Edward.
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 battel 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 pincht a few and made them cry,
The rest stand all aloof and bark at him.
So far'd our father with his enemies,
So fled his enemies my warlike father:
Methinks, 'tis prize enough to be his son.
See, how the Morning opes her golden gates,
And takes her farewel of the glorious Sun;
How well resembles it the prime of youth,
Trim'd like a yonker 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:
Now are they but one lamp, one light, one Sun.
In this the Heaven figures some event.

Edw.
'Tis 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 over-shine 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?

Mes.
Ah! One that was a woful looker on,
When as the noble Duke of York was slain;
Your princely father, and my loving lord.

Edw.
Oh, speak no more! for I have heard too much.

Rich.
Say, how he dy'd; for I will hear it all.

Mes.
Environed he was with many foes,
And stood against them, as the Hope of Troy
Against the Greeks that would have entred Troy.
But Hercules himself must yield to odds;
And many stroaks, though with a little ax,
Hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.
By many hands your father was subdu'd,
But only slaughter'd by the ireful arm
Of unrelenting Clifford and the Queen;
Who crown'd the gracious Duke in high despight;
Laugh'd in his face; and when with grief he wept,
The ruthless Queen gave him, to dry his cheek,
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.
Oh 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, oh 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,
Is kindling coals that fire up 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 name; 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,
Shew thy Descent, by gazing 'gainst the Sun:
For Chair and Dukedom, Throne and Kingdom say;
Either That's thine, or else thou wert not his. March. Enter Warwick, Marquis of Montague, and their army.

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 words deliv'rance
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 befaln.
After the bloody Fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave father breath'd his latest gasp,
Tidings, as swiftly as the Post could run,
Were brought me of your loss and his depart.
I then in London, keeper of the King,
Muster'd my soldiers, gather'd flocks of friends;
March'd towards St. Albans t' 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. Albans met,
Our battels join'd, and both sides fiercely fought:
But whether 'twas 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 'twas 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 thrasher 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 Reward;
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 my self,
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 his Power;
And for your brother, he was lately sent
From your kind Aunt, Dutchess of Burgundy,
With aid of soldiers to this needful war.

Rich.
'Twas 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 hear:
For thou shalt know, this strong right hand of mine
Can pluck the Diadem from faint Henry's head,
And wring the awful scepter 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;
'Tis 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,
Numb'ring 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 easie-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 my self,
With all the friends that thou, brave Earl of March,
Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure,
Will but amount to five and twenty thousand:
Why, Via! to London will we march amaine;
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 sun-shine 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 heav'n 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 steel,
As thou hast shewn it flinty by thy deeds,
I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine.

Edw.
Then strike up, drums; God and St. George for us!

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 omnes. Scene 2 SCENE changes to York. Enter King Henry, the Queen, Clifford, Northumberland, and the Prince of Wales, with Drums and Trumpets.

Queen.
Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York.
Yonder's the head of that arch-enemy,
That sought to be encompast with your Crown.
Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?

K. Henry.
Ay, as the rocks cheer them, that fear their wrack;
To see this sight it irks my very soul:
With-hold Revenge, dear God; 'tis 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:(9) ^note
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, blest with a goodly son,
Didst yield consent to disinherit him;
Which argu'd thee a most unloving father.
Unreasonable creatures feed their young;
And tho 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 sometimes they have us'd with fearful flight)
Make war with him that climb'd unto their nest,
Offering their own lives in their young's defence?
For shame, my Liege, make them your president,
Were it not pity, that this goodly Boy
Should lose his birth-right 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 was 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. Henry.
Full well hath Clifford plaid 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,(10) ^note

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 jot of pleasure,
Ah, Cousin York; would, thy best friends did know,
How it doth grieve me that thy head is here!

Queen.
My lord, cheer up your spirits, our foes are nigh;
And this soft Courage makes your Followers faint:
You promis'd Knighthood to our forward son,
Unsheath your sword, and dub him presently.
Edward, kneel down.

K. Henry.
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.

Mes.
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 battel, for they are at hand.

Clif.
I would, your Highness would depart the field:
The Queen hath best success, when you are absent.

Queen.
Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fortune.

K. Henry.
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:
Unsheath your sword, good father; cry, St. George! March. Enter Edward, Warwick, Richard, Clarence, 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?

Queen.
Go rate thy minions, proud insulting Boy.
Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms
Before thy Soveraign 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.
'Twas you that kill'd young Rutland, was it not?

Clif.
Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfy'd.

Rich.
For God's sake, lords, give Signal to the fight.

War.
What say'st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the Crown?

Queen.
Why, how now, long-tongu'd Warwick, dare you speak?
When you and I met at St. Albans last,
Your legs did better service than your hands.

War.
Then 'twas my Turn to fly, and now 'tis thine.

Clif.
You said so much before, and yet you fled.

War.
'Twas 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 parle, 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 Sun-set, I'll make thee curse the deed.

K. Henry.
Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak.

Queen.
Defie them then, or else hold close thy lips.

K. Henry.
I pry'thee, give no limits to my tongue;
I am a King, and privileg'd to speak.

Clif.
My Liege, the wound, that bred this meeting here,
Cannot be cur'd by words; therefore be still.

Rich.
Then, Executioner, unsheath thy sword:
By him that made us all, I am resolv'd
That Clifford's manhood lyes 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 every thing is right.

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

Queen.
But thou art neither like thy sire nor dam,
But like a foul mis-shapen stigmatick,
Mark'd by the destinies to be avoided;
As venomous 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 her self.
Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,
Although thy husband may be Menelaus;
And ne'er was Agamemnon'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 sun-shine brew'd a show'r 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 slipt our Claim until another age.

Cla.
But when we saw, our sun-shine made thy spring,
And that thy summer bred us no increase,
We set the ax to thy usurping root;
And though the edge hath something hit our selves,
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.

Edw.
And in this resolution I defie thee;
Not willing any longer conference,
Since thou deny'dst the gentle King to speak.
Sound trumpets, let our bloody Colours wave,
And either Victory, or else a Grave.

Queen.
Stay, Edward—

Edw.
No, wrangling Woman, we'll no longer stay:
These words will cost ten thousand lives this day. [Exeunt omnes. Scene 3 SCENE changes to a Field of Battel at Ferribridge in Yorkshire. Alarum. Excursions. Enter Warwick.

War.
Fore-spent with toil, as runners with a race,
I lay me down a little while to breathe:
For strokes receiv'd, and many blows repaid,
Have robb'd my strong-knit sinews of their strength;
And, spight of spight, needs must I rest a while. Enter Edward running.

Edw.
Smile, gentle heav'n! or strike, ungentle death!
For this world frowns, and Edward's Sun is clouded.

War.
How now, my lord, what hap? what hope of good?

Enter Clarence.

Cla.
Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair;
Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us.
What counsel give you? whither shall we fly?

Edw.
Bootless is flight, they follow us with wings;
And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit. Enter Richard.

Rich.
Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thy self?
Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk,(11) ^note
Broach'd with the steely point of Clifford's lance:
And in the very pangs of death he cry'd,
(Like to a dismal clangor heard from far)
Warwick, revenge; brother, revenge my death.
So underneath the belly of their steeds,
That stain'd their fetlocks in his smoaking 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 plaid 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 heav'n may ope,
And give sweet passage to my sinful soul.—
Now, lords, take Leave until we meet again;
Where-e'er it be, in heav'n 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, farewel.

Cla.
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. 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.

Clif.
Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone,
This is the hand, that stabb'd thy father York;
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 thy self:
And so, have at thee.

They fight. Warwick enters, Clifford flies.

Rich.
Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase,
For I my self will hunt this wolf to death. [Exeunt. 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 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 be victors, breast to breast,
Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered;
So is the equal poize of this fell war.
Here on this mole-hill 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 battel; 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 queintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run:
How many makes 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, 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 my self;

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 and years,
Past 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 haw-thorn 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 treasons wait on him. Alarum. Enter a Son, that had kill'd his Father.

Son.
Ill blows the wind, that profits no body.—
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! oh God! it is my father's face,
Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill'd:
Oh heavy times, begetting such 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, prest 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. Henry.
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'er-charg'd with grief. Enter a Father, bearing his Son.

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 foe-man's face?
Ah, no, no, no, it is my only son!
Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee,
Throw up thine eyes; 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. Henry.
Woe above woe; grief, more than common grief;
O, that my death would stay these rueful 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 cheek, methinks, presenteth:
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 satisfy'd?

Fath.
How will my wife, for slaughter of my son,
Shed seas of tears, and ne'er be satisfy'd?

K. Henry.
How will the country, for these woful chances,
Mis-think the King, and not be satisfy'd?

Son.
Was ever son, so ru'd a father's death?

Fath.
Was ever father, so bemoan'd his son?

K. Henry.
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.

Fath.
These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet,
My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulcher;
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.

K. Henry.
Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care;
Here sits a King more woful than you are. Alarums. Excursions. Enter the Queen, Prince of Wales, and Exeter.

Prince.
Fly, father, fly, for all your friends are fled;
And Warwick rages like a chafed bull:
Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit.

Queen.
Mount you, my lord, towards Berwick post amain.
Edward and Richard, like a brace of grey-hounds
Having the fearful flying hare in sight,
With fiery eyes sparkling for very wrath,
And bloody steel graspt in their ireful hands,
Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain.

Exe.
Away; for vengeance comes along with them.
Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed:
Or else come after, I'll away before.

K. Henry.
Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exeter;
Not that I fear to stay, but love to go
Whither the Queen intends. Forward, away! [Exeunt.

A loud Alarum. Enter Clifford wounded.(12) ^note

Clif.
Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies,
Which, while it lasted, gave King Henry light.
O Lancaster! I fear thy overthrow,
More than my body's parting with my soul.
My love and fear glew'd many friends to thee; [Falling.
And, now I fall, thy tough commixtures melt,
Impairing Henry, strengthning mis-proud York.
The common People swarm like summer flies;(13) ^note
And whither fly the gnats, but to the Sun?
And who shines now, but Henry's enemies?
O Phœbus! hadst thou never giv'n consent
That Phaeton should check thy fiery steeds,
Thy burning Car had never scorch'd the earth:
And Henry, hadst thou sway'd as Kings should do,
Or as thy father and his father did,
Giving no ground unto the House of York,
They never then had sprung like summer flies.
I, and ten thousand in this luckless Realm,
Had left no mourning widows for our death;

And thou this day hadst kept thy Chair in peace.
For what doth cherish Weeds, but gentle air?
And what makes robbers bold, but too much lenity?
Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds;
No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight:
The foe is merciless, and will not pity:
For at their hands I have deserv'd no pity.
The air hath got into my deadly wounds,
And much Effuse of blood doth make me faint:
Come York, and Richard; Warwick, and the rest;
I stabb'd your fathers 'bosoms; split my breast. [He faints. Alarum, and Retreat. Enter Edward, Warwick, Richard, Montague, Clarence, and Soldiers.

Edw.
Now breathe we, lords, good fortune bids us pause;
And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks.
Some troops pursue the bloody-minded Queen,
That led calm Henry, though he were a King,
As doth a Sail, fill'd with a fretting gust,
Command an Argosie to stem the waves.
But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them?

War.
No, 'tis impossible he should escape:
For though before his face I speak the word,
Your brother Richard mark'd him for the grave;
And wheresoe'er he is, he's surely dead. [Clifford groans.

Rich.
Whose soul is that, which takes her heavy leave?
A deadly groan, like life and death's departing.
See who it is.

Edw.
And now the battel's ended,
If friend or foe, let him be gently used.

Rich.
Revoke that doom of mercy, for 'tis Clifford;
Who not contented that he lopp'd the branch,
In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth;
But set his murth'ring knife unto the root
From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring;
I mean, our princely father, Duke of York.

War.
From off the gates of York fetch down the head,
Your father's head, which Clifford placed there:
Instead whereof, let his supply the room.
Measure for measure must be answered.

Edw.
Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our House,
That nothing sung but death to us and ours:
Now death shall stop his dismal threatning sound,
And his ill-boading tongue no more shall speak.

War.
I think, his understanding is bereft:
Speak, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee?
Dark cloudy death o'er-shades his beams of life,
And he nor sees, nor hears us what we say.

Rich.
O, would he did! and so, perhaps, he doth.
'Tis but his policy to counterfeit;
Because he would avoid such bitter taunts,
As in the time of death he gave our father.

Cla.
If so thou think'st, vex him with eager words.

Rich.
Clifford, ask mercy, and obtain no grace.

Edw.
Clifford, repent in bootless penitence.

War.
Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults.

Cla.
While we devise fell tortures for thy faults.

Rich.
Thou didst love York, and I am son to York.

Edw.
Thou pitied'st Rutland, I will pity thee.

Cla.
Where's Captain Margaret to fence you now?

War.
They mock thee, Clifford; swear, as thou wast wont.

Rich.
What, not an oath! nay, then the world goes hard,
When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath:
I know by that, he's dead; and, by my soul,
If this right hand would buy but two hours life,
That I in all despight might rail at him,
This hand should chop it off; and with the issuing blood
Stifle the villain, whose unstanched thirst
York and young Rutland could not satisfie.

War.
Ay, but he's dead. Off with the traitor's head,
And rear it in the place your father's stands.
And now to London with triumphant March,
There to be crowned England's royal King:
From whence shall Warwick cut the Sea to France,

And ask the lady Bona for thy Queen.
So shalt thou sinew both these lands together.
And having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread
The scatter'd foe that hopes to rise again:
For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt,
Yet look to have them buz t'offend thine ears.
First, will I see the Coronation;
And then to Britany I'll cross the sea,
T' effect this marriage, so it please my lord.

Edw.
Ev'n as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be;
For on thy shoulder do I build my Seat:
And never will I undertake the thing,
Wherein thy counsel, and consent, is wanting.
Richard, I will create thee Duke of Glo'ster;
And George, of Clarence; Warwick as our self
Shall do and undo, as him pleaseth best.

Rich.
Let me be Duke of Clarence; George, of Glo'ster;
For Glo'ster's Dukedom is too ominous.(14) ^note

War.
Tut, that's a foolish observation:
Richard, be Duke of Glo'ster: now to London,
To see these honours in possession. [Exeunt.

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