SCENE V.
Another Part of the Field.
Alarum. Enter King Henry.
&mast;K. Hen.
&mast;This battle fares like to the morning's war5 note
,
&mast;When dying clouds contend with growing light;
&mast;What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails6 note
,
-- 432 --
&mast;Can neither call it perfect day, nor night.
&mlquo;Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea,
&mlquo;Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind:
&mlquo;Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea
&mlquo;Forc'd to retire by fury of the wind:
&mlquo;Sometime, the flood prevails; and then, the wind;
&mlquo;Now, one the better, then, another best;
&mlquo;Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast7 note
,
&mlquo;Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered:
&mlquo;So is the equal poise of this fell war.
&mast;Here on this molehill will I sit me down.
&mast;To whom God will, there be the victory!
&mlquo;For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too,
&mlquo;Have chid me from the battle; swearing both,
&mlquo;They prosper best of all when I am thence.
&mlquo;'Would I were dead! if God's good will were so:
&mlquo;For what is in this world, but grief and woe?
&mast;O God! methinks, it were a happy life8 note
,
&mast;To be no better than a homely swain:
&mast;To sit upon a hill, as I do now,
&mast;To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
&mast;Thereby to see the minutes how they run:
&mast;How many make the hour full complete9 note
,
&mast;How many hours bring about the day,
&mast;How many days will finish up the year,
-- 433 --
&mast;How many years a mortal man may live.
&mast;When this is known, then to divide the times:
&mast;So many hours must I tend my flock;
&mast;So many hours must I take my rest;
&mast;So many hours must I cóntemplate;
&mast;So many hours must I sport myself;
&mast;So many days my ewes have been with young;
&mast;So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean1 note
;
&mast;So many years ere I shall sheer the fleece2 note:
&mast;So minutes, hours, days, weeks3 note, months and years,
&mast;Pass'd over to the end they were created,
&mast;Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
&mast;Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
&mast;Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
&mast;To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,
&mast;Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy
&mast;To kings that fear their subjects' treachery?
&mast;O, yes it doth; a thousand fold it doth.
&mast;And to conclude,—the shepherd's homely curds,
&mast;His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
&mast;His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,
&mast;All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
&mast;Is far beyond a prince's delicates,
&mast;His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
&mast;His body couched in a curious bed,
-- 434 --
&mast;When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.
Alarum. Enter a Son that has killed his Father4 note
, dragging in the dead Body.
Son.
Ill blows the wind, that profits no body.—
&mlquo;This man whom hand to hand I slew in fight,
&mlquo;May be possessed with some store of crowns:
&mast;And I, that haply take them from him now,
&mast;May yet ere night yield both my life and them
&mast;To some man else, as this dead man doth me.—
&mlquo;Who's this?—O God! it is my father's face,
&mlquo;Whom in this conflict I unawares have kill'd.
&mlquo;O heavy times, begetting such events!
&mlquo;From London by the king was I press'd forth;
&mlquo;My father, being the earl of Warwick's man,
&mlquo;Came on the part of York, press'd by his master;
&mlquo;And I, who at his hands receiv'd my life,
&mlquo;Have by my hands of life bereaved him.—
&mlquo;Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did!—
And pardon, father, for I knew not thee!—
&mast;My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks;
&mast;And no more words, till they have flow'd their fill.
&mlquo;K. Hen.
&mlquo;O piteous spectacle5 note
! O bloody times!
-- 435 --
Whilst lions war, and battle for their dens,
&mlquo;Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity,—
&mast;Weep, wretched man, I'll aid thee tear for tear;
&mast;And let our hearts, and eyes, like civil war,
&mast;Be blind with tears, and break o'ercharg'd with grief6 note
.
Enter a Father, who has killed his Son, with the Body in his arms.
&mlquo;Fath.
&mlquo;Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me,
&mlquo;Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold;
&mlquo;For I have bought it with an hundred blows.—
&mlquo;But let me see:—is this our foeman's face?
&mlquo;Ah, no, no, no, it is mine only son!—
&mast;Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee,
&mast;Throw up thine eye; see, see, what showers arise,
&mast;Blown with the windy tempest of my heart7 note
,
&mast;Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart!—
&mlquo;O, pity, God, this miserable age!—
&mlquo;What stratagems8 note
, how fell, how butcherly,
-- 436 --
&mlquo;Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural,
&mlquo;This deadly quarrel daily doth beget!—
&mlquo;O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon8 note,
&mlquo;And hath bereft thee of thy life too late9 note
!
-- 437 --
K. Hen.
Woe above woe! grief more than common grief!
&mlquo;O, that my death would stay these ruthful deeds!—
&mast;O pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity!—
The red rose and the white are on his face,
The fatal colours of our striving houses:
&mast;The one, his purple blood right well resembles;
&mast;The other, his pale cheeks, methinks, presenteth;
Wither one rose, and let the other flourish!
&mlquo;If you contend, a thousand lives must wither1 note
.
-- 438 --
Son.
How will my mother, for a father's death,
Take on with me2 note
, and ne'er be satisfied?
Fath.
How will my wife, for slaughter of my son,
&mlquo;Shed seas of tears, and ne'er be satisfied?
&mlquo;K. Hen.
&mlquo;How will the country3 note
, for these woful chances,
&mlquo;Misthink the king, and not be satisfied?
&mlquo;Son.
&mlquo;Was ever son, so ru'd a father's death?
&mlquo;Fath.
&mlquo;Was ever father, so bemoan'd a son4 note
?
&mlquo;K. Hen.
&mlquo;Was ever king, so griev'd for subjects' woe?
&mlquo;Much is your sorrow; mine, ten times so much.
&mlquo;Son.
&mlquo;I'll bear thee hence5 note
, where I may weep my fill.
[Exit with the Body.
-- 439 --
&mast;Fath.
&mast;These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet:
&mast;My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre;
&mast;For from my heart thine image ne'er shall go.
&mast;My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell;
&mast;And so obsequious will thy father be6 note
,
&mast;Sad for the loss of thee7 note
, having no more,
&mast;As Priam was for all8 note 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.
&mlquo;K. Hen.
&mlquo;Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care,
&mlquo;Here sits a king more woful than you are.
Alarums: Excursions. Enter Queen Margaret, Prince of Wales, and Exeter.
&mlquo;Prince.
&mlquo;Fly, father, fly! for all your friends are fled,
&mlquo;And Warwick rages like a chafed bull:
&mlquo;Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit.
&mlquo;Q. Mar.
&mlquo;Mount you, my lord; towards Berwick post amain:
&mlquo;Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds,
&mlquo;Having the fearful, flying hare in sight,
&mlquo;With firy eyes, sparkling for very wrath,
-- 440 --
&mlquo;And bloody steel grasp'd in their ireful hands,
&mlquo;Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain.
&mlquo;Exe.
&mlquo;Away! for vengeance comes along with them:
&mlquo;Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed;
Or else come after, I'll away before.
&mlquo;K. Hen.
&mlquo;Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exeter;
&mlquo;Not that I fear to stay, but love to go
&mlquo;Whither the queen intends. Forward; away!
[Exeunt.
James Boswell [1821], The plays and poems of William Shakspeare, with the corrections and illustrations of various commentators: comprehending A Life of the Poet, and an enlarged history of the stage, by the late Edmond Malone. With a new glossarial index (J. Deighton and Sons, Cambridge) [word count] [S10201].
