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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 mornings 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 | |
Forcd by the tide to combat with the wind; | |
Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea | |
Forcd 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 Gods 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 |
Passd 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 embroiderd canopy | |
To kings, that fear their subjects treachery? | |
O, yes! it doth; a thousand-fold it doth. | |
And to conclude, the shepherds homely curds, | |
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, | 50 |
His wonted sleep under a fresh trees shade, | |
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, | |
Is far beyond a princes delicates, | |
His viands sparkling in a golden cup, | |
His body couched in a curious bed, | 55 |
When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him. | |
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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. | |
Whos this? O God! it is my fathers face, | |
Whom in this conflict I unwares have killd. | 65 |
O heavy times, begetting such events! | |
From London by the king was I pressd forth; | |
My father, being the Earl of Warwicks man, | |
Came on the part of York, pressd by his master; | |
And I, who at his hands receivd 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 flowd 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, Ill aid thee tear for tear; | |
And let our hearts and eyes, like civil war, | 80 |
Be blind with tears, and break oerchargd with grief. | |
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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 foemans 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 fathers death | |
Take on with me and neer be satisfied! | |
Fath. How will my wife for slaughter of my son | |
Shed seas of tears and neer 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 rud a fathers death? | |
Fath. Was ever father so bemoand a son? | |
K. Hen. Was ever king so grievd for subjects woe? | 115 |
Much is your sorrow; mine, ten times so much. | |
Son. Ill 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 neer shall go: | 120 |
My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell; | |
And so obsequious will thy father be, | |
Een for the loss of thee, having no more, | |
As Priam was for all his valiant sons. | |
Ill bear thee hence; and let them fight that will, | 125 |
For I have murderd 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 graspd 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: Ill 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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