Broach'd with the steely point of Clifford's lance; That ftain'd their fetlocks in his fmoaking blood, War. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood; Were plaid in jeft by counterfeiting actors? Till either death hath clos'd these eyes of mine, Edw. O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine, And in this vow do chain my foul to thine. And ere my knee rife from the earth's cold face, [wick, Rich. Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle WarLet me embrace thee in my weary arms : I, that did never weep, now melt with woe; That winter should cut off our fpring-time fo. War. Away, away: once more, fweet Lords, farewel. And give them leave to fly, that will not stay; is only an incidental piece of hiftory. Confulting the chronicles, upon this action at Ferribridge, I find him to have been a natural fon of Salisbury, (in that refpect, a brother to Warwick;) and efteem'd a valiant young gentleman, F 6 And And if we thrive, promise them fuch rewards,. This may plant courage in their quailing breasts, Fore-flow no longer, make we hence amain. [Exeunts. Rich. Now, Clifford, I have fingled thee alone; Clif. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone, And fo, have at thee. They fight. Warwick enters, Clifford flies. Rich. Nay, Warwick, fingle out fome other chafe, For I myself will hunt this wolf to death. Alarum. Enter King Henry alone. [Exeunt K. Henry. This battle fares like to the morning's war, Sometime, the flood prevails; and then, the wind ;. Both tugging to be victors, breast to breaft, Have chid me from the battle; fwearing both, To carve out dials queintly, point by point, So many days, my ewes have been with young; Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. And to conclude, the shepherd's homely curds,. Alarum 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 else, 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'ercharg'd with grief. Enter a Father, bearing his Son.. Fath. Thou, that fo ftoutly haft refifted 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?. Throw up thine eyes; fee, fee, what show'rs arise, Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart. O pity, God, this miferable age! What ftratagems, how fell, how butcherly, This deadly quarrel daily doth beget! O boy! thy father gave thee life too soon, And hath bereft thee of thy life too late. [grief; K. Henry. Woe above woe; grief more than common 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 one his purple blood right well resembles, Son. How will my mother, for a father's death, Fath. How will my wife, for flaughter of my fon, Shed feas of tears, and ne'er be fatisfy'd Fchances, K. Henry. How will the country, for these woeful 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 ; I'll bear thee hence, and let them fight that will; [Exit. K. Henry. Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care; Here fits a King more woeful than you are. Alarums. Excurfions. Enter the Queen, Prince of Wales, and Exeter. Prince. Fly, father, fly, for all your friends are fled; And Warwick rages like a chafed bull : Away! |