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 in a curious bed,

When care, mistrust and treafons wait on him.

Alarum. 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 master; And I, 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 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,

Be blind with tears, and break o'er-charg'd with grief.
Enter a Father, bearing his Son.

Fath. Thou, that fo ftoutly haft 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,

Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee,

Throw up

thine eyes; fee, fee, what fhowers arise,

Blown with the windy tempest 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,
And hath bereft thee of thy life too late.

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

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

The red rofe and the white are on his face,

The fatal colours of our ftriving houses.

The one his purple blood right well resembles,
The other his pale cheek, methinks, prefenteth:
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 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 woeful 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 fubjects' 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-fheet, My heart, fweet boy, fhall be thy fepulchre; For from my heart thine image ne'er fhall go. My fighing breaft fhall be thy funeral bell: And fo obfequious will thy father be, Sad for the lofs of thee, having no more, As Priam was for all his valiant fons.

I'll bear thee hence, and let them fight that will;
For I have murther'd, where I should not kill.

[Exit. K. Henry. Sad-hearted men, much over gone with care, Here fits a King more woful than you are.

Alarums, Excurfions. Enter the Queen, Prince of Wales, and Exeter.

Prince. Fly, father, fly, for all your

And Warwick rages like a chafed bull:

friends are fled;

Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit.

Queen. Mount you, my lord, towards Berwick post

amain.

Edward and Richard, like a brace of grey-hounds.
Having the fearful flying hare in fight,
With fiery eyes fparkling for very wrath,

And bloody fteel grafpt in their ireful hands,

Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain.

Exe. Away; for vengeance comes along with them. Nay, ftay not to expoftulate, make speed:

Or elfe come after, I'll away before,

K. Henry. Nay, take me with thee, good fweet Exeters Not that I fear to ftay, 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 lafted, gave King Henry light.
O Lancafter! I fear thy overthrow,

More than my body's parting with my foul.

My love and fear glew'd many friends to thee; [Falling.
And, now I fall, thy tough commixtures melt,
Impairing Henry, ftrength'ning mif-proud York.
The common People swarm like summer flies;
And whither fly the gnats, but to the Sun ?
And who fhines now, but Henry's enemies?
O Phoebus! hadft thou never giv'n confent
That Phaeton fhould check thy fiery steeds,
Thy burning Car had never fcorch'd the earth:
And Henry, hadft thou fway'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 fprung like fummer flies.
I, and ten thousand in this luckless Realm,
Had left no mourning widows for our death;
And thou this day hadft kept thy Chair in peace.
For what doth cherish Weeds, but gentle air?
And what makes robbers bold, but too much lenity?
Bootlefs are plaints, and cureless are my wounds
No way to fly, nor ftrength to hold our flight.
The foe is mercilefs, and will not pity:
For at their hands I have deserv'd no pity.
The air hath got into my deadly wounds,

And much Effufe of blood doth make me faint:

Come York, and Richard; Warwick, and the reft;
I ftabb'd your fathers' bofoms; split my breast. [He faints.
Alarum, and Retreat. Enter Edward, Warwick, Ri-
chard, Montague, Clarence, and Soldiers.

Edw.Now breathe we,lords,good fortune bids us paufe;
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 guft,
Command an Argofie to ftem the waves.
But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them?
War. No, 'tis impoffible he fhould escape:

For though before his face I fpeak the word,
Your brother Richard mark'd him for the grave;
And wherefoe'er he is, he's furely dead. [Clifford groans.
Rich. Whofe foul is that which takes her hearty leave?
A deadly groan, like life and death's departing.
See who it is.

Edw. And now the battle's ended,

If friend or foe, let him be gently used.

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 fet his murth'ring knife unto the root

From whence that tender spray did fweetly fpring;
I mean, our princely father, Duke of York.

War.

t

War. From off the gates of York fetch down the head, Your father's head, which Clifford placed there: Instead whereof, let his fupply the room.

Meafure for Measure must be answered.

Edw. Bring forth that fatal fcreech-owl to our Houfe, That nothing fung but death to us and ours: Now death fhall ftop his difmal threatning found, And his ill-boading tongue no more fhall fpeak. War. I think, his understanding is bereft ; Speak, Clifford, doft thou know who fpeaks to thee? Dark cloudy death o'er-fhades his beams of life, And he nor fees, nor hears us what we fay.

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

Because he would avoid fuch bitter taunts,

As in the time of death he gave our father.

Cla. If fo thou think'ft, vex him with eager words.
Rich. Clifford, ask mercy, and obtain no grace.
Edw. Clifford, repent in bootlefs penitence.
War. Clifford, devife excufes for thy faults.
Cla. While we devife fell tortures for thy faults.
Rich. Thou didst love York, and I am fon to York:
Edw. Thou pitied'ft Rutland, I will pity thee.
Cla. Where's Captain Margaret to fence you now?
War. They mock thee, Clifford, fwear as thou waft

wont.

Rich. What, not an oath! nay, then the world goes hard,

When Clifford cannot fpare his friends an oath :
I know by that, he's dead; and, by my foul,
If this right hand would buy but two hours' life,
That I in all defpight might rail at him,

This hand fhould chop it off; and with the iffuing blood
Stifle the villain, whofe unftanched thirst

York and young Rutland could not fatisfie.

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 fhall Warwick cut the Sea to France,

And