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Broach'd with the steely point of Clifford's lance;
And in the very pangs of death he cry'd,
(Like to a difmal clangor heard from far)
Warwick, revenge; brother, revenge my death.
So underneath the belly of their steeds,

That ftain'd their fetlocks in his fmoaking blood,
The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.

War. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood;
I'll kill my horse, because I will not fly:
Why stand we like foft-hearted women here,
Wailing our loffes, whiles the foe doth rage;
And look upon, as if the tragedy

Were plaid in jeft by counterfeiting actors?
Here on my knee I vow to God above,
I'll never paufe again, never ftand ftill,

Till either death hath clos'd these eyes of mine,
Or fortune given me measure of revenge.

Edw. O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine, And in this vow do chain my foul to thine.

And ere my knee rife from the earth's cold face,
I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee,
Thou fetter up, and plucker down, of Kings!
Befeeching thee, (if with thy will it ftands
That to my foes this body must be prey)
Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope,
And give fweet paffage to my finful foul.-
Now, Lords, take leave until we meet again;
Where-e'er it be, in heav'n or on earth.

[wick,

Rich. Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle WarLet me embrace thee in my weary arms :

I, that did never weep, now melt with woe;

That winter should cut off our fpring-time fo.

War. Away, away: once more, fweet Lords, farewel.
Cla. Yet let us all together to our troops;

And give them leave to fly, that will not stay;
And call them pillars, that will stand to us;

is only an incidental piece of hiftory. Confulting the chronicles, upon this action at Ferribridge, I find him to have been a natural fon of Salisbury, (in that refpect, a brother to Warwick;) and efteem'd a valiant young gentleman,

F 6

And

And if we thrive, promise them fuch rewards,.
As victors wear at the Olympian games.

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

Fore-flow no longer, make we hence amain. [Exeunts.
Excurfions. Enter Richard and Clifford.

Rich. Now, Clifford, I have fingled thee alone;
Suppofe, 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 stabb'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, fingle out fome other chafe, For I myself will hunt this wolf to death.

Alarum. Enter King Henry alone.

[Exeunt

K. Henry. This battle fares like to the morning's 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, breast to breaft,
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 queintly, point by point,
Thereby to fee 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 time;
So many hours, must I tend my flock;
So many hours, must I take my reft;
So many hours, muft I contemplate;
So many hours, must I fport 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 fhear the fleece:
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years,
Paft 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 bufh a fweeter fhade
To fhepherds looking on their filly sheep,
Than doth a rich-embroider'd canopy
To Kings, that fear their fubjects treachery?
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 fleep under a fresh tree's shade,
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, miftruft and treasons wait on him.

Alarum

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

Son. Ill blows the wind, that profits no body.This man, whom hand to hand I flew in fight, May be poffeffed with fome ftore of crowns; And I that, haply, take them from him now, May yet, ere night, yield both my life and them To fome man else, as this dead man doth me. Who's this! oh God! it is my father's face, Whom in this conflict I unwares 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 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 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'ercharg'd with grief. Enter a Father, bearing his Son..

Fath. Thou, that fo ftoutly haft refifted 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 show'rs arise,
Blown with the windy tempeft of my heart

Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart.

O pity, God, this miferable 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 soon,

And hath bereft thee of thy life too late.

[grief;

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

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 striving 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 must 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

Fchances, K. Henry. How will the country, for these woeful Mif-think the King, and not be fatisfy'd?

Son. Was ever fon, fo ru'd a father's death♪ Fath. Was ever father, fo bemoan'd his fon? K. Henry. Was ever King, fo griev'd for fubjects woe? Much is your forrow; mine, ten times fo much. Son. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill.

[Exit. Fath. Thefe arms of mine fhall be thy winding-fheet,

My heart, fweet boy, fhall be thy fepulchre ;
For from my heart thine image ne'er fhall go.
My fighing breaft fhall be thy funeral bell:
And fo 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 should not kill.

[Exit.

K. Henry. Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care;

Here fits a King more woeful than you are.

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

and Exeter.

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

And Warwick rages like a chafed bull :

Away!

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