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Broach'd with the steely point of Cliford'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 their steeds,
That stain’d their fetlocks 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 soft-hearted women here,
Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage ;
And look upon, as if the tragedy
Were plaid in jeft 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 muft be prey) Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope, And give sweet passage to my finful soul.-Now, Lords, take leave until we meet again ; Where-e'er it be, in heav'n or on earth. [wick,

Rich. Brother, give me thy hand ; and, gentle War: 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.

War. Away, away : once more, sweet Lords, farewel.

Cla. 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 ; is only an incidental picce of history. Consulting the chronicles, upon this action at Ferribridge, I find him to have been a natural fun of Salisbury, (in that respect, a brother to Warwick ;) and esteem'd a valiant young gentleman,

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And if we thrive, promise them such rewards,
As victors wear at the Olympian games.
This may plant courage in their quailing breasls,
For yet is hope of life and victory;
Fore-flow 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 stabb'd 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 fire and brother,.
To execute the like

upon thyfelf: And so, have at thee..

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

Alarum. Enter King Henry alone. K. 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 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 beft; Both tugging to be victors, breait to breaft, Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered ; So is the equal poise of this fell war. Here on this mole-hill will I fit me down: To whom God will, there be the victory! For Alargaret my Queen and Clifford too

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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?
© 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 makes 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 time;
So many hours, must I tend my flock;
So many hours, must I take my
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 yean;
So many months, ere I shall fhear the fleece:
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years,
Paft over,, to the end tbey were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah! what a life were this ! how sweet, how lovely!
Gives not the haw-thorn bush a sweeter fhade
To Thepherds looking on their filly 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, miftrust and treasons wait on him..


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Alarum. Enter a Son, that had kill'd his Father.

Son. Il blows the wind, that profits no body This man, whom hand to hand i flew 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 fome man elle, 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 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, 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. Opiteous 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 teari; And let our hearts and eyes, like civil war, Be blind with tears, and break o'ercharg'd with grief.

Enter a Father, bearing bis Son. Fath. Thou, that fo ftoutly haft refifted 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 foesman's face? Ah, no, no, no, it is my only fon! Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee, Throw up thine eyes ;: see, see, what how'rs arise, Blown with the windy tempeft 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 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 rose and the white are on his face,
The fatal colours of our friving houses.
The one his purple blood right well resembles,
The other his pale cheek, methinks, presenteth:
Wither one rose, and let the other fourish!
If you contend, a thousand lives muft wither.

Son. How will my mother, for a father's death, Take on with me, and ne'er be satisfy’d?

Fath. How will my wife, for slaughter of my son, Shed seas of tears, and ne'er be satisfy'd ? (chances,

K. Henry. How will the country, for these woeful Mif-think the King, and not be fatisfy'd ?

Son. Was ever fon, so ru'd a father's death? Fath. Was ever father, so bemoan'd his fon? K. Henry. Was ever King, fo griev'd for subjects woe? Much is

your forrow ; mine, ten times so much. Son. I'll bear thee hence; where I may weep my fill:

[Exit. Fath. These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet, My heart, sweet boy, lhall be thy sepulchre ; For from my heart thine image ne'er shall go. My fighing breast Mall be thy funeral bell: And lo obsequious will thy father be, Sad for the loss 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 murder'd where I should not kill. [Exit.

K. Henry. Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care; Here tits a King more woeful than you are. Alarums. Excursions. Enter the Queen, Prince of Wales,

and Exeter. Prince. Fly, father, fly, for all your friends are fed ; And Warwick rages like a chafed bull:


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