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Enrich the time to come with smooth-faced peace,
With smiling plenty and fair prosperous days!
Abate the edge of traitors, gracious Lord,
That would reduce these bloody days again,
And make poor England weep in streams of blood !
Let them not live to taste this land's increase
That would with treason wound this fair land's
peace! Now civil wounds are stopped, peace lives again : That she may long live here, God say Amen!
THE TRUE TRAGEDIE OF RICHARD
DUKE OF YORKE, AND THE GOOD
KING HENRY THE SIXT.
(Continued from Vol. No. 192.)
Alarmes. Enter WarWIKE.
War. Sore spent with toile as runners with the race,
I laie me downe a little while to breath,
For strokes receiude, and manie blowes repaide,
Hath robd my strong knit sinnews of their strength,
And force perforce needes must I rest my selfe.
Edw. Smile gentle heauens or strike vngentle death,
That we maie die vnlesse we gaine the daie :
What fatall starre malignant nes from heauen
Vpon the harmelesse line of Yorkes true house?
George. Come brother, come lets to the field againo,
For yet theres hope inough to win the daie :
Then let vs backe to cheere our fainting Troupes,
Lest they retire now we haue left the field.
War. How now my lords : what hap, what hope of good ?
Enter RICHARD running. Rich. Ah Warwike, why hast thou withdrawne thy selfe ? Thy noble father in the thickest thronges, Cride still for Warwike his thrise valiant son, Vntill with thousand swords he was beset, And manie wounds made in his aged brest, And as he tottring sate vpon his steede,
He waft his hand to me and cride aloud :
Richard, commend me to my valiant sonne,
And still he cride Warwike reuenge my death,
And with those words he tumbled off his horse,
And so the noble Salsbury gaue vp the ghost.
War. Then let the earth be drunken with his bloud,
Ile kill my horse because I will not flie:
And here to God of heauen I make a vow,
Neuer to passe from forth this bloudy field
Till I am full reuenged for his death.
Edw. Lord Warwike, I doe bend my knoos with thine,
And in that vow now ioine my soule to thee,
Thou setter vp and puller downe of kings,
Vouchsafe a gentle victorie to vs,
Or let vs die before we loose the daie :
George. Then let vs haste to cheere the souldiers harts,
And call them pillers that will stand to vs,
And hiely promise to remunerate
Their trustie seruice, in these dangerous warres.
Rich. Come, come awaie, and stand not to debate,
For yet is hope of fortune good enough.
Brothers, giue me your hands, and let vs part
And take our leaues vntill we meet againe,
Where ere it be in heauen or in earth.
Now I that neuer wept, now melt in wo,
To see these dire mishaps continue so.
War. Awaie awaie, once more sweet Lords farewell.
Alarmes, and then enter RICHARD at one dore and CLIFFORD
This thirsty sword that longs to drinke thy bloud,
Shall lop thy limmes, and slise thy cursed hart,
For to reuenge the murders thou hast made.
Clif. Now Richard, I am with thee here alone,
This is the hand that stabd thy father Yorke,
And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland,
And heres the heart that triumphs in their deathes,
And cheeres these hands that slew thy sire and brother,
To execute the like vpon thy selfe,
And so have at thee.
Alarmes. They fight, and then enters WARWIKE and rescules
RICHARD, f. then exeunt omnes.
Alarmes still, and then enter HENRY solus.
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,
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,
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,
This man that I haue 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 be whom I haue slaine in fight,
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. 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, 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, 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, For if you striue, ten thousand liues inust 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 ?
King. How will the people now misdeeme their king, Oh would my death their mindes could satisfie,
1 Sould. Was euer son so ruc'. 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?
1 Sould. Ile beare thee hence from this accursed place, For wo is me to see my fathers face.
[Exit with his father.