Ill blows the wind that profits nobody

  Enter at one door a Son that hath killed his Father, carrying the body.
Son
Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.
This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight,
May be possessèd 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.

My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulcher,
For from my heart thine image ne’er shall go

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 bereavèd 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.
  He weeps.
King Henry
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.
  Enter at another door a Father that hath killed his Son, bearing of his Son’s body.
Father
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 kills 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
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 colors 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
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?
Father
Was ever father so bemoaned his son?
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.
  He exits, bearing the body.
Father
These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet;
My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulcher,
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
E’en 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.
  He exits, bearing the body.
King Henry
Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care,
Here sits a king more woeful than you are.