From London by the king was I press'd 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 received my life, him 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 shall wipe away these bloody marks;And no more words till they have flow'd their fill. KING HENRY VI O piteous 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'ercharged with grief.
Enter a Father that has killed his son, bringing in the body Father Thou that so 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 see: is this our foeman's face?
Ah, no, no, no, it is mine only son!
Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee, Throw up thine eye! see, see what showers arise, Blown with the windy tempest of my heart, Upon thy words, 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! KING HENRY VI Woe above woe! grief more than common grief!
O that my death would stay these ruthful deeds!
O pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity!
The red rose 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 cheeks, methinks, presenteth:
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 satisfied! Father How will my wife for slaughter of my son Shed seas of tears and ne'er be satisfied! KING HENRY VI How will the country for these woful chances Misthink the king and not be satisfied! Son Was ever son so rued a father's death? Father Was ever father so bemoan'd his son? KING HENRY VI Was ever king so grieved 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 with the body Father These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet;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, Even for the loss of thee, having no more, As Priam was for all his valiant sons.
I'll bear thee hence; and let them fight that will, For I have murdered where I should not kill.
Exit with the body KING HENRY VI Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care, Here sits a king more woful than you are.
Alarums: excursions. Enter QUEEN MARGARET, PRINCE EDWARD, and EXETER PRINCE EDWARD Fly, father, fly! for all your friends are fled, And Warwick rages like a chafed bull:
Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit. QUEEN MARGARET Mount you, my lord; towards Berwick post amain:
Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds Having the fearful flying hare in sight, With fiery eyes sparkling for very wrath, And bloody steel grasp'd in their ireful hands, Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain. EXETER Away! for vengeance comes along with them:
Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed;Or else come after: I'll away before. KING HENRY VI 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 SCENE VI. Another part of the field. A loud alarum. Enter CLIFFORD, wounded CLIFFORD Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies, Which, whiles 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 glued many friends to thee;And, now I fall, thy tough commixture melts.
Impairing Henry, strengthening misproud York, The common people swarm like summer flies;And whither fly the gnats but to the sun?
And who shines now but Henry's enemies?
O Phoebus, hadst thou never given consent That Phaethon should cheque thy fiery steeds, Thy burning car never had scorch'd the earth!