fell, how butcherly, Erroneous, mutinous and unnatural, This deadly quarrel daily doth beget! O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon, And hath bereft thee of thy life too late! 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, methinks, presenteth: Wither one rose, and let the other flourish; If you contend, a thousand lives must wither. How will my mother for a father's death Take on with me and ne'er be satisfied! How will my wife for slaughter of my son Shed seas of tears and ne'er be satisfied! How will the country for these woful chances Misthink the king and not be satisfied! Was ever son so rued a father's death? Was ever father so bemoan'd his son? Was ever king so grieved for subjects' woe? Much is your sorrow; mine ten times so much. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill. These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet; My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre, For from my heart thine image ne'er shall go; My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell; And so obsequious will thy father be, Even for the loss of thee, having no more, As Priam was for all his valiant sons. I'll bear thee hence; and let them fight that will, For I have murdered where I should not kill. Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care, Here sits a king more woful than you are. Fly, father, fly! for all your friends are fled, And Warwick rages like a chafed bull: Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit. 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 grasp'd in their ireful hands, Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain. Away! for vengeance comes along with them: Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed; Or else come after: I'll away before. Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exeter: Not that I fear to stay, but love to go Whither the queen intends. Forward; away! Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies, Which, whiles it lasted, gave King Henry light. O Lancaster, I fear thy overthrow More than my body's parting with my