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 unawares 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 eye; 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 rew'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.

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.

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