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Broach'd with the steely point of Cliford's lance ;
War. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood;
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,
And if we thrive, promise them such rewards,
Excursions. Enter Richard and Clifford.
Clif. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone,
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
Have chid me from the battle ; swearing both,
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!
K. Henry. Woe above woe; grief more than common
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: