And, if we thrive, promise them fuch rewards,
As Victors wear at the Olympian Games.

This may plant courage in their quailing breafts,
For yet is hope of life and victory;

Fore-flow no longer, make we hence amain. [Exeunt.
Excurfions. 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 the hand, that ftabb'd thy father York;
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 fire and brother,
To execute the like upon thyfelf:

And fo, have at thee.

They fight. Warwick enters, Clifford flies. Rich. Nay, Warwick, single out fome other chase, For I myself will hunt this wolf to death.

SCENE

[Exeunt.

VI.

Alarum. Enter King Henry alone.

HIS battle fares like to the morning's

K. Henry. THI

war.

When dying clouds contend with growing light;
What time the fhepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day nor night.

Now fways it this way, like a mighty fea
Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind;
Now fways it that way, like the felf-fame fea
Forc'd to retire by fury of the wind.

Sometime, the flood prevails; and then, the wind;
Now, one the better; then, another beft;
Both tugging to be victors, breaft to breaft,

Yet

Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered;
So is the equal poife of this fell war.
Here on this mole-hill will I fit me down:
To whom God will, there be the victory!
For Margaret my Queen and Clifford too
Have chid me from the battle; fwearing both,
They profper beft of all when I am thence.
Would I were dead, if God's good will were fo:
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 fwain;
To fit upon a hill, as I do now,

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to fee the minutes how they run:
How many makes the hour full complete,
How many hours bring about the day,
How many days will finifh up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the time;
So many hours, muft I tend my flock;
So many hours, muft I take my reft;
So many hours, muft I contemplate;
So many hours, muft I sport myself;

So many days, my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks, ere the poor fools will yean;
So many months, ere I fhall fheer the fleece:

So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years,
Past over, to the end they were created,

Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah! what a life were this! how fweet, how lovely!
Gives not the haw-thorn bush a sweeter shade
To fhepherds looking on their filly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy
To Kings, that fear their fubjects' treachery?
O, yes, it doth; a thoufand-fold it doth.
And, to conclude, the fhepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,

His

His wonted fleep under a fresh tree's fhade,
All which fecure and fweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a Prince's delicates,
His viands fparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,

When care, mistrust and treasons wait on him.

Son.

Alarum. Enter a Son, that had kill'd his Father.

LL blows the wind, that profits no body.This man whom hand to hand I flew in fight May be poffeffed with some flore of crowns; And I that, haply, take them from him now, May yet, ere night, yield both my life and them To fome man elfe, 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 fuch events! From London by the King was I preft forth; My father, being the Earl of Warwick's man, Came on the part of York, preft by his mafter; 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 fhall wipe away these bloody marks: And no more words, 'till they have flow'd their fill. K. Henry. O piteous fpectacle! 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 fo ftoutly haft resisted me, Give me thy gold, if thou haft any gold:

For I have bought it with an hundred blows.
But let me fee: is this our foe-man's face?
Ah, no, no, no, it is my only fon!
Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee,

Throw up thine eyes; fee, fee, what showers arife,
Blown with the windy tempeft of my heart
Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart.
O pity, God, this miserable age!

What ftratagems, how fell, how butcherly,
Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural,
This deadly quarrel daily doth beget!
O boy! thy father gave thee life too foon,
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 rofe and the white are on his face,
The fatal colours of our ftriving houses.

The one his purple blood right well resembles,
The other his pale cheek, methinks, prefenteth:
Wither one rofe, and let the other flourish!
If you contend, a thousand lives muft wither.
Son. How will my mother, for a father's death,
Take on with me, and ne'er be fatisfy'd?

Fath. How will my wife, for flaughter of my fon, Shed feas of tears, and ne'er be fatisfy'd?

K. Henry. How will the country, for these woful chances,

Mif-think the King, and not be fatisfy'd?

Son. Was ever son, so ru'd a father's death?
Fath. Was ever father, so bemoan'd his fon?

K. Henry. Was ever King, fo griev'd for subjects' woe?

Much is your forrow; mine, ten times fo much.
Son. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my

fill.

[Exit. Fath.

1

Fath. These arms of mine fhall be thy winding

sheet,

My heart, sweet boy, fhall be thy fepulchre;
For from my heart thine image ne'er fhall go.
My fighing breaft fhall be thy funeral bell:
And so obfequious will thy father be,
Sad for the lofs of thee, having no more,
As Priam, was for all his valiant fons.

I'll bear thee hence, and let them fight that will;
For I have murder'd, where I fhould not kill. [Exit.
K. Henry. Sad-hearted men, much overgone with

care,

Here fits a King more woful than you are.

Alarums. Excurfions. Enter the Queen, Prince of Wales, and Exeter.

Prince. LY, father, fly, for all your friends are fled; And Warwick rages like a chafed bull:

Away! for death doth hold us in purfuit.

Queen. Mount, you, my lord, toward Berwick poft

amain.

Edward and Richard, like a brace of grey-hounds
Having the fearful flying hare in fight,
With fiery eyes fparkling for very wrath,
And bloody fteel grafpt in their ireful hands,
Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain.
Exe. Away, for vengeance comes along with them.
Nay, ftay not to expoftulate, make speed:
Or elfe come after, I'll away before.

K. Henry. Nay, take me with thee, good fweet
Exeter.

Not that I fear to ftay, but love to go

Whither the Queen intends. Forward, away.

[Exeunt.

SCENE