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King Henry VI, Part 3 · Chapter 2Part 2

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Clifford. That is my Office, for my Fathers sake

Queene. Nay stay, let's heare the Orizons hee makes

Yorke. Shee-Wolfe of France, But worse then Wolues of France, Whose Tongue more poysons then the Adders Tooth: How ill-beseeming is it in thy Sex, To triumph like an Amazonian Trull, Vpon their Woes, whom Fortune captiuates? But that thy Face is Vizard-like, vnchanging, Made impudent with vse of euill deedes. I would assay, prowd Queene, to make thee blush. To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom deriu'd, Were shame enough, to shame thee, Wert thou not shamelesse. Thy Father beares the type of King of Naples, Of both the Sicils, and Ierusalem, Yet not so wealthie as an English Yeoman. Hath that poore Monarch taught thee to insult? It needes not, nor it bootes thee not, prowd Queene, Vnlesse the Adage must be verify'd, That Beggers mounted, runne their Horse to death. 'Tis Beautie that doth oft make Women prowd, But God he knowes, thy share thereof is small. 'Tis Vertue, that doth make them most admir'd, The contrary, doth make thee wondred at. 'Tis Gouernment that makes them seeme Diuine, The want thereof, makes thee abhominable. Thou art as opposite to euery good, As the Antipodes are vnto vs, Or as the South to the Septentrion. Oh Tygres Heart, wrapt in a Womans Hide, How could'st thou drayne the Life-blood of the Child, To bid the Father wipe his eyes withall, And yet be seene to beare a Womans face? Women are soft, milde, pittifull, and flexible; Thou, sterne, obdurate, flintie, rough, remorselesse. Bidst thou me rage? why now thou hast thy wish. Would'st haue me weepe? why now thou hast thy will. For raging Wind blowes vp incessant showers, And when the Rage allayes, the Raine begins. These Teares are my sweet Rutlands Obsequies, And euery drop cryes vengeance for his death, 'Gainst thee fell Clifford, and thee false French-woman

Northumb. Beshrew me, but his passions moues me so, That hardly can I check my eyes from Teares

Yorke. That Face of his, The hungry Caniballs would not haue toucht, Would not haue stayn'd with blood: But you are more inhumane, more inexorable, Oh, tenne times more then Tygers of Hyrcania. See, ruthlesse Queene, a haplesse Fathers Teares: This Cloth thou dipd'st in blood of my sweet Boy, And I with Teares doe wash the blood away. Keepe thou the Napkin, and goe boast of this, And if thou tell'st the heauie storie right, Vpon my Soule, the hearers will shed Teares: Yea, euen my Foes will shed fast-falling Teares, And say, Alas, it was a pittious deed. There, take the Crowne, and with the Crowne, my Curse, And in thy need, such comfort come to thee, As now I reape at thy too cruell hand. Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the World, My Soule to Heauen, my Blood vpon your Heads

Northumb. Had he been slaughter-man to all my Kinne, I should not for my Life but weepe with him, To see how inly Sorrow gripes his Soule

Queen. What, weeping ripe, my Lord Northumberland? Thinke but vpon the wrong he did vs all, And that will quickly drie thy melting Teares

Clifford. Heere's for my Oath, heere's for my Fathers Death

Queene. And heere's to right our gentle-hearted King

Yorke. Open thy Gate of Mercy, gracious God, My Soule flyes through these wounds, to seeke out thee

Queene. Off with his Head, and set it on Yorke Gates, So Yorke may ouer-looke the Towne of Yorke.

Flourish. Exit.

A March. Enter Edward, Richard, and their power.

Edward. I wonder how our Princely Father scap't: Or whether he be scap't away, or no, From Cliffords and Northumberlands pursuit? Had he been ta'ne, we should haue heard the newes; Had he beene slaine, we should haue heard the newes: Or had he scap't, me thinkes we should haue heard The happy tidings of his good escape. How fares my Brother? why is he so sad? Richard. I cannot ioy, vntill I be resolu'd Where our right valiant Father is become. I saw him in the Battaile range about, And watcht him how he singled Clifford forth. Me thought he bore him in the thickest troupe, As doth a Lyon in a Heard of Neat, Or as a Beare encompass'd round with Dogges: Who hauing pincht a few, and made them cry, The rest stand all aloofe, and barke at him. So far'd our Father with his Enemies, So fled his Enemies my Warlike Father: Me thinkes 'tis prize enough to be his Sonne. See how the Morning opes her golden Gates, And takes her farwell of the glorious Sunne. How well resembles it the prime of Youth, Trimm'd like a Yonker, prauncing to his Loue? Ed. Dazle mine eyes, or doe I see three Sunnes? Rich. Three glorious Sunnes, each one a perfect Sunne, Not seperated with the racking Clouds, But seuer'd in a pale cleare-shining Skye. See, see, they ioyne, embrace, and seeme to kisse, As if they vow'd some League inuiolable. Now are they but one Lampe, one Light, one Sunne: In this, the Heauen figures some euent

Edward. 'Tis wondrous strange, The like yet neuer heard of. I thinke it cites vs (Brother) to the field, That wee, the Sonnes of braue Plantagenet, Each one alreadie blazing by our meedes, Should notwithstanding ioyne our Lights together, And ouer-shine the Earth, as this the World. What ere it bodes, hence-forward will I beare Vpon my Targuet three faire shining Sunnes

Richard. Nay, beare three Daughters: By your leaue, I speake it, You loue the Breeder better then the Male. Enter one blowing.

But what art thou, whose heauie Lookes fore-tell Some dreadfull story hanging on thy Tongue? Mess. Ah, one that was a wofull looker on, When as the Noble Duke of Yorke was slaine, Your Princely Father, and my louing Lord

Edward. Oh speake no more, for I haue heard too much

Richard. Say how he dy'de, for I will heare it all

Mess. Enuironed he was with many foes, And stood against them, as the hope of Troy Against the Greekes, that would haue entred Troy. But Hercules himselfe must yeeld to oddes: And many stroakes, though with a little Axe, Hewes downe and fells the hardest-tymber'd Oake. By many hands your Father was subdu'd, But onely slaught'red by the irefull Arme Of vn-relenting Clifford, and the Queene: Who crown'd the gracious Duke in high despight, Laugh'd in his face: and when with griefe he wept, The ruthlesse Queene gaue him, to dry his Cheekes, A Napkin, steeped in the harmelesse blood Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slaine: And after many scornes, many foule taunts, They tooke his Head, and on the Gates of Yorke They set the same, and there it doth remaine, The saddest spectacle that ere I view'd

Edward. Sweet Duke of Yorke, our Prop to leane vpon, Now thou art gone, wee haue no Staffe, no Stay. Oh Clifford, boyst'rous Clifford, thou hast slaine The flowre of Europe, for his Cheualrie, And trecherously hast thou vanquisht him, For hand to hand he would haue vanquisht thee. Now my Soules Pallace is become a Prison: Ah, would she breake from hence, that this my body Might in the ground be closed vp in rest: For neuer henceforth shall I ioy againe: Neuer, oh neuer shall I see more ioy

Rich. I cannot weepe: for all my bodies moysture Scarse serues to quench my Furnace-burning hart: Nor can my tongue vnloade my hearts great burthen, For selfe-same winde that I should speake withall, Is kindling coales that fires all my brest, And burnes me vp with flames, that tears would quench. To weepe, is to make lesse the depth of greefe: Teares then for Babes; Blowes, and Reuenge for mee. Richard, I beare thy name, Ile venge thy death, Or dye renowned by attempting it

Ed. His name that valiant Duke hath left with thee: His Dukedome, and his Chaire with me is left

Rich. Nay, if thou be that Princely Eagles Bird, Shew thy descent by gazing 'gainst the Sunne: For Chaire and Dukedome, Throne and Kingdome say, Either that is thine, or else thou wer't not his.

March. Enter Warwicke, Marquesse Mountacute, and their Army.

Warwick. How now faire Lords? What faire? What newes abroad? Rich. Great Lord of Warwicke, if we should recompt Our balefull newes, and at each words deliuerance Stab Poniards in our flesh, till all were told, The words would adde more anguish then the wounds. O valiant Lord, the Duke of Yorke is slaine

Edw. O Warwicke, Warwicke, that Plantagenet Which held thee deerely, as his Soules Redemption, Is by the sterne Lord Clifford done to death

War. Ten dayes ago, I drown'd these newes in teares. And now to adde more measure to your woes, I come to tell you things sith then befalne. After the bloody Fray at Wakefield fought, Where your braue Father breath'd his latest gaspe, Tydings, as swiftly as the Postes could runne, Were brought me of your Losse, and his Depart. I then in London, keeper of the King, Muster'd my Soldiers, gathered flockes of Friends, Marcht toward S[aint]. Albons, to intercept the Queene, Bearing the King in my behalfe along: For by my Scouts, I was aduertised That she was comming with a full intent To dash our late Decree in Parliament, Touching King Henries Oath, and your Succession: Short Tale to make, we at S[aint]. Albons met, Our Battailes ioyn'd, and both sides fiercely fought: But whether 'twas the coldnesse of the King, Who look'd full gently on his warlike Queene, That robb'd my Soldiers of their heated Spleene. Or whether 'twas report of her successe, Or more then common feare of Cliffords Rigour, Who thunders to his Captiues, Blood and Death, I cannot iudge: but to conclude with truth, Their Weapons like to Lightning, came and went: Our Souldiers like the Night-Owles lazie flight, Or like a lazie Thresher with a Flaile, Fell gently downe, as if they strucke their Friends. I cheer'd them vp with iustice of our Cause, With promise of high pay, and great Rewards: But all in vaine, they had no heart to fight, And we (in them) no hope to win the day, So that we fled: the King vnto the Queene, Lord George, your Brother, Norfolke, and my Selfe, In haste, post haste, are come to ioyne with you: For in the Marches heere we heard you were, Making another Head, to fight againe

Ed. Where is the Duke of Norfolke, gentle Warwick? And when came George from Burgundy to England? War. Some six miles off the Duke is with the Soldiers, And for your Brother he was lately sent From your kinde Aunt Dutchesse of Burgundie, With ayde of Souldiers to this needfull Warre

Rich. 'Twas oddes belike, when valiant Warwick fled; Oft haue I heard his praises in Pursuite, But ne're till now, his Scandall of Retire

War. Nor now my Scandall Richard, dost thou heare: For thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine, Can plucke the Diadem from faint Henries head, And wring the awefull Scepter from his Fist, Were he as famous, and as bold in Warre, As he is fam'd for Mildnesse, Peace, and Prayer

Rich. I know it well Lord Warwick, blame me not, 'Tis loue I beare thy glories make me speake: But in this troublous time, what's to be done? Shall we go throw away our Coates of Steele, And wrap our bodies in blacke mourning Gownes, Numb'ring our Aue-Maries with our Beads? Or shall we on the Helmets of our Foes Tell our Deuotion with reuengefull Armes? If for the last, say I, and to it Lords

War. Why therefore Warwick came to seek you out, And therefore comes my Brother Mountague: Attend me Lords, the proud insulting Queene, With Clifford, and the haught Northumberland, And of their Feather, many moe proud Birds, Haue wrought the easie-melting King, like Wax. He swore consent to your Succession, His Oath enrolled in the Parliament. And now to London all the crew are gone, To frustrate both his Oath, and what beside May make against the house of Lancaster. Their power (I thinke) is thirty thousand strong: Now, if the helpe of Norfolke, and my selfe, With all the Friends that thou braue Earle of March, Among'st the louing Welshmen can'st procure, Will but amount to fiue and twenty thousand, Why Via, to London will we march, And once againe, bestride our foaming Steeds, And once againe cry Charge vpon our Foes, But neuer once againe turne backe and flye

Rich. I, now me thinks I heare great Warwick speak; Ne're may he liue to see a Sun-shine day, That cries Retire, if Warwicke bid him stay

Ed. Lord Warwicke, on thy shoulder will I leane, And when thou failst (as God forbid the houre) Must Edward fall, which perill heauen forefend

War. No longer Earle of March, but Duke of Yorke: The next degree, is Englands Royall Throne: For King of England shalt thou be proclaim'd In euery Burrough as we passe along, And he that throwes not vp his cap for ioy, Shall for the Fault make forfeit of his head. King Edward, valiant Richard Mountague: Stay we no longer, dreaming of Renowne. But sound the Trumpets, and about our Taske

Rich. Then Clifford, were thy heart as hard as Steele, As thou hast shewne it flintie by thy deeds, I come to pierce it, or to giue thee mine

Ed. Then strike vp Drums, God and S[aint]. George for vs. Enter a Messenger.

War. How now? what newes? Mes. The Duke of Norfolke sends you word by me, The Queene is comming with a puissant Hoast, And craues your company, for speedy counsell

War. Why then it sorts, braue Warriors, let's away.

Exeunt. Omnes.

Flourish. Enter the King, the Queene, Clifford, Northum[berland] and Yong Prince, with Drumme and Trumpettes.

Qu. Welcome my Lord, to this braue town of Yorke, Yonders the head of that Arch-enemy, That sought to be incompast with your Crowne. Doth not the obiect cheere your heart, my Lord

K. I, as the rockes cheare them that feare their wrack, To see this sight, it irkes my very soule: With-hold reuenge (deere God) 'tis not my fault, Nor wittingly haue I infring'd my Vow

Clif. My gracious Liege, this too much lenity And harmfull pitty must be layd aside: To whom do Lyons cast their gentle Lookes? Not to the Beast, that would vsurpe their Den. Whose hand is that the Forrest Beare doth licke? Not his that spoyles her yong before her face. Who scapes the lurking Serpents mortall sting? Not he that sets his foot vpon her backe. The smallest Worme will turne, being troden on, And Doues will pecke in safegard of their Brood. Ambitious Yorke, did leuell at thy Crowne, Thou smiling, while he knit his angry browes. He but a Duke, would haue his Sonne a King, And raise his issue like a louing Sire. Thou being a King, blest with a goodly sonne, Did'st yeeld consent to disinherit him: Which argued thee a most vnlouing Father. Vnreasonable Creatures feed their young, And though mans face be fearefull to their eyes, Yet in protection of their tender ones, Who hath not seene them euen with those wings, Which sometime they haue vs'd with fearfull flight, Make warre with him that climb'd vnto their nest, Offering their owne liues in their yongs defence? For shame, my Liege, make them your President: Were it not pitty that this goodly Boy Should loose his Birth-right by his Fathers fault, And long heereafter say vnto his childe, What my great Grandfather, and Grandsire got, My carelesse Father fondly gaue away. Ah, what a shame were this? Looke on the Boy, And let his manly face, which promiseth Successefull Fortune steele thy melting heart, To hold thine owne, and leaue thine owne with him

King. Full well hath Clifford plaid the Orator, Inferring arguments of mighty force: But Clifford tell me, did'st thou neuer heare, That things ill got, had euer bad successe. And happy alwayes was it for that Sonne, Whose Father for his hoording went to hell: Ile leaue my Sonne my Vertuous deeds behinde, And would my Father had left me no more: For all the rest is held at such a Rate, As brings a thousand fold more care to keepe, Then in possession any iot of pleasure. Ah Cosin Yorke, would thy best Friends did know, How it doth greeue me that thy head is heere

Qu. My Lord cheere vp your spirits, our foes are nye, And this soft courage makes your Followers faint: You promist Knighthood to our forward sonne, Vnsheath your sword, and dub him presently. Edward, kneele downe

King. Edward Plantagenet, arise a Knight, And learne this Lesson; Draw thy Sword in right

Prin. My gracious Father, by your Kingly leaue, Ile draw it as Apparant to the Crowne, And in that quarrell, vse it to the death

Clif. Why that is spoken like a toward Prince. Enter a Messenger.

Mess. Royall Commanders, be in readinesse, For with a Band of thirty thousand men, Comes Warwicke backing of the Duke of Yorke, And in the Townes as they do march along, Proclaimes him King, and many flye to him, Darraigne your battell, for they are at hand

Clif. I would your Highnesse would depart the field, The Queene hath best successe when you are absent

Qu. I good my Lord, and leaue vs to our Fortune

King. Why, that's my fortune too, therefore Ile stay

North. Be it with resolution then to fight

Prin. My Royall Father, cheere these Noble Lords, And hearten those that fight in your defence: Vnsheath your Sword, good Father: Cry S[aint]. George.

March. Enter Edward, Warwicke, Richard, Clarence, Norfolke, Mountague, and Soldiers.

Edw. Now periur'd Henry, wilt thou kneel for grace? And set thy Diadem vpon my head? Or bide the mortall Fortune of the field

Qu. Go rate thy Minions, proud insulting Boy, Becomes it thee to be thus bold in termes, Before thy Soueraigne, and thy lawfull King? Ed. I am his King, and he should bow his knee: I was adopted Heire by his consent

Cla. Since when, his Oath is broke: for as I heare, You that are King, though he do weare the Crowne, Haue caus'd him by new Act of Parliament, To blot out me, and put his owne Sonne in

Clif. And reason too, Who should succeede the Father, but the Sonne

Rich. Are you there Butcher? O, I cannot speake

Clif. I Crooke-back, here I stand to answer thee, Or any he, the proudest of thy sort

Rich. 'Twas you that kill'd yong Rutland, was it not? Clif. I, and old Yorke, and yet not satisfied

Rich. For Gods sake Lords giue signall to the fight

War. What say'st thou Henry, Wilt thou yeeld the Crowne? Qu. Why how now long-tongu'd Warwicke, dare you speak? When you and I, met at S[aint]. Albons last, Your legges did better seruice then your hands

War. Then 'twas my turne to fly, and now 'tis thine: Clif. You said so much before, and yet you fled

War. 'Twas not your valor Clifford droue me thence

Nor. No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay

Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reuerently, Breake off the parley, for scarse I can refraine The execution of my big-swolne heart Vpon that Clifford, that cruell Child-killer

Clif. I slew thy Father, cal'st thou him a Child? Rich. I like a Dastard, and a treacherous Coward, As thou didd'st kill our tender Brother Rutland, But ere Sunset, Ile make thee curse the deed

King. Haue done with words (my Lords) and heare me speake

Qu. Defie them then, or els hold close thy lips

King. I prythee giue no limits to my Tongue, I am a King, and priuiledg'd to speake

Clif. My Liege, the wound that bred this meeting here, Cannot be cur'd by Words, therefore be still

Rich. Then Executioner vnsheath thy sword: By him that made vs all, I am resolu'd, That Cliffords Manhood, lyes vpon his tongue

Ed. Say Henry, shall I haue my right, or no: A thousand men haue broke their Fasts to day, That ne're shall dine, vnlesse thou yeeld the Crowne

War. If thou deny, their Blood vpon thy head, For Yorke in iustice put's his Armour on

Pr.Ed. If that be right, which Warwick saies is right, There is no wrong, but euery thing is right

War. Who euer got thee, there thy Mother stands, For well I wot, thou hast thy Mothers tongue

Qu. But thou art neyther like thy Sire nor Damme, But like a foule mishapen Stygmaticke, Mark'd by the Destinies to be auoided, As venome Toades, or Lizards dreadfull stings

Rich. Iron of Naples, hid with English gilt, Whose Father beares the Title of a King, (As if a Channell should be call'd the Sea) Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught, To let thy tongue detect thy base-borne heart

Ed. A wispe of straw were worth a thousand Crowns, To make this shamelesse Callet know her selfe: Helen of Greece was fayrer farre then thou, Although thy Husband may be Menelaus; And ne're was Agamemnons Brother wrong'd By that false Woman, as this King by thee. His Father reuel'd in the heart of France, And tam'd the King, and made the Dolphin stoope: And had he match'd according to his State, He might haue kept that glory to this day. But when he tooke a begger to his bed, And grac'd thy poore Sire with his Bridall day, Euen then that Sun-shine brew'd a showre for him, That washt his Fathers fortunes forth of France, And heap'd sedition on his Crowne at home: For what hath broach'd this tumult but thy Pride? Had'st thou bene meeke, our Title still had slept, And we in pitty of the Gentle King, Had slipt our Claime, vntill another Age

Cla. But when we saw, our Sunshine made thy Spring, And that thy Summer bred vs no increase, We set the Axe to thy vsurping Roote: And though the edge hath something hit our selues, Yet know thou, since we haue begun to strike, Wee'l neuer leaue, till we haue hewne thee downe, Or bath'd thy growing, with our heated bloods

Edw. And in this resolution, I defie thee, Not willing any longer Conference, Since thou denied'st the gentle King to speake. Sound Trumpets, let our bloody Colours waue, And either Victorie, or else a Graue

Qu. Stay Edward

Ed. No wrangling Woman, wee'l no longer stay, These words will cost ten thousand liues this day.

Exeunt. omnes.

Alarum. Excursions. Enter Warwicke.

War. Fore-spent with Toile, as Runners with a Race, I lay me downe a little while to breath: For strokes receiu'd, and many blowes repaid, Haue robb'd my strong knit sinewes of their strength, And spight of spight, needs must I rest a-while. Enter Edward running.

Ed. Smile gentle heauen, or strike vngentle death, For this world frownes, and Edwards Sunne is clowded

War. How now my Lord, what happe? what hope of good? Enter Clarence

Cla. Our hap is losse, our hope but sad dispaire, Our rankes are broke, and ruine followes vs. What counsaile giue you? whether shall we flye? Ed. Bootlesse is flight, they follow vs with Wings, And weake we are, and cannot shun pursuite. Enter Richard.

Rich. Ah Warwicke, why hast y withdrawn thy selfe? Thy Brothers blood the thirsty earth hath drunk, Broach'd with the Steely point of Cliffords Launce: And in the very pangs of death, he cryde, Like to a dismall Clangor heard from farre, Warwicke, reuenge; Brother, reuenge my death. So vnderneath the belly of their Steeds, That stain'd their Fetlockes in his smoaking blood, The Noble Gentleman gaue vp the ghost

War. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood: Ile kill my Horse, because I will not flye: Why stand we like soft-hearted women heere, Wayling our losses, whiles the Foe doth Rage, And looke vpon, as if the Tragedie Were plaid in iest, by counterfetting Actors. Heere on my knee, I vow to God aboue, Ile neuer pawse againe, neuer stand still, Till either death hath clos'd these eyes of mine, Or Fortune giuen me measure of Reuenge

Ed. Oh Warwicke, I do bend my knee with thine, And in this vow do chaine my soule to thine: And ere my knee rise from the Earths cold face, I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee, Thou setter vp, and plucker downe of Kings: Beseeching thee (if with thy will it stands) That to my Foes this body must be prey, Yet that thy brazen gates of heauen may ope, And giue sweet passage to my sinfull soule. Now Lords, take leaue vntill we meete againe, Where ere it be, in heauen, or in earth

Rich. Brother, Giue me thy hand, and gentle Warwicke, Let me imbrace thee in my weary armes: I that did neuer weepe, now melt with wo, That Winter should cut off our Spring-time so

War. Away, away: Once more sweet Lords farwell

Cla. Yet let vs altogether to our Troopes, And giue them leaue to flye, that will not stay: And call them Pillars that will stand to vs: And if we thriue, promise them such rewards As Victors weare at the Olympian Games. This may plant courage in their quailing breasts, For yet is hope of Life and Victory: Foreslow no longer, make we hence amaine.

Exeunt.

Excursions. Enter Richard and Clifford.

Rich. Now Clifford, I haue singled thee alone, Suppose this arme is for the Duke of Yorke, And this for Rutland, both bound to reuenge, Wer't thou inuiron'd with a Brazen wall

Clif. Now Richard, I am with thee heere alone, This is the hand that stabb'd thy Father Yorke, And this the hand, that slew thy Brother Rutland, And here's the heart, that triumphs in their death, And cheeres these hands, that slew thy Sire and Brother, To execute the like vpon thy selfe, And so haue at thee. They Fight, Warwicke comes, Clifford flies.

Rich. Nay Warwicke, single out some other Chace, For I my selfe will hunt this Wolfe to death.

Exeunt.

Alarum. Enter King Henry alone.

Hen. This battell fares like to the mornings Warre, When dying clouds contend, with growing light, What time the Shepheard blowing of his nailes, Can neither call it perfect day, nor night. Now swayes it this way, like a Mighty Sea, Forc'd by the Tide, to combat with the Winde: Now swayes it that way, like the selfe-same Sea, Forc'd to retyre by furie of the Winde. Sometime, the Flood preuailes; and than the Winde: Now, one the better: then, another best; Both tugging to be Victors, brest to brest: Yet neither Conqueror, nor Conquered. So is the equall poise of this fell Warre. Heere on this Mole-hill will I sit me downe, To whom God will, there be the Victorie: For Margaret my Queene, and Clifford too Haue chid me from the Battell: Swearing both, They prosper best of all when I am thence. Would I were dead, if Gods good will were so; For what is in this world, but Greefe and Woe. Oh God! me thinkes it were a happy life, To be no better then a homely Swaine, To sit vpon a hill, as I do now, To carue out Dialls queintly, point by point, Thereby to see the Minutes how they runne: How many makes the Houre full compleate, How many Houres brings about the Day, How many Dayes will finish vp the Yeare, How many Yeares, a Mortall man may liue. When this is knowne, then to diuide the Times: So many Houres, must I tend my Flocke; So many Houres, must I take my Rest: So many Houres, must I Contemplate: So many Houres, must I Sport my selfe: So many Dayes, my Ewes haue bene with yong: So many weekes, ere the poore Fooles will Eane: So many yeares, ere I shall sheere the Fleece: So Minutes, Houres, Dayes, Monthes, and Yeares, Past ouer to the end they were created, Would bring white haires, vnto a Quiet graue. Ah! what a life were this? How sweet? how louely? Giues not the Hawthorne bush a sweeter shade To Shepheards, looking on their silly Sheepe, Then doth a rich Imbroider'd Canopie To Kings, that feare their Subiects treacherie? Oh yes, it doth; a thousand fold it doth. And to conclude, the Shepherds homely Curds, His cold thinne drinke out of his Leather Bottle, His wonted sleepe, vnder a fresh trees shade, All which secure, and sweetly he enioyes, Is farre beyond a Princes Delicates: His Viands sparkling in a Golden Cup, His bodie couched in a curious bed, When Care, Mistrust, and Treason waits on him.

Alarum. Enter a Sonne that hath kill'd his Father, at one doore: and a Father that hath kill'd his Sonne at another doore.

Son. Ill blowes the winde that profits no body, This man whom hand to hand I slew in fight, May be possessed with some store of Crownes, And I that (haply) take them from him now, May yet (ere night) yeeld both my Life and them To some man else, as this dead man doth me. Who's this? Oh God! It is my Fathers face, Whom in this Conflict, I (vnwares) haue kill'd: Oh heauy times! begetting such Euents. From London, by the King was I prest forth, My Father being the Earle of Warwickes man, Came on the part of Yorke, prest by his Master: And I, who at his hands receiu'd my life, Haue by my hands, of Life bereaued him. Pardon me God, I knew not what I did: And pardon Father, for I knew not thee. My Teares shall wipe away these bloody markes: And no more words, till they haue flow'd their fill