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What Counsel give you ? whether shall we fly?
Edw. Bootless is fight, they follow us with Wings, And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit.
Rich. Ah Warwick, why haft thou withdrawn thy self?
Thy Brother's Blood the thirsty Earth hath drunk,
Broach'd with the steely poiot of Clifford's Lance:
And in the very pangs of Death he cry'd,
Like to a dismal Clangor beard from far,
Warwick, revenge; Brother, revenge my Death.
So underneath the Belly of his Steeds,
That stain'd their Fetlocks in his smoaking Blood,
The Noble Gentleman gave up the Ghoft.
War. Then let the Earth be drunken with our Blood;
I'll kill my Horse because I will not fly:
Why stand we like soft-hearted Women here,
Wailing our Losses, while the Foe doth rage,
And look upon, as if the Tragedy
Were plaid in jest by counterfeiting A&ors.
Here on my kniee I vow to God above,
I'll never pause again, never stand still,
'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 Soul to thine.
And e'er my Knee rise from the Earth's cold Face,
I throw my Hands, mine Eyes, my Heart to thee,
Thou Setter up, and Plucker down of Kings,
Beseeching thee (if with thy Will it stands
That to my Foes this Body must be prey)
Yet that thy brazen Gates of Heav'n may ope,
And give sweet passage to my sinful Soul.
Now Lords, take leave until we meet again,
Where-e'er it be, in Heav'n, or in the Earth.
Give me thy Hand, and gentle Warwick,
Let me embrace thee in my weary Arms:
I that did never weep, now melt with woe,
That Winter should cut off our Spring-time fo.
Dar. Away, away:
Once more, sweet Lords, farewel.
Cla. Yet let us all together to our Troops;
And give them leave to fly that will not stay;
And call them Pulars that will stand to us;
And if we thrive, promise them such Rewards
As Victors wear at the Olympian Games.
This may plant Courage in their quailing Breasts,
For yet is hope of Life and Vi&ory;
Fore-flow no longer, make we hence amain. [Excunt.
Excursions. 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 stabb'd thy Father York,
And this the Hand that slew thy Brother Rutlands
And here's the Heart that triumphs in their Death,
And cheers these Hands that flew thy Sire and Brother,
To execute the like upon thy self,
And so have at thee.
They fight, Warwick enters, Clifford flies.
Rich. Nay Warwick, single out some other Chace,
For I my self will hunt this Wolf to death. [Exeunt.
Alarum. Enter King Henry alone. K. Henry. This Battel fares like to the Morning's Wars When dying Clouds contend with growing Light, What time the Shepherd blowing of his Nails, Can neither call it perfe& Day nor Night. Now sways it this way, like the self-lame Sea, Forc'd by the Tide to combat with the Wind: Now sways it that way, like the self-lame Sea, Forc'd to retire by fury of the Wind. Sometime, the Flisod prevails, and then the Wind, Now, one the better, then another best, Both rugging to be Victors, Breast to Breaft, Yet nii her Conqueror, nor conquered; So is the equal poize of this fell War. Here on this Mole-bill 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 Battel, iwearing both, They prosper best of all when I am thence. Would
Would I were dead, if God's good will were so:
For what is in this World, but Grief and Voe?
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 our 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 must I take my relt,
So many hours must I contemplate,
many hours must I sport my self,
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 shall sheer the Fleece:
So Minutes, Hours, Days, Weeks, Months, and Years,
Palt 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 Haw-thorn Bush a sweeter shade
To Shepherds, looking on their filly Sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd Canopy
To Kings, that fear their Subje&s treachery?
O yes, it doth, a thousand-fold it dath,
And to conclude, the Shepherds homely Curds,
His cold thin drink out of his Leather Bottel,
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,
When Care, Mistrust and Treasons wait on bim.
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 postesled with some store of Crowns,
And I that, haply, take them from him now,
May yet, e'er Night, yield both my Life and them
To fome Man elf, as his dead Man doth me.
Who's this? Oh God! it is my Father's Face,
Whom in this Confi &, I, unawares, have kill'd:
Oh heavy times ! begetting fuch everts.
From London, by the King was I prest forth,
My Father being the Earl of Warwick's Man
Came on the part of York, prelt by h s 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 these bloody marks :
And no more words, 'till they have Awd their fill.
K. Henry. O piteous ipe&acle ! O bloody times!
Whiles Lins War, and Battel for their Dens,
Poor humless Lambs abide their Enmity.
Weep, wretched Min, l'il 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 bis Son.
Fath. Thou that fo stoutly hast relifted me,
Give me thy Gold, if thou hast 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 Soni
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,
Upon thy wounds, that kills mine Eye and Heart.
O pity, God, this miserable Age!
What stratagems? how fell? how butcherly?
Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural,
This dealy quarrel daily doth beget?
O Boy! thy Father gave thee Life too soon,
And hith berife thee of thy Life too late.
K. Henry. Woe above woe; grief, more than common
O thic my Death would stay these rueful deeds :
O piry, piry, gentle Heaven, pity:
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;
If you contend, a thousand Lives must with er.
Son. How will my Mother, for a Father's Death,
Take on with me, and ne'er be satisfy'd?
Fath. How will my Wife, for flaughter of my Son, Shed Seas of Tears, and ne'er be satisfy'd ??
K. Henry. How will the Country, for the woful chances, Miss-think the King, and not be satisfy'd?
Son, Was ever Son so rew'd a Father's Death
Fath. Was ever Father fo bemoan'd his Son ?
K. Henry. Was ever King so griev'd for Subjects woe?
Much is your Sorrow; mine, ten times so much.
Son. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my
fill. Fath. These Arms of mine shall be thy winding-lheet, My heart, sweet Boy, shall be thy Sepulcher, For from my Heart thine Image ne'er shall go. My fighing Breast shall be thy Funeral Bell: And so obsequious will thy Father be, Sad 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, For I have murther'd where I should not kill. [Exit.
K. Henry. Sad-hearted Men, much overgone with Care;
Here fits a King, more woful than you are.
Alarums. Excursions. Enter the Queen, Prince of
Wales, and Exeter.
Prince, Fly, Father, fly; for all your Friends are ded;
And Warwick rages like a chafed Búll:
Away, for Death doth hold us in pursuit.
Queen. Mount you my Lord, towards Berwick post amain :
Edward and Richard like a brace of Grey-hounds,
Having the fearful flying Hare in fight,
With Giery Eyes, sparkling for very wrath,
And bloody Steel graspt 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.
Or else come afcer, I'll away
before. VOL. IV.