Page 833 - Shakespeare - Vol. 1

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 cheek methinks presenteth. [100]
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?

FAT HER

How will my wife, for slaughter of my son, [105]
Shed seas of tears, and ne’er be satisfied!

KING HENRY

How will the country, for these woeful chances,
Misthink the king and not be satisfied!

SON

Was ever son so rued a father’s death?

FAT HER

Was ever father so bemoaned his son? [110]

KING HENRY

Was ever king so grieved for subjects’ woe?
Much is your sorrow; mine ten times so much.

SON

I’ll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill.

[Exit with the body.]

FAT HER

These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet;
My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre, [115]
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,
Mean for the loss of thee, having no more,