The Complete Works of William Shakespeare Part 216

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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d's good will were so!

For what is in this world but grief and woe?

O G.o.d! 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, Pa.s.s'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 n.o.body.

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 G.o.d! 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, G.o.d, I knew not what I did.

And pardon, father, for I knew not thee.

My tears shall wipe away these b.l.o.o.d.y marks; And no more words till they have flow'd their fill.

KING HENRY. O piteous spectacle! O b.l.o.o.d.y 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, G.o.d, 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 flouris.h.!.+

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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 s.h.i.+nes 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 b.l.o.o.d.y-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.