SC. VIII. eah
Hen. Oh gratious God of heauen looke downe on vs,
And set some endes to these incessant griefes,
How like a mastlesse ship vpon the seas,
This woful battaile doth continue still,
5 Now leaning this way, now to that side driue,
And none doth know to whom the daie will fall.
[♦] O would my death might staie these ciuill iars!
[♦] Would I had neuer raind, nor nere bin king,
Margret and Clifford, chide me from the fielde,
10 Swearing they had best successe when I was thence.
Would God that I were dead so all were well,
Or would my crowne suffice, I were content
To yeeld it them and liue a priuate life.
Enter a souldier with a dead man in his armes.
Sould Il blowes the wind that profits no bodie,
15 This man that I have slaine in fight to daie,
Maie be possessed of some store of crownes,
And I will search to find them if I can,
But stay. Me thinkes it is my fathers face,
Oh I tis he whom I haue slaine in fight,
20 From London was I prest out by the king,
My father he came on the part of Yorke,
And in this conflict I haue slaine my father:
Oh pardon God, I knew not what I did,
[♦] And pardon father, for I knew thee not.
Enter an other souldier with a dead man.
25 2. Soul. Lie there thou that foughtst with me so stoutly,
Now let me see what store of gold thou haste,
But staie, me thinkes this is no famous face:
Oh no it is my sonne that I haue slaine in fight,
O monstrous times begetting such euents,
[30] How cruel bloudy, and ironious,
This deadlie quarrell dailie doth beget,
[♦] Poore boy thy father gaue thee lif too late,
And hath bereau’de thee of thy life too sone.
King Wo aboue wo, griefe more then common griefe,
35 Whilst Lyons warre and battaile for their dens,
Poore lambs do feele the rigor of their wraths:
[♦] The red rose and the white are on his face,
The fatall colours of our striuing houses,
Wither one rose, and let the other flourish,
40 For if you striue, ten thousand liues must perish.
1. Sould. How will my mother for my fathers death,
Take on with me and nere be satisfide?
[♦] 2. Sol. How will my wife for slaughter of my son,
Take on with me and nere be satisfide?
45 King. How will the people now misdeeme their king,
Oh would my death their mindes could satisfie.
1. Sould. Was euer son so rude his fathers bloud to spil?
2. Soul. Was euer father so vnnaturall his son to kill?
King. Was euer king thus greeud and vexed still?
50 1. Sould. Ile beare thee hence from this accursed place,
For wo is me to see my fathers face. Exit with his father.
2. Soul. Ile beare thee hence & let them fight that wil,
[♦] For I haue murdered where I should not kill. Exit with his sonne.
K Hen. Weepe wretched man, Ile lay thee teare for tear,
55 Here sits a king as woe begone as thee.
Alarmes and enter the Queene.
Queene. Awaie my Lord to Barwicke presentlie,
The daie is lost, our friends are murdered,
[♦] No hope is left for vs, therefore awaie.
Enter prince Edward.
Prince. Oh father flie, our men haue left the field,
60 Take horse sweet father, let us saue our selues.
Enter Exeter.
[♦] Exet. Awaie my Lord for vengeance comes along with him:
Nay stand not to expostulate make hast,
Or else come after, Ile awaie before.
K Hen. Naie staie good Exeter, for Ile along with thee.
Enter Clifford wounded with an arrow in his necke.
65 Clif. Heere burnes my candell out,
That whilst it lasted gaue king Henry light.
Ah Lancaster, I feare thine ouerthrow,
More then my bodies parting from my soule.
My loue and feare glude manie friendes to thee,
70 And now I die, that tough commixture melts.
Impairing Henry strengthened misproud Yorke,
The common people swarme like summer flies,
[♦] And whither flies the Gnats but to the sun?
And who shines now but Henries enemie?
75 Oh Phœbus hadst thou neuer giuen consent,
That Phæton should checke thy fierie steedes,
Thy burning carre had neuer scorcht the earth.
And Henry hadst thou liu’d as kings should doe,
And as thy father and his father did,
80 Giuing no foot vnto the house of Yorke,
I and ten thousand in this wofull land,
Had left no mourning Widdowes for our deathes,
And thou this daie hadst kept thy throne in peace.
For what doth cherish weedes but gentle aire?
[85] And what makes robbers bold but lenitie?
Bootlesse are plaintes, and curelesse are my woundes,
No waie to flie, no strength to hold our flight,
The foe is mercilesse and will not pittie me,
And at their hands I haue deserude no pittie.
90 The aire is got into my bleeding wounds,
And much effuse of bloud doth make me faint,
Come Yorke, and Richard, Warwike and the rest,
[♦] I stabde your fathers, now come split my brest.
Enter Edward, Richard, and Warwike, and Souldiers.
[♦] Edw. Thus farre our fortunes keepes an vpward
[95] Course, and we are grast with wreathes of victorie.
Some troopes pursue the bloudie minded Queene,
That now towards Barwike doth poste amaine,
But thinke you that Clifford is fled awaie with them?
War. No, tis impossible he should escape,
100 For though before his face I speake the words,
Your brother Richard markt him for the graue.
And where so ere he be I warrant him dead. Clifford grones and then dies.
Edw. Harke, what soule is this that takes his heauy leaue?
Rich. A deadlie grone, like life and deaths departure.
105 Edw. See who it is, and now the battailes ended,
Friend or foe, let him be friendlie vsed.
Rich. Reuerse that doome of mercie, for tis Clifford,
Who kild our tender brother Rutland,
[♦] And stabd our princelie father Duke of Yorke.
[110] War. From off the gates of Yorke fetch down the
Head, Your fathers head which Clifford placed there.
[♦] Insteed of that, let his supplie the roome.
Measure for measure must be answered.
Edw. Bring forth that fatall scrichowle to our house,
115 That nothing sung to vs but bloud and death,
[♦] Now his euill boding tongue no more shall speake.
War. I thinke his vnderstanding is bereft.
Say Clifford, doost thou know who speakes to thee?
Darke cloudie death oreshades his beames of life,
120 And he nor sees nor heares vs what we saie.
Rich. Oh would he did, and so perhaps he doth,
[♦] And tis his policie that in the time of death,
He might auoid such bitter stormes as he
In his houre of death did give vnto our father.
125 George. Richard if thou thinkest so, vex him with eager words.
Rich. Clifford, aske mercie and obtaine no grace.
Edw. Clifford, repent in bootlesse penitence.
War. Clifford deuise excuses for thy fault.
George. Whilst we deuise fell tortures for thy fault.
130 Rich. Thou pittiedst Yorke, and I am sonne to Yorke.
Edw. Thou pittiedst Rutland, and I will pittie thee.
[♦] George. Wheres captaine Margaret to fence you now?
War. They mocke thee Clifford, sweare as thou wast wont.
[♦] Rich. What not an oth? Nay, then I know hees dead.
135 Tis hard, when Clifford cannot foord his friend an oath.
By this I know hees dead, and by my soule,
Would this right hand buy but an howres life,
That I in all contempt might raile at him.
Ide cut it off and with the issuing bloud,
140 Stifle the villaine whose instanched thirst,
Yorke and young Rutland could not satisfie.
War. I, but he is dead, off with the traitors head,
And reare it in the place your fathers stands.
And now to London with triumphant march,
145 There to be crowned Englands lawfull king.
From thence shall Warwike crosse the seas to France,
And aske the ladie Bona for thy Queene,
So shalt thou sinew both these landes togither,
[♦] And hauing France thy friend thou needst not dread,
150 The scattered foe that hopes to rise againe.
And though they cannot greatly sting to hurt,
Yet looke to haue them busie to offend thine eares.
First He see the coronation done,
And afterward He crosse the seas to France,
[155] To effect this marriage if it please my Lord
Edw. Euen as thou wilt good Warwike let it be.
But first before we goe, George kneele downe.
[♦] We here create thee Duke of Clarence, and girt thee with the sword.
[♦] Our younger brother Richard Duke of Glocester.
[160] Warwike as my selfe shal do & vndo as him pleaseth best.
Rich. Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloster,
For Glosters Dukedome is too ominous.
[♦] War. Tush thats a childish obseruation.
Richard be Duke of Gloster. Now to London.
165 To see these honors in possession. Exeunt Omnes.