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  • Title: Henry VI, Part 3 (Folio 1, 1623)

  • Copyright Internet Shakespeare Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-proift purposes; for all other uses contact the Coordinating Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
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    Henry VI, Part 3 (Folio 1, 1623)

    The third Part of Henry the Sixt.157
    Mis-thinke the King, and not be satisfied?
    Son. Was euer sonne, so rew'd a Fathers death?
    Fath. Was euer Father so bemoan'd his Sonne?
    Hen. Was euer King so greeu'd for Subiects woe?
    1250Much is your sorrow; Mine, ten times so much.
    Son. Ile beare thee hence, where I may weepe my fill.
    Fath. These armes of mine shall be thy winding sheet:
    My heart (sweet Boy) shall be thy Sepulcher,
    For from my heart, thine Image ne're shall go.
    1255My sighing brest, shall be thy Funerall bell;
    And so obsequious will thy Father be,
    Men for the losse of thee, hauing no more,
    As Priam was for all his Valiant Sonnes,
    Ile beare thee hence, and let them fight that will,
    1260For I haue murthered where I should not kill. Exit
    Hen. Sad-hearted-men, much ouergone with Care;
    Heere sits a King, more wofull then you are.

    Alarums. Excursions. Enter the Queen, the
    Prince, and Exeter.

    1265Prin. Fly Father, flye: for all your Friends are fled.
    And Warwicke rages like a chafed Bull:
    Away, for death doth hold vs in pursuite.
    Qu. Mount you my Lord, towards Barwicke post a-
    1270Edward and Richard like a brace of Grey-hounds,
    Hauing the fearfull flying Hare in sight,
    With fiery eyes, sparkling for very wrath,
    And bloody steele graspt in their yrefull hands
    Are at our backes, and therefore hence amaine.
    1275 Exet. Away: for vengeance comes along with them.
    Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed,
    Or else come after, Ile away before.
    Hen. Nay take me with thee, good sweet Exeter:
    Not that I feare to stay, but loue to go
    1280Whether the Queene intends. Forward, away. Exeunt

    A lowd alarum. Enter Clifford Wounded.

    Clif. Heere burnes my Candle out; I, heere it dies,
    Which whiles it lasted, gaue King Henry light.
    O Lancaster! I feare thy ouerthrow,
    1285More then my Bodies parting with my Soule:
    My Loue and Feare, glew'd many Friends to thee,
    And now I fall. Thy tough Commixtures melts,
    Impairing Henry, strength'ning misproud Yorke;
    And whether flye the Gnats, but to the Sunne?
    1290And who shines now, but Henries Enemies?
    O Phoebus! had'st thou neuer giuen consent,
    That Phaeton should checke thy fiery Steeds,
    Thy burning Carre neuer had scorch'd the earth.
    And Henry, had'st thou sway'd as Kings should do,
    1295Or as thy Father, and his Father did,
    Giuing no ground vnto the house of Yorke,
    They neuer then had sprung like Sommer Flyes:
    I, and ten thousand in this lucklesse Realme,
    Hed left no mourning Widdowes for our death,
    1300And thou this day, had'st kept thy Chaire in peace.
    For what doth cherrish Weeds, but gentle ayre?
    And what makes Robbers bold, but too much lenity?
    Bootlesse are Plaints, and Curelesse are my Wounds:
    No way to flye, nor strength to hold out flight:
    1305The Foe is mercilesse, and will not pitty:
    For at their hands I haue deseru'd no pitty.
    The ayre hath got into my deadly Wounds,
    And much effuse of blood, doth make me faint:
    Come Yorke, and Richard, Warwicke, and the rest,
    1310I stab'd your Fathers bosomes; Split my brest.

    Alarum & Retreat. Enter Edward, Warwicke, Richard, and
    Soldiers, Montague, & Clarence.
    Ed. Now breath we Lords, good fortune bids vs pause,
    And smooth the frownes of War, with peacefull lookes:
    1315Some Troopes pursue the bloody-minded Queene,
    That led calme Henry, though he were a King,
    As doth a Saile, fill'd with a fretting Gust
    Command an Argosie to stemme the Waues.
    But thinke you (Lords) that Clifford fled with them?
    1320War. No, 'tis impossible he should escape:
    (For though before his face I speake the words)
    Your Brother Richard markt him for the Graue.
    And wheresoere he is, hee's surely dead. Clifford grones
    Rich. Whose soule is that which takes hir heauy leaue?
    1325A deadly grone, like life and deaths departing.
    See who it is.
    Ed. And now the Battailes ended,
    If Friend or Foe, let him be gently vsed.
    Rich. Reuoke that doome of mercy, for 'tis Clifford,
    1330Who not contented that he lopp'd the Branch
    In hewing Rutland, when his leaues put forth,
    But set his murth'ring knife vnto the Roote,
    From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring,
    I meane our Princely Father, Duke of Yorke.
    1335 War. From off the gates of Yorke, fetch down ye head,
    Your Fathers head, which Clifford placed there:
    In stead whereof, let this supply the roome,
    Measure for measure, must be answered.
    Ed. Bring forth that fatall Schreechowle to our house,
    1340That nothing sung but death, to vs and ours:
    Now death shall stop his dismall threatning sound,
    And his ill-boading tongue, no more shall speake.
    War. I thinke is vnderstanding is bereft:
    Speake Clifford, dost thou know who speakes to thee?
    1345Darke cloudy death ore-shades his beames of life,
    And he nor sees, nor heares vs, what we say.
    Rich. O would he did, and so (perhaps) he doth,
    'Tis but his policy to counterfet,
    Because he would auoid such bitter taunts
    1350Which in the time of death he gaue our Father.
    Cla. If so thou think'st,
    Vex him with eager Words.
    Rich. Clifford, aske mercy, and obtaine no grace.
    Ed. Clifford, repent in bootlesse penitence.
    1355War. Clifford, deuise excuses for thy faults.
    Cla. While we deuise fell Tortures for thy faults.
    Rich. Thou didd'st loue Yorke, and I am son to Yorke.
    Edw. Thou pittied'st Rutland, I will pitty thee.
    Cla. Where's Captaine Margaret, to fence you now?
    1360War. They mocke thee Clifford,
    Sweare as thou was't wont.
    Ric. What, not an Oath? Nay then the world go's hard
    When Clifford cannot spare his Friends an oath:
    I know by that he's dead, and by my Soule,
    1365If this right hand would buy two houres life,
    That I (in all despight) might rayle at him,
    This hand should chop it off: & with the issuing Blood
    Stifle the Villaine, whose vnstanched thirst
    Yorke, and yong Rutland could not satisfie
    1370War. I, but he's dead. Of with the Traitors head,
    And reare it in the place your Fathers stands.
    And now to London with Triumphant march,
    p3 There