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. O piteous fpectacle! O bloody times!
Whilft 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 his Son.

Fath. Thou that fo ftoutly haft refifted me,
Give me thy gold, if thou haft any gold;
For I have bought it with an hundred blows.—
But let me fee :-Is this our foeman's face?
Ah, no, no, no, it is mine only fon !-

Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee,

Throw up

thine eye; fee, fee, what showers arise, Blown with the windy tempeft of my heart!

Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart!-
O, pity, God, this miferable age!-
What 'ftratagems, how fell, how butcherly,
Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural,
This deadly quarrel daily doth beget!
O boy, thy father gave thee life "too late,

And hath bereft thee of thy life too foon!

K. Henry. Woe above woe! grief more than common grief!

O, that my death would stay these ruthful deeds!

u

like civil war,]-as if a civil war raged within us.

fratagems,]-enterprizes, events of war.

too late, &c.]-too lately, recently, so that thou wast unable to cope

with him, hence thy premature death by his hand.

RICHARD III. A& III. S. 1. Prince.

POEMS. P. 572.

O pity,

O pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity!

;

The red rofe 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, prefenteth :
Wither one rose, 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 satisfy'd ?

Fath. How will my wife, for flaughter of my fon, Shed feas of tears, and ne'er be fatisfy'd?

K. Henry. How will the country, for these woeful chances,

*Mif-think the king, and not be fatisfy'd?

Son. Was ever fon, fo ru'd a father's death?

Fath. Was ever father, fo bemoan'd his fon?

K. Henry. Was ever king, fo griev'd for fubjects' woe? Much is your forrow; mine, ten times fo much.

Son. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill. [Exit, with the body.

Fath. These arms of mine fhall be thy winding-fheet;
My heart, fweet boy, fhall be thy fepulchre;
For from my heart thine image ne'er shall go.
My fighing breast shall be thy funeral bell;
And fo obfequious will thy father be,
*E'vn for the loss of thee, having no more,
As Priam was for all his valiant fons.

Ill bear thee hence; and let them fight that will,
For I have murder'd where I fhould not kill.

Mif-think]-Think ill, unfavourably of.

[Exit, with the body.

And fo obfequious]-And as true a mourner-obfequious fad-funerally forrowful.

Man, for the lofs, &c.

K. Henry.

K. Henry, Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care, Here fits a king more woeful than you are.

Alarums. Excurfions. Enter the Queen, prince of Wales, and Exeter.

Prince. Fly, father, fly! for all your friends are fled, And Warwick rages like a chafed bull:

Away! for death doth hold us in purfuit.

Queen. Mount you, my lord, towards Berwick post amain :

Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds
Having the fearful flying hare in fight,

With fiery eyes, fparkling for very wrath,

And bloody fteel grasp'd in their ireful hands,
Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain.

Exe. Away! for vengeance comes along with them : Nay, ftay not to expoftulate, make speed;

Or else come after, I'll away before.

K. Henry. Nay, take me with thee, good fweet Exeter; Not that I fear to ftay, but love to go

Whither the queen intends. Forward; away! [Exeunt.

A loud alarum. Enter Clifford, wounded.

Clif. Here burns my candle out, ay, here it dies,
Which, while it lafted, gave king Henry light.
Ah, Lancaster! I fear thine overthrow,
More than my body's parting with my foul.

a

My love, and fear, glew'd many friends to thee:
And, now I fall, that tough commixture melts,
Impairing Henry, ftrength'ning mis-proud York.

that tough commixture melts,]-that well cemented alliance is diffolved.

The

The common people fwarm like fummer flies:
And whither fly the gnats, but to the fun?
And who thines now, but Henry's enemy?
'O Phœbus! hadft thou never given consent
That Phaeton should check thy fiery fteeds,
Thy burning car had never scorch'd the earth :
And, Henry, hadft thou fway'd as kings should do,
And as thy father, and his father, did,

Giving no ground unto the house of York,
They never then had sprung like fummer flies-
I, and ten thousand in this luckless realm,
Had left no mourning widows for our deaths,
And thou this day hadft kept thy throne in peace.
For what doth cherish weeds, but gentle air?
And what makes robbers bold, but too much lenity?
Bootlefs are plaints, and curelefs are my wounds;
No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight:
The foe is mercilefs, and will not pity;

And, at their hands, I have deserv❜d no pity.
The air hath got into my deadly wounds,

And much effufe of blood doth make me faint :-
Come, York, and Richard, Warwick, and the reft;

I stabb'd your fathers' bofoms, split my breast. [He faints.
Alarum and retreat. Enter Edward, Clarence, Richard,
Montague, Warwick, and Soldiers.

Edw. Now breathe we, lords; good fortune bids us

pause,

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,

bO Phœbus! &c.]-Alluding probably to the improvident appointment of York to the regency of Ireland, and other high ftations, which might inflame his luft for fovereignty.

As

As doth a fail, fill'd with a fretting guft,

Command an argofy to ftem the waves.

But think you, lords, that Clifford flew with them?
War. No, 'tis impoffible he fhould escape:

For, though before his face I fpeak the word,
Your brother Richard mark'd him for the grave;
And, wherefoe'er he is, he's furely dead.

[Clifford groans, and dies. Edw. Whofe foul is that which takes her heavy leave? Rich. A deadly groan, like life and death's departing. Edw. See who it is: and, now the battle's ended,

If friend, or foe, let him be gently us❜d.

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 fet his murdering knife unto the root

From whence that tender spray did fweetly fpring,

I mean, our princely father, duke of York.

War. From off the gates of York fetch down the head, Your father's head, which Cifford placed there : Inftead whereof, let his fupply the room;

Measure for measure must be answered.

Edw. Bring forth that fatal fcritch-owl to our house, That nothing fung but death to us and ours: Now death fhall ftop his difmal threatening found, And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.

[Attendants bring the body forward.

War. I think his understanding is bereft :-
Say, Clifford, doft thou know who speaks to thee ?—
Dark cloudy death o'erfhades his beams of life,

And he nor fees, nor hears us what we say.

Rich. O, 'would he did! and fo, perhaps, he doth; 'Tis but his policy to counterfeit,

Because he would avoid fuch bitter taunts

As