Listen to Act 2. LibriVox volunteers recorded “Act 2” as one track, so it runs past this scene and includes stage directions this page leaves out. LibriVox catalog.
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 . Would I were dead, if God’s good will were so; For what is in this world but grief and woe? O God! 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 the poor fools will ean; So many years I shall shear the fleece. So minutes, hours, days, 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 silly sheep Than a rich embroidered canopy To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery? O, yes, it ; a thousand-fold it . 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 waits on him.
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 night yield both my life and them To some man else, as this dead man me. 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 . My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks, And no more words till they have flowed their fill.
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 tear for tear; And let our hearts and eyes, like civil war, Be blind with tears and break o’ercharged with grief.
FATHER
that so stoutly resisted me, Give me gold, if 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 , Throw up eye! See, see what showers arise, Blown with the windy tempest of my heart Upon 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 beget! O boy, father gave life too soon, And bereft of 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, , presenteth. Wither one rose, and let the other flourish! If you contend, a thousand lives must wither.
SON
How will my mother for a father’s death Take on with me and be satisfied!
FATHER
How will my wife for slaughter of my son Shed seas of tears and be satisfied!
KING HENRY
How will the country for these woeful chances Misthink the King and not be satisfied!
SON
Was ever son so rued a father’s death?
FATHER
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.
SON
I’ll bear , where I may weep my fill.
FATHER
These arms of mine shall be winding-sheet; My heart, sweet boy, shall be sepulchre, For from my heart image shall go. My sighing breast shall be funeral bell; And so obsequious will father be, Even for the loss of , having no more, As Priam was for all his valiant sons. I’ll bear ; and let them fight that will, For I have murdered where I should not kill.
KING HENRY
Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care, Here sits a king more woeful than you are.
PRINCE EDWARD
Fly, father, fly, for all your friends are fled, And Warwick rages like a chafed bull. Away, for death hold us in pursuit.
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 amain.
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 , good sweet Exeter; Not that I fear to stay, but love to go the Queen intends. Forward; away!