To make this shameless callat know herself.— ^note

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 shower for him,
That wash'd his father's fortunes forth of France,
And heap'd sedition on his crown at home.
For what ^{3 note}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 slipp'd our claim until another age.

Cla.
But, when ^{4 note}

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 defy thee;
Not willing any further conference,
Since thou deny'st 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, I'll no longer stay:
Thy words will cost ten thousand lives to day. [Exeunt. SCENE III. A field of battle, at Ferrybridge in Yorkshire. Alarum. Excursions. Enter Warwick.

War.
^{5 note}Forspent 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.
^{6 note}



Smile, gentle heaven! 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.
^{7 note}




Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair; 9Q0845
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Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?
^{8 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 smoking 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^{9 note}

Edw.
O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine;
^{1 note}
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 heaven may ope,
And give sweet passage to my sinful soul!—
Now, lords, take leave until we meet again,
Where-e'er it be, in heaven, 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^{2 note}

SCENE IV. Another part of the field. Excursions. Enter Richard, and Clifford.

Rich.
^{3 note}



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 thyself;
And so, have at thee. [They fight. Warwick enters, Clifford flies.

Rich.
Nay, Warwick, single out some other chace;
For I myself wilt hunt this wolf to death. [Exeunt. SCENE V. Another part of the field. Alarum. Enter king Hnry.

K. Henry.
^{4 note}

The leading thought in both these soliloquies is borrowed from Holinshed, p. 665:—“This deadly conflict continued ten hours in doubtfull state of victorie, uncertainlie heaving and setting on both sides, &c.” Steevens.

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 poise 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 battle; 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! ^{5 note}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 quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run:
How many make the hour full complete,
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 myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean;
^{6 note}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 hawthorn 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 treason waits on him.

Alarum. Enter a Son that had killed his Father^{7 note}

Son.
Ill blows the wind, that profits no-body.—
This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight,
May be possessed of 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 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 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!
Whilst lions war, and battle for their dens,
Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity.—
Weep, wretched man, I'll aid thee tear for tear;
^{8 note}
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 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 foeman's face?
Ah, no, no, no, it is mine only son!—
Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee,
Throw up thine eye; see, see, what showers arise^{9 note}

,
Blown with the windy tempest of my heart,
Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart!—
O, pity, God, this miserable age!—
^{1 note}What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly,
Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural,
This deadly quarrel daily doth beget!—
^{2 note}

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 ruthful 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:
^{3 note}
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.
^{4 note}

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, with the body.

Fath.
These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet;
My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre;
For from my heart thine image ne'er shall go.
My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell;
^{5 note}

K. Henry.
Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care,
Here sits a king more woeful 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 greyhounds
Having the fearful flying hare in sight,
With fiery eyes, sparkling for very wrath,
And bloody steel grasp'd 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. SCENE VI. A loud alarum. Enter Clifford, wounded^{8 note}.

Clif.
Here burns my candle out, ay, here it dies,
Which, while it lasted, gave king Henry light.
Ah, Lancaster! I fear thine overthrow,
More than my body's parting with my soul.
My love, and fear, glew'd many friends to thee;
And, now I fall, ^{9 note}

They never then had sprung like summer flies—
I, and ten thousand in this luckless realm,
Had left no mourning widows for our deaths,
And thou this day hadst kept thy throne 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;
^{1 note}

Edw.
^{3 note}




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 argosy to stem the waves.
But think you, lords, that Clifford flew 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, and dies.

^{4 note}Edw.
Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave?

Rich.
A deadly groan, ^{5 note}

Edw.
See who it is: and, now the battle's ended,
If friend, or foe, let him be gently us'd.

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 murdering 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 scritch-owl to our house,

That nothing sung but death to us and ours:
Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound,
And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak. [Attendants bring the body forward.

War.
I think his understanding is bereft:—
Say, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee?—
Dark cloudy death o'ershades 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 ^{6 note}

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,
Would this right hand buy but an hour's life,
That I in all despight might rail at him,
I'd chop it off; and with the issuing blood
Stifle the villain, whose unstanched thirst
York and young Rutland could not satisfy.

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 thence 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, to offend thine ears.
First, will I see the coronation;
^{7 note}
And then to Britany I'll cross the sea,
To effect this marriage, so it please my lord.

Edw.
Even 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 Gloster;—
And George, of Clarence;—Warwick, as ourself,
Shall do, and undo, as him pleaseth best.

Rich.
Let me be duke of Clarence; George, of Gloster;
For Gloster's dukedom is too ominous^{8 note}.

War.
Tut, that's a foolish observation;
Richard, be duke of Gloster: Now to London,
To see these honours in possession. [Exeunt.

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