their dens, Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity. Weep, wretched man, ill 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.
Son. How will my mother, for a father's death,
Fath. How will my wife, for slaughter of my son, Shed seas of tears, and ne'er be fatisfy'd !
K. Henry. How will the country, for thefe woful Mif-think the King, and not be satisfy'd ! [chances,
Son. Was ever fon so ru'd a father's death !
K. Henry. Was ever King fo griev'd for subjects' woe!
[Exit. Fath. These arms of mine shall be thy winding-theet, My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy-fepulchre; For from my heart thine image ne'er shall go,
My fighing breast shall be thy funeral-bell.
K. Henry. Sad-hearted men, much overgone with Here ats a King more woeful than you are. [care,
S CE N E VIII. Alarum. Excursions. Enter the Queen, Prince of
Wales, and Exeter.
Exe. Away; for vengeance comes along with them.
K. Henry. Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exe• Not that I fear to stay, but love to go
[ter, Whither the Queen intends. Forward, away! [Exeunt. SCENE IX. A loud alarum, Enter Clifford wounded.
Clif. Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies,
That Phaeton should check thy fiery seeds,
[He faints. Alarum, and retreat. Enter Edward, Warwick, Ri.
chard, Montague, Clarence, and soldiers. Edw. Now breathe we, Lords, good fortune bids us
War. No; 'tis impoffible he should escape :
Edw. And now the battle's ended, If friend or foe, let him be gently used. Rich. Revoke that doom of mercy, for 'tis Clifford ; VOL. V.