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 thee,
Throw up thine eye! see, see what showers arise,
Blown with the windy tempest of my heart,
Upon thy words, 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 doth beget!
O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon,
And hath bereft thee of thy life too late!
KING HENRY VI 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.
Son How will my mother for a father's death
Take on with me and ne'er be satisfied!
Father How will my wife for slaughter of my son
Shed seas of tears and ne'er be satisfied!
KING HENRY VI 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?
Father Was ever father so bemoan'd his son?
KING HENRY VI Was ever king so grieved for subjects' woe?
Much is your sorrow; mine ten times so much.
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