Lieut.
Has king Henry walk'd forth this morning?

Serv.
No, sir, but it is near his hour.

Lieut.
At any time when you see him here,
Let no stranger into the garden;
I would not have him star'd at—See, who's that,
Now ent'ring at the gate? [Knocking within.

Serv.
Sir, the lord Stanley.

Lieut.
Leave me— [Exit Serv. Enter Lord Stanley.
My noble lord, you're welcome to the Tower:
I heard last night you late arriv'd with news
Of Edward's victory, to his joyful queen.

Stanley.
Yes, sir, and I am proud to be the man:
That first brought home the last of civil-broils;
The houses now of York and Lancaster,
Like bloody brothers fighting for a birth-right,
No more shall wound the parent that would part 'em:
Edward now sits secure on England's throne.

Lieu.
Near Tewkshury, my lord, I think they fought;
Has the enemy lost any men of note?

Stanley.
Sir, I was posted home,
Ere an account was taken of the slain;
But as I left the field, a proclamation
From the king was made in search of Edward,
Son to your prisoner, king Henry the sixth,
Which gave reward to those discover'd him,
And him his life, if he'd surrender.

Lieut.
That brave young prince, I fear,'s unlike his father,
Too high of heart to brook submissive life:
This will be heavy news to Henry's ear,
For on this battle's cast, his all was set.

Stanley.
King Henry and ill-fortune are familiar;
He ever threw with an indifferent hand,
But never yet was known to lose his patience;
How does he pass the time, in his confinement?

Lieut.
As one whose wishes never reach'd a crown* ^note;
The king seems dead in him—but, as a man,
He sighs sometimes in want of liberty.
Sometimes he reads, and walks, and wishes
That fate had bless'd him with an humbler birth,
Not to have felt the falling from a throne.

Stanley.
Were it not possible to see this king?
They say he'll freely talk with Edward's friends,
And even treats them with respect and honour.

Lieut.
This is his usual time of walking forth
(For he's allow'd the freedom of the garden)
After his morning prayer; he seldom fails;
Behind this arbour we unseen may stand
A while to observe him. [They retire. Enter King Henry† ^note.

K. Henry.
By this time the decisive blow is struck,

Either my queen and son are bless'd with victory,
Or I'm the cause no more of civil broils.
Would I were dead, if heaven's good-will were so,
For what is in this world but grief and care?
What noise and bustle do kings make to find it;
When life's but a short chace, our game content,
Which most pursu'd, is most compell'd to fly;
And he that mounts him on the swiftest hope,
Shall often run his courser to a stand:
While the poor peasant from some distant hill,
Undanger'd and at ease, views all the sport,
And sees content take shelter in his cottage* ^note.

Stanley.
He seems extremely mov'd.

Lieut.
Does he know you?

Stanley.
No, nor wou'd I have him.

Lieut.
We'll shew ourselves. [They come forward.

K. Henry.
Why, there's another check to proud ambition;
That man receiv'd his charge from me, and now
I'm his prisoner—he locks me to my rest.
Such an unlook'd for change who could suppose,
That saw him kneel to kiss the hand that rais'd him;
But that I should not now complain of,
Since I to that, 'tis possible, may owe
His civil treatment of me—'Morrow, Lieutenant.
Is any news arriv'd—Who's that with you?

Lieut.
A gentleman that came last night express
From Tewksbury—We've had a battle.

K. Henry.
Comes he to me with letters, or advice?

Lieut.
Sir, he's king Edward's officer, your foe.

K. Henry.
Then he won't flatter me—You're welcome, sir;
Not less because you are king Edward's friend,
For I have almost learn'd myself to be so;
Could I but once forget I was a king,
I might be truly happy, and his subject.
You've gain'd a battle; is't not so?

Stanley.
We have, sir,—how, will reach your ear too soon.

K. Henry.
If to my loss, it can't too soon—pray speak,
For fear makes mischief greater than it is.
My queen! my son! say, sir, are they living?

Stanley.
Since my arrival, sir, another post
Came in, which brought us word your queen and son
Were prisoners now at Tewksbury.

K. Henry.
Heaven's will be done! the hunters have 'em now,
And I have only sighs and prayers to help 'em.

Stanley.
King Edward, sir, depends upon his sword,
Yet prays heartily when the battle's won;
And soldiers love a bold and active leader.
Fortune, like women, will be close pursu'd;
The English are high mettled, sir, and 'tis
No easy part to fit 'em well—King Edward
Feels their temper, and 'twill be hard to throw him.

K. Henry.
Alas! I thought them men, and rather hop'd
To win their hearts by mildness than severity.
My soul was never form'd for cruelty:
In my eyes justice has seem'd bloody,
When on the city gates, I have beheld
A traytor's quarters parching in the sun,
My blood has turn'd with horror at the sight;
I took 'em down, and bury'd with his limbs
The memory of the dead man's deeds—Perhaps
That pity made me look less terrible,
Giving the mind of weak rebellion spirit;
For kings are put in trust for all mankind,
And when themselves take injuries, who is safe?
If so, I have deserv'd these frowns of fortune* ^note. Enter Servant.

Serv.
Sir, here's a gentleman brings a warrant,
For his access to king Henry's presence.

Lieut.
I come to him.

Stanley.
His business may require your privacy:
I'll leave you, sir, wishing you all the good
That can be wish'd—not wronging him I serve.

K. Henry.
Farewel! [Exeunt.
Who can this be! a sudden coldness,
Like the damp hand of death, has seiz'd my limbs:
I fear some heavy news? Enter Lieutenant.
Who is it, good Lieutenant?

Lieut.
A gentleman, sir, from Tewksbury—he seems
A melancholy messenger—for when I ask'd
What news, his answer was a deep-fetch'd sigh;
I would not urge him, but I fear 'tis fatal. [Exit. Enter Tressel.

K. Henry.
Fatal indeed! his brow's the title-page,
That speaks the nature of a tragic volume.
Say, friend, how does my queen! my son!
Thou tremblest, and the whiteness of thy cheek
Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand.
Ev'n such a man, so faint, so spiritless,
So dull, so dead in look, so woe be gone,
Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night;
And would have told him half his Troy was burn'd.
But Priam found the fire ere he his tongue,
And I my poor son's death ere thou relat'st it.
Now would'st thou say—your son did thus and thus,
And thus your queen! so fought the valiant Oxford;
Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds;
But in the end, (to stop my ear indeed)
Thou hast a sigh, to blow away this praise,
Ending with—queen and son, and all are dead.

Tres.
Your queen yet lives, and many of your friends,
But for my lord your son—

K. Henry.
Why, he is dead!—yet speak, I charge thee!
Tell thou thy master his suspicion lies,
And I will take it as a kind disgrace,

And thank thee well, for doing me such wrong.

Tres.
Would it were wrong to say; but, sir, your fears are true.

K. Henry.
Yet for all this, say not, my son is dead.

Tres.
Sir, I am sorry I must force you to
Believe, what would to heav'n I had not seen:
But in this last battle near Tewksbury,
Your son, whose active spirit lent a fire,
Ev'n to the dullest peasant in our camp,
Still made his way where danger stood to oppose him.
A braver youth, of more courageous heat,
Ne'er spurr'd his courser at the trumpet's sound.
But who can rule the uncertain chance of war?
In fine, king Edward won the bloody field,
Where both your queen and son were made his prisoners.

K. Henry.
Yet hold! for oh! this prologue lets me in
To a most fatal tragedy to come.
Dy'd he a prisoner, say'st thou? how? By grief?
Or by the bloody hands of those that caught him?

Tres.
After the fight, Edward in triumph ask'd
To see the captive prince—the prince was brought,
Whom Edward roughly chid for bearing arms;
Asking what reparation he could make
For having stirr'd his subjects to rebellion?
Your son, impatient of such taunts, reply'd,
Bow like a subject, proud ambitious York,
While I, now speaking with my father's mouth,
Propose the self-same rebel words to thee,
Which, traitor, thou would'st have me answer to:
From these, more words arose; till in the end
King Edward, swell'd with what th' unhappy prince
At such a time too freely spoke, his gauntlet
In his young face with indignation struck.
At which, crook'd Richard, Clarence, and the rest,
Bury'd their fatal daggers in his heart.
In bloody state I saw him on the earth,
From whence with life he never more sprung up* ^note.

K. Henry.
Oh! had'st thou stabb'd at every word's deliverance,
Sharp poniards in my flesh while this was told.
Thy wounds had given less anguish than thy words.
Oh heav'ns! methinks I see my tender lamb
Gasping beneath the ravenous wolves fell gripe!
But say, did all—did they all strike him, say'st thou?

Tres.
All, sir; but the first wound duke Richard gave.

K. Henry.
There let him stop! be that his last of ills!
Oh barbarous act! unhospitable men!
Against the rigid laws of arms to kill him!
Was't not enough, his hope of birth-right gone,
But must your hate be level'd at his life?
Nor could his father's wrongs content you?
Nor could a father's grief dissuade the deed?
You have no children—(butchers if you had)
The thought of them would sure have stirr'd remorse.

Tres.
Take comfort, sir, and hope a better day.

K. Henry.
Oh! who can hold a fire in his hand,
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?
Or wallow naked in December's snow,
By bare remembrance of the summer's heat?
Away—by heaven I shall abhor his sight,
Whoever bids me be of comfort more!
If thou wilt sooth my sorrows, then I'll thank thee;
Ay! now thou'rt kind indeed! these tears oblige me.

Tres.
Alas! my lord, I fear more evils towards you.

K. Henry.
Why, let it come, I scarce shall feel it now,
My present woes have beat me to the ground;
And my hard fate can make me fall no lower.
What can it be—give it its ugliest shape—
Oh my poor boy!

Tres.
A word does that; it comes in Glo'ster's form.

K. Henry.
Frightful indeed! give me the worst that threatens.

Tres.
After the murder of your son, stern Richard,
As if unsated with the wounds he had given,
With unwash'd hands went from his friends in haste;

And being ask'd by Clarence of the cause,
He, lowring, cry'd, Brother, I must to the Tower;
I've business there; excuse me to the king:
Before you reach the town, expect some news:
This said, he vanish'd—and I hear's arriv'd.

K. Henry.
Why then the period of my woes is set;
For ills but thought by him, are half perform'd. Enter Lieutenant, with an Order.

Lieut.
Forgive me, sir, what I'm compell'd t'obey.
An order for your close confinement.

K. Henry.
Whence comes it, good Lieutenant

Lieut.
Sir, from the duke of Glo'ster.

K. Henry.
Good-night to all then; I obey it
And now, good friend, suppose me on my death-bed
And take of me thy last, short living leave.
Nay, keep thy tears till thou hast seen me dead.
And when in tedious winter nights, with good
Old folks, thou sitt'st up late
To hear 'em tell the dismal tales
Of times long past, ev'n now with woe remember'd
Before thou bid'st good-night, to quit their grief,
Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,
And send thy hearers weeping to their beds. [Exeunt. Enter Glo'ster* ^note

Glo'st.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths† ^note,

Our bruised arms hung up for monuments,
Our stern alarms are chang'd to merry meetings;
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures:
Grim-visag'd war has smooth'd his wrinkled front,
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds,
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber.
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am not made for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an am'rous looking glass,
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty,
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of man's fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time,
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable,
That dogs bark at me, as I halt by 'em;
Why I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away my hours,
Unless to see my shadow in the sun,
And descant on my own deformity:
Then, since this earth affords no joy to me,
But to command, to check, and o'erbear such
As are of happier person than myself;
Why then to me this restless world's but hell,
Till this mis-shapen trunk's aspiring head
Be circled in a glorious diadem—
But then 'tis fix'd on such a height; oh! I
Must stretch the utmost reaching of my soul.
  I'll climb betimes, without remorse or dread,
  And my first step shall be on Henry's head. [Exit. Scene SCENE, a Chamber in the Tower. King Henry sleeping. Enter Lieutenant.

Lieut.
Asleep so soon! but sorrow minds no seasons.
The morning, noon, and night, with her's the same;

She's fond of any hour that yields repose.

K. Henry.
Who's there! Lieutenant! is it you? Come hither!

Lieut.
You shake, my lord, and look affrighted.

K. Henry.
Oh! I have had the fearfull'st dream! such sights,
That, as I live,
I would not pass another hour so dreadful,
Tho' 'twere to buy a world of happy days.
Reach me a book—I'll try if reading can
Divert these melancholy thoughts. Enter Glo'ster.

* ^noteGlo'st.
Good day, my lord; what, at your book so hard?
I disturb you.

K. Henry.
You do, indeed.

Glo'st.
Friend, leave us to ourselves, we must confer.

K. Henry.
What bloody scene has Roscius now to act? [Exit Lieutenant.

Glo'st.
Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind:
The thief does fear each bush an officer.

K. Henry.
Where thieves without controlment rob and kill,
The traveller does fear each bush a thief:
The poor bird that has been already lim'd,
With trembling wings misdoubts of every bush;
And I, the hapless male to one sweet bird,
Have now the fatal object in my eye,
By whom my young one bled, was caught, and kill'd.

Glo'st.
Why, what a peevish fool was that of Crete,
That taught his son the office of a fowl?
And yet for all his wings, the fool was drown'd:
Thou should'st have taught thy boy his prayers alone,
And then he had not broke his neck with climbing.

K. Henry.
Ah! kill me with thy weapon, not thy words;

My breast can better brook thy dagger's point,
Than can my ears that piercing story;
But wherefore dost thou come? is't for my life?

Glo'st.
Think'st thou I am an executioner?

K. Henry.
If murdering innocents be executing,
Then thou'rt the worst of executioners.

Glo'st.
Thy son I kill'd, for his presumption.

K. Henry.
Hadst thou been kill'd, when first thou didst presume,
Thou hadst not liv'd to kill a son of mine:
But thou wert born to massacre mankind.
How many old men's sighs, and widows' moans;
How many orphans water-standing eyes,
Men for their sons, wives for their husbands fate,
And children for their parents' timeless death,
Will rue the hour that ever thou wert born?
The owl shriek'd at thy birth, an evil sign!
The night-crow cry'd, foreboding luckless time;
Dogs howl'd, and hideous tempests shook down trees;
The raven rook'd her on the chimney's top,
And chattering pies in dismal discord sung;
Thy mother felt more than a mother's pain,
And yet brought forth less than a mother's hope.
Teeth hadst thou in thy head, when thou wert born,
Which plainly said, thou cam'st to bite mankind,
And if the rest be true which I have heard,
Thou cam'st—

Glo'st.
I'll hear no more—Die, prophet, in thy speech;
For this, amongst the rest, was I ordain'd. [Stabs him.

K. Henry.
Oh! and for much more slaughter after this;
Just heav'n forgive my sins, and pardon thee! [Dies.

Glo'st.
What! will the aspiring blood of Lancaster;
Sink in the ground?—I thought it would have mounted.
See how my sword weeps for the poor king's death.
Oh, may such purple tears be always shed,
From those that wish the downfal of our house!
If any spark of life be yet remaining,
Down, down to hell, and say I sent thee thither;
I that have neither pity, love, nor fear:

Indeed, 'tis true, what Henry told me of;
For I have often heard my mother say,
I came into the world with my legs forward;
The midwife wonder'd, and the women cry'd,
Good heaven bless us! he is born with teeth!
And so I was, which plainly signified,
That I should snarl, and bite, and play the dog.
Then since the heav'ns have shap'd my body so,
Let hell make crook'd my mind to answer it;
I have no brother, am like no brother,
And this word Love, which grey-beards call divine,
Be resident in men, like one another,
And not in me—I am—myself alone.
Clarence, beware, thou keep'st me from the light;
But if I fail not in my deep intent,
Thou'st not another day to live; which done,
Heav'n take the weak king Edward to his mercy,
And leave the world for me to bustle in.
But soft—I'm sharing spoil, before the field is won.
Clarence still breathes, Edward still lives and reigns,
When they are gone, then I must count my gains. [Exit.* ^note

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