For what is in this world but grief and woe? To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, So many days my ewes have been with young; Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery? And to conclude,—the shepherd's homely curds, Is far beyond a prince's delicates, 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, What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly, K. Hen. Woe above woe! grief more than 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, 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 ; I'll bear thee hence; and let them fight that will, [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: 2. Mar. Mount you, my lord; towards Berwick post amain : Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds With fiery eyes, sparkling with very wrath, Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed; K. Hen. Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exeter ; Not that I fear to stay, but love to go [Exeunt. SCENE VI.-The same. A loud alarum. Enter CLIFFORD, wounded. Clif. Here burns my candle out; ay, here it More than my body's parting with my soul. Or as thy father, and his father, did, Giving no ground unto the house of York, Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds : The foe is merciless, and will not pity; For at their hands I have deserved no pity. And much effuse of blood doth make me faint: |