And in this vow, will chain my soul to thee!

Here, ere my knee rise from the earth's cold face,
I throw my hands, my eyes, my heart to Thee!
Thou setter-up, and plucker down of kings!
If in thy counsels of unerring wisdom
Thou hast decreed that Edward must be conquer'd,
O let the everlasting gates of Heav'n

Give a sweet passage to my sinful soul!

Now, Lords, take leave until we meet again!

Where e'er it be, in Heaven, or on earth!

Richard. Brother, give me thy hand and noble Warwick,

Let me embrace thee in my weary arms!

I, who have never wept, now melt with woe,
That winter's blast should wither thus our spring.
Clarence. Hence let's proclaim it, Edward, thro'
the host,

That those, who are the prey of pale-fac'd fear,
And dare not brave the hazard of the fight,
May all depart in safety; but to those,
Whose hearts are true, we'll promise such rewards,
As victors wore at the Olympic games.

This may plant courage in their fainting breasts.
Away, my friends! with such united hearts,
Now may we hope for life and victory.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.-Another part of the field.

Excursions.

-Enter RICHARD and CLIFFOrd,

from opposite sides.

Richard. Fortune! thou giv'st me all that I could
ask.

Long, Clifford, have I singled thee alone.
Now, unrelenting fiend, this arm is rais'd
With tenfold vengeance for my father York;
And this for my sweet Rutland! bloody wretch!
Couldst thou then murder that poor harmless child,
That trembled under thy devouring grasp?

His shade now hovers o'er thy cursed head,
As a dread fury to torment thy soul'

Now shall this sword revenge th' inhuman deed,
Wert thou environ'd with a brazen wall!

Clifford. Were all thy brothers here, their lives.

and thine

Were not revenge sufficient for my heart.

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 deaths,
And nerves my arm to lay thee in the dust.
Exeunt fighting.

SCENE III-A Camp.

Enter KING HENRY.

They chid me from the battle: for my Queen,
And Clifford prosper best, when I am thence.
Here, in the camp, I wait the chance of war.-
O God of battles! look in mercy down!
Ah! let not English blood manure the ground,
And ages yet unborn lament these broils!
Ah! let not peace go sleep with infidels,
And in this happy land tumultuous wars
Make one dire scene of havoc and distress!

O, if my death could heal these bleeding wounds,
How gladly would I lay this burden down!
Would I were dead, if Heav'n's high will were so;
For what is in this world, but grief and care!
O God! methinks it were a happy life,
To be no greater than a homely swain.
Then days and years of solitude and peace,
Past over to the end, they were created,
Would bring my grey hairs to a quiet grave.
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade,
To shepherds looking on their playful sheep,
Than can a rich embroider'd canopy

To monarchs, haunted with the sprites of fear?
Ah me! the shepherd's curds and cold thin drink,
His wonted sleep beneath the beechen shade,

Are far beyond a Prince's delicacies;
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,

His body lying on a downy bed,

When care, mistrust, and treason, break his rest.

[Alarm at a distance.

Enter a SON, bearing his dead Father.

Son. Ill blows the wind, that profits nobody.This man, whom hand in hand I slew in fight, May be possess'd of a large store of crowns:And I, that haply take them from him now, May yet ere night, yield both my life and them. Ah, sad succession by the chance of war !— Who's this?O God, it is my father's face, Whom in this civil conflict I have kill'd. O barb'rous times, producing such events! O my dear father! thou hast giv'n me life, And, by my hands, I rob thee of thy breath! Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did: And pardon, father, for I knew thee not! My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks: I can no more'till they have flow'd their fill. K. Henry. O piteous spectacle! O bloody times! While Lions war, and battle for their dens, Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity. Weep, wretched man, I'll aid thee tear for tear; My heart, like thine, is overcharg'd with grief.

Son. How will my mother, for my father's death, Vent all her sorrow on my guilty head !—

Now all the world is a blank wilderness,

Where nothing grows but thorns of misery,
To sting my hapless breast.

King Henry.

Alas! my country

Can ne'er forgive the authors of these woes!

Son. Did ever son so weep a father's death! King Henry. You but lament a father slain in battle,

I mourn the death of thousands of my subjects.

Son. These arms, alas! shall be thy winding sheet. My heart will break, and be thy sepulcre. From my sad soul thy image ne'er shall part, My sighing breast shall be thy fun'ral knell.I'll bear thee hence, and fill thy grave with tears.

[Exit with the body. King Henry. Light of the sun, why shin'st thou still on me!

I am the cause of these enormities!

O let me hide my sorrows and my shame!

Alarm. Enter the QUEEN, PRINCE OF WALES, and SOMERSET.

Prince. Fly, father, fly, for all your friends are fled, And Warwick rages like a chafed bull.

Clifford, I fear, the valiant Clifford's fall'n.

Away, dear father; death pursues our steps!

King Henry. Yes, I can fly from Warwick, and from death;

But who can lend me wings to fly from grief?

C