[Exeunt.]
[Alarums. Excursions. Enter WARWICK.]
WARWICK.
Forspent with toil, as runners with a race,
I lay me down a little while to breathe;
For strokes receiv'd, and many blows repaid,
Have robb'd my strong-knit sinews of their strength,
And, spite of spite, needs must I rest awhile.
Exhausted with work, like a runner in a race,
I shall lay down a little while to catch my breath;
my strong muscles have lost my strength
through the blows they have received, and the ones they've given back,
and, despite my anger, I must rest for a while.
[Enter EDWARD, running.]
EDWARD.
Smile, gentle heaven, or strike, ungentle death!
For this world frowns and Edward's sun is clouded.
Gentle heaven, smile on me, or let unkind death strike me down!
The world frowns and the sun of Edward is clouded over.
WARWICK.
How now, my lord? what hap? what hope of good?
What's that, my lord? What's going on? What are our chances?
[Enter GEORGE.]
GEORGE.
Our hap is lost, our hope but sad despair;
Our ranks are broke and ruin follows us.
What counsel give you? whither shall we fly?
Everything is lost, we have no hope;
our ranks have broken and destruction pursues us.
What advice do you give? Where shall we run to?
EDWARD.
Bootless is flight, they follow us with wings;
And weak we are and cannot shun pursuit.
It's useless to flee, they shall catch us;
we are weak and cannot escape their pursuit.
[Enter RICHARD.]
RICHARD.
Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?
Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk,
Broach'd with the steely point of Clifford's lance;
And in the very pangs of death he cried,
Like to a dismal clangor heard from far,
'Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death!'
So, underneath the belly of their steeds
That stain'd their fetlocks in his smoking blood,
The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.
Ah Warwick, why have you retreated?
The thirsty earth has drunk the blood of your brother,
which was let out by the steel point of Clifford's lance;
as he was in his death agony he cried out,
like a funeral bell heard ringing far away,
“Warwick, take revenge! Brother, revenge my death!"
So, underneath the bellies of their horses
whose legs were stained with 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 play'd in jest by counterfeiting actors?
Here on my knee I vow to God above,
I'll never pause again, never stand still,
Till either death hath clos'd these eyes of mine,
Or fortune given me measure of revenge.
Then let the earth become drunk with our blood;
I shall kill my horse, because I will not fly.
Why are we standing here like softhearted women,
bemoaning our losses while the enemies triumph,
and watching it all, as if it were a tragedy
being played by fake actors for fun?
Here on my knee I vow to God above
that I shall never pause again, never stand still,
until I have either got some revenge
or death has closed these eyes of mine.
EDWARD.
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.--
Now, lords, take leave until we meet again,
Where'er it be, in heaven or in earth.
Oh Warwick, I kneel down alongside you,
and I make the same vow as you!
And, before I get up from the cold earth,
I look up to you with my hands, my eyes and my heart,
you creator and destroyer of kings,
begging you, that if you decide that
my enemies shall have my body
you will open the bronze gates of heaven
and sweetly give permission for my sinful soul to enter.
Now, lords, farewell until we meet again,
wherever it may be, in heaven or on earth.
RICHARD.
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 spring-time so.
Brother, give me your hand; and, gentle Warwick,
let me embrace you with my weary arms.
I, who never cried, am now melting with sorrow,
that the winter should have come to cut off our spring like this.
WARWICK.
Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell.
Let's go! 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.
But let us all go together to our troops,
and give those who did not want to stay permission to flee,
and praise the courage of those who will stay with us;
and if we succeed, promise them rewards
like those that the victors wear in the Olympic Games.
This may put some courage in their fearful hearts,
for there is still hope for life and victory.
Let's not waste any more time; we must go there at once.
[Exeunt.]
[Excursions. Enter RICHARD and CLIFFORD.]
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 environ'd with a brazen wall.
Now, Clifford, I have got you to myself.
Imagine that this arm is for the Duke of York,
and this one for Rutland; they are both bound to take revenge,
if you were surrounded with a wall of shields.
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!
Now, Richard, I'm here with you alone.
This is the hand that stabbed your father York,
and this is the hand that kil
led your brother Rutland;
and here is the heart that rejoices at their death,
and applauds these hands that killed your father and brother,
telling them to do the same to you; and so take that!
[They fight. Warwick enters; Clifford flies.]
RICHARD.
Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase;
For I myself will hunt this wolf to death.
No, Warwick, find someone else to hunt;
this wolf is just for me.
[Exeunt.]
[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
Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind;
Now sways it that way, like the selfsame sea
Forc'd 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 make 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, months, and years,
Pass'd 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 silly sheep
Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy
To kings that fear their subjects' treachery?
O, yes, it doth; a thousand-fold 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 prince's delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,
When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.
This battle is like the war of the morning,
when the fading clouds fight with the growing light,
that time that the shepherd, blowing on his hands,
cannot precisely call either day or night.
Now it goes this way, like a great sea
with the tide forcing it to fight against the wind;
now it goes that way, like the same sea
forced to retreat by the strength of the wind.
Sometimes the tide wins, and then the wind,
first one is better, then the other,
both trying to win, chest to chest,
but neither one coming out on top;
this is the way this terrible battle is balanced.
I will sit myself down here on this molehill.
May whomever God wishes take the victory!
My Queen Margaret, and Clifford too,
have driven me away from the battle, both swearing
that they do better when I am not there.
I wish I were dead! If it were God's good will;
what is there in this world but grief and sorrow?
Oh God! I think it would be a happy life
to be no better than a lowly peasant;
to sit on a hill, as I'm doing now,
to carve out sundials delicately, point by point,
to see how the minutes go past,
how many make up an hour,
how many hours make a day,
how many days will make a year,
how many years a mortal man has to live.
When this is known, then one would divide up the times;
I must spend so many hours tending my flock;
so many hours resting;
so many hours thinking;
so many hours in exercise;
my ewes have been pregnant for so many years;
there are so many weeks before they will give birth;
so many years before I shear them.
So minutes, hours, days, months and years
would be spent in the way that one planned,
and eventually old age would reach a quiet grave.
Ah, what a life that would be! How sweet! How lovely!
Doesn't the hawthorn bush give a sweeter shade
to shepherds who are watching their silly sheep
than a rich embroidered canopy gives
to kings who are fearful of their subjects' treachery?
Oh, yes, it does; a thousand times it does!
To finish, the shepherd's humble meal,
his cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
his usual sleep under the shade of a tree,
all of which he enjoys safely and sweetly,
is far better than the delicacies a prince has,
his refreshment sparkling in a golden cup,
his body sleeping on a strange bed,
with worry, mistrust and treason all around him.
[Alarum. Enter a Son that hath killed his father, bringing in the
dead body.]
SON.
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.--
Who's this?--O God! it is my father's face,
Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill'd.
O heavy times, begetting such events!
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 receiv'd 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 flow'd their fill.
It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good.
This man, whom I killed in hand-to-hand combat,
may have some money on him;
and I, who is lucky enough to take it from him now,
may still before nightfall give both it and my life
to some other man, as this dead man does to me.
Who is this? Oh God! This is my father's face,
> I have killed him in this battle without knowing it.
What terrible times, that cause such events!
I was conscripted in the King's service at London;
my father, being a servant of the Earl of Warwick,
joined in on the side of York, conscripted by his master;
and I, who got my life from him,
have taken his life away from him.
Pardon me, God, I didn't know what I was doing;
and pardon me, father, I didn't know it was you.
My tears will wipe away these bloodstains,
and I shall say no more until they have stopped.
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'ercharg'd with grief.
What a pitiful sight! What bloody times!
While lions battle each other for their territory,
poor harmless lambs have to suffer as they fight.
Weep, wretched man, I will match you tear for tear;
and let our hearts and eyes, as if they were in a civil war,
be blind with tears and break from a surfeit of grief.
[Enter a Father who has killed his son, with the body in his
arms.]
FATHER.
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.--
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 wounds 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!
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) Page 163