_Son._ Ill blows the wind that profits nobody. [cbe055] 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 ere night yield both my life and them To some man else, as this dead man doth me. [cbe060] Who’s this? O God! it is my father’s face, Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill’d. [cbe062] O heavy times, begetting such events! From London by the king was I press’d forth; My father, being the Earl of Warwick’s man, ·cbe065· Came on the part of York, press’d 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 thee! ·cbe070· My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks; And no more words till they have flow’d their fill. _K. Hen._ O piteous spectacle! O bloody times! Whiles lions war and battle for their dens, [cbe074] Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity. ·cbe075· Weep, wretched man, I’ll aid thee tear for tear; And let our hearts and eyes, like civil war, Be blind with tears, and break o’ercharged with grief. [cbe078] _Enter a_ Father _that has killed his son, bringing in the body_. _Fath._ Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me, [cbe079] Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold; ·cbe080· 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! [cbe083] Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee, Throw up thine eye! see, see what showers arise, ·cbe085· Blown with the windy tempest of my heart, Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart! [cbe087] O, pity, God, this miserable age! What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly, [cbe089] Erroneous, mutinous and unnatural, [cbe090] This deadly quarrel daily doth beget! O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon, [cbe092] And hath bereft thee of thy life too late! _K. Hen._ Woe above woe! grief more than common grief! O that my death would stay these ruthful deeds! [cbe095] 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; [cbe099] The other his pale cheeks, methinks, presenteth: [cbe100] 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 ne’er be satisfied! _Fath._ How will my wife for slaughter of my son ·cbe105· Shed seas of tears and ne’er be satisfied! _K. Hen._ How will the country for these woful chances Misthink the king and not be satisfied! _Son._ Was ever son so rued a father’s death? _Fath._ Was ever father so bemoan’d his son? [cbe110] _K. Hen._ Was ever king so grieved for subjects’ woe? Much is your sorrow; mine ten times so much.