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 hast 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?
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,
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!—
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?

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?
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.
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.

SCENE 6.

KING HENRY VI.

SCENE VI. The same.

A loud Alarum. Enter CLIFFORD, wounded.
Cliff. Here burns my candle out, ay, here it dies,
Which, while it lasted, gave king Henry light.
0, Lancaster! I fear thy overthrow,

More than my body's parting with my soul.
My love, and fear, glew'd many friends to thee;
And, now I fall, thy tough commixtures melt.
Impairing Henry, strength'ning mis-proud York,
The common people swarm like summer flies:
And whither fly the guats, but to the sun?
And who shines now, but Henry's enemies?
0 Phoebus! hadst thou never given consent
That Phaeton should check thy fiery steeds,
Thy burning car never had scorch'd the earth:
And, Henry, hadst thou sway'd as kings should do,
Or as thy father, and his father, did,

Giving no ground unto the house of York,
They never then had sprung like summer flies;
I, and ten thousand in this luckless realm,
Had left no mourning widows for our death,
And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace.
For what doth cherish weeds but gentle air?
And what makes robbers bold, but too much lenity?
Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds;
No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight:
The foe is merciless, and will not pity;
For, at their hands, I have deserv'd no pity.
The air hath got into my deadly wounds,
And much effuse of blood doth make me faint:--
Come, York,.and Richard, Warwick, and the rest;
I stabb'd your father's bosom, split my breast.

[He faints.

Enter EDWARD, GEORGE,
Alarum and Retreat.
RICHARD, MONTAGUE, WARWICK, and Soldiers.
Edw. Now breathe we, lords; good fortune bids us

pause,

And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks.—

Some troops pursue the bloody-minded queen ;-
That led calm Henry, though he were a king,
As doth a sail, fill'd with a fretting gust,
Command an argosy to stem the waves.

But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them?
War. No, 'tis impossible he should escape:
For, though before his face I speak the words,
Your brother Richard mark'd him for the grave:
And, wheresoe'er he is, he's surely dead.

[Clifford groans and dies.
Edw. Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave?
Rich. A deadly groan, like life and death's departing.
Edw. See who it is: and, now the battle's ended,
If friend, or foe, let him be gently us❜d.

Rich. Revoke that doom of mercy, for 'tis Clifford ; Who not contented that he lopp'd the branch In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth, But set his murdering knife unto the root From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring, I mean our princely father, duke of York.

War. From off the gates of York fetch down the head, Your father's head, which Clifford placed there: Instead whereof, let this supply the room; Measure for measure must be answered.

Edw. Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house, That nothing sung but death to us and ours: Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound, And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.

[Attendants bring the Body forward.

War. I think his understanding is bereft:Speak, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee?Dark cloudy death o'ershades his beams of life, And he nor sees, nor hears us what we say.

Rich. O'would he did! and so, perhaps, he doth; "Tis but his policy to counterfeit,

Because he would avoid such bitter taunts,
Which in the time of death he gave our father.

Geo. If so thou think'st, vex him with eager words.
Rich. Clifford, ask mercy, and obtain no grace.
Edw. Clifford, repent in bootless penitence.

War. Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults.
Geo. While we devise fell tortures for thy faults.
Rich. Thou didst love York, and I am son to York.
Edw. Thou pitied'st Rutland, I will pity thee.
Geo. Where's captain Margaret, to fence you now?
War. They mock thee, Clifford! swear as thou was
[hard,

wont.

Rich. What, not an oath? nay, then the world goes When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath:I know by that, he's dead; And, by my soul, If this right hand would buy two hours' life, That in all despite might rail at him,

This hand should chop it off; and with the issuing blood Stifle the villain, whose unstaunched thirst

York and young Rutland could not satisfy.

War. Ay, but he's dead: Off with the traitor's head,
And rear it in the place your father's stands.-
And now to London with triumphant march,
There to be crowned England's royal king.
From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France,
And ask the lady Bona for thy queen:

So shalt thou sinew both these lands together;
And, having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread
The scatter'd foe, that hopes to rise again;

For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt,
Yet look to have them buz, to offend thine ears.
First, will I see the coronation;

And then to Britany I'll cross the sea,

To effect this marriage, so it please my lord.

Edw. Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be: For on thy shoulder do I build my seat;

And never will I undertake the thing,

Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting.-
Richard, I will create thee duke of Gloster :-

And George, of Clarence;-Warwick, as ourself,

Shall do, and undo, as him pleaseth best.

Rich. Let me be duke of Clarence; George, of For Gloster's dukedom is too ominous.

[Gloster;

War. Tut, that's a foolish observation;

Richard, be duke of Gloster: Now to London,

To see these honours in possession.

[Exeunt.