1135Hen. This battell fares like to the mornings Warre,

1136When dying clouds contend, with growing light,

1137What time the Shepheard blowing of his nailes,

1138Can neither call it perfect day, nor night.

1139Now swayes it this way, like a Mighty Sea,

1140Forc'd by the Tide, to combat with the Winde:

1141Now swayes it that way, like the selfe-same Sea,

1142Forc'd to retyre by furie of the Winde.

1143Sometime, the Flood preuailes; and than the Winde:

1144Now, one the better: then, another best;

1145Both tugging to be Victors, brest to brest:

1146Yet neither Conqueror, nor Conquered.

1147So is the equall poise of this fell Warre.

1148Heere on this Mole-hill will I sit me downe,

1149To whom God will, there be the Victorie:

1150For Margaret my Queene, and Clifford too

1151Haue chid me from the Battell: Swearing both,

1152They prosper best of all when I am thence.

1153Would I were dead, if Gods good will were so;

1154For what is in this world, but Greefe and Woe.

1155Oh God! me thinkes it were a happy life,

1156To be no better then a homely Swaine,

1157To sit vpon a hill, as I do now,

1158To carue out Dialls queintly, point by point,

1159Thereby to see the Minutes how they runne:

1160How many makes the Houre full compleate,

1161How many Houres brings about the Day,

1162How many Dayes will finish vp the Yeare,

1163How many Yeares, a Mortall man may liue.

1164When this is knowne, then to diuide the Times:

1165So many Houres, must I tend my Flocke;

1166So many Houres, must I take my Rest:

1167So many Houres, must I Contemplate:

1168So many Houres, must I Sport my selfe:

1169So many Dayes, my Ewes haue bene with yong:

1170So many weekes, ere the poore Fooles will Eane:

1171So many yeares, ere I shall sheere the Fleece:

1172So Minutes, Houres, Dayes, Monthes, and Yeares,

1173Past ouer to the end they were created,

1174Would bring white haires, vnto a Quiet graue.

1175Ah! what a life were this? How sweet? how louely?

1176Giues not the Hawthorne bush a sweeter shade

1177To Shepheards, looking on their silly Sheepe,

1178Then doth a rich Imbroider'd Canopie

1179To Kings, that feare their Subiects treacherie?

1180Oh yes, it doth; a thousand fold it doth.

1181And to conclude, the Shepherds homely Curds,

1182His cold thinne drinke out of his Leather Bottle,

1183His wonted sleepe, vnder a fresh trees shade,

1184All which secure, and sweetly he enioyes,

1185Is farre beyond a Princes Delicates:

1186His Viands sparkling in a Golden Cup,

1187His bodie couched in a curious bed,

1188When Care, Mistrust, and Treason waits on him.

1192Son. Ill blowes the winde that profits no body,

1193This man whom hand to hand I slew in fight,

1194May be possessed with some store of Crownes,

1195And I that (haply) take them from him now,

1196May yet (ere night) yeeld both my Life and them

1197To some man else, as this dead man doth me.

1198Who's this? Oh God! It is my Fathers face,

1199Whom in this Conflict, I (vnwares) haue kill'd:

1200Oh heauy times! begetting such Euents.

1201From London, by the King was I prest forth,

1202My Father being the Earle of Warwickes man,

1203Came on the part of Yorke, prest by his Master:

1204And I, who at his hands receiu'd my life,

1205Haue by my hands, of Life bereaued him.

1206Pardon me God, I knew not what I did:

1207And pardon Father, for I knew not thee.

1208My Teares shall wipe away these bloody markes:

1209And no more words, till they haue flow'd their fill.

1210King. O pitteous spectacle! O bloody Times!

1211Whiles Lyons Warre, and battaile for their Dennes,

1212Poore harmlesse Lambes abide their enmity.

1213Weepe wretched man: Ile ayde thee Teare for Teare,

1214And let our hearts and eyes, like Ciuill Warre,

1215Be blinde with teares, and break ore-charg'd with griefe

1217Fa. Thou that so stoutly hath resisted me,

1218Giue me thy Gold, if thou hast any Gold:

1219For I haue bought it with an hundred blowes.

1220But let me see: Is this our Foe-mans face?

1221Ah, no, no, no, it is mine onely Sonne.

1222Ah Boy, if any life be left in thee,

1223Throw vp thine eye: see, see, what showres arise,

1224Blowne with the windie Tempest of my heart,

1225Vpon thy wounds, that killes mine Eye, and Heart.

1226O pitty God, this miserable Age!

1227What Stragems? how fell? how Butcherly?

1228Erreoneous, mutinous, and vnnaturall,

1229This deadly quarrell daily doth beget?

1230O Boy! thy Father gaue thee life too soone,

1231And hath bereft thee of thy life too late.

1232 King. Wo aboue wo: greefe, more thẽ common greefe

1233O that my death would stay these ruthfull deeds:

1234O pitty, pitty, gentle heauen pitty:

1235The Red Rose and the White are on his face,

1236The fatall Colours of our striuing Houses:

1237The one, his purple Blood right well resembles,

1238The other his pale Cheekes (me thinkes) presenteth:

1239Wither one Rose, and let the other flourish:

1240If you contend, a thousand liues must wither.

1241Son. How will my Mother, for a Fathers death

1242Take on with me, and ne're be satisfi'd?

1243Fa. How will my Wife, for slaughter of my Sonne,

1244Shed seas of Teares, and ne're be satisfi'd?

1245 King. How will the Country, for these woful chances,

1246Mis-thinke the King, and not be satisfied?

1247Son. Was euer sonne, so rew'd a Fathers death?

1248Fath. Was euer Father so bemoan'd his Sonne?

1249Hen. Was euer King so greeu'd for Subiects woe?

1250Much is your sorrow; Mine, ten times so much.

1251 Son. Ile beare thee hence, where I may weepe my fill.

1252 Fath. These armes of mine shall be thy winding sheet:

1253My heart (sweet Boy) shall be thy Sepulcher,

1254For from my heart, thine Image ne're shall go.

1255My sighing brest, shall be thy Funerall bell;

1256And so obsequious will thy Father be,

1257Men for the losse of thee, hauing no more,

1258As Priam was for all his Valiant Sonnes,

1259Ile beare thee hence, and let them fight that will,

1260For I haue murthered where I should not kill. Exit

1261Hen. Sad-hearted-men, much ouergone with Care;

1262Heere sits a King, more wofull then you are.

1265Prin. Fly Father, flye: for all your Friends are fled.

1266And Warwicke rages like a chafed Bull:

1267Away, for death doth hold vs in pursuite.

1268 Qu. Mount you my Lord, towards Barwicke post a-

1269 maine:

1270Edward and Richard like a brace of Grey-hounds,

1271Hauing the fearfull flying Hare in sight,

1272With fiery eyes, sparkling for very wrath,

1273And bloody steele graspt in their yrefull hands

1274Are at our backes, and therefore hence amaine.

1275 Exet. Away: for vengeance comes along with them.

1276Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed,

1277Or else come after, Ile away before.

1278Hen. Nay take me with thee, good sweet Exeter:

1279Not that I feare to stay, but loue to go

1280Whether the Queene intends. Forward, away. Exeunt