ABSTRACT
This chapter discusses King Henrt at Towton Field. King. 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 selfsame sea Forced to retire by fury of the wind: Sometime flood prevails, and then the wind. To whom God will, there be the victory For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too, Have chid me from the battle. 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.
