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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 muft I take my reft,
So many hours must I contemplate,
So many hours muft I fport my felf,

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 fhall fheer 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 Bush a sweeter fhade

To Shepherds, looking on their filly Sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd Canopy
To Kings, that fear their Subjects treachery?
O yes, it doth, a thoufand-fold it doth,
And to conclude, the Shepherds homely Curds,
His cold thin drink out of his Leather Bottel,
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 sparkling in a golden Cup,

His Body couched in a curious Bed,

When Care, Miftruft and Treafons wait on him.

Alarum. Enter a Son that had kill'd his Father at one Door, and a Father that had kill'd his Son at another Door.

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

And I that, haply, take them from him now,
May yet, e'er Night, yield both my Life and ther
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'di
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 hall wipe away thefe 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 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 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 Son.
Ah Boy, if any Life be left in thee,

Throw up thine Eye; fee, fee, what showers arise,
Blown with the windy Tempeft of my Heart,
Upon thy wounds, that kills mine Eye and Heart.
O pity, God, this miferable Age!

What ftratagems? how fell? how butcherly?
Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural,

This dealy quarrel daily doth beget?

O Boy! thy Father gave thee Life too foon,

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

The fatal Colours of our ftriving Houfes.
The one his purple Blood right well resembles,
The other his pale Cheeks, methinks, prefenteth:
Wither one Rofe, and let the other flourish;

If

you contend, a thousand Lives muft with er.
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 Son, Shed Seas of Tears, and ne'er be fatisfy'd ?

K. Henry. How will the Country, for the woful chances, Mifs-think the King, and not be fatisfy'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 wee? Much is your Sorrow; mine, ten times fo m ch.

go.

Sen. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill.
Fath. Thefe Arms of mine fhall be thy winding-fheet,
My heart, fweet Boy, fhall be thy Sepulcher,
For from my Heart thine Image ne'er shall
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 Sons.

I'll bear thee hence, and let them fight that will,
For I have murther'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. Fly, 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, towards 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 Steel 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 elle come after I'll away before.

VOL. IV.

D

K. Henry.

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.

A loud Alarum. Enter Clifford wounded.
Clif. Here burns my Candle out; ay, here it dies,
Which whiles it lafted, gave King Henry light.
O Lancaster! I fear thy overthrow,

Exeunt.

[Falling.

More than my Body's parting with my Soul:
My Love and Fear glew'd many Fr ends to thee,
And now I fall, thy tough Commixtures melt,
Impairing Henry, ftrengthning mifs-proud York;
And whither fly the Goats, but to the Sun?
And who fhines now, but Henry's Enemies?
O Phoebus! hadit thou never giv'n confent,
That Phaeton should check thy fiery Steeds,
Thy burning Car never had fcorch'd the Earth.
And Henry, hadst thou fway'd as Kings should do,
Or as thy Father, and his Father did,
Giving no ground unto the Houfe of York,
They never then had fprung like Summer Flies:
J, and ten thoufand in this lucklefs Realm,
Had left no mourning Widows for our Death,
And thou this day, hadft kept thy Chair in Peace.
For what doth cherish Weeds, but gentle Air?
And what makes Robbers bold, but too much lenity?
Bootlefs are Plaints, and curelefs are my Wounds,
No way to fly, nor ftrength to hold out flight;
The Foe is merciless, and will not pity:
For at their Hands I have deferv'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 reft,

I ftabb'd your Father's Bofom; fplit my Breaft. [He faints.
Alarum and Retreat. Enter Edward, Warwick, Richard,
Mountague, Clarence, and Soldiers.

Edw. Now breathe we Lords, good Fortune bids us pawfe, And fmooth the frowns of War with peaceful looks: Some Troops purfue the bloody-minded Queen, That led calm Henry, though he were a King, As doth a Sail fill'd with a fretting Guft,

Command

Commard an Argofie to ftem the Waves:
But think you Lords, that Clifford fled with them?
War. No, 'tis impoffible he fhould efcape:
For though before his Face I fpeak the word,
Your Brother Richard mark'd him for the Grave;
And where foe'er he is, he's furely dead.

[Clifford groans. Rich. Whofe Soul is that, which takes her heavy leave? A deadly groan, like Life and Death's departing.

See who it is.

Edw. And now the Battel's ended,

If Friend or Foe, let him be gently used.

Rich. Revoke that doom of Mercy, for 'tis Clifford,
Who not contented that he lopp'd the Branch
In hewing Rutland, when his leaves put forth,
But fet his murth'ring Knife unto the Root,
From whence that tender fpray did fweetly spring,
I mean your Princely Father, Duke of York.

War. From off the Gates of Tork fetch down the head,
Your Father's Head, which Clifford placed there :
Inftead whereof, let his fupply the room.

Measure for measure must be answered.

Edw. Bring forth that fatal Screech-owl to our House,
That nothing fung but Death to us and ours:
Now death hall top his difmal threatning found,
And his ill-boading Tongue no more fhall fpeak.
War. I think his understanding is bereft:

Speak Clifford, doft thou know who speaks to thee?
Dark cloudy Death o'er-fhades his Beams of Life,
And he nor fees, nor hears us, what we say.
Rich. O would he did; and fo, perhaps, he doth,
'Tis but his policy to counterfeit,

Because he would avoid fuch bitter taunts
Which in the time of death he gave our Father.
Cla. If fo thou thinkft,

Vex him with eager words.

Rich. Clifford, ask Mercy, and obtain no Grace.
Edw. Clifford, repent in bootlefs penitence.
War. Clifford, devife excufes for thy faults.
Cla. While we devife fell Tortures for thy Faults.
Rich. Thou didst love York, and I am Son to Yorks
Edw. Thou pitied'ft Rutland, I will pity thee.

D 1

Cla.

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