The Works of William Shakespeare [Cambridge Edition] [Vol. 5 of 9] · William Shakespeare
SCENE V. _Another part of the field_.
_Alarum. Enter_ KING HENRY _alone_. _King._ This battle fares like to the morning’s war, [cbe001] When dying clouds contend with growing light, What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails, Can neither call it perfect day nor night. Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea [cbe005] Forced by the tide to combat with the wind; Now sways it that way, like the selfsame sea Forced to retire by fury of the wind: Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind; [cbe009] Now one the better, then another best; ·cbe010· Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, Yet neither conqueror nor conquered: So is the equal poise of this fell war. Here on this molehill will I sit me down. To whom God will, there be the victory! [cbe015] For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too, Have chid me from the battle; swearing both They prosper best of all when I am thence.
_Enter a_ Father _that has killed his son, bringing in the body_. _Fath._ Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me, [cbe079] Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold; ·cbe080· 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! [cbe083] Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee, Throw up thine eye! see, see what showers arise, ·cbe085· Blown with the windy tempest of my heart, Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart! [cbe087] O, pity, God, this miserable age! What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly, [cbe089] Erroneous, mutinous and unnatural, [cbe090] This deadly quarrel daily doth beget! O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon, [cbe092] And hath bereft thee of thy life too late! _K. Hen._ Woe above woe! grief more than common grief! O that my death would stay these ruthful deeds! [cbe095] 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; [cbe099] The other his pale cheeks, methinks, presenteth: [cbe100] 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!
_Fath._ How will my wife for slaughter of my son ·cbe105· Shed seas of tears and ne’er be satisfied! _K. Hen._ 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? _Fath._ Was ever father so bemoan’d his son? [cbe110] _K. Hen._ 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. [cbe113] [_Exit with the body._ _Fath._ These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet; My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre, ·cbe115· 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, [cbe119] As Priam was for all his valiant sons. ·cbe120· I’ll bear thee hence; and let them fight that will, For I have murdered where I should not kill. [cbe122] [_Exit with the body._ _K. Hen._ Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care, Here sits a king more woful than you are. _Alarums: excursions. Enter_ QUEEN MARGARET, _the_ PRINCE, _and_ EXETER. _Prince._ Fly, father, fly! for all your friends are fled, [cbe125] And Warwick rages like a chafed bull: Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.