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War. Then let the earth be drunken with our

blood; J'll kill my horse, because I will not fly. Why stand we like foft-hearted women here, Wailing our losses, whiiles the foę 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 row do chain my foul with thine : And ere my knee rise from the eartir's cold face, I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee, Thou setter up, and plucker down of kings! Befeeching thee, if with thy will it stands That to my foes this body must be prey, Yet that ihy brazen gates of heav'n may ope, And give sweet passage to my sinful soul. Now, Lords, take leave untill 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 so. War. Away, away. Once more, sweet Lords,

farewell ::: 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; 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 vi&ory. Fore-flow no longer, make we hence amains:

*1.5 [Exeunt. Excursions. Enter Richard and Clifford. Rich. Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone; Suppole this arm is for the:Duke of Yorky

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And this for Rutland; both bound to revenge,
Wert thou environ'u 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 flew thy brother Rutland;
And here's the heart that triumphs in their death,
And cheers these hands that flew thy fire and brother,
To execute the like upon thyself;
And to have at thee.

{They fight. Warwick enters, Clifford flies. Rich Nav, Warwick, single out some other chale, For I myself will hunt this wolf to death [Exeunt..

S CE N E VI.

Alarm. 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 Mepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day nor night.
Now (ways it this way like a nighty fea,
Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind;
Now sways it that way, like the telf fame séa
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, breaft to breast,
Yei 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 Margaret my Queen, and Clifford too,
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 fo;
For what is in this world but grief and woe?
O God! methinks it were a happy life
To be po better than a homely (wain,
To sit upon a hill

, as I do now,
To carve out d'als quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes bow zabey Funi

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How many make the hour full compleat,
How many hours bring about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the time;
So many hours must I tend my rock,
So many hours must I take ny relt,
So many hours must I contemplate,
So many hours must I tport myself,
So many days my ewes have been with young,
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean,
So many months ere I Mall sheer the fleece;
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years,
Palt 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 haw-thorn buth a sweeter thade
To shepherds looking on their filly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy
To kings, that tear 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 the prince's delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched on a curious bed,
When caré, mistrust and treasons wait on him.

S. CE N E VII.
Alarm. Enter a Son that had killed his Father *:

Son, Ill blows the wind that profits no body.-
This man, whom hand to hand I flew. in fight, .
May be poslefied with some store of crowns ;
And I, that haply take them from him now,
May yet, ere night, yield both my life and thein:
To fone man elle, as this dead nian doth me.

* These two horrible incidents are selected, to show ebeginnumerable calamities of civil war. Johnson. .

-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, press'd by his master;
And I, who at his hands receiv'd my life,
Have, by my hands, of life bereav'd him.
Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did;
And pardon, father, for I knew not thec.
My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks,
And no more words, till they have flow'd their fill.

K. Henry. Opiteous 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'ereharg'd with grief,

Enter a Father bearing his Son.
Fath. Thou, that fo stoutly hast 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 son !
Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee,
Throw

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thine eyes; see, see, what flowers 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 foon, And hath bereft thee of thy life too late. K. Henry. Woe above woe; grief, more than

common grief. 0, that my death would stay these rueful deeds! 0, pity, pity, gentle Heaven, pity! The red role and the white are on his face, The fatal colours of our striving houses. The one his purple blood right well resembles,

The other his pale cheek, methinks, presenteth.
Wither one role, and let the other flourish!
If you contend, a thousand lives must 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, for slaughter of my son, Shed seas of tears, and ne'er be fatisfy'd ? K. Henry. How will the country, for these wo

ful chances,
Mif-think the King, and not be fatisfy'd ?

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

woe? Much is your sorrow; 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

theet, My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre ; For from my heart thine image ne'er Shall go. My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell, And so obsequious * will thy father be, Sad for the loss of thee, having no more, As Priam was for all liis valiant sons. 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 fits a King more woful than you are.

S CE N E VIII. Alarms. Excursions. Enter the Queen, Prince of

Wales, and Exeter. Prince. Fly, father, fly, for all your friends are And Warwick rages like a chafed bull. [fled; Away ! for death doth hold us in pursuit. Queer. Mount you, my Lord; towards Berwick

post amain.

Obsequirus is here careful of obfequics, or of funeral rites. Joinfon.

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