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Rich. Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle Warwick,

Let me embrace thee in my weary arms,

I, that did never weep, now melt with woe;
That winter fhould cut off our fpring time fo.
War. Away, away. Once more, fweet 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 ftand 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.

Excurfions. Enter Richard and Clifford.

Rich. Now, Clifford, I have fingled 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 flew thy brother Rutland;
And here's the heart that triumphs in their death,
And cheers these hands that flew thy fire and brother,
To execute the like upon thyself;

And so have at thee.

They fight. Warwick enters, Clifford flies

Rich. Nay, Warwick, fingle out fome other chase, For I myself will hunt this wolf to death.

SCENE VI.

Alarm. Enter King Henry alone.

[Exeunt.

K. Henry. This battle fares like to the morning's war, When dying clouds contend with growing light,

What time the fhepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day nor night.
Now fways it this way like a mighty fea
Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind;
Now fways it that way, like the self-fame fea
Forc'd to retire by fury of the wind.
Sometime the flood prevails; and then the wind;
Now, one the better, then another beft,
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 fit 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 profper best of all when I am thence.
Would I were dead, if God's good will were fo,
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 fwain,
To fit upon a hill, as I do now,

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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 the year,
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 reft;
So many hours must I contemplate;
So many hours muft I fport myself;

So many days my ewes have been with young;

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methinks it were a happy life] This fpeech is mournful and foft, exquifitely fuited to the charactor of the king, and makes a pleafing interchange,

by affording, amidft the tumult and horrour of the battle, an unexpected glimpse of rural innocence and paftoral tranquillity,

So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean;
So many months ere I fhall fheer 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 fweet, how lovely!
Gives not the haw-thorn bufh a fweeter fhade
To fhepherds looking on their filly sheep,
Than doth a rich-embroider'd canopy

To Kings, that fear their fubjects' treachery?
O, yes, it doth; a thoufand-fold it doth.
And, to conclude, the fhepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted fleep under a fresh tree's shade,
All which fecure and fweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a Prince's delicates,
His viands fparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched on a curious bed,

When care, miftruft and treasons wait on him.

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Alarm. Enter a Son that had kill'd his Father.
Son. Ill blows the wind, that profits no body.-
This man, whom hand to hand I flew in fight,
May be poffeffed with fome ftore of crowns;
And I that haply take them from him now,
May yet, ere night, yield both my life and them
To fome man elfe, 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 fuch events!
From London by the King was I preft forth;
My father, being the Earl of Warwick's man,
Came on the part of York, preft by his mafter:
And I, who at his hands receiv'd my life,
Have by my hands of life bereaved him.

Thefe two horrible incidents are felected to fhow the innu

merable calamities of civil war.

Pardon

Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did;
And pardon, father, for I knew not thee.
My tears fhall wipe away these bloody marks,
And no more words, till they have flow'd their fill.
K. Henry. O piteous fpectacle! O bloody times!
Whiles 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,

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Be blind with tears, and break o'er-charg'd with grief.

Enter a Father bearing his Son.

Fath. Thou, that fo ftoutly hast resisted me,
Give me thy gold, if thou haft any gold,
For I have bought it with an hundred blows.
But let me fee-Is this our foe-man's face?
Ah, no, no, no, it is my only fon!
Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee,

Throw up thine eyes; fee, fee, what showers arife,
Blown with the windy tempeft of my heart
Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart.
O pity, God, this miferable age!

+ What ftratagems, how fell, how butcherly,
Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural,
This deadly quarrel daily doth beget!

O boy! thy father gave thee life too foon, '

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And hath bereft thee of thy life too late.

K. Henry. Woe above woe; grief, more than common grief;

O, that my death would stay these rueful deeds!
O pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity!

The red rofe and the white are on his face,
The fatal colours of our striving houfes.

The one his purple blood right well refembles,
The other his pale cheek, methinks, prefenteth.
Wither one rofe, and let the other flourish!
If you contend, a thousand lives muft wither.

Son. How will my mother, for a father's death,
Take on with me, and ne'er be fatisfy'd?

Fath. How will my wife, for flaughter of my fon, Shed feas of tears, and ne'er be fatisfy'd?

K. Henry. How will the country, for these woful chances,

Mif-think the King, and not be fatisfy'd?

Son. Was ever fon, fo ru'd a father's death?
Fath. Was ever father, fo bemoan'd his fon?
K. Henry. Was ever King, fo griev❜d for subjects'
woe?

Much is your forrow; mine, ten times fo much.
Son. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill.

[Exit.
Fath. Thefe arms of mine fhall be thy winding-heet,
My heart, fweet boy, fhall be thy fepulchre;
For from my heart thine image ne'er fhall go.
My fighing breast shall be thy funeral bell,
And fo obfequious will thy father be,‘

and fon thus m ferable. This is the sense, fuch as it is, of the two lines, however an indifferent fenfe was better than none, as it is brought to by the Oxford Editor by reading the lines thus,

O boy! thy father gave thee life too late,

And bath bereft thee of thy life

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Sad

too foon. WARBURTON. I rather think the meaning of the line, And hath bereft thee of thy life too late, to be this. Thy father expofed thee to danger by giving thee life too foon, and hath bereft thee of life by living himfelf too long.

• And so obfequious will thy fa

ther

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