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This battle fares like to the morning’s war, When dying clouds contend with growing light, What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails, Can neither call it perfect day nor night. Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea Forced by the tide to combat with the wind; Now sways it that way, like the selfsame sea Forced to retire by fury of the wind: Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind; Now one the better, then another best; Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, Yet neither conqueror nor conquered: So is the equal of this fell war. Here on this molehill will I sit me down. To whom God will, there be the victory! For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too, Have chid me from the battle; swearing both They prosper best of all when I am thence. Would I were dead! if God’s good will were so; For what is in this world but grief and woe? O God! methinks it were a happy life, To be no better than a homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run, How many make the hour full complete; How many hours bring about the day; How many days will finish up the year; How many years a mortal man may live. When this is known, then to divide the times: So many hours must I tend my flock; So many hours must I take my rest; So many hours must I contemplate; So many hours must I sport myself; So many days my ewes have been with young; So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean: So many years ere I shall shear the fleece: So minutes, hours, days, months, and years, Pass’d over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely! Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade To shepherds looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider’d canopy To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery? O, yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth. And to conclude, the shepherd’s homely curds, His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle. His wonted sleep under a fresh tree’s shade, All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, Is far beyond a prince’s delicates, His viands sparkling in a golden cup, His body couched in a curious bed, When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him.
This battle is like a war at dawn, When dying clouds fight against the rising light, When the shepherd, blowing on his fingers, Can’t tell if it’s day or night. Now it swings one way, like a mighty sea Forced by the tide to fight against the wind; Now it swings the other way, like the same sea Forced to retreat because of the wind’s fury: Sometimes the tide wins, and sometimes the wind; One is better at one moment, and then the other wins; Both fighting to be the victor, face to face, Yet neither a winner nor a loser: That’s how this terrible war feels. Here on this small hill, I’ll sit down. Whoever God favors, let them win! Because Margaret, my queen, and Clifford too, Have sent me away from the battle; both swearing They do best when I’m not there. I wish I were dead, if that’s God’s will; Because what’s left in this world but grief and sorrow? O God! I think it would be a happy life, To be no more than a simple shepherd; To sit on a hill, like I do now, To carve out sundials, marking the time, Watching the minutes pass, Counting how many make an hour, How many hours complete a day; How many days make a year; How many years a man can live. When this is known, then to divide the time: So many hours I must tend my sheep; So many hours I must rest; So many hours I must think; So many hours I must enjoy myself; So many days my sheep have been pregnant; So many weeks before the lambs are born; So many years before I shear the wool: So minutes, hours, days, months, and years, Passing until they fulfill their purpose, Would bring white hair and a peaceful grave. Ah, what a life this would be! How sweet! How lovely! Doesn’t the hawthorn tree give a sweeter shade To shepherds watching their silly sheep, Than a rich embroidered canopy To kings who fear their subjects’ betrayal? Oh, yes, it does; a thousand times more so. And in conclusion, the shepherd’s simple curds, His cold, thin drink from his leather bottle, His usual sleep under a fresh tree’s shade, All of which he enjoys safely and sweetly, Is far better than a prince’s luxury, His food sparkling in a golden cup, His body resting in an elegant bed, While care, suspicion, and betrayal hover over him.
Ill blows the wind that profits nobody. 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. Who’s this? O God! it is my father’s face, Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill’d. 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, Came on the part of York, press’d by his master; And I, who at his hands received my life, him 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! My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks; And no more words till they have flow’d their fill.
Bad winds blow when no one benefits. This man, whom I killed in close combat, May have had some treasure; And I, who take it from him now, May, by nightfall, lose both my life and it To someone else, just as this dead man has lost it to me. Who is this? Oh God! It’s my father’s face, Whom I accidentally killed in this battle. Oh, these are terrible times that lead to such events! I was pressed into service by the king from London; My father, being a servant of the Earl of Warwick, Came to fight for York, ordered by his master; And I, who owe my life to him, have taken his life. Forgive me, God, I didn’t know what I was doing! And forgive me, Father, for I didn’t recognize you! My tears will wash away these bloody marks; And I’ll say no more until they’ve flowed enough.
O piteous spectacle! O bloody times! Whiles lions war and battle for their dens, Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity. 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.
What a sad sight! What bloody times! While lions fight for their dens, Poor innocent lambs suffer their hatred. Weep, miserable man, I’ll cry with you, And let our hearts and eyes, like a civil war, Be blinded by tears, and break from being too full of grief.
Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me, Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold: 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! 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!
You, who have fought so fiercely against me, Give me your gold, if you have any gold: I’ve earned it with a hundred blows. But let me see: is this the face of our enemy? Ah, no, no, no, it’s my only son! Oh, boy, if there’s any life left in you, Open your eyes! See what storms are rising, Blown by the strong winds of my heart, Upon your words, which kill both my eyes and heart! Oh, God, have mercy on this terrible time! What tricks, how cruel, how violent, Unnatural, rebellious, and deadly, This awful war keeps producing! Oh, boy, your father gave you life too soon, And took it from you 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.
Woe upon woe! A grief greater than any normal grief! I wish my death could stop these terrible deeds! Oh, pity, mercy, gentle heaven, pity! The red rose and the white are on his face, The deadly symbols of our warring houses: One rose resembles his blood, so red; The other, his pale cheeks, I think, reflects: Let one rose wither, and let the other bloom; If you keep fighting, a thousand lives will die.
How will my mother for a father’s death Take on with me and ne’er be satisfied!
How will my mother, for the death of my father, Ever be satisfied with me!
How will my wife for slaughter of my son Shed seas of tears and ne’er be satisfied!
How will my wife, for the slaughter of my son, Cry a sea of tears and never be satisfied!
How will the country for these woful chances Misthink the king and not be satisfied!
How will the country think badly of the king for these terrible events And not be satisfied with him!
Was ever son so rued a father’s death?
Has any son ever regretted his father’s death so much?
Was ever father so bemoan’d his son?
Has any father ever mourned his son so much?
Was ever king so grieved for subjects’ woe? Much is your sorrow; mine ten times so much.
Has any king ever been so upset by the suffering of his people? Your sorrow is great; mine is ten times greater.
I’ll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill.
I’ll take you away, so I can weep my heart out.
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.
These arms of mine will be your burial shroud; My heart, sweet boy, will be your tomb, Because your image will never leave my heart; My sighs will be your funeral bell; And your father will mourn you so much, Just as Priam mourned for all of his brave sons. I’ll take you away; let them fight if they want to, For I’ve killed where I should not have killed.
Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care, Here sits a king more woful than you are.
Men with sad hearts, worn out with worry, Here sits a king more sorrowful than all of you.
Fly, father, fly! for all your friends are fled, And Warwick rages like a chafed bull: Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit.
Run, father, run! All your friends have fled, And Warwick rages like an angry bull: Hurry! death is chasing us.
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.
Get on, my lord; hurry towards Berwick: Edward and Richard, like a pair of greyhounds Chasing a scared hare, With their fiery eyes blazing with rage, And bloody swords in their angry hands, Are right behind us; so hurry, we must go.
Away! for vengeance comes along with them: Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed; Or else come after: I’ll away before.
Hurry! for revenge is coming with them: Don’t stop to argue, just make haste; Or come after me: I’ll go ahead.
Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exeter: Not that I fear to stay, but love to go Whither the queen intends. Forward; away!
No, take me with you, good sweet Exeter: It’s not that I’m afraid to stay, but I want to go Where the queen wants to go. Forward, let’s hurry!