Yet neither 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 hill, as I do now,

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,
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;
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,

Pass'd 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; 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,
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 treason wait on him.

Alarum. Enter a Son that has killed his Father, dragging in the dead Body.

Son. Ill 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?-O God! it is my father's face, Whom in this conflict I unawares have kill'd. O heavy 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 1, 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 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 a 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
O pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity! [deeds!-
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,

Misthink 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 sub-
jects' 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 wind-
ingsheet;

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 filed,

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,

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.

A loud Alarum. Enter CLIFFORD, wounded. Clif. Here burns my candle out, ay, here it dies,

Which, while it lasted, gave King Henry light.
O, 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 gnats, but to the sun?
And who shines now but Henry's enemies?
O Phœbus! 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,
Aud much effuse of blood doth make me faint:-
Come, York, and Richard, Warwick, and the
rest;

I stabb'd your fathers' bosoms, split my breast. [He faints. Alarum and retreat. Enter EDWARD, GEORGE, 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? [departing. Rich. A deadly groan, like life and death's 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 be 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,