Part 11

War. Fore-spent with Toile, as Runners with a Race, I lay me downe a little while to breath: For strokes receiu'd, and many blowes repaid, Haue robb'd my strong knit sinewes of their strength, And spight of spight, needs must I rest a-while. Enter Edward running.

Ed. Smile gentle heauen, or strike vngentle death, For this world frownes, and Edwards Sunne is clowded

War. How now my Lord, what happe? what hope of good? Enter Clarence

Cla. Our hap is losse, our hope but sad dispaire, Our rankes are broke, and ruine followes vs. What counsaile giue you? whether shall we flye? Ed. Bootlesse is flight, they follow vs with Wings, And weake we are, and cannot shun pursuite. Enter Richard.

Rich. Ah Warwicke, why hast y withdrawn thy selfe? Thy Brothers blood the thirsty earth hath drunk, Broach'd with the Steely point of Cliffords Launce: And in the very pangs of death, he cryde, Like to a dismall Clangor heard from farre, Warwicke, reuenge; Brother, reuenge my death. So vnderneath the belly of their Steeds, That stain'd their Fetlockes in his smoaking blood, The Noble Gentleman gaue vp the ghost

War. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood: Ile kill my Horse, because I will not flye: Why stand we like soft-hearted women heere, Wayling our losses, whiles the Foe doth Rage, And looke vpon, as if the Tragedie Were plaid in iest, by counterfetting Actors. Heere on my knee, I vow to God aboue, Ile neuer pawse againe, neuer stand still, Till either death hath clos'd these eyes of mine, Or Fortune giuen me measure of Reuenge

Ed. Oh Warwicke, I do bend my knee with thine, And in this vow do chaine my soule to thine: And ere my knee rise from the Earths cold face, I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee, Thou setter vp, and plucker downe 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 heauen may ope, And giue sweet passage to my sinfull soule. Now Lords, take leaue vntill we meete againe, Where ere it be, in heauen, or in earth

Rich. Brother, Giue me thy hand, and gentle Warwicke, Let me imbrace thee in my weary armes: I that did neuer weepe, now melt with wo, That Winter should cut off our Spring-time so

War. Away, away: Once more sweet Lords farwell

Cla. Yet let vs altogether to our Troopes, And giue them leaue to flye, that will not stay: And call them Pillars that will stand to vs: And if we thriue, promise them such rewards As Victors weare at the Olympian Games. This may plant courage in their quailing breasts, For yet is hope of Life and Victory: Foreslow no longer, make we hence amaine.

Exeunt.

Excursions. Enter Richard and Clifford.

Rich. Now Clifford, I haue singled thee alone, Suppose this arme is for the Duke of Yorke, And this for Rutland, both bound to reuenge, Wer't thou inuiron'd with a Brazen wall

Clif. Now Richard, I am with thee heere alone, This is the hand that stabb'd thy Father Yorke, And this the hand, that slew thy Brother Rutland, And here's the heart, that triumphs in their death, And cheeres these hands, that slew thy Sire and Brother, To execute the like vpon thy selfe, And so haue at thee. They Fight, Warwicke comes, Clifford flies.

Rich. Nay Warwicke, single out some other Chace, For I my selfe will hunt this Wolfe to death.

Exeunt.

Alarum. Enter King Henry alone.

Hen. This battell fares like to the mornings Warre, When dying clouds contend, with growing light, What time the Shepheard blowing of his nailes, Can neither call it perfect day, nor night. Now swayes it this way, like a Mighty Sea, Forc'd by the Tide, to combat with the Winde: Now swayes it that way, like the selfe-same Sea, Forc'd to retyre by furie of the Winde. Sometime, the Flood preuailes; and than the Winde: Now, one the better: then, another best; Both tugging to be Victors, brest to brest: Yet neither Conqueror, nor Conquered. So is the equall poise of this fell Warre. Heere on this Mole-hill will I sit me downe, To whom God will, there be the Victorie: For Margaret my Queene, and Clifford too Haue chid me from the Battell: Swearing both, They prosper best of all when I am thence. Would I were dead, if Gods good will were so; For what is in this world, but Greefe and Woe. Oh God! me thinkes it were a happy life, To be no better then a homely Swaine, To sit vpon a hill, as I do now, To carue out Dialls queintly, point by point, Thereby to see the Minutes how they runne: How many makes the Houre full compleate, How many Houres brings about the Day, How many Dayes will finish vp the Yeare, How many Yeares, a Mortall man may liue. When this is knowne, then to diuide the Times: So many Houres, must I tend my Flocke; So many Houres, must I take my Rest: So many Houres, must I Contemplate: So many Houres, must I Sport my selfe: So many Dayes, my Ewes haue bene with yong: So many weekes, ere the poore Fooles will Eane: So many yeares, ere I shall sheere the Fleece: So Minutes, Houres, Dayes, Monthes, and Yeares, Past ouer to the end they were created, Would bring white haires, vnto a Quiet graue. Ah! what a life were this? How sweet? how louely? Giues not the Hawthorne bush a sweeter shade To Shepheards, looking on their silly Sheepe, Then doth a rich Imbroider'd Canopie To Kings, that feare their Subiects treacherie? Oh yes, it doth; a thousand fold it doth. And to conclude, the Shepherds homely Curds, His cold thinne drinke out of his Leather Bottle, His wonted sleepe, vnder a fresh trees shade, All which secure, and sweetly he enioyes, Is farre beyond a Princes Delicates: His Viands sparkling in a Golden Cup, His bodie couched in a curious bed, When Care, Mistrust, and Treason waits on him.

Alarum. Enter a Sonne that hath kill'd his Father, at one doore: and a Father that hath kill'd his Sonne at another doore.

Son. Ill blowes the winde that profits no body, This man whom hand to hand I slew in fight, May be possessed with some store of Crownes, And I that (haply) take them from him now, May yet (ere night) yeeld both my Life and them To some man else, as this dead man doth me. Who's this? Oh God! It is my Fathers face, Whom in this Conflict, I (vnwares) haue kill'd: Oh heauy times! begetting such Euents. From London, by the King was I prest forth, My Father being the Earle of Warwickes man, Came on the part of Yorke, prest by his Master: And I, who at his hands receiu'd my life, Haue by my hands, of Life bereaued him. Pardon me God, I knew not what I did: And pardon Father, for I knew not thee. My Teares shall wipe away these bloody markes: And no more words, till they haue flow'd their fill

King. O pitteous spectacle! O bloody Times! Whiles Lyons Warre, and battaile for their Dennes, Poore harmlesse Lambes abide their enmity. Weepe wretched man: Ile ayde thee Teare for Teare, And let our hearts and eyes, like Ciuill Warre, Be blinde with teares, and break ore-charg'd with griefe Enter Father, bearing of his Sonne.

Fa. Thou that so stoutly hath resisted me, Giue me thy Gold, if thou hast any Gold: For I haue bought it with an hundred blowes. But let me see: Is this our Foe-mans face? Ah, no, no, no, it is mine onely Sonne. Ah Boy, if any life be left in thee, Throw vp thine eye: see, see, what showres arise, Blowne with the windie Tempest of my heart, Vpon thy wounds, that killes mine Eye, and Heart. O pitty God, this miserable Age! What Stratagems? how fell? how Butcherly? Erreoneous, mutinous, and vnnaturall, This deadly quarrell daily doth beget? O Boy! thy Father gaue thee life too soone, And hath bereft thee of thy life too late

King. Wo aboue wo: greefe, more the common greefe O that my death would stay these ruthfull deeds: O pitty, pitty, gentle heauen pitty: The Red Rose and the White are on his face, The fatall Colours of our striuing Houses: The one, his purple Blood right well resembles, The other his pale Cheekes (me thinkes) presenteth: Wither one Rose, and let the other flourish: If you contend, a thousand liues must wither

Son. How will my Mother, for a Fathers death Take on with me, and ne're be satisfi'd? Fa. How will my Wife, for slaughter of my Sonne, Shed seas of Teares, and ne're be satisfi'd? King. How will the Country, for these woful chances, Mis-thinke the King, and not be satisfied? Son. Was euer sonne, so rew'd a Fathers death? Fath. Was euer Father so bemoan'd his Sonne? Hen. Was euer King so greeu'd for Subiects woe? Much is your sorrow; Mine, ten times so much

Son. Ile beare thee hence, where I may weepe my fill

Fath. These armes of mine shall be thy winding sheet: My heart (sweet Boy) shall be thy Sepulcher, For from my heart, thine Image ne're shall go. My sighing brest, shall be thy Funerall bell; And so obsequious will thy Father be, Men for the losse of thee, hauing no more, As Priam was for all his Valiant Sonnes, Ile beare thee hence, and let them fight that will, For I haue murthered where I should not kill.

Exit

Hen. Sad-hearted-men, much ouergone with Care; Heere sits a King, more wofull then you are.