Could 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 ?

Stanley. We have, sir,-how, will reach your ear

100 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?

Stanley. Since my arrival, sir, another post Came in, which brought us word, your queen and son Were prisoners now at Tewksbury.

K. Hen. Heav'n's will be done! the hunters have

them now,

And I have only sighs and prayers to help them?
Stanley. 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 mettled, sir, and 'tis
No easy part to fit them well-King Edward
Feels their temper, and 'twill be hard to throw him.
K. Hen. Alas! I thought them men, and rather
hop'd

To win their hearts by mildness than severity.
My soul was never form'd for cruelty;
In my eyes, justice has seem'd bloody;
When, on the city gates, I have beheld
A traitor's quarters parching in the sun,
My blood has turn'd with horror at the sight;
I took them down, and bury'd, 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 kings 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 OFFICER.

Offi. Sir, here's a gentleman brings a warrant, For his access to King Henry's presence.

Licut. I come to him.

[Exit, with OFFICER. Stanley. 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. [Exit. 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 ?

Lieut. A gentleman, sir, from Tewksbury: he seems A melancholy messenger-for, when I ask'd What news, his answer was a deep-fetch'd sigh: I would not urge him, but I fear 'tis fatal.

Enter TRESSEL.

[Exit.

K. Hen. Fatal indeed! his brow's the title-page, That speaks the nature of a tragic volume.

Say, friend, how does my queen! my son!
Thou tremblest, and the whiteness of thy cheek
Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand.
Ev'n such a man, so faint, so spiritless,
So dull, so dead in look, so woe begone,
Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night,
And would have told him half his Troy was burn'd.
But Priam found the fire, ere he his tongue,
And I my poor son's death, ere thou relat'st it.
Now wouldst thou say your son did thus, and thus,
And thus your queen! so fought the valiant Ox-

ford;

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. Tressel. 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. Tressel. 'Would it were wrong to say; but, sir, your fears are true.

K. Hen. Yet for all this, say not my son is dead.
Tressel. Sir, I am sorry I must force you to
Believe, what 'would to Heav'n I had not seen!
But in this last battle, near Tewksbury,

Your son, whose active spirit lent a fire,
Ev'n to the dullest peasant in our camp,

Still made his way, where danger stood to oppose him.

A braver youth, of more courageous heat,

Ne'er spurr'd his courser at the trumpet's sound.
But who can rule the 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 a prisoner, say'st thou? how? by grief?
Or by the bloody hands of those that caught him?
Tressel. 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 could make

For having stirred 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, traitor, thou wouldst 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,
Bury'd 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. Oh! hadst thou stabb'd,

deliverance,/

at every

word's

Sharp poignards in my flesh, while this was told,
Thy wounds had given less anguish than thy words.
Oh, 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?
Tressel. All, sir: but the first wound Duke Richard
gave.

K. Hen. There let him stop! be that his last of ills!

Oh, barbarous act! unhospitable men!

Against the rigid laws of arms, to kill him!
Was't not enough, his hope of birthright gone,
But must your hate be levell'd at his life?
Nor could his father's wrongs content you?
Nor could a father's grief dissuade the deed ?
You have no children-butchers, if you had,
The thought of them would sure have stirr'd remorse.
Tressel. Take comfort, sir, and hope a better day.
K. Hen. Oh! 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 Heaven, I shall abhor his sight,
Whoever bids me be of comfort more!

C

If thou wilt sooth my sorrow, then I'll thank thee; Ay! now thou'rt kind indeed! these tears oblige me. Tressel. Alas, my lord, I fear more evils towards 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-

Oh, my poor boy!

Tressel. A word does that; it comes in Gloster's form.

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

Tressel. After the murder of your son, stern Richard, As if unsated with the wounds he had given,

With unwash'd hands went from his friends in haste;
And, being asked by Clarence of the cause,

He, low'ring, cried, 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, is 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 an Order.

Lieut. Forgive me, sir, what I'm compell'd t' obey: An order for your close confinement.

K. Hen. Whence comes it, good Lieutenant ?
Lieut. Sir, from the Duke of Gloster.

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 sitt'st up late,

To hear them tell the dismal tales