ACT II. SCENE I. A plain near Mortimer's Cross in Herefordshire  A march. Enter EDWARD, RICHARD, and their power    EDWARD. I wonder how our princely father scap'd,     Or whether he be scap'd away or no     From Clifford's and Northumberland's pursuit.     Had he been ta'en, we should have heard the news;     Had he been slain, we should have heard the news;     Or had he scap'd, methinks we should have heard     The happy tidings of his good escape.     How fares my brother? Why is he so sad?   RICHARD. I cannot joy until I be resolv'd     Where our right valiant father is become.     I saw him in the battle range about,     And watch'd him how he singled Clifford forth.     Methought he bore him in the thickest troop     As doth a lion in a herd of neat;     Or as a bear, encompass'd round with dogs,     Who having pinch'd a few and made them cry,     The rest stand all aloof and bark at him.     So far'd our father with his enemies;     So fled his enemies my warlike father.     Methinks 'tis prize enough to be his son.     See how the morning opes her golden gates     And takes her farewell of the glorious sun.     How well resembles it the prime of youth,     Trimm'd like a younker prancing to his love!   EDWARD. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?   RICHARD. Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun;     Not separated with the racking clouds,     But sever'd in a pale clear-shining sky.     See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,     As if they vow'd some league inviolable.     Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun.     In this the heaven figures some event.   EDWARD. 'Tis wondrous strange, the like yet never heard of.     I think it cites us, brother, to the field,     That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet,     Each one already blazing by our meeds,     Should notwithstanding join our lights together     And overshine the earth, as this the world.     Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear     Upon my target three fair shining suns.   RICHARD. Nay, bear three daughters- by your leave I speak it,     You love the breeder better than the male.                   Enter a MESSENGER, blowing      But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell     Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?   MESSENGER. Ah, one that was a woeful looker-on     When as the noble Duke of York was slain,     Your princely father and my loving lord!   EDWARD. O, speak no more! for I have heard too much.   RICHARD. Say how he died, for I will hear it all.   MESSENGER. Environed he was with many foes,     And stood against them as the hope of Troy     Against the Greeks that would have ent'red Troy.     But Hercules himself must yield to odds;     And many strokes, though with a little axe,     Hews down and fells the hardest-timber'd oak.     By many hands your father was subdu'd;     But only slaught'red by the ireful arm     Of unrelenting Clifford and the Queen,     Who crown'd the gracious Duke in high despite,     Laugh'd in his face; and when with grief he wept,     The ruthless Queen gave him to dry his cheeks     A napkin steeped in the harmless blood     Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain;     And after many scorns, many foul taunts,     They took his head, and on the gates of York     They set the same; and there it doth remain,     The saddest spectacle that e'er I view'd.   EDWARD. Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon,     Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay.     O Clifford, boist'rous Clifford, thou hast slain     The flow'r of Europe for his chivalry;     And treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him,     For hand to hand he would have vanquish'd thee.     Now my soul's palace is become a prison.     Ah, would she break from hence, that this my body     Might in the ground be closed up in rest!     For never henceforth shall I joy again;     Never, O never, shall I see more joy.   RICHARD. I cannot weep, for all my body's moisture     Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart;     Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burden,     For self-same wind that I should speak withal     Is kindling coals that fires all my breast,     And burns me up with flames that tears would quench.     To weep is to make less the depth of grief.     Tears then for babes; blows and revenge for me!     Richard, I bear thy name; I'll venge thy death,     Or die renowned by attempting it.   EDWARD. His name that valiant duke hath left with thee;     His dukedom and his chair with me is left.   RICHARD. Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird,     Show thy descent by gazing 'gainst the sun;     For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom, say:     Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his.           March. Enter WARWICK, MONTAGUE, and their army    WARWICK. How now, fair lords! What fare? What news abroad?   RICHARD. Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount     Our baleful news and at each word's deliverance     Stab poinards in our flesh till all were told,     The words would add more anguish than the wounds.     O valiant lord, the Duke of York is slain!   EDWARD. O Warwick, Warwick! that Plantagenet     Which held thee dearly as his soul's redemption     Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death.   WARWICK. Ten days ago I drown'd these news in tears;     And now, to add more measure to your woes,     I come to tell you things sith then befall'n.     After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,     Where your brave father breath'd his latest gasp,     Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run,     Were brought me of your loss and his depart.     I, then in London, keeper of the King,     Muster'd my soldiers, gathered flocks of friends,     And very well appointed, as I thought,     March'd toward Saint Albans to intercept the Queen,     Bearing the King in my behalf along;     For by my scouts I was advertised     That she was coming with a full intent     To dash our late decree in parliament     Touching King Henry's oath and your succession.     Short tale to make- we at Saint Albans met,     Our battles join'd, and both sides fiercely fought;     But whether 'twas the coldness of the King,     Who look'd full gently on his warlike queen,     That robb'd my soldiers of their heated spleen,     Or whether 'twas report of her success,     Or more than common fear of Clifford's rigour,     Who thunders to his captives blood and death,     I cannot judge; but, to conclude with truth,     Their weapons like to lightning came and went:     Our soldiers', like the night-owl's lazy flight     Or like an idle thresher with a flail,     Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends.     I cheer'd them up with justice of our cause,     With promise of high pay and great rewards,     But all in vain; they had no heart to fight,     And we in them no hope to win the day;     So that we fled: the King unto the Queen;     Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and myself,     In haste post-haste are come to join with you;     For in the marches here we heard you were     Making another head to fight again.   EDWARD. Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick?     And when came George from Burgundy to England?   WARWICK. Some six miles off the Duke is with the soldiers;     And for your brother, he was lately sent     From your kind aunt, Duchess of Burgundy,     With aid of soldiers to this needful war.   RICHARD. 'Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled.     Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit,     But ne'er till now his scandal of retire.   WARWICK. Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou hear;     For thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine     Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry's head     And wring the awful sceptre from his fist,     Were he as famous and as bold in war     As he is fam'd for mildness, peace, and prayer.   RICHARD. I know it well, Lord Warwick; blame me not.     'Tis love I bear thy glories makes me speak.     But in this troublous time what's to be done?     Shall we go throw away our coats of steel     And wrap our bodies in black mourning-gowns,     Numbering our Ave-Maries with our beads?     Or shall we on the helmets of our foes     Tell our devotion with revengeful arms?     If for the last, say 'Ay,' and to it, lords.   WARWICK. Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you out;     And therefore comes my brother Montague.     Attend me, lords. The proud insulting Queen,     With Clifford and the haught Northumberland,     And of their feather many moe proud birds,     Have wrought the easy-melting King like wax.     He swore consent to your succession,     His oath enrolled in the parliament;     And now to London all the crew are gone     To frustrate both his oath and what beside     May make against the house of Lancaster.     Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong.     Now if the help of Norfolk and myself,     With all the friends that thou, brave Earl of March,     Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure,     Will but amount to five and twenty thousand,     Why, Via! to London will we march amain,     And once again bestride our foaming steeds,     And once again cry 'Charge upon our foes!'     But never once again turn back and fly.   RICHARD. Ay, now methinks I hear great Warwick speak.     Ne'er may he live to see a sunshine day     That cries 'Retire!' if Warwick bid him stay.   EDWARD. Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean;     And when thou fail'st- as God forbid the hour!-     Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forfend.   WARWICK. No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York;     The next degree is England's royal throne,     For King of England shalt thou be proclaim'd     In every borough as we pass along;     And he that throws not up his cap for joy     Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head.     King Edward, valiant Richard, Montague,     Stay we no longer, dreaming of renown,     But sound the trumpets and about our task.   RICHARD. Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as steel,     As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds,     I come to pierce it or to give thee mine.   EDWARD. Then strike up drums. God and Saint George for us!                         Enter a MESSENGER    WARWICK. How now! what news?   MESSENGER. The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me     The Queen is coming with a puissant host,     And craves your company for speedy counsel.   WARWICK. Why, then it sorts; brave warriors, let's away.                                                           Exeunt     SCENE II. Before York  Flourish. Enter KING HENRY, QUEEN MARGARET, the PRINCE OF WALES, CLIFFORD, NORTHUMBERLAND, with drum and trumpets    QUEEN MARGARET. Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York.     Yonder's the head of that arch-enemy     That sought to be encompass'd with your crown.     Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?   KING HENRY. Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their wreck-     To see this sight, it irks my very soul.     Withhold revenge, dear God; 'tis not my fault,     Nor wittingly have I infring'd my vow.   CLIFFORD. My gracious liege, this too much lenity     And harmful pity must be laid aside.     To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?     Not to the beast that would usurp their den.     Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick?     Not his that spoils her young before her face.     Who scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting?     Not he that sets his foot upon her back,     The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on,     And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood.     Ambitious York did level at thy crown,     Thou smiling while he knit his angry brows.     He, but a Duke, would have his son a king,     And raise his issue like a loving sire:     Thou, being a king, bless'd with a goodly son,     Didst yield consent to disinherit him,     Which argued thee a most unloving father.     Unreasonable creatures feed their young;     And though man's face be fearful to their eyes,     Yet, in protection of their tender ones,     Who hath not seen them- even with those wings     Which sometime they have us'd with fearful flight-     Make war with him that climb'd unto their nest,     Offering their own lives in their young's defence     For shame, my liege, make them your precedent!     Were it not pity that this goodly boy     Should lose his birthright by his father's fault,     And long hereafter say unto his child     'What my great-grandfather and grandsire got     My careless father fondly gave away'?     Ah, what a shame were this! Look on the boy;     And let his manly face, which promiseth     Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart     To hold thine own and leave thine own with him.   KING HENRY. Full well hath Clifford play'd the orator,     Inferring arguments of mighty force.     But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear     That things ill got had ever bad success?     And happy always was it for that son     Whose father for his hoarding went to hell?     I'll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind;     And would my father had left me no more!     For all the rest is held at such a rate     As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep     Than in possession any jot of pleasure.     Ah, cousin York! would thy best friends did know     How it doth grieve me that thy head is here!   QUEEN MARGARET. My lord, cheer up your spirits; our foes are nigh,     And this soft courage makes your followers faint.     You promis'd knighthood to our forward son:     Unsheathe your sword and dub him presently.     Edward, kneel down.   KING HENRY. Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight;     And learn this lesson: Draw thy sword in right.   PRINCE OF WALES. My gracious father, by your kingly leave,     I'll draw it as apparent to the crown,     And in that quarrel use it to the death.   CLIFFORD. Why, that is spoken like a toward prince.                        Enter a MESSENGER    MESSENGER. Royal commanders, be in readiness;     For with a band of thirty thousand men     Comes Warwick, backing of the Duke of York,     And in the towns, as they do march along,     Proclaims him king, and many fly to him.     Darraign your battle, for they are at hand.   CLIFFORD. I would your Highness would depart the field:     The Queen hath best success when you are absent.   QUEEN MARGARET. Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fortune.   KING HENRY. Why, that's my fortune too; therefore I'll stay.   NORTHUMBERLAND. Be it with resolution, then, to fight.   PRINCE OF WALES. My royal father, cheer these noble lords,     And hearten those that fight in your defence.     Unsheathe your sword, good father; cry 'Saint George!'           March. Enter EDWARD, GEORGE, RICHARD, WARWICK,                 NORFOLK, MONTAGUE, and soldiers    EDWARD. Now, perjur'd Henry, wilt thou kneel for grace     And set thy diadem upon my head,     Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?   QUEEN MARGARET. Go rate thy minions, proud insulting boy.     Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms     Before thy sovereign and thy lawful king?   EDWARD. I am his king, and he should bow his knee.     I was adopted heir by his consent:     Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear,     You that are King, though he do wear the crown,     Have caus'd him by new act of parliament     To blot out me and put his own son in.   CLIFFORD. And reason too:     Who should succeed the father but the son?   RICHARD. Are you there, butcher? O, I cannot speak!   CLIFFORD. Ay, crook-back, here I stand to answer thee,     Or any he, the proudest of thy sort.   RICHARD. 'Twas you that kill'd young Rutland, was it not?   CLIFFORD. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied.   RICHARD. For God's sake, lords, give signal to the fight.   WARWICK. What say'st thou, Henry? Wilt thou yield the crown?   QUEEN MARGARET. Why, how now, long-tongu'd Warwick! Dare you speak?     When you and I met at Saint Albans last     Your legs did better service than your hands.   WARWICK. Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine.   CLIFFORD. You said so much before, and yet you fled.   WARWICK. 'Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence.   NORTHUMBERLAND. No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay.   RICHARD. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently.     Break off the parley; for scarce I can refrain     The execution of my big-swol'n heart     Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.   CLIFFORD. I slew thy father; call'st thou him a child?   RICHARD. Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward,     As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland;     But ere sunset I'll make thee curse the deed.   KING HENRY. Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak.   QUEEN MARGARET. Defy them then, or else hold close thy lips.   KING HENRY. I prithee give no limits to my tongue:     I am a king, and privileg'd to speak.   CLIFFORD. My liege, the wound that bred this meeting here     Cannot be cur'd by words; therefore be still.   RICHARD. Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword.     By Him that made us all, I am resolv'd     That Clifford's manhood lies upon his tongue.   EDWARD. Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or no?     A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day     That ne'er shall dine unless thou yield the crown.   WARWICK. If thou deny, their blood upon thy head;     For York in justice puts his armour on.   PRINCE OF WALES. If that be right which Warwick says is right,     There is no wrong, but every thing is right.   RICHARD. Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands;     For well I wot thou hast thy mother's tongue.   QUEEN MARGARET. But thou art neither like thy sire nor dam;     But like a foul misshapen stigmatic,     Mark'd by the destinies to be avoided,     As venom toads or lizards' dreadful stings.   RICHARD. Iron of Naples hid with English gilt,     Whose father bears the title of a king-     As if a channel should be call'd the sea-     Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,     To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?   EDWARD. A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns     To make this shameless callet know herself.     Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,     Although thy husband may be Menelaus;     And ne'er was Agamemmon's brother wrong'd     By that false woman as this king by thee.     His father revell'd in the heart of France,     And tam'd the King, and made the Dauphin stoop;     And had he match'd according to his state,     He might have kept that glory to this day;     But when he took a beggar to his bed     And grac'd thy poor sire with his bridal day,     Even then that sunshine brew'd a show'r for him     That wash'd his father's fortunes forth of France     And heap'd sedition on his crown at home.     For what hath broach'd this tumult but thy pride?     Hadst thou been meek, our title still had slept;     And we, in pity of the gentle King,     Had slipp'd our claim until another age.   GEORGE. But when we saw our sunshine made thy spring,     And that thy summer bred us no increase,     We set the axe to thy usurping root;     And though the edge hath something hit ourselves,     Yet know thou, since we have begun to strike,     We'll never leave till we have hewn thee down,     Or bath'd thy growing with our heated bloods.   EDWARD. And in this resolution I defy thee;     Not willing any longer conference,     Since thou deniest the gentle King to speak.     Sound trumpets; let our bloody colours wave,     And either victory or else a grave!   QUEEN MARGARET. Stay, Edward.   EDWARD. No, wrangling woman, we'll no longer stay;     These words will cost ten thousand lives this day.                                                           Exeunt     SCENE III. A field of battle between Towton and Saxton, in Yorkshire  Alarum; excursions. Enter WARWICK    WARWICK. Forspent with toil, as runners with a race,     I lay me down a little while to breathe;     For strokes receiv'd and many blows repaid     Have robb'd my strong-knit sinews of their strength,     And spite of spite needs must I rest awhile.                       Enter EDWARD, running    EDWARD. Smile, gentle heaven, or strike, ungentle death;     For this world frowns, and Edward's sun is clouded.   WARWICK. How now, my lord. What hap? What hope of good?                           Enter GEORGE    GEORGE. Our hap is lost, our hope but sad despair;     Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us.     What counsel give you? Whither shall we fly?   EDWARD. Bootless is flight: they follow us with wings;     And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit.                           Enter RICHARD    RICHARD. Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?     Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk,     Broach'd with the steely point of Clifford's lance;     And in the very pangs of death he cried,     Like to a dismal clangor heard from far,     'Warwick, revenge! Brother, revenge my death.'     So, underneath the belly of their steeds,     That stain'd their fetlocks in his smoking blood,     The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.   WARWICK. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood.     I'll kill my horse, because I will not fly.     Why stand we like soft-hearted women here,     Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage,     And look upon, as if the tragedy     Were play'd in jest by counterfeiting actors?     Here on my knee I vow to God above     I'll never pause again, never stand still,     Till either death hath clos'd these eyes of mine     Or fortune given me measure of revenge.   EDWARD. O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine,     And in this vow do chain my soul to thine!     And ere my knee rise from the earth's cold face     I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to Thee,     Thou setter-up and plucker-down of kings,     Beseeching Thee, if with Thy will it stands     That to my foes this body must be prey,     Yet that Thy brazen gates of heaven may ope     And give sweet passage to my sinful soul.     Now, lords, take leave until we meet again,     Where'er it be, in heaven or in earth.   RICHARD. 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 should cut off our spring-time so.   WARWICK. Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell.   GEORGE. 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.     Forslow no longer; make we hence amain.               Exeunt     SCENE IV. Another part of the field  Excursions. Enter RICHARD and CLIFFORD    RICHARD. 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.   CLIFFORD. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone.     This is the hand that stabbed thy father York;     And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland;     And here's the heart that triumphs in their death     And cheers these hands that slew thy sire and brother     To execute the like upon thyself;     And so, have at thee!                           [They fight]                   Enter WARWICK; CLIFFORD flies    RICHARD. Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase;     For I myself will hunt this wolf to death.            Exeunt     SCENE V. Another part of the field  Alarum. Enter KING HENRY alone    KING 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 sea     Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind;     Now sways it that way, like the selfsame sea     Forc'd to retire by fury of the wind.     Sometime 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 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 makes the hour full complete,     How many hours brings 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 can;     So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:     So minutes, hours, days, 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; a 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 waits on him.         Alarum. Enter a son that hath kill'd his Father, at        one door; and a FATHER that hath kill'd his Son, at                          another door    SON. Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.     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 unwares 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 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 shall wipe away these bloody marks;     And no more words till they have flow'd their fill.   KING HENRY. O piteous spectacle! 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'ercharg'd with grief.                 Enter FATHER, bearing of his SON    FATHER. Thou that so stoutly hath resisted me,     Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold;     For I have bought it with an hundred blows.     But let me see. Is this our foeman's face?     Ah, no, no, no, no, it is mine only son!     Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee,     Throw up thine eye! See, see what show'rs arise,     Blown with the windy tempest of my heart     Upon thy wounds, that kills 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!   KING HENRY. Woe above woe! grief more than common grief!     O that my death would stay these ruthful deeds!     O pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity!     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, presenteth.     Wither one rose, and let the other flourish!     If you contend, a thousand lives must perish.   SON. How will my mother for a father's death     Take on with me, and ne'er be satisfied!   FATHER. How will my wife for slaughter of my son     Shed seas of tears, and ne'er be satisfied!   KING HENRY. How will the country for these woeful chances     Misthink the King, and not be satisfied!   SON. Was ever son so rued a father's death?   FATHER. Was ever father so bemoan'd his son?   KING HENRY. Was ever king so griev'd for subjects' 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   FATHER. These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet;     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,     Even 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 murdered where I should not kill.                                               Exit with the body   KING HENRY. Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care,     Here sits a king more woeful than you are.             Alarums, excursions. Enter QUEEN MARGARET,                   PRINCE OF WALES, and EXETER    PRINCE OF WALES. Fly, father, fly; for all your friends are fled,     And Warwick rages like a chafed bull.     Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit.   QUEEN MARGARET. 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.   EXETER. Away! for vengeance comes along with them.     Nay, stay not to expostulate; make speed;     Or else come after. I'll away before.   KING HENRY. 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     SCENE VI. Another part of the field  A loud alarum. Enter CLIFFORD, wounded    CLIFFORD. Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies,     Which, whiles 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 glu'd many friends to thee;     And, now I fall, thy tough commixture melts,     Impairing Henry, strength'ning misproud 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 Phoebus, hadst thou never given consent     That Phaethon 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,     And 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    EDWARD. 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 stern the waves.     But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them?   WARWICK. 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, whereso'er he is, he's surely dead.                                      [CLIFFORD groans, and dies]   RICHARD. Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave?     A deadly groan, like life and death's departing.     See who it is.   EDWARD. And now the battle's ended,     If friend or foe, let him be gently used.   RICHARD. 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 set his murd'ring knife unto the root     From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring-     I mean our princely father, Duke of York.   WARWICK. From off the gates of York fetch down the head,     Your father's head, which Clifford placed there;     Instead whereof let this supply the room.     Measure for measure must be answered.   EDWARD. Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house,     That nothing sung but death to us and ours.     Now death shall stop his dismal threat'ning sound,     And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.   WARWICK. I think his understanding is bereft.     Speak, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee?     Dark cloudy death o'ershades his beams of life,     And he nor sees nor hears us what we say.   RICHARD. O, would he did! and so, perhaps, he doth.     'Tis but his policy to counterfeit,     Because he would avoid such bitter taunts     Which in the time of death he gave our father.   GEORGE. If so thou think'st, vex him with eager words.   RICHARD. Clifford, ask mercy and obtain no grace.   EDWARD. Clifford, repent in bootless penitence.   WARWICK. Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults.   GEORGE. While we devise fell tortures for thy faults.   RICHARD. Thou didst love York, and I am son to York.   EDWARD. Thou pitied'st Rutland, I will pity thee.   GEORGE. Where's Captain Margaret, to fence you now?   WARWICK. They mock thee, Clifford; swear as thou wast wont.   RICHARD. What, not an oath? Nay, then the world goes hard     When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath.     I know by that he's dead; and by my soul,     If this right hand would buy two hours' life,     That I in all despite might rail at him,     This hand should chop it off, and with the issuing blood     Stifle the villain whose unstanched thirst     York and young Rutland could not satisfy.   WARWICK. 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 shall Warwick cut the sea to France,     And ask the Lady Bona for thy queen.     So shalt thou sinew both these lands together;     And, having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread     The scatt'red foe that hopes to rise again;     For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt,     Yet look to have them buzz to offend thine ears.     First will I see the coronation;     And then to Brittany I'll cross the sea     To effect this marriage, so it please my lord.   EDWARD. Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be;     For in thy shoulder do I build my seat,     And never will I undertake the thing     Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting.     Richard, I will create thee Duke of Gloucester;     And George, of Clarence; Warwick, as ourself,     Shall do and undo as him pleaseth best.   RICHARD. Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloucester;     For Gloucester's dukedom is too ominous.   WARWICK. Tut, that's a foolish observation.     Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London     To see these honours in possession.                   Exeunt