University of Virginia Library

ACT the First.

The Scene, A Garden within the Tower.
Enter the Lieutenant with a Servant.
Lieu.
Has King Henry walk'd forth this Morning?

Ser.
No, Sir, but 'tis near his Hour.

Lieu.
At any time when you see him here,
Let no Stranger into the Garden:
I wou'd not have him star'd at—See! Who's that
Now entring at the Gate?

Ser.
Sir, the Lord Stanley.

Lieu.
Leave me.—
[Ex. Servant.
Enter Lord Stanley.
My Noble Lord you're welcome to the Tower,
I heard last Night you late arriv'd with News
Of Edward's Victory to his joyful Queen.

Ld. Sta.
Yes, Sir; and I am proud to be the Man
That first brought home the last of Civil Broils,
The Houses now of York, and Lancaster,
Like Bloody Brothers fighting for Birth-right,
No more shall wound the Parent, that wou'd part 'em.
Edward now sits secure on England's Throne.

Lieu.
Near Tewkesbury, my Lord I think they fought:
Has the Enemy lost any Men of Note?

Ld. Sta.
Sir, I was Posted Home
E're an Account was taken of the Slain,
But as I left the Field, a Proclamation
From the King was made in Search of Edward,
Son to your Prisoner, King Henry the Sixth,
Which gave Reward to those Discover'd him,
And him his Life, if he'd surrender.

Lieu.
That Brave Young Prince, I fear's unlike his Father,
Too high of Heart to brook submissive Life:
This will be heavy News to Henry's Ear:
For on this Battles cast his All was set.

Ld. Sta.
King Henry, and ill Fortune are familiar:
He ever threw with an indifferent Hand,
But never yet was known to lose his Patience:
How does he pass the Time in his Confinement?

Lieu.
As one whose Wishes never reacht a Crown,
The King seems Dead in him: But as a Man
He sighs sometimes in want of Liberty,
Sometimes he Reads, and Walks, wishes
That Fate had blest him with an humbler Birth,
Not to have felt the falling from a Throne.

Ld. Sta.
Were it not possible to see this King?
They say he'll freely talk with Edward's Friends,
And ever treats him with Respect, and Honour.

Lieu.
This is his usual Time of walking forth,
(For he's allow'd the freedom of the Garden;)
After his Morning-Prayer? he seldom fails:
Behind this Arbor we unseen may stand
A while t'observe him.

(They retire.)
Enter King Henry the Sixth in Mourning.
K. Hen.
By this time the Decisive Blow is struck,
Either my Queen and Son are blest with Victory,
Or I'm the cause no more of Civil Broils.
Wou'd I were Dead if Heavens, good Will were so,
“For what is in this World but Grief and Care?
What Noise, and Bustle do Kings make to find it?
When Life's but a short Chace, our Game content
Which most pursued is most compell'd to fly;
And he that mounts him on the swiftest Hope,
Shall often Run his Courser to a stand,
While the poor Peasant from some distant Hill
Undanger'd, and at Ease views all the Sport,
And sees Content take shelter in his Cottage.

Ld. Sta.
He seems Extreamly mov'd.

(Aside.)
Lieu.
Does he know you?

(Aside.)
Ld. Sta.
No! nor wou'd I have him.

(Aside.)
Lieu.
We'll show our selves.

(Aside.)
(They come forward.)
K. Hen.
Why, there's another Check to Proud Ambition.
That Man receiv'd his Charge from me, and now
I'm his Prisoner, he lock's me to my Rest:
Such an unlook'd for Change who cou'd suppose,
That saw him kneel to Kiss the Hand that rais'd him?
But that I shou'd not now complain off,
Since I from thence may happily derive
His Civil Treatment of me,—'Morrow Lieutenant,
Is any News arriv'd?—Who's that with you?

Lieu.
A Gentleman that came last Night Express
From Tewkesbury. We've had a Battle, Sir.

K. Hen.
Comes he to me with Letters or Advice?

Lieu.
Sir, he's King Edward's Officer, your Foe.

K. Hen.
Then he won't flatter me, you're welcome, Sir;
Not less because you are King Edward's Friend;
For I have almost learn'd my self to be so:
Cou'd I but once forget I was a King,
I might be truly Happy, and his Subject.
You've gain'd a Battle? Is't not so?

Ld. Sta.
We have, Sir; How, will reach your Ear too soon.

K. Hen.
If to my Loss, it can't too soon? Pray speak,
For Fear makes Mischief greater than it is:
My Queen! my Son! say, Sir! are they living!

Ld. Sta.
Since my Arrival, Sir, another Post
Came in, who brought us word your Queen, and Son
Were Prisoners now at Tewkesbury.

K. Hen.
Heav'ns Will be done! the Hunters have 'em now—
And I have only Sighs, and Prayers to help 'em!

Ld. Sta.
King Edward, Sir, depends upon his Sword,
Yet prays heartily, when the Battle's won:
And Soldiers love a Bold and Active Leader,
Fortune like Women will be close pursu'd;
The English are high Mettl'd, Sir, and 'tis
No easie part to Sit 'em well. King Edward
Feels their Temper, and 'twill be hard to throw him.

K. Hen.
Alas, I thought 'em Men, and rather hop'd
To win their Hearts by Mildness, than Severity.
My Soul was never form'd for Cruelty,
In my Eye Justice has seem'd bloody,
When on the City Gates I have beheld
A Traytor's Quarters parching in the Sun,
My Blood has turn'd with Horror of the Sight,
I took 'em down, and Buried with his Limbs
The Memory of the Dead Man's Deeds: Perhaps
That Pity made me look less Terrible,
Giving the mind of weak Rebellion Spirit:
For King's are put in Trust for all Mankind,
And when themselves take Injuries, who is safe?
If so I have deserv'd these frowns of Fortune.

Enter a Servant to the Lieutenant.
Ser.
Sir, here's a Gentleman brings a Warrant.
For his Access to King Henry's Presence.

Lieu.
I come to him.

Ld. Sta.
His Business may require your Privacy,
I'll leave you, Sir, wishing you all the Good
That can be wish'd, not wronging him I serve.

(Ex. Lord Stan.
K. Hen.
Farewell: Who can this be? A sudden Coldness
Like the Damp Hand of Death has seiz'd my Limbs:
I fear some heavy News!—
Enter Lieutenant.
Who is it, good Lieutenant?

Lieu.
A Gentleman, Sir, from Tewkesbury, he seems
A melancholly Messenger: For when I ask'd
What News? His Answer was a deep faught Sigh:
I wou'd not urge him, but I fear 'tis fatal.

Enter Tressell in Mourning.
K. Hen.
Fatal indeed! His Brows the Title Page
That speaks the Nature of a Tragick Volume;
“Say, Friend, how does my Queen, my Son!
Thou tremblest, and the whiteness of thy Cheek
Is apter than, thy Tongue to tell the Errand,
Ev'n such a Man, so Faint, so Spiritless,
So Dull, so Dead in Look, to Woe be gone,
Drew Priam's Curtain in the Dead of Night,
And wou'd have told him half his Troy was burn'd,
But Priam found the Fire, e're he his Tongue,
And I my poor Son's Death e're thou relatest it;
Now wou'd'st thou say: Your Son did thus and thus,
‘And thus your Queen; So fought the Valiant Oxford,
Stopping my greedy Ear with their bold Deeds,
But in the End (to stop my Ear indeed,)
Thou hast a Sigh to blow away this Praise,
“Ending with Queen and Son, and all are Dead.

Tress.
“Your Queen yet Lives, and many of your Friends,
“But for my Lord your Son—

K. Hen.
Why, he is Dead;—yet speak, I Charge thee!
“Tell thou thy Master his Suspicion lies,
And I will take it as a kind Disgrace,
“And thank thee well, for doing me such wrong.

Tress.
Wou'd it were wrong to say, but, Sir, your Fears are true.

K. Hen.
Yet for all this, say not my Son is Dead.

Tress.
Sir, I am sorry I must force you to
Believe, what wou'd to Heav'n I had not seen!
But in this last Battle, near Tewkesbury,
“Your Son, whose Active Spirit lent a Fire
“Ev'n to the dullest Peasant in our Camp,
Still made his way, where Danger stood t'oppose him,
A braver Youth of more Couragious Heat,
“Ne'er spurr'd his Courser at the Trumpets sound:
But who can Rule th'uncertain Chance of War,
In Fine, King Edward won the Bloody Field,
Where both your Queen, and Son were made his Prisoners.

K. Hen.
“Yet, hold! for oh! this Prologue lets me in
“To a most fatal Tragedy to come.—
Dy'd he Prisoner, say'st thou? How? By Grief,
Or by the bloody Hands of those, that caught him?

Tress.
After the Fight, Edward in Triumph ask'd
To see the Captive Prince; the Prince was brought,
Whom Edward roughly Chid for bearing Arms,
Asking what Reparation he cou'd make
For having stirr'd his Subjects to Rebellion?
Your Son impatient of such Taunts, reply'd,
“Bow like a Subject, Proud Ambitious York!
“While I now speaking with my Father's Mouth,
“Propose the self same Rebel Words to thee,
“Which, Traytor, thou wou'dst have me answer to:
From these, more Words arose, till in the End
King Edward swell'd with what th'unhappy Prince
At such a time too freely spoke, his Gauntlet
In his young Face with Indignation struck:
At which Crook'd Richard, Clarence, and the rest
Buried their fatal Daggers in his Heart:
In Bloody State I saw him on the Earth,
From whence with Life he never more sprung up.

K. Hen.
“O had'st thou stabb'd at every Words deliverance,
“Sharp Ponyards in my Flesh, while this were told
“Thy Wounds had giv'n less Anguish than thy Words.—
O Heav'ns! methinks I see my tender Lamb
Gasping beneath the Ravenous Wolves fell gripe?
But say, did all? Did they all strike him, say'st thou?

Tress.
All, Sir: But the first Wound-Duke Richard gave.

K. Hen.
There let him stop! be that his last of Ills!
O barbarous Act; Unhospitable Men!
Against the rigid Laws of Arms to kill him!
Was't not enough, his hope of Birth-right gone,
But must your Hate be levell'd at his Life?
Nor cou'd his Father's Wrongs content you?
Nor cou'd a Father's Grief disswade the Deed?
“You have no Children, (Butchers if you had)
“The thought of them wou'd sure have stirr'd Remorse.

Tress.
Take Comfort, Sir; and hope a better Day.

K. Hen.
O! who can hold a Fire in his Hand,
By thinking on the Frosty Caucasus?
Or wallow Naked in December's Snow,
“By bare remembrance of the Summer's Heat?
Away! by Heav'n, I shall abhor his Sight,
Whoever bids me be of Comfort more:
If thou wilt sooth my Sorrows, then I'll thank thee:
Ay! now thou'rt kind indeed! these Tears oblige me.

Tress.
Alas, my Lord! I fear more Evils toward you.

K. Hen.
Why, let it come! I scarce shall feel it now,
My present Woes have beat me to the Ground,
And my hard Fate can make me fall no lower:
What can it be? Give it its ugliest Shape,—O my poor Boy!—

Tress.
A word does that it comes in Gloucester's Form.

K. Hen.
Frightful indeed! give me the worst that threatens.

Tress.
After the Murther of your Son, stern Richard,
As if unsated with the Wounds he had giv'n,
With unwash'd Hands went from his Friends in hast,
And being ask'd by Clarence of the Cause,
He low'ring cry'd, Brother, I must, to the Tower!
I've Business there, excuse me to the King,
Before you reach the Town, expect some News:
This said, he vanish'd, and I hear's arriv'd.

K. Hen.
Why, then the Period of my Woes is set;
For Ills but thought by him are half perform'd.

Enter Lieutenant with a Paper.
Lieu.
Forgive me, Sir; what, I'm compell'd to'bey
An Order for your close Confinement.

K. Hen.
Whence comes it, good Lieutenant?

Lieu.
Sir, from the Duke of Gloucester.

K. Hen.
Good Night to all then: I obey it—
And now good Friend suppose me on my Death-bed,
And take of me, thy last, short Living leave:—
Nay, keep thy Tears till thou hast seen me Dead:
And when in tedious Winter Nights, with Good
Old Folks, thou sit'st up late
To hear 'em tell thee Dismal Tales
‘Of times long past, even now with Woe remember'd;
Before thou bidst good night, to quit their Grief,
Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,
And send thy hearers weeping to their Beds.

(Exeunt.
Enter Richard Duke of Gloucester. Solus.
Rich.
Now are our Brows bound with Victorious wreaths,
Our stern allarms are changed to Merry-meetings,
Our dreadfull marches to delightful measures.
Grim visaged War has smoothed his wrinkled Front,
And now instead of mounting Barbed Steeds
To fright the Souls of fearful Adversaries
He Capers nimbly in a Ladies Chamber
To the Lascivious Pleasing of a Lute;
But I that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
I that am curtailed of Man's fair proportion,
Deform'd, Unfinish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing World scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That Dogs bark at me as I halt by 'em;
Why I, in this weak, this piping time of Peace,
Have no delight to pass away my hours,
Unless to see my shadow in the Sun,
And descant on my own deformity:
—Then since this Earth affords no joy to me,
But to Command, to Check, and to Orebear such,
‘As are of Happier Person than my self,
‘Why then to me this restless World's but Hell,
Till this mishapen trunks aspiring head
‘Be circled in a glorious Diadem
But then 'tis fixt on such an heighth, O! I
Must stretch the utmost reaching of my Soul.
I'll climb betimes without Remorse or Dread,
And my first step shall be on Henry's Head.

(Exit.
Scene, a Chamber in the Tower: K. Henry sleeping.
Enter Lieutenant.
Lieu.
Asleep so soon! But sorrow minds no seasons,
The Morning, Noon, and Night with her's the same,
She's fond of any hour that yields Repose.

K. H.
Who's there? Lieutenant! is it you? Come hither.

(rising.
Lieu.
You shake, my Lord, and look affrighted.

K. H.
O! I have had the fearfull'st Dream; such sights,
That, as I live—
I would not pass another hour so dreadful
Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days.
Reach me a Book—I'll try if reading can
Divert these melancholy thoughts.

Enter Richard.
Rich.
Good day, my Lord; what, at your Book so hard?
I disturb you.

K. H.
You do indeed—

(sighing.
Rich.
Go, Friend, leave us to our selves; we must confer.

(Exit Lieu.
K. H.
What Bloody Scene has Roscius now to Act?

Rich.
Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind,
The Thief does fear each bush an Officer.

K. H.
Where Thieves without Controulment rob and kill,
The Traveller does fear each bush a Thief:
The poor bird that has been already lim'd
With trembling Wings misdoubts of every Bush,
And I, the hapless Male to one sweet Bird,
Have now the fatal object in my Eye,
‘By whom my young one bled, was caught and kill'd.

Rich.
Why, what a peevish Fool was that of Creet,
That taught his Son the office of a Fowl?
And yet for all his Wings the fool was drown'd:
Thou should'st have taught thy Boy his Prayers alone,
And then he had not broke his neck with Climbing.

K. Hen.
Ah, kill me with thy weapon, not with words,
My breast can better brook thy Daggers point,
‘Than can my ears that piercing story.
But wherefore dost thou come, is't for my life?

Rich.
Thinkest thou I am an Executioner?

K. Hen.
If Murthering Innocents be Executing
‘Thou'rt then the worst of Executioners.

Rich.
Thy Son I kill'd for his Presumption.

K. Hen.
Hadst thou been kill'd when first thou didst Presume,
Thou hadst not liv'd to kill a Son of mine.
But thou wert born to Massacre Mankind.
‘How many Old Mens sighs, and Widows moans,
‘How many Orphans Water standing eyes,
‘Men, for their Sons, Wives for their Husbands Fate,
‘And Children, for their Parents timeless death,
‘Will rue the hour that ever thou wert born?
The Owl shriek'd at thy Birth: An Evil sign.
‘The night Crow cry'd, foreboding luckless time,
Dogs howl'd, and hideous Tempests shook down Trees;
The Raven rook'd her on the Chimneys top,
And chattering Pies in dismal discords sung.
Thy Mother felt more than a Mothers Pain,
And yet brought forth less than a Mothers Hope:
Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wert born,
Which plainly said, Thou cam'st to bite Mankind,
And, if the rest be true which I have heard,
Thou cam'st—

Rich.
I'll hear no more: Dye, Prophet, in thy speech.
(stabs him.
For this, amongst the rest was I ordain'd.

K. Hen.
‘O! and for much more slaughter after this.
‘Just Heaven forgive my sins, and pardon thee.

[Dies.
Rich.
What, will the aspiring blood of Lancaster
Sink in the ground?—I thought it would have mounted.
See how my Sword weeps for the poor King's death;
—O, may such purple tears be always shed
From those that wish the Downfall of our House.
If any spark of Life be yet remaining.
Down, down to Hell! and say, I sent thee thither.
(stabs him again:
I that have neither Pity, Love nor Fear:
Indeed 'tis true, what Henry told me of,
For I have often heard my Mother say,
I came into the World with my Legs forward:
The Midwife wonder'd, and the Women cry'd,
Good Heaven bless us, he is born with Teeth;
And so I was, which plainly signified,
That I should snarl and bite, and play the Dog.
Then since the Heavens have shap'd my body so,
Let Hell make crooked my mind to answer it—
I have no Brother, am like no Brother,
And this word Love, which Gray beards call Divine,
Be resident in Men, like one another,
And not in me—I am—my self alone.
Clarence, beware, thou keep'st me from the Light,
But if I fail not in my deep intent,
Thou'st not another day to live, which done,
Heaven take the weak King Edward to his Mercy,
And leave the World for me to bustle in:
But soft—I'm sharing spoil before the Field is won,
Clarence still Breaths, Edward still Lives and Reigns,
When they are gone, then I must count my gains.

(Exit.