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Enter Richard.

Ricb. Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thy self?
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 cry'd,
(Like to a dismal clangor heard from far)
Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death!
So underneath the belly of his steeds,
That staind their fet-locks in his smoaking blood,
The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.

War. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood;
I'll kill my horse because I will not fly:
Why stand we like foft-hearted women here,
Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage,
And look upon, as if the tragedy
Were plaid 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.

Edw. 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 heav'n may ope,
And give sweet passage to my sinful soul.
Now, Lords, take leave until we meet again,
Where-e'er it be, in heaven or on earth.

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 should cut off our spring-time fo.

War. (a) It was not the Marquiss of Montague who was Jain in this battle, but a natural brother of the Earl of Warwick. Theobald.

War. Away, away: once more, sweet Lords, Farewel!

Cla, Yet let us altogether to our troops;
And give them leave to fy 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-now 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 ftabb'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 thy self;
And so have at thee.

They fight. Warwick enters, Clifford flies.
Rich. Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase,
For I my self will hunt this wolf to death. [Exeunt.

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Alarum. Enter King Henry alone. K. Henry. This battel 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 the self-fame sea 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.


Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind;
Now one the better, then another best,
Both tugging to be victors, breast to breasts
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 battel, swearing both
They prosper 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 swain,
To fit 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

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 my self;
So many days my ewes have been with young,
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean,
So many months ere I shall sheer the fleece:
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years
Past 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?

i makes

the year,


O yes

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 Neep 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, miltrust and treasons wait on him.

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Alarum. Enter a Son, bearing his Fatber.
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 some man else, as this dead man to me.
Who's this? oh God! it is my father's face,
Whom in this conflict I un'wares 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, prest 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 How'd their fill.

K. 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'er-charg'd with grief.

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Enter á Father, bearing his Son. Fath. Thou that fo ftoutly.haft resisted me, Give me thy gold, if thou hast 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 eye; 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 ? 'late, And hath bereft thee of thy life too 3 'foon.' (grief!

K. Henry. Woe above woe; grief, more than common O that my death would stay thefe rueful 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 refembles, The other his pale cheek, methinks, prefenteth: Wither one rose, and let the other flourish! If you contend, a thousand lives mult 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, før Naughter of my son, Shed seas of tears, and ne'er be fatisfy'd!

K. Henry. How will the country, for thefe woful chances, Mif-think the King, and not be satisfy'd! Son. Was ever fon fo rued 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 thec hence, where I may weep my hill. [Exit.

Farb. 2 foon,


3 late.

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