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.
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 bemoan'd his son?

KING HENRY.
Was ever king so griev'd for subjects' woe?
Much is your sorrow, mine ten times so much.

SON.