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Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thy self?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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