The Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works

by William Shakespeare

  Not willing any longer conference

  Since thou deniest the gentle King to speak.

  Sound trumpets—let our bloody colours wave!

  And either victory, or else a grave!

  QUEEN MARGARET Stay, Edward.

  EDWARD

  No, wrangling woman, we’ll no longer stay—

  These words will cost ten thousand lives this day.

  ⌈Flourish. March. Exeunt Edward and his men at one door and Queen Margaret and her men at another door⌉

  2.3 Alarum. Excursions. Enter the Earl of Warwick

  WARWICK

  Forespent with toil, as runners with a race,

  I lay me down a little while to breathe;

  For strokes received, and many blows repaid,

  Have robbed my strong-knit sinews of their strength,

  And, spite of spite, needs must I rest a while.

  Enter Edward, the Duke of York, running

  EDWARD

  Smile, gentle heaven, or strike, ungentle death!

  For this world frowns, and Edward’s sun is clouded.

  WARWICK

  How now, my lord, what hap? What hope of good?

  Enter George, ⌈running⌉

  GEORGE

  Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair;

  Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us.

  What counsel give you? Whither shall we fly?

  EDWARD

  Bootless is flight—they follow us with wings,

  And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit.

  Enter Richard, ⌈running⌉

  RICHARD

  Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?

  Thy brother’s blood the thirsty earth hath drunk,

  Broached with the steely point of Clifford’s lance.

  And in the very pangs of death he cried,

  Like to a dismal clangour heard from far,

  ‘Warwick, revenge—brother, revenge my death!’

  So, underneath the belly of their steeds

  That stained their fetlocks in his smoking blood,

  The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.

  WARWICK

  Then let the earth be drunken with our blood.

  I’ll kill my horse, because I will not fly.

  Why stand we like soft-hearted women here,

  Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage;

  And look upon, as if the tragedy

  Were played in jest by counterfeiting actors?

  (Kneeling) Here, on my knee, I vow to God above

  I’ll never pause again, never stand still,

  Till either death hath closed these eyes of mine

  Or fortune given me measure of revenge.

  EDWARD (kneeling)

  O, Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine,

  And in this vow do chain my soul to thine.

  And, ere my knee rise from the earth’s cold face,

  I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to Thee,

  Thou setter up and plucker down of kings,

  Beseeching Thee, if with Thy will it stands

  That to my foes this body must be prey,

  Yet that Thy brazen gates of heaven may ope

  And give sweet passage to my sinful soul.

  ⌈They rise⌉

  Now, lords, take leave until we meet again,

  Where’er it be, in heaven or in earth.

  ICHARD

  Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle Warwick,

  Let me embrace thee in my weary arms.

  I, that did never weep, now melt with woe

  That winter should cut off our springtime so.

  WARWICK

  Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell.

  GEORGE

  Yet let us all together to our troops,

  And give them leave to fly that will not stay;

  And call them pillars that will stand to us;

  And, if we thrive, promise them such rewards

  As victors wear at the Olympian games.

  This may plant courage in their quailing breasts,

  For yet is hope of life and victory.

  Forslow no longer—make we hence amain. Exeunt

  2.4 ⌈Alarums.⌉ Excursions. Enter Richard ⌈at one door⌉ and Lord Clifford ⌈at the other⌉

  RICHARD

  Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone.

  Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York,

  And this for Rutland, both bound to revenge,

  Wert thou environed with a brazen wall.

  CLIFFORD

  Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone.

  This is the hand that stabbed thy father York,

  And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland,

  And here’s the heart that triumphs in their death

  And cheers these hands that slew thy sire and brother

  To execute the like upon thyself—

  And so, have at thee!

  They fight. The Earl of Warwick comes and rescues Richard. Lord Clifford flies

  RICHARD

  Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase—

  For I myself will hunt this wolf to death. Exeunt

  2.5 Alarum. Enter King Henry

  KING HENRY

  This battle fares like to the morning’s war,

  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

  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;

  Now one the better, then another best—

  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.

  For Margaret my queen, and Clifford, too,

  Have chid me from the battle, swearing both

  They prosper best of all when I am thence.

  Would I were dead, if God’s good will were so—

  For what is in this world but grief and woe?

  O God! Methinks it were a happy life

  To be no better than a homely swain.

  To sit upon a hill, as I do now;

  To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,

  Thereby to see the minutes how they run:

  How many makes the hour full complete,

  How many hours brings about the day,

  How many days will finish up the year,

  How many years a mortal man may live.

  When this is known, then to divide the times:

  So many hours must I tend my flock,

  So many hours must I take my rest,

  So many hours must I contemplate,

  So many hours must I sport myself,

  So many days my ewes have been with young,

  So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean,

  So many years ere I shall shear the fleece.

  So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,

  Passed over to the end they were created,

  Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.

  Ah, what a life were this! How sweet! How lovely!

  Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade

  To shepherds looking on their seely sheep

  Than doth a rich embroidered canopy

  To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery?

  O yes, it doth—a thousandfold it doth.

  And to conclude, the shepherd’s homely curds,

  His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,

  His wonted sleep under a fresh tree’s shade,

  All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,

  Is far beyond a princ
e’s delicates,

  His viands sparkling in a golden cup,

  His body couched in a curious bed,

  When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him.

  Alarum. Enter ⌈at one door⌉ a Soldier with a dead man in his arms. King Henry stands apart

  SOLDIER

  Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.

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

  May be possessed with some store of crowns;

  And I, that haply take them from him now,

  May yet ere night yield both my life and them

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

  ⌈He removes the dead man’s helmet⌉

  Who’s this? O God! It is my father’s face

  Whom in this conflict I, unwares, have killed.

  O, heavy times, begetting such events!

  From London by the King was I pressed forth;

  My father, being the Earl of Warwick’s man,

  Came on the part of York, pressed by his master;

  And I, who at his hands received my life,

  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 flowed their fill.

  He weeps

  KING HENRY

  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 ⌈at another door⌉ another Soldier with a dead man ⌈in his arms⌉

  SECOND SOLDIER

  Thou that so stoutly hath resisted me,

  Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold—

  For I have bought it with an hundred blows.

  ⌈He removes the dead man’s helmet⌉

  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! (Weeping) See, see, what showers

  arise,

  Blown with the windy tempest of my heart,

  Upon thy wounds, that kills 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

  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.

  FIRST SOLDIER

  How will my mother for a father’s death

  Take on with me, and ne’er be satisfied!

  SECOND SOLDIER

  How will my wife for slaughter of my son

  Shed seas of tears, and ne’er be satisfied!

  KING HENRY

  How will the country for these woeful chances

  Misthink the King, and not be satisfied!

  FIRST SOLDIER

  Was ever son so rued a father’s death?

  SECOND SOLDIER

  Was ever father so bemoaned his son?

  KING HENRY

  Was ever king so grieved for subjects’ woe?

  Much is your sorrow, mine ten times so much.

  FIRST SOLDIER (to his father’s body)

  I’ll bear thee hence where I may weep my fill.

  Exit ⌈at one door⌉ with the body of his father

  SECOND SOLDIER (to his son’s body)

  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,

  E’en 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 ⌈at another door⌉ with the body of his son

  KING HENRY

  Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care,

  Here sits a king more woeful than you are.

  Alarums. Excursions. Enter Prince Edward

  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!

  ⌈Enter Queen Margaret⌉

  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 grasped in their ireful hands,

  Are at our backs—and therefore hence amain.

  ⌈Enter Exeter⌉

  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

  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

  2.6 A loud alarum. Enter Lord Clifford, wounded ⌈with an arrow in his neck⌉

  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, strength’ning 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 Phaeton should check thy fiery steeds,

  Thy burning car never had scorched the earth!

  And, Henry, hadst thou swayed as kings should do,

  Or as thy father and his father did,

  Giving no ground unto the house of York,

  They never then had sprung like summer flies;

  I and ten thousand in this luckless realm

  Had left no mourning widows for our death;

  And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace.

  For what doth cherish weeds, but gentle air?

  And what makes robbers bold, but too much lenity?

  Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds;

  No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight;

  The foe is merciless and will not pity,

  For at their hands I have deserved no pity.

  The air hath got into my deadly wounds,

  And much effuse of blood doth make me faint.

  Come York and Richard, Warwick and the rest—

  I stabbed your fathers’ bosoms; split my breast.

  ⌈He faints.⌉

  Alarum and retreat. Enter Edward Duke of York,

  his brothers George and Richard, the Earl of
r />   Warwick, ⌈the Marquis of Montague,⌉ and soldiers

  EDWARD

  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,

  As doth a sail filled with a fretting gust

  Command an argosy to stem the waves.

  But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them?

  WARWICK

  No—‘tis impossible he should escape;

  For, though before his face I speak the words,

  Your brother Richard marked him for the grave.

  And whereso’er he is, he’s surely dead.

  Clifford groans

  ⌈EDWARD⌉

  Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave?

  ⌈RICHARD⌉

  A deadly groan, like life and death’s departing.

  ⌈EDWARD⌉ ⌈to Richard⌉

  See who it is.

  ⌈Richard goes to Clifford⌉

  And now the battle’s ended,

  If friend or foe, let him be gently used.

  RICHARD

  Revoke that doom of mercy, for ‘tis Clifford;

  Who not contented that he lopped the branch

  In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth,

  But set his murd’ring knife unto the root

  From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring—

  I mean our princely father, Duke of York.

  WARWICK

  From off the gates of York fetch down the head,

  Your father’s head, which Clifford placed there.

  Instead whereof let this supply the room—

  Measure for measure must be answerèd.

  EDWARD

  Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house,

  That nothing sung but death to us and ours.

  ⌈Clifford is dragged forward⌉

  Now death shall stop his dismal threat’ning sound

  And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.

  WARWICK

  I think his understanding is bereft.

  Speak, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee?

  Dark cloudy death o’ershades his beams of life,