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Till either death bath 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 yow, do chain my soul to thine.-
And, ere 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,-it with thy will it stands,
That to my foes this body must be prey,
Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope,
And give sweet passage to my sinful soul! -
Now, Jords, take leave until we meet again,
Where'er it be, in heaven, or on earth.
Rich. Brother, give me thy band ;-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 so.

War. Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell.

Geo. Yet let us all together to our troops, And give them leave to fly that will not stay; And call them pillars, 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 victory.Fore-slow no longer, make we hence amain. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV. The same. Another Part of the Field.

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.

Cliff. Now, Richard, am with thee here alone: This is the hand, that stabb'd thy father York; And this the hand, that slew thy brother Rutland; And here's the heart, that triumphs in their death, And cheers these hands, that slew thy sire and brother,

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To execute the like upon thyself;
And so, have at thee.

[They fight. Warwick enters; Clifford flies. Rich. Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase; For I myself will hunt this wolf to death. [Ereunt.

SCENE V. Another Part of the Field.

Alarum. Enter King HENRY.
K. Hen. This battle fares like to the inorning's war,
When dying clouds contend with growing light;
What time the shepherd, blowing of bis nails,
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 :
Sometime, the flood prevails; and then, the wind;
Now, one the better; then, another best ;
Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,
Yet neilher conqueror, nor conquered :
So is the equal poise of this fell war.
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.
'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 bill, as I do now,
To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the ininutes 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,
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;

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So many hours must I take my rest;
So many hours must I contemplate;
So many hours must I sport myself;.
So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean;
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Passid 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,
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,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,
Al 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 treason, wait on him.
Alarum. Enter a Son that has killed his Father,

dragging in the dead Body.
Son. Il blows the wind, that profits no-body-
This man, whom hand to hand I'slew in fight,
May be possessed with some store of crowns:
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?-0 God! it is my father's face,
Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill'd.
O beavy 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,
Have by nảy hands of life bereav'd him.-

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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.

K. Hen. O piteous spectacle! O bloody times !
Whilst 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,
Be blind with tears, and break o'ercharg’d with grief.
Enter a Father who has killed his Son, with the Body

in his Arms.
Fath. Thou that so stoutly bast resisted me,
Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold;
For I have bought it with an hundred blows.-
But let me see:-is this our foeman's face?
Ab, no, no, no, it is mine only son!
Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee,

thine

eye; see, see, what showers arise, Blown with the windy tempest of my heart, Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart! 0, pity, God, this miserable age! What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly, Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural, This deadly quarrel daily doth beget! 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!-
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, present:
Wither one rose, and let the other flourish!
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 ?

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Fath. How will my wife, for slaughter of my son, Shed seas of tears, and ne'er be satisfied?

K. Hen. How will the country, for these woful chances, Mis-think 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? Mich is your sorrow; mine, ten times so much. Son. Bil 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. My sighing 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 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 woful than you are. Alarums: Excursions. Enter QUEEN MARGARET,

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 pursuit. [amain:

Q. Mar. Mount you, my lord, towards Berwick post Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds, Having the fearful flying hare in sight, 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; 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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