Puslapio vaizdai
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Cla. Yet let us all together to our Troops;
And give them leave to fly that will not not stay;
And call them Pillars that will stand to us;
And if we thrive, promise them such Rewards
As Vi&tors wear at the Olympian Games.
This may plant Courage in their quailing Breasts,
For yet is hope of Life and Vidory;
Fore-flow 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 che Hand that stabb'd thy Father Tork,
And this the Hand that flew thy Brother Rutland,
And here's the Heart that triumphs in their Death,
And cheers these Hands that flew thy Sire and Brother,
To exccute the like upon thy fell,
And so have at thee.

They fight, Warwick enter), Clifford flies.
Rich. Nay Warwick, single out some other Chace,
For I my self will hunt this Wolf to death.
I

[Exeunt.
Alarum. Enter King Henry alone.
K. Henry. This Battel 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 perfe& 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-fame Sea,
Forc'd to retire by fury of the Wind.
Sometime, the Flood prevails, and then the Wind,
Now, one the better, then another belt,
Both tugging to be Victors, Breast to Breast,
Yet neither Conqueror, nor conquered;
So is the equal poize of this ful War.
Here on this Mole-hill will í lit me down,
To whom God will, there be the Victory:
For Margaret my Queen, and Clifford too
Have chid me from the Battel, Iwcaring both,
They prosper best of all when I am thence. Would

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Would I were dead, if God's good will were fo:
For what is in this World, but grief and woe?
Oh God! methinks it were a happy Life,
To be no better than a homely Swain,
To fit 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 times:
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 e'er the poor Fools will Ean,
So many Months e’er I shall sheer the Fleece:
So Minutes, Hours, Days, Weeks, Months, and Years,
Past over, to the end they were crcated,
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 filly Sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd Canopy
To Kings, that fear their Subje&s treachery?
Oh yes, it doth, a thousand-fold it doth.
And to conclude, the Shepherds homely Curds,
His cold thin drink out of his Leacher Bottle,
His wonted Neep, 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 waits on him.
Alarum. Enter a Son that had killd his Father at ore Door,

and a Father that had killà his Son at another Door,
Son. Ill blows the wind that profits no body,
This Man whom hand to hand I New in fight,
May be possessed with some store of Crowns,

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And I that, haply, take them from him now,
May yet, e'er Night, yield both my Life and them
To some Man else, as chis 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 spe&acle ! O bloody times !
Whiles Lions War, and Battel 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 of his Son.
Fath. Thou that so stoutly halt 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 thire Eye; see, see, what showers arise,
Blown with the windy Tempest of my Heart,
Upon thy wounds, that kills 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, [grief;

K. Henry. Woe above woe; grief, more than common

that my Death would stay these rueful deeds: O pity, pity, gentle Heaven, pity. The red Rose and the white are on his Face,

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The fatal Colours of our striving Houses.
The one his purple Blood right well resembles,
The other his pale Cheeks, methinks, presenteth:
Wither one Rofe, 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 the woful chances, Miss-think the King, and not be satisfy'd?

Son. Was ever Son fo rew'd a Father's Death
Fath. Was ever Father fo bemoan'd his Son

K. Henry. Was ever King fo 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 fits 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 Aed;
And Warwick rages like a chafed Bull:
Away, for Death doth hold us in purst it.

Queen. Mount you my Lord, towards Berwick post amain :
Edward and Richard like a brace of Grey-hounds,
Having the fearful flying Hare in fight,
With fiery Eyes, sparkling for very wratlı,
And bloody Steel grafpt in their ireful Hands,
Are at our backs, and therefore hence amain.

Exe. Away; for vengcance comes along with them.
Nay, stay not to expoftulate, make speed,
Or else come after, I'll away before.
VOL. IV.

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K. Henry

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K. Henry. Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exster:
Not that I fear to stay, but love to go
Whither the Queen intends. Forward, away.

[Excunt.
A loud Alarum. Enter Clifford wounded.
Clif. Here buros my Candle out; ay, here it dies,
Which whiles 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 miss-proud Tork;
And whither fly the Gnats, but to the Sun
And who shines now, but Henry's Enemies?
O Phoebus! hadst thou never giv'n consent,
That Phaeton should check thy fiery Steeds,
Thy burning Car never had scorch'd the Earth.
And Henry, hadît 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, hadît kept thy Chair in peace.
For what doth cherish Weeds, but gentle Air?
And what makes Robbers bold, but too much lenity?
Bootless are Plaipts, 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 effufe of Blood doth make me faint:
Come York, and Richard, Warwick, and the rest,
I stabb'd your Father's Boroms ; split my Breast. [He faints.
Alarum and Retreat. Enter Edward, Warwick, Richard,

Mountague, Clarence, and Soldiers.
Edw. Now breathe we Lords, good Fortune bids us pawse,
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 doch a Sail filled with a fretting Gust,

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