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 poise 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 brings 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,
Passed 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 embroidered 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 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 poise 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 from there. Would I were dead, if God’s good will were so; For what is in this world but grief and woe? O God! I think 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 brings 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 before the poor fools will ean; So many years before I shall shear the fleece. So minutes, hours, days, months, and years, Passed 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 does a rich embroidered canopy To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery? O, yes, it does; a thousand-fold it does. 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 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 poise 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 from there. Would I were dead, if God’s good will were so; For what is in this world but grief and woe? O God! I think 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 brings 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 've been with young; So many weeks before the poor fools will ean; So many years before I shall shear the fleece. So minutes, hours, days, months, and years, Passed 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 does a rich embroidered canopy To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery? O, yes, it does; a thousand-fold it does. 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.
how did that even happen
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 killed.
O heavy times, begetting such events!
From London by the King was I pressed forth;
My father, being the Earl of Warwick’s man,
Came on the part of York, pressed 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.
My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks,
And no more words till they have flowed their fill.
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 before night yield both my life and them To some man else, as this dead man does me. Who’s this? O God! It is my father’s face, Whom in this conflict I unwares have killed. O heavy times, begetting such events! From London by the King was I pressed forth; My father, being the Earl of Warwick’s man, Came on the part of York, pressed 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 you. My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks, And no more words till they have flowed their fill.
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 before night yield both my life and them To some man else, as this dead man does me. Who’s this? O God! It is my father’s face, Whom in this conflict I unwares have killed. O heavy times, begetting such events! From London by the King was I pressed forth; My father, being the Earl of Warwick’s man, Came on the part of York, pressed 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 you. My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks, And no more words till they have flowed their fill.
they are dead look at the blood proof right here
Henry's wish to be a shepherd is one of the most developed instances of the pastoral trope in Shakespeare's history plays. The pastoral tradition — originating with Theocritus and Virgil — idealized rural simplicity as the opposite of corrupted court life. Shakespeare would use it famously in As You Like It, but Henry's version here is darker: this isn't a romantic escape, it's a genuine diagnosis. Henry doesn't want to be a shepherd because it sounds charming — he wants it because kingship has done nothing but cause suffering for him and everyone around him. The speech is structured as a meditation on time: a shepherd knows exactly how his time is spent, hour by hour, season by season. A king never knows where his time goes because it belongs to everyone else. The molehill he's sitting on as he delivers this speech makes the irony visible: Henry is already performing the life he's describing — sitting on a hill, watching a battle, unable to affect the outcome.
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.
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 you tear for tear; And let our hearts and eyes, like civil war, Be blind with tears and break o’ercharged with grief.
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 you tear for tear; And let our hearts and eyes, like civil war, Be blind with tears and break o’ercharged with grief.
proof right here they charged at us
Thou that so stoutly hath 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 wounds, 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 that so stoutly has resisted me, Give me your gold, if you have 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 you, Throw up your eye! See, see what showers arise, Blown with the windy tempest of my heart Upon your wounds, 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 does beget! O boy, your father gave you life too soon, And has bereft you of your life too late!
you that so stoutly has resisted me, Give me your gold, if you have 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 you, Throw up your eye! See, see what showers arise, Blown with the windy tempest of my heart Upon your wounds, 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 does beget! O boy, your father gave you life too soon, And has bereft you of your life too late!
how did that even happen
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 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, I think, presenteth. Wither one rose, and let the other flourish! If you contend, a thousand lives must wither.
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, I think, presenteth. Wither one rose, and let the other flourish! If you contend, a thousand lives must wither.
they are dead look at the blood proof right here
How will my mother for a father’s death
Take on with me and ne’er be satisfied!
How will my mother for a father’s death Take on with me and ne’er be satisfied!
How will my mother for a father’s death Take on with me and ne’er be satisfied!
they are dead how did that even happen
The Son-who-killed-his-Father and the Father-who-killed-his-Son are not named characters. They have no individual identities, no histories, no family names. They are archetypes — walking emblems of what civil war does when it enters a household. This is deliberate: Shakespeare is borrowing from the tradition of the morality play, where characters represent abstract states (Death, Envy, Virtue) rather than individuals. By making these men anonymous, he makes them universal. Any audience watching could imagine their own family divided by the conflict — pressed to opposite sides by opposite lords, meeting on a battlefield without recognizing each other. The formal, almost liturgical pattern of their laments — 'Was ever son...', 'Was ever father...', 'Was ever king...' — amplifies this: it's not dialogue, it's a three-part choral lament, each voice adding a higher level of grief. Henry's final claim to be the most sorrowful of the three is both pathetic and true.
How will my wife for slaughter of my son
Shed seas of tears 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 my wife for slaughter of my son Shed seas of tears and ne’er be satisfied!
how did that even happen
How will the country for these woeful chances
Misthink the King and not be satisfied!
How will the country for these woeful chances Misthink the King and not be satisfied!
How will the country for these woeful chances Misthink the King and not be satisfied!
how did that even happen
Was ever son so rued a father’s death?
Was ever son so rued a father’s death?
Was ever son so rued a father’s death?
they are dead
Was ever father so bemoaned his son?
Was ever father so bemoaned his son?
Was ever father so bemoaned his son?
hm
Was ever king so grieved for subjects’ woe?
Much is your sorrow, mine ten times so much.
Was ever king so grieved for subjects’ woe? Much is your sorrow, mine ten times so much.
Was ever king so grieved for subjects’ woe? Much is your sorrow, mine ten times so much.
hm
What Henry describes in 2-5's opening — a battle in perfect balance, neither side winning, the wind and the tide at each other — is a fairly accurate description of what Towton looked like for the first hours. The battle is believed to have lasted several hours on a freezing Palm Sunday, and its outcome was decided partly by a wind that shifted and began driving snow into the Lancastrian faces, disabling their archers. Henry is sitting out the very moment that decided his fate. He doesn't know it yet — no one on the Lancastrian side does — but the battle is tilting against him even as he imagines shepherds and sundials. This is one of Shakespeare's finest pieces of historical staging: the pastoral fantasy of a powerless king unfolds in real time over the catastrophe that ends his reign.
I’ll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill.
I’ll bear you hence, where I may weep my fill.
I’ll bear you hence, where I may weep my fill.
hm
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 shall be your winding-sheet; My heart, sweet boy, shall be your sepulchre, For from my heart your image ne’er shall go. My sighing breast shall be your funeral bell; And so obsequious will your father be, Even for the loss of you, having no more, As Priam was for all his valiant sons. I’ll bear you hence; and let them fight that will, For I have murdered where I should not kill.
These arms of mine shall be your winding-sheet; My heart, sweet boy, shall be your sepulchre, For from my heart your image ne’er shall go. My sighing breast shall be your funeral bell; And so obsequious will your father be, Even for the loss of you, having no more, As Priam was for all his valiant sons. I’ll bear you hence; and let them fight that will, For I have murdered where I should not kill.
war blood death everything is chaos
Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care,
Here sits a king more woeful than you are.
Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care, Here sits a king more woeful than you are.
Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care, Here sits a king more woeful than you are.
hm
The dialogue between the Son, the Father, and Henry in 2-5 is one of the most formally structured passages in the play — and one of the most theatrically daring. Shakespeare breaks the conventional rule that characters in a scene speak to each other. Here, the Son speaks to his dead father; the Father speaks to his dead son; and Henry speaks to the audience and to God. None of them are really talking to each other, yet the three voices build in perfect symmetrical increments: personal grief (the Son), parental grief (the Father), political grief (the King). The interweaving lines — 'How will my mother...', 'How will my wife...', 'How will the country...' — are not realistic dialogue but formalized lamentation, closer to a musical canon than to conversation. Shakespeare is showing us that the real language of civil war grief isn't individual — it's choral.
Fly, father, fly, for all your friends are fled,
And Warwick rages like a chafed bull.
Away, for death doth hold us in pursuit.
Fly, father, fly, for all your friends are fled, And Warwick rages like a chafed bull. Away, for death does hold us in pursuit.
Fly, father, fly, for all your friends are fled, And Warwick rages like a chafed bull. Away, for death does hold us in pursuit.
he got away we had him and he just left they are dead
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 grasped in their ireful hands,
Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain.
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 grasped in their ireful hands, Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain.
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 grasped in their ireful hands, Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain.
proof right here
Away, for vengeance comes along with them.
Nay, stay not to expostulate; make speed,
Or else come after; I’ll away before.
Away, for vengeance comes along with them. no, stay not to expostulate; make speed, Or else come after; I’ll away before.
Away, for vengeance comes along with them. no, stay not to expostulate; make speed, Or else come after; I’ll away before.
yeah brutal
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; Not that I fear to stay, but love to go Whither the Queen intends. Forward; away!
no, take me with you, good sweet Exeter; Not that I fear to stay, but love to go Whither the Queen intends. Forward; away!
yeah brutal
The Reckoning
This is the scene where Shakespeare stops the clock on a war and asks: what is a kingdom actually worth? Henry's pastoral soliloquy is one of the most beautiful speeches in the play, and it arrives in the middle of the bloodiest day in English history. Then the two men arrive — a son, a father — and suddenly the question isn't rhetorical anymore. Three voices weave their grief together in a formal, liturgical pattern: was ever son, was ever father, was ever king. The answer implied is that no, no king was ever so perfectly wrong for his position. The audience leaves this scene devastated and unable to shake the sound of it.
If this happened today…
The CEO of a company whose IPO is collapsing sits quietly in a conference room doing a mindfulness exercise, genuinely thinking about how much better life would be as a small-town accountant. Meanwhile, out in the corridors, two employees discover they've each destroyed the other's family in the course of doing their jobs — one's investment trades wiped out the other's retirement fund, which turned out to belong to his own father. They cry in adjacent rooms while the CEO, visible through the glass walls, watches them and writes poetry about it.