Imagens das páginas

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

Son. Il blows the wind, that profits no body.
This man, whom hand to hand i flew in fight,
May be poflessed 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 elle, as this dead man doth me.
Who's this ! oh God! it is


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 fow'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 bis 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 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, fee, what show'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:


Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit. [amain.

Queen. Mount you, my Lord, towards Berwick post Edward and Richard, like a brace of grey-hounds Having the fearful flying hare in fight, With fiery, eyes sparkling for very wrath, And bloody steel graspt in their ireful hands, Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain.

Exe. Away ; for vengeance comes along with them. Nay, stay not to expoftulate, make speed: Or else come after, I'll away before.

K. 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.

A loud Alarum. Erter Clifford wounded. (12)

Clif. Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies, Which, while 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 glew'd many friends to thee; (Falling. And, now I fall, thy tough commixtures melt, Impairing Henry, strengthning mis-proud York. The common people swarm like summer-flies; (13)

(12) Enter Clifford wounded.] In the ist quarto, there is this cir. cumstance added; Enter Clifford wounded, with an arrow in bis necká The players, in their edition, had reason to make a retrenchment of this; for, no doubt, 'twas a point of ridicule to see an actor come upon the stage to die, with an arrow fixt in his neck. And this paff ge I find rallied by Beaumont and Fletcher in their Knight of the Burning Peftle. For Ralph, the grocer's prentice, is there introduc'd, with a forked arrow through bis bead; and makes a long burlesque harangue in a bantering imitation of Clifford's speech here. Take a Thort sample of his last dying words.

Farewel, all you good boys in merry Lordon,
Ne’er shall we more upon Sbrove tuesday meet,
And pluck down houses of iniquity.
My pain increaseth:-I shall never more
Hold open, whilst another pumps both legs ;
Nor daub a fattin gown with rotten eggs.
Set up a stake, oh, never more I shall;
I.die: fly, fly, my soul, to Grocer's Hall..

[Dies (13) The common people swarm like summer fies.] This line, which is a necessary introduction to that which follows, and which is left out in all the other impressions, I have restor’d from the old quarto.

And whither fly the gnats, but to the sun ?
And who Nines now but Henry's enemies?
Phæbus ! - hadit thou never giv'n consent
That Phaeton ihould check thy fiery steeds,
Thy burning car had never scorch'd the earth;
And Henry, hadit 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 fies.
I, and ten thousand in this luckless realm,
Had left no mourning widows for our death;
And thou this day hadit 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 deferv'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 ftabb’d your fathers 'bosoms ; split my


[He faints. Alarum, and Retreat. Enter Edward, Warwick, Richard,

Montague, Clarence, and Soldiers.
Edw. Now breathe we, Lords, good fortune bids us

And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks.
Some troops pursue the bloody-minded Queen,
That led calm Henry, though he were a King,
As doth a fail, fill'd with a fretting guft,
Command an argofy to stem the waves.
But think you, Lords, that Clifford Aled with them?

War. No, 'tis imposible he should escape:
For though before his face I speak the word,
Your brother Richard mark'd him for the grave;
And where oe'er he is, he's surely dead.

(Clifford groans. Rich. Whose soul is that, which takes her heavy leave ?:

A deadly

A deadly groan, like life and death's departing.
See who it is.

Edw. And now the battle's ended,
If friend or foe, let him be gently used.

Rich. Revoke that doom of mercy, for 'tis Clifford;
Who not contented that he lopp'd the branch,
In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth;
But set his murd’ring knife unto the root
From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring ;
I mean, our princely father, Duke of York.

War. From off the gates of York fetch down the head,
Your father's head, which Clifford placed there :
Instead whereof, let his supply the room.
Measure for measure must be answered.

Edw. Bring forth that fatal screech-owi to our house, That nothing

sung but death to us and ours : Now death Tall ftop his dismal threatning sound, And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.

War. I think, his understanding is bereft:
Speak, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee?
Dark cloudy death o'er-shades his beams of life,
And he nor sees, nor hears us what we say.

Rich. O, would he did! and fo, perhaps, he doth.
'Tis but his policy to counterfeit;
Becaufe he would avoid such bitter taunts,
As in the time of death he gave our father.

Cla. If so thou think'st, vex him with eager words. Rich. Clifford, ask mercy, and obtain no grace. Edw. Clifford, repent in bootless penitence. War. Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults. Cla. While we devise fell tortures for thy faults. Rich. Thou didit love York, and I am son to York. Edw. Thou pitied'it Rutland, I will pity thee. Cla. Where's Captain Margaret to fence you now? War. They mock thee, Clifford; swear, as thou wast wont. Rich. What, not an oath! nay, then the world goes hard, When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath : I know by that, he's dead; and, by my soul, If this right hand would buy but two hours life, That I in all despight might rail at him,

« AnteriorContinuar »