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Rich. Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle War.
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, farewel.
Cla. 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-flow no longer, make we hence amain. [Exeunt.
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.
Clif. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone,
This is the hand that stabb'd thy father York;
And this the hand that new thy brother Rutland;
And here's the heart that triumphs in their death,
And cheers these hands that new thy fire and brother,
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. [Exeunt,
Alarm. Enter King Henry alone. K. Henry. This battle fares like to the morning's war, When dying clouds contend with growing light,
What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day nor night.
Now sways it this way like a mighty fea
Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind;
Now sways it that way, like the self-fame sea
Forc'd to retire by fury of the wind.
Sometine the flood prevails; and then the wind;
Now, one the better, then another best,
Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,
Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered,
So is the equal poize of this fell war.
Here on this mole-hill 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; fwearing both,
They prosper best of all when I am thence.
Would I were dead, if God's good will were To,
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 queintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run,
How many make the hour full compleat,
How many hours bring about the day,
How many days will finish up
How many years' a mortal man may live,
When this is known, then to divide the time;
So many hours must I tend my flock;
So many hours must I take my rest;
Şo, many hours must I contemplate;
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young;
methinks it were a happy by affording, amidit the tumult
lif] This speech is mourn- and horrour of the battle, an fuland foft, exquisitely suited to unexpected glimpse of rural inthe charactor of the king, and nocence and pastoral tranquillity, makes a pleasing interchange,
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean;
So many months ere I fhall sheer the fleece;
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years,
Paft 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 haw-thorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds looking on their filly sheep,
Than doth a rich-embroider'd canopy
To Kings, that fear their fubjects' treachery?
O, yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth.
And, to conclude, the fhepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted Deep 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 on a curious bed,
When care, miftruft and treasons wait on him.
S CE N E VII.
Alarm. Enter a son that had kill'd bis Father. *
Son. Ill blows the wind, that profits no body.--
This man, whom hand to hand I new 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 fone man elle, as this dead man doth me.
-Who's this ! oh God! it is my father's face,
Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill'd:
Oh heavy times, begetting such events !
From London by the King was I prest forth;
My father, being the Earl of Warwick's man,
Came on the part of York, preft by his master:
And I, who at his hands receiv'd my life,
Have by my hands of life bereaved him.
* These two horrible incidents are selected to show the innumerable calamities of civil war.
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. Henry. O piteous spectacle ! O bloody times!
Whiles lions war and battle for their dens,
Poor harmleis 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'er-charg'd with grief.
Enter a Father bearing bis Son.
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 feeIs this our foe-man's face?
Ah, no, no, no, it is my only son!
Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee,
eyes; 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,'
3 And let our hearts and eyes, tagem seems to stand here only like civil war,
for an event of war, or may in. Be blind with tears, and break tend fnares and surprises.
o'er-charg'd with grief.] The so boy! thy father gave the mearing is here inaccurately ex life 100 joon) Because had pressed. The king intends to he been born later he would not say that the itate of their hearts now have been of years to enand eyes shall be like that of the gage in this quarrel. kingdom in a civil war, all shall sind bath bereft thee of the life be destroyed by power formed too late.) i. e. he Thould have within themselves.
done it by not bringing thee in+ Wbas fratagems,–] Stra. to being, to make both father
And hath bereft thee of thy life too late.
K. Henry. Woe above woe; grief, more than com-
O, that my death would stay these rueful deeds!
O pitz, pity, gentle heaven, pity!
The red rose and the white are on his face,
The fatal colours of our striving houfes.
The one his purple blood right well resembles,
The other his pale cheek, methinks, presenteth.
Wither one role, and let the other fourish!
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 satisfy’d?
Feth. How will my wife, for slaughter of my son, Shed seas of tears, and ne'er be satisfy'd ? K. Henry. How will the country, for these wofu!
Mil-think the King, and not be satisfy'd ?
Son. Was ever son, so ru'd a father's death?
Fatb. Was ever father, so bemoan'd his son ?
K. Henry. Was ever King, fo griev'd for subjects”.
Much is your forrow; mine, ten times so much.
Son. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my
[Exit, Fath. These arms of mine shall be thy winding-lheet, My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy fepulchre ; For from my heart thine image ne'er shall go. My sighing breast shall be thy funeral beil, And lo obsequious will thy father be,'
Sad and fon thus m serable. This is 100 foon.
WARBURTON. the sense, such as it is, of the I rather think the meaning of two lines, ħowever an indifferent the line, And hath bereft shee of sense was better than none, as it thy life too late, to be this. Thy is brought to by the Oxford Edi- father exposed thee to danger by tor by reading the lines thus, giving thee life too soon, and hath O boy! thy father gave thee life bereft thee of life by living himtoo late,
self too long And bath bereft thee of thy life And so obfequious will thy fa.