206 
SHAKESPEARE’S GARDEN 
K. Hen. 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. 
II. v. 94. 
K. Hen. From Scotland am I stol’n, even of pure love, 
To greet mine own land with my wishful sight. 
No, Harry, Harry, ’tis no land of thine ; 
Thy place is fill’d, thy sceptre wrung from thee, 
Thy balm wash’d off wherewith thou wast anointed : 
No bending knee will call thee Caesar now. 
HI. i. 13. 
And I—like one lost in a thorny wood, 
That rends the thorns and is rent with the thorns, 
Seeking a way and straying from the way. 
III. ii. 174. 
Tell him, in hope he’ll prove a widower shortly, 
I’ll wear the willow garland for his sake. 
III. iii. 227. 
Clar. No, Warwick, thou art worthy of the sway, 
To whom the heavens in thy nativity 
Adjudg’d an olive branch and laurel crown, 
As likely to be blest in peace and war ; 
And therefore I yield thee my free consent. 
IV. vi. 32. 
My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds, 
My mildness hath allay’d their swelling griefs, 
My mercy dried their water-flowing tears. 
IV. viii. 41. 
Thus yields the cedar to the axe’s edge, 
Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle, 
Under whose shade the ramping lion slept, 
Whose top-branch over-peer’d Jove’s spreading tree 
And kept low shrubs from winter’s powerful wind. 
