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Another Part of the Field. | |
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Alarum. Enter KING HENRY. | |
| K. Hen. This battle fares like to the morning’s war, | |
| When dying clouds contend with growing light, | |
| What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails, | 5 |
| Can neither call it perfect day nor night. | |
| Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea | |
| Forc’d by the tide to combat with the wind; | |
| Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea | |
| Forc’d to retire by fury of the wind: | 10 |
| Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind; | |
| Now one the better, then another best; | |
| Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, | |
| Yet neither conqueror nor conquered: | |
| So is the equal poise of this fell war. | 15 |
| Here on this molehill will I sit me down. | |
| To whom God will, there be the victory! | |
| For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too, | |
| Have chid me from the battle; swearing both | |
| They prosper best of all when I am thence. | 20 |
| Would I were dead! if God’s good will were so; | |
| 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, | 25 |
| 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; | 30 |
| 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; | 35 |
| So many hours must I sport myself; | |
| So many days my ewes have been with young; | |
| So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean; | |
| So many years ere I shall shear the fleece: | |
| So minutes, hours, days, months, and years, | 40 |
| 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, | 45 |
| 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, | 50 |
| 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, | 55 |
| When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him. | |
| |
Alarum. Enter a Son that hath killed his Father, with 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; | 60 |
| 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 unwares have kill’d. | 65 |
| 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 receiv’d my life, | 70 |
| 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. | 75 |
| 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, | 80 |
| Be blind with tears, and break o’ercharg’d with grief. | |
| |
Enter a Father that hath 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 a hundred blows. | 85 |
| 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, | 90 |
| Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart. | |
| O! pity, God, this miserable age. | |
| What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly, | |
| Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural, | |
| This deadly quarrel daily doth beget! | 95 |
| 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. | 100 |
| 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, presenteth: | |
| Wither one rose, and let the other flourish! | 105 |
| 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! | 110 |
| K. Hen. How will the country for these woeful chances | |
| Misthink the king and not be satisfied! | |
| Son. Was ever son so ru’d a father’s death? | |
| Fath. Was ever father so bemoan’d a son? | |
| K. Hen. Was ever king so griev’d for subjects’ woe? | 115 |
| 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 winding-sheet; | |
| My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre, | |
| For from my heart thine image ne’er shall go: | 120 |
| My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell; | |
| And so obsequious will thy father be, | |
| E’en 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, | 125 |
| 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. | |
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Alarum. Excursions. Enter QUEEN MARGARET, PRINCE OF WALES, and EXETER. | |
| Prince. Fly, father, fly! for all your friends are fled, | 130 |
| And Warwick rages like a chafed bull. | |
| Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit. | |
| Q. Mar. Mount you, my lord; towards Berwick post amain. | |
| Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds | |
| Having the fearful flying hare in sight, | 135 |
| With fiery eyes sparkling for 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, | 140 |
| 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. | |
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