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
-- 146 --
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?
&plquo;O God! methinks, it were a happy life
&plquo;To be no better than a homely swain;
&plquo;To sit upon a hill, as I do now,
&plquo;To carve out dials queintly, point by point,
&plquo;Thereby to see the minutes how they run:
&plquo;How many makes the hour full compleat,
&plquo;How many hours bring about the day,
&plquo;How many days will finish up the year,
&plquo;How many years a mortal man may live.
&plquo;When this is known, then to divide the time;
&plquo;So many hours, must I tend my flock;
&plquo;So many hours, must I take my rest;
&plquo;So many hours, must I contemplate;
&plquo;So many hours, must I sport myself;
&plquo;So many days, my ewes have been with young;
&plquo;So many weeks, ere the poor fools will yean;
&plquo;So many months, ere I shall sheer the fleece:
&plquo;So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years,
&plquo;Past over, to the end they were created,
&plquo;Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.&prquo;
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,
-- 147 --
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.