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 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 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 sport myself;

So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean;
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece;
So minutes, hours, days, months, and years,
Pass'd 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 wait on him.

Alarum. Enter a Son who has killed his Father, dragging in the dead body.

Son. Ill blows the wind that profits nobody. 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?-O God! it is my father's face, Whom in this conflict I unawares have kill'd. O 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 received 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. Hen. 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'ercharged with

grief.

Enter a Father who has killed his Son, with the body in his arms.

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,
Blown with the windy tempest of my heart,
Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart!
O, pity, God, this misearble 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. Hen. 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 cheeks, methinks, present:
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 satisfied!

Fath. How will my wife, for slaughter of my

son,

Shed seas of tears, and ne'er be satisfied!

K. Hen. How will the country, for these woeful chances,

Mis-think the king, and not be satisfied!

Son. Was ever son so rued a father's death? Fath. Was ever father so bemoan'd his son ? K. Hen. Was ever king so grieved 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 wind

ing-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;
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 murder'd where I should not kill.

[Exit, with the body. K. Hen. Sad-hearted men, much overgone with

care,

Here sits a king more woeful than you are.

Alarums; excursions. Enter QUEEN MARGARET, PRINCE OF WALES, and EXETER.

Prince. Fly, father, fly! for all your friends are fled,

And Warwick rages like a chafèd bull:
Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit.

2. Mar. 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 with 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. Hen. 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.-The same.

A loud alarum. Enter CLIFFORD, wounded.

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, glued many friends to thee:
And, now I fall, thy tough commixtures melt,
Impairing Henry, strengthening mis-proud York.
[The common people swarm like summer flies :]
And whither fly the gnats but to the sun?
And who shines now but Henry's enemies?
O Phœbus! hadst thou never given consent
That Phaeton should check thy fiery steeds,
Thy burning car never had 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 perce.
For what doth cherish weeds, but gentle air?
And what make 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 deserved no pity.
The air hath got into my deadly wounds,

And much effuse of blood doth make me faint: