Histories

by

William Shakespeare

Play Index

Edward III *

Henry IV, Part 1

Henry IV, Part 2

Henry V

Henry VI, Part 1

Henry VI, Part 2

Henry VI, Part 3

Henry VIII

King John

Richard II

Richard III

Sir Thomas More *

* This play is believed to have been partially written by Shakespeare.

KING EDWARD III

List of Characters

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act III, Scene III

Act III, Scene IV

Act III, Scene V

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act IV, Scene III

Act IV, Scene IV

Act IV, Scene V

Act IV, Scene VI

Act IV, Scene VII

Act IV, Scene VIII

Act IV, Scene IX

Act V, Scene I

List of Characters

EDWARD THE THIRD: King of England.

EDWARD, Prince of Wales: his Son.

Earl of WARWICK.

Earl of DERBY.

Earl of SALISBURY.

Lord AUDLEY.

Lord PERCY.

LODOWICK: Edward's Confident.

Sir WILLIAM MOUNTAGUE.

Sir JOHN COPLAND.

Two ESQUIRES, and a HERALD, English.

ROBERT, styling himself Earl, of Artois. Earl of MONTFORT, and GOBIN DE GREY.

JOHN: King of France.

CHARLES, and PHILIP: his Sons.

Duke of LORRAIN.

VILLIERS: a French Lord.

King of BOHEMIA: Aid to King John.

A POLISH CAPTAIN: Aid to King John.

Six CITIZENS of Calais.

A CAPTAIN, and A POOR INHABITANT, of the same.

Another CAPTAIN.

A MARINER.

Three HERALDS; and

Four other FRENCHMEN.

DAVID: King of Scotland.

Earl DOUGLAS; and Two MESSENGERS: Scotch.

PHILIPPA: Edward's Queen.

Countess of SALISBURY.

A FRENCH WOMAN.

Lords, and divers other Attendants; Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, &c.

SCENE: dispersed; in England, Flanders, and France.

ACT I. SCENE I.

London. A Room of State in the Palace.

[Flourish. Enter King Edward, Derby, Prince Edward, Audley, and Artois.]

KING EDWARD.

Robert of Artois, banished though thou be

From France, thy native Country, yet with us

Thou shalt retain as great a Seigniorie:

For we create thee Earl of Richmond here.

And now go forwards with our pedigree:

Who next succeeded Phillip le Bew?

ARTOIS.

Three sons of his, which all successfully

Did sit upon their father's regal Throne,

Yet died, and left no issue of their loins.

KING EDWARD.

But was my mother sister unto those?

ARTOIS.

She was, my Lord; and only Isabel

Was all the daughters that this Phillip had,

Whom afterward your father took to wife;

And from the fragrant garden of her womb

Your gracious self, the flower of Europe's hope,

Derived is inheritor to France.

But note the rancor of rebellious minds:

When thus the lineage of le Bew was out,

The French obscured your mother's Privilege,

And, though she were the next of blood, proclaimed

John, of the house of Valois, now their king:

The reason was, they say, the Realm of France,

Replete with Princes of great parentage,

Ought not admit a governor to rule,

Except he be descended of the male;

And that's the special ground of their contempt,

Wherewith they study to exclude your grace:

But they shall find that forged ground of theirs

To be but dusty heaps of brittle sand.

Perhaps it will be thought a heinous thing,

That I, a French man, should discover this;

But heaven I call to record of my vows:

It is not hate nor any private wrong,

But love unto my country and the right,

Provokes my tongue, thus lavish in report.

You are the lineal watchman of our peace,

And John of Valois indirectly climbs;

What then should subjects but embrace their King?

Ah, where in may our duty more be seen,

Than striving to rebate a tyrant's pride

And place the true shepherd of our commonwealth?

KING EDWARD.

This counsel, Artois, like to fruitful showers,

Hath added growth unto my dignity;

And, by the fiery vigor of thy words,

Hot courage is engendered in my breast,

Which heretofore was raked in ignorance,

But now doth mount with golden wings of fame,

And will approve fair Isabel's descent,

Able to yoke their stubborn necks with steel,

That spurn against my sovereignty in France.

[Sound a horn.]

A messenger?—Lord Audley, know from whence.

[Exit Audley, and returns.]

AUDLEY.

The Duke of Lorrain, having crossed the seas,

Entreats he may have conference with your highness.

KING EDWARD.

Admit him, Lords, that we may hear the news.

[Exeunt Lords. King takes his State. Re-enter Lords; with Lorrain, attended.]

Say, Duke of Lorrain, wherefore art thou come?

LORRAIN.

The most renowned prince, King John of France,

Doth greet thee, Edward, and by me commands,

That, for so much as by his liberal gift

The Guyen Dukedom is entailed to thee,

Thou do him lowly homage for the same.

And, for that purpose, here I summon thee,

Repair to France within these forty days,

That there, according as the custom is,

Thou mayst be sworn true liegeman to our King;

Or else thy title in that province dies,

And he him self will repossess the place.

KING EDWARD.

See, how occasion laughs me in the face!

No sooner minded to prepare for France,

But straight I am invited,—nay, with threats,

Upon a penalty, enjoined to come:

Twere but a childish part to say him nay.—

Lorrain, return this answer to thy Lord:

I mean to visit him as he requests;

But how? not servilely disposed to bend,

But like a conqueror to make him bow.

His lame unpolished shifts are come to light;

And truth hath pulled the vizard from his face,

That set a gloss upon his arrogance.

Dare he command a fealty in me?

Tell him, the Crown that he usurps, is mine,

And where he sets his foot, he ought to kneel.

Tis not a petty Dukedom that I claim,

But all the whole Dominions of the Realm;

Which if with grudging he refuse to yield,

I'll take away those borrowed plumes of his,

And send him naked to the wilderness.

LORRAIN.

Then, Edward, here, in spite of all thy Lords,

I do pronounce defiance to thy face.

PRINCE EDWARD.

Defiance, French man? we rebound it back,

Even to the bottom of thy master's throat.

And, be it spoke with reverence of the King,

My gracious father, and these other Lords,

I hold thy message but as scurrilous,

And him that sent thee, like the lazy drone,

Crept up by stealth unto the Eagle's nest;

From whence we'll shake him with so rough a storm,

As others shall be warned by his harm.

WARWICK.

Bid him leave of the Lyons case he wears,

Least, meeting with the Lyon in the field,

He chance to tear him piecemeal for his pride.

ARTOIS.

The soundest counsel I can give his grace,

Is to surrender ere he be constrained.

A voluntary mischief hath less scorn,

Than when reproach with violence is borne.

LORRAIN.

Degenerate Traitor, viper to the place

Where thou was fostered in thine infancy,

Bearest thou a part in this conspiracy?

[He draws his sword.]

KING EDWARD.

Lorrain, behold the sharpness of this steel:

[Drawing his.]

Fervent desire that sits against my heart,

Is far more thorny pricking than this blade;

That, with the nightingale, I shall be scared,

As oft as I dispose my self to rest,

Until my colours be displayed in France:

This is my final Answer; so be gone.

LORRAIN.

It is not that, nor any English brave,

Afflicts me so, as doth his poisoned view,

That is most false, should most of all be true.

[Exeunt Lorrain, and Train.]

KING EDWARD.

Now, Lord, our fleeting Bark is under sail;

Our gage is thrown, and war is soon begun,

But not so quickly brought unto an end.

[Enter Mountague.]

But wherefore comes Sir William Mountague?

How stands the league between the Scot and us?

MOUNTAGUE.

Cracked and dissevered, my renowned Lord.

The treacherous King no sooner was informed

Of your with drawing of your army back,

But straight, forgetting of his former oath,

He made invasion on the bordering Towns:

Barwick is won, Newcastle spoiled and lost,

And now the tyrant hath begirt with siege

The Castle of Rocksborough, where inclosed

The Countess Salisbury is like to perish.

KING EDWARD.

That is thy daughter, Warwick, is it not?

Whose husband hath in Brittain served so long

About the planting of Lord Mountford there?

WARWICK.

It is, my Lord.

KING EDWARD.

Ignoble David! hast thou none to grieve

But silly Ladies with thy threatening arms?

But I will make you shrink your snaily horns!

First, therefore, Audley, this shall be thy charge,

Go levy footmen for our wars in France;

And, Ned, take muster of our men at arms:

In every shire elect a several band.

Let them be Soldiers of a lusty spirit,

Such as dread nothing but dishonor's blot;

Be wary, therefore, since we do commence

A famous War, and with so mighty a nation.

Derby, be thou Ambassador for us

Unto our Father in Law, the Earl of Henalt:

Make him acquainted with our enterprise,

And likewise will him, with our own allies

That are in Flanders, to solicit to

The Emperour of Almaigne in our name.

My self, whilst you are jointly thus employed,

Will, with these forces that I have at hand,

March, and once more repulse the traitorous Scot.

But, Sirs, be resolute: we shall have wars

On every side; and, Ned, thou must begin

Now to forget thy study and thy books,

And ure thy shoulders to an Armor's weight.

PRINCE EDWARD.

As cheerful sounding to my youthful spleen

This tumult is of war's increasing broils,

As, at the Coronation of a king,

The joyful clamours of the people are,

When Ave, Caesar! they pronounce aloud.

Within this school of honor I shall learn

Either to sacrifice my foes to death,

Or in a rightful quarrel spend my breath.

Then cheerfully forward, each a several way;

In great affairs tis nought to use delay.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

Roxborough. Before the Castle.

[Enter the Countess.]

COUNTESS.

Alas, how much in vain my poor eyes gaze

For succour that my sovereign should send!

Ah, cousin Mountague, I fear thou wants

The lively spirit, sharply to solicit

With vehement suit the king in my behalf:

Thou dost not tell him, what a grief it is

To be the scornful captive of a Scot,

Either to be wooed with broad untuned oaths,

Or forced by rough insulting barbarism;

Thou doest not tell him, if he here prevail,

How much they will deride us in the North,

And, in their wild, uncivil, skipping gigs,

Bray forth their Conquest and our overthrow

Even in the barren, bleak, and fruitless air.

[Enter David and Douglas, Lorrain.]

I must withdraw, the everlasting foe

Comes to the wall; I'll closely step aside,

And list their babble, blunt and full of pride.

KING DAVID.

My Lord of Lorrain, to our brother of France

Commend us, as the man in Christendom

That we most reverence and entirely love.

Touching your embassage, return and say,

That we with England will not enter parley,

Nor never make fair weather, or take truce;

But burn their neighbor towns, and so persist

With eager Rods beyond their City York.

And never shall our bonny riders rest,

Nor rusting canker have the time to eat

Their light borne snaffles nor their nimble spurs,

Nor lay aside their Jacks of Gymould mayle,

Nor hang their staves of grained Scottish ash

In peaceful wise upon their City walls,

Nor from their buttoned tawny leathern belts

Dismiss their biting whinyards, till your King

Cry out: Enough, spare England now for pity!

Farewell, and tell him that you leave us here

Before this Castle; say, you came from us,

Even when we had that yielded to our hands.

LORRAIN.

I take my leave, and fairly will return

Your acceptable greeting to my king.

[Exit Lorrain.]

KING DAVID.

Now, Douglas, to our former task again,

For the division of this certain spoil.

DOUGLAS.

My liege, I crave the Lady, and no more.

KING DAVID.

Nay, soft ye, sir; first I must make my choice,

And first I do bespeak her for my self.

DOUGLAS.

Why then, my liege, let me enjoy her jewels.

KING DAVID.

Those are her own, still liable to her,

And who inherits her, hath those with all.

[Enter a Scot in haste.]

MESSENGER.

My liege, as we were pricking on the hills,

To fetch in booty, marching hitherward,

We might descry a might host of men;

The Sun, reflecting on the armour, shewed

A field of plate, a wood of picks advanced.

Bethink your highness speedily herein:

An easy march within four hours will bring

The hindmost rank unto this place, my liege.

KING DAVID.

Dislodge, dislodge! it is the king of England.

DOUGLAS.

Jemmy, my man, saddle my bonny black.

KING DAVID.

Meanst thou to fight, Douglas? we are too weak.

DOUGLAS.

I know it well, my liege, and therefore fly.

COUNTESS.

My Lords of Scotland, will ye stay and drink?

KING DAVID.

She mocks at us, Douglas; I cannot endure it.

COUNTESS.

Say, good my Lord, which is he must have the Lady,

And which her jewels? I am sure, my Lords,

Ye will not hence, till you have shared the spoils.

KING DAVID.

She heard the messenger, and heard our talk;

And now that comfort makes her scorn at us.

[Another messenger.]

MESSENGER.

Arm, my good Lord! O, we are all surprised!

COUNTESS.

After the French ambassador, my liege,

And tell him, that you dare not ride to York;

Excuse it that your bonny horse is lame.

KING DAVID.

She heard that too; intolerable grief!

Woman, farewell! Although I do not stay...

[Exeunt Scots.]

COUNTESS.

Tis not for fear, and yet you run away.—

O happy comfort, welcome to our house!

The confident and boisterous boasting Scot,

That swore before my walls they would not back

For all the armed power of this land,

With faceless fear that ever turns his back,

Turned hence against the blasting North-east wind

Upon the bare report and name of Arms.

[Enter Mountague.]

O Summer's day! See where my Cousin comes!

MOUNTAGUE.

How fares my Aunt? We are not Scots;

Why do you shut your gates against your friends?

COUNTESS.

Well may I give a welcome, Cousin, to thee,

For thou comst well to chase my foes from hence.

MOUNTAGUE.

The king himself is come in person hither;

Dear Aunt, descend, and gratulate his highness.

COUNTESS.

How may I entertain his Majesty,

To shew my duty and his dignity?

[Exit, from above.]

[Enter King Edward, Warwick, Artois, with others.]

KING EDWARD.

What, are the stealing Foxes fled and gone,

Before we could uncouple at their heels?

WARWICK.

They are, my liege; but, with a cheerful cry,

Hot hounds and hardy chase them at the heels.

[Enter Countess.]

KING EDWARD.

This is the Countess, Warwick, is it not?

WARWICK.

Even she, my liege; whose beauty tyrants fear,

As a May blossom with pernicious winds,

Hath sullied, withered, overcast, and done.

KING EDWARD.

Hath she been fairer, Warwick, than she is?

WARWICK.

My gracious King, fair is she not at all,

If that her self were by to stain her self,

As I have scene her when she was her self.

KING EDWARD.

What strange enchantment lurked in those her eyes,

When they excelled this excellence they have,

That now her dim decline hath power to draw

My subject eyes from persing majesty,

To gaze on her with doting admiration?

COUNTESS.

In duty lower than the ground I kneel,

And for my dull knees bow my feeling heart,

To witness my obedience to your highness,

With many millions of a subject's thanks

For this your Royal presence, whose approach

Hath driven war and danger from my gate.

KING EDWARD.

Lady, stand up; I come to bring thee peace,

How ever thereby I have purchased war.

COUNTESS.

No war to you, my liege; the Scots are gone,

And gallop home toward Scotland with their hate.

KING EDWARD.

Least, yielding here, I pine in shameful love,

Come, we'll pursue the Scots;—Artois, away!

COUNTESS.

A little while, my gracious sovereign, stay,

And let the power of a mighty king

Honor our roof; my husband in the wars,

When he shall hear it, will triumph for joy;

Then, dear my liege, now niggard not thy state:

Being at the wall, enter our homely gate.

KING EDWARD.

Pardon me, countess, I will come no near;

I dreamed to night of treason, and I fear.

COUNTESS.

Far from this place let ugly treason lie!

KING EDWARD.

No farther off, than her conspiring eye,

Which shoots infected poison in my heart,

Beyond repulse of wit or cure of Art.

Now, in the Sun alone it doth not lie,

With light to take light from a mortal eye;

For here two day stars that mine eyes would see

More than the Sun steals mine own light from me,

Contemplative desire, desire to be

In contemplation, that may master thee!

Warwick, Artois, to horse and let's away!

COUNTESS.

What might I speak to make my sovereign stay?

KING EDWARD.

What needs a tongue to such a speaking eye,

That more persuades than winning Oratory?

COUNTESS.

Let not thy presence, like the April sun,

Flatter our earth and suddenly be done.

More happy do not make our outward wall

Than thou wilt grace our inner house withal.

Our house, my liege, is like a Country swain,

Whose habit rude and manners blunt and plain

Presageth nought, yet inly beautified

With bounties, riches and faire hidden pride.

For where the golden Ore doth buried lie,

The ground, undecked with nature's tapestry,

Seems barren, sere, unfertile, fructless, dry;

And where the upper turf of earth doth boast

His pied perfumes and party coloured coat,

Delve there, and find this issue and their pride

To spring from ordure and corruption's side.

But, to make up my all too long compare,

These ragged walls no testimony are,

What is within; but, like a cloak, doth hide

From weather's Waste the under garnished pride.

More gracious then my terms can let thee be,

Intreat thy self to stay a while with me.

KING EDWARD.

As wise, as fair; what fond fit can be heard,

When wisdom keeps the gate as beauty's guard?—

It shall attend, while I attend on thee:

Come on, my Lords; here will I host to night.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

The Same. Gardens of the Castle.

[Enter Lodowick.]

LODOWICK.

I might perceive his eye in her eye lost,

His ear to drink her sweet tongue's utterance,

And changing passion, like inconstant clouds

That rack upon the carriage of the winds,

Increase and die in his disturbed cheeks.

Lo, when she blushed, even then did he look pale,

As if her cheeks by some enchanted power

Attracted had the cherry blood from his:

Anon, with reverent fear when she grew pale,

His cheeks put on their scarlet ornaments;

But no more like her oriental red,

Than Brick to Coral or live things to dead.

Why did he then thus counterfeit her looks?

If she did blush, twas tender modest shame,

Being in the sacred presence of a King;

If he did blush, twas red immodest shame,

To veil his eyes amiss, being a king;

If she looked pale, twas silly woman's fear,

To bear her self in presence of a king;

If he looked pale, it was with guilty fear,

To dote amiss, being a mighty king.

Then, Scottish wars, farewell; I fear twill prove

A lingering English siege of peevish love.

Here comes his highness, walking all alone.

[Enter King Edward.]

KING EDWARD.

She is grown more fairer far since I came hither,

Her voice more silver every word than other,

Her wit more fluent. What a strange discourse

Unfolded she of David and his Scots!

'Even thus', quoth she, 'he spake', and then spoke broad,

With epithites and accents of the Scot,

But somewhat better than the Scot could speak:

'And thus', quoth she, and answered then her self—

For who could speak like her but she her self—

Breathes from the wall an Angel's note from Heaven

Of sweet defiance to her barbarous foes.

When she would talk of peace, me thinks, her tongue

Commanded war to prison; when of war,

It wakened Caesar from his Roman grave,

To hear war beautified by her discourse.

Wisdom is foolishness but in her tongue,

Beauty a slander but in her fair face,

There is no summer but in her cheerful looks,

Nor frosty winter but in her disdain.

I cannot blame the Scots that did besiege her,

For she is all the Treasure of our land;

But call them cowards, that they ran away,

Having so rich and fair a cause to stay.—

Art thou there, Lodowick? Give me ink and paper.

LODOWICK.

I will, my liege.

KING EDWARD.

And bid the Lords hold on their play at Chess,

For we will walk and meditate alone.

LODOWICK.

I will, my sovereign.

[Exit Lodowick.]

KING EDWARD.

This fellow is well read in poetry,

And hath a lusty and persuasive spirit;

I will acquaint him with my passion,

Which he shall shadow with a veil of lawn,

Through which the Queen of beauties Queen shall see

Her self the ground of my infirmity.

[Enter Lodowick.]

KING EDWARD.

Hast thou pen, ink, and paper ready, Lodowick?

LODOWICK.

Ready, my liege.

KING EDWARD.

Then in the summer arbor sit by me,

Make it our counsel house or cabinet:

Since green our thoughts, green be the conventicle,

Where we will ease us by disburdening them.

Now, Lodowick, invocate some golden Muse,

To bring thee hither an enchanted pen,

That may for sighs set down true sighs indeed,

Talking of grief, to make thee ready groan;

And when thou writest of tears, encouch the word

Before and after with such sweet laments,

That it may raise drops in a Tartar's eye,

And make a flintheart Scythian pitiful;

For so much moving hath a Poet's pen:

Then, if thou be a Poet, move thou so,

And be enriched by thy sovereign's love.

For, if the touch of sweet concordant strings

Could force attendance in the ears of hell,

How much more shall the strains of poets' wit

Beguile and ravish soft and humane minds?

LODOWICK.

To whom, my Lord, shall I direct my stile?

KING EDWARD.

To one that shames the fair and sots the wise;

Whose bod is an abstract or a brief,

Contains each general virtue in the world.

Better than beautiful thou must begin,

Devise for fair a fairer word than fair,

And every ornament that thou wouldest praise,

Fly it a pitch above the soar of praise.

For flattery fear thou not to be convicted;

For, were thy admiration ten times more,

Ten times ten thousand more the worth exceeds

Of that thou art to praise, thy praises worth.

Begin; I will to contemplate the while:

Forget not to set down, how passionate,

How heart sick, and how full of languishment,

Her beauty makes me.

LODOWICK.

Write I to a woman?

KING EDWARD.

What beauty else could triumph over me,

Or who but women do our love lays greet?

What, thinkest thou I did bid thee praise a horse?

LODOWICK.

Of what condition or estate she is,

Twere requisite that I should know, my Lord.

KING EDWARD.

Of such estate, that hers is as a throne,

And my estate the footstool where she treads:

Then maist thou judge what her condition is

By the proportion of her mightiness.

Write on, while I peruse her in my thoughts.—

Her voice to music or the nightingale—

To music every summer leaping swain

Compares his sunburnt lover when she speaks;

And why should I speak of the nightingale?

The nightingale sings of adulterate wrong,

And that, compared, is too satyrical;

For sin, though sin, would not be so esteemed,

But, rather, virtue sin, sin virtue deemed.

Her hair, far softer than the silk worm's twist,

Like to a flattering glass, doth make more fair

The yellow Amber:—like a flattering glass

Comes in too soon; for, writing of her eyes,

I'll say that like a glass they catch the sun,

And thence the hot reflection doth rebound

Against the breast, and burns my heart within.

Ah, what a world of descant makes my soul

Upon this voluntary ground of love!—

Come, Lodowick, hast thou turned thy ink to gold?

If not, write but in letters Capital

My mistress' name, and it will gild thy paper:

Read, Lord, read;

Fill thou the empty hollows of mine ears

With the sweet hearing of thy poetry.

LODOWICK.

I have not to a period brought her praise.

KING EDWARD.

Her praise is as my love, both infinite,

Which apprehend such violent extremes,

That they disdain an ending period.

Her beauty hath no match but my affection;

Hers more than most, mine most and more than more:

Hers more to praise than tell the sea by drops,

Nay, more than drop the massy earth by sands,

And sand by sand print them in memory:

Then wherefore talkest thou of a period

To that which craves unended admiration?

Read, let us hear.

LODOWICK.

'More fair and chaste than is the queen of shades,'—

KING EDWARD.

That line hath two faults, gross and palpable:

Comparest thou her to the pale queen of night,

Who, being set in dark, seems therefore light?

What is she, when the sun lifts up his head,

But like a fading taper, dim and dead?

My love shall brave the eye of heaven at noon,

And, being unmasked, outshine the golden sun.

LODOWICK.

What is the other fault, my sovereign Lord?

KING EDWARD.

Read o'er the line again.

LODOWICK.

'More fair and chaste'—

KING EDWARD.

I did not bid thee talk of chastity,

To ransack so the treasure of her mind;

For I had rather have her chased than chaste.

Out with the moon line, I will none of it;

And let me have her likened to the sun:

Say she hath thrice more splendour than the sun,

That her perfections emulate the sun,

That she breeds sweets as plenteous as the sun,

That she doth thaw cold winter like the sun,

That she doth cheer fresh summer like the sun,

The she doth dazzle gazers like the sun;

And, in this application to the sun,

Bid her be free and general as the sun,

Who smiles upon the basest weed that grows

As lovingly as on the fragrant rose.

Let's see what follows that same moonlight line.

LODOWICK.

'More fair and chaste than is the queen of shades,

More bold in constance'—

KING EDWARD.

In constance! than who?

LODOWICK.

'Than Judith was.'

KING EDWARD.

O monstrous line! Put in the next a sword,

And I shall woo her to cut of my head.

Blot, blot, good Lodowick! Let us hear the next.

LODOWICK.

There's all that yet is done.

KING EDWARD.

I thank thee then; thou hast done little ill,

But what is done, is passing, passing ill.

No, let the Captain talk of boisterous war,

The prisoner of emured dark constraint,

The sick man best sets down the pangs of death,

The man that starves the sweetness of a feast,

The frozen soul the benefit of fire,

And every grief his happy opposite:

Love cannot sound well but in lover's tongues;

Give me the pen and paper, I will write.

[Enter Countess.]

But soft, here comes the treasurer of my spirit.—

Lodowick, thou knowst not how to draw a battle;

These wings, these flankers, and these squadrons

Argue in thee defective discipline:

Thou shouldest have placed this here, this other here.

COUNTESS.

Pardon my boldness, my thrice gracious Lords;

Let my intrusion here be called my duty,

That comes to see my sovereign how he fares.

KING EDWARD.

Go, draw the same, I tell thee in what form.

LODOWICK.

I go.

[Exit Lodowick.]

COUNTESS.

Sorry I am to see my liege so sad:

What may thy subject do to drive from thee

Thy gloomy consort, sullome melancholy?

KING EDWARD.

Ah, Lady, I am blunt and cannot straw

The flowers of solace in a ground of shame:—

Since I came hither, Countess, I am wronged.

COUNTESS.

Now God forbid that any in my house

Should think my sovereign wrong! Thrice gentle King,

Acquaint me with your cause of discontent.

KING EDWARD.

How near then shall I be to remedy?

COUNTESS.

As near, my Liege, as all my woman's power

Can pawn it self to buy thy remedy.

KING EDWARD.

If thou speakst true, then have I my redress:

Engage thy power to redeem my Joys,

And I am joyful, Countess; else I die.

COUNTESS.

I will, my Liege.

KING EDWARD.

Swear, Countess, that thou wilt.

COUNTESS.

By heaven, I will.

KING EDWARD.

Then take thy self a little way a side,

And tell thy self, a King doth dote on thee;

Say that within thy power it doth lie

To make him happy, and that thou hast sworn

To give him all the Joy within thy power:

Do this, and tell me when I shall be happy.

COUNTESS.

All this is done, my thrice dread sovereign:

That power of love, that I have power to give,

Thou hast with all devout obedience;

Employ me how thou wilt in proof thereof.

KING EDWARD.

Thou hearst me say that I do dote on thee.

COUNTESS.

If on my beauty, take it if thou canst;

Though little, I do prize it ten times less;

If on my virtue, take it if thou canst,

For virtue's store by giving doth augment;

Be it on what it will, that I can give

And thou canst take away, inherit it.

KING EDWARD.

It is thy beauty that I would enjoy.

COUNTESS.

O, were it painted, I would wipe it off

And dispossess my self, to give it thee.

But, sovereign, it is soldered to my life:

Take one and both; for, like an humble shadow,

It haunts the sunshine of my summer's life.

KING EDWARD.

But thou maist lend it me to sport with all.

COUNTESS.

As easy may my intellectual soul

Be lent away, and yet my body live,

As lend my body, palace to my soul,

Away from her, and yet retain my soul.

My body is her bower, her Court, her abbey,

And she an Angel, pure, divine, unspotted:

If I should leave her house, my Lord, to thee,

I kill my poor soul and my poor soul me.

KING EDWARD.

Didst thou not swear to give me what I would?

COUNTESS.

I did, my liege, so what you would I could.

KING EDWARD.

I wish no more of thee than thou maist give:—

Nor beg I do not, but I rather buy—

That is, thy love; and for that love of thine

In rich exchange I tender to thee mine.

COUNTESS.

But that your lips were sacred, my Lord,

You would profane the holy name of love.

That love you offer me you cannot give,

For Caesar owes that tribute to his Queen;

That love you beg of me I cannot give,

For Sara owes that duty to her Lord.

He that doth clip or counterfeit your stamp

Shall die, my Lord; and will your sacred self

Commit high treason against the King of heaven,

To stamp his Image in forbidden metal,

Forgetting your allegiance and your oath?

In violating marriage sacred law,

You break a greater honor than your self:

To be a King is of a younger house

Than to be married; your progenitour,

Sole reigning Adam on the universe,

By God was honored for a married man,

But not by him anointed for a king.

It is a penalty to break your statutes,

Though not enacted with your highness' hand:

How much more, to infringe the holy act,

Made by the mouth of God, sealed with his hand?

I know, my sovereign, in my husband's love,

Who now doth loyal service in his wars,

Doth but so try the wife of Salisbury,

Whither she will hear a wanton's tale or no,

Lest being therein guilty by my stay,

From that, not from my liege, I turn away.

[Exit.]

KING EDWARD.

Whether is her beauty by her words dying,

Or are her words sweet chaplains to her beauty?

Like as the wind doth beautify a sail,

And as a sail becomes the unseen wind,

So do her words her beauties, beauties words.

O, that I were a honey gathering bee,

To bear the comb of virtue from this flower,

And not a poison sucking envious spider,

To turn the juice I take to deadly venom!

Religion is austere and beauty gentle;

Too strict a guardian for so fair a ward!

O, that she were, as is the air, to me!

Why, so she is, for when I would embrace her,

This do I, and catch nothing but my self.

I must enjoy her; for I cannot beat

With reason and reproof fond love a way.

[Enter Warwick.]

Here comes her father: I will work with him,

To bear my colours in this field of love.

WARWICK.

How is it that my sovereign is so sad?

May I with pardon know your highness grief;

And that my old endeavor will remove it,

It shall not cumber long your majesty.

KING EDWARD.

A kind and voluntary gift thou proferest,

That I was forward to have begged of thee.

But, O thou world, great nurse of flattery,

Why dost thou tip men's tongues with golden words,

And peise their deeds with weight of heavy lead,

That fair performance cannot follow promise?

O, that a man might hold the heart's close book

And choke the lavish tongue, when it doth utter

The breath of falsehood not charactered there!

WARWICK.

Far be it from the honor of my age,

That I should owe bright gold and render lead;

Age is a cynic, not a flatterer.

I say again, that if I knew your grief,

And that by me it may be lessened,

My proper harm should buy your highness good.

KING EDWARD.

These are the vulgar tenders of false men,

That never pay the duty of their words.

Thou wilt not stick to swear what thou hast said;

But, when thou knowest my grief's condition,

This rash disgorged vomit of thy word

Thou wilt eat up again, and leave me helpless.

WARWICK.

By heaven, I will not, though your majesty

Did bid me run upon your sword and die.

KING EDWARD.

Say that my grief is no way medicinable

But by the loss and bruising of thine honour.

WARWICK.

If nothing but that loss may vantage you,

I would accompt that loss my vantage too.

KING EDWARD.

Thinkst that thou canst unswear thy oath again?

WARWICK.

I cannot; nor I would not, if I could.

KING EDWARD.

But, if thou dost, what shall I say to thee?

WARWICK.

What may be said to any perjured villain,

That breaks the sacred warrant of an oath.

KING EDWARD.

What wilt thou say to one that breaks an oath?

WARWICK.

That he hath broke his faith with God and man,

And from them both stands excommunicate.

KING EDWARD.

What office were it, to suggest a man

To break a lawful and religious vow?

WARWICK.

An office for the devil, not for man.

KING EDWARD.

That devil's office must thou do for me,

Or break thy oath, or cancel all the bonds

Of love and duty twixt thy self and me;

And therefore, Warwick, if thou art thy self,

The Lord and master of thy word and oath,

Go to thy daughter; and in my behalf

Command her, woo her, win her any ways,

To be my mistress and my secret love.

I will not stand to hear thee make reply:

Thy oath break hers, or let thy sovereign die.

[Exit.]

WARWICK.

O doting King! O detestable office!

Well may I tempt my self to wrong my self,

When he hath sworn me by the name of God

To break a vow made by the name of God.

What, if I swear by this right hand of mine

To cut this right hand off? The better way

Were to profane the Idol than confound it:

But neither will I do; I'll keep mine oath,

And to my daughter make a recantation

Of all the virtue I have preacht to her:

I'll say, she must forget her husband Salisbury,

If she remember to embrace the king;

I'll say, an oath may easily be broken,

But not so easily pardoned, being broken;

I'll say, it is true charity to love,

But not true love to be so charitable;

I'll say, his greatness may bear out the shame,

But not his kingdom can buy out the sin;

I'll say, it is my duty to persuade,

But not her honesty to give consent.

[Enter Countess.]

See where she comes; was never father had

Against his child an embassage so bad?

COUNTESS.

My Lord and father, I have sought for you:

My mother and the Peers importune you

To keep in presence of his majesty,

And do your best to make his highness merry.

WARWICK.

[Aside.]

How shall I enter in this graceless arrant?

I must not call her child, for where's the father

That will in such a suit seduce his child?

Then, 'wife of Salisbury'; shall I so begin?

No, he's my friend, and where is found the friend

That will do friendship such indammagement?

[To the Countess.]

Neither my daughter nor my dear friend's wife,

I am not Warwick, as thou thinkst I am,

But an attorney from the Court of hell,

That thus have housed my spirit in his form,

To do a message to thee from the king.

The mighty king of England dotes on thee:

He that hath power to take away thy life,

Hath power to take thy honor; then consent

To pawn thine honor rather than thy life:

Honor is often lost and got again,

But life, once gone, hath no recovery.

The Sun, that withers hay, doth nourish grass;

The king, that would disdain thee, will advance thee.

The Poets write that great Achilles' spear

Could heal the wound it made: the moral is,

What mighty men misdo, they can amend.

The Lyon doth become his bloody jaws,

And grace his forragement by being mild,

When vassel fear lies trembling at his feet.

The king will in his glory hide thy shame;

And those that gaze on him to find out thee,

Will lose their eye-sight, looking in the Sun.

What can one drop of poison harm the Sea,

Whose huge vastures can digest the ill

And make it loose his operation?

The king's great name will temper thy misdeeds,

And give the bitter potion of reproach,

A sugared, sweet and most delicious taste.

Besides, it is no harm to do the thing

Which without shame could not be left undone.

Thus have I in his majesty's behalf

Appareled sin in virtuous sentences,

And dwell upon thy answer in his suit.

COUNTESS.

Unnatural besiege! woe me unhappy,

To have escaped the danger of my foes,

And to be ten times worse injured by friends!

Hath he no means to stain my honest blood,

But to corrupt the author of my blood

To be his scandalous and vile solicitor?

No marvel though the branches be then infected,

When poison hath encompassed the root:

No marvel though the leprous infant die,

When the stern dame invenometh the Dug.

Why then, give sin a passport to offend,

And youth the dangerous reign of liberty:

Blot out the strict forbidding of the law,

And cancel every cannon that prescribes

A shame for shame or penance for offence.

No, let me die, if his too boistrous will

Will have it so, before I will consent

To be an actor in his graceless lust.

WARWICK.

Why, now thou speakst as I would have thee speak:

And mark how I unsay my words again.

An honorable grave is more esteemed

Than the polluted closet of a king:

The greater man, the greater is the thing,

Be it good or bad, that he shall undertake:

An unreputed mote, flying in the Sun,

Presents a greater substance than it is:

The freshest summer's day doth soonest taint

The loathed carrion that it seems to kiss:

Deep are the blows made with a mighty Axe:

That sin doth ten times aggravate it self,

That is committed in a holy place:

An evil deed, done by authority,

Is sin and subornation: Deck an Ape

In tissue, and the beauty of the robe

Adds but the greater scorn unto the beast.

A spatious field of reasons could I urge

Between his glory, daughter, and thy shame:

That poison shews worst in a golden cup;

Dark night seems darker by the lightning flash;

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds;

And every glory that inclines to sin,

The shame is treble by the opposite.

So leave I with my blessing in thy bosom,

Which then convert to a most heavy curse,

When thou convertest from honor's golden name

To the black faction of bed blotting shame.

COUNTESS.

I'll follow thee; and when my mind turns so,

My body sink my soul in endless woe!

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

The Same. A Room in the Castle.

[Enter at one door Derby from France, At an other door Audley with a Drum.]

DERBY.

Thrice noble Audley, well encountered here!

How is it with our sovereign and his peers?

AUDLEY.

Tis full a fortnight, since I saw his highness

What time he sent me forth to muster men;

Which I accordingly have done, and bring them hither

In fair array before his majesty.

What news, my Lord of Derby, from the Emperor?

DERBY.

As good as we desire: the Emperor

Hath yielded to his highness friendly aid,

And makes our king lieutenant general

In all his lands and large dominions;

Then via for the spatious bounds of France!

AUDLEY.

What, doth his highness leap to hear these news?

DERBY.

I have not yet found time to open them;

The king is in his closet, malcontent;

For what, I know not, but he gave in charge,

Till after dinner none should interrupt him:

The Countess Salisbury and her father Warwick,

Artois and all look underneath the brows.

AUDLEY.

Undoubtedly, then, some thing is amiss.

[Trumpet within.]

DERBY.

The Trumpets sound, the king is now abroad.

[Enter the King.]

AUDLEY.

Here comes his highness.

DERBY.

Befall my sovereign all my sovereign's wish!

KING EDWARD.

Ah, that thou wert a Witch to make it so!

DERBY.

The Emperour greeteth you.

[Presenting Letters.]

KING EDWARD.

—Would it were the Countess!

DERBY.

And hath accorded to your highness suite.

KING EDWARD.

—Thou liest, she hath not; but I would she had.

AUDLEY.

All love and duty to my Lord the King!

KING EDWARD.

Well, all but one is none.—What news with you?

AUDLEY.

I have, my liege, levied those horse and foot

According to your charge, and brought them hither.

KING EDWARD.

Then let those foot trudge hence upon those horse

According to our discharge, and be gone.—

Darby, I'll look upon the Countess' mind anon.

DERBY.

The Countess' mind, my liege?

KING EDWARD.

I mean the Emperour:—leave me alone.

AUDLEY.

What is his mind?

DERBY.

Let's leave him to his humor.

[Exeunt.]

KING EDWARD.

Thus from the heart's aboundance speaks the tongue;

Countess for Emperour: and indeed, why not?

She is as imperator over me

And I to her

Am as a kneeling vassal, that observes

The pleasure or displeasure of her eye.

[Enter Lodowick.]

What says the more than Cleopatra's match

To Caesar now?

LODOWICK.

That yet, my liege, ere night

She will resolve your majesty.

[Drum within.]

KING EDWARD.

What drum is this that thunders forth this march,

To start the tender Cupid in my bosom?

Poor shipskin, how it brawls with him that beateth it!

Go, break the thundring parchment bottom out,

And I will teach it to conduct sweet lines

Unto the bosom of a heavenly Nymph;

For I will use it as my writing paper,

And so reduce him from a scolding drum

To be the herald and dear counsel bearer

Betwixt a goddess and a mighty king.

Go, bid the drummer learn to touch the Lute,

Or hang him in the braces of his drum,

For now we think it an uncivil thing,

To trouble heaven with such harsh resounds:

Away!

[Exit.]

The quarrel that I have requires no arms

But these of mine: and these shall meet my foe

In a deep march of penetrable groans;

My eyes shall be my arrows, and my sighs

Shall serve me as the vantage of the wind,

To whirl away my sweetest artillery.

Ah, but, alas, she wins the sun of me,

For that is she her self, and thence it comes

That Poets term the wanton warrior blind;

But love hath eyes as judgement to his steps,

Till too much loved glory dazzles them.—

[Enter Lodowick.]

How now?

LODOWICK.

My liege, the drum that stroke the lusty march,

Stands with Prince Edward, your thrice valiant son.

[Enter Prince Edward.]

KING EDWARD.

I see the boy; oh, how his mother's face,

Modeled in his, corrects my strayed desire,

And rates my heart, and chides my thievish eye,

Who, being rich enough in seeing her,

Yet seeks elsewhere: and basest theft is that

Which cannot cloak it self on poverty.—

Now, boy, what news?

PRINCE EDWARD.

I have assembled, my dear Lord and father,

The choicest buds of all our English blood

For our affairs in France; and here we come

To take direction from your majesty.

KING EDWARD.

Still do I see in him delineate

His mother's visage; those his eyes are hers,

Who, looking wistely on me, make me blush:

For faults against themselves give evidence;

Lust is fire, and men like lanthornes show

Light lust within them selves, even through them selves.

Away, loose silks of wavering vanity!

Shall the large limit of fair Brittain

By me be overthrown, and shall I not

Master this little mansion of my self?

Give me an Armor of eternal steel!

I go to conquer kings; and shall I not then

Subdue my self? and be my enemy's friend?

It must not be.—Come, boy, forward, advance!

Let's with our colours sweet the Air of France.

[Enter Lodowick.]

LODOWICK.

My liege, the Countess with a smiling cheer

Desires access unto your Majesty.

KING EDWARD.

Why, there it goes! That very smile of hers

Hath ransomed captive France, and set the King,

The Dauphin, and the Peers at liberty.—

Go, leave me, Ned, and revel with thy friends.

[Exit Prince Edward.]

Thy mother is but black, and thou, like her,

Dost put it in my mind how foul she is.—

Go, fetch the Countess hither in thy hand,

And let her chase away these winter clouds,

For she gives beauty both to heaven and earth.

[Exit Lodowick.]

The sin is more to hack and hew poor men,

Than to embrace in an unlawful bed

The register of all rarities

Since Letherne Adam till this youngest hour.

[Enter Countess escorted by Lodowick.]

Go, Lodowick, put thy hand into my purse,

Play, spend, give, riot, waste, do what thou wilt,

So thou wilt hence awhile and leave me here.

[Exit Lodowick.]

Now, my soul's playfellow, art thou come

To speak the more than heavenly word of yea

To my objection in thy beauteous love?

COUNTESS.

My father on his blessing hath commanded—

KING EDWARD.

That thou shalt yield to me?

COUNTESS.

Aye, dear my liege, your due.

KING EDWARD.

And that, my dearest love, can be no less

Than right for right and tender love for love.

COUNTESS.

Then wrong for wrong and endless hate for hate.—

But,—sith I see your majesty so bent,

That my unwillingness, my husband's love,

Your high estate, nor no respect respected

Can be my help, but that your mightiness

Will overbear and awe these dear regards—

I bind my discontent to my content,

And what I would not I'll compel I will,

Provided that your self remove those lets

That stand between your highness' love and mine.

KING EDWARD.

Name them, fair Countess, and, by heaven, I will.

COUNTESS.

It is their lives that stand between our love,

That I would have choked up, my sovereign.

KING EDWARD.

Whose lives, my Lady?

COUNTESS.

My thrice loving liege,

Your Queen and Salisbury, my wedded husband,

Who living have that title in our love,

That we cannot bestow but by their death.

KING EDWARD.

Thy opposition is beyond our Law.

COUNTESS.

So is your desire: if the law

Can hinder you to execute the one,

Let it forbid you to attempt the other.

I cannot think you love me as you say,

Unless you do make good what you have sworn.

KING EDWARD.

No more; thy husband and the Queen shall die.

Fairer thou art by far than Hero was,

Beardless Leander not so strong as I:

He swom an easy current for his love,

But I will through a Hellespont of blood,

To arrive at Cestus where my Hero lies.

COUNTESS.

Nay, you'll do more; you'll make the River to

With their heart bloods that keep our love asunder,

Of which my husband and your wife are twain.

KING EDWARD.

Thy beauty makes them guilty of their death

And gives in evidence that they shall die;

Upon which verdict I, their Judge, condemn them.

COUNTESS.

[Aside.]

O perjured beauty, more corrupted Judge!

When to the great Star-chamber o'er our heads

The universal Sessions calls to count

This packing evil, we both shall tremble for it.

KING EDWARD.

What says my fair love? is she resolute?

COUNTESS.

Resolute to be dissolute; and, therefore, this:

Keep but thy word, great king, and I am thine.

Stand where thou dost, I'll part a little from thee,

And see how I will yield me to thy hands.

[Turning suddenly upon him, and shewing two Daggers.]

Here by my side doth hang my wedding knifes:

Take thou the one, and with it kill thy Queen,

And learn by me to find her where she lies;

And with this other I'll dispatch my love,

Which now lies fast a sleep within my heart:

When they are gone, then I'll consent to love.

Stir not, lascivious king, to hinder me;

My resolution is more nimbler far,

Than thy prevention can be in my rescue,

And if thou stir, I strike; therefore, stand still,

And hear the choice that I will put thee to:

Either swear to leave thy most unholy suit

And never hence forth to solicit me;

Or else, by heaven, this sharp pointed knife

Shall stain thy earth with that which thou would stain,

My poor chaste blood. Swear, Edward, swear,

Or I will strike and die before thee here.

KING EDWARD.

Even by that power I swear, that gives me now

The power to be ashamed of my self,

I never mean to part my lips again

In any words that tends to such a suit.

Arise, true English Lady, whom our Isle

May better boast of than ever Roman might

Of her, whose ransacked treasury hath taskt

The vain endeavor of so many pens:

Arise, and be my fault thy honor's fame,

Which after ages shall enrich thee with.

I am awakened from this idle dream.—

Warwick, my Son, Darby, Artois, and Audley!

Brave warriors all, where are you all this while?

[Enter all.]

Warwick, I make thee Warden of the North:

Thou, Prince of Wales, and Audley, straight to Sea;

Scour to New-haven; some there stay for me:

My self, Artois, and Darby will through Flanders,

To greet our friends there and to crave their aide.

This night will scarce suffice a faithful lover;

For, ere the Sun shall gild the eastern sky,

We'll wake him with our Marshall harmony.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

Flanders. The French Camp.

[Enter King John of France, his two sons, Charles of Normandy, and Phillip, and the Duke of Lorrain.]

KING JOHN.

Here, till our Navy of a thousand sail

Have made a breakfast to our foe by Sea,

Let us encamp, to wait their happy speed.—

Lorraine, what readiness is Edward in?

How hast thou heard that he provided is

Of marshall furniture for this exploit?

LORRAINE.

To lay aside unnecessary soothing,

And not to spend the time in circumstance,

Tis bruited for a certainty, my Lord,

That he's exceeding strongly fortified;

His subjects flock as willingly to war,

As if unto a triumph they were led.

CHARLES.

England was wont to harbour malcontents,

Blood thirsty and seditious Catelynes,

Spend thrifts, and such as gape for nothing else

But changing and alteration of the state;

And is it possible

That they are now so loyal in them selves?

LORRAINE.

All but the Scot, who solemnly protests,

As heretofore I have informed his grace,

Never to sheath his Sword or take a truce.

KING JOHN.

Ah, that's the anchorage of some better hope!

But, on the other side, to think what friends

King Edward hath retained in Netherland,

Among those ever-bibbing Epicures,

Those frothy Dutch men, puft with double beer,

That drink and swill in every place they come,

Doth not a little aggravate mine ire;

Besides, we hear, the Emperor conjoins,

And stalls him in his own authority;

But, all the mightier that their number is,

The greater glory reaps the victory.

Some friends have we beside domestic power;

The stern Polonian, and the warlike Dane,

The king of Bohemia, and of Sicily,

Are all become confederates with us,

And, as I think, are marching hither apace.

[Drum within.]

But soft, I hear the music of their drums,

By which I guess that their approach is near.

[Enter the King of Bohemia, with Danes, and a Polonian Captain, with other soldiers, another way.]

KING OF BOHEMIA.

King John of France, as league and neighborhood

Requires, when friends are any way distrest,

I come to aide thee with my country's force.

POLONIAN CAPTAIN.

And from great Musco, fearful to the Turk,

And lofty Poland, nurse of hardy men,

I bring these servitors to fight for thee,

Who willingly will venture in thy cause.

KING JOHN.

Welcome, Bohemian king, and welcome all:

This your great kindness I will not forget.

Besides your plentiful rewards in Crowns,

That from our Treasury ye shall receive,

There comes a hare brained Nation, decked in pride,

The spoil of whom will be a treble gain.

And now my hope is full, my joy complete:

At Sea, we are as puissant as the force

Of Agamemnon in the Haven of Troy;

By land, with Zerxes we compare of strength,

Whose soldiers drank up rivers in their thirst;

Then Bayardlike, blind, overweaning Ned,

To reach at our imperial diadem

Is either to be swallowed of the waves,

Or hacked a pieces when thou comest ashore.

[Enter Mariner.]

MARINER.

Near to the coast I have descried, my Lord,

As I was buy in my watchful charge,

The proud Armado of king Edward's ships:

Which, at the first, far off when I did ken,

Seemed as it were a grove of withered pines;

But, drawing near, their glorious bright aspect,

Their streaming Ensigns, wrought of coloured silk,

Like to a meadow full of sundry flowers,

Adorns the naked bosom of the earth:

Majestical the order of their course,

Figuring the horned Circle of the Moon:

And on the top gallant of the Admiral

And likewise all the handmaids of his train

The Arms of England and of France unite

Are quartered equally by Heralds' art:

Thus, tightly carried with a merry gale,

They plough the Ocean hitherward amain.

KING JOHN.

Dare he already crop the Fleur de Luce?

I hope, the honey being gathered thence,

He, with the spider, afterward approached,

Shall suck forth deadly venom from the leaves.—

But where's our Navy? how are they prepared

To wing them selves against this flight of Ravens?

MARINER.

They, having knowledge, brought them by the scouts,

Did break from Anchor straight, and, puffed with rage,

No otherwise then were their sails with wind,

Made forth, as when the empty Eagle flies,

To satisfy his hungry griping maw.

KING JOHN.

There's for thy news. Return unto thy bark;

And if thou scape the bloody stroke of war

And do survive the conflict, come again,

And let us hear the manner of the fight.

[Exit Mariner.]

Mean space, my Lords, tis best we be dispersed

To several places, least they chance to land:

First you, my Lord, with your Bohemian Troops,

Shall pitch your battailes on the lower hand;

My eldest son, the Duke of Normandy,

Together with the aide of Muscovites,

Shall climb the higher ground another way;

Here in the middle cost, betwixt you both,

Phillip, my youngest boy, and I will lodge.

So, Lors, be gone, and look unto your charge:

You stand for France, an Empire fair and large.

[Exeunt.]

Now tell me, Phillip, what is thy concept,

Touching the challenge that the English make?

PHILLIP.

I say, my Lord, claim Edward what he can,

And bring he ne'er so plain a pedigree,

Tis you are in the possession of the Crown,

And that's the surest point of all the Law:

But, were it not, yet ere he should prevail,

I'll make a Conduit of my dearest blood,

Or chase those straggling upstarts home again.

KING JOHN.

Well said, young Phillip! Call for bread and Wine,

That we may cheer our stomachs with repast,

To look our foes more sternly in the face.

[A Table and Provisions brought in. The battle hard a far off.]

Now is begun the heavy day at Sea:

Fight, Frenchmen, fight; be like the field of Bears,

When they defend their younglings in the Caves!

Stir, angry Nemesis, the happy helm,

That, with the sulphur battles of your rage,

The English Fleet may be dispersed and sunk.

[Shot.]

PHILLIP.

O Father, how this echoing Cannon shot,

Like sweet harmony, digests my eats!

KING JOHN.

Now, boy, thou hearest what thundering terror tis,

To buckle for a kingdom's sovereignty:

The earth, with giddy trembling when it shakes,

Or when the exhalations of the air

Breaks in extremity of lightning flash,

Affrights not more than kings, when they dispose

To shew the rancor of their high swollen hearts.

[Retreat.]

Retreat is sounded; one side hath the worse;

O, if it be the French, sweet fortune, turn;

And, in thy turning, change the forward winds,

That, with advantage of a favoring sky,

Our men may vanquish, and the other fly!

[Enter Mariner.]

My heart misgives:—say, mirror of pale death,

To whom belongs the honor of this day?

Relate, I pray thee, if thy breath will serve,

The sad discourse of this discomfiture.

MARINER.

I will, my Lord.

My gracious sovereign, Franch hath ta'en the foil,

And boasting Edward triumphs with success.

These Iron hearted Navies,

When last I was reporter to your grace,

Both full of angry spleen, of hope, and fear,

Hasting to meet each other in the face,

At last conjoined; and by their Admiral

Our Admiral encountered many shot:

By this, the other, that beheld these twain

Give earnest penny of a further wrack,

Like fiery Dragons took their haughty flight;

And, likewise meeting, from their smoky wombs

Sent many grim Ambassadors of death.

Then gan the day to turn to gloomy night,

And darkness did as well enclose the quick

As those that were but newly reft of life.

No leisure served for friends to bid farewell;

And, if it had, the hideous noise was such,

As each to other seemed deaf and dumb.

Purple the Sea, whose channel filled as fast

With streaming gore, that from the maimed fell,

As did her gushing moisture break into

The crannied cleftures of the through shot planks.

Here flew a head, dissevered from the trunk,

There mangled arms and legs were tossed aloft,

As when a whirl wind takes the Summer dust

And scatters it in middle of the air.

Then might ye see the reeling vessels split,

And tottering sink into the ruthless flood,

Until their lofty tops were seen no more.

All shifts were tried, both for defence and hurt:

And now the effect of valor and of force,

Of resolution and of cowardice,

We lively pictures; how the one for fame,

The other by compulsion laid about;

Much did the Nonpareille, that brave ship;

So did the black snake of Bullen, then which

A bonnier vessel never yet spread sail.

But all in vain; both Sun, the Wind and tide,

Revolted all unto our foe men's side,

That we perforce were fain to give them way,

And they are landed.—Thus my tale is done:

We have untimely lost, and they have won.

KING JOHN.

Then rests there nothing, but with present speed

To join our several forces all in one,

And bid them battle, ere they range too far.

Come, gentle Phillip, let us hence depart;

This soldier's words have pierced thy father's heart.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

Picardy. Fields near Cressi.

[Enter two French men; a woman and two little Children meet them, and other Citizens.]

ONE.

Well met, my masters: how now? what's the news?

And wherefore are ye laden thus with stuff?

What, is it quarter day that you remove,

And carry bag and baggage too?

TWO.

Quarter day? Aye, and quartering day, I fear:

Have ye not heard the news that flies abroad?

ONE.

What news?

THREE.

How the French Navy is destroyed at Sea,

And that the English Army is arrived.

ONE.

What then?

TWO.

What then, quoth you? why, ist not time to fly,

When envy and destruction is so nigh?

ONE.

Content thee, man; they are far enough from hence,

And will be met, I warrant ye, to their cost,

Before they break so far into the Realm.

TWO.

Aye, so the Grasshopper doth spend the time

In mirthful jollity, till Winter come;

And then too late he would redeem his time,

When frozen cold hath nipped his careless head.

He, that no sooner will provide a Cloak,

Then when he sees it doth begin to reign,

May, peradventure, for his negligence,

Be throughly washed, when he suspects it not.

We that have charge and such a train as this,

Must look in time to look for them and us,

Least, when we would, we cannot be relieved.

ONE.

Belike, you then despair of all success,

And think your Country will be subjugate.

THREE.

We cannot tell; tis good to fear the worst.

ONE.

Yet rather fight, then, like unnatural sons,

Forsake your loving parents in distress.

TWO.

Tush, they that have already taken arms

Are many fearful millions in respect

Of that small handful of our enemies;

But tis a rightful quarrel must prevail;

Edward is son unto our late king's sister,

When John Valois is three degrees removed.

WOMAN.

Besides, there goes a Prophesy abroad,

Published by one that was a Friar once,

Whose Oracles have many times proved true;

And now he says, the time will shortly come,

When as a Lyon, roused in the west,

Shall carry hence the fluerdeluce of France:

These, I can tell ye, and such like surmises

Strike many French men cold unto the heart.

[Enter a French man.]

FOUR.

Fly, country men and citizens of France!

Sweet flowering peace, the root of happy life,

Is quite abandoned and expulst the land;

In stead of whom ransacked constraining war

Sits like to Ravens upon your houses' tops;

Slaughter and mischief walk within your streets,

And, unrestrained, make havoc as they pass;

The form whereof even now my self beheld

Upon this fair mountain whence I came.

For so far of as I directed mine eyes,

I might perceive five Cities all on fire,

Corn fields and vineyards, burning like an oven;

And, as the reaking vapour in the wind

Turned but aside, I like wise might discern

The poor inhabitants, escaped the flame,

Fall numberless upon the soldiers' pikes.

Three ways these dreadful ministers of wrath

Do tread the measures of their tragic march:

Upon the right hand comes the conquering King,

Upon the left his hot unbridled son,

And in the midst our nation's glittering host,

All which, though distant yet, conspire in one,

To leave a desolation where they come.

Fly therefore, Citizens, if you be wise,

Seek out some habitation further off:

Here is you stay, your wives will be abused,

Your treasure shared before your weeping eyes;

Shelter you your selves, for now the storm doth rise.

Away, away; me thinks I hear their drums:—

Ah, wretched France, I greatly fear thy fall;

Thy glory shaketh like a tottering wall.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE III.

The same. Drums.

[Enter King Edward, and the Earl of Darby, With Soldiers, and Gobin de Grey.]

KING EDWARD.

Where's the French man by whose cunning guide

We found the shallow of this River Somme,

And had directions how to pass the sea?

GOBIN.

Here, my good Lord.

KING EDWARD.

How art thou called? tell me thy name.

GOBIN.

Gobin de Graie, if please your excellence.

KING EDWARD.

Then, Gobin, for the service thou hast done,

We here enlarge and give thee liberty;

And, for recompense beside this good,

Thou shalt receive five hundred marks in gold.—

I know not how, we should have met our son,

Whom now in heart I wish I might behold.

[Enter Artois.]

ARTOIS.

Good news, my Lord; the prince is hard at hand,

And with him comes Lord Awdley and the rest,

Whom since our landing we could never meet.

[Enter Prince Edward, Lord Awdley, and Soldiers.]

KING EDWARD.

Welcome, fair Prince! How hast thou sped, my son,

Since thy arrival on the coast of France?

PRINCE EDWARD.

Successfully, I thank the gracious heavens:

Some of their strongest Cities we have won,

As Harflew, Lo, Crotay, and Carentigne,

And others wasted, leaving at our heels

A wide apparent field and beaten path

For solitariness to progress in:

Yet those that would submit we kindly pardoned,

But who in scorn refused our proffered peace,

Endured the penalty of sharp revenge.

KING EDWARD.

Ah, France, why shouldest thou be thus obstinate

Against the kind embracement of thy friends?

How gently had we thought to touch thy breast

And set our foot upon thy tender mould,

But that, in froward and disdainful pride,

Thou, like a skittish and untamed colt,

Dost start aside and strike us with thy heels!

But tell me, Ned, in all thy warlike course,

Hast thou not seen the usurping King of France?

PRINCE EDWARD.

Yes, my good Lord, and not two hours ago,

With full a hundred thousand fighting men—

Upon the one side of the river's bank

And on the other both, his multitudes.

I feared he would have cropped our smaller power:

But happily, perceiving your approach,

He hath with drawn himself to Cressey plains;

Where, as it seemeth by his good array,

He means to bid us battle presently.

KING EDWARD.

He shall be welcome; that's the thing we crave.

[Enter King John, Dukes of Normandy and Lorrain, King of Boheme, young Phillip, and Soldiers.]

KING JOHN.

Edward, know that John, the true king of France,

Musing thou shouldst encroach upon his land,

And in thy tyranous proceeding slay

His faithful subjects and subvert his Towns,

Spits in thy face; and in this manner following

Obraids thee with thine arrogant intrusion:

First, I condemn thee for a fugitive,

A thievish pirate, and a needy mate,

One that hath either no abiding place,

Or else, inhabiting some barren soil,

Where neither herb or fruitful grain is had,

Doest altogether live by pilfering:

Next, insomuch thou hast infringed thy faith,

Broke leage and solemn covenant made with me,

I hold thee for a false pernicious wretch:

And, last of all, although I scorn to cope

With one so much inferior to my self,

Yet, in respect thy thirst is all for gold,

Thy labour rather to be feared than loved,

To satisfy thy lust in either part,

Here am I come, and with me have I brought

Exceeding store of treasure, pearl, and coin.

Leave, therefore, now to persecute the weak,

And armed entering conflict with the armed,

Let it be seen, mongest other petty thefts,

How thou canst win this pillage manfully.

KING EDWARD.

If gall or wormwood have a pleasant taste,

Then is thy salutation honey sweet;

But as the one hath no such property,

So is the other most satirical.

Yet wot how I regard thy worthless taunts:

If thou have uttered them to foil my fame

Or dim the reputation of my birth,

Know that thy wolvish barking cannot hurt;

If slyly to insinuate with the world,

And with a strumpet's artificial line

To paint thy vicious and deformed cause,

Be well assured, the counterfeit will fade,

And in the end thy foul defects be seen;

But if thou didst it to provoke me on,

As who should say I were but timorous.

Or, coldly negligent, did need a spur,

Bethink thy self how slack I was at sea,

How since my landing I have won no towns,

Entered no further but upon the coast,

And there have ever since securely slept.

But if I have been other wise employed,

Imagine, Valois, whether I intend

To skirmish, not for pillage, but for the Crown

Which thou dost wear; and that I vow to have,

Or one of us shall fall into his grave.

PRINCE EDWARD.

Look not for cross invectives at our hands,

Or railing execrations of despite:

Let creeping serpents, hid in hollow banks,

Sting with their tongues; we have remorseless swords,

And they shall plead for us and our affairs.

Yet thus much, briefly, by my father's leave:

As all the immodest poison of thy throat

Is scandalous and most notorious lies,

And our pretended quarrel is truly just,

So end the battle when we meet to day:

May either of us prosper and prevail,

Or, luckless, curst, receive eternal shame!

KING EDWARD.

That needs no further question; and I know,

His conscience witnesseth, it is my right.—

Therefore, Valois, say, wilt thou yet resign,

Before the sickles thrust into the Corn,

Or that inkindled fury turn to flame?

KING JOHN.

Edward, I know what right thou hast in France;

And ere I basely will resign my Crown,

This Champion field shall be a pool of blood,

And all our prospect as a slaughter house.

PRINCE EDWARD.

Aye, that approves thee, tyrant, what thou art:

No father, king, or shepherd of thy realm,

But one, that tears her entrails with thy hands,

And, like a thirsty tyger, suckst her blood.

AUDLEY.

You peers of France, why do you follow him

That is so prodigal to spend your lives?

CHARLES.

Whom should they follow, aged impotent,

But he that is their true borne sovereign?

KING EDWARD.

Obraidst thou him, because within his face

Time hath ingraved deep characters of age?

Know, these grave scholars of experience,

Like stiff grown oaks, will stand immovable,

When whirl wind quickly turns up younger trees.

DARBY.

Was ever any of thy father's house

King but thyself, before this present time?

Edward's great linage, by the mother's side,

Five hundred years hath held the scepter up:

Judge then, conspiratours, by this descent,

Which is the true borne sovereign, this or that.

PHILIP.

Father, range your battles, prate no more;

These English fain would spend the time in words,

That, night approaching, they might escape unfought.

KING JOHN.

Lords and my loving Subjects, now's the time,

That your intended force must bide the touch.

Therefore, my friends, consider this in brief:

He that you fight for is your natural King;

He against whom you fight, a foreigner:

He that you fight for, rules in clemency,

And reins you with a mild and gentle bit;

He against whom you fight, if he prevail,

Will straight inthrone himself in tyranny,

Makes slaves of you, and with a heavy hand

Curtail and curb your sweetest liberty.

Then, to protect your Country and your King,

Let but the haughty Courage of your hearts

Answer the number of your able hands,

And we shall quickly chase these fugitives.

For what's this Edward but a belly god,

A tender and lascivious wantoness,

That thother day was almost dead for love?

And what, I pray you, is his goodly guard?

Such as, but scant them of their chines of beef

And take away their downy featherbeds,

And presently they are as resty stiff,

As twere a many over ridden jades.

Then, French men, scorn that such should be your Lords,

And rather bind ye them in captive bands.

ALL FRENCHMEN.

Vive le Roy! God save King John of France!

KING JOHN.

Now on this plain of Cressy spread your selves,—

And, Edward, when thou darest, begin the fight.

[Exeunt King John, Charles, Philip, Lorrain, Boheme, and Forces.]

KING EDWARD.

We presently will meet thee, John of France:—

And, English Lords, let us resolve this day,

Either to clear us of that scandalous crime,

Or be intombed in our innocence.

And, Ned, because this battle is the first

That ever yet thou foughtest in pitched field,

As ancient custom is of Martialists,

To dub thee with the tip of chivalry,

In solemn manner we will give thee arms.

Come, therefore, Heralds, orderly bring forth

A strong attirement for the prince my son.

[Enter four Heralds, bringing in a coat armour, a helmet, a lance, and a shield.]

KING EDWARD.

Edward Plantagenet, in the name of God,

As with this armour I impale thy breast,

So be thy noble unrelenting heart

Walled in with flint of matchless fortitude,

That never base affections enter there:

Fight and be valiant, conquer where thou comest!

Now follow, Lords, and do him honor to.

DARBY.

Edward Plantagenet, prince of Wales,

As I do set this helmet on thy head,

Wherewith the chamber of thy brain is fenst,

So may thy temples, with Bellona's hand,

Be still adorned with laurel victory:

Fight and be valiant, conquer where thou comest!

AUDLEY.

Edward Plantagenet, prince of Wales,

Receive this lance into thy manly hand;

Use it in fashion of a brazen pen,

To draw forth bloody stratagems in France,

And print thy valiant deeds in honor's book:

Fight and be valiant, vanquish where thou comest!

ARTOIS.

Edward Plantagenet, prince of Wales,

Hold, take this target, wear it on thy arm;

And may the view thereof, like Perseus' shield,

Astonish and transform thy gazing foes

To senseless images of meager death:

Fight and be valiant, conquer where thou comest!

KING EDWARD.

Now wants there nought but knighthood, which deferred

We leave, till thou hast won it in the field.

PRINCE EDWARD.

My gracious father and ye forward peers,

This honor you have done me, animates

And cheers my green, yet scarce appearing strength

With comfortable good presaging signs,

No other wise than did old Jacob's words,

When as he breathed his blessings on his sons.

These hallowed gifts of yours when I profane,

Or use them not to glory of my God,

To patronage the fatherless and poor,

Or for the benefit of England's peace,

Be numb my joints, wax feeble both mine arms,

Wither my heart, that, like a sapless tree,

I may remain the map of infamy.

KING EDWARD.

Then thus our steeled Battles shall be ranged:

The leading of the vaward, Ned, is thine;

To dignify whose lusty spirit the more,

We temper it with Audly's gravity,

That, courage and experience joined in one,

Your manage may be second unto none:

For the main battles, I will guide my self;

And, Darby, in the rearward march behind,

That orderly disposed and set in ray,

Let us to horse; and God grant us the day!

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE IV.

The Same.

[Alarum. Enter a many French men flying. After them Prince Edward, running. Then enter King John and Duke of Lorrain.]

KING JOHN.

Oh, Lorrain, say, what mean our men to fly?

Our number is far greater than our foes.

LORRAIN.

The garrison of Genoaes, my Lord,

That came from Paris weary with their march,

Grudging to be so suddenly imployd,

No sooner in the forefront took their place,

But, straight retiring, so dismayed the rest,

As likewise they betook themselves to flight,

In which, for haste to make a safe escape,

More in the clustering throng are pressed to death,

Than by the enemy, a thousand fold.

KING JOHN.

O hapless fortune! Let us yet assay,

If we can counsel some of them to stay.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE V.

The Same.

[Enter King Edward and Audley.]

KING EDWARD.

Lord Audley, whiles our son is in the chase,

With draw our powers unto this little hill,

And here a season let us breath our selves.

AUDLEY.

I will, my Lord.

[Exit. Sound Retreat.]

KING EDWARD.

Just dooming heaven, whose secret providence

To our gross judgement is inscrutable,

How are we bound to praise thy wondrous works,

That hast this day given way unto the right,

And made the wicked stumble at them selves!

[Enter Artois.]

ARTOIS.

Rescue, king Edward! rescue for thy son!

KING EDWARD.

Rescue, Artois? what, is he prisoner,

Or by violence fell beside his horse?

ARTOIS.

Neither, my Lord: but narrowly beset

With turning Frenchmen, whom he did pursue,

As tis impossible that he should scape,

Except your highness presently descend.

KING EDWARD.

Tut, let him fight; we gave him arms to day,

And he is laboring for a knighthood, man.

[Enter Derby.]

DARBY.

The Prince, my Lord, the Prince! oh, succour him!

He's close incompast with a world of odds!

KING EDWARD.

Then will he win a world of honor too,

If he by valour can redeem him thence;

If not, what remedy? we have more sons

Than one, to comfort our declining age.

[Enter Audley.]

Renowned Edward, give me leave, I pray,

To lead my soldiers where I may relieve

Your Grace's son, in danger to be slain.

The snares of French, like Emmets on a bank,

Muster about him; whilest he, Lion like,

Intangled in the net of their assaults,

Franticly wrends, and bites the woven toil;

But all in vain, he cannot free him self.

KING EDWARD.

Audley, content; I will not have a man,

On pain of death, sent forth to succour him:

This is the day, ordained by destiny,

To season his courage with those grievous thoughts,

That, if he breaketh out, Nestor's years on earth

Will make him savor still of this exploit.

DARBY.

Ah, but he shall not live to see those days.

KING EDWARD.

Why, then his Epitaph is lasting praise.

AUDLEY.

Yet, good my Lord, tis too much willfulness,

To let his blood be spilt, that may be saved.

KING EDWARD.

Exclaim no more; for none of you can tell

Whether a borrowed aid will serve, or no;

Perhaps he is already slain or ta'en.

And dare a Falcon when she's in her flight,

And ever after she'll be haggard like:

Let Edward be delivered by our hands,

And still, in danger, he'll expect the like;

But if himself himself redeem from thence,

He will have vanquished cheerful death and fear,

And ever after dread their force no more

Than if they were but babes or Captive slaves.

AUDLEY.

O cruel Father! Farewell, Edward, then!

DARBY.

Farewell, sweet Prince, the hope of chivalry!

ARTOIS.

O, would my life might ransom him from death!

KING EDWARD.

But soft, me thinks I hear

[Retreat sounded.]

The dismal charge of Trumpets' loud retreat.

All are not slain, I hope, that went with him;

Some will return with tidings, good or bad.

[Enter Prince Edward in triumph, bearing in his hands his chivered Lance, and the King of Boheme, borne before, wrapped in the Colours. They run and imbrace him.]

AUDLEY.

O joyful sight! victorious Edward lives!

DERBY.

Welcome, brave Prince!

KING EDWARD.

Welcome, Plantagenet!

PRINCE EDWARD.

[Kneels and kisses his father's hand.]

First having done my duty as beseemed,

Lords, I regreet you all with hearty thanks.

And now, behold, after my winter's toil,

My painful voyage on the boisterous sea

Of wars devouring gulfs and steely rocks,

I bring my fraught unto the wished port,

My Summer's hope, my travels' sweet reward:

And here, with humble duty, I present

This sacrifice, this first fruit of my sword,

Cropped and cut down even at the gate of death,

The king of Boheme, father, whom I slew;

Whose thousands had entrenched me round about,

And lay as thick upon my battered crest,

As on an Anvil, with their ponderous glaves:

Yet marble courage still did underprop

And when my weary arms, with often blows,

Like the continual laboring Wood-man's Axe

That is enjoined to fell a load of Oaks,

Began to faulter, straight I would record

My gifts you gave me, and my zealous vow,

And then new courage made me fresh again,

That, in despite, I carved my passage forth,

And put the multitude to speedy flight.

Lo, thus hath Edward's hand filled your request,

And done, I hope, the duty of a Knight.

KING EDWARD.

Aye, well thou hast deserved a knighthood, Ned!

And, therefore, with thy sword, yet reaking warm

[His Sword borne by a Soldier.]

With blood of those that fought to be thy bane.

Arise, Prince Edward, trusty knight at arms:

This day thou hast confounded me with joy,

And proud thy self fit heir unto a king.

PRINCE EDWARD.

Here is a note, my gracious Lord, of those

That in this conflict of our foes were slain:

Eleven Princes of esteem, Four score Barons,

A hundred and twenty knights, and thirty thousand

Common soldiers; and, of our men, a thousand.

KING EDWARD.

Our God be praised! Now, John of France, I hope,

Thou knowest King Edward for no wantoness,

No love sick cockney, nor his soldiers jades.

But which way is the fearful king escaped?

PRINCE EDWARD.

Towards Poitiers, noble father, and his sons.

KING EDWARD.

Ned, thou and Audley shall pursue them still;

My self and Derby will to Calice straight,

And there be begirt that Haven town with siege.

Now lies it on an upshot; therefore strike,

And wistly follow, whiles the game's on foot.

What Picture's this?

PRINCE EDWARD.

A Pelican, my Lord,

Wounding her bosom with her crooked beak,

That so her nest of young ones may be fed

With drops of blood that issue from her heart;

The motto Sic & vos, 'and so should you'.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

Bretagne. Camp of the English.

[Enter Lord Mountford with a Coronet in his hand; with him the Earl of Salisbury.]

MOUNTFORD.

My Lord of Salisbury, since by your aide

Mine enemy Sir Charles of Blois is slain,

And I again am quietly possessed

In Brittain's Dukedom, know that I resolve,

For this kind furtherance of your king and you,

To swear allegiance to his majesty:

In sign whereof receive this Coronet,

Bear it unto him, and, withal, mine oath,

Never to be but Edward's faithful friend.

SALISBURY.

I take it, Mountfort. Thus, I hope, ere long

The whole Dominions of the Realm of France

Will be surrendered to his conquering hand.

[Exit Mountford.]

Now, if I knew but safely how to pass,

I would at Calice gladly meet his Grace,

Whether I am by letters certified

That he intends to have his host removed.

It shall be so, this policy will serve:—

Ho, whose within? Bring Villiers to me.

[Enter Villiers.]

Villiers, thou knowest, thou art my prisoner,

And that I might for ransom, if I would,

Require of thee a hundred thousand Francs,

Or else retain and keep thee captive still:

But so it is, that for a smaller charge

Thou maist be quit, and if thou wilt thy self.

And this it is: Procure me but a passport

Of Charles, the Duke of Normandy, that I

Without restraint may have recourse to Callis

Through all the Countries where he hath to do;

Which thou maist easily obtain, I think,

By reason I have often heard thee say,

He and thou were students once together:

And then thou shalt be set at liberty.

How saiest thou? wilt thou undertake to do it?

VILLIERS.

I will, my Lord; but I must speak with him.

SALISBURY.

Why, so thou shalt; take Horse, and post from hence:

Only before thou goest, swear by thy faith,

That, if thou canst not compass my desire,

Thou wilt return my prisoner back again;

And that shall be sufficient warrant for me.

VILLIERS.

To that condition I agree, my Lord,

And will unfainedly perform the same.

[Exit.]

SALISBURY.

Farewell, Villiers.—

Thus once i mean to try a French man's faith.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

Picardy. The English Camp before Calais.

[Enter King Edward and Derby, with Soldiers.]

KING EDWARD.

Since they refuse our proffered league, my Lord,

And will not ope their gates, and let us in,

We will intrench our selves on every side,

That neither vituals nor supply of men

May come to succour this accursed town:

Famine shall combat where our swords are stopped.

[Enter six poor Frenchmen.]

DERBY.

The promised aid, that made them stand aloof,

Is now retired and gone an other way:

It will repent them of their stubborn will.

But what are these poor ragged slaves, my Lord?

KING EDWARD.

Ask what they are; it seems, they come from Callis.

DERBY.

You wretched patterns of despair and woe,

What are you, living men or gliding ghosts,

Crept from your graves to walk upon the earth?

POOR.

No ghosts, my Lord, but men that breath a life

Far worse than is the quiet sleep of death:

We are distressed poor inhabitants,

That long have been diseased, sick, and lame;

And now, because we are not fit to serve,

The Captain of the town hath thrust us forth,

That so expense of victuals may be saved.

KING EDWARD.

A charitable deed, no doubt, and worthy praise!

But how do you imagine then to speed?

We are your enemies; in such a case

We can no less but put ye to the sword,

Since, when we proffered truce, it was refused.

POOR.

And if your grace no otherwise vouchsafe,

As welcome death is unto us as life.

KING EDWARD.

Poor silly men, much wronged and more distressed!

Go, Derby, go, and see they be relieved;

Command that victuals be appointed them,

And give to every one five Crowns a piece.

[Exeunt Derby and Frenchmen.]

The Lion scorns to touch the yielding prey,

And Edward's sword must flesh it self in such

As wilful stubbornness hath made perverse.

[Enter Lord Percy.]

KING EDWARD.

Lord Percy! welcome: what's the news in England?

PERCY.

The Queen, my Lord, comes here to your Grace,

And from her highness and the Lord viceregent

I bring this happy tidings of success:

David of Scotland, lately up in arms,

Thinking, belike, he soonest should prevail,

Your highness being absent from the Realm,

Is, by the fruitful service of your peers

And painful travel of the Queen her self,

That, big with child, was every day in arms,

Vanquished, subdued, and taken prisoner.

KING EDWARD.

Thanks, Percy, for thy news, with all my heart!

What was he took him prisoner in the field?

PERCY.

A Esquire, my Lord; John Copland is his name:

Who since, intreated by her Majesty,

Denies to make surrender of his prize

To any but unto your grace alone;

Whereat the Queen is grievously displeased.

KING EDWARD.

Well, then we'll have a Pursiuvant despatched,

To summon Copland hither out of hand,

And with him he shall bring his prisoner king.

PERCY.

The Queen's, my Lord, her self by this at Sea,

And purposeth, as soon as wind will serve,

To land at Callis, and to visit you.

KING EDWARD.

She shall be welcome; and, to wait her coming,

I'll pitch my tent near to the sandy shore.

[Enter a French Captain.]

CAPTAIN.

The Burgesses of Callis, mighty king,

Have by a counsel willingly decreed

To yield the town and Castle to your hands,

Upon condition it will please your grace

To grant them benefit of life and goods.

KING EDWARD.

They will so! Then, belike, they may command,

Dispose, elect, and govern as they list.

No, sirra, tell them, since they did refuse

Our princely clemency at first proclaimed,

They shall not have it now, although they would;

I will accept of nought but fire and sword,

Except, within these two days, six of them,

That are the wealthiest merchants in the town,

Come naked, all but for their linen shirts,

With each a halter hanged about his neck,

And prostrate yield themselves, upon their knees,

To be afflicted, hanged, or what I please;

And so you may inform their masterships.

[Exeunt Edward and Percy.]

CAPTAIN.

Why, this it is to trust a broken staff:

Had we not been persuaded, John our King

Would with his army have relieved the town,

We had not stood upon defiance so:

But now tis past that no man can recall,

And better some do go to wrack them all.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE III.

Poitou. Fields near Poitiers. The French camp; Tent of the Duke of Normandy.

[Enter Charles of Normandy and Villiers.]

CHARLES.

I wonder, Villiers, thou shouldest importune me

For one that is our deadly enemy.

VILLIERS.

Not for his sake, my gracious Lord, so much

Am I become an earnest advocate,

As that thereby my ransom will be quit.

CHARLES.

Thy ransom, man? why needest thou talk of that?

Art thou not free? and are not all occasions,

That happen for advantage of our foes,

To be accepted of, and stood upon?

VILLIERS.

No, good my Lord, except the same be just;

For profit must with honor be comixt,

Or else our actions are but scandalous.

But, letting pass their intricate objections,

Wilt please your highness to subscribe, or no?

CHARLES.

Villiers, I will not, nor I cannot do it;

Salisbury shall not have his will so much,

To claim a passport how it pleaseth himself.

VILLIERS.

Why, then I know the extremity, my Lord;

I must return to prison whence I came.

CHARLES.

Return? I hope thou wilt not;

What bird that hath escaped the fowler's gin,

Will not beware how she's ensnared again?

Or, what is he, so senseless and secure,

That, having hardly past a dangerous gul,

Will put him self in peril there again?

VILLIERS.

Ah, but it is mine oath, my gracious Lord,

Which I in conscience may not violate,

Or else a kingdom should not draw me hence.

CHARLES.

Thine oath? why, tat doth bind thee to abide:

Hast thou not sworn obedience to thy Prince?

VILLIERS.

In all things that uprightly he commands:

But either to persuade or threaten me,

Not to perform the covenant of my word,

Is lawless, and I need not to obey.

CHARLES.

Why, is it lawful for a man to kill,

And not, to break a promise with his foe?

VILLIERS.

To kill, my Lord, when war is once proclaimed,

So that our quarrel be for wrongs received,

No doubt, is lawfully permitted us;

But in an oath we must be well advised,

How we do swear, and, when we once have sworn,

Not to infringe it, though we die therefore:

Therefore, my Lord, as willing I return,

As if I were to fly to paradise.

CHARLES.

Stay, my Villiers; thine honorable min

Deserves to be eternally admired.

Thy suit shall be no longer thus deferred:

Give me the paper, I'll subscribe to it;

And, wheretofore I loved thee as Villiers,

Hereafter I'll embrace thee as my self.

Stay, and be still in favour with thy Lord.

VILLIERS.

I humbly thank you grace; I must dispatch,

And send this passport first unto the Earl,

And then I will attend your highness pleasure.

CHARLES.

Do so, Villiers;—and Charles, when he hath need,

Be such his soldiers, howsoever he speed!

[Exit Villiers.]

[Enter King John.]

KING JOHN.

Come, Charles, and arm thee; Edward is entrapped,

The Prince of Wales is fallen into our hands,

And we have compassed him; he cannot escape.

CHARLES.

But will your highness fight to day?

KING JOHN.

What else, my son? he's scarce eight thousand strong,

And we are threescore thousand at the least.

CHARLES.

I have a prophecy, my gracious Lord,

Wherein is written what success is like

To happen us in this outrageous war;

It was delivered me at Cresses field

By one that is an aged Hermit there.

[Reads.] 'When feathered foul shall make thine army tremble,

And flint stones rise and break the battle ray,

Then think on him that doth not now dissemble;

For that shall be the hapless dreadful day:

Yet, in the end, thy foot thou shalt advance

As far in England as thy foe in France.'

KING JOHN.

By this it seems we shall be fortunate:

For as it is impossible that stones

Should ever rise and break the battle ray,

Or airy foul make men in arms to quake,

So is it like, we shall not be subdued:

Or say this might be true, yet in the end,

Since he doth promise we shall drive him hence

And forage their Country as they have done ours,

By this revenge that loss will seem the less.

But all are frivolous fancies, toys, and dreams:

Once we are sure we have ensnared the son,

Catch we the father after how we can.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE IV.

The same. The English Camp.

[Enter Prince Edward, Audley, and others.]

PRINCE EDWARD.

Audley, the arms of death embrace us round,

And comfort have we none, save that to die

We pay sower earnest for a sweeter life.

At Cressey field out Clouds of Warlike smoke

Choked up those French mouths & dissevered them;

But now their multitudes of millions hide,

Masking as twere, the beauteous burning Sun,

Leaving no hope to us, but sullen dark

And eyeless terror of all ending night.

AUDLEY.

This sudden, mighty, and expedient head

That they have made, fair prince, is wonderful.

Before us in the valley lies the king,

Vantaged with all that heaven and earth can yield;

His party stronger battled than our whole:

His son, the braving Duke of Normandy,

Hath trimmed the Mountain on our right hand up

In shining plate, that now the aspiring hill

Shews like a silver quarry or an orb,

Aloft the which the Banners, bannarets,

And new replenished pendants cuff the air

And beat the winds, that for their gaudiness

Struggles to kiss them: on our left hand lies

Phillip, the younger issue of the king,

Coating the other hill in such array,

That all his guilded upright pikes do seem

Straight trees of gold, the pendants leaves;

And their device of Antique heraldry,

Quartered in colours, seeming sundry fruits,

Makes it the Orchard of the Hesperides:

Behind us too the hill doth bear his height,

For like a half Moon, opening but one way,

It rounds us in; there at our backs are lodged

The fatal Crossbows, and the battle there

Is governed by the rough Chattillion.

Then thus it stands: the valley for our flight

The king binds in; the hills on either hand

Are proudly royalized by his sons;

And on the Hill behind stands certain death

In pay and service with Chattillion.

PRINCE EDWARD.

Death's name is much more mighty than his deeds;

Thy parcelling this power hath made it more.

As many sands as these my hands can hold,

Are but my handful of so many sands;

Then, all the world, and call it but a power,

Easily ta'en up, and quickly thrown away:

But if I stand to count them sand by sand,

The number would confound my memory,

And make a thousand millions of a task,

Which briefly is no more, indeed, than one.

These quarters, squadrons, and these regiments,

Before, behind us, and on either hand,

Are but a power. When we name a man,

His hand, his foot, his head hath several strengths;

And being all but one self instant strength,

Why, all this many, Audley, is but one,

And we can call it all but one man's strength.

He that hath far to go, tells it by miles;

If he should tell the steps, it kills his heart:

The drops are infinite, that make a flood,

And yet, thou knowest, we call it but a Rain.

There is but one France, one king of France,

That France hath no more kings; and that same king

Hath but the puissant legion of one king,

And we have one: then apprehend no odds,

For one to one is fair equality.

[Enter an Herald from King John.]

PRINCE EDWARD.

What tidings, messenger? be plain and brief.

HERALD.

The king of France, my sovereign Lord and master,

Greets by me his foe, the Prince of Wales:

If thou call forth a hundred men of name,

Of Lords, Knights, Squires, and English gentlemen,

And with thy self and those kneel at his feet,

He straight will fold his bloody colours up,

And ransom shall redeem lives forfeited;

If not, this day shall drink more English blood,

Than ere was buried in our British earth.

What is the answer to his proffered mercy?

PRINCE EDWARD.

This heaven, that covers France, contains the mercy

That draws from me submissive orizons;

That such base breath should vanish from my lips,

To urge the plea of mercy to a man,

The Lord forbid! Return, and tell the king,

My tongue is made of steel, and it shall beg

My mercy on his coward burgonet;

Tell him, my colours are as red as his,

My men as bold, our English arms as strong:

Return him my defiance in his face.

HERALD.

I go.

[Exit.]

[Enter another Herald.]

PRINCE EDWARD.

What news with thee?

HERALD.

The Duke of Normandy, my Lord & master,

Pitying thy youth is so ingirt with peril,

By me hath sent a nimble jointed jennet,

As swift as ever yet thou didst bestride,

And therewithall he counsels thee to fly;

Else death himself hath sworn that thou shalt die.

PRINCE EDWARD.

Back with the beast unto the beast that sent him!

Tell him I cannot sit a coward's horse;

Bid him to day bestride the jade himself,

For I will stain my horse quite o'er with blood,

And double gild my spurs, but I will catch him;

So tell the carping boy, and get thee gone.

[Exit Herald.]

[Enter another Herald.]

HERALD.

Edward of Wales, Phillip, the second son

To the most mighty christian king of France,

Seeing thy body's living date expired,

All full of charity and christian love,

Commends this book, full fraught with prayers,

To thy fair hand and for thy hour of life

Intreats thee that thou meditate therein,

And arm thy soul for her long journey towards—

Thus have I done his bidding, and return.

PRINCE EDWARD.

Herald of Phillip, greet thy Lord from me:

All good that he can send, I can receive;

But thinkst thou not, the unadvised boy

Hath wronged himself in thus far tendering me?

Happily he cannot pray without the book—

I think him no divine extemporall—,

Then render back this common place of prayer,

To do himself good in adversity;

Beside he knows not my sins' quality,

And therefore knows no prayers for my avail;

Ere night his prayer may be to pray to God,

To put it in my heart to hear his prayer.

So tell the courtly wanton, and be gone.

HERALD.

I go.

[Exit.]

PRINCE EDWARD.

How confident their strength and number makes them!—

Now, Audley, sound those silver wings of thine,

And let those milk white messengers of time

Shew thy times learning in this dangerous time.

Thy self art bruised and bit with many broils,

And stratagems forepast with iron pens

Are texted in thine honorable face;

Thou art a married man in this distress,

But danger woos me as a blushing maid:

Teach me an answer to this perilous time.

AUDLEY.

To die is all as common as to live:

The one ince-wise, the other holds in chase;

For, from the instant we begin to live,

We do pursue and hunt the time to die:

First bud we, then we blow, and after seed,

Then, presently, we fall; and, as a shade

Follows the body, so we follow death.

If, then, we hunt for death, why do we fear it?

If we fear it, why do we follow it?

If we do fear, how can we shun it?

If we do fear, with fear we do but aide

The thing we fear to seize on us the sooner:

If we fear not, then no resolved proffer

Can overthrow the limit of our fate;

For, whether ripe or rotten, drop we shall,

As we do draw the lottery of our doom.

PRINCE EDWARD.

Ah, good old man, a thousand thousand armors

These words of thine have buckled on my back:

Ah, what an idiot hast thou made of life,

To seek the thing it fears! and how disgraced

The imperial victory of murdering death,

Since all the lives his conquering arrows strike

Seek him, and he not them, to shame his glory!

I will not give a penny for a life,

Nor half a halfpenny to shun grim death,

Since for to live is but to seek to die,

And dying but beginning of new life.

Let come the hour when he that rules it will!

To live or die I hold indifferent.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE V.

The same. The French Camp.

[Enter King John and Charles.]

KING JOHN.

A sudden darkness hath defaced the sky,

The winds are crept into their caves for fear,

The leaves move not, the world is hushed and still,

The birds cease singing, and the wandering brooks

Murmur no wonted greeting to their shores;

Silence attends some wonder and expecteth

That heaven should pronounce some prophesy:

Where, or from whom, proceeds this silence, Charles?

CHARLES.

Our men, with open mouths and staring eyes,

Look on each other, as they did attend

Each other's words, and yet no creature speaks;

A tongue-tied fear hath made a midnight hour,

And speeches sleep through all the waking regions.

KING JOHN.

But now the pompous Sun, in all his pride,

Looked through his golden coach upon the world,

And, on a sudden, hath he hid himself,

That now the under earth is as a grave,

Dark, deadly, silent, and uncomfortable.

[A clamor of ravens.]

Hark, what a deadly outery do I hear?

CHARLES.

Here comes my brother Phillip.

KING JOHN.

All dismayed:

[Enter Phillip.]

What fearful words are those thy looks presage?

PHILLIP.

A flight, a flight!

KING JOHN.

Coward, what flight? thou liest, there needs no flight.

PHILLIP.

A flight.

KING JOHN.

Awake thy craven powers, and tell on

The substance of that very fear in deed,

Which is so ghastly printed in thy face:

What is the matter?

PHILLIP.

A flight of ugly ravens

Do croak and hover o'er our soldiers' heads,

And keep in triangles and cornered squares,

Right as our forces are embattled;

With their approach there came this sudden fog,

Which now hath hid the airy floor of heaven

And made at noon a night unnatural

Upon the quaking and dismayed world:

In brief, our soldiers have let fall their arms,

And stand like metamorphosed images,

Bloodless and pale, one gazing on another.

KING JOHN.

Aye, now I call to mind the prophesy,

But I must give no entrance to a fear.—

Return, and hearten up these yielding souls:

Tell them, the ravens, seeing them in arms,

So many fair against a famished few,

Come but to dine upon their handy work

And prey upon the carrion that they kill:

For when we see a horse laid down to die,

Although he be not dead, the ravenous birds

Sit watching the departure of his life;

Even so these ravens for the carcasses

Of those poor English, that are marked to die,

Hover about, and, if they cry to us,

Tis but for meat that we must kill for them.

Away, and comfort up my soldiers,

And sound the trumpets, and at once dispatch

This little business of a silly fraud.

[Exit Phillip.]

[Another noise. Salisbury brought in by a French Captain.]

CAPTAIN.

Behold, my liege, this knight and forty mo',

Of whom the better part are slain and fled,

With all endeavor sought to break our ranks,

And make their way to the encompassed prince:

Dispose of him as please your majesty.

KING JOHN.

Go, & the next bough, soldier, that thou seest,

Disgrace it with his body presently;

For I do hold a tree in France too good

To be the gallows of an English thief.

SALISBURY.

My Lord of Normandy, I have your pass

And warrant for my safety through this land.

CHARLES.

Villiers procured it for thee, did he not?

SALISBURY.

He did.

CHARLES.

And it is current; thou shalt freely pass.

KING JOHN.

Aye, freely to the gallows to be hanged,

Without denial or impediment.

Away with him!

CHARLES.

I hope your highness will not so disgrace me,

And dash the virtue of my seal at arms:

He hath my never broken name to shew,

Charactered with this princely hand of mine:

And rather let me leave to be a prince

Than break the stable verdict of a prince:

I do beseech you, let him pass in quiet.

KING JOHN.

Thou and thy word lie both in my command;

What canst thou promise that I cannot break?

Which of these twain is greater infamy,

To disobey thy father or thy self?

Thy word, nor no mans, may exceed his power;

Nor that same man doth never break his word,

That keeps it to the utmost of his power.

The breach of faith dwells in the soul's consent:

Which if thy self without consent do break,

Thou art not charged with the breach of faith.

Go, hang him: for thy license lies in me,

And my constraint stands the excuse for thee.

CHARLES.

What, am I not a soldier in my word?

Then, arms, adieu, and let them fight that list!

Shall I not give my girdle from my waste,

But with a gardion I shall be controlled,

To say I may not give my things away?

Upon my soul, had Edward, prince of Wales,

Engaged his word, writ down his noble hand

For all your knights to pass his father's land,

The royal king, to grace his warlike son,

Would not alone safe conduct give to them,

But with all bounty feasted them and theirs.

KING JOHN.

Dwelst thou on precedents? Then be it so!

Say, Englishman, of what degree thou art.

SALISBURY.

An Earl in England, though a prisoner here,

And those that know me, call me Salisbury.

KING JOHN.

Then, Salisbury, say whether thou art bound.

SALISBURY.

To Callice, where my liege, king Edward, is.

KING JOHN.

To Callice, Salisbury? Then, to Callice pack,

And bid the king prepare a noble grave,

To put his princely son, black Edward, in.

And as thou travelst westward from this place,

Some two leagues hence there is a lofty hill,

Whose top seems topless, for the embracing sky

Doth hide his high head in her azure bosom;

Upon whose tall top when thy foot attains,

Look back upon the humble vale beneath—

Humble of late, but now made proud with arms—

And thence behold the wretched prince of Wales,

Hooped with a bond of iron round about.

After which sight, to Callice spur amain,

And say, the prince was smothered and not slain:

And tell the king this is not all his ill;

For I will greet him, ere he thinks I will.

Away, be gone; the smoke but of our shot

Will choke our foes, though bullets hit them not.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE VI.

The same. A Part of the Field of Battle.

[Alarum. Enter prince Edward and Artois.]

ARTOIS.

How fares your grace? are you not shot, my Lord?

PRINCE EDWARD.

No, dear Artois; but choked with dust and smoke,

And stepped aside for breath and fresher air.

ARTOIS.

Breath, then, and to it again: the amazed French

Are quite distract with gazing on the crows;

And, were our quivers full of shafts again,

Your grace should see a glorious day of this:—

O, for more arrows, Lord; that's our want.

PRINCE EDWARD.

Courage, Artois! a fig for feathered shafts,

When feathered fowls do bandy on our side!

What need we fight, and sweat, and keep a coil,

When railing crows outscold our adversaries?

Up, up, Artois! the ground it self is armed

With Fire containing flint; command our bows

To hurl away their pretty colored Ew,

And to it with stones: away, Artois, away!

My soul doth prophecy we win the day.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE VII.

The same. Another Part of the Field of Battle.

[Alarum. Enter King John.]

KING JOHN.

Our multitudes are in themselves confounded,

Dismayed, and distraught; swift starting fear

Hath buzzed a cold dismay through all our army,

And every petty disadvantage prompts

The fear possessed abject soul to fly.

My self, whose spirit is steel to their dull lead,

What with recalling of the prophecy,

And that our native stones from English arms

Rebel against us, find myself attainted

With strong surprise of weak and yielding fear.

[Enter Charles.]

CHARLES.

Fly, father, fly! the French do kill the French,

Some that would stand let drive at some that fly;

Our drums strike nothing but discouragement,

Our trumpets sound dishonor and retire;

The spirit of fear, that feareth nought but death,

Cowardly works confusion on it self.

[Enter Phillip.]

PHILLIP.

Pluck out your eyes, and see not this day's shame!

An arm hath beat an army; one poor David

Hath with a stone foiled twenty stout Goliahs;

Some twenty naked starvelings with small flints,

Hath driven back a puissant host of men,

Arrayed and fenced in all accomplements.

KING JOHN.

Mordieu, they quait at us, and kill us up;

No less than forty thousand wicked elders

Have forty lean slaves this day stoned to death.

CHARLES.

O, that I were some other countryman!

This day hath set derision on the French,

And all the world will blurt and scorn at us.

KING JOHN.

What, is there no hope left?

PHILLIP.

No hope, but death, to bury up our shame.

KING JOHN.

Make up once more with me; the twentieth part

Of those that live, are men inow to quail

The feeble handful on the adverse part.

CHARLES.

Then charge again: if heaven be not opposed,

We cannot lose the day.

KING JOHN.

On, away!

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE VIII.

The same. Another Part of the Field of Battle.

[Enter Audley, wounded, and rescued by two squires.]

ESQUIRE.

How fares my Lord?

AUDLEY.

Even as a man may do,

That dines at such a bloody feast as this.

ESQUIRE.

I hope, my Lord, that is no mortal scar.

AUDLEY.

No matter, if it be; the count is cast,

And, in the worst, ends but a mortal man.

Good friends, convey me to the princely Edward,

That in the crimson bravery of my blood

I may become him with saluting him.

I'll smile, and tell him, that this open scar

Doth end the harvest of his Audley's war.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE IX.

The same. The English Camp.

[Enter prince Edward, King John, Charles, and all, with Ensigns spread.]

PRINCE EDWARD.

Now, John in France, and lately John of France,

Thy bloody Ensigns are my captive colours;

And you, high vaunting Charles of Normandy,

That once to day sent me a horse to fly,

Are now the subjects of my clemency.

Fie, Lords, is it not a shame that English boys,

Whose early days are yet not worth a beard,

Should in the bosom of your kingdom thus,

One against twenty, beat you up together?

KING JOHN.

Thy fortune, not thy force, hath conquered us.

PRINCE EDWARD.

An argument that heaven aides the right.

[Enter Artois with Phillip.]

See, see, Artois doth bring with him along

The late good counsel giver to my soul.

Welcome, Artois; and welcome, Phillip, too:

Who now of you or I have need to pray?

Now is the proverb verified in you,

'Too bright a morning breeds a louring day.'

[Sound Trumpets. Enter Audley.]

But say, what grim discouragement comes here!

Alas, what thousand armed men of France

Have writ that note of death in Audley's face?

Speak, thou that wooest death with thy careless smile,

And lookst so merrily upon thy grave,

As if thou were enamored on thine end:

What hungry sword hath so bereaved thy face,

And lopped a true friend from my loving soul?

AUDLEY.

O Prince, thy sweet bemoaning speech to me

Is as a mournful knell to one dead sick.

PRINCE EDWARD.

Dear Audley, if my tongue ring out thy end,

My arms shall be thy grave: what may I do

To win thy life, or to revenge thy death?

If thou wilt drink the blood of captive kings,

Or that it were restorative, command

A Health of kings' blood, and I'll drink to thee;

If honor may dispense for thee with death,

The never dying honor of this day

Share wholly, Audley, to thy self, and live.

AUDLEY.

Victorious Prince,—that thou art so, behold

A Caesar's fame in king's captivity—

If I could hold him death but at a bay,

Till I did see my liege thy royal father,

My soul should yield this Castle of my flesh,

This mangled tribute, with all willingness,

To darkness, consummation, dust, and Worms.

PRINCE EDWARD.

Cheerily, bold man, thy soul is all too proud

To yield her City for one little breach;

Should be divorced from her earthly spouse

By the soft temper of a French man's sword?

Lo, to repair thy life, I give to thee

Three thousand Marks a year in English land.

AUDLEY.

I take thy gift, to pay the debts I owe:

These two poor Esquires redeemed me from the French

With lusty & dear hazard of their lives:

What thou hast given me, I give to them;

And, as thou lovest me, prince, lay thy consent

To this bequeath in my last testament.

PRINCE EDWARD.

Renowned Audley, live, and have from me

This gift twice doubled to these Esquires and thee:

But live or die, what thou hast given away

To these and theirs shall lasting freedom stay.

Come, gentlemen, I will see my friend bestowed

With in an easy Litter; then we'll march

Proudly toward Callis, with triumphant pace,

Unto my royal father, and there bring

The tribute of my wars, fair France his king.

[Exit.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

Picardy. The English Camp before Calais.

[Enter King Edward, Queen Phillip, Derby, soldiers.]

KING EDWARD.

No more, Queen Phillip, pacify your self;

Copland, except he can excuse his fault,

Shall find displeasure written in our looks.

And now unto this proud resisting town!

Soldiers, assault: I will no longer stay,

To be deluded by their false delays;

Put all to sword, and make the spoil your own.

[Enter six Citizens in their Shirts, bare foot, with halters about their necks.]

ALL.

Mercy, king Edward, mercy, gracious Lord!

KING EDWARD.

Contemptuous villains, call ye now for truce?

Mine ears are stopped against your bootless cries:—

Sound, drums alarum; draw threatening swords!

FIRST CITIZEN.

Ah, noble Prince, take pity on this town,

And hear us, mighty king:

We claim the promise that your highness made;

The two days' respite is not yet expired,

And we are come with willingness to bear

What torturing death or punishment you please,

So that the trembling multitude be saved.

KING EDWARD.

My promise? Well, I do confess as much:

But I do require the chiefest Citizens

And men of most account that should submit;

You, peradventure, are but servile grooms,

Or some felonious robbers on the Sea,

Whom, apprehended, law would execute,

Albeit severity lay dead in us:

No, no, ye cannot overreach us thus.

SECOND CITIZEN.

The Sun, dread Lord, that in the western fall

Beholds us now low brought through misery,

Did in the Orient purple of the morn

Salute our coming forth, when we were known;

Or may our portion be with damned fiends.

KING EDWARD.

If it be so, then let our covenant stand:

We take possession of the town in peace,

But, for your selves, look you for no remorse;

But, as imperial justice hath decreed,

Your bodies shall be dragged about these walls,

And after feel the stroke of quartering steel:

This is your doom;—go, soldiers, see it done.

QUEEN PHILLIP.

Ah, be more mild unto these yielding men!

It is a glorious thing to stablish peace,

And kings approach the nearest unto God

By giving life and safety unto men:

As thou intendest to be king of France,

So let her people live to call thee king;

For what the sword cuts down or fire hath spoiled,

Is held in reputation none of ours.

KING EDWARD.

Although experience teach us this is true,

That peaceful quietness brings most delight,

When most of all abuses are controlled;

Yet, insomuch it shall be known that we

As well can master our affections

As conquer other by the dint of sword,

Phillip, prevail; we yield to thy request:

These men shall live to boast of clemency,

And, tyranny, strike terror to thy self.

SECOND CITIZEN.

Long live your highness! happy be your reign!

KING EDWARD.

Go, get you hence, return unto the town,

And if this kindness hath deserved your love,

Learn then to reverence Edward as your king.—

[Exeunt Citizens.]

Now, might we hear of our affairs abroad,

We would, till gloomy Winter were o'er spent,

Dispose our men in garrison a while.

But who comes here?

[Enter Copland and King David.]

DERBY.

Copland, my Lord, and David, King of Scots.

KING EDWARD.

Is this the proud presumptuous Esquire of the North,

That would not yield his prisoner to my Queen?

COPLAND.

I am, my liege, a Northern Esquire indeed,

But neither proud nor insolent, I trust.

KING EDWARD.

What moved thee, then, to be so obstinate

To contradict our royal Queen's desire?

COPLAND.

No wilful disobedience, mighty Lord,

But my desert and public law at arms:

I took the king my self in single fight,

And, like a soldiers, would be loath to lose

The least pre-eminence that I had won.

And Copland straight upon your highness' charge

Is come to France, and with a lowly mind

Doth vale the bonnet of his victory:

Receive, dread Lord, the custom of my fraught,

The wealthy tribute of my laboring hands,

Which should long since have been surrendered up,

Had but your gracious self been there in place.

QUEEN PHILLIP.

But, Copland, thou didst scorn the king's command,

Neglecting our commission in his name.

COPLAND.

His name I reverence, but his person more;

His name shall keep me in allegiance still,

But to his person I will bend my knee.

KING EDWARD.

I pray thee, Phillip, let displeasure pass;

This man doth please me, and I like his words:

For what is he that will attempt great deeds,

And lose the glory that ensues the same?

All rivers have recourse unto the Sea,

And Copland's faith relation to his king.

Kneel, therefore, down: now rise, king Edward's knight;

And, to maintain thy state, I freely give

Five hundred marks a year to thee and thine.

[Enter Salisbury.]

Welcome, Lord Salisbury: what news from Brittain?

SALISBURY.

This, mighty king: the Country we have won,

And John de Mountford, regent of that place,

Presents your highness with this Coronet,

Protesting true allegiance to your Grace.

KING EDWARD.

We thank thee for thy service, valiant Earl;

Challenge our favour, for we owe it thee.

SALISBURY.

But now, my Lord, as this is joyful news,

So must my voice be tragical again,

And I must sing of doleful accidents.

KING EDWARD.

What, have our men the overthrow at Poitiers?

Or is our son beset with too much odds?

SALISBURY.

He was, my Lord: and as my worthless self

With forty other serviceable knights,

Under safe conduct of the Dauphin's seal,

Did travail that way, finding him distressed,

A troop of Lances met us on the way,

Surprised, and brought us prisoners to the king,

Who, proud of this, and eager of revenge,

Commanded straight to cut off all our heads:

And surely we had died, but that the Duke,

More full of honor than his angry sire,

Procured our quick deliverance from thence;

But, ere we went, 'Salute your king', quoth he,

'Bid him provide a funeral for his son:

To day our sword shall cut his thread of life;

And, sooner than he thinks, we'll be with him,

To quittance those displeasures he hath done.'

This said, we past, not daring to reply;

Our hearts were dead, our looks diffused and wan.

Wandering, at last we climed unto a hill,

From whence, although our grief were much before,

Yet now to see the occasion with our eyes

Did thrice so much increase our heaviness:

For there, my Lord, oh, there we did descry

Down in a valley how both armies lay.

The French had cast their trenches like a ring,

And every Barricado's open front

Was thick embossed with brazen ordinance;

Here stood a battaile of ten thousand horse,

There twice as many pikes in quadrant wise,

Here Crossbows, and deadly wounding darts:

And in the midst, like to a slender point

Within the compass of the horizon,

As twere a rising bubble in the sea,

A Hasle wand amidst a wood of Pines,

Or as a bear fast chained unto a stake,

Stood famous Edward, still expecting when

Those dogs of France would fasten on his flesh.

Anon the death procuring knell begins:

Off go the Cannons, that with trembling noise

Did shake the very Mountain where they stood;

Then sound the Trumpets' clangor in the air,

The battles join: and, when we could no more

Discern the difference twixt the friend and foe,

So intricate the dark confusion was,

Away we turned our watery eyes with sighs,

As black as powder fuming into smoke.

And thus, I fear, unhappy have I told

The most untimely tale of Edward's fall.

QUEEN PHILLIP.

Ah me, is this my welcome into France?

Is this the comfort that I looked to have,

When I should meet with my beloved son?

Sweet Ned, I would thy mother in the sea

Had been prevented of this mortal grief!

KING EDWARD.

Content thee, Phillip; tis not tears will serve

To call him back, if he be taken hence:

Comfort thy self, as I do, gentle Queen,

With hope of sharp, unheard of, dire revenge.—

He bids me to provide his funeral,

And so I will; but all the Peers in France

Shall mourners be, and weep out bloody tears,

Until their empty veins be dry and sere:

The pillars of his hearse shall be his bones;

The mould that covers him, their City ashes;

His knell, the groaning cries of dying men;

And, in the stead of tapers on his tomb,

An hundred fifty towers shall burning blaze,

While we bewail our valiant son's decease.

[After a flourish, sounded within, enter an herald.]

HERALD.

Rejoice, my Lord; ascend the imperial throne!

The mighty and redoubted prince of Wales,

Great servitor to bloody Mars in arms,

The French man's terror, and his country's fame,

Triumphant rideth like a Roman peer,

And, lowly at his stirrup, comes afoot

King John of France, together with his son,

In captive bonds; whose diadem he brings

To crown thee with, and to proclaim thee king.

KING EDWARD.

Away with mourning, Phillip, wipe thine eyes;—

Sound, Trumpets, welcome in Plantagenet!

[Enter Prince Edward, king John, Phillip, Audley, Artois.]

As things long lost, when they are found again,

So doth my son rejoice his father's heart,

For whom even now my soul was much perplexed.

QUEEN PHILLIP.

Be this a token to express my joy,

[Kisses him.]

For inward passion will not let me speak.

PRINCE EDWARD.

My gracious father, here receive the gift.

[Presenting him with King John's crown.]

This wreath of conquest and reward of war,

Got with as mickle peril of our lives,

As ere was thing of price before this day;

Install your highness in your proper right:

And, herewithall, I render to your hands

These prisoners, chief occasion of our strife.

KING EDWARD.

So, John of France, I see you keep your word:

You promised to be sooner with our self

Than we did think for, and tis so in deed:

But, had you done at first as now you do,

How many civil towns had stood untouched,

That now are turned to ragged heaps of stones!

How many people's lives mightst thou have saved,

That are untimely sunk into their graves!

KING JOHN.

Edward, recount not things irrevocable;

Tell me what ransom thou requirest to have.

KING EDWARD.

Thy ransom, John, hereafter shall be known:

But first to England thou must cross the seas,

To see what entertainment it affords;

How ere it falls, it cannot be so bad,

As ours hath been since we arrived in France.

KING JOHN.

Accursed man! of this I was foretold,

But did misconster what the prophet told.

PRINCE EDWARD.

Now, father, this petition Edward makes

To thee, whose grace hath been his strongest shield,

That, as thy pleasure chose me for the man

To be the instrument to shew thy power,

So thou wilt grant that many princes more,

Bred and brought up within that little Isle,

May still be famous for like victories!

And, for my part, the bloody scars I bear,

And weary nights that I have watched in field,

The dangerous conflicts I have often had,

The fearful menaces were proffered me,

The heat and cold and what else might displease:

I wish were now redoubled twenty fold,

So that hereafter ages, when they read

The painful traffic of my tender youth,

Might thereby be inflamed with such resolve,

As not the territories of France alone,

But likewise Spain, Turkey, and what countries else

That justly would provoke fair England's ire,

Might, at their presence, tremble and retire.

KING EDWARD.

Here, English Lords, we do proclaim a rest,

An intercession of our painful arms:

Sheath up your swords, refresh your weary limbs,

Peruse your spoils; and, after we have breathed

A day or two within this haven town,

God willing, then for England we'll be shipped;

Where, in a happy hour, I trust, we shall

Arrive, three kings, two princes, and a queen.

THE END

KING HENRY IV, PART 1

List of Characters

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act I, Scene III

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act II, Scene III

Act II, Scene IV

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act III, Scene III

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act IV, Scene III

Act IV, Scene IV

Act V, Scene I

Act V, Scene II

Act V, Scene III

Act V, Scene IV

Act V, Scene V

List of Characters

KING Henry the Fourth.

PRINCE Henry, Prince of Wales (Hal or Harry): son to the King.

Lord John of LANCASTER: son to the King.

Earl of WESTMORELAND.

Sir Walter BLOUNT.

Thomas Percy: Earl of WORCESTER.

Henry Percy: Earl of NORTHUMBERLAND: his older brother.

Henry Percy, known as HOTSPUR: his son.

Lord Edmund MORTIMER: Earl of March. Lady Percy's brother.

Richard SCROOP: Archbishop of York.

SIR MICHAEL: his Friend.

Archibald: Earl of DOUGLAS.

Owen GLENDOWER: Lady Mortimer's father.

Sir Richard VERNON.

Sir John FALSTAFF.

Edward (Ned) POINS.

GADSHILL.

PETO.

BARDOLPH.

LADY PERCY (Kate): Wife to Hotspur.

LADY MORTIMER: Daughter to Glendower.

MISTRESS QUICKLY: Hostess in Eastcheap.

Lords, Officers, Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, Carriers, Travellers, and Attendants.

SCENE.—England.

ACT I. SCENE I.

London. A Room in the Palace.

[Enter the King Henry, Westmoreland, Sir Walter Blount, and others.]

KING.

So shaken as we are, so wan with care,

Find we a time for frighted peace to pant,

And breathe short-winded accents of new broils

To be commenced in strands afar remote.

No more the thirsty entrance of this soil

Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood;

No more shall trenching war channel her fields,

Nor bruise her flowerets with the armed hoofs

Of hostile paces: those opposed eyes,

Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven,

All of one nature, of one substance bred,

Did lately meet in the intestine shock

And furious close of civil butchery,

Shall now, in mutual well-beseeming ranks,

March all one way, and be no more opposed

Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies:

The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,

No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends,

As far as to the sepulchre of Christ—

Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross

We are impressed and engaged to fight—

Forthwith a power of English shall we levy,

To chase these pagans in those holy fields

Over whose acres walked those blessed feet

Which fourteen hundred years ago were nailed

For our advantage on the bitter cross.

But this our purpose now is twelvemonth old,

And bootless 'tis to tell you we will go:

Therefore we meet not now.—Then let me hear

Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland,

What yesternight our Council did decree

In forwarding this dear expedience.

WESTMORELAND.

My liege, this haste was hot in question,

And many limits of the charge set down

But yesternight; when, all athwart, there came

A post from Wales loaden with heavy news;

Whose worst was, that the noble Mortimer,

Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight

Against th' irregular and wild Glendower,

Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken;

A thousand of his people butchered,

Upon whose dead corpse' there was such misuse,

Such beastly, shameless transformation,

By those Welshwomen done, as may not be

Without much shame re-told or spoken of.

KING.

It seems, then, that the tidings of this broil

Brake off our business for the Holy Land.

WESTMORELAND.

This, matched with other, did, my gracious lord;

For more uneven and unwelcome news

Came from the North, and thus it did import:

On Holy-rood day the gallant Hotspur there,

Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald,

That ever-valiant and approved Scot,

At Holmedon met;

Where they did spend a sad and bloody hour,

As by discharge of their artillery,

And shape of likelihood, the news was told;

For he that brought them, in the very heat

And pride of their contention did take horse,

Uncertain of the issue any way.

KING.

Here is a dear and true-industrious friend,

Sir Walter Blount, new lighted from his horse,

Stained with the variation of each soil

Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours;

And he hath brought us smooth and welcome news.

The Earl of Douglas is discomfited:

Ten thousand bold Scots, two-and-twenty knights,

Balked in their own blood, did Sir Walter see

On Holmedon's plains: of prisoners, Hotspur took

Mordake the Earl of Fife and eldest son

To beaten Douglas; and the Earls of Athol,

Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith.

And is not this an honourable spoil,

A gallant prize? ha, cousin, is it not?

WESTMORELAND.

Faith, 'tis a conquest for a prince to boast of.

KING.

Yea, there thou makest me sad, and makest me sin

In envy that my Lord Northumberland

Should be the father to so blest a son,—

A son who is the theme of honour's tongue;

Amongst a grove, the very straightest plant;

Who is sweet Fortune's minion and her pride:

Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him,

See riot and dishonour stain the brow

Of my young Harry. O, that it could be proved

That some night-tripping fairy had exchanged

In cradle-clothes our children where they lay,

And called mine Percy, his Plantagenet!

Then would I have his Harry, and he mine:

But let him from my thoughts. What think you, coz,

Of this young Percy's pride? the prisoners,

Which he in this adventure hath surprised,

To his own use he keeps; and sends me word,

I shall have none but Mordake Earl of Fife.

WESTMORELAND.

This is his uncle's teaching, this is Worcester,

Malevolent to you in all aspects;

Which makes him prune himself, and bristle up

The crest of youth against your dignity.

KING.

But I have sent for him to answer this;

And for this cause awhile we must neglect

Our holy purpose to Jerusalem.

Cousin, on Wednesday next our Council we

Will hold at Windsor; so inform the lords:

But come yourself with speed to us again;

For more is to be said and to be done

Than out of anger can be uttered.

WESTMORELAND.

I will, my liege.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

The same. An Apartment of Prince Henry's.

[Enter Prince Henry and Falstaff.]

FALSTAFF.

Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?

PRINCE.

Thou art so fat-witted, with drinking of old sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches after noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which thou wouldst truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the day? unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and the blessed Sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-coloured taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.

FALSTAFF.

Indeed, you come near me now, Hal; for we that ake purses go by the Moon and the seven stars, and not by Phoebus,—he, that wandering knight so fair. And I pr'ythee, sweet wag, when thou art king,—as, God save thy Grace—Majesty I should say, for grace thou wilt have none,—

PRINCE.

What, none?

FALSTAFF.

No, by my troth; not so much as will serve to be prologue to an egg and butter.

PRINCE.

Well, how then? come, roundly, roundly.

FALSTAFF.

Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king, let not us that are squires of the night's body be called thieves of the day's beauty: let us be Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the Moon; and let men say we be men of good government, being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the Moon, under whose countenance we steal.

PRINCE.

Thou say'st well, and it holds well too; for the fortune of us that are the Moon's men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being governed, as the sea is, by the Moon. As, for proof, now: A purse of gold most resolutely snatched on Monday night, and most dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with swearing Lay by, and spent with crying Bring in; now ill as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder, and by-and-by in as high a flow as the ridge of the gallows.

FALSTAFF.

By the Lord, thou say'st true, lad. And is not my hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench?

PRINCE.

As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle. And is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?

FALSTAFF.

How now, how now, mad wag! what, in thy quips and thy quiddities? what a plague have I to do with a buff jerkin?

PRINCE.

Why, what a pox have I to do with my hostess of the tavern?

FALSTAFF.

Well, thou hast called her to a reckoning many a time and oft.

PRINCE.

Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part?

FALSTAFF.

No; I'll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there.

PRINCE.

Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would stretch; and where it would not, I have used my credit.

FALSTAFF.

Yea, and so used it, that, were it not here apparent that thou art heir-apparent—But I pr'ythee, sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in England when thou art king? and resolution thus fobbed as it is with the rusty curb of old father antic the law? Do not thou, when thou art king, hang a thief.

PRINCE.

No; thou shalt.

FALSTAFF.

Shall I? O rare! By the Lord, I'll be a brave judge.

PRINCE.

Thou judgest false already: I mean, thou shalt have the hanging of the thieves, and so become a rare hangman.

FALSTAFF.

Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it jumps with my humour; as well as waiting in the Court, I can tell you.

PRINCE.

For obtaining of suits?

FALSTAFF.

Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof the hangman hath no lean wardrobe. 'Sblood, I am as melancholy as a gib-cat or a lugged bear.

PRINCE.

Or an old lion, or a lover's lute.

FALSTAFF.

Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe.

PRINCE.

What say'st thou to a hare, or the melancholy of Moor-ditch?

FALSTAFF.

Thou hast the most unsavoury similes, and art, indeed, the most comparative, rascalliest, sweet young prince,—But, Hal, I pr'ythee trouble me no more with vanity. I would to God thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought. An old lord of the Council rated me the other day in the street about you, sir,—but I marked him not; and yet he talked very wisely,—but I regarded him not; and yet he talked wisely, and in the street too.

PRINCE.

Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out in the streets, and no man regards it.

FALSTAFF.

O, thou hast damnable iteration, and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal; God forgive thee for it! Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must give over this life, and I will give it over; by the Lord, an I do not, I am a villain: I'll be damned for never a king's son in Christendom.

PRINCE.

Where shall we take a purse to-morrow, Jack?

FALSTAFF.

Zounds, where thou wilt, lad; I'll make one: an I do not, call me villain, and baffle me.

PRINCE.

I see a good amendment of life in thee,—from praying to purse-taking.

FALSTAFF.

Why, Hal, 'tis my vocation, Hal; 'tis no sin for a man to labour in his vocation.

[Enter Poins.]

Poins!—Now shall we know if Gadshill have set a match. O, if men were to be saved by merit, what hole in Hell were hot enough for him? This is the most omnipotent villain that ever cried Stand! to a true man.

PRINCE.

Good morrow, Ned.

POINS.

Good morrow, sweet Hal.—What says Monsieur Remorse? what says Sir John Sack-and-sugar, Jack? How agrees the Devil and thee about thy soul, that thou soldest him on Good-Friday last for a cup of Madeira and a cold capon's leg?

PRINCE.

Sir John stands to his word,—the Devil shall have his bargain; for he was never yet a breaker of proverbs,—he will give the Devil his due.

POINS.

Then art thou damned for keeping thy word with the Devil.

PRINCE.

Else he had been damned for cozening the Devil.

POINS.

But, my lads, my lads, to-morrow morning, by four o'clock, early at Gads-hill! there are pilgrims gong to Canterbury with rich offerings, and traders riding to London with fat purses: I have visards for you all; you have horses for yourselves: Gadshill lies to-night in Rochester: I have bespoke supper to-morrow night in Eastcheap: we may do it as secure as sleep. If you will go, I will stuff your purses full of crowns; if you will not, tarry at home and be hanged.

FALSTAFF.

Hear ye, Yedward; if I tarry at home and go not, I'll hang you for going.

POINS.

You will, chops?

FALSTAFF.

Hal, wilt thou make one?

PRINCE.

Who, I rob? I a thief? not I, by my faith.

FALSTAFF.

There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee, nor thou camest not of the blood royal, if thou darest not stand for ten shillings.

PRINCE.

Well, then, once in my days I'll be a madcap.

FALSTAFF.

Why, that's well said.

PRINCE.

Well, come what will, I'll tarry at home.

FALSTAFF.

By the Lord, I'll be a traitor, then, when thou art king.

PRINCE.

I care not.

POINS.

Sir John, I pr'ythee, leave the Prince and me alone: I will lay him down such reasons for this adventure, that he shall go.

FALSTAFF.

Well, God give thee the spirit of persuasion, and him the ears of profiting, that what thou speakest may move, and what he hears may be believed, that the true Prince may, for recreation-sake, prove a false thief; for the poor abuses of the time want countenance. Farewell; you shall find me in Eastcheap.

PRINCE.

Farewell, thou latter Spring! farewell, All-hallown Summer!

[Exit Falstaff.]

POINS.

Now, my good sweet honey-lord, ride with us to-morrow: I have a jest to execute that I cannot manage alone. Falstaff, Bardolph, Peto, and Gadshill, shall rob those men that we have already waylaid: yourself and I will not be there; and when they have the booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut this head off from my shoulders.

PRINCE.

But how shall we part with them in setting forth?

POINS.

Why, we will set forth before or after them, and appoint them a place of meeting, wherein it is at our pleasure to fail; and then will they adventure upon the exploit themselves; which they shall have no sooner achieved but we'll set upon them.

PRINCE.

Ay, but 'tis like that they will know us by our horses, by our habits, and by every other appointment, to be ourselves.

POINS.

Tut! our horses they shall not see,—I'll tie them in the wood; our visards we will change, after we leave them; and, sirrah, I have cases of buckram for the nonce, to immask our noted outward garments.

PRINCE.

But I doubt they will be too hard for us.

POINS.

Well, for two of them, I know them to be as true-bred cowards as ever turned back; and for the third, if he fight longer than he sees reason, I'll forswear arms. The virtue of this jest will be, the incomprehensible lies that this same fat rogue will tell us when we meet at supper: how thirty, at least, he fought with; what wards, what blows, what extremities he endured; and in the reproof of this lies the jest.

PRINCE.

Well, I'll go with thee: provide us all things necessary and meet me to-night in Eastcheap; there I'll sup. Farewell.

POINS.

Farewell, my lord.

[Exit.]

PRINCE.

I know you all, and will awhile uphold

The unyoked humour of your idleness:

Yet herein will I imitate the Sun,

Who doth permit the base contagious clouds

To smother-up his beauty from the world,

That, when he please again to be himself,

Being wanted, he may be more wondered at,

By breaking through the foul and ugly mists

Of vapours that did seem to strangle him.

If all the year were playing holidays,

To sport would be as tedious as to work;

But, when they seldom come, they wished-for come,

And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents.

So, when this loose behaviour I throw off,

And pay the debt I never promised,

By how much better than my word I am,

By so much shall I falsify men's hopes;

And, like bright metal on a sullen ground,

My reformation, glittering o'er my fault,

Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes

Than that which hath no foil to set it off.

I'll so offend, to make offence a skill;

Redeeming time, when men think least I will.

[Exit.]

ACT I. SCENE III.

The Same. A Room in the Palace.

[Enter King Henry, Northumberland, Worcester, Hotspur, Sir Walter Blount, and others.]

KING.

My blood hath been too cold and temperate,

Unapt to stir at these indignities,

And you have found me; for, accordingly,

You tread upon my patience: but be sure

I will from henceforth rather be myself,

Mighty and to be feared, than my condition,

Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down,

And therefore lost that title of respect

Which the proud soul ne'er pays but to the proud.

WORCESTER.

Our House, my sovereign liege, little deserves

The scourge of greatness to be used on it;

And that same greatness too which our own hands

Have holp to make so portly.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

My lord,—

KING.

Worcester, get thee gone; for I do see

Danger and disobedience in thine eye:

O, sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory,

And majesty might never yet endure

The moody frontier of a servant brow.

You have good leave to leave us: when we need

Your use and counsel, we shall send for you.

[Exit Worcester.]

[To Northumberland.]

You were about to speak.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Yea, my good lord.

Those prisoners in your Highness' name demanded,

Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took,

Were, as he says, not with such strength denied

As is delivered to your Majesty:

Either envy, therefore, or misprision

Is guilty of this fault, and not my son.

HOTSPUR.

My liege, I did deny no prisoners.

But, I remember, when the fight was done,

When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,

Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,

Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,

Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin new reaped

Showed like a stubble-land at harvest-home:

He was perfumed like a milliner;

And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held

A pouncet-box, which ever and anon

He gave his nose, and took't away again;

Who therewith angry, when it next came there,

Took it in snuff: and still he smiled and talked;

And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,

He called them untaught knaves, unmannerly,

To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse

Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

With many holiday and lady terms

He questioned me; amongst the rest, demanded

My prisoners in your Majesty's behalf.

I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold,

Out of my grief and my impatience

To be so pestered with a popinjay,

Answered neglectingly, I know not what,—

He should, or he should not; for't made me mad

To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,

And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman

Of guns and drums and wounds,—God save the mark!—

And telling me the sovereign'st thing on Earth

Was parmaceti for an inward bruise;

And that it was great pity, so it was,

This villainous salt-petre should be digged

Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,

Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed

So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns,

He would himself have been a soldier.

This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord,

I answered indirectly, as I said;

And I beseech you, let not his report

Come current for an accusation

Betwixt my love and your high Majesty.

BLOUNT.

[To the King.]

The circumstance considered, good my lord,

Whatever Harry Percy then had said

To such a person, and in such a place,

At such a time, with all the rest re-told,

May reasonably die, and never rise

To do him wrong, or any way impeach

What then he said, so he unsay it now.

KING.

Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners,

But with proviso and exception,

That we at our own charge shall ransom straight

His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer;

Who, on my soul, hath wilfully betrayed

The lives of those that he did lead to fight

Against that great magician, damned Glendower,

Whose daughter, as we hear, the Earl of March

Hath lately married. Shall our coffers, then,

Be emptied to redeem a traitor home?

Shall we buy treason? and indent with fears

When they have lost and forfeited themselves?

No, on the barren mountains let him starve;

For I shall never hold that man my friend

Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost

To ransom home revolted Mortimer.

HOTSPUR.

'Revolted Mortimer'!

He never did fall off, my sovereign liege,

But by the chance of war: to prove that true

Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds,

Those mouthed wounds, which valiantly he took,

When on the gentle Severn's sedgy bank,

In single opposition, hand to hand,

He did confound the best part of an hour

In changing hardiment with great Glendower.

Three times they breathed, and three times did they drink,

Upon agreement, of swift Severn's flood;

Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks,

Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds,

And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank

Blood-stained with these valiant combatants.

Never did base and rotten policy

Colour her working with such deadly wounds;

Nor never could the noble Mortimer

Receive so many, and all willingly:

Then let not him be slandered with revolt.

KING.

Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost belie him;

He never did encounter with Glendower:

I tell thee,

He durst as well have met the Devil alone

As Owen Glendower for an enemy.

Art not ashamed? But, sirrah, henceforth

Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer:

Send me your prisoners with the speediest means,

Or you shall hear in such a kind from me

As will displease you.—My Lord Northumberland,

We license your departure with your son.—

Send us your prisoners, or you'll hear of it.

[Exeunt King Henry, Blount, and train.]

HOTSPUR.

An if the Devil come and roar for them,

I will not send them: I will after straight,

And tell him so; for I will else my heart,

Although it be with hazard of my head.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

What, drunk with choler? stay, and pause awhile:

Here comes your uncle.

[Re-enter Worcester.]

HOTSPUR.

'Speak of Mortimer'?

Zounds, I will speak of him; and let my soul

Want mercy, if I do not join with him:

Yea, on his part I'll empty all these veins,

And shed my dear blood drop by drop i' the dust,

But I will lift the down-trod Mortimer

As high i' the air as this unthankful King,

As this ingrate and cankered Bolingbroke.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

[To Worcester.]

Brother, the King hath made your nephew mad.

WORCESTER.

Who struck this heat up after I was gone?

HOTSPUR.

He will, forsooth, have all my prisoners;

And when I urged the ransom once again

Of my wife's brother, then his cheek looked pale,

And on my face he turned an eye of death,

Trembling even at the name of Mortimer.

WORCESTER.

I cannot blame him: was not he proclaimed

By Richard that dead is the next of blood?

NORTHUMBERLAND.

He was; I heard the proclamation:

And then it was when the unhappy King—

Whose wrongs in us God pardon!—did set forth

Upon his Irish expedition;

From whence he intercepted did return

To be deposed, and shortly murdered.

WORCESTER.

And for whose death we in the world's wide mouth

Live scandalized and foully spoken of.

HOTSPUR.

But, soft! I pray you; did King Richard then

Proclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer

Heir to the crown?

NORTHUMBERLAND.

He did; myself did hear it.

HOTSPUR.

Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin King,

That wished him on the barren mountains starve.

But shall it be, that you, that set the crown

Upon the head of this forgetful man,

And for his sake wear the detested blot

Of murderous subornation,—shall it be,

That you a world of curses undergo,

Being the agents, or base second means,

The cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather?—

O, pardon me, that I descend so low,

To show the line and the predicament

Wherein you range under this subtle King;—

Shall it, for shame, be spoken in these days,

Or fill up chronicles in time to come,

That men of your nobility and power

Did gage them both in an unjust behalf,—

As both of you, God pardon it! have done,—

To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose,

And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke?

And shall it, in more shame, be further spoken,

That you are fooled, discarded, and shook off

By him for whom these shames ye underwent?

No! yet time serves, wherein you may redeem

Your banished honours, and restore yourselves

Into the good thoughts of the world again;

Revenge the jeering and disdained contempt

Of this proud King, who studies day and night

To answer all the debt he owes to you

Even with the bloody payment of your deaths:

Therefore, I say,—

WORCESTER.

Peace, cousin, say no more:

And now I will unclasp a secret book,

And to your quick-conceiving discontent

I'll read you matter deep and dangerous;

As full of peril and adventurous spirit

As to o'er-walk a current roaring loud

On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.

HOTSPUR.

If we fall in, good night, or sink or swim!

Send danger from the east unto the west,

So honour cross it from the north to south,

And let them grapple. O, the blood more stirs

To rouse a lion than to start a hare!

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Imagination of some great exploit

Drives him beyond the bounds of patience.

HOTSPUR.

By Heaven, methinks it were an easy leap,

To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced Moon;

Or dive into the bottom of the deep,

Where fathom-line could never touch the ground,

And pluck up drowned honour by the locks;

So he that doth redeem her thence might wear

Without corrival all her dignities:

But out upon this half-faced fellowship!

WORCESTER.

He apprehends a world of figures here,

But not the form of what he should attend.—

[To Hotspur.]

Good cousin, give me audience for a while.

HOTSPUR.

I cry you mercy.

WORCESTER.

Those same noble Scots

That are your prisoners,—

HOTSPUR.

I'll keep them all;

By God, he shall not have a Scot of them;

No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not:

I'll keep them, by this hand.

WORCESTER.

You start away,

And lend no ear unto my purposes.

Those prisoners you shall keep;—

HOTSPUR.

Nay, I will; that's flat.

He said he would not ransom Mortimer;

Forbade my tongue to speak of Mortimer;

But I will find him when he lies asleep,

And in his ear I'll holler 'Mortimer'!

Nay, I'll have a starling shall be taught to speak

Nothing but 'Mortimer', and give it him,

To keep his anger still in motion.

WORCESTER.

Hear you, cousin; a word.

HOTSPUR.

All studies here I solemnly defy,

Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke:

And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales,

But that I think his father loves him not,

And would be glad he met with some mischance,

I'd have him poisoned with a pot of ale.

WORCESTER.

Farewell, kinsman: I will talk to you

When you are better tempered to attend.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

[To Hotspur.]

Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient fool

Art thou, to break into this woman's mood,

Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own!

HOTSPUR.

Why, look you, I am whipped and scourged with rods,

Nettled, and stung with pismires, when I hear

Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke.

In Richard's time,—what do you call the place?—

A plague upon't!—it is in Gioucestershire;—

'Twas where the madcap Duke his uncle kept,

His uncle York;—where I first bowed my knee

Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke;—

When you and he came back from Ravenspurg.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

At Berkeley castle.

HOTSPUR.

You say true:—

Why, what a candy deal of courtesy

This fawning greyhound then did proffer me!

'Look, when his infant fortune came to age',

And, 'gentle Harry Percy', and 'kind cousin',—

O, the Devil take such cozeners!

—God forgive me. Good uncle, tell your tale;

I have done.

WORCESTER.

Nay, if you have not, to't again;

We'll stay your leisure.

HOTSPUR.

I have done, i'faith.

WORCESTER.

Then once more to your Scottish prisoners.

Deliver them up without their ransom straight,

And make the Douglas' son your only mean

For powers in Scotland; which, for divers reasons

Which I shall send you written, be assured,

Will easily be granted.—

[To Northumberland.] You, my lord,

Your son in Scotland being thus employed,

Shall secretly into the bosom creep

Of that same noble prelate, well beloved,

Th' Archbishop.

HOTSPUR.

Of York, is't not?

WORCESTER.

True; who bears hard

His brother's death at Bristol, the Lord Scroop.

I speak not this in estimation,

As what I think might be, but what I know

Is ruminated, plotted, and set down,

And only stays but to behold the face

Of that occasion that shall bring it on.

HOTSPUR.

I smell't: upon my life, it will do well.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Before the game's a-foot, thou still lett'st slip.

HOTSPUR.

Why, it cannot choose but be a noble plot:—

And then the power of Scotland and of York

To join with Mortimer, ha?

WORCESTER.

And so they shall.

HOTSPUR.

In faith, it is exceedingly well aimed.

WORCESTER.

And 'tis no little reason bids us speed,

To save our heads by raising of a head;

For, bear ourselves as even as we can,

The King will always think him in our debt,

And think we think ourselves unsatisfied,

Till he hath found a time to pay us home:

And see already how he doth begin

To make us strangers to his looks of love.

HOTSPUR.

He does, he does: we'll be revenged on him.

WORCESTER.

Cousin, farewell: no further go in this

Than I by letters shall direct your course.

When time is ripe,— which will be suddenly,—

I'll steal to Glendower and Lord Mortimer;

Where you and Douglas, and our powers at once,

As I will fashion it, shall happily meet,

To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms,

Which now we hold at much uncertainty.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Farewell, good brother: we shall thrive, I trust.

HOTSPUR.

[To Worcester.]

Uncle, adieu: O, let the hours be short,

Till fields and blows and groans applaud our sport!

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

Rochester. An Inn-Yard.

[Enter a Carrier with a lantern in his hand.]

1. CARRIER.

Heigh-ho! an't be not four by the day, I'll be hanged: Charles' wain is over the new chimney, and yet our horse' not packed.—What, ostler!

OSTLER.

[within.] Anon, anon.

1. CARRIER.

I pr'ythee, Tom, beat Cut's saddle, put a few flocks in the point; the poor jade is wrung in the withers out of all cess.

[Enter another Carrier.]

2. CARRIER.

Peas and beans are as dank here as a dog, and that is the next way to give poor jades the bots; this house is turned upside down since Robin ostler died.

1. CARRIER.

Poor fellow! never joyed since the price of oats rose; it was the death of him.

2. CARRIER.

I think this be the most villainous house in all London road for fleas: I am stung like a tench.

1. CARRIER.

Like a tench! by the Mass, there is ne'er a king in Christendom could be better bit than I have been since the first cock.—What, ostler! come away and be hanged; come away.

2. CARRIER.

Why, they will allow us ne'er a jordan, and then we leak in your chimney, and your chamber lye breeds fleas like a loach.

1. CARRIER.

What, ostler! Come away, and be hanged! Come away!

2. CARRIER.

I have a gammon of bacon and two razes of ginger, to be delivered as far as Charing-cross.

1. CARRIER.

'Odsbody! the turkeys in my pannier are quite starved.—What, ostler! A plague on thee! hast thou never an eye in thy head? canst not hear? An 'twere not as good a deed as drink to break the pate of thee, I am a very villain. Come, and be hanged: hast no faith in thee?

[Enter Gadshill.]

GADSHILL.

Good morrow, carriers. What's o'clock?

1. CARRIER.

I think it be two o'clock.

GADSHILL.

I pr'ythee, lend me thy lantern, to see my gelding in the stable.

1. CARRIER.

Nay, soft, I pray ye; I know a trick worth two of that, i'faith.

GADSHILL.

[To Second Carrier.]

I pr'ythee, lend me thine.

2. CARRIER.

Ay, when? canst tell? Lend me thy lantern, quoth a? marry, I'll see thee hanged first.

GADSHILL.

Sirrah carrier, what time do you mean to come to London?

2. CARRIER.

Time enough to go to bed with a candle, I warrant thee.—Come, neighbour Muggs, we'll call up the gentlemen: they will along with company, for they have great charge.

[Exeunt Carriers.]

GADSHILL.

What, ho! chamberlain!

CHAMBERLAIN.

[Within.] 'At hand', quoth pick-purse.

GADSHILL.

That's even as fair as—at hand, quoth the chamberlain; for thou variest no more from picking of purses than giving direction doth from labouring; thou lay'st the plot how.

[Enter Chamberlain.]

CHAMBERLAIN.

Good morrow, Master Gadshill. It holds current that I told you yesternight: there's a franklin in the wild of Kent hath brought three hundred marks with him in gold: I heard him tell it to one of his company last night at supper; a kind of auditor; one that hath abundance of charge too, God knows what. They are up already, and call for eggs and butter; they will away presently.

GADSHILL.

Sirrah, if they meet not with Saint Nicholas' clerks, I'll give thee this neck.

CHAMBERLAIN.

No, I'll none of it: I pr'ythee, keep that for the hangman; for I know thou worshippest Saint Nicholas as truly as a man of falsehood may.

GADSHILL.

What talkest thou to me of the hangman? if I hang, I'll make a fat pair of gallows; for, if I hang, old Sir John hangs with me, and thou know'st he is no starveling. Tut! there are other Trojans that thou dreamest not of, the which, for sport-sake, are content to do the profession some grace; that would, if matters should be looked into, for their own credit-sake, make all whole. I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff sixpenny strikers, none of these mad mustachio purple-hued malt-worms; but with nobility and tranquillity, burgomasters and great oneyers; such as can hold in, such as will strike sooner than speak, and speak sooner than drink, and drink sooner than pray: and yet, zwounds, I lie; for they pray continually to their saint, the Commonwealth; or, rather, not pray to her, but prey on her, for they ride up and down on her, and make her their boots.

CHAMBERLAIN.

What, the Commonwealth their boots? will she hold out water in foul way?

GADSHILL.

She will, she will; justice hath liquored her. We steal as in a castle, cock-sure; we have the receipt of fernseed,—we walk invisible.

CHAMBERLAIN.

Nay, by my faith, I think you are more beholding to the night than to fern-seed for your walking invisible.

GADSHILL.

Give me thy hand: thou shalt have a share in our purchase, as I am a true man.

CHAMBERLAIN.

Nay, rather let me have it, as you are a false thief.

GADSHILL.

Go to. Homo is a common name to all men. Bid the ostler bring my gelding out of the stable. Farewell, you muddy knave.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

The Road by Gads-hill.

[Enter Prince Henry and Poins; Bardolph and Peto at some distance.]

POINS.

Come, shelter, shelter: I have removed Falstaff' horse, and he frets like a gummed velvet.

PRINCE.

Stand close.

[They retire.]

[Enter Falstaff.]

FALSTAFF.

Poins! Poins, and be hanged! Poins!

PRINCE.

[Coming forward.]

Peace, ye fat-kidneyed rascal! what a brawling dost thou keep!

FALSTAFF.

Where's Poins, Hal?

PRINCE.

He is walked up to the top of the hill: I'll go seek him.

[Retires.]

FALSTAFF.

I am accursed to rob in that thief's company: the rascal hath removed my horse, and tied him I know not where. If I travel but four foot by the squire further a-foot, I shall break my wind. Well, I doubt not but to die a fair death for all this, if I 'scape hanging for killing that rogue. I have forsworn his company hourly any time this two-and-twenty year, and yet I am bewitched with the rogue's company. If the rascal have not given me medicines to make me love him, I'll be hanged; it could not be else: I have drunk medicines.-Poins!—Hal!—a plague upon you both!—Bardolph! —Peto!—I'll starve, ere I'll rob a foot further. An 'twere not as good a deed as drink, to turn tru man, and to leave these rogues, I am the veriest varlet that ever chewed with a tooth. Eight yards of uneven ground is threescore and ten miles a-foot with me; and the stony-hearted villains know it well enough: a plague upon't, when thieves cannot be true one to another! [They whistle.] Whew!—A plague upon you all! Give me my horse, you rogues; give me my horse, and be hanged!

PRINCE.

[Coming forward.]

Peace, ye fat-guts. lie down; lay thine ear close to the ground, and list if thou canst hear the tread of travellers.

FALSTAFF.

Have you any levers to lift me up again, being down? 'Sblood, I'll not bear mine own flesh so far a-foot again for all the coin in thy father's exchequer. What a plague mean ye to colt me thus?

PRINCE.

Thou liest; thou art not colted, thou art uncolted.

FALSTAFF.

I pr'ythee, good Prince Hal, help me to my horse, good king's son.

PRINCE.

Out, ye rogue! shall I be your ostler?

FALSTAFF.

Go, hang thyself in thine own heir-apparent garters! If I be ta'en, I'll peach for this. An I have not ballads made on you all, and sung to filthy tunes, let a cup of sack be my poison. When a jest is so forward, and a-foot too, I hate it.

[Enter Gadshill.]

GADSHILL.

Stand!

FALSTAFF.

So I do, against my will.

POINS.

O, 'tis our setter: I know his voice.

[Comes forward with Bardolph and Peto.]

BARDOLPH.

What news?

GADSHILL.

Case ye, case ye; on with your visards: there's money of the King's coming down the hill; 'tis going to the King's exchequer.

FALSTAFF.

You lie, ye rogue; 'tis going to the King's tavern.

GADSHILL.

There's enough to make us all.

FALSTAFF.

To be hanged.

PRINCE.

Sirs, you four shall front them in the narrow lane; Ned Poins and I will walk lower; if they 'scape from your encounter, then they light on us.

PETO.

How many be there of them?

GADSHILL.

Some eight or ten.

FALSTAFF.

Zwounds, will they not rob us?

PRINCE.

What, a coward, Sir John Paunch?

FALSTAFF.

Indeed, I am not John of Gaunt, your grandfather; but yet no coward, Hal.

PRINCE.

Well, we leave that to the proof.

POINS.

Sirrah Jack, thy horse stands behind the hedge: when thou need'st him, there thou shalt find him. Farewell, and stand fast.

FALSTAFF.

Now cannot I strike him, if I should be hanged.

PRINCE.

[aside to POINS.]

Ned, where are our disguises?

POINS.

[aside to PRINCE HENRY.]

Here, hard by: stand close.

[Exeunt Prince and Poins.]

FALSTAFF.

Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I: every man to his business.

[Enter Travellers.]

FIRST TRAVELLER.

Come, neighbour: The boy shall lead our horses down the hill; We'll walk a-foot awhile and ease our legs.

FALSTAFF, GADSHILL., &C.

Stand!

SECOND TRAVELLER.

Jesu bless us!

FALSTAFF.

Strike; down with them; cut the villains' throats. Ah, whoreson caterpillars! bacon-fed knaves! they hate us youth: down with them; fleece them.

FIRST TRAVELLER.

O, we're undone, both we and ours for ever!

FALSTAFF.

Hang ye, gorbellied knaves, are ye undone? No, ye fat chuffs; I would your store were here! On, bacons on! What, ye knaves! young men must live. You are grand-jurors, are ye? we'll jure ye, i'faith.

[Exeunt Fals., Gads., &c., driving the Travellers out.]

[Re-enter Prince Henry and Poins, in buckram suits.]

PRINCE.

The thieves have bound the true men. Now, could thou and I rob the thieves, and go merrily to London, it would be argument for a week, laughter for a month, and a good jest for ever.

POINS.

Stand close: I hear them coming.

[They retire.]

[Re-enter Falstaff, Gadshill, Bardolph, and Peto.]

FALSTAFF.

Come, my masters, let us share, and then to horse before day. An the Prince and Poins be not two arrant cowards, there's no equity stirring: there's no more valour in that Poins than in a wild duck.

[As they are sharing, the Prince and Poins set upon them.]

PRINCE.

Your money!

POINS.

Villains!

[Falstaff, after a blow or two, and the others run away, leaving the booty behind them.]

PRINCE.

Got with much ease. Now merrily to horse:

The thieves are scattered, and possessed with fear

So strongly that they dare not meet each other;

Each takes his fellow for an officer.

Away, good Ned. Fat Falstaff sweats to death,

And lards the lean earth as he walks along:

Were't not for laughing, I should pity him.

POINS.

How the rogue roared!

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE III.

Warkworth. A Room in the Castle.

[Enter Hotspur, reading a letter.]

HOTSPUR.

—But, for mine own part, my lord, I could be well contented to be there, in respect of the love I bear your House.—He could be contented; why is he not, then? In respect of the love he bears our House! —he shows in this, he loves his own barn better than he loves our house. Let me see some more. The purpose you undertake is dangerous;—Why, that's certain: 'tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink; but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety. The purpose you undertake is dangerous; the friends you have named uncertain; the time itself unsorted; and your whole plot too light for the counterpoise of so great an opposition.— Say you so, say you so? I say unto you again, you are a shallow, cowardly hind, and you lie. What a lack-brain is this! By the Lord, our plot is a good plot as ever was laid; our friends true and constant: a good plot, good friends, and full of expectation; an excellent plot, very good friends. What a frosty-spirited rogue is this! Why, my Lord of York commends the plot and the general course of the action. Zwounds! an I were now by this rascal, I could brain him with his lady's fan. Is there not my father, my uncle, and myself? Lord Edmund Mortimer, my Lord of York, and Owen Glendower? is there not, besides, the Douglas? have I not all their letters to meet me in arms by the ninth of the next month? and are they not some of them set forward already? What a pagan rascal is this! an infidel! Ha! you shall see now, in very sincerity of fear and cold heart, will he to the King, and lay open all our proceedings. O, I could divide myself, and go to buffets, for moving such a dish of skimmed milk with so honourable an action! Hang him! let him tell the King: we are prepared. I will set forward to-night.—

[Enter Lady Percy.]

How now, Kate! I must leave you within these two hours.

LADY PERCY.

O, my good lord, why are you thus alone?

For what offence have I this fortnight been

A banished woman from my Harry's bed?

Tell me, sweet lord, what is't that takes from thee

Thy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep?

Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth,

And start so often when thou sitt'st alone?

Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks;

And given my treasures and my rights of thee

To thick-eyed musing and curst melancholy?

In thy faint slumbers I by thee have watched,

And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars;

Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed;

Cry Courage! to the field! And thou hast talked

Of sallies and retires, of trenches, tents,

Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets,

Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin,

Of prisoners ransomed, and of soldiers slain,

And all the 'currents of a heady fight.

Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war,

And thus hath so bestirred thee in thy sleep,

That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow,

Like bubbles in a late-disturbed stream;

And in thy face strange motions have appeared,

Such as we see when men restrain their breath

On some great sudden hest. O, what portents are these?

Some heavy business hath my lord in hand,

And I must know it, else he loves me not.

HOTSPUR.

What, ho!

[Enter a Servant.]

Is Gilliams with the packet gone?

SERVANT.

He is, my lord, an hour ago.

HOTSPUR.

Hath Butler brought those horses from the sheriff?

SERVANT.

One horse, my lord, he brought even now.

HOTSPUR.

What horse? a roan, a crop-ear, is it not?

SERVANT.

It is, my lord.

HOTSPUR.

That roan shall be my throne.

Well, I will back him straight: O esperance!—

Bid Butler lead him forth into the park.

[Exit Servant.]

LADY PERCY.

But hear you, my lord.

HOTSPUR.

What say'st thou, my lady?

LADY PERCY.

What is it carries you away?

HOTSPUR.

Why, my horse, my love, my horse.

LADY PERCY.

Out, you mad-headed ape!

A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen

As you are tossed with. In faith,

I'll know your business, Harry, that I will.

I fear my brother Mortimer doth stir

About his title, and hath sent for you

To line his enterprise: but if you go,—

HOTSPUR.

So far a-foot, I shall be weary, love.

LADY PERCY.

Come, come, you paraquito, answer me

Directly to this question that I ask:

In faith, I'll break thy little finger, Harry,

An if thou wilt not tell me true.

HOTSPUR.

Away,

Away, you trifler! Love? I love thee not,

I care not for thee, Kate: this is no world

To play with mammets and to tilt with lips:

We must have bloody noses and cracked crowns,

And pass them current too.—Gods me, my horse!—

What say'st thou, Kate? what wouldst thou have with me?

LADY PERCY.

Do you not love me? do you not indeed?

Well, do not, then; for, since you love me not,

I will not love myself. Do you not love me?

Nay, tell me if you speak in jest or no.

HOTSPUR.

Come, wilt thou see me ride?

And when I am o' horseback, I will swear

I love thee infinitely. But hark you, Kate;

I must not have you henceforth question me

Whither I go, nor reason whereabout:

Whither I must, I must; and, to conclude,

This evening must I leave you, gentle Kate.

I know you wise; but yet no further wise

Than Harry Percy's wife; constant you are;

But yet a woman: and, for secrecy,

No lady closer; for I well believe

Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know;

And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate.

LADY PERCY.

How! so far?

HOTSPUR.

Not an inch further. But hark you, Kate:

Whither I go, thither shall you go too;

To-day will I set forth, to-morrow you.

Will this content you, Kate?

LADY PERCY.

It must of force.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE IV.

Eastcheap. A Room in the Boar's-Head Tavern.

[Enter Prince Henry.]

PRINCE.

Ned, pr'ythee, come out of that fat room, and lend me thy hand to laugh a little.

[Enter Poins.]

POINS.

Where hast been, Hal?

PRINCE.

With three or four loggerheads amongst three or fourscore hogsheads. I have sounded the very base-string of humility. Sirrah, I am sworn brother to a leash of drawers; and can call them all by their Christian names, as, Tom, Dick, and Francis. They take it already upon their salvation, that though I be but Prince of Wales, yet I am the king of courtesy; and tell me flatly I am no proud Jack, like Falstaff, but a corinthian, a lad of mettle, a good boy,—by the Lord, so they call me;—and, when I am King of England, I shall command all the good lads in Eastcheap. They call drinking deep, dying scarlet; and, when you breathe in your watering, they cry hem! and bid you play it off. To conclude, I am so good a proficient in one quarter of an hour, that I can drink with any tinker in his own language during my life. I tell thee, Ned, thou hast lost much honour, that thou wert not with me in this action. But, sweet Ned,—to sweeten which name of Ned, I give thee this pennyworth of sugar, clapped even now into my hand by an under-skinker; one that never spake other English in his life than Eight shillings and sixpence, and You are welcome; with this shrill addition, Anon, anon, sir! Score a pint of bastard in the Half-moon,—or so. But, Ned, to drive away the time till Falstaff come, I pr'ythee, do thou stand in some by-room, while I question my puny drawer to what end he gave me the sugar; and do thou never leave calling Francis! that his tale to me may be nothing but Anon. Step aside, and I'll show thee a precedent.

[Exit Poins.]

POINS.

[Within.] Francis!

PRINCE.

Thou art perfect.

POINS.

[Within.] Francis!

[Enter Francis.]

FRANCIS.

Anon, anon, sir.—Look down into the Pomegranate, Ralph.

PRINCE.

Come hither, Francis.

FRANCIS.

My lord?

PRINCE.

How long hast thou to serve, Francis?

FRANCIS.

Forsooth, five years, and as much as to—

POINS.

[within.] Francis!

FRANCIS.

Anon, anon, sir.

PRINCE.

Five year! by'r Lady, a long lease for the clinking of pewter. But, Francis, darest thou be so valiant as to play the coward with thy indenture and show it a fair pair of heels and run from it?

FRANCIS.

O Lord, sir, I'll be sworn upon all the books in England, I could find in my heart—

POINS.

[within.] Francis!

FRANCIS.

Anon, anon, sir.

PRINCE.

How old art thou, Francis?

FRANCIS.

Let me see,—about Michaelmas next I shall be—

POINS.

[within.] Francis!

FRANCIS.

Anon, sir.—Pray you, stay a little, my lord.

PRINCE.

Nay, but hark you, Francis: for the sugar thou gavest me, 'twas a pennyworth, was't not?

FRANCIS.

O Lord, sir, I would it had been two!

PRINCE.

I will give thee for it a thousand pound: ask me when thou wilt, and thou shalt have it.

POINS.

[within.] Francis!

FRANCIS.

Anon, anon.

PRINCE.

Anon, Francis? No, Francis; but to-morrow, Francis; or, Francis, a Thursday; or, indeed, Francis, when thou wilt. But, Francis,—

FRANCIS.

My lord?

PRINCE.

—wilt thou rob this leathern-jerkin, crystal-button, nott-pated, agate-ring, puke-stocking, caddis-garter, smooth-tongue, Spanish-pouch,—

FRANCIS.

O Lord, sir, who do you mean?

PRINCE.

Why, then, your brown bastard is your only drink; for, look you, Francis, your white canvas doublet will sully: in Barbary, sir, it cannot come to so much.

FRANCIS.

What, sir?

POINS.

[within.] Francis!

PRINCE.

Away, you rogue! dost thou not hear them call?

[Here they both call him; Francis stands amazed, not knowing which way to go.]

[Enter Vintner.]

VINTNER.

What, stand'st thou still, and hear'st such a calling? Look to the guests within.

[Exit Francis.]

My lord, old Sir John, with half-a-dozen more, are at the door: shall I let them in?

PRINCE.

Let them alone awhile, and then open the door.

[Exit Vintner.]

Poins!

[Re-enter Poins.]

POINS.

Anon, anon, sir.

PRINCE.

Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the thieves are at the door: shall we be merry?

POINS.

As merry as crickets, my lad. But hark ye; what cunning match have you made with this jest of the drawer? Come, what's the issue?

PRINCE.

I am now of all humours that have showed themselves humours since the old days of goodman Adam to the pupil age of this present twelve o'clock at midnight.—What's o'clock, Francis?

FRANCIS.

[Within.] Anon, anon, sir.

PRINCE.

That ever this fellow should have fewer words than a parrot, and yet the son of a woman! His industry is up-stairs and down-stairs; his eloquence the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots at a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, Fie upon this quiet life! I want work. O my sweet Harry, says she, how many hast thou killed to-day? Give my roan horse a drench, says he; and answers, Some fourteen, an hour after,—a trifle, a trifle. I pr'ythee, call in Falstaff: I'll play Percy, and that damned brawn shall play Dame Mortimer his wife. Rivo! says the drunkard. Call in ribs, call in tallow.

[Enter Falstaff, Gadshill, Bardolph, and Peto; followed by Francis with wine.]

POINS.

Welcome, Jack: where hast thou been?

FALSTAFF.

A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too! marry, and amen!—Give me a cup of sack, boy.—Ere I lead this life long, I'll sew nether-stocks, and mend them and foot them too. A plague of all cowards!— Give me a cup of sack, rogue.—Is there no virtue extant?

[Drinks.]

PRINCE.

Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter? pitiful-hearted butter, that melted at the sweet tale of the Sun! if thou didst, then behold that compound.

FALSTAFF.

You rogue, here's lime in this sack too: there is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man: yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime in it, a villanous coward.—Go thy ways, old Jack: die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the Earth, then am I a shotten herring. There live not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat, and grows old: God help the while! a bad world, I say. I would I were a weaver; I could sing psalms or any thing. A plague of all cowards! I say still.

PRINCE.

How now, wool-sack? what mutter you?

FALSTAFF.

A king's son! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild-geese, I'll never wear hair on my face more. You Prince of Wales!

PRINCE.

Why, you whoreson round man, what's the matter?

FALSTAFF.

Are not you a coward? answer me to that:—and Poins there?

POINS.

Zwounds, ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, by the Lord, I'll stab thee.

FALSTAFF.

I call thee coward! I'll see thee damned ere I call thee coward: but I would give a thousand pound, I could run as fast as thou canst. You are straight enough in the shoulders; you care not who sees your back: call you that backing of your friends? A plague upon such backing! give me them that will face me.—Give me a cup of sack: I am a rogue, if I drunk to-day.

PRINCE.

O villain! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drunk'st last.

FALSTAFF.

All is one for that. A plague of all cowards! still say I.

[Drinks.]

PRINCE.

What's the matter?

FALSTAFF.

What's the matter? there be four of us here have ta'en a thousand pound this day morning.

PRINCE.

Where is it, Jack? where is it?

FALSTAFF.

Where is it! taken from us it is: a hundred upon poor four of us!

PRINCE.

What, a hundred, man?

FALSTAFF.

I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have 'scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet, four through the hose; my buckler cut through and through; my sword hacked like a hand-saw. Ecce signum! I never dealt better since I was a man: all would not do. A plague of all cowards! Let them speak: if they speak more or less than truth, they are villains and the sons of darkness.

PRINCE.

Speak, sirs; how was it?

GADSHILL.

We four set upon some dozen,—

FALSTAFF.

Sixteen at least, my lord.

GADSHILL.

And bound them.

PETO.

No, no; they were not bound.

FALSTAFF.

You rogue, they were bound, every man of them; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew.

GADSHILL.

As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men sea upon us,—

FALSTAFF.

And unbound the rest, and then come in the other.

PRINCE.

What, fought you with them all?

FALSTAFF.

All? I know not what you call all; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish: if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I no two-legged creature.

PRINCE.

Pray God you have not murdered some of them.

FALSTAFF.

Nay, that's past praying for: I have peppered two of them; two I am sure I have paid, two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou knowest my old ward: here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me,—

PRINCE.

What, four? thou saidst but two even now.

FALSTAFF.

Four, Hal; I told thee four.

POINS.

Ay, ay, he said four.

FALSTAFF.

These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me. I made me no more ado but took all their seven points in my target, thus.

PRINCE.

Seven? why, there were but four even now.

FALSTAFF.

In buckram?

POINS.

Ay, four, in buckram suits.

FALSTAFF.

Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else.

PRINCE.

[aside to Poins.]

Pr'ythee let him alone; we shall have more anon.

FALSTAFF.

Dost thou hear me, Hal?

PRINCE.

Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.

FALSTAFF.

Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These nine in buckram that I told thee of,—

PRINCE.

So, two more already.

FALSTAFF.

—their points being broken,—

POINS.

Down fell their hose.

FALSTAFF.

Began to give me ground: but I followed me close, came in foot and hand; and with a thought seven of the eleven I paid.

PRINCE.

O monstrous! eleven buckram men grown out of two!

FALSTAFF.

But, as the Devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves in Kendal Green came at my back and let drive at me; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand.

PRINCE.

These lies are like the father that begets them, gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou nott-pated fool, thou whoreson, obscene greasy tallow-keech,—

FALSTAFF.

What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth the truth?

PRINCE.

Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green, when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? come, tell us your reason: what sayest thou to this?

POINS.

Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.

FALSTAFF.

What, upon compulsion? No; were I at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion! if reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I.

PRINCE.

I'll be no longer guilty of this sin; this sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horse-back-breaker, this huge hill of flesh,—

FALSTAFF.

Away, you starveling, you eel-skin, you dried neat's-tongue, you stock-fish,-O, for breath to utter what is like thee!—you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck,—

PRINCE.

Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again: and, when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this:—

POINS.

Mark, Jack.

PRINCE.

We two saw you four set on four; you bound them, and were masters of their wealth.—Mark now, how a plain tale shall put you down.-Then did we two set on you four; and, with a word, outfaced you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in the house: and, Falstaff, you carried yourself away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in fight! What trick, what device, what starting-hole canst thou now find out to hide thee from this open and apparent shame?

POINS.

Come, let's hear, Jack; what trick hast thou now?

FALSTAFF.

By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he that made ye. Why, hear ye, my masters: Was it for me to kill the heir-apparent? should I turn upon the true Prince? why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules: but beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true Prince. Instinct is a great matter; I was now a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself and thee during my life; I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, I am glad you have the money.-[To Hostess within.] Hostess, clap-to the doors: watch to-night, pray to-morrow.—Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you! What, shall we be merry? shall we have a play extempore?

PRINCE.

Content; and the argument shall be thy running away.

FALSTAFF.

Ah, no more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me!

[Enter the Hostess.]

HOSTESS.

O Jesu, my lord the Prince,—

PRINCE.

How now, my lady the hostess! What say'st thou to me?

HOSTESS.

Marry, my lord, there is a nobleman of the Court at door would speak with you: he says he comes from your father.

PRINCE.

Give him as much as will make him a royal man, and send him back again to my mother.

FALSTAFF.

What manner of man is he?

HOST.

An old man.

FALSTAFF.

What doth gravity out of his bed at midnight? Shall I give him his answer?

PRINCE.

Pr'ythee, do, Jack.

FALSTAFF.

Faith, and I'll send him packing.

[Exit.]

PRINCE.

Now, sirs:—by'r Lady, you fought fair;—so did you, Peto;—so did you, Bardolph: you are lions, too, you ran away upon instinct, you will not touch the true Prince; no,—fie!

BARDOLPH.

Faith, I ran when I saw others run.

PRINCE.

Tell me now in earnest, how came Falstaff's sword so hacked?

PETO.

Why, he hacked it with his dagger; and said he would swear truth out of England, but he would make you believe it was done in fight; and persuaded us to do the like.

BARDOLPH.

Yea, and to tickle our noses with spear-grass to make them bleed; and then to beslubber our garments with it, and swear it was the blood of true men. I did that I did not this seven year before; I blushed to hear his monstrous devices.

PRINCE.

O villain, thou stolest a cup of sack eighteen years ago, and wert taken with the manner, and ever since thou hast blushed extempore. Thou hadst fire and sword on thy side, and yet thou rann'st away: what instinct hadst thou for it?

BARDOLPH.

My lord, do you see these meteors? do you behold these exhalations?

PRINCE.

I do.

BARDOLPH.

What think you they portend?

PRINCE.

Hot livers and cold purses.

BARDOLPH.

Choler, my lord, if rightly taken.

PRINCE.

No, if rightly taken, halter.—Here comes lean Jack, here comes

bare-bone.—

[Enter Falstaff.]

How now, my sweet creature of bombast! How long is't ago, Jack,

since thou saw'st thine own knee?

FALSTAFF.

My own knee! when I was about thy years, Hal, I was not an eagle's talon in the waist; I could have crept into any alderman's thumb-ring: a plague of sighing and grief! it blows a man up like a bladder. There's villanous news abroad: here was Sir John Bracy from your father; you must to the Court in the morning. That same mad fellow of the North, Percy; and he of Wales, that gave Amaimon the bastinado, and swore the Devil his true liegeman upon the cross of a Welsh hook,—what a plague call you him?

POINS.

Owen Glendower.

FALSTAFF.

Owen, Owen,—the same; and his son-in-law Mortimer; and old Northumberland; and that sprightly Scot of Scots, Douglas, that runs o' horseback up a hill perpendicular,—

PRINCE.

He that rides at high speed and with his pistol kills a sparrow flying.

FALSTAFF.

You have hit it.

PRINCE.

So did he never the sparrow.

FALSTAFF.

Well, that rascal hath good metal in him; he will not run.

PRINCE.

Why, what a rascal art thou, then, to praise him so for running!

FALSTAFF.

O' horseback, ye cuckoo! but a-foot he will not budge a foot.

PRINCE.

Yes, Jack, upon instinct.

FALSTAFF.

I grant ye, upon instinct. Well, he is there too, and one Mordake, and a thousand blue-caps more: Worcester is stolen away to-night; thy father's beard is turned white with the news: you may buy land now as cheap as stinking mackerel.

PRINCE.

Why then, it is like if there come a hot June and this civil buffeting hold, we shall buy maidenheads as they buy hobnails: by the hundreds.

FALSTAFF.

By the mass, lad, thou sayst true; it is like we shall have good trading that way. But, tell me, Hal, art not thou horrible afeard? Thou being heir-apparent, could the world pick thee out three such enemies again as that fiend Douglas, that spirit Percy, and that devil Glendower? Art thou not horribly afraid? Doth not thy blood thrill at it?

PRINCE.

Not a whit, i'faith; I lack some of thy 'instinct'.

FALSTAFF.

Well, thou wilt be horribly chid to-morrow when thou comest to thy father. If thou love life, practise an answer.

PRINCE.

Do thou stand for my father and examine me upon the particulars of my life.

FALSTAFF.

Shall I? Content: this chair shall be my state, this dagger my sceptre, and this cushion my crown.

PRINCE.

Thy state is taken for a joint-stool, thy golden sceptre for a leaden dagger, and thy precious rich crown for a pitiful bald crown.

FALSTAFF.

Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of thee, now shalt thou be moved.-Give me a cup of sack, to make my eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept; for I must speak in passion, and I will do it in King Cambyses' vein.

PRINCE.

Well, here is my leg.

FALSTAFF.

And here is my speech.—Stand aside, nobility.

HOSTESS.

O Jesu, this is excellent sport, i faith!

FALSTAFF.

Weep not, sweet Queen; for trickling tears are vain.

HOST. O, the Father, how he holds his countenance!

FALSTAFF.

For God's sake, lords, convey my tristful Queen;

For tears do stop the floodgates of her eyes.

HOSTESS.

O Jesu, he doth it as like one of these harlotry players as ever I see!

FALSTAFF.

Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good tickle-brain.—Harry, I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou art accompanied: for though the camomile, the more it is trodden on, the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears. That thou art my son, I have partly thy mother's word, partly my own opinion; but chiefly a villainous trick of thine eye, and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip, that doth warrant me. If, then, thou be son to me, here lies the point: Why, being son to me, art thou so pointed at? Shall the blessed Sun of heaven prove a micher, and eat blackberries? a question not to be asked. Shall the son of England prove a thief, and take purses? a question to be asked. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is known to many in our land by the name of pitch: this pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile; so doth the company thou keepest: for, Harry, now I do not speak to thee in drink, but in tears; not in pleasure, but in passion; not in words only, but in woes also. And yet there is a virtuous man whom I have often noted in thy company, but I know not his name.

PRINCE.

What manner of man, an it like your Majesty?

FALSTAFF.

A goodly portly man, i'faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by'r Lady, inclining to threescore; and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff: if that man should be lewdly given, he deceiveth me; for, Harry, I see virtue in his looks. If, then, the tree may be known by the fruit, as the fruit by the tree, then, peremptorily I speak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff: him keep with, the rest banish. And tell me now, thou naughty varlet, tell me where hast thou been this month?

PRINCE.

Dost thou speak like a king? Do thou stand for me, and I'll play my father.

FALSTAFF.

Depose me! if thou dost it half so gravely, so majestically, both in word and matter, hang me up by the heels for a rabbit-sucker or a poulter's hare.

PRINCE.

Well, here I am set.

FALSTAFF.

And here I stand.—Judge, my masters.

PRINCE.

Now, Harry, whence come you?

FALSTAFF.

My noble lord, from Eastcheap.

PRINCE.

The complaints I hear of thee are grievous.

FALSTAFF.

'Sblood, my lord, they are false.—Nay, I'll tickle ye for a young prince, i'faith.

PRINCE.

Swearest thou, ungracious boy? henceforth ne'er look on me. Thou art violently carried away from grace: there is a devil haunts thee, in the likeness of an old fat man,—a tun of man is thy companion. Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humours, that bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swollen parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that roasted Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly, that reverend Vice, that grey Iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity in years? Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it? wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it? wherein cunning, but in craft? wherein crafty, but in villany? wherein villainous, but in all things? wherein worthy, but in nothing?

FALSTAFF.

I would your Grace would take me with you: whom means your Grace?

PRINCE.

That villainous abominable misleader of youth, Falstaff, that old white-bearded Satan.

FALSTAFF.

My lord, the man I know.

PRINCE.

I know thou dost.

FALSTAFF.

But to say I know more harm in him than in myself, were to say more than I know. That he is old,—(the more the pity,—his white hairs do witness it. If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked! if to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old host that I know is damned: if to be fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh's lean kine are to be loved. No, my good lord: banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins; but, for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, being, as he is, old Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry's company, banish not him thy Harry's company: banish plump Jack, and banish all the world.

PRINCE.

I do, I will.

[A knocking heard.]

[Exeunt Hostess, Francis, and Bardolph.]

[Enter Bardolph, running.]

BARDOLPH.

O, my lord, my lord! the sheriff with a most monstrous watch is at the door.

FALSTAFF.

Out, ye rogue!—Play out the play: I have much to say in the behalf of that Falstaff.

[Re-enter the Hostess, hastily.]

HOSTESS.

O Jesu, my lord, my lord,—

PRINCE.

Heigh, heigh! the Devil rides upon a fiddlestick: what's the matter?

HOSTESS.

The sheriff and all the watch are at the door: they are come to search the house. Shall I let them in?

FALSTAFF.

Dost thou hear, Hal? never call a true piece of gold a counterfeit: thou art essentially mad without seeming so.

PRINCE.

And thou a natural coward, without instinct.

FALSTAFF.

I deny your major: if you will deny the sheriff, so; if not, let him enter: if I become not a cart as well as another man, a plague on my bringing up! I hope I shall as soon be strangled with a halter as another.

PRINCE.

Go, hide thee behind the arras:—the rest walk, up above. Now, my masters, for a true face and good conscience.

FALSTAFF.

Both which I have had; but their date is out, and therefore I'll hide me.

PRINCE.

Call in the sheriff.—

[Exeunt all but the Prince and Poins.]

[Enter Sheriff and Carrier.]

Now, master sheriff, what's your will with me?

SHERIFF.

First, pardon me, my lord. A hue-and-cry

Hath followed certain men unto this house.

PRINCE.

What men?

SHERIFF.

One of them is well known, my gracious lord,—

A gross fat man.

CARRIER.

As fat as butter.

PRINCE.

The man, I do assure you, is not here;

For I myself at this time have employed him.

And, sheriff, I will engage my word to thee,

That I will, by to-morrow dinner-time,

Send him to answer thee, or any man,

For any thing he shall be charged withal:

And so, let me entreat you leave the house.

SHERIFF.

I will, my lord. There are two gentlemen

Have in this robbery lost three hundred marks.

PRINCE.

It may be so: if he have robbed these men,

He shall be answerable; and so, farewell.

SHERIFF.

Good night, my noble lord.

PRINCE.

I think it is good morrow, is it not?

SHERIFF.

Indeed, my lord, I think't be two o'clock.

[Exit Sheriff and Carrier.]

PRINCE.

This oily rascal is known as well as Paul's. Go, call him forth.

POINS.

Falstaff!—fast asleep behind the arras, and snorting like a

horse.

PRINCE.

Hark, how hard he fetches breath. Search his pockets.

[Poins searches.]

What hast thou found?

POINS.

Nothing but papers, my lord.

PRINCE.

Let's see what they be: read them.

POINS.

[reads]

Item, A capon, . . . . . . . . . 2s. 2d.

Item, Sauce, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4d.

Item, Sack two gallons ,. . . 5s. 8d.

Item, Anchovies and sack after supper, 2s. 6d.

Item, Bread, . . . . . . . . . . . . . .ob.

PRINCE.

O monstrous! but one half-pennyworth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack! What there is else, keep close; we'll read it at more advantage: there let him sleep till day. I'll to the Court in the morning. We must all to the wars, and thy place shall be honourable. I'll procure this fat rogue a charge of foot; and I know his death will be a march of twelve-score. The money shall be paid back again with advantage. Be with me betimes in the morning; and so, good morrow, Poins.

POINS.

Good morrow, good my lord.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

Bangor. A Room in the Archdeacon's House.

[Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Mortimer, and Glendower.]

MORTIMER.

These promises are fair, the parties sure,

And our induction full of prosperous hope.

HOTSPUR.

Lord Mortimer,—and cousin Glendower,—Will you sit down?-And uncle Worcester,—A plague upon it! I have forgot the map.

GLENDOWER.

No, here it is.

Sit, cousin Percy; sit, good cousin Hotspur;

For by that name as oft as Lancaster

Doth speak of you, his cheek looks pale, and with

A rising sigh he wisheth you in Heaven.

HOTSPUR.

And you in Hell,

As oft as he hears Owen Glendower spoke of.

GLENDOWER.

I cannot blame him: at my nativity

The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,

Of burning cressets; ay, and at my birth

The frame and huge foundation of the Earth

Shaked like a coward.

HOTSPUR.

Why, so it would have done at the same season, if your mother's cat had but kittened, though yourself had never been born.

GLENDOWER.

I say the Earth did shake when I was born.

HOTSPUR.

And I say the Earth was not of my mind,

If you suppose as fearing you it shook.

GLENDOWER.

The Heavens were all on fire, the Earth did tremble.

HOTSPUR.

O, then th' Earth shook to see the Heavens on fire,

And not in fear of your nativity.

Diseased Nature oftentimes breaks forth

In strange eruptions; oft the teeming Earth

Is with a kind of colic pinched and vexed

By the imprisoning of unruly wind

Within her womb; which, for enlargement striving,

Shakes the old beldam Earth, and topples down

Steeples and moss-grown towers. At your birth,

Our grandam Earth, having this distemperature,

In passion shook.

GLENDOWER.

Cousin, of many men

I do not bear these crossings. Give me leave

To tell you once again, that at my birth

The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes;

The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds

Were strangely clamorous to the frighted fields.

These signs have marked me extraordinary;

And all the courses of my life do show

I am not in the roll of common men.

Where is he living,—clipped in with the sea

That chides the banks of England, Scotland, Wales,—

Which calls me pupil, or hath read to me?

And bring him out that is but woman's son

Can trace me in the tedious ways of art,

And hold me pace in deep experiments.

HOTSPUR.

I think there is no man speaks better Welsh.

I'll to dinner.

MORTIMER.

Peace, cousin Percy; you will make him mad.

GLENDOWER.

I can call spirits from the vasty deep.

HOTSPUR.

Why, so can I, or so can any man;

But will they come when you do call for them?

GLENDOWER.

Why, I can teach you, cousin, to command the Devil.

HOTSPUR.

And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the Devil

By telling truth: tell truth, and shame the Devil.

If thou have power to raise him, bring him hither,

And I'll be sworn I've power to shame him hence.

O, while you live, tell truth, and shame the Devil!

MORTIMER.

Come, come, no more of this unprofitable chat.

GLENDOWER.

Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made head

Against my power; thrice from the banks of Wye

And sandy-bottomed Severn have I sent

Him bootless home and weather-beaten back.

HOTSPUR.

Home without boots, and in foul weather too!

How 'scaped he agues, in the Devil's name!

GLENDOWER.

Come, here's the map: shall we divide our right

According to our threefold order ta'en?

MORTIMER.

Th' archdeacon hath divided it

Into three limits very equally.

England, from Trent and Severn hitherto,

By south and east is to my part assigned:

All westward, Wales beyond the Severn shore,

And all the fertile land within that bound,

To Owen Glendower:—and, dear coz, to you

The remnant northward, lying off from Trent.

And our indentures tripartite are drawn;

Which being sealed interchangeably,—

A business that this night may execute,—

To-morrow, cousin Percy, you, and I,

And my good Lord of Worcester, will set forth

To meet your father and the Scottish power,

As is appointed us, at Shrewsbury.

My father Glendower is not ready yet,

Nor shall we need his help these fourteen days:—

[To Glend.]

Within that space you may have drawn together

Your tenants, friends, and neighbouring gentlemen.

GLENDOWER.

A shorter time shall send me to you, lords:

And in my conduct shall your ladies come;

From whom you now must steal, and take no leave,

For there will be a world of water shed

Upon the parting of your wives and you.

HOTSPUR.

Methinks my moiety, north from Burton here,

In quantity equals not one of yours.

See how this river comes me cranking in,

And cuts me from the best of all my land

A huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out.

I'll have the current in this place damned up;

And here the smug and sliver Trent shall run

In a new channel, fair and evenly:

It shall not wind with such a deep indent,

To rob me of so rich a bottom here.

GLENDOWER.

Not wind? it shall, it must; you see it doth.

MORTIMER.

Yea, but mark how he bears his course, and runs me up

With like advantage on the other side;

Gelding th' opposed continent as much

As on the other side it takes from you.

WORCESTER.

Yea, but a little charge will trench him here,

And on this north side win this cape of land;

And then he runneth straight and evenly.

HOTSPUR.

I'll have it so: a little charge will do it.

GLENDOWER.

I will not have it altered.

HOTSPUR.

Will not you?

GLENDOWER.

No, nor you shall not.

HOTSPUR.

Who shall say me nay?

GLENDOWER.

Why, that will I.

HOTSPUR.

Let me not understand you, then; speak it in Welsh.

GLENDOWER.

I can speak English, lord, as well as you;

For I was trained up in the English Court;

Where, being but young, I framed to the harp

Many an English ditty lovely well,

And gave the tongue a helpful ornament,

A virtue that was never seen in you.

HOTSPUR.

Marry, and I am glad of it with all my heart:

I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew,

Than one of these same metre ballet-mongers;

I had rather hear a brazen canstick turned,

Or a dry wheel grate on the axletree;

And that would set my teeth nothing on edge,

Nothing so much as mincing poetry:

'Tis like the forced gait of a shuffling nag.

GLENDOWER.

Come, you shall have Trent turned.

HOTSPUR.

I do not care: I'll give thrice so much land

To any well-deserving friend;

But in the way of bargain, mark ye me,

I'll cavil on the ninth part of a hair.

Are the indentures drawn? shall we be gone?

GLENDOWER.

The Moon shines fair; you may away by night:

I'll in and haste the writer, and withal

Break with your wives of your departure hence:

I am afraid my daughter will run mad,

So much she doteth on her Mortimer.

[Exit.]

MORTIMER.

Fie, cousin Percy! how you cross my father!

HOTSPUR.

I cannot choose: sometimes he angers me

With telling me of the moldwarp and the ant,

Of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies,

And of a dragon and a finless fish,

A clip-winged griffin and a moulten raven,

A couching lion and a ramping cat,

And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff

As puts me from my faith. I tell you what,

He held me last night at the least nine hours

In reckoning up the several devils' names

That were his lacqueys: I cried hum, and well,

But marked him not a word. O, he's as tedious

As a tired horse, a railing wife;

Worse than a smoky house: I had rather live

With cheese and garlic in a windmill, far,

Than feed on cates and have him talk to me

In any summer-house in Christendom.

MORTIMER.

In faith, he is a worthy gentleman;

Exceedingly well-read, and profited

In strange concealments; valiant as a lion,

And wondrous affable, and as bountiful

As mines of India. Shall I tell you, cousin?

He holds your temper in a high respect,

And curbs himself even of his natural scope

When you do cross his humour; faith, he does:

I warrant you, that man is not alive

Might so have tempted him as you have done,

Without the taste of danger and reproof:

But do not use it oft, let me entreat you.

WORCESTER.

[To Hotspur.]

In faith, my lord, you are too wilful-blunt;

And since your coming hither have done enough

To put him quite beside his patience.

You must needs learn, lord, to amend this fault:

Though sometimes it show greatness, courage, blood—

And that's the dearest grace it renders you,—

Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage,

Defect of manners, want of government,

Pride, haughtiness, opinion, and disdain;

The least of which haunting a nobleman

Loseth men's hearts, and leaves behind a stain

Upon the beauty of all parts besides,

Beguiling them of commendation.

HOTSPUR.

Well, I am schooled: good manners be your speed!

Here come our wives, and let us take our leave.

[Re-enter Glendower, with Lady Mortimer and Lady Percy.]

MORTIMER.

This is the deadly spite that angers me,

My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh.

GLENDOWER.

My daughter weeps: she will not part with you;

She'll be a soldier too, she'll to the wars.

MORTIMER.

Good father, tell her that she and my aunt Percy

Shall follow in your conduct speedily.

[Glendower speaks to Lady Mortimer in Welsh, and she answers him in the same.]

GLENDOWER.

She's desperate here; a peevish self-willed harlotry,

One that no persuasion can do good upon.

[Lady Mortimer speaks to Mortimer in Welsh.]

MORTIMER.

I understand thy looks: that pretty Welsh

Which thou pour'st down from these swelling heavens

I am too perfect in; and, but for shame,

In such a parley should I answer thee.

[Lady Mortimer speaks to him again in Welsh.]

I understand thy kisses, and thou mine,

And that's a feeling disputation:

But I will never be a truant, love,

Till I have learned thy language; for thy tongue

Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penned,

Sung by a fair queen in a Summer's bower,

With ravishing division, to her lute.

GLENDOWER.

Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad.

[Lady Mortimer speaks to Mortimer again in Welsh.]

MORTIMER.

O, I am ignorance itself in this!

GLENDOWER.

She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down,

And rest your gentle head upon her lap,

And she will sing the song that pleaseth you,

And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep,

Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness;

Making such difference betwixt wake and sleep,

As is the difference betwixt day and night,

The hour before the heavenly-harnessed team

Begins his golden progress in the East.

MORTIMER.

With all my heart I'll sit and hear her sing:

By that time will our book, I think, be drawn.

GLENDOWER.

Do so, and those musicians that shall play to you

Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence,

And straight they shall be here: sit, and attend.

HOTSPUR.

Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down: come, quick,

quick, that I may lay my head in thy lap.

LADY PERCY.

Go, ye giddy goose.

[The music plays.]

HOTSPUR.

Now I perceive the Devil understands Welsh;

And 'tis no marvel he's so humorous.

By'r Lady, he's a good musician.

LADY PERCY.

Then should you be nothing but musical; for you are

altogether governed by humours. Lie still, ye thief, and hear

the lady sing in Welsh.

HOTSPUR.

I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in Irish.

LADY PERCY.

Wouldst thou have thy head broken?

HOTSPUR.

No.

LADY PERCY.

Then be still.

HOTSPUR.

Neither; 'tis a woman's fault.

LADY PERCY.

Now God help thee!

HOTSPUR.

Peace! she sings.

[A Welsh song by Lady Mortimer.]

Come, Kate, I'll have your song too.

LADY PERCY.

Not mine, in good sooth.

HOTSPUR.

Not yours, in good sooth!

Heart, you swear like a comfit-maker's wife:

'Not you, in good sooth,' and, 'As true as I live!'

And 'As God shall mend me!' and 'As sure as day!'

And givest such sarcenet surety for thy oaths,

As if thou ne'er walkedst further than Finsbury.

Swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art,

A good mouth-filling oath; and leave in sooth,

And such protest of pepper-gingerbread,

To velvet-guards and Sunday-citizens.

Come, sing.

LADY PERCY.

I will not sing.

HOTSPUR.

'Tis the next way to turn tailor, or be redbreast-teacher. An the indentures be drawn, I'll away within these two hours; and so, come in when ye will.

[Exit.]

GLENDOWER.

Come, come, Lord Mortimer; you are as slow

As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go.

By this our book's drawn; we'll but seal,

And then to horse immediately.

MORTIMER.

With all my heart.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

London. A Room in the Palace.

[Enter King Henry, Prince Henry, and Lords.]

KING.

Lords, give us leave; the Prince of Wales and I

Must have some private conference: but be near at hand,

For we shall presently have need of you.

[Exeunt Lords.]

I know not whether God will have it so,

For some displeasing service I have done,

That, in His secret doom, out of my blood

He'll breed revengement and a scourge for me;

But thou dost, in thy passages of life,

Make me believe that thou art only marked

For the hot vengeance and the rod of Heaven

To punish my mistreadings. Tell me else,

Could such inordinate and low desires,

Such poor, such base, such lewd, such mean attempts,

Such barren pleasures, rude society,

As thou art matched withal and grafted to,

Accompany the greatness of thy blood,

And hold their level with thy princely heart?

PRINCE.

So please your Majesty, I would I could

Quit all offences with as clear excuse

As well as I am doubtless I can purge

Myself of many I am charged withal:

Yet such extenuation let me beg,

As, in reproof of many tales devised

By smiling pick-thanks and base news-mongers,—

Which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear,—

I may, for some things true, wherein my youth

Hath faulty wandered and irregular,

Find pardon on my true submission.

KING.

God pardon thee! Yet let me wonder, Harry,

At thy affections, which do hold a wing

Quite from the flight of all thy ancestors.

Thy place in Council thou hast rudely lost,

Which by thy younger brother is supplied;

And art almost an alien to the hearts

Of all the Court and princes of my blood:

The hope and expectation of thy time

Is ruined; and the soul of every man

Prophetically does forethink thy fall.

Had I so lavish of my presence been,

So common-hackneyed in the eyes of men,

So stale and cheap to vulgar company,

Opinion, that did help me to the crown,

Had still kept loyal to possession,

And left me in reputeless banishment,

A fellow of no mark nor likelihood.

By being seldom seen, I could not stir

But, like a comet, I was wondered at;

That men would tell their children, This is he;

Others would say, Where, which is Bolingbroke?

And then I stole all courtesy from Heaven,

And dressed myself in such humility,

That I did pluck allegiance from men's hearts,

Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths,

Even in the presence of the crowned King.

Thus did I keep my person fresh and new;

My presence, like a robe pontifical,

Ne'er seen but wondered at: and so my state,

Seldom but sumptuous, showed like a feast,

And won by rareness such solemnity.

The skipping King, he ambled up and down

With shallow jesters and rash bavin wits,

Soon kindled and soon burnt; carded his state,

Mingled his royalty, with capering fools;

Had his great name profaned with their scorns;

And gave his countenance, against his name,

To laugh at gibing boys, and stand the push

Of every beardless vain comparative;

Grew a companion to the common streets,

Enfeoffed himself to popularity;

That, being dally swallowed by men's eyes,

They surfeited with honey, and began

To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little

More than a little is by much too much.

So, when he had occasion to be seen,

He was but as the cuckoo is in June,

Heard, not regarded; seen, but with such eyes

As, sick and blunted with community,

Afford no extraordinary gaze,

Such as is bent on sun-like majesty

When it shines seldom in admiring eyes;

But rather drowsed, and hung their eyelids down,

Slept in his face, and rendered such aspect

As cloudy men use to their adversaries,

Being with his presence glutted, gorged, and full.

And in that very line, Harry, stand'st thou;

For thou hast lost thy princely privilege

With vile participation: not an eye

But is a-weary of thy common sight,

Save mine, which hath desired to see thee more;

Which now doth that I would not have it do,

Make blind itself with foolish tenderness.

PRINCE.

I shall hereafter, my thrice-gracious lord,

Be more myself.

KING.

For all the world,

As thou art to this hour, was Richard then

When I from France set foot at Ravenspurg;

And even as I was then is Percy now.

Now, by my sceptre, and my soul to boot,

He hath more worthy interest to the state

Than thou, the shadow of succession;

For, of no right, nor colour like to right,

He doth fill fields with harness in the realm,

Turns head against the lion's armed jaws;

And, being no more in debt to years than thou,

Leads ancient lords and reverend bishops on

To bloody battles and to bruising arms.

What never-dying honour hath he got

Against renowned Douglas! whose high deeds,

Whose hot incursions, and great name in arms,

Holds from all soldiers chief majority

And military title capital

Through all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ:

Thrice hath this Hotspur, Mars in swathing-clothes,

This infant warrior, in his enterprises

Discomfited great Douglas; ta'en him once,

Enlarged him, and made a friend of him,

To fill the mouth of deep defiance up,

And shake the peace and safety of our throne.

And what say you to this? Percy, Northumberland,

Th' Archbishop's Grace of York, Douglas, and Mortimer

Capitulate against us, and are up.

But wherefore do I tell these news to thee?

Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes,

Which art my near'st and dearest enemy?

Thou that art like enough,—through vassal fear,

Base inclination, and the start of spleen,—

To fight against me under Percy's pay,

To dog his heels, and curtsy at his frowns,

To show how much thou art degenerate.

PRINCE.

Do not think so; you shall not find it so:

And God forgive them that so much have swayed

Your Majesty's good thoughts away from me!

I will redeem all this on Percy's head,

And, in the closing of some glorious day,

Be bold to tell you that I am your son;

When I will wear a garment all of blood,

And stain my favour in a bloody mask,

Which, washed away, shall scour my shame with it:

And that shall be the day, whene'er it lights,

That this same child of honour and renown,

This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight,

And your unthought-of Harry, chance to meet.

For every honour sitting on his helm,

Would they were multitudes, and on my head

My shames redoubled! for the time will come,

That I shall make this northern youth exchange

His glorious deeds for my indignities.

Percy is but my factor, good my lord,

T' engross up glorious deeds on my behalf;

And I will call hall to so strict account,

That he shall render every glory up,

Yea, even the slightest worship of his time,

Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart.

This, in the name of God, I promise here:

The which if I perform, and do survive,

I do beseech your Majesty, may salve

The long-grown wounds of my intemperance:

If not, the end of life cancels all bands;

And I will die a hundred thousand deaths

Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow.

KING.

A hundred thousand rebels die in this.

Thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein.—

[Enter Sir Walter Blount.]

How now, good Blount! thy looks are full of speed.

BLOUNT.

So is the business that I come to speak of.

Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word

That Douglas and the English rebels met

Th' eleventh of this month at Shrewsbury:

A mighty and a fearful head they are,

If promises be kept on every hand,

As ever offered foul play in a State.

KING.

The Earl of Westmoreland set forth to-day;

With him my son, Lord John of Lancaster;

For this advertisement is five days old.

On Wednesday next you, Harry, shall set forward;

On Thursday we ourselves will march:

Our meeting is Bridgenorth: and, Harry, you

Shall march through Glostershire; by which account,

Our business valued, some twelve days hence

Our general forces at Bridgenorth shall meet.

Our hands are full of business: let's away;

Advantage feeds him fat, while men delay.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE III.

Eastcheap. A Room in the Boar's-Head Tavern.

[Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.]

FALSTAFF.

Bardolph, am I not fallen away vilely since this last action? do I not bate? do I not dwindle? Why, my skin hangs about me like an old lady's loose gown; I am withered like an old apple-John. Well, I'll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking; I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no strength to repent. An I have not forgotten what the inside of a church is made of, I am a peppercorn, a brewer's horse: the inside of a church! Company, villainous company, hath been the spoil of me.

BARDOLPH.

Sir John, you are so fretful, you cannot live long.

FALSTAFF.

Why, there is it: come, sing me a song; make me merry. I was as virtuously given as a gentleman need to be; virtuous enough; swore little; diced not above seven times a week; paid money that I borrowed —three or four times; lived well, and in good compass: and now I live out of all order, out of all compass.

BARDOLPH.

Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must needs be out of all compass, —out of all reasonable compass, Sir John.

FALSTAFF.

Do thou amend thy face, and I'll amend my life: thou art our admiral, thou bearest the lantern in the poop,—but 'tis in the nose of thee; thou art the Knight of the Burning Lamp.

BARDOLPH.

Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm.

FALSTAFF.

No, I'll be sworn; I make as good use of it as many a man doth of a death's-head or a memento mori: I never see thy face but I think upon hell-fire, and Dives that lived in purple; for there he is in his robes, burning, burning. If thou wert any way given to virtue, I would swear by thy face; my oath should be, By this fire, that's God's angel: but thou art altogether given over; and wert indeed, but for the light in thy face, the son of utter darkness. When thou rann'st up Gad's-hill in the night to catch my horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an ignis fatuus or a ball of wildfire, there's no purchase in money. O, thou art a perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire-light! Thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt tavern and tavern: but the sack that thou hast drunk me would have bought me lights as good cheap at the dearest chandler's in Europe. I have maintained that salamander of yours with fire any time this two-and-thirty years; God reward me for it!

BARDOLPH.

'Sblood, I would my face were in your stomach!

FALSTAFF.

God-a-mercy! so should I be sure to be heart-burned.—

[Enter the Hostess.]

How now, Dame Partlet the hen! have you enquired yet who picked my pocket?

HOSTESS.

Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John? do you think I keep thieves in my house? I have searched, I have inquired, so has my husband, man by man, boy by boy, servant by servant: the tithe of a hair was never lost in my house before.

FALSTAFF.

Ye lie, hostess: Bardolph was shaved, and lost many a hair; and I'll be sworn my pocket was picked. Go to, you are a woman, go.

HOST.

Who, I? no; I defy thee: God's light, I was never called so in mine own house before.

FALSTAFF.

Go to, I know you well enough.

HOSTESS.

No, Sir John; you do not know me, Sir John. I know you, Sir John: you owe me money, Sir John; and now you pick a quarrel to beguile me of it: I bought you a dozen of shirts to your back.

FALSTAFF.

Dowlas, filthy dowlas: I have given them away to bakers' wives, and they have made bolters of them.

HOSTESS.

Now, as I am a true woman, holland of eight shillings an ell. You owe money here besides, Sir John, for your diet and by-drinkings, and money lent you, four-and-twenty pound.

FALSTAFF.

[Points to Bardolph.]

He had his part of it; let him pay.

HOSTESS.

He? alas, he is poor; he hath nothing.

FALSTAFF.

How! poor? look upon his face; what call you rich? let them coin his nose, let them coin his cheeks: I'll not pay a denier. What, will you make a younker of me? shall I not take mine ease in mine inn, but I shall have my pocket picked? I have lost a seal-ring of my grandfather's worth forty mark.

HOST.

O Jesu, I have heard the Prince tell him, I know not how oft, that that ring was copper!

FALSTAFF.

How! the Prince is a Jack, a sneak-cup: 'sblood, an he were here, I would cudgel him like a dog, if he would say so.—

[Enter Prince Henry and Poins, marching. Falstaff meets them, playing on his truncheon like a fife.]

How now, lad? is the wind in that door, i'faith? must we all march?

BARDOLPH.

Yea, two-and-two, Newgate-fashion.

HOST.

My lord, I pray you, hear me.

PRINCE.

What say'st thou, Mistress Quickly? How doth thy husband? I love him well; he is an honest man.

HOST.

Good my lord, hear me.

FALSTAFF.

Pr'ythee, let her alone, and list to me.

PRINCE.

What say'st thou, Jack?

FALSTAFF.

The other night I fell asleep here behind the arras, and had my pocket picked: this house is turned bawdy-house; they pick pockets.

PRINCE.

What didst thou lose, Jack?

FALSTAFF.

Wilt thou believe me, Hal? three or four bonds of forty pound a-piece and a seal-ring of my grandfather's.

PRINCE.

A trifle, some eight-penny matter.

HOST.

So I told him, my lord; and I said I heard your Grace say so; and, my lord, he speaks most vilely of you, like a foul-mouthed man as he is; and said he would cudgel you.

PRINCE.

What! he did not?

HOST.

There's neither faith, truth, nor womanhood in me else.

FALSTAFF.

There's no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune; nor no more truth in thee than in a drawn fox; and, for woman-hood, Maid Marian may be the deputy's wife of the ward to thee. Go, you thing, go.

HOST.

Say, what thing? what thing? I am an honest man's wife: and, setting thy knighthood aside, thou art a knave to call me so.

FALSTAFF.

Setting thy womanhood aside, thou art a beast to say otherwise.

HOST.

Say, what beast, thou knave, thou?

FALSTAFF.

What beast! why, an otter.

PRINCE.

An otter, Sir John, why an otter?

FALSTAFF.

Why, she's neither fish nor flesh; a man knows not where to have her.

HOST.

Thou art an unjust man in saying so; thou or any man knows where to have me, thou knave, thou!

PRINCE.

Thou say'st true, hostess; and he slanders thee most grossly.

HOST.

So he doth you, my lord; and said this other day you owed him a thousand pound.

PRINCE.

Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound?

FALSTAFF.

A thousand pound, Hal! a million: thy love is worth a million; thou owest me thy love.

HOST.

Nay, my lord, he called you Jack, and said he would cudgel you.

FALSTAFF.

Did I, Bardolph?

BARDOLPH.

Indeed, Sir John, you said so.

FALSTAFF.

Yea, if he said my ring was copper.

PRINCE.

I say 'tis copper: darest thou be as good as thy word now?

FALSTAFF.

Why, Hal, thou know'st, as thou art but man, I dare; but as thou art prince, I fear thee as I fear the roaring of the lion's whelp.

PRINCE.

And why not as the lion?

FALSTAFF.

The King himself is to be feared as the lion: dost thou think I'll fear thee as I fear thy father? nay, an I do, I pray God my girdle break.

PRINCE.

Sirrah, there's no room for faith, truth, nor honesty in this bosom of thine; it is all filled up with midriff. Charge an honest woman with picking thy pocket! why, thou whoreson, impudent, embossed rascal, if there were anything in thy pocket but tavern-reckonings, and one poor pennyworth of sugar-candy to make thee long-winded,—if thy pocket were enriched with any other injuries but these, I am a villain: and yet you will stand to it; you will not pocket-up wrong. Art thou not ashamed!

FALSTAFF.

Dost thou hear, Hal? thou know'st, in the state of innocency Adam fell; and what should poor Jack Falstaff do in the days of villainy? Thou see'st I have more flesh than another man; and therefore more frailty. You confess, then, you picked my pocket?

PRINCE.

It appears so by the story.

FALSTAFF.

Hostess, I forgive thee: go, make ready breakfast; love thy husband, look to thy servants, cherish thy guests: thou shalt find me tractable to any honest reason; thou see'st I am pacified.—Still? Nay, pr'ythee, be gone.

[Exit Hostess.]

Now, Hal, to the news at Court: for the robbery, lad, how is that answered?

PRINCE.

O, my sweet beef, I must still be good angel to thee: the money is paid back again.

FALSTAFF.

O, I do not like that paying back; 'tis a double labour.

PRINCE.

I am good friends with my father, and may do any thing.

FALSTAFF.

Rob me the exchequer the first thing thou doest, and do it with unwashed hands too.

BARDOLPH.

Do, my lord.

PRINCE.

I have procured thee, Jack, a charge of Foot.

FALSTAFF.

I would it had been of Horse. Where shall I find one that can steal well? O, for a fine thief, of the age of two-and-twenty or thereabouts! I am heinously unprovided. Well, God be thanked for these rebels; they offend none but the virtuous: I laud them, I praise them.

PRINCE.

Bardolph,—

BARDOLPH.

My lord?

PRINCE.

Go bear this letter to Lord John of Lancaster,

My brother John; this to my Lord of Westmoreland.—

[Exit Bardolph.]

Go, Poins, to horse, to horse; for thou and I

Have thirty miles to ride yet ere dinner-time.—

[Exit Poins.]

Meet me to-morrow, Jack, i' the Temple-hall

At two o'clock in th' afternoon:

There shalt thou know thy charge; and there receive

Money and order for their furniture.

The land is burning; Percy stands on high;

And either they or we must lower lie.

[Exit.]

FALSTAFF.

Rare words! brave world!—Hostess, my breakfast; come:—

O, I could wish this tavern were my drum!

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

The Rebel Camp near Shrewsbury.

[Enter Hotspur, Worcester, and Douglas.]

HOTSPUR.

Well said, my noble Scot: if speaking truth

In this fine age were not thought flattery,

Such attribution should the Douglas have,

As not a soldier of this season's stamp

Should go so general-current through the world.

By God, I cannot flatter; I defy

The tongues of soothers; but a braver place

In my heart's love hath no man than yourself:

Nay, task me to my word; approve me, lord.

DOUGLAS.

Thou art the king of honour:

No man so potent breathes upon the ground

But I will beard him.

HOTSPUR.

Do so, and 'tis well.—

[Enter a Messenger with letters.]

What letters hast thou there?—I can but thank you.

MESSENGER.

These letters come from your father.

HOTSPUR.

Letters from him! why comes he not himself?

MESSENGER.

He cannot come, my lord; he's grievous sick.

HOTSPUR.

Zwounds! how has he the leisure to be sick

In such a justling time? Who leads his power?

Under whose government come they along?

MESSENGER.

His letters bears his mind, not I, my lord.

WORCESTER.

I pr'ythee, tell me, doth he keep his bed?

MESSENGER.

He did, my lord, four days ere I set forth,

And at the time of my departure thence

He was much feared by his physicians.

WORCESTER.

I would the state of time had first been whole

Ere he by sickness had been visited:

His health was never better worth than now.

HOTSPUR.

Sick now! droop now! this sickness doth infect

The very life-blood of our enterprise;

'Tis catching hither, even to our camp.

He writes me here, that inward sickness,—

And that his friends by deputation could not

So soon be drawn; no did he think it meet

To lay so dangerous and dear a trust

On any soul removed, but on his own.

Yet doth he give us bold advertisement,

That with our small conjunction we should on,

To see how fortune is disposed to us;

For, as he writes, there is no quailing now,

Because the King is certainly possessed

Of all our purposes. What say you to it?

WORCESTER.

Your father's sickness is a maim to us.

HOTSPUR.

A perilous gash, a very limb lopped off:—

And yet, in faith, 'tis not; his present want

Seems more than we shall find it. Were it good

To set the exact wealth of all our states

All at one cast? to set so rich a main

On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour?

It were not good; for therein should we read

The very bottom and the soul of hope,

The very list, the very utmost bound

Of all our fortunes.

DOUGLAS.

Faith, and so we should;

Where now remains a sweet reversion;

And we may boldly spend upon the hope of what is to come in:

A comfort of retirement lives in this.

HOTSPUR.

A rendezvous, a home to fly unto,

If that the Devil and mischance look big

Upon the maidenhead of our affairs.

WORCESTER.

But yet I would your father had been here.

The quality and hair of our attempt

Brooks no division: it will be thought

By some, that know not why he is away,

That wisdom, loyalty, and mere dislike

Of our proceedings, kept the earl from hence:

And think how such an apprehension

May turn the tide of fearful faction,

And breed a kind of question in our cause;

For well you know we of the offering side

Must keep aloof from strict arbitrement,

And stop all sight-holes, every loop from whence

The eye of reason may pry in upon us.

This absence of your father's draws a curtain,

That shows the ignorant a kind of fear

Before not dreamt of.

HOTSPUR.

Nay, you strain too far.

I, rather, of his absence make this use:

It lends a lustre and more great opinion,

A larger dare to our great enterprise,

Than if the earl were here; for men must think,

If we, without his help, can make a head

To push against the kingdom, with his help

We shall o'erturn it topsy-turvy down.

Yet all goes well, yet all our joints are whole.

DOUGLAS.

As heart can think: there is not such a word

Spoke in Scotland as this term of fear.

[Enter Sir Richard Vernon.]

HOTSPUR.

My cousin Vernon! welcome, by my soul.

VERNON.

Pray God my news be worth a welcome, lord.

The Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong,

Is marching hitherwards; with him Prince John.

HOTSPUR.

No harm: what more?

VERNON.

And further, I have learned

The King himself in person is set forth,

Or hitherwards intended speedily,

With strong and mighty preparation.

HOTSPUR.

He shall be welcome too. Where is his son,

The nimble-footed madcap Prince of Wales,

And his comrades, that daff the world aside,

And bid it pass?

VERNON.

All furnished, all in arms;

All plumed like estridges that with the wind

Bate it; like eagles having lately bathed;

Glittering in golden coats, like images;

As full of spirit as the month of May

And gorgeous as the Sun at midsummer;

Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.

I saw young Harry—with his beaver on,

His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly armed—

Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury,

And vault it with such ease into his seat,

As if an angel dropped down from the clouds,

To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,

And witch the world with noble horsemanship.

HOTSPUR.

No more, no more: worse than the Sun in March,

This praise doth nourish agues. Let them come;

They come like sacrifices in their trim,

And to the fire-eyed maid of smoky war,

All hot and bleeding, will we offer them:

The mailed Mars shall on his altar sit

Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire

To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh,

And yet not ours.—Come, let me taste my horse,

Who is to bear me, like a thunderbolt,

Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales:

Harry and Harry shall, hot horse to horse,

Meet, and ne'er part till one drop down a corse.—

O, that Glendower were come!

VERNON.

There is more news:

I learned in Worcester, as I rode along,

He cannot draw his power this fourteen days.

DOUGLAS.

That's the worst tidings that I hear of yet.

WORCESTER.

Ay, by my faith, that bears a frosty sound.

HOTSPUR.

What may the King's whole battle reach unto?

VERNON.

To thirty thousand.

HOTSPUR.

Forty let it be:

My father and Glendower being both away,

The powers of us may serve so great a day.

Come, let us take a muster speedily:

Doomsday is near; die all, die merrily.

DOUGLAS.

Talk not of dying: I am out of fear

Of death or death's hand for this one half-year.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

A public Road near Coventry.

[Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.]

FALSTAFF.

Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry; fill me a bottle of sack: our soldiers shall march through; we'll to Sutton-Coldfield to-night.

BARDOLPH.

Will you give me money, captain?

FALSTAFF.

Lay out, lay out.

BARDOLPH.

This bottle makes an angel.

FALSTAFF.

An if it do, take it for thy labour; an if it make twenty, take them all; I'll answer the coinage. Bid my lieutenant Peto meet me at the town's end.

BARDOLPH.

I will, captain: farewell.

[Exit.]

FALSTAFF.

If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a soused gurnet. I have misused the King's press damnably. I have got, in exchange of a hundred and fifty soldiers, three hundred and odd pounds. I pressed me none but good householders, yeomen's sons; inquired me out contracted bachelors, such as had been asked twice on the banns; such a commodity of warm slaves as had as lief hear the Devil as a drum; such as fear the report of a caliver worse than a struck fowl or a hurt wild-duck. I pressed me none but such toasts-and-butter, with hearts in their bodies no bigger than pins'-heads, and they have bought out their services; and now my whole charge consists of ancients, corporals, lieutenants, gentlemen of companies, slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the painted cloth, where the glutton's dogs licked his sores; and such as, indeed, were never soldiers, but discarded unjust serving-men, younger sons to younger brothers, revolted tapsters, and ostlers trade-fallen; the cankers of a calm world and a long peace; ten times more dishonourable ragged than an old faced ancient: and such have I, to fill up the rooms of them that have bought out their services, that you would think that I had a hundred and fifty tattered Prodigals lately come from swine-keeping, from eating draff and husks. A mad fellow met me on the way, and told me I had unloaded all the gibbets, and pressed the dead bodies. No eye hath seen such scarecrows. I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's flat: nay, and the villains march wide betwixt the legs, as if they had gyves on; for, indeed, I had the most of them out of prison. There's but a shirt and a half in all my company; and the half-shirt is two napkins tacked together and thrown over the shoulders like a herald's coat without sleeves; and the shirt, to say the truth, stolen from my host at Saint Alban's, or the red-nose innkeeper of Daventry. But that's all one; they'll find linen enough on every hedge.

[Enter Prince Henry and Westmoreland.]

PRINCE.

How now, blown Jack! how now, quilt!

FALSTAFF.

What, Hal! how now, mad wag! what a devil dost thou in Warwickshire?—My good Lord of Westmoreland, I cry you mercy: I thought your honour had already been at Shrewsbury.

WESTMORELAND.

Faith, Sir John, 'tis more than time that I were there, and you too; but my powers are there already. The King, I can tell you, looks for us all: we must away all, to-night.

FALSTAFF.

Tut, never fear me: I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream.

PRINCE.

I think, to steal cream, indeed; for thy theft hath already made thee butter. But tell me, Jack, whose fellows are these that come after?

FALSTAFF.

Mine, Hal, mine.

PRINCE.

I did never see such pitiful rascals.

FALSTAFF.

Tut, tut; good enough to toss; food for powder, food for powder; they'll fill a pit as well as better: tush, man, mortal men, mortal men.

WESTMORELAND.

Ay, but, Sir John, methinks they are exceeding poor and bare,—too beggarly.

FALSTAFF.

Faith, for their poverty, I know not where they had that; and, for their bareness, I am sure they never learned that of me.

PRINCE.

No, I'll be sworn; unless you call three fingers on the ribs bare. But, sirrah, make haste: Percy is already in the field.

[Exit.]

FALSTAFF.

What, is the King encamped?

WESTMORELAND.

He is, Sir John: I fear we shall stay too long.

[Exit.]

FALSTAFF.

Well, to the latter end of a fray and the beginning of a feast

Fits a dull fighter and a keen guest.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE III.

The Rebel Camp near Shrewsbury.

[Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Douglas, and Vernon.]

HOTSPUR.

We'll fight with him to-night.

WORCESTER.

It may not be.

DOUGLAS.

You give him, then, advantage.

VERNON.

Not a whit.

HOTSPUR.

Why say you so? looks he not for supply?

VERNON.

So do we.

HOTSPUR.

His is certain, ours is doubtful.

WORCESTER.

Good cousin, be advised; stir not to-night.

VERNON.

[To Hotspur.]

Do not, my lord.

DOUGLAS.

You do not counsel well:

You speak it out of fear and cold heart.

VERNON.

Do me no slander, Douglas: by my life,—

And I dare well maintain it with my life,—

If well-respected honour bid me on,

I hold as little counsel with weak fear

As you, my lord, or any Scot that this day lives:

Let it be seen to-morrow in the battle

Which of us fears.

DOUGLAS.

Yea, or to-night.

VERNON.

Content.

HOTSPUR.

To-night, say I.

VERNON.

Come, come, it may not be. I wonder much,

Being men of such great leading as you are,

That you foresee not what impediments

Drag back our expedition: certain Horse

Of my cousin Vernon's are not yet come up:

Your uncle Worcester's Horse came but to-day;

And now their pride and mettle is asleep,

Their courage with hard labour tame and dull,

That not a horse is half the half himself.

HOTSPUR.

So are the horses of the enemy

In general, journey-bated and brought low:

The better part of ours are full of rest.

WORCESTER.

The number of the King exceedeth ours.

For God's sake, cousin, stay till all come in.

[The Trumpet sounds a parley.]

[Enter Sir Walter Blount.]

BLOUNT.

I come with gracious offers from the King,

If you vouchsafe me hearing and respect.

HOTSPUR.

Welcome, Sir Walter Blount; and would to God

You were of our determination!

Some of us love you well; and even those some

Envy your great deservings and good name,

Because you are not of our quality,

But stand against us like an enemy.

BLOUNT.

And God defend but still I should stand so,

So long as out of limit and true rule

You stand against anointed majesty!

But to my charge: the King hath sent to know

The nature of your griefs; and whereupon

You conjure from the breast of civil peace

Such bold hostility, teaching his duteous land

Audacious cruelty. If that the King

Have any way your good deserts forgot,

Which he confesseth to be manifold,

He bids you name your griefs; and with all speed

You shall have your desires with interest,

And pardon absolute for yourself and these

Herein misled by your suggestion.

HOTSPUR.

The King is kind; and well we know the King

Knows at what time to promise, when to pay.

My father and my uncle and myself

Did give him that same royalty he wears;

And—when he was not six-and-twenty strong,

Sick in the world's regard, wretched and low,

A poor unminded outlaw sneaking home—

My father gave him welcome to the shore:

And—when he heard him swear and vow to God,

He came but to be Duke of Lancaster,

To sue his livery and beg his peace,

With tears of innocence and terms of zeal—

My father, in kind heart and pity moved,

Swore him assistance, and performed it too.

Now, when the lords and barons of the realm

Perceived Northumberland did lean to him,

The more and less came in with cap and knee;

Met him in boroughs, cities, villages,

Attended him on bridges, stood in lanes,

Laid gifts before him, proffered him their oaths,

Give him their heirs as pages, followed him

Even at the heels in golden multitudes.

He presently—as greatness knows itself—

Steps me a little higher than his vow

Made to my father, while his blood was poor,

Upon the naked shore at Ravenspurg;

And now, forsooth, takes on him to reform

Some certain edicts and some strait decrees

That lie too heavy on the commonwealth;

Cries out upon abuses, seems to weep

Over his country's wrongs; and, by this face,

This seeming brow of justice, did he win

The hearts of all that he did angle for:

Proceeded further; cut me off the heads

Of all the favourites, that the absent King

In deputation left behind him here

When he was personal in the Irish war.

BLOUNT.

Tut, I came not to hear this.

HOTSPUR.

Then to the point:

In short time after, he deposed the King;

Soon after that, deprived him of his life;

And, in the neck of that, tasked the whole State:

To make that worse, suffered his kinsman March

(Who is, if every owner were well placed,

Indeed his king) to be engaged in Wales,

There without ransom to lie forfeited;

Disgraced me in my happy victories,

Sought to entrap me by intelligence;

Rated my uncle from the Council-board;

In rage dismissed my father from the Court;

Broke oath on oath, committed wrong on wrong;

And, in conclusion, drove us to seek out

This head of safety; and withal to pry

Into his title, the which now we find

Too indirect for long continuance.

BLOUNT.

Shall I return this answer to the King?

HOTSPUR.

Not so, Sir Walter: we'll withdraw awhile.

Go to the King; and let there be impawned

Some surety for a safe return again,

And in the morning early shall my uncle

Bring him our purposes: and so, farewell.

BLOUNT.

I would you would accept of grace and love.

HOTSPUR.

And may be so we shall.

BLOUNT.

Pray God you do.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE IV
.

York. A Room in the Archbishop's Palace.

[Enter the Archbishop of York and Sir Michael.]

ARCHBISHOP.

Hie, good Sir Michael; bear this sealed brief

With winged haste to the Lord Marshal;

This to my cousin Scroop; and all the rest

To whom they are directed. If you knew

How much they do import, you would make haste.

SIR MICHAEL.

My good lord,

I guess their tenour.

ARCHBISHOP.

Like enough you do.

To-morrow, good Sir Michael, is a day

Wherein the fortune of ten thousand men

Must bide the touch; for, sir, at Shrewsbury,

As I am truly given to understand,

The King, with mighty and quick-raised power,

Meets with Lord Harry: and, I fear, Sir Michael,

What with the sickness of Northumberland,

Whose power was in the first proportion,

And what with Owen Glendower's absence thence,

Who with them was a rated sinew too,

And comes not in, o'er-ruled by prophecies,—

I fear the power of Percy is too weak

To wage an instant trial with the King.

SIR MICHAEL.

Why, my good lord, you need not fear;

There's Douglas and Lord Mortimer.

ARCHBISHOP.

No, Mortimer's not there.

SIR MICHAEL.

But there is Mordake, Vernon, Lord Harry Percy,

And there's my Lord of Worcester; and a head

Of gallant warriors, noble gentlemen.

ARCHBISHOP.

And so there is: but yet the King hath drawn

The special head of all the land together;

The Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster,

The noble Westmoreland, and warlike Blount;

And many more corrivals and dear men

Of estimation and command in arms.

SIR MICHAEL.

Doubt not, my lord, they shall be well opposed.

ARCHBISHOP.

I hope no less, yet needful 'tis to fear;

And, to prevent the worst, Sir Michael, speed:

For if Lord Percy thrive not, ere the King

Dismiss his power, he means to visit us,

For he hath heard of our confederacy;

And 'tis but wisdom to make strong against him:

Therefore make haste. I must go write again

To other friends; and so, farewell, Sir Michael.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

The King's Camp near Shrewsbury.

[Enter King Henry, Prince Henry, Lancaster, Sir Walter Blount, and Sir John Falstaff.]

KING.

How bloodily the Sun begins to peer

Above yon busky hill! the day looks pale

At his distemperature.

PRINCE.

The southern wind

Doth play the trumpet to his purposes;

And by his hollow whistling in the leaves

Foretells a tempest and a blustering day.

KING.

Then with the losers let it sympathize,

For nothing can seem foul to those that win.—

[The trumpet sounds. Enter Worcester and Vernon.]

How, now, my Lord of Worcester! 'tis not well

That you and I should meet upon such terms

As now we meet. You have deceived our trust;

And made us doff our easy robes of peace,

To crush our old limbs in ungentle steel:

This is not well, my lord, this is not well.

What say you to't? will you again unknit

This churlish knot of all-abhorred war,

And move in that obedient orb again

Where you did give a fair and natural light;

And be no more an exhaled meteor,

A prodigy of fear, and a portent

Of broached mischief to the unborn times?

WORCESTER.

Hear me, my liege:

For mine own part, I could be well content

To entertain the lag-end of my life

With quiet hours; for I do protest,

I have not sought the day of this dislike.

KING.

You have not sought it! why, how comes it, then?

FALSTAFF.

Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it.

PRINCE.

Peace, chewet, peace!

WORCESTER.

[To the King.]

It pleased your Majesty to turn your looks

Of favour from myself and all our House;

And yet I must remember you, my lord,

We were the first and dearest of your friends.

For you my staff of office did I break

In Richard's time; and posted day and night

To meet you on the way, and kiss your hand,

When yet you were in place and in account

Nothing so strong and fortunate as I.

It was myself, my brother, and his son,

That brought you home, and boldly did outdare

The dangers of the time. You swore to us,—

And you did swear that oath at Doncaster,—

That you did nothing purpose 'gainst the state;

Nor claim no further than your new-fall'n right,

The seat of Gaunt, dukedom of Lancaster:

To this we swore our aid. But in short space

It rained down fortune showering on your head;

And such a flood of greatness fell on you,—

What with our help, what with the absent King,

What with the injuries of a wanton time,

The seeming sufferances that you had borne,

And the contrarious winds that held the King

So long in his unlucky Irish wars

That all in England did repute him dead,—

And, from this swarm of fair advantages,

You took occasion to be quickly wooed

To gripe the general sway into your hand;

Forgot your oath to us at Doncaster;

And, being fed by us, you used us so

As that ungentle gull, the cuckoo-bird,

Useth the sparrow; did oppress our nest;

Grew by our feeding to so great a bulk,

That even our love thirst not come near your sight

For fear of swallowing; but with nimble wing

We were enforced, for safety-sake, to fly

Out of your sight, and raise this present head:

Whereby we stand opposed by such means

As you yourself have forged against yourself,

By unkind usage, dangerous countenance,

And violation of all faith and troth

Sworn to tis in your younger enterprise.

KING.

These things, indeed, you have articulate,

Proclaimed at market-crosses, read in churches,

To face the garment of rebellion

With some fine colour that may please the eye

Of fickle changelings and poor discontents,

Which gape and rub the elbow at the news

Of hurlyburly innovation:

And never yet did insurrection want

Such water-colours to impaint his cause;

Nor moody beggars, starving for a time

Of pell-mell havoc and confusion.

PRINCE.

In both our armies there is many a soul

Shall pay full dearly for this encounter,

If once they join in trial. Tell your nephew,

The Prince of Wales doth join with all the world

In praise of Henry Percy: by my hopes,

This present enterprise set off his head,

I do not think a braver gentleman,

More active-valiant or more valiant-young,

More daring or more bold, is now alive

To grace this latter age with noble deeds.

For my part,—I may speak it to my shame,—

I have a truant been to chivalry;

And so I hear he doth account me too:

Yet this before my father's Majesty,—

I am content that he shall take the odds

Of his great name and estimation,

And will, to save the blood on either side,

Try fortune with him in a single fight.

KING.

And, Prince of Wales, so dare we venture thee,

Albeit considerations infinite

Do make against it.—No, good Worcester, no;

We love our people well; even those we love

That are misled upon your cousin's part;

And, will they take the offer of our grace,

Both he, and they, and you, yea, every man

Shall be my friend again, and I'll be his:

So tell your cousin, and then bring me word

What he will do: but, if he will not yield,

Rebuke and dread correction wait on us,

And they shall do their office. So, be gone;

We will not now be troubled with reply:

We offer fair; take it advisedly.

[Exit Worcester with Vernon.]

PRINCE.

It will not be accepted, on my life:

The Douglas and the Hotspur both together

Are confident against the world in arms.

KING.

Hence, therefore, every leader to his charge;

For, on their answer, will we set on them:

And God befriend us, as our cause is just!

[Exeunt the King, Blount, and Prince John.]

FALSTAFF.

Hal, if thou see me down in the battle, and bestride me, so; 'tis a point of friendship.

PRINCE.

Nothing but a colossus can do thee that friendship. Say thy prayers, and farewell.

FALSTAFF.

I would it were bedtime, Hal, and all well.

PRINCE.

Why, thou owest God a death.

[Exit.]

FALSTAFF.

'Tis not due yet; I would be loth to pay Him before His day. What need I be so forward with him that calls not on me? Well, 'tis no matter; honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on? how then? Can honor set-to a leg? no: or an arm? no: or take away the grief of a wound? no. Honour hath no skill in surgery then? no. What is honour? a word. What is that word, honour? air. A trim reckoning!—Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth be hear it? no. Is it insensible, then? yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? no. Why? detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I'll none of it: honour is a mere scutcheon:—and so ends my catechism.

[Exit.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

The Rebel Camp.

[Enter Worcester and Vernon.]

WORCESTER.

O no, my nephew must not know, Sir Richard,

The liberal-kind offer of the King.

VERNON.

'Twere best he did.

WORCESTER.

Then are we all undone.

It is not possible, it cannot be,

The King should keep his word in loving us;

He will suspect us still, and find a time

To punish this offence in other faults:

Suspicion all our lives shall be stuck full of eyes;

For treason is but trusted like the fox,

Who, ne'er so tame, so cherished, and locked up,

Will have a wild trick of his ancestors.

Look how we can, or sad or merrily,

Interpretation will misquote our looks;

And we shall feed like oxen at a stall,

The better cherished, still the nearer death.

My nephew's trespass may be well forgot:

It hath th' excuse of youth and heat of blood,

And an adopted name of privilege,—

A hare-brained Hotspur, governed by a spleen:

All his offences live upon my head

And on his father's: we did train him on;

And, his corruption being ta'en from us,

We, as the spring of all, shall pay for all.

Therefore, good cousin, let not Harry know,

In any case, the offer of the King.

VERNON.

Deliver what you will, I'll say 'tis so.

Here comes your cousin.

[Enter Hotspur and Douglas; Officers and Soldiers behind.]

HOTSPUR.

My uncle is returned:

Deliver up My Lord of Westmoreland.

—Uncle, what news?

WORCESTER.

The King will bid you battle presently.

DOUGLAS.

Defy him by the Lord Of Westmoreland.

HOTSPUR.

Lord Douglas, go you and tell him so.

DOUGLAS.

Marry, I shall, and very willingly.

[Exit.]

WORCESTER.

There is no seeming mercy in the King.

HOTSPUR.

Did you beg any? God forbid!

WORCESTER.

I told him gently of our grievances,

Of his oath-breaking; which he mended thus,

By new-forswearing that he is forsworn:

He calls us 'rebels', 'traitors'; and will scourge

With haughty arms this hateful name in us.

[Re-enter Douglas.]

DOUGLAS.

Arm, gentlemen; to arms! for I have thrown

A brave defiance in King Henry's teeth,

And Westmoreland, that was engaged, did bear it;

Which cannot choose but bring him quickly on.

WORCESTER.

The Prince of Wales stepped forth before the King,

And, nephew, challenged you to single fight.

HOTSPUR.

O, would the quarrel lay upon our heads;

And that no man might draw short breath to-day

But I and Harry Monmouth! Tell me, tell me,

How showed his tasking? seemed it in contempt?

VERNON.

No, by my soul: I never in my life

Did hear a challenge urged more modestly,

Unless a brother should a brother dare

To gentle exercise and proof of arms.

He gave you all the duties of a man;

Trimmed up your praises with a princely tongue;

Spoke your deservings like a chronicle;

Making you ever better than his praise,

By still dispraising praise valued with you;

And, which became him like a prince indeed,

He made a blushing cital of himself;

And chid his truant youth with such a grace,

As if he mastered there a double spirit,

Of teaching and of learning instantly.

There did he pause: but let me tell the world,

If he outlive the envy of this day,

England did never owe so sweet a hope,

So much misconstrued in his wantonness.

HOTSPUR.

Cousin, I think thou art enamoured

Upon his follies: never did I hear

Of any prince so wild o' liberty.

But be he as he will, yet once ere night

I will embrace him with a soldier's arm,

That he shall shrink under my courtesy.—

Arm, arm with speed: and, fellows, soldiers, friends,

Better consider what you have to do

Than I, that have not well the gift of tongue,

Can lift your blood up with persuasion.

[Enter a Messenger.]

1. MESSENGER.

My lord, here are letters for you.

HOTSPUR.

I cannot read them now.—

O gentlemen, the time of life is short!

To spend that shortness basely were too long,

If life did ride upon a dial's point,

Still ending at th' arrival of an hour.

An if we live, we live to tread on kings;

If die, brave death, when princes die with us!

Now, for our consciences, the arms are fair,

When the intent of bearing them is just.

[Enter another Messenger.]

2. MESSENGER.

My lord, prepare: the King comes on apace.

HOTSPUR.

I thank him, that he cuts me from my tale,

For I profess not talking; only this,

Let each man do his best: and here draw I

A sword, whose temper I intend to stain

With the best blood that I can meet withal

In the adventure of this perilous day.

Now, Esperance! Percy! and set on.

Sound all the lofty instruments of war,

And by that music let us all embrace;

For, Heaven to Earth, some of us never shall

A second time do such a courtesy.

[The trumpets sound. They embrace, and exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE III.

Plain between the Camps.

[Excursions, and Parties fighting. Alarum to the battle. Then enter Douglas and Sir Walter Blount, meeting.]

BLOUNT.

What is thy name, that in the battle thus

Thou crossest me? What honour dost thou seek

Upon my head?

DOUGLAS.

Know, then, my name is Douglas,

And I do haunt thee in the battle thus

Because some tell me that thou art a king.

BLOUNT.

They tell thee true.

DOUGLAS.

The Lord of Stafford dear to-day hath bought

Thy likeness; for, instead of thee, King Harry,

This sword hath ended him: so shall it thee,

Unless thou yield thee as my prisoner.

BLOUNT.

I was not born a yielder, thou proud Scot;

And thou shalt find a king that will revenge

Lord Stafford's death.

[They fight, and Blount is slain. Enter Hotspur.]

HOTSPUR.

O Douglas, hadst thou fought at Holmedon thus,

I never had triumphed o'er a Scot.

DOUGLAS.

All's done, all's won; here breathless lies the King.

HOTSPUR.

Where?

DOUGLAS.

Here.

HOTSPUR.

This, Douglas? no; I know this face full well:

A gallant knight he was, his name was Blount;

Semblably furnished like the King himself.

DOUGLAS.

A fool go with thy soul, where're it goes!

A borrowed title hast thou bought too dear:

Why didst thou tell me that thou wert a king?

HOTSPUR.

The King hath many marching in his coats.

DOUGLAS.

Now, by my sword, I will kill all his coats;

I'll murder all his wardrobe piece by piece,

Until I meet the King.

HOTSPUR.

Up, and away!

Our soldiers stand full fairly for the day.

[Exeunt.]

[Alarums. Enter Falstaff.]

FALSTAFF.

Though I could 'scape shot-free at London, I fear the shot here; here's no scoring but upon the pate.—Soft! who are you? Sir Walter Blount: there's honour for you! here's no vanity! I am as hot as molten lead, and as heavy too: God keep lead out of me! I need no more weight than mine own bowels. I have led my ragamuffins where they are peppered: there's not three of my hundred and fifty left alive; and they are for the town's end, to beg during life. But who comes here?

[Enter Prince Henry.]

PRINCE.

What, stand'st thou idle here? lend me thy sword:

Many a nobleman lies stark and stiff

Under the hoofs of vaunting enemies,

Whose deaths are yet unrevenged: I pr'ythee,

Lend me thy sword.

FALSTAFF.

O Hal, I pr'ythee give me leave to breathe awhile. Turk Gregory never did such deeds in arms as I have done this day. I have paid Percy, I have made him sure.

PRINCE.

He is indeed; and living to kill thee.

I pr'ythee, lend me thy sword.

FALSTAFF.

Nay, before God, Hal, if Percy be alive, thou gett'st not my sword; but take my pistol, if thou wilt.

PRINCE.

Give it me: what, is it in the case?

FALSTAFF.

Ay, Hal. 'Tis hot, 'tis hot: there's that will sack a city.

[The Prince draws out a bottle of sack.]

What, is't a time to jest and dally now?

[Throws it at him, and exit.]

FALSTAFF.

Well, if Percy be alive, I'll pierce him. If he do come in my way, so; if he do not, if I come in his willingly, let him make a carbonado of me. I like not such grinning honour as Sir Walter hath: give me life; which if I can save, so; if not, honour comes unlooked for, and there's an end.

[Exit.]

ACT V. SCENE IV.

Another Part of the Field.

[Alarums. Excursions. Enter King Henry, Prince Henry, Lancaster, and Westmoreland.]

KING.

I pr'ythee,

Harry, withdraw thyself; thou bleedest too much.—

Lord John of Lancaster, go you unto him.

LANCASTER.

Not I, my lord, unless I did bleed too.

PRINCE.

I do beseech your Majesty, make up,

Lest your retirement do amaze your friends.

KING.

I will do so.—

My Lord of Westmoreland, lead him to his tent.

WESTMORELAND.

Come, my lord, I'll lead you to your tent.

PRINCE.

Lead me, my lord? I do not need your help:

And God forbid, a shallow scratch should drive

The Prince of Wales from such a field as this,

Where stained nobility lies trodden on,

And rebels' arms triumph in massacres!

LANCASTER.

We breathe too long:—come, cousin Westmoreland,

Our duty this way lies; for God's sake, come.

[Exeunt Lancaster and Westmoreland.]

PRINCE.

By Heaven, thou hast deceived me, Lancaster;

I did not think thee lord of such a spirit:

Before, I loved thee as a brother, John;

But now I do respect thee as my soul.

KING.

I saw him hold Lord Percy at the point

With lustier maintenance than I did look for

Of such an ungrown warrior.

PRINCE.

O, this boy lends mettle to us all!

[Exit.]

[Alarums. Enter Douglas.]

DOUGLAS.

Another king! they grow like Hydra's heads:

I am the Douglas, fatal to all those

That wear those colours on them.—What art thou,

That counterfeit'st the person of a king?

KING.

The King himself; who, Douglas, grieves at heart

So many of his shadows thou hast met,

And not the very King. I have two boys

Seek Percy and thyself about the field:

But, seeing thou fall'st on me so luckily,

I will assay thee; so, defend thyself.

DOUGLAS.

I fear thou art another counterfeit;

And yet, in faith, thou bear'st thee like a king:

But mine I'm sure thou art, whoe'er thou be,

And thus I win thee.

[They fight; the King being in danger, re-enter Prince Henry.]

PRINCE.

Hold up thy head, vile Scot, or thou art like

Never to hold it up again! the spirits

Of valiant Shirley, Stafford, Blount are in my arms:

It is the Prince of Wales that threatens thee;

Who never promiseth but he means to pay.—

[They fight: Douglas flies.]

Cheerly, my lord: how fares your Grace?

Sir Nicholas Gawsey hath for succour sent,

And so hath Clifton: I'll to Clifton straight.

KING.

Stay, and breathe awhile:

Thou hast redeemed thy lost opinion;

And showed thou makest some tender of my life,

In this fair rescue thou hast brought to me.

PRINCE.

O God, they did me too much injury

That ever said I hearkened for your death!

If it were so, I might have let alone

Th' insulting hand of Douglas over you,

Which would have been as speedy in your end

As all the poisonous potions in the world,

And saved the treacherous labour of your son.

KING.

Make up to Clifton: I'll to Sir Nicholas Gawsey.

[Exit.]

[Enter Hotspur.]

HOTSPUR.

If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth.

PRINCE.

Thou speak'st as if I would deny my name.

HOTSPUR.

My name is Harry Percy.

PRINCE.

Why, then I see

A very valiant rebel of the name.

I am the Prince of Wales; and think not, Percy,

To share with me in glory any more:

Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere;

Nor can one England brook a double reign,

Of Harry Percy and the Prince of Wales.

HOTSPUR.

Nor shall it, Harry; for the hour is come

To end the one of us; and would to God

Thy name in arms were now as great as mine!

PRINCE.

I'll make it greater ere I part from thee;

And all the budding honours on thy crest

I'll crop, to make a garland for my head.

HOTSPUR.

I can no longer brook thy vanities.

[They fight.]

[Enter Falstaff.]

FALSTAFF.

Well said, Hal! to it, Hal! Nay, you shall find no boy's play here, I can tell you.

[Re-enter Douglas; he fights with Falstaff, who falls down as if he were dead, and exit Douglas. Hotspur is wounded, and falls.]

HOTSPUR.

O Harry, thou hast robbed me of my youth!

I better brook the loss of brittle life

Than those proud titles thou hast won of me;

They wound my thoughts worse than thy sword my flesh:

But thoughts the slave of life, and life Time's fool,

And Time, that takes survey of all the world,

Must have a stop. O, I could prophesy,

But that the earthy and cold hand of death

Lies on my tongue: no, Percy, thou art dust,

And food for—

[Dies.]

PRINCE.

For worms, brave Percy: fare thee well, great heart!

Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk!

When that this body did contain a spirit,

A kingdom for it was too small a bound;

But now two paces of the vilest earth

Is room enough. This earth that bears thee dead

Bears not alive so stout a gentleman.

If thou wert sensible of courtesy,

I should not make so dear a show of zeal:

But let my favours hide thy mangled face;

And, even in thy behalf, I'll thank myself

For doing these fair rites of tenderness.

Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to Heaven!

Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave,

But not remembered in thy epitaph!—

[Sees Falstaff on the ground.]

What, old acquaintance? could not all this flesh

Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell!

I could have better spared a better man:

O, I should have a heavy miss of thee,

If I were much in love with vanity!

Death hath not struck so fat a deer to-day,

Though many dearer, in this bloody fray.

Embowelled will I see thee by-and-by:

Till then in blood by noble Percy lie.

[Exit.]

FALSTAFF.

[Rising.]

Embowelled! if thou embowel me to-day, I'll give you leave to powder me and eat me too to-morrow. 'Sblood, 'twas time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot had paid me scot and lot too. Counterfeit! I lie; I am no counterfeit: to die, is to be a counterfeit; for he is but the counterfeit of a man who hath not the life of a man: but to counterfeit dying, when a man thereby liveth, is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeed. The better part of valour is discretion; in the which better part I have saved my life. Zwounds, I am afraid of this gunpowder Percy, though he be dead: how, if he should counterfeit too, and rise? by my faith, I am afraid he would prove the better counterfeit. Therefore I'll make him sure; yea, and I'll swear I killed him. Why may not he rise as well as I? Nothing confutes me but eyes, and nobody sees me. Therefore, sirrah, with a new wound in your thigh, come you along with me.

[Takes Hotspur on his back.]

[Re-enter Prince Henry and Lancaster.]

PRINCE.

Come, brother John; full bravely hast thou fleshed

Thy maiden sword.

LANCASTER.

But, soft! whom have we here?

Did you not tell me this fat man was dead?

PRINCE.

I did; I saw him dead,

Breathless and bleeding Upon the ground.

[To Falstaff.]

Art thou alive? or is it fantasy

That plays upon our eyesight? I pr'ythee, speak;

We will not trust our eyes without our ears.

Thou art not what thou seem'st.

FALSTAFF.

No, that's certain; I am not a double man: but if I be not Jack Falstaff, then am I a Jack. There is Percy! [Throwing the body down.] if your father will do me any honour, so; if not, let him kill the next Percy himself. I look to be either earl or duke, I can assure you.

PRINCE.

Why, Percy I killed myself, and saw thee dead.

FALSTAFF.

Didst thou?— Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying!-I grant you I was down and out of breath; and so was he: but we rose both at an instant, and fought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock. If I may be believed, so; if not, let them that should reward valour bear the sin upon their own heads. I'll take it upon my death, I gave him this wound in the thigh: if the man were alive, and would deny it, zwounds, I would make him eat a piece of my sword.

LANCASTER.

This is the strangest tale that ever I heard.

PRINCE.

This is the strangest fellow, brother John.—

[To Flastaff.]

Come, bring your luggage nobly on your back:

For my part, if a lie may do thee grace,

I'll gild it with the happiest terms I have.—

[A retreat is sounded.]

The trumpet sounds retreat; the day is ours.

Come, brother, let's to th' highest of the field,

To see what friends are living, who are dead.

[Exeunt Prince Henry and Lancaster.]

FALSTAFF.

I'll follow, as they say, for reward. He that rewards me, God reward him! If I do grow great, I'll grow less; for I'll purge, and leave sack, and live cleanly as a nobleman should do.

[Exit, bearing off the body.]

ACT V. SCENE V.

Another Part of the Field.

[The trumpets sound. Enter King Henry, Prince Henry, Lancaster, Westmoreland, and others, with Worcester and Vernon prisoners.]

KING.

Thus ever did rebellion find rebuke.—

Ill-spirited Worcester! did not we send grace,

Pardon, and terms of love to all of you?

And wouldst thou turn our offers contrary?

Misuse the tenour of thy kinsman's trust?

Three knights upon our party slain to-day,

A noble earl, and many a creature else,

Had been alive this hour,

If, like a Christian, thou hadst truly borne

Betwixt our armies true intelligence.

WORCESTER.

What I have done my safety urged me to;

And I embrace this fortune patiently,

Since not to be avoided it fails on me.

KING.

Bear Worcester to the death, and Vernon too:

Other offenders we will pause upon.—

[Exeunt Worcester and Vernon, guarded.]

How goes the field?

PRINCE.

The noble Scot, Lord Douglas, when he saw

The fortune of the day quite turned from him,

The noble Percy slain, and all his men

Upon the foot of fear, fled with the rest;

And, falling from a hill, he was so bruised

That the pursuers took him. At my tent

The Douglas is: and I beseech your Grace

I may dispose of him.

KING.

With all my heart.

PRINCE.

Then, brother John of Lancaster, to you

This honourable bounty shall belong:

Go to the Douglas, and deliver him

Up to his pleasure, ransomless and free:

His valour, shown upon our crests to-day,

Hath taught us how to cherish such high deeds

Even in the bosom of our adversaries.

LANCASTER.

I thank your grace for this high courtesy,

Which I shall give away immediately.

KING.

Then this remains, that we divide our power.—

You, son John, and my cousin Westmoreland,

Towards York shall bend you with your dearest speed,

To meet Northumberland and the prelate Scrope,

Who, as we hear, are busily in arms:

Myself,—and you, son Harry,—will towards Wales,

To fight with Glendower and the Earl of March.

Rebellion in this land shall lose his sway,

Meeting the check of such another day;

And since this business so fair is done,

Let us not leave till all our own be won.

[Exeunt.]

THE END

KING HENRY IV, PART 2

List of Characters

Induction

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act I, Scene III

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act II, Scene III

Act II, Scene IV

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act IV, Scene III

Act IV, Scene IV

Act IV, Scene V

Act V, Scene I

Act V, Scene II

Act V, Scene III

Act V, Scene IV

Act V, Scene V

Epilogue

List of Characters

RUMOUR: the Presenter.

KING HENRY the Fourth.

His sons

HENRY: PRINCE OF WALES, afterwards King Henry V.

THOMAS, DUKE OF CLARENCE.

PRINCE JOHN OF LANCASTER.

PRINCE HUMPHREY OF GLOUCESTER.

EARL OF WARWICK.

EARL OF WESTMORELAND.

EARL OF SURREY.

GOWER.

HARCOURT.

BLUNT.

Lord Chief Justice of the King's Bench.

A Servant of the Chief-Justice.

EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND.

SCROOP: Archbishop of York.

LORD MOWBRAY.

LORD HASTINGS.

LORD BARDOLPH.

SIR JOHN COLEVILLE.

TRAVERS and MORTON: retainers of Northumberland.

SIR JOHN FALSTAFF.

His Page.

BARDOLPH.

PISTOL.

POINS.

PETO.

SHALLOW and SILENCE: country justices.

DAVY: Servant to Shallow.

MOULDY, SHADOW, WART, FEEBLE, and BULLCALF: recruits.

FANG and SNARE: sheriff's officers.

LADY NORTHUMBERLAND.

LADY PERCY.

MISTRESS QUICKLY: hostess of a tavern in Eastcheap.

DOLL TEARSHEET.

Lords and Attendants; Porter, Drawers, Beadles, Grooms, etc.

A Dancer: speaker of the epilogue.

SCENE: England.

INDUCTION

Warkworth. Before the castle.

[Enter Rumour, painted full of tongues.]

RUMOUR.

Open your ears; for which of you will stop

The vent of hearing when loud Rumour speaks?

I, from the orient to the drooping west,

Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold

The acts commenced on this ball of earth:

Upon my tongues continual slanders ride,

The which in every language I pronounce,

Stuffing the ears of men with false reports.

I speak of peace, while covert emnity

Under the smile of safety wounds the world:

And who but Rumour, who but only I,

Make fearful musters and prepared defence,

Whiles the big year, swoln with some other grief,

Is thought with child by the stern tyrant war,

And no such matter? Rumour is a pipe

Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures,

And of so easy and so plain a stop

That the blunt monster with uncounted heads,

The still-discordant wavering multitude,

Can play upon it. But what need I thus

My well-known body to anatomize

Among my household? Why is Rumour here?

I run before King Harry's victory;

Who in a bloody field by Shrewsbury

Hath beaten down young Hotspur and his troops,

Quenching the flame of bold rebellion

Even with the rebels' blood. But what mean I

To speak so true at first? my office is

To noise abroad that Harry Monmouth fell

Under the wrath of noble Hotspur's sword,

And that the king before the Douglas' rage

Stooped his anointed head as low as death.

This have I rumoured through the peasant towns

Between that royal field of Shrewsbury

And this worm-eaten hold of ragged stone,

Where Hotspur's father, old Northumberland,

Lies crafty-sick: the posts come tiring on,

And not a man of them brings other news

Than they have learned of me: from Rumour's tongues

They bring smooth comforts false, worse than true wrongs.

[Exit.]

ACT I. SCENE I.

The same.

[Enter Lord Bardolph.]

LORD BARDOLPH.

Who keeps the gate here, ho?

[The Porter opens the gate.]

Where is the earl?

PORTER.

What shall I say you are?

LORD BARDOLPH.

Tell thou the earl

That the Lord Bardolph doth attend him here.

PORTER.

His lordship is walked forth into the orchard:

Please it your honour, knock but at the gate,

And he himself will answer.

[Enter Northumberland.]

LORD BARDOLPH.

Here comes the earl.

[Exit Porter.]

NORTHUMBERLAND.

What news, Lord Bardolph? every minute now

Should be the father of some stratagem:

The times are wild; contention, like a horse

Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose

And bears down all before him.

LORD BARDOLPH.

Noble earl,

I bring you certain news from Shrewsbury.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Good, and God will!

LORD BARDOLPH.

As good as heart can wish:

The king is almost wounded to the death;

And, in the fortune of my lord your son,

Prince Harry slain outright; and both the Blunts

Killed by the hand of Douglas; young Prince John,

And Westmoreland and Stafford fled the field:

And Harry Monmouth's brawn, the hulk Sir John,

Is prisoner to your son: O, such a day,

So fought, so followed and so fairly won,

Came not till now to dignify the times,

Since Caesar's fortunes!

NORTHUMBERLAND.

How is this derived?

Saw you the field? came you from Shrewsbury?

LORD BARDOLPH.

I spake with one, my lord, that came from thence,

A gentleman well bred and of good name,

That freely rendered me these news for true.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Here comes my servant Travers, whom I sent

On Tuesday last to listen after news.

[Enter Travers.]

LORD BARDOLPH.

My lord, I over-rode him on the way;

And he is furnished with no certainties

More than he haply may retail from me.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Now, Travers, what good tidings comes with you?

TRAVERS.

My lord, Sir John Umfrevile turned me back

With joyful tidings; and, being better horsed,

Out-rode me. After him came spurring hard

A gentleman, almost forspent with speed,

That stopped by me to breathe his bloodied horse.

He asked the way to Chester; and of him

I did demand what news from Shrewsbury:

He told me that rebellion had bad luck

And that young Harry Percy's spur was cold.

With that, he gave his able horse the head,

And bending forward struck his armed heels

Against the panting sides of his poor jade

Up to the rowel-head, and starting so

He seemed in running to devour the way,

Staying no longer question.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Ha! Again:

Said he young Harry Percy's spur was cold?

Of Hotspur Coldspur? that rebellion

Had met ill luck?

LORD BARDOLPH.

My lord, I'll tell you what;

If my young lord your son have not the day,

Upon mine honour, for a silken point

I'll give my barony: never talk of it.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Why should that gentleman that rode by Travers

Give then such instances of loss?

LORD BARDOLPH.

Who, he?

He was some hilding fellow that had stolen

The horse he rode on, and, upon my life,

Spoke at a venture. Look, here comes more news.

[Enter Morton.]

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Yea, this man's brow, like to a title-leaf,

Foretells the nature of a tragic volume:

So looks the strand whereon the imperious flood

Hath left a witnessed usurpation.

Say, Morton, didst thou come from Shrewsbury?

MORTON.

I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord;

Where hateful death put on his ugliest mask

To fright our party.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

How doth my son and brother?

Thou tremblest; and the whiteness in thy cheek

Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand.

Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless,

So dull, so dread in look, so woe-begone,

Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night,

And would have told him half his Troy was burnt;

But Priam found the fire ere he his tongue,

And I my Percy's death ere thou report'st it.

This thou wouldst say: "Your son did thus and thus;

Your brother thus: so fought the noble Douglas:"

Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds:

But in the end, to stop my ear indeed,

Thou hast a sigh to blow away this praise,

Ending with "Brother, son, and all are dead."

MORTON.

Douglas is living, and your brother, yet:

But, for my lord your son,—

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Why, he is dead.

See what a ready tongue suspicion hath!

He that but fears the thing he would not know

Hath by instinct knowledge from others' eyes

That what he feared is chanced. Yet speak, Morton;

Tell thou an earl his divination lies,

And I will take it as a sweet disgrace

And make thee rich for doing me such wrong.

MORTON.

You are too great to be by me gainsaid:

Your spirit is too true, your fears too certain.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Yet, for all this, say not that Percy's dead.

I see a strange confession in thine eye;

Thou shakest thy head and hold'st it fear or sin

To speak a truth. If he be slain, say so;

The tongue offends not that reports his death:

And he doth sin that doth belie the dead,

Not he which says the dead is not alive

Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news

Hath but a losing office, and his tongue

Sounds ever after as a sullen bell,

Remembered tolling a departing friend.

LORD BARDOLPH.

I cannot think, my lord, your son is dead.

MORTON.

I am sorry I should force you to believe

That which I would to God I had not seen;

But these mine eyes saw him in bloody state,

Rendering faint quittance, wearied and outbreathed,

To Harry Monmouth; whose swift wrath beat down

The never-daunted Percy to the earth,

From whence with life he never more sprung up.

In few, his death, whose spirit lent a fire

Even to the dullest peasant in his camp,

Being bruited once, took fire and heat away

From the best-tempered courage in his troops;

For from his metal was his party steeled;

Which once in him abated, all the rest

Turned on themselves, like dull and heavy lead:

And as the thing that's heavy in itself,

Upon enforcement flies with greatest speed,

So did our men, heavy in Hotspur's loss,

Lend to this weight such lightness with their fear

That arrows fled not swifter toward their aim

Than did our soldiers, aiming at their safety,

Fly from the field. Then was that noble Worcester

Too soon ta'en prisoner; and that furious Scot,

The bloody Douglas, whose well-labouring sword

Had three times slain the appearance of the king,

'Gan vail his stomach and did grace the shame

Of those that turned their backs, and in his flight,

Stumbling in fear, was took. The sum of all

Is that the king hath won, and hath sent out

A speedy power to encounter you, my lord,

Under the conduct of young Lancaster

And Westmoreland. This is the news at full.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

For this I shall have time enough to mourn.

In poison there is physic; and these news,

Having been well, that would have made me sick,

Being sick, have in some measure made me well:

And as the wretch, whose fever-weakened joints,

Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life,

Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire

Out of his keeper's arms, even so my limbs,

Weakened with grief, being now enraged with grief,

Are thrice themselves. Hence, therefore, thou nice crutch!

A scaly gauntlet now with joints of steel

Must glove this hand: and hence, thou sickly quoif!

Thou art a guard too wanton for the head

Which princes, fleshed with conquest, aim to hit.

Now bind my brows with iron; and approach

The ragged'st hour that time and spite dare bring

To frown upon the enraged Northumberland!

Let heaven kiss earth! now let not Nature's hand

Keep the wild flood confined! let order die!

And let this world no longer be a stage

To feed contention in a lingering act;

But let one spirit of the first-born Cain

Reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set

On bloody courses, the rude scene may end,

And darkness be the burier of the dead!

LORD BARDOLPH.

This strained passion doth you wrong, my lord.

MORTON.

Sweet earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour.

The lives of all your loving complices

Lean on your health; the which, if you give o'er

To stormy passion, must perforce decay.

You cast the event of war, my noble lord,

And summed the account of chance, before you said

"Let us make head." It was your presurmise,

That, in the dole of blows, your son might drop:

You knew he walked o'er perils, on an edge,

More likely to fall in than to get o'er;

You were advised his flesh was capable

Of wounds and scars and that his forward spirit

Would lift him where most trade of danger ranged:

Yet did you say "Go forth;" and none of this,

Though strongly apprehended, could restrain

The stiff-borne action: what hath then befallen,

Or what hath this bold enterprise brought forth,

More than that being which was like to be?

LORD BARDOLPH.

We all that are engaged to this loss

Knew that we ventured on such dangerous seas

That if we wrought out life 'twas ten to one;

And yet we ventured, for the gain proposed

Choked the respect of likely peril feared;

And since we are o'erset, venture again.

Come, we will put forth, body and goods.

MORTON.

'Tis more than time: and, my most noble lord,

I hear for certain, and dare speak the truth:

The gentle Archbishop of York is up

With well-appointed powers: he is a man

Who with a double surety binds his followers.

My lord your son had only but the corpse,

But shadows and the shows of men, to fight;

For that same word, rebellion, did divide

The action of their bodies from their souls;

And they did fight with queasiness, constrained,

As men drink potions, that their weapons only

Seemed on our side; but, for their spirits and souls,

This word, rebellion, it had froze them up,

As fish are in a pond. But now the bishop

Turns insurrection to religion:

Supposed sincere and holy in his thoughts,

He 's followed both with body and with mind;

And doth enlarge his rising with the blood

Of fair King Richard, scraped from Pomfret stones;

Derives from heaven his quarrel and his cause;

Tells them he doth bestride a bleeding land,

Gasping for life under great Bolingbroke;

And more and less do flock to follow him.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

I knew of this before; but, to speak truth,

This present grief had wiped it from my mind.

Go in with me; and counsel every man

The aptest way for safety and revenge:

Get posts and letters, and make friends with speed:

Never so few, and never yet more need.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I, SCENE II.

London. A street.

[Enter Falstaff, with his Page bearing his sword and buckler.]

FALSTAFF.

Sirrah, you giant, what says the doctor to my water?

PAGE.

He said, sir, the water itself was a good healthy water; but, for the party that owed it, he might have moe diseases than he knew for.

FALSTAFF.

Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me: the brain of this foolish-compounded clay, man, is not able to invent any thing that tends to laughter, more than I invent or is invented on me: I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men. I do here walk before thee like a sow that hath overwhelmed all her litter but one. If the prince put thee into my service for any other reason than to set me off, why then I have no judgement. Thou whoreson mandrake, thou art fitter to be worn in my cap than to wait at my heels. I was never manned with an agate till now: but I will inset you neither in gold nor silver, but in vile apparel, and send you back again to your master, for a jewel,—the juvenal, the prince your master, whose chin is not yet fledged. I will sooner have a beard grow in the palm of my hand than he shall get one on his cheek; and yet he will not stick to say his face is a face-royal: God may finish it when he will, 'tis not a hair amiss yet: he may keep it still at a face-royal, for a barber shall never earn sixpence out of it; and yet he'll be crowing as if he had writ man ever since his father was a bachelor. He may keep his own grace, but he's almost out of mine, I can assure him. What said Master Dombledon about the satin for my short cloak and my slops?

PAGE.

He said, sir, you should procure him better assurance than Bardolph: he would not take his band and yours; he liked not the security.

FALSTAFF.

Let him be damned, like the glutton! pray God his tongue be hotter! A whoreson Achitophel! a rascally yea-forsooth knave! to bear a gentleman in hand, and then stand upon security! The whoreson smooth-pates do now wear nothing but high shoes, and bunches of keys at their girdles; and if a man is through with them in honest taking up, then they must stand upon security. I had as lief they would put ratsbane in my mouth as offer to stop it with security. I looked 'a should have sent me two and twenty yards of satin, as I am a true knight, and he sends me security. Well, he may sleep in security; for he hath the horn of abundance, and the lightness of his wife shines through it: and yet cannot he see, though he have his own lanthorn to light him. Where's Bardolph?

PAGE.

He's gone into Smithfield to buy your worship a horse.

FALSTAFF.

I bought him in Paul's, and he'll buy me a horse in Smithfield: an I could get me but a wife in the stews, I were manned, horsed, and wived.

[Enter the Lord Chief-Justice and Servant.]

PAGE.

Sir, here comes the nobleman that committed the Prince for striking him about Bardolph.

FALSTAFF.

Wait close; I will not see him.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

What's he that goes there?

SERVANT.

Falstaff, an 't please your lordship.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

He that was in question for the robbery?

SERVANT.

He, my lord; but he hath since done good service at Shrewsbury; and, as I hear, is now going with some charge to the Lord John of Lancaster.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

What, to York? Call him back again.

SERVANT.

Sir John Falstaff!

FALSTAFF.

Boy, tell him I am deaf.

PAGE.

You must speak louder; my master is deaf.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

I am sure he is, to the hearing of anything good. Go, pluck him by the elbow; I must speak with him.

SERVANT.

Sir John!

FALSTAFF.

What! a young knave, and begging! Is there not wars? is there not employment? doth not the king lack subjects? do not the rebels need soldiers? Though it be a shame to be on any side but one, it is worse shame to beg than to be on the worst side, were it worse than the name of rebellion can tell how to make it.

SERVANT.

You mistake me, sir.

FALSTAFF.

Why, sir, did I say you were an honest man? setting my knighthood and my soldiership aside, I had lied in my throat, if I had said so.

SERVANT.

I pray you, sir, then set your knighthood and your soldiership aside; and give me leave to tell you, you lie in your throat, if you say I am any other than an honest man.

FALSTAFF.

I give thee leave to tell me so! I lay aside that which grows to me! If thou gettest any leave of me, hang me; if thou takest leave, thou wert better be hanged. You hunt counter: hence! avaunt!

SERVANT.

Sir, my lord would speak with you.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Sir John Falstaff, a word with you.

FALSTAFF.

My good lord! God give your lordship good time of day. I am glad to see your lordship abroad: I heard say your lordship was sick: I hope your lordship goes abroad by advice. Your lordship, though not clean past your youth, hath yet some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltness of time; and I most humbly beseech your lordship to have a reverend care of your health.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Sir John, I sent for you before your expedition to Shrewsbury.

FALSTAFF.

An 't please your lordship, I hear his majesty is returned with some discomfort from Wales.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

I talk not of his majesty: you would not come when I sent for you.

FALSTAFF.

And I hear, moreover, his highness is fall'n into this same whoreson apoplexy.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Well God mend him! I pray you, let me speak with you.

FALSTAFF.

This apoplexy is, as I take it, a kind of lethargy, an 't please your lordship; a kind of sleeping in the blood, a whoreson tingling.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

What tell you me of it? be it as it is.

FALSTAFF.

It hath it original from much grief, from study and perturbation of the brain: I have read the cause of his effects in Galen: it is a kind of deafness.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

I think you are fallen into the disease, for you hear not what I say to you.

FALSTAFF.

Very well, my lord, very well: rather, an 't please you, it is the disease of not listening, the malady of not marking, that I am troubled withal.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

To punish you by the heels would amend the attention of your ears; and I care not if I do become your physician.

FALSTAFF.

I am as poor as Job, my lord, but not so patient: your lordship may minister the potion of imprisonment to me in respect of poverty; but how I should be your patient to follow your prescriptions, the wise may make some dram of a scruple, or indeed a scruple itself.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

I sent for you, when there were matters against you for your life, to come speak with me.

FALSTAFF.

As I was then advised by my learned counsel in the laws of this land-service, I did not come.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Well, the truth is, Sir John, you live in great infamy.

FALSTAFF.

He that buckles himself in my belt cannot live in less.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Your means are very slender, and your waste is great.

FALSTAFF.

I would it were otherwise; I would my means were greater, and my waist slenderer.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

You have misled the youthful prince.

FALSTAFF.

The young prince hath misled me: I am the fellow with the great belly, and he my dog.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Well, I am loath to gall a new-healed wound: your day's service at Shrewsbury hath a little gilded over your night's exploit on Gad's-hill: you may thank the unquiet time for your quiet o'er-posting that action.

FALSTAFF.

My lord?

CHIEF JUSTICE.

But since all is well, keep it so: wake not a sleeping wolf.

FALSTAFF.

To wake a wolf is as bad as smell a fox.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

What! you are as a candle, the better part burnt out.

FALSTAFF.

A wassail candle, my lord, all tallow: if I did say of wax, my growth would approve the truth.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

There is not a white hair in your face but should have his effect of gravity.

FALSTAFF.

His effect of gravy, gravy, gravy.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

You follow the young prince up and down, like his ill angel.

FALSTAFF.

Not so, my lord; your ill angel is light; but I hope he that looks upon me will take me without weighing: and yet, in some respects, I grant, I cannot go: I cannot tell. Virtue is of so little regard in these costermonger times that true valour is turned bear-herd; pregnancy is made a tapster, and hath his quick wit wasted in giving reckonings: all the other gifts appertinent to man, as the malice of this age shapes them, are not worth a gooseberry. You that are old consider not the capacities of us that are young; you do measure the heat of our livers with the bitterness of your galls: and we that are in the vaward of our youth, I must confess, are wags too.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Do you set down your name in the scroll of youth, that are written down old with all the characters of age? Have you not a moist eye? a dry hand? a yellow cheek? a white beard? a decreasing leg? an increasing belly? is not your voice broken? your wind short? your chin double? your wit single? and every part about you blasted with antiquity? and will you yet call yourself young? Fie, fie, fie, Sir John!

FALSTAFF.

My lord, I was born about three of the clock in the afternoon, with a white head and something a round belly. For my voice, I have lost it with halloing and singing of anthems. To approve my youth further, I will not: the truth is, I am only old in judgement and understanding; and he that will caper with me for a thousand marks, let him lend me the money, and have at him! For the box of the ear that the prince gave you, he gave it like a rude prince, and you took it like a sensible lord. I have checked him for it, and the young lion repents; marry, not in ashes and sackcloth, but in new silk and old sack.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Well, God send the prince a better companion!

FALSTAFF.

God send the companion a better prince! I cannot rid my hands of him.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Well, the king hath severed you and Prince Harry: I hear you are going with Lord John of Lancaster against the Archbishop and the Earl of Northumberland.

FALSTAFF.

Yea; I thank your pretty sweet wit for it. But look you pray, all you that kiss my lady Peace at home, that our armies join not in a hot day; for, by the Lord, I take but two shirts out with me, and I mean not to sweat extraordinarily: if it be a hot day, and I brandish any thing but a bottle, I would I might never spit white again. There is not a dangerous action can peep out his head but I am thrust upon it: well, I cannot last ever: but it was alway yet the trick of our English nation, if they have a good thing, to make it too common. If ye will needs say I am an old man, you should give me rest. I would to God my name were not so terrible to the enemy as it is: I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Well, be honest, be honest; and God bless your expedition!

FALSTAFF.

Will your lordship lend me a thousand pound to furnish me forth?

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Not a penny, not a penny; you are too impatient to bear crosses. Fare you well: commend me to my cousin Westmoreland.

[Exeunt Chief-Justice and Servant.]

FALSTAFF.

If I do, fillip me with a three-man beetle. A man can no more separate age and covetousness than 'a can part young limbs and lechery: but the gout galls the one, and the pox pinches the other; and so both the degrees prevent my curses. Boy!

PAGE.

Sir?

FALSTAFF.

What money is in my purse?

PAGE.

Seven groats and two pence.

FALSTAFF.

I can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse: borrowing only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable. Go bear this letter to my Lord of Lancaster; this to the prince; this to the Earl of Westmoreland; and this to old Mistress Ursula, whom I have weekly sworn to marry since I perceived the first white hair of my chin. About it: you know where to find me. [Exit Page.] A pox of this gout! or, a gout of this pox! for the one or the other plays the rogue with my great toe. 'Tis no matter if I do halt; I have the wars for my colour, and my pension shall seem the more reasonable. A good wit will make use of any thing: I will turn diseases to commodity.

[Exit.]

ACT I. SCENE III.

York. The Archbishop's palace.

[Enter the Archbishop, the Lords Hastings, Mowbray, Bardolph.]

ARCHBISHOP.

Thus have you heard our cause and known our means;

And, my most noble friends, I pray you all,

Speak plainly your opinions of our hopes:

And first, lord marshal, what say you to it?

MOWBRAY.

I well allow the occasion of our arms;

But gladly would be better satisfied

How in our means we should advance ourselves

To look with forehead bold and big enough

Upon the power and puissance of the king.

HASTINGS.

Our present musters grow upon the file

To five and twenty thousand men of choice;

And our supplies live largely in the hope

Of great Northumberland, whose bosom burns

With an incensed fire of injuries.

LORD BARDOLPH.

The question then, Lord Hastings, standeth thus:

Whether our present five and twenty thousand

May hold up head without Northumberland?

HASTINGS.

With him, we may.

LORD BARDOLPH.

Yea, marry, there 's the point:

But if without him we be thought too feeble,

My judgement is, we should not step too far

Till we had his assistance by the hand;

For in a theme so bloody-faced as this

Conjecture, expectation, and surmise

Of aids incertain should not be admitted.

ARCHBISHOP.

'Tis very true, Lord Bardolph; for indeed

It was young Hotspur's case at Shrewsbury.

LORD BARDOLPH.

It was, my lord; who lined himself with hope,

Eating the air on promise of supply,

Flattering himself in project of a power

Much smaller than the smallest of his thoughts:

And so, with great imagination

Proper to madmen, led his powers to death

And winking leaped into destruction.

HASTINGS.

But, by your leave, it never yet did hurt

To lay down likelihoods and forms of hope.

LORD BARDOLPH.

Yes, if this present quality of war,

Indeed the instant action: a cause on foot

Lives so in hope as in an early spring

We see the appearing buds; which to prove fruit,

Hope gives not so much warrant as despair

That frosts will bite them. When we mean to build,

We first survey the plot, then draw the model;

And when we see the figure of the house,

Then we must rate the cost of the erection;

Which if we find outweighs ability,

What do we then but draw anew the model

In fewer offices, or at least desist

To build at all? Much more, in this great work,

Which is almost to pluck a kingdom down

And set another up, should we survey

The plot of situation and the model,

Consent upon a sure foundation,

Question surveyors, know our own estate,

How able such a work to undergo,

To weigh against his opposite; or else

We fortify in paper and in figures,

Using the names of men instead of men;

Like one that draws the model of a house

Beyond his power to build it; who, half through,

Gives o'er and leaves his part-created cost

A naked subject to the weeping clouds

And waste for churlish winter's tyranny.

HASTINGS.

Grant that our hopes, yet likely of fair birth,

Should be still-born, and that we now possessed

The utmost man of expectation,

I think we are a body strong enough,

Even as we are, to equal with the king.

LORD BARDOLPH.

What, is the king but five and twenty thousand?

HASTINGS.

To us no more; nay, not so much, Lord Bardolph.

For his divisions, as the times do brawl,

Are in three heads: one power against the French,

And one against Glendower; perforce a third

Must take up us: so is the unfirm king

In three divided; and his coffers sound

With hollow poverty and emptiness.

ARCHBISHOP.

That he should draw his several strengths together

And come against us in full puissance,

Need not be dreaded.

HASTINGS.

If he should do so,

He leaves his back unarmed, the French and Welsh

Baying him at the heels: never fear that.

LORD BARDOLPH.

Who is it like should lead his forces hither?

HASTINGS.

The Duke of Lancaster and Westmoreland;

Against the Welsh, himself and Harry Monmouth:

But who is substituted 'gainst the French,

I have no certain notice.

ARCHBISHOP.

Let us on,

And publish the occasion of our arms.

The commonwealth is sick of their own choice;

Their over-greedy love hath surfeited:

An habitation giddy and unsure

Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart.

O thou fond many, with what loud applause

Didst thou beat heaven with blessing Bolingbroke,

Before he was what thou wouldst have him be!

And being now trimmed in thine own desires,

Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of him,

That thou provokest thyself to cast him up.

So, so, thou common dog, didst thou disgorge

Thy glutton bosom of the royal Richard;

And now thou wouldst eat thy dead vomit up,

And howl'st to find it. What trust is in these times?

They that, when Richard lived, would have him die,

Are now become enamoured on his grave:

Thou that threw'st dust upon his goodly head

When through proud London he came sighing on

After the admired heels of Bolingbroke,

Criest now "O earth, yield us that king again,

And take thou this!" O thoughts of men accursed!

Past and to come seems best; things present worst.

MOWBRAY.

Shall we go draw our numbers, and set on?

HASTINGS.

We are time's subjects, and time bids be gone.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

London. A street.

[Enter Hostess, Fang and his Boy with her, and Snare following.]

HOSTESS.

Master Fang, have you entered the action?

FANG.

It is entered.

HOSTESS.

Where 's your yeoman? Is 't a lusty yeoman? will 'a stand to 't?

FANG.

Sirrah, where 's Snare?

HOSTESS.

O Lord, ay! good Master Snare.

SNARE.

Here, here.

FANG.

Snare, we must arrest Sir John Falstaff.

HOSTESS.

Yea, good Master Snare; I have entered him and all.

SNARE.

It may chance cost some of our lives, for he will stab.

HOSTESS.

Alas the day! take heed of him; he stabbed me in mine own house, and that most beastly: in good faith, he cares not what mischief he does, if his weapon be out: he will foin like any devil; he will spare neither man, woman, nor child.

FANG.

If I can close with him, I care not for his thrust.

HOSTESS.

No, nor I neither: I'll be at your elbow.

FANG.

An I but fist him once; an 'a come but within my vice,—

HOSTESS.

I am undone by his going; I warrant you, he 's an infinitive thing upon my score. Good Master Fang, hold him sure: good Master Snare, let him not 'scape. A' comes continuantly to Pie-corner—saving your manhoods—to buy a saddle; and he is indited to dinner to the Lubber's-head in Lumbert Street, to Master Smooth's the silkman: I pray ye, since my exion is entered and my case so openly known to the world, let him be brought in to his answer. A hundred mark is a long one for a poor lone woman to bear: and I have borne, and borne, and borne; and have been fubbed off, and fubbed off, and fubbed off, from this day to that day, that it is a shame to be thought on. There is no honesty in such dealing; unless a woman should be made an ass and a beast, to bear every knave's wrong.

[Enter Falstaff, Page, and Bardolph.]

Yonder he comes; and that arrant malmsey-nose knave, Bardolph, with him. Do your offices, do your offices, Master Fang and Master Snare, do me, do me, do me your offices.

FALSTAFF.

How now! whose mare's dead? what's the matter?

FANG.

Sir John, I arrest you at the suit of Mistress Quickly.

FALSTAFF.

Away, varlets! Draw, Bardolph: cut me off the villain's head: throw the quean in the channel.

HOSTESS.

Throw me in the channel! I'll throw thee in the channel. Wilt thou? wilt thou? thou bastardly rogue! Murder, murder! Ah, thou honey-suckle villain! wilt thou kill God's officers and the king's? Ah, thou honey-seed rogue! thou art a honey-seed, a man-queller, and a woman-queller.

FALSTAFF.

Keep them off, Bardolph.

FANG.

A rescue! a rescue!

HOSTESS.

Good people, bring a rescue or two. Thou wo't, wo't thou? thou wo't, wo't ta? do, do, thou rogue! do, thou hemp-seed!

PAGE.

Away, you scullion! you rampallian! you fustilarian! I'll tickle your catastrophe.

[Enter the Lord Chief-Justice, and his men.]

CHIEF JUSTICE.

What is the matter? keep the peace here, ho!

HOSTESS.

Good my lord, be good to me. I beseech you, stand to me.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

How now, Sir John! what are you brawling here?

Doth this become your place, your time and business?

You should have been well on your way to York.

Stand from him, fellow: wherefore hang'st thou upon him?

HOSTESS.

O my most worshipful lord, an't please your grace, I am a poor widow of Eastcheap, and he is arrested at my suit.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

For what sum?

HOSTESS.

It is more than for some, my lord; it is for all, all I have. He hath eaten me out of house and home; he hath put all my substance into that fat belly of his: but I will have some of it out again, or I will ride thee o' nights like the mare.

FALSTAFF.

I think I am as like to ride the mare, if I have any vantage of ground to get up.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

How comes this, Sir John? Fie! what man of good temper would endure this tempest of exclamation? Are you not ashamed to enforce a poor widow to so rough a course to come by her own?

FALSTAFF.

What is the gross sum that I owe thee?

HOSTESS.

Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself and the money too. Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin-chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, upon Wednesday in Wheeson week, when the prince broke thy head for liking his father to a singing-man of Windsor, thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me and make me my lady thy wife. Canst thou deny it? Did not goodwife Keech, the butcher's wife, come in then and call me gossip Quickly? Coming in to borrow a mess of vinegar; telling us she had a good dish of prawns, whereby thou didst desire to eat some, whereby I told thee they were ill for green wound? And didst thou not, when she was gone down stairs, desire me to be no more so familiarity with such poor people; saying that ere long they should call me madam? And didst thou not kiss me, and bid me fetch thee thirty shillings? I put thee now to thy book-oath: deny it, if thou canst.

FALSTAFF.

My lord, this is a poor mad soul; and she says up and down the town that her eldest son is like you: she hath been in good case, and the truth is, poverty hath distracted her. But for these foolish officers, I beseech you I may have redress against them.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Sir John, Sir John, I am well acquainted with your manner of wrenching the true cause the false way. It is not a confident brow, nor the throng of words that come with such more than impudent sauciness from you, can thrust me from a level consideration: you have, as it appears to me, practised upon the easy-yielding spirit of this woman, and made her serve your uses both in purse and in person.

HOSTESS.

Yea, in truth, my lord.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Pray thee, peace. Pay her the debt you owe her, and unpay the villany you have done her: the one you may do with sterling money, and the other with current repentance.

FALSTAFF.

My lord, I will not undergo this sneap without reply. You call honourable boldness impudent sauciness: if a man will make courtesy and say nothing, he is virtuous: no, my lord, my humble duty remembered, I will not be your suitor. I say to you, I do desire deliverance from these officers, being upon hasty employment in the king's affairs.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

You speak as having power to do wrong: but answer in the effect of your reputation, and satisfy the poor woman.

FALSTAFF.

Come hither, hostess.

[Enter Gower.]

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Now, Master Gower, what news?

GOWER.

The king, my lord, and Harry Prince of Wales

Are near at hand: the rest the paper tells.

[Gives a letter.]

FALSTAFF.

As I am a gentleman.

HOSTESS.

Faith, you said so before.

FALSTAFF.

As I am a gentleman. Come, no more words of it.

HOSTESS.

By this heavenly ground I tread on, I must be fain to pawn both my plate and the tapestry of my dining-chambers.

FALSTAFF.

Glasses, glasses, is the only drinking: and for thy walls, a pretty slight drollery, or the story of the Prodigal, or the German hunting in water-work, is worth a thousand of these bed-hangings and these fly-bitten tapestries. Let it be ten pound, if thou canst. Come, an 'twere not for thy humours, there's not a better wench in England. Go, wash thy face, and draw the action. Come, thou must not be in this humour with me; dost not know me? Come, come, I know thou wast set on to this.

HOSTESS.

Pray thee, Sir John, let it be but twenty nobles: i' faith, I am loath to pawn my plate, so God save me, la!

FALSTAFF.

Let it alone; I'll make other shift: you'll be a fool still.

HOSTESS.

Well, you shall have it, though I pawn my gown. I hope you'll come to supper. You'll pay me all together?

FALSTAFF.

Will I live? [To Bardolph.] Go, with her, with her;

hook on, hook on.

HOSTESS.

Will you have Doll Tearsheet meet you at supper?

FALSTAFF.

No more words; let 's have her.

[Exeunt Hostess, Bardolph, Officers, and Boy.]

CHIEF JUSTICE.

I have heard better news.

FALSTAFF.

What 's the news, my lord?

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Where lay the king last night?

GOWER.

At Basingstoke, my lord.

FALSTAFF.

I hope, my lord, all 's well: what is the news, my lord?

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Come all his forces back?

GOWER.

No; fifteen hundred foot, five hundred horse,

Are marched up to my Lord of Lancaster,

Against Northumberland and the Archbishop.

FALSTAFF.

Comes the king back from Wales, my noble lord?

CHIEF JUSTICE.

You shall have letters of me presently:

Come, go along with me, good Master Gower.

FALSTAFF.

My lord!

CHIEF JUSTICE.

What's the matter?

FALSTAFF.

Master Gower, shall I entreat you with me to dinner?

GOWER.

I must wait upon my good lord here; I thank you, good Sir John.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Sir John, you loiter here too long, being you are to take soldiers up in counties as you go.

FALSTAFF.

Will you sup with me, Master Gower?

CHIEF JUSTICE.

What foolish master taught you these manners, Sir John?

FALSTAFF.

Master Gower, if they become me not, he was a fool that taught them me. This is the right fencing grace, my lord; tap for tap, and so part fair.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Now the Lord lighten thee! thou art a great fool.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

London. Another street.

[Enter Prince Henry and Poins.]

PRINCE.

Before God, I am exceeding weary.

POINS.

Is 't come to that? I had thought weariness durst not have attached one of so high blood.

PRINCE.

Faith, it does me; though it discolours the complexion of my greatness to acknowledge it. Doth it not show vilely in me to desire small beer?

POINS.

Why, a prince should not be so loosely studied as to remember so weak a composition.

PRINCE.

Belike then my appetite was not princely got; for, by my troth, I do now remember the poor creature, small beer. But, indeed, these humble considerations make me out of love with my greatness. What a disgrace is it to me to remember thy name! or to know thy face to-morrow! or to take note how many pair of silk stockings thou hast, viz. these, and those that were thy peach-coloured ones! or to bear the inventory of thy shirts, as, one for superfluity, and another for use! But that the tennis-court-keeper knows better than I; for it is a low ebb of linen with thee when thou keepest not racket there; as thou hast not done a great while, because the rest of thy low countries have made a shift to eat up thy holland: and God knows, whether those that bawl out of the ruins of thy linen shall inherit his kingdom: but the midwives say the children are not in the fault; whereupon the world increases, and kindreds are mightily strengthened.

POINS.

How ill it follows, after you have laboured so hard, you should talk so idly! Tell me, how many good young princes would do so, their fathers being so sick as yours at this time is?

PRINCE.

Shall I tell thee one thing, Poins?

POINS.

Yes, faith; and let it be an excellent good thing.

PRINCE.

It shall serve among wits of no higher breeding than thine.

POINS.

Go to; I stand the push of your one thing that you will tell.

PRINCE.

Marry, I tell thee it is not meet that I should be sad, now my father is sick: albeit I could tell to thee, as to one it pleases me, for fault of a better, to call my friend, I could be sad, and sad indeed too.

POINS.

Very hardly upon such a subject.

PRINCE.

By this hand, thou thinkest me as far in the devil's book as thou and Falstaff for obduracy and persistency: let the end try the man. But I tell thee, my heart bleeds inwardly that my father is so sick: and keeping such vile company as thou art hath in reason taken from me all ostentation of sorrow.

POINS.

The reason?

PRINCE.

What wouldst thou think of me, if I should weep?

POINS.

I would think thee a most princely hypocrite.

PRINCE.

It would be every man's thought; and thou art a blessed fellow to think as every man thinks: never a man's thought in the world keeps the road-way better than thine: every man would think me an hypocrite indeed. And what accites your most worshipful thought to think so?

POINS.

Why, because you have been so lewd and so much engraffed to Falstaff.

PRINCE.

And to thee.

POINS.

By this light, I am well spoke on; I can hear it with mine own ears: the worst that they can say of me is that I am a second brother and that I am a proper fellow of my hands; and those two things, I confess, I cannot help. By the mass, here comes Bardolph.

[Enter Bardolph and Page.]

PRINCE.

And the boy that I gave Falstaff: 'a had him from me Christian; and look, if the fat villain have not transformed him ape.

BARDOLPH.

God save your grace!

PRINCE.

And yours, most noble Bardolph!

POINS.

[To Bardolph.] Come, you virtuous ass, you bashful fool, must you be blushing? wherefore blush you now? What a maidenly man-at-arms are you become! Is 't such a matter to get a pottle-pot's maidenhead?

PAGE.

A calls me e'en now, my lord, through a red lattice, and I could discern no part of his face from the window: at last I spied his eyes, and methought he had made two holes in the ale-wife's new petticoat and so peeped through.

PRINCE.

Has not the boy profited?

BARDOLPH.

Away, you whoreson upright rabbit, away!

PAGE.

Away, you rascally Althaea's dream, away!

PRINCE.

Instruct us, boy; what dream, boy?

PAGE.

Marry, my lord, Althaea dreamt she was delivered of a fire-brand; and therefore I call him her dream.

PRINCE.

A crown's worth of good interpretation: there 'tis, boy.

POINS.

O, that this blossom could be kept from cankers! Well, there is sixpence to preserve thee.

BARDOLPH.

An you do not make him hanged among you, the gallows shall have wrong.

PRINCE.

And how doth thy master, Bardolph?

BARDOLPH.

Well, my lord. He heard of your grace's coming to town—there's a letter for you.

POINS.

Delivered with good respect. And how doth the martlemas, your master?

BARDOLPH.

In bodily health, sir.

POINS.

Marry, the immortal part needs a physician; but that moves not him: though that be sick, it dies not.

PRINCE.

I do allow this wen to be as familiar with me as my dog; and he holds his place; for look you how he writes.

POINS.

[Reads.] "John Falstaff, Knight,"—every man must know that, as oft as he has occasion to name himself: even like those that are kin to the king; for they never prick their finger but they say, "There's some of the king's blood spilt." "How comes that?" says he, that takes upon him not to conceive. The answer is as ready as a borrower's cap, "I am the king's poor cousin, sir."

PRINCE.

Nay, they will be kin to us, or they will fetch it from Japhet. But to the letter:

POINS.

[Reads] "Sir John Falstaff, knight, to the son of the king, nearest his father, Harry Prince of Wales, greeting." Why, this is a certificate.

PRINCE.

Peace!

POINS.

[Reads.] "I will imitate the honourable Romans in brevity:" he sure means brevity in breath, short-winded. "I commend me to thee, I commend thee, and I leave thee. Be not too familiar with Poins; for he misuses thy favours so much, that he swears thou art to marry his sister Nell. Repent at idle times as thou mayest; and so, farewell.

"Thine, by yea and no, which is as much as to say, as thou usest him, JACK FALSTAFF with my familiars, JOHN with my brothers and sisters, and SIR JOHN with all Europe."

My lord, I'll steep this letter in sack and make him eat it.

PRINCE.

That 's to make him eat twenty of his words. But do you use me thus, Ned? must I marry your sister?

POINS.

God send the wench no worse fortune! But I never said so.

PRINCE.

Well, thus we play the fools with the time, and the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us. Is your master here in London?

BARDOLPH.

Yea, my lord.

PRINCE.

Where sups he? doth the old boar feed in the old frank?

BARDOLPH.

At the old place, my lord, in Eastcheap.

PRINCE.

What company?

PAGE.

Ephesians, my lord, of the old church.

PRINCE.

Sup any women with him?

PAGE.

None, my lord, but old Mistress Quickly and Mistress Doll Tearsheet.

PRINCE.

What pagan may that be?

PAGE.

A proper gentlewoman, sir, and a kinswoman of my master's.

PRINCE.

Even such kin as the parish heifers are to the town bull. Shall we steal upon them, Ned, at supper?

POINS.

I am your shadow, my lord; I'll follow you.

PRINCE.

Sirrah, you boy, and Bardolph, no word to your master that I am yet come to town—there's for your silence.

BARDOLPH.

I have no tongue, sir.

PAGE.

And for mine, sir, I will govern it.

PRINCE.

Fare you well; go.

[Exeunt Bardolph and Page.]

This Doll Tearsheet should be some road.

POINS.

I warrant you, as common as the way between Saint Alban's and London.

PRINCE.

How might we see Falstaff bestow himself to-night in his true colours, and not ourselves be seen?

POINS.

Put on two leathern jerkins and aprons, and wait upon him at his table as drawers.

PRINCE.

From a God to a bull? a heavy descension! it was Jove's case. From a prince to a prentice? a low transformation! that shall be mine; for in everything the purpose must weigh with the folly. Follow me, Ned.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE III.

Warkworth. Before the castle.

[Enter Northumberland, Lady Northumberland, and Lady Percy.]

NORTHUMBERLAND.

I pray thee, loving wife, and gentle daughter,

Give even way unto my rough affairs;

Put not you on the visage of the times

And be like them to Percy troublesome.

LADY NORTHUMBERLAND.

I have given over, I will speak no more:

Do what you will; your wisdom be your guide.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Alas, sweet wife, my honour is at pawn;

And, but my going, nothing can redeem it.

LADY PERCY.

O yet, for God's sake, go not to these wars!

The time was, father, that you broke your word,

When you were more endeared to it than now!

When your own Percy, when my heart's dear Harry,

Threw many a northward look to see his father

Bring up his powers; but he did long in vain.

Who then persuaded you to stay at home?

There were two honours lost, yours and your son's.

For yours, the God of heaven brighten it!

For his, it stuck upon him as the sun

In the grey vault of heaven; and by his light

Did all the chivalry of England move

To do brave acts: he was indeed the glass

Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves:

He had no legs that practised not his gait;

And speaking thick, which nature made his blemish,

Became the accents of the valiant;

For those who could speak low and tardily

Would turn their own perfection to abuse,

To seem like him: so that in speech, in gait,

In diet, in affections of delight,

In military rules, humours of blood,

He was the mark and glass, copy and book,

That fashioned others. And him, O wondrous him!

O miracle of men! him did you leave,

Second to none, unseconded by you,

To look upon the hideous god of war

In disadvantage; to abide a field

Where nothing but the sound of Hotspur's name

Did seem defensible: so you left him.

Never, O never, do his ghost the wrong

To hold your honour more precise and nice

With others than with him! let them alone:

The marshal and the archbishop are strong:

Had my sweet Harry had but half their numbers,

To-day might I, hanging on Hotspur's neck,

Have talked of Monmouth's grave.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Beshrew your heart,

Fair daughter, you do draw my spirits from me

With new lamenting ancient oversights.

But I must go and meet with danger there,

Or it will seek me in another place,

And find me worse provided.

LADY NORTHUMBERLAND.

O, fly to Scotland,

Till that the nobles and the armed commons

Have of their puissance made a little taste.

LADY PERCY.

If they get ground and vantage of the king,

Then join you with them, like a rib of steel,

To make strength stronger; but, for all our loves,

First let them try themselves. So did your son;

He was so suffered: so came I a widow;

And never shall have length of life enough

To rain upon remembrance with mine eyes,

That it may grow and sprout as high as heaven,

For recordation to my noble husband.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Come, come, go in with me. 'Tis with my mind

As with the tide swelled up unto his height,

That makes a still-stand, running neither way:

Fain would I go to meet the archbishop,

But many thousand reasons hold me back.

I will resolve for Scotland: there am I,

Till time and vantage crave my company.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE IV.

London. The Boar's-head Tavern in Eastcheap.

[Enter two Drawers.]

FIRST DRAWER.

What the devil hast thou brought there? apple-johns? thou knowest Sir John cannot endure an apple-john.

SECOND DRAWER.

Mass, thou sayest true. The prince once set a dish of apple-johns before him, and told him there were five more Sir Johns, and, putting off his hat, said "I will now take my leave of these six dry, round, old, withered knights." It angered him to the heart: but he hath forgot that.

FIRST DRAWER.

Why, then, cover, and set them down: and see if thou canst find out Sneak's noise; Mistress Tearsheet would fain hear some music.

[Enter Third Drawer.]

THIRD DRAWER.

Dispatch: The room where they supped is too hot; they'll come in straight.

SECOND DRAWER.

Sirrah, here will be the prince and Master Poins anon; and they will put on two of our jerkins and aprons; and Sir John must not know of it: Bardolph hath brought word.

THIRD DRAWER.

By the mass, here will be old utis: it will be an excellent stratagem.

SECOND DRAWER.

I'll see if I can find out Sneak.

[Exit, with Third Drawer]

[Enter Hostess and Doll Tearsheet.]

HOSTESS.

I' faith, sweetheart, methinks now you are in an excellent good temperality: your pulsidge beats as extraordinarily as heart would desire; and your colour, I warrant you, is as red as any rose, in good truth, la! But, i' faith, you have drunk too much canaries; and that 's a marvellous searching wine, and it perfumes the blood ere one can say "What's this?" How do you now?

DOLL.

Better than I was: hem!

HOSTESS.

Why, that 's well said; a good heart's worth gold. Lo, here comes Sir John.

[Enter Falstaff.]

FALSTAFF.

[Singing] "When Arthur first in court"—Empty the jordan. [Exit First Drawer.]—[Singing] "And was a worthy king." How now, Mistress Doll!

HOSTESS.

Sick of a calm; yea, good faith.

FALSTAFF.

So is all her sect; an they be once in a calm, they are sick.

DOLL.

A pox damn you, you muddy rascal, is that all the comfort you give me?

FALSTAFF.

You make fat rascals, Mistress Doll.

DOLL.

I make them! gluttony and diseases make them; I make them not.

FALSTAFF.

If the cook help to make the gluttony, you help to make the diseases, Doll: we catch of you, Doll, we catch of you; grant that, my poor virtue, grant that.

DOLL.

Yea, joy, our chains and our jewels.

FALSTAFF.

"Your brooches, pearls, and ouches:" for to serve bravely is to come halting off, you know: to come off the breach with his pike bent bravely, and to surgery bravely; to venture upon the charged chambers bravely,—

DOLL.

Hang yourself, you muddy conger, hang yourself!

HOSTESS.

By my troth, this is the old fashion; you two never meet but you fall to some discord: you are both, i' good truth, as rheumatic as two dry toasts; you cannot one bear with another's confirmities. What the good-year! one must bear, and that must be you: you are the weaker vessel, as as they say, the emptier vessel.

DOLL.

Can a weak empty vessel bear such a huge full hogshead? there's a whole merchant's venture of Bourdeaux stuff in him; you have not seen a hulk better stuffed in the hold. Come, I'll be friends with thee, Jack: thou art going to the wars; and whether I shall ever see thee again or no, there is nobody cares.

[Re-enter First Drawer.]

FIRST DRAWER.

Sir, Ancient Pistol's below, and would speak with you.

DOLL.

Hang him, swaggering rascal! let him not come hither: it is the foul-mouthed'st rogue in England.

HOSTESS.

If he swagger, let him not come here: no, by my faith; I must live among my neighbours; I'll no swaggerers: I am in good name and fame with the very best: shut the door; there comes no swaggerers here: I have not lived all this while, to have swaggering now: shut the door, I pray you.

FALSTAFF.

Dost thou hear, hostess?

HOSTESS.

Pray ye, pacify yourself, Sir John: there comes no swaggerers here.

FALSTAFF.

Dost thou hear? it is mine ancient.

HOSTESS.

Tilly-fally, Sir John, ne'er tell me: your ancient swaggerer comes not in my doors. I was before Master Tisick, the debuty, t'other day; and, as he said to me, 'twas no longer ago than Wednesday last, "I' good faith, neighbour Quickly," says he; Master Dumbe, our minister, was by then; "neighbour Quickly," says he, "receive those that are civil; for" said he "you are in an ill name:" now a' said so, I can tell whereupon; "for," says he, "you are an honest woman, and well thought on; therefore take heed what guests you receive: receive," says he, "no swaggering companions." There comes none here: you would bless you to hear what he said: no, I'll no swaggerers.

FALSTAFF.

He's no swaggerer, hostess; a tame cheater, i' faith; you may stroke him as gently as a puppy greyhound: he'll not swagger with a Barbary hen, if her feathers turn back in any show of resistance. Call him up, drawer.

[Exit First Drawer.]

HOSTESS.

Cheater, call you him? I will bar no honest man my house, nor no cheater: but I do not love swaggering, by my troth; I am the worse, when one says swagger: feel, masters, how I shake; look you, I warrant you.

DOLL.

So you do, hostess.

HOSTESS.

Do I? Yea, in very truth, do I, an 'twere an aspen leaf: I cannot abide swaggerers.

[Enter Pistol, Bardolph, and Page.]

PISTOL.

God save you, Sir John!

FALSTAFF.

Welcome, Ancient Pistol. Here, Pistol, I charge you with a cup of sack: do you discharge upon mine hostess.

PISTOL.

I will discharge upon her, Sir John, with two bullets.

FALSTAFF.

She is pistol-proof, sir; you shall hardly offend her.

HOSTESS.

Come, I'll drink no proofs nor no bullets: I'll drink no more than will do me good, for no man's pleasure, I.

PISTOL.

Then to you, Mistress Dorothy; I will charge you.

DOLL.

Charge me! I scorn you, scurvy companion. What! you poor, base, rascally, cheating, lack-linen mate! Away, you mouldy rogue, away! I am meat for your master.

PISTOL.

I know you, Mistress Dorothy.

DOLL.

Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! by this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you! Since when, I pray you, sir? God's light, with two points on your shoulder? much!

PISTOL.

God let me not live, but I will murder your ruff for this.

FALSTAFF.

No more, Pistol; I would not have you go off here: discharge yourself of our company, Pistol.

HOSTESS.

No, good Captain Pistol; not here, sweet captain.

DOLL.

Captain! thou abominable damned cheater, art thou not ashamed to be called captain? An captains were of my mind, they would truncheon you out, for taking their names upon you before you have earned them. You a captain! you slave, for what? for tearing a poor whore's ruff in a bawdy-house? He a captain! hang him, rogue! he lives upon mouldy stewed prunes and dried cakes. A captain! God's light, these villains will make the word as odious as the word "occupy;" which was an excellent good word before it was ill sorted: therefore captains had need look to't.

BARDOLPH.

Pray thee, go down, good ancient.

FALSTAFF.

Hark thee hither, Mistress Doll.

PISTOL.

Not I: I tell thee what, Corporal Bardolph, I could tear her: I'll be revenged of her.

PAGE.

Pray thee go down.

PISTOL.

I'll see her damned first; to Pluto's damned lake, by this hand, to the infernal deep, with Erebus and tortures vile also. Hold hook and line, say I. Down, down, dogs! down, faitors! Have we not Hiren here?

HOSTESS.

Good Captain Peesel, be quiet; 'tis very late, i' faith: I beseek you now, aggravate your choler.

PISTOL.

These be good humours, indeed! Shall packhorses

And hollow pampered jades of Asia,

Which cannot go but thirty mile a-day,

Compare with Caesars, and with Cannibals,

And Trojan Greeks? nay, rather damn them with

King Cerberus; and let the welkin roar.

Shall we fall foul for toys?

HOSTESS.

By my troth, captain, these are very bitter words.

BARDOLPH.

Be gone, good ancient: this will grow to a brawl anon.

PISTOL.

Die men like dogs! give crowns like pins! Have we not Hiren here?

HOSTESS.

O' my word, captain, there 's none such here. What the good-year! do you think I would deny her? For God's sake, be quiet.

PISTOL.

Then feed, and be fat, my fair Calipolis.

Come, give 's some sack.

Si fortune me tormente, sperato me contento.

Fear we broadsides? no, let the fiend give fire:

Give me some sack: and, sweetheart, lie thou there.

[Laying down his sword.]

Come we to full points here, and are etceteras nothing?

FALSTAFF.

Pistol, I would be quiet.

PISTOL.

Sweet knight, I kiss thy neif: what! we have seen the seven stars.

DOLL.

For God's sake, thrust him down stairs: I cannot endure such a fustian rascal.

PISTOL.

Thrust him down stairs! know we not Galloway nags?

FALSTAFF.

Quoit him down, Bardolph, like a shove-groat shilling: nay, an a' do nothing but speak nothing, a' shall be nothing here.

BARDOLPH.

Come, get you down stairs.

PISTOL.

What! shall we have incision? shall we imbrue?

[Snatching up his sword.]

Then death rock me asleep, abridge my doleful days!

Why, then, let grievous, ghastly, gaping wounds

Untwine the Sisters Three! Come, Atropos, I say!

HOSTESS.

Here's goodly stuff toward!

FALSTAFF.

Give me my rapier, boy.

DOLL.

I pray thee, Jack, I pray thee, do not draw.

FALSTAFF.

Get you down stairs.

[Drawing, and driving Pistol out.]

HOSTESS.

Here's a goodly tumult! I'll forswear keeping house, afore I'll be in these tirrits and frights. So; murder, I warrant now. Alas, alas! put up your naked weapons, put up your naked weapons.

[Exeunt Pistol and Bardolph.]

DOLL.

I pray thee, Jack, be quiet; the rascal's gone. Ah, you whoreson little valiant villain, you!

HOSTESS.

Are you not hurt i' the groin? methought a' made a shrewd thrust at your belly.

[Re-enter Bardolph.]

FALSTAFF.

Have you turned him out o' doors?

BARDOLPH.

Yea, sir. The rascal's drunk: you have hurt him, sir, i' the shoulder.

FALSTAFF.

A rascal! to brave me!

DOLL.

Ah, you sweet little rogue, you! Alas, poor ape, how thou sweatest! come, let me wipe thy face; come on, you whoreson chops: ah, rogue! i' faith, I love thee: thou art as valorous as Hector of Troy, worth five of Agamemnon, and ten times better than the Nine Worthies: ah, villain!

FALSTAFF.

A rascally slave! I will toss the rogue in a blanket.

DOLL.

Do, an thou darest for thy heart: an thou dost, I'll canvass thee between a pair of sheets.

[Enter Musicians.]

PAGE.

The music is come, sir.

FALSTAFF.

Let them play. Play, sirs. Sit on my knee, Doll. A rascal bragging slave! The rogue fled from me like quicksilver.

DOLL.

I' faith, and thou followedst him like a church. Thou whoreson little tidy Bartholomew boar-pig, when wilt thou leave fighting o' days and foining o' nights, and begin to patch up thine old body for heaven?

[Enter, behind, Prince Henry and Poins, disguised as drawers.]

FALSTAFF.

Peace, good Doll! do not speak like a death's-head; do not bid me remember mine end.

DOLL.

Sirrah, what humour 's the prince of?

FALSTAFF.

A good shallow young fellow: 'a would have made a good pantler; a' would ha' chipped bread well.

DOLL.

They say Poins has a good wit.

FALSTAFF.

He a good wit! hang him, baboon! his wit's as thick as Tewksbury mustard; there 's no more conceit in him than is in a mallet.

DOLL.

Why does the prince love him so, then?

FALSTAFF.

Because their legs are both of a bigness, and a' plays at quoits well, and eats conger and fennel, and drinks off candles' ends for flap-dragons, and rides the wild-mare with the boys, and jumps upon joined-stools, and swears with a good grace, and wears his boots very smooth, like unto the sign of the leg, and breeds no bate with telling of discreet stories; and such other gambol faculties a' has, that show a weak mind and an able body, for the which the prince admits him: for the prince himself is such another; the weight of a hair will turn the scales between their avoirdupois.

PRINCE.

Would not this nave of a wheel have his ears cut off?

POINS.

Let 's beat him before his whore.

PRINCE.

Look, whether the withered elder hath not his poll clawed like a parrot.

POINS.

Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?

FALSTAFF.

Kiss me, Doll.

PRINCE.

Saturn and Venus this year in conjunction! what says the almanac to that?

POINS.

And, look, whether the fiery Trigon, his man, be not lisping to his master's old tables, his note-book, his counsel-keeper.

FALSTAFF.

Thou dost give me flattering busses.

DOLL.

By my troth, I kiss thee with a most constant heart.

FALSTAFF.

I am old, I am old.

DOLL.

I love thee better than I love e'er a scurvy young boy of them all.

FALSTAFF.

What stuff wilt have a kirtle of? I shall receive money o' Thursday: shalt have a cap to-morrow. A merry song, come: it grows late; we'll to bed. Thou'lt forget me when I am gone.

DOLL.

By my troth, thou'lt set me a-weeping, an thou sayest so: prove that ever I dress myself handsome till thy return: well, hearken at the end.

FALSTAFF.

Some sack, Francis.

PRINCE & POINS.

Anon, anon, sir.

[Coming forward.]

FALSTAFF.

Ha! a bastard son of the king's? And art thou not Poins his brother?

PRINCE.

Why, thou globe of sinful continents, what a life dost thou lead!

FALSTAFF.

A better than thou: I am a gentleman; thou art a drawer.

PRINCE.

Very true, sir; and I come to draw you out by the ears.

HOSTESS.

O, the Lord preserve thy grace! by my troth, welcome to London. Now, the Lord bless that sweet face of thine! O Jesu, are you come from Wales?

FALSTAFF.

Thou whoreson mad compound of majesty, by this light flesh and corrupt blood, thou art welcome.

DOLL.

How, you fat fool! I scorn you.

POINS.

My lord, he will drive you out of your revenge and turn all to a merriment, if you take not the heat.

PRINCE.

You whoreson candle-mine, you, how vilely did you speak of me even now before this honest, virtuous, civil gentlewoman!

HOSTESS.

God's blessing of your good heart! and so she is, by my troth.

FALSTAFF.

Didst thou hear me?

PRINCE.

Yea, and you knew me, as you did when you ran away by Gad's-hill: you knew I was at your back, and spoke it on purpose to try my patience.

FALSTAFF.

No, no, no; not so; I did not think thou wast within hearing.

PRINCE.

I shall drive you then to confess the wilful abuse; and then I know how to handle you.

FALSTAFF.

No abuse, Hal, o' mine honour; no abuse.

PRINCE.

Not to dispraise me, and call me pantler and bread-chipper and I know not what!

FALSTAFF.

No abuse, Hal.

POINS.

No abuse!

FALSTAFF.

No abuse, Ned, i' the world; honest Ned, none. I dispraised him before the wicked, that the wicked might not fall in love with him; in which doing, I have done the part of a careful friend and a true subject, and thy father is to give me thanks for it. No abuse, Hal: none, Ned, none: no, faith, boys, none.

PRINCE.

See now, whether pure fear and entire cowardice doth not make thee wrong this virtuous gentlewoman to close with us. Is she of the wicked? is thine hostess here of the wicked? or is thy boy of the wicked? or honest Bardolph, whose zeal burns in his nose, of the wicked?

POINS.

Answer, thou dead elm, answer.

FALSTAFF.

The fiend hath pricked down Bardolph irrecoverable; and his face is Lucifer's privy-kitchen, where he doth nothing but roast malt-worms. For the boy, there is a good angel about him; but the devil outbids him too.

PRINCE.

For the women?

FALSTAFF.

For one of them, she is in hell already, and burns poor souls. For the other, I owe her money; and whether she be damned for that, I know not.

HOSTESS.

No, I warrant you.

FALSTAFF.

No, I think thou art not; I think thou art quit for that. Marry, there is another indictment upon thee, for suffering flesh to be eaten in thy house, contrary to the law; for the which I think thou wilt howl.

HOSTESS.

All victuallers do so: what 's a joint of mutton or two in a whole Lent?

PRINCE.

You, gentlewoman,—

DOLL.

What says your grace?

FALSTAFF.

His grace says that which his flesh rebels against.

[Knocking within.]

HOSTESS.

Who knocks so loud at door? Look to the door there, Francis.

[Enter Peto.]

PRINCE.

Peto, how now! what news?

PETO.

The king your father is at Westminster;

And there are twenty weak and wearied posts

Come from the north: and, as I came along,

I met and overtook a dozen captains,

Bare-headed, sweating, knocking at the taverns,

And asking every one for Sir John Falstaff.

PRINCE.

By heaven, Poins, I feel me much to blame,

So idly to profane the precious time,

When tempest of commotion, like the south

Borne with black vapour, doth begin to melt

And drop upon our bare unarmed heads.

Give me my sword and cloak. Falstaff, good night.

[Exeunt Prince, Poins, Peto, and Bardolph.]

FALSTAFF.

Now comes in the sweetest morsel of the night, and we must hence, and leave it unpicked. [Knocking within.] More knocking at the door!

[Re-enter Bardolph.]

How now! what's the matter?

BARDOLPH.

You must away to court, sir, presently;

A dozen captains stay at door for you.

FALSTAFF.

[To the Page].

Pay the musicians, sirrah. Farewell, hostess; farewell, Doll. You see, my good wenches, how men of merit are sought after: the undeserver may sleep, when the man of action is called on. Farewell, good wenches: if I be not sent away post, I will see you again ere I go.

DOLL.

I cannot speak; if my heart be not ready to burst,—well, sweet Jack, have a care of thyself.

FALSTAFF.

Farewell, farewell.

[Exeunt Falstaff and Bardolph.]

HOSTESS.

Well, fare thee well: I have known thee these twenty-nine years, come peascod-time; but an honester and truer-hearted man,—-well, fare thee well.

BARDOLPH.

[Within.] Mistress Tearsheet!

HOSTESS.

What's the matter?

BARDOLPH.

[Within.] Bid Mistress Tearsheet come to my master.

HOSTESS.

O, run, Doll, run; run, good Doll: come. [She comes blubbered.] Yea, will you come, Doll?

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

Westminster. The palace.

[Enter the King in his nightgown, with a Page.]

KING.

Go call the Earls of Surrey and of Warwick;

But, ere they come, bid them o'er-read these letters,

And well consider of them: make good speed.

[Exit Page.]

How many thousands of my poorest subjects

Are at this hour asleep! O sleep, O gentle sleep,

Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,

That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down

And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,

Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee

And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber

Than in the perfumed chambers of the great,

Under the canopies of costly state,

And lulled with sound of sweetest melody?

O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile

In loathsome beds, and leavest the kingly couch

A watch-case or a common 'larum-bell?

Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast

Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains

In cradle of the rude imperious surge

And in the visitation of the winds,

Who take the ruffian billows by the top,

Curling their monstrous heads and hanging them

With deafening clamour in the slippery clouds,

That, with the hurly, death itself awakes?

Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose

To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude;

And in the calmest and most stillest night,

With all appliances and means to boot,

Deny it to a king? Then happy low, lie down!

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

[Enter Warwick and Surrey.]

WARWICK.

Many good morrows to your majesty!

KING.

Is it good morrow, lords?

WARWICK.

'Tis one o'clock, and past.

KING.

Why then, good morrow to you all, my lords.

Have you read o'er the letters that I sent you?

WARWICK.

We have, my liege.

KING.

Then you perceive the body of our kingdom

How foul it is; what rank diseases grow,

And with what danger, near the heart of it.

WARWICK.

It is but as a body yet distempered;

Which to his former strength may be restored

With good advice and little medicine:

My Lord Northumberland will soon be cooled.

KING.

O God! that one might read the book of fate,

And see the revolution of the times

Make mountains level, and the continent,

Weary of solid firmness, melt itself

Into the sea! and, other times, to see

The beachy girdle of the ocean

Too wide for Neptune's hips; how chances mock,

And changes fill the cup of alteration

With divers liquors! O, if this were seen,

The happiest youth, viewing his progress through,

What perils past, what crosses to ensue,

Would shut the book, and sit him down and die.

'Tis not ten years gone

Since Richard and Northumberland, great friends,

Did feast together, and in two years after

Were they at wars: it is but eight years since

This Percy was the man nearest my soul,

Who like a brother toiled in my affairs

And laid his love and life under my foot,

Yea, for my sake, even to the eyes of Richard

Gave him defiance. But which of you was by—

You, cousin Nevil, as I may remember—

[To Warwick.]

When Richard, with his eye brimful of tears,

Then checked and rated by Northumberland,

Did speak these words, now proved a prophecy?

"Northumberland, thou ladder by the which

My cousin Bolingbroke ascends my throne;"

Though then, God knows, I had no such intent,

But that necessity so bowed the state

That I and greatness were compelled to kiss:

"The time shall come," thus did he follow it,

"The time will come, that foul sin, gathering head,

Shall break into corruption:" so went on,

Foretelling this same time's condition

And the division of our amity.

WARWICK.

There is a history in all men's lives,

Figuring the natures of the times deceased;

The which observed, a man may prophesy,

With a near aim, of the main chance of things

As yet not come to life, who in their seeds

And weak beginning lie intreasured.

Such things become the hatch and brood of time;

And by the necessary form of this

King Richard might create a perfect guess

That great Northumberland, then false to him,

Would of that seed grow to a greater falseness;

Which should not find a ground to root upon,

Unless on you.

KING.

Are these things then necessities?

Then let us meet them like necessities:

And that same word even now cries out on us:

They say the bishop and Northumberland

Are fifty thousand strong.

WARWICK.

It cannot be, my lord;

Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo,

The numbers of the feared. Please it your grace

To go to bed. Upon my soul, my lord,

The powers that you already have sent forth

Shall bring this prize in very easily.

To comfort you the more, I have received

A certain instance that Glendower is dead.

Your majesty hath been this fortnight ill,

And these unseasoned hours perforce must add

Unto your sickness.

KING.

I will take your counsel:

And were these inward wars once out of hand,

We would, dear lords, unto the Holy Land.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

Gloucestershire. Before Justice Shallow's house.

[Enter Shallow and Silence, meeting; Mouldy, Shadow, Wart, Feeble, Bullcalf, a Servant or two with them.]

SHALLOW.

Come on, come on, come on, sir; give me your hand, sir, give me your hand, sir: an early stirrer, by the rood! And how doth my good cousin Silence?

SILENCE.

Good morrow, good cousin Shallow.

SHALLOW.

And how doth my cousin, your bedfellow? and your fairest daughter and mine, my god-daughter Ellen?

SILENCE.

Alas, a black ousel, cousin Shallow!

SHALLOW.

By yea and nay, sir, I dare say my cousin William is become a good scholar: he is at Oxford still, is he not?

SILENCE.

Indeed, sir, to my cost.

SHALLOW.

A' must, then, to the inns o' court shortly. I was once of Clement's Inn, where I think they will talk of mad Shallow yet.

SILENCE.

You were called "lusty Shallow" then, cousin.

SHALLOW.

By the mass, I was called any thing; and I would have done any thing indeed too, and roundly too. There was I, and little John Doit of Staffordshire, and black George Barnes, and Francis Pickbone, and Will Squele, a Cotswold man; you had not four such swinge-bucklers in all the inns o' court again: and I may say to you, we knew where the bona-robas were and had the best of them all at commandment. Then was Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, boy, and page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk.

SILENCE.

This Sir John, cousin, that comes hither anon about soldiers?

SHALLOW.

The same Sir John, the very same. I see him break Skogan's head at the court-gate, when a' was a crack not thus high: and the very same day did I fight with one Sampson Stockfish, a fruiterer, behind Gray's Inn. Jesu, Jesu, the mad days that I have spent! and to see how many of my old acquaintance are dead!

SILENCE.

We shall all follow, cousin.

SHALLOW.

Certain, 'tis certain; very sure, very sure: death, as the Psalmist saith, is certain to all; all shall die. How a good yoke of bullocks at Stamford fair?

SILENCE.

By my troth, I was not there.

SHALLOW.

Death is certain. Is old Double of your town living yet?

SILENCE.

Dead, sir.

SHALLOW.

Jesu, Jesu, dead! a' drew a good bow; and dead! a' shot a fine shoot: John a Gaunt loved him well, and betted much money on his head. Dead! a' would have clapped i' the clout at twelve score; and carried you a forehand shaft a fourteen and fourteen and a half, that it would have done a man's heart good to see. How a score of ewes now?

SILENCE.

Thereafter as they be: a score of good ewes may be worth ten pounds.

SHALLOW.

And is old Double dead?

SILENCE.

Here come two of Sir John Falstaffs men, as I think.

[Enter Bardolph, and one with him.]

BARDOLPH.

Good morrow, honest gentlemen: I beseech you, which is justice Shallow?

SHALLOW.

I am Robert Shallow, sir; a poor esquire of this county, and one of the king's justices of the peace: what is your good pleasure with me?

BARDOLPH.

My captain, sir, commends him to you; my captain, Sir John Falstaff, a tall gentleman, by heaven, and a most gallant leader.

SHALLOW.

He greets me well, sir. I knew him a good backsword man. How doth the good knight? may I ask how my lady his wife doth?

BARDOLPH.

Sir, pardon; a soldier is better accommodated than with a wife.

SHALLOW.

It is well said, in faith, sir; and it is well said indeed too. Better accommodated! it is good; yea, indeed, is it: good phrases are surely, and ever were, very commendable. Accommodated! it comes of "accommodo:" very good; a good phrase.

BARDOLPH.

Pardon me, sir; I have heard the word. Phrase call you it? By this day, I know not the phrase; but I will maintain the word with my sword to be a soldier-like word, and a word of exceeding good command, by heaven. Accommodated; that is, when a man is, as they say, accommodated; or when a man is, being, whereby a' may be thought to be accommodated; which is an excellent thing.

SHALLOW.

It is very just.

[Enter Falstaff.]

Look, here comes good Sir John. Give me your good hand, give me your worship's good hand: by my troth, you like well and bear your years very well: welcome, good Sir John.

FALSTAFF.

I am glad to see you well, good Master Robert Shallow: Master Surecard, as I think?

SHALLOW.

No, Sir John; it is my cousin Silence, in commission with me.

FALSTAFF.

Good Master Silence, it well befits you should be of the peace.

SILENCE.

Your good worship is welcome.

FALSTAFF.

Fie! this is hot weather, gentlemen. Have you provided me here half a dozen sufficient men?

SHALLOW.

Marry, have we, sir. Will you sit?

FALSTAFF.

Let me see them, I beseech you.

SHALLOW.

Where's the roll? where's the roll? where's the roll? Let me see, let me see, let me see. So, so, so, so, so, so, so: yea, marry, sir: Ralph Mouldy! Let them appear as I call; let them do so, let them do so. Let me see; where is Mouldy?

MOULDY.

Here, an't please you.

SHALLOW.

What think you, Sir John? a good-limbed fellow; young, strong, and of good friends.

FALSTAFF.

Is thy name Mouldy?

MOULDY.

Yea, an't please you.

FALSTAFF.

'Tis the more time thou wert used.

SHALLOW.

Ha, ha, ha! most excellent, i' faith! things that are mouldy lack use: very singular good! in faith, well said, Sir John, very well said.

FALSTAFF.

Prick him.

MOULDY.

I was pricked well enough before, an you could have let me alone: my old dame will be undone now for one to do her husbandry and her drudgery: you need not to have pricked me; there are other men fitter to go out than I.

FALSTAFF.

Go to: peace, Mouldy; you shall go. Mouldy, it is time you were spent.

MOULDY.

Spent!

SHALLOW.

Peace, fellow, peace; stand aside: know you where you are? For the other, Sir John: let me see: Simon Shadow!

FALSTAFF.

Yea, marry, let me have him to sit under: he 's like to be a cold soldier.

SHALLOW.

Where's Shadow?

SHADOW.

Here, sir.

FALSTAFF.

Shadow, whose son art thou?

SHADOW.

My mother's son, sir.

FALSTAFF.

Thy mother's son! like enough; and thy father's shadow: so the son of the female is the shadow of the male: it is often so indeed; but much of the father's substance!

SHALLOW.

Do you like him, Sir John?

FALSTAFF.

Shadow will serve for summer; prick him; for we have a number of shadows to fill up the muster-book.

SHALLOW.

Thomas Wart!

FALSTAFF.

Where's he?

WART.

Here, sir.

FALSTAFF.

Is thy name Wart?

WART.

Yea, sir.

FALSTAFF.

Thou art a very ragged wart.

SHALLOW.

Shall I prick him down, Sir John?

FALSTAFF.

It were superfluous; for his apparel is built upon his back and the whole frame stands upon pins: prick him no more.

SHALLOW.

Ha, ha, ha! you can do it, sir; you can do it: I commend you well. Francis Feeble!

FEEBLE.

Here, sir.

FALSTAFF.

What trade art thou, Feeble?

FEEBLE.

A woman's tailor, sir.

SHALLOW.

Shall I prick him, sir?

FALSTAFF.

You may: but if he had been a man's tailor, he'ld ha' pricked you. Wilt thou make as many holes in an enemy's battle as thou hast done in a woman's petticoat?

FEEBLE.

I will do my good will, sir; you can have no more.

FALSTAFF.

Well said, good woman's tailor! well said, courageous Feeble! thou wilt be as valiant as the wrathful dove or most magnanimous mouse. Prick the woman's tailor: well, Master Shallow, deep, Master Shallow.

FEEBLE.

I would Wart might have gone, sir.

FALSTAFF.

I would thou wert a man's tailor, that thou mightst mend him and make him fit to go. I cannot put him to a private soldier that is the leader of so many thousands; let that suffice, most forcible Feeble.

FEEBLE.

It shall suffice, sir.

FALSTAFF.

I am bound to thee, reverend Feeble. Who is next?

SHALLOW.

Peter Bullcalf o' th' green!

FALSTAFF.

Yea, marry, let 's see Bullcalf.

BULLCALF.

Here, sir.

FALSTAFF.

'Fore God, a likely fellow! Come, prick me Bullcalf till he roar again.

BULLCALF.

O Lord! good my lord captain,—

FALSTAFF.

What, dost thou roar before thou art pricked?

BULLCALF.

O Lord, sir! I am a diseased man.

FALSTAFF.

What disease hast thou?

BULLCALF.

A whoreson cold, sir, a cough, sir, which I caught with ringing in the king's affairs upon his coronation-day, sir.

FALSTAFF.

Come, thou shalt go to the wars in a gown; we will have away thy cold; and I will take such order that thy friends shall ring for thee. Is here all?

SHALLOW.

Here is two more called than your number; you must have but four here, sir; and so, I pray you, go in with me to dinner.

FALSTAFF.

Come, I will go drink with you, but I cannot tarry dinner. I am glad to see you, by my troth, Master Shallow.

SHALLOW.

O, Sir John, do you remember since we lay all night in the windmill in Saint George's field?

FALSTAFF.

No more of that, Master Shallow, no more of that.

SHALLOW.

Ha, 'twas a merry night. And is Jane Nightwork alive?

FALSTAFF.

She lives, Master Shallow.

SHALLOW.

She never could away with me.

FALSTAFF.

Never, never; she would always say she could not abide Master Shallow.

SHALLOW.

By the mass, I could anger her to the heart. She was then a bona-roba. Doth she hold her own well?

FALSTAFF.

Old, old, Master Shallow.

SHALLOW.

Nay, she must be old; she cannot choose but be old; certain she 's old; and had Robin Nightwork by old Nightwork before I came to Clement's Inn.

SILENCE.

That's fifty-five year ago.

SHALLOW.

Ha, cousin Silence, that thou hadst seen that that this knight and I have seen! Ha, Sir John, said I well?

FALSTAFF.

We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master Shallow.

SHALLOW.

That we have, that we have, that we have; in faith, Sir John, we have: our watchword was "Hem boys!" Come, let 's to dinner; come, let 's to dinner: Jesus, the days that we have seen! Come, come.

[Exeunt Falstaff and the Justices.]

BULLCALF.

Good Master Corporate Bardolph, stand my friend; and here 's four Harry ten shillings in French crowns for you. In very truth, sir, I had as lief be hanged, sir, as go: and yet, for mine own part, sir, I do not care; but rather, because I am unwilling, and, for mine own part, have a desire to stay with my friends; else, sir, I did not care, for mine own part, so much.

BARDOLPH.

Go to; stand aside.

MOULDY.

And, good master corporal captain, for my old dame's sake, stand my friend: she has nobody to do any thing about her when I am gone; and she is old, and cannot help herself: you shall have forty, sir.

BARDOLPH.

Go to; stand aside.

FEEBLE.

By my troth, I care not; a man can die but once; we owe God a death: I'll ne'er bear a base mind: an 't be my destiny, so; an 't be not, so: no man's too good to serve 's prince; and let it go which way it will, he that dies this year is quit for the next.

BARDOLPH.

Well said; th'art a good fellow.

FEEBLE.

Faith, I'll bear no base mind.

[Re-enter Falstaff and the Justices.]

FALSTAFF.

Come, sir, which men shall I have?

SHALLOW.

Four of which you please.

BARDOLPH.

Sir, a word with you: I have three pound to free Mouldy and Bullcalf.

FALSTAFF.

Go to; well.

SHALLOW.

Come, Sir John, which four will you have?

FALSTAFF.

Do you choose for me.

SHALLOW.

Marry, then, Mouldy, Bullcalf, Feeble, and Shadow.

FALSTAFF.

Mouldy and Bullcalf: for you, Mouldy, stay at home till you are past service; and for your part, Bullcalf, grow till you come unto it: I will none of you.

SHALLOW.

Sir John, Sir John, do not yourself wrong: they are your likeliest men, and I would have you served with the best.

FALSTAFF.

Will you tell me, Master Shallow, how to choose a man? Care I for the limb, the thewes, the stature, bulk, and big assemblance of a man! Give me the spirit, Master Shallow. Here's Wart; you see what a ragged appearance it is: a' shall charge you and discharge you with the motion of a pewterer's hammer, come off and on swifter than he that gibbets on the brewer's bucket. And this same half-faced fellow, Shadow; give me this man: he presents no mark to the enemy; the foeman may with as great aim level at the edge of a penknife. And for a retreat; how swiftly will this Feeble the woman's tailor run off! O, give me the spare men, and spare me the great ones. Put me a caliver into Wart's hand, Bardolph.

BARDOLPH.

Hold, Wart, traverse; thus, thus, thus.

FALSTAFF.

Come, manage me your caliver. So: very well: go to: very good, exceeding good. O, give me always a little, lean, old, chapt, bald shot. Well said, i' faith, Wart; thou'rt a good scab: hold, there's a tester for thee.

SHALLOW.

He is not his craft's master; he doth not do it right. I remember at Mile-end Green, when I lay at Clement's Inn,—I was then Sir Dagonet in Arthur's show,—there was a little quiver fellow, and a' would manage you his piece thus; and a' would about and about, and come you in and come you in: "rah, tah, tah," would a' say; "bounce" would a' say; and away again would a' go, and again would 'a come: I shall ne'er see such a fellow.

FALSTAFF.

These fellows will do well. Master Shallow, God keep you, Master Silence: I will not use many words with you. Fare you well, gentlemen both: I thank you: I must a dozen mile to-night. Bardolph, give the soldiers coats.

SHALLOW.

Sir John, the Lord bless you! God prosper your affairs! God send us peace! At your return visit our house; let our old acquaintance be renewed: peradventure I will with ye to the court.

FALSTAFF.

'Fore God, I would you would.

SHALLOW.

Go to; I have spoke at a word. God keep you.

FALSTAFF.

Fare you well, gentle gentlemen. [Exeunt Justices.] On, Bardolph; lead the men away. [Exeunt Bardolph, Recruits, &c.] As I return, I will fetch off these justices: I do see the bottom of Justice Shallow. Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying! This same starved justice hath done nothing but prate to me of the wildness of his youth, and the feats he hath done about Turnbull Street; and every third word a lie, duer paid to the hearer than the Turk's tribute. I do remember him at Clement's Inn like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring: when a' was naked, he was, for all the world, like a forked radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife: a' was so forlorn, that his dimensions to any thick sight were invincible: a' was the very genius of famine; yet lecherous as a monkey, and the whores called him mandrake: a' came ever in the rearward of the fashion, and sung those tunes to the overscutched huswifes that he heard the carmen whistle, and sware they were his fancies or his good-nights. And now is this Vice's dagger become a squire, and talks as familiarly of John a Gaunt as if he had been sworn brother to him; and I'll be sworn a' ne'er saw him but once in the Tilt-yard; and then he burst his head for crowding among the marshal's men. I saw it, and told John a Gaunt he beat his own name; for you might have thrust him and all his apparel into an eel-skin; the case of a treble hautboy was a mansion for him, a court: and now has he land and beefs. Well, I'll be acquainted with him, if I return; and it shall go hard but I'll make him a philosopher's two stones to me: if the young dace be a bait for the old pike, I see no reason in the law of nature but I may snap at him. Let time shape, and there an end.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

Yorkshire. Gaultree Forest.

[Enter the Archbishop of York, Mowbray, Hastings, and others.]

ARCHBISHOP.

What is this forest called?

HASTINGS.

'Tis Gaultree Forest, an 't shall please your grace.

ARCHBISHOP.

Here stand, my lords; and send discoverers forth

To know the numbers of our enemies.

HASTINGS.

We have sent forth already.

ARCHBISHOP.

'Tis well done.

My friends and brethren in these great affairs,

I must acquaint you that I have received

New-dated letters from Northumberland;

Their cold intent, tenour and substance, thus:

Here doth he wish his person, with such powers

As might hold sortance with his quality,

The which he could not levy; whereupon

He is retired, to ripe his growing fortunes,

To Scotland: and concludes in hearty prayers

That your attempts may overlive the hazard

And fearful meeting of their opposite.

MOWBRAY.

Thus do the hopes we have in him touch ground

And dash themselves to pieces.

[Enter a Messenger.]

HASTINGS.

Now, what news?

MESSENGER.

West of this forest, scarcely off a mile,

In goodly form comes on the enemy;

And, by the ground they hide, I judge their number

Upon or near the rate of thirty thousand.

MOWBRAY.

The just proportion that we gave them out.

Let us sway on and face them in the field.

ARCHBISHOP.

What well-appointed leader fronts us here?

[Enter Westmoreland.]

MOWBRAY.

I think it is my Lord of Westmoreland.

WESTMORELAND.

Health and fair greeting from our general,

The prince, Lord John and Duke of Lancaster.

ARCHBISHOP.

Say on, my Lord of Westmoreland, in peace:

What doth concern your coming?

WESTMORELAND.

Then, my lord,

Unto your grace do I in chief address

The substance of my speech. If that rebellion

Came like itself, in base and abject routs,

Led on by bloody youth, guarded with rags,

And countenanced by boys and beggary,

I say, if damned commotion so appeared,

In his true, native, and most proper shape,

You, reverend father, and these noble lords

Had not been here, to dress the ugly form

Of base and bloody insurrection

With your fair honours. You, lord archbishop,

Whose see is by a civil peace maintained,

Whose beard the silver hand of peace hath touched,

Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutored,

Whose white investments figure innocence,

The dove and very blessed spirit of peace,

Wherefore you do so ill translate yourself

Out of the speech of peace that bears such grace,

Into the harsh and boisterous tongue of war;

Turning your books to graves, your ink to blood,

Your pens to lances and your tongue divine

To a loud trumpet and a point of war?

ARCHBISHOP.

Wherefore do I this? so the question stands.

Briefly to this end: we are all diseased,

And with our surfeiting and wanton hours

Have brought ourselves into a burning fever,

And we must bleed for it; of which disease

Our late king, Richard, being infected, died.

But, my most noble Lord of Westmoreland,

I take not on me here as a physician,

Nor do I as an enemy to peace

Troop in the throngs of military men;

But rather show awhile like fearful war,

To diet rank minds sick of happiness,

And purge the obstructions which begin to stop

Our very veins of life. Hear me more plainly.

I have in equal balance justly weighed

What wrongs our arms may do, what wrongs we suffer,

And find our griefs heavier than our offences.

We see which way the stream of time doth run,

And are enforced from our most quiet there

By the rough torrent of occasion;

And have the summary of all our griefs,

When time shall serve, to show in articles;

Which long ere this we offered to the king,

And might by no suit gain our audience:

When we are wronged and would unfold our griefs,

We are denied access unto his person

Even by those men that most have done us wrong.

The dangers of the days but newly gone,

Whose memory is written on the earth

With yet appearing blood, and the examples

Of every minute's instance, present now,

Hath put us in these ill-beseeming arms,

Not to break peace or any branch of it,

But to establish here a peace indeed,

Concurring, both in name and quality.

WESTMORELAND.

When ever yet was your appeal denied?

Wherein have you been galled by the king?

What peer hath been suborned to grate on you,

That you should seal this lawless bloody book

Of forged rebellion with a seal divine

And consecrate commotion's bitter edge?

ARCHBISHOP.

My brother general, the commonwealth,

To brother born an household cruelty,

I make my quarrel in particular.

WESTMORELAND.

There is no need of any such redress;

Or if there were, it not belongs to you.

MOWBRAY.

Why not to him in part, and to us all

That feel the bruises of the days before,

And suffer the condition of these times

To lay a heavy and unequal hand

Upon our honours?

WESTMORELAND.

O, my good Lord Mowbray,

Construe the times to their necessities,

And you shall say indeed, it is the time,

And not the king, that doth you injuries.

Yet for your part, it not appears to me

Either from the king or in the present time

That you should have an inch of any ground

To build a grief on: were you not restored

To all the Duke of Norfolk's signories,

Your noble and right well rememb'red father's?

MOWBRAY.

What thing, in honour, had my father lost,

That need to be revived and breathed in me?

The king that loved him, as the state stood then,

Was force perforce compelled to banish him:

And then that Henry Bolingbroke and he,

Being mounted and both roused in their seats,

Their neighing coursers daring of the spur,

Their armed staves in charge, their beavers down,

Their eyes of fire sparkling through sights of steel,

And the loud trumpet blowing them together,

Then, then, when there was nothing could have stayed

My father from the breast of Bolingbroke,

O, when the king did throw his warder down,

His own life hung upon the staff he threw;

Then threw he down himself and all their lives

That by indictment and by dint of sword

Have since miscarried under Bolingbroke.

WESTMORELAND.

You speak, Lord Mowbray, now you know not what.

The Earl of Hereford was reputed then

In England the most valiant gentleman:

Who knows on whom fortune would then have smiled?

But if your father had been victor there,

He ne'er had borne it out of Coventry:

For all the country in a general voice

Cried hate upon him; and all their prayers and love

Were set on Hereford, whom they doted on

And blessed and graced indeed, more than the king.

But this is mere digression from my purpose.

Here come I from our princely general

To know your griefs; to tell you from his grace

That he will give you audience; and wherein

It shall appear that your demands are just,

You shall enjoy them, everything set off

That might so much as think you enemies.

MOWBRAY.

But he hath forced us to compel this offer;

And it proceeds from policy, not love.

WESTMORELAND.

Mowbray, you overween to take it so;

This offer comes from mercy, not from fear:

For, lo! within a ken our army lies,

Upon mine honour, all too confident

To give admittance to a thought of fear.

Our battle is more full of names than yours,

Our men more perfect in the use of arms,

Our armour all as strong, our cause the best;

Then reason will our hearts should be as good:

Say you not then our offer is compelled.

MOWBRAY.

Well, by my will we shall admit no parley.

WESTMORELAND.

That argues but the shame of your offence:

A rotten case abides no handling.

HASTINGS.

Hath the Prince John a full commission,

In very ample virtue of his father,

To hear and absolutely to determine

Of what conditions we shall stand upon?

WESTMORELAND.

That is intended in the general's name:

I muse you make so slight a question.

ARCHBISHOP.

Then take, my Lord of Westmoreland, this schedule,

For this contains our general grievances:

Each several article herein redressed,

All members of our cause, both here and hence,

That are insinewed to this action,

Acquitted by a true substantial form

And present execution of our wills

To us and to our purposes confined,

We come within our awful banks again

And knit our powers to the arm of peace.

WESTMORELAND.

This will I show the general. Please you, lords,

In sight of both our battles we may meet;

And either end in peace, which God so frame!

Or to the place of difference call the swords

Which must decide it.

ARCHBISHOP.

My lord, we will do so.

[Exit Westmoreland.]

MOWBRAY.

There is a thing within my bosom tells me

That no conditions of our peace can stand.

HASTINGS.

Fear you not that: if we can make our peace

Upon such large terms and so absolute

As our conditions shall consist upon,

Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.

MOWBRAY.

Yea, but our valuation shall be such

That every slight and false-derived cause,

Yea, every idle, nice and wanton reason

Shall to the king taste of this action;

That, were our royal faiths martyrs in love,

We shall be winnowed with so rough a wind

That even our corn shall seem as light as chaff

And good from bad find no partition.

ARCHBISHOP.

No, no, my lord. Note this; the king is weary

Of dainty and such picking grievances:

For he hath found to end one doubt by death

Revives two greater in the heirs of life,

And therefore will he wipe his tables clean

And keep no tell-tale to his memory

That may repeat and history his loss

To new remembrance; for full well he knows

He cannot so precisely weed this land

As his misdoubts present occasion:

His foes are so enrooted with his friends

That, plucking to unfix an enemy,

He doth unfasten so and shake a friend:

So that this land, like an offensive wife

That hath enraged him on to offer strokes,

As he is striking, holds his infant up

And hangs resolved correction in the arm

That was upreared to execution.

HASTINGS.

Besides, the king hath wasted all his rods

On late offenders, that he now doth lack

The very instruments of chastisement:

So that his power, like to a fangless lion,

May offer, but not hold.

ARCHBISHOP.

'Tis very true:

And therefore be assured, my good lord marshal,

If we do now make our atonement well,

Our peace will, like a broken limb united,

Grow stronger for the breaking.

MOWBRAY.

Be it so.

Here is returned my Lord of Westmoreland.

[Re-enter Westmoreland.]

WESTMORELAND.

The prince is here at hand: pleaseth your lordship

To meet his grace just distance 'tween our armies.

MOWBRAY.

Your grace of York, in God's name then, set forward.

ARCHBISHOP.

Before, and greet his grace: my lord, we come.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

Another part of the forest.

[Enter, from one side, Mowbray, attended; afterwards, the Archbishop, Hastings, and others; from the other side, Prince John of Lancaster, and Westmoreland; Officers, and others with them.]

LANCASTER.

You are well encountered here, my cousin Mowbray:

Good day to you, gentle lord Archbishop;

And so to you, Lord Hastings, and to all.

My Lord of York, it better showed with you

When that your flock, assembled by the bell,

Encircled you to hear with reverence

Your exposition on the holy text

Than now to see you here an iron man,

Cheering a rout of rebels with your drum,

Turning the word to sword and life to death.

That man that sits within a monarch's heart,

And ripens in the sunshine of his favour,

Would he abuse the countenance of the king,

Alack, what mischiefs might he set abroach

In shadow of such greatness! With you, lord bishop,

It is even so. Who hath not heard it spoken

How deep you were within the books of God?

To us the speaker in his parliament;

To us the imagined voice of God himself;

The very opener and intelligencer

Between the grace, the sanctities of heaven

And our dull workings. O, who shall believe

But you misuse the reverence of your place,

Employ the countenance and grace of heaven,

As a false favourite doth his prince's name,

In deeds dishonourable? You have ta'en up,

Under the counterfeited zeal of God,

The subjects of his substitute, my father,

And both against the peace of heaven and him

Have here up-swarmed them.

ARCHBISHOP.

Good my Lord of Lancaster,

I am not here against your father's peace;

But, as I told my Lord of Westmoreland,

The time misordered doth, in common sense,

Crowd us and crush us to this monstrous form

To hold our safety up. I sent your grace

The parcels and particulars of our grief,

The which hath been with scorn shoved from the court,

Whereon this Hydra son of war is born;

Whose dangerous eyes may well be charmed asleep

With grant of our most just and right desires,

And true obedience, of this madness cured,

Stoop tamely to the foot of majesty.

MOWBRAY.

If not, we ready are to try our fortunes

To the last man.

HASTINGS.

And though we here fall down,

We have supplies to second our attempt:

If they miscarry, theirs shall second them;

And so success of mischief shall be born

And heir from heir shall hold this quarrel up

Whiles England shall have generation.

LANCASTER.

You are too shallow, Hastings, much to shallow,

To sound the bottom of the after-times.

WESTMORELAND.

Pleaseth your grace to answer them directly

How far forth you do like their articles.

LANCASTER.

I like them all, and do allow them well,

And swear here, by the honour of my blood,

My father's purposes have been mistook,

And some about him have too lavishly

Wrested his meaning and authority.

My lord, these griefs shall be with speed redressed;

Upon my soul, they shall. If this may please you,

Discharge your powers unto their several counties,

As we will ours; and here between the armies

Let 's drink together friendly and embrace,

That all their eyes may bear those tokens home

Of our restored love and amity.

ARCHBISHOP.

I take your princely word for these redresses.

LANCASTER.

I give it you, and will maintain my word:

And thereupon I drink unto your grace.

HASTINGS.

Go, captain, and deliver to the army

This news of peace: let them have pay, and part:

I know it will please them. Hie thee, captain.

[Exit Officer.]

ARCHBISHOP.

To you, my noble Lord of Westmoreland.

WESTMORELAND.

I pledge your grace; and, if you knew what pains

I have bestowed to breed this present peace,

You would drink freely: but my love to ye

Shall show itself more openly hereafter.

ARCHBISHOP.

I do not doubt you.

WESTMORELAND.

I am glad of it.

Health to my lord and gentle cousin, Mowbray.

MOWBRAY.

You wish me health in very happy season,

For I am, on the sudden, something ill.

ARCHBISHOP.

Against ill chances men are ever merry;

But heaviness foreruns the good event.

WESTMORELAND.

Therefore be merry, coz; since sudden sorrow

Serves to say thus, "some good thing comes tomorrow."

ARCHBISHOP.

Believe me, I am passing light in spirit.

MOWBRAY.

So much the worse, if your own rule be true.

[Shouts within.]

LANCASTER.

The word of peace is rendered: hark, how they shout!

MOWBRAY.

This had been cheerful after victory.

ARCHBISHOP.

A peace is of the nature of a conquest;

For then both parties nobly are subdued,

And neither party loser.

LANCASTER.

Go, my lord.

And let our army be discharged too.

[Exit Westmoreland.]

And, good my lord, so please you, let our trains

March by us, that we may peruse the men

We should have coped withal.

ARCHBISHOP.

Go, good Lord Hastings,

And, ere they be dismissed, let them march by.

[Exit Hastings.]

LANCASTER.

I trust, lords, we shall lie to-night together.

[Re-enter Westmoreland.]

Now, cousin, wherefore stands our army still?

WESTMORELAND.

The leaders, having charge from you to stand,

Will not go off until they hear you speak.

LANCASTER.

They know their duties.

[Re-enter Hastings.]

HASTINGS.

My lord, our army is dispersed already:

Like youthful steers unyoked, they take their courses

East, west, north, south; or, like a school broke up,

Each hurries toward his home and sporting-place.

WESTMORELAND.

Good tidings, my Lord Hastings; for the which

I do arrest thee, traitor, of high treason:

And you, lord archbishop, and you, Lord Mowbray,

Of capital treason I attach you both.

MOWBRAY.

Is this proceeding just and honourable?

WESTMORELAND.

Is your assembly so?

ARCHBISHOP.

Will you thus break your faith?

LANCASTER.

I pawned thee none:

I promised you redress of these same grievances

Whereof you did complain; which, by mine honour,

I will perform with a most Christian care.

But for you, rebels, look to taste the due

Meet for rebellion and such acts as yours.

Most shallowly did you these arms commence,

Fondly brought here and foolishly sent hence.

Strike up our drums, pursue the scattred stray:

God, and not we, hath safely fought to-day.

Some guard these traitors to the block of death,

Treason's true bed and yielder up of breath.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE III.

Another part of the forest.

[Alarum. Excursions. Enter Falstaff and Colevile, meeting.]

FALSTAFF.

What 's your name, sir? of what condition are you, and of what place, I pray?

COLEVILE.

I am a knight sir; and my name is Colevile of the Dale.

FALSTAFF.

Well, then, Colevile is your name, a knight is your degree, and your place the dale: Colevile shall be still your name, a traitor your degree, and the dungeon your place, a place deep enough; so shall you be still Colevile of the dale.

COLEVILE.

Are not you Sir John Falstaff?

FALSTAFF.

As good a man as he, sir, whoe'er I am. Do ye yield, sir? or shall I sweat for you? If I do sweat, they are the drops of thy lovers, and they weep for thy death: therefore rouse up fear and trembling, and do observance to my mercy.

COLEVILE.

I think you are Sir John Falstaff, and in that thought yield me.

FALSTAFF.

I have a whole school of tongues in this belly of mine, and not a tongue of them all speaks any other word but my name. An I had but a belly of any indifferency, I were simply the most active fellow in Europe: my womb, my womb, my womb undoes me. Here comes our general.

[Enter Prince John of Lancaster, Westmoreland, Blunt, and others.]

LANCASTER.

The heat is past; follow no further now:

Call in the powers, good cousin Westmoreland.

[Exit Westmoreland.]

Now, Falstaff, where have you been all this while?

When everything is ended, then you come:

These tardy tricks of yours will, on my life,

One time or other break some gallows' back.

FALSTAFF.

I would be sorry, my lord, but it should be thus: I never knew yet but rebuke and check was the reward of valour. Do you think me a swallow, an arrow, or a bullet? have I, in my poor and old motion, the expedition of thought? I have speeded hither with the very extremest inch of possibility; I have foundered nine score and odd posts: and here, travel-tainted as I am, have, in my pure and immaculate valour, taken Sir John Colevile of the dale, a most furious knight and valorous enemy. But what of that? he saw me, and yielded; that I may justly say, with the hook-nosed fellow of Rome, "I came, saw, and overcame."

LANCASTER.

It was more of his courtesy than your deserving.

FALSTAFF.

I know not: here he is, and here I yield him: and I beseech your grace, let it be booked with the rest of this day's deeds; or, by the Lord, I will have it in a particular ballad else, with mine own picture on the top on't, Colevile kissing my foot: to the which course if I be enforced, if you do not all show like gilt twopences to me, and I in the clear sky of fame o'ershine you as much as the full moon doth the cinders of the element, which show like pins' heads to her, believe not the word of the noble: therefore let me have right, and let desert mount.

LANCASTER.

Thine 's too heavy to mount.

FALSTAFF.

Let it shine, then.

LANCASTER.

Thine 's too thick to shine.

FALSTAFF.

Let it do something, my good lord, that may do me good, and call it what you will.

LANCASTER.

Is thy name Colevile?

COLEVILE.

It is, my lord.

LANCASTER.

A famous rebel art thou, Colevile.

FALSTAFF.

And a famous true subject took him.

COLEVILE.

I am, my lord, but as my betters are

That led me hither: had they been ruled by me,

You should have won them dearer than you have.

FALSTAFF.

I know not how they sold themselves: but thou, like a kind fellow, gavest thyself away gratis; and I thank thee for thee.

[Re-enter Westmoreland.]

LANCASTER.

Now, have you left pursuit?

WESTMORELAND.

Retreat is made and execution stayed.

LANCASTER.

Send Colevile with his confederates

To York, to present execution.

Blunt, lead him hence; and see you guard him sure.

[Exeunt Blunt and others with Colevile.]

And now dispatch we toward the court, my lords:

I hear the king my father is sore sick:

Our news shall go before us to his majesty,

Which, cousin, you shall bear to comfort him,

And we with sober speed will follow you.

FALSTAFF.

My lord, I beseech you, give me leave to go through Gloucestershire: and, when you come to court, stand my good lord, pray, in your good report.

LANCASTER.

Fare you well, Falstaff: I, in my condition,

Shall better speak of you than you deserve.

[Exeunt all but Falstaff.]

FALSTAFF.

I would you had but the wit: 'twere better than your dukedom. Good faith, this same young sober-blooded boy doth not love me; nor a man cannot make him laugh; but that 's no marvel, he drinks no wine. There 's never none of these demure boys come to any proof; for thin drink doth so over-cool their blood, and making many fish-meals, that they fall into a kind of male green-sickness; and then, when they marry, they get wenches: they are generally fools and cowards; which some of us should be too, but for inflammation. A good sherris-sack hath a two-fold operation in it. It ascends me into the brain; dries me there all the foolish and dull and crudy vapours which environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble fiery and delectable shapes; which, delivered o'er to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second property of your excellent sherris is, the warming of the blood; which, before cold and settled, left the liver white and pale, which is the badge of pusillanimity and cowardice; but the sherris warms it and makes it course from the inwards to the parts extremes: it illumineth the face, which as a beacon gives warning to all the rest of this little kingdom, man, to arm; and then the vital commoners and inland petty spirits muster me all to their captain, the heart, who, great and puffed up with this retinue, doth any deed of courage; and this valour comes of sherris. So that skill in the weapon is nothing without sack, for that sets it a-work; and learning a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil, till sack commences it and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes it that Prince Harry is valiant; for the cold blood he did naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like lean, sterile and bare land, manured, husbanded and tilled with excellent endeavour of drinking good and good store of fertile sherris, that he is become very hot and valiant. If I had a thousand sons, the first humane principle I would teach them should be, to forswear thin potations and to addict themselves to sack.

[Enter Bardolph.]

How now, Bardolph!

BARDOLPH.

The army is discharged all and gone.

FALSTAFF.

Let them go. I'll through Gloucestershire; and there will I visit Master Robert Shallow, esquire: I have him already tempering between my finger and my thumb, and shortly will I seal with him. Come away.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE IV.

Westminster. The Jerusalem Chamber.

[Enter the King, the Princes Thomas of Clarence and Humphrey of Gloucester, Warwick, and others.]

KING.

Now, lords, if God doth give successful end

To this debate that bleedeth at our doors,

We will our youth lead on to higher fields

And draw no swords but what are sanctified.

Our navy is addressed, our power collected,

Our substitutes in absence well invested,

And every thing lies level to our wish:

Only, we want a little personal strength;

And pause us, till these rebels, now afoot,

Come underneath the yoke of government.

WARWICK.

Both which we doubt not but your majesty

Shall soon enjoy.

KING.

Humphrey, my son of Gloucester,

Where is the prince your brother?

GLOUCESTER.

I think he 's gone to hunt, my lord, at Windsor.

KING.

And how accompanied?

GLOUCESTER.

I do not know, my lord.

KING.

Is not his brother, Thomas of Clarence, with him?

GLOUCESTER.

No, my good lord; he is in presence here.

CLARENCE.

What would my lord and father?

KING.

Nothing but well to thee, Thomas of Clarence.

How chance thou art not with the prince thy brother?

He loves thee, and thou dost neglect him, Thomas;

Thou hast a better place in his affection

Than all thy brothers: cherish it, my boy,

And noble offices thou mayst effect

Of mediation, after I am dead,

Between his greatness and thy other brethren:

Therefore omit him not; blunt not his love,

Nor lose the good advantage of his grace

By seeming cold or careless of his will;

For he is gracious, if he be observed.

He hath a tear for pity and a hand

Open as day for melting charity:

Yet notwithstanding, being incensed, he 's flint;

As humorous as winter and as sudden

As flaws congealed in the spring of day.

His temper, therefore, must be well observed:

Chide him for faults, and do it reverently,

When you perceive his blood inclined to mirth;

But, being moody, give him line and scope,

Till that his passions, like a whale on ground,

Confound themselves with working. Learn this, Thomas,

And thou shalt prove a shelter to thy friends,

A hoop of gold to bind thy brothers in,

That the united vessel of their blood,

Mingled with venom of suggestion—

As, force perforce, the age will pour it in—

Shall never leak, though it do work as strong

As aconitum or rash gunpowder.

CLARENCE.

I shall observe him with all care and love.

KING.

Why art thou not at Windsor with him, Thomas?

CLARENCE.

He is not there to-day; he dines in London.

KING.

And how accompanied? canst thou tell that?

CLARENCE.

With Poins, and other his continual followers.

KING.

Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds;

And he, the noble image of my youth,

Is overspread with them: therefore my grief

Stretches itself beyond the hour of death:

The blood weeps from my heart when I do shape

In forms imaginary the unguided days

And rotten times that you shall look upon

When I am sleeping with my ancestors.

For when his headstrong riot hath no curb,

When rage and hot blood are his counsellors,

When means and lavish manners meet together,

O, with what wings shall his affections fly

Towards fronting peril and opposed decay!

WARWICK.

My gracious lord, you look beyond him quite:

The prince but studies his companions

Like a strange tongue, wherein, to gain the language,

'Tis needful that the most immodest word

Be looked upon and learned; which once attained,

Your highness knows, comes to no further use

But to be known and hated. So, like gross terms,

The prince will in the perfectness of time

Cast off his followers; and their memory

Shall as a pattern or a measure live,

By which his grace must mete the lives of other,

Turning past evils to advantages.

KING.

'Tis seldom when the bee doth leave her comb

In the dead carrion.

[Enter Westmoreland.]

Who's here? Westmoreland?

WESTMORELAND.

Health to my sovereign, and new happiness

Added to that that I am to deliver!

Prince John your son doth kiss your grace's hand:

Mowbray, the Bishop Scroop, Hastings and all

Are brought to the correction of your law;

There is not now a rebel's sword unsheathed,

But Peace puts forth her olive every where.

The manner how this action hath been borne

Here at more leisure may your highness read,

With every course in his particular.

KING.

O Westmoreland, thou art a summer bird,

Which ever in the haunch of winter sings

The lifting up of day.

[Enter Harcourt.]

Look, here 's more news.

HARCOURT.

From enemies heaven keep your majesty;

And, when they stand against you, may they fall

As those that I am come to tell you of!

The Earl Northumberland and the Lord Bardolph,

With a great power of English and of Scots,

Are by the sheriff of Yorkshire overthrown:

The manner and true order of the fight

This packet, please it you, contains at large.

KING.

And wherefore should these good news make me sick?

Will Fortune never come with both hands full,

But write her fair words still in foulest letters?

She either gives a stomach and no food;

Such are the poor, in health; or else a feast

And takes away the stomach; such are the rich,

That have abundance and enjoy it not.

I should rejoice now at this happy news;

And now my sight fails, and my brain is giddy:

O me! come near me; now I am much ill.

GLOUCESTER.

Comfort, your majesty!

CLARENCE.

O my royal father!

WESTMORELAND.

My sovereign lord, cheer up yourself, look up.

WARWICK.

Be patient, princes; you do know, these fits

Are with his highness very ordinary.

Stand from him, give him air; he'll straight be well.

CLARENCE.

No, no, he cannot long hold out these pangs:

The incessant care and labour of his mind

Hath wrought the mure that should confine it in

So thin that life looks through and will break out.

GLOUCESTER.

The people fear me; for they do observe

Unfathered heirs and loathly births of nature:

The seasons change their manners, as the year

Had found some months asleep, and leaped them over.

CLARENCE.

The river hath thrice flowed, no ebb between;

And the old folk, time's doting chronicles,

Say it did so a little time before

That our great-grandsire, Edward, sicked and died.

WARWICK.

Speak lower, princes, for the king recovers.

GLOUCESTER.

This apoplexy will certain be his end.

KING.

I pray you, take me up, and bear me hence

Into some other chamber: softly, pray.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE V.

Another chamber.

[The King lying on a bed: Clarence, Gloucester, Warwick, and others in attendance.]

KING.

Let there be no noise made, my gentle friends;

Unless some dull and favourable hand

Will whisper music to my weary spirit.

WARWICK.

Call for the music in the other room.

KING.

Set me the crown upon my pillow here.

CLARENCE.

His eye is hollow, and he changes much.

WARWICK.

Less noise! less noise!

[Enter Prince Henry.]

PRINCE.

Who saw the Duke of Clarence?

CLARENCE.

I am here, brother, full of heaviness.

PRINCE.

How now! rain within doors, and none abroad!

How doth the king?

GLOUCESTER.

Exceeding ill.

PRINCE.

Heard he the good news yet? Tell it him.

GLOUCESTER.

He alt'red much upon the hearing it.

PRINCE.

If he be sick with joy, he'll recover without physic.

WARWICK.

Not so much noise, my lords: sweet prince, speak low;

The king your father is disposed to sleep.

CLARENCE.

Let us withdraw into the other room.

WARWICK.

Will't please your grace to go along with us?

PRINCE.

No; I will sit and watch here by the king.

[Exeunt all but the Prince.]

Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow,

Being so troublesome a bedfellow?

O polished perturbation! golden care!

That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide

To many a watchful night! sleep with it now!

Yet not so sound and half so deeply sweet

As he whose brow with homely biggen bound

Snores out the watch of night. O majesty!

When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit

Like a rich armour worn in heat of day,

That scalds with safety. By his gates of breath

There lies a downy feather which stirs not:

Did he suspire, that light and weightless down

Perforce must move. My gracious lord! my father!

This sleep is sound indeed; this is a sleep

That from this golden rigol hath divorced

So many English kings. Thy due from me

Is tears and heavy sorrows of the blood,

Which nature, love, and filial tenderness,

Shall, O dear father, pay thee plenteously:

My due from thee is this imperial crown,

Which, as immediate from thy place and blood,

Derives itself to me. Lo, here it sits,

Which God shall guard: and put the world's whole strength

Into one giant arm, it shall not force

This lineal honour from me: this from thee

Will I to mine leave, as 'tis left to me.

[Exit.]

KING.

Warwick! Gloucester! Clarence!

[Re-enter Warwick, Gloucester, Clarence, and the rest.]

CLARENCE.

Doth the king call?

WARWICK.

What would your majesty? How fares your grace?

KING.

Why did you leave me here alone, my lords?

CLARENCE.

We left the prince my brother here, my liege,

Who undertook to sit and watch by you.

KING.

The Prince of Wales! Where is he? let me see him:

He is not here.

WARWICK.

This door is open; he is gone this way.

GLOUCESTER.

He came not through the chamber where we stayed.

KING.

Where is the crown? who took it from my pillow?

WARWICK.

When we withdrew, my liege, we left it here.

KING.

The prince hath ta'en it hence: go, seek him out.

Is he so hasty that he doth suppose

My sleep my death?

Find him, my lord of Warwick; chide him hither.

[Exit Warwick.]

This part of his conjoins with my disease,

And helps to end me. See, sons, what things you are!

How quickly nature falls into revolt

When gold becomes her object!

For this the foolish over-careful fathers

Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains with care,

Their bones with industry;

For this they have engrossed and piled up

The cankered heaps of strange-achieved gold;

For this they have been thoughtful to invest

Their sons with arts and martial exercises;

When, like the bee, tolling from every flower

The virtuous sweets,

Our thighs packed with wax, our mouths with honey,

We bring it to the hive, and, like the bees,

Are murdered for our pains. This bitter taste

Yields his engrossments to the ending father.

[Re-enter Warwick.]

Now where is he that will not stay so long

Till his friend sickness hath determined me?

WARWICK.

My lord, I found the prince in the next room,

Washing with kindly tears his gentle cheeks,

With such a deep demeanour in great sorrow

That tyranny, which never quaffed but blood,

Would, by beholding him, have washed his knife

With gentle eye-drops. He is coming hither.

KING.

But wherefore did he take away the crown?

[Re-Enter Prince Henry.]

Lo, where he comes. Come hither to me, Harry.

Depart the chamber, leave us here alone.

[Exeunt Warwick and the rest.]

PRINCE.

I never thought to hear you speak again.

KING.

Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought:

I stay too long by thee, I weary thee.

Dost thou so hunger for mine empty chair

That thou wilt needs invest thee with my honours

Before thy hour be ripe? O foolish youth!

Thou seek'st the greatness that will overwhelm thee.

Stay but a little; for my cloud of dignity

Is held from falling with so weak a wind

That it will quickly drop: my day is dim.

Thou hast stolen that which after some few hours

Were thine without offence; and at my death

Thou hast sealed up my expectation:

Thy life did manifest thou lovedst me not,

And thou wilt have me die assured of it.

Thou hidest a thousand daggers in thy thoughts

Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart,

To stab at half an hour of my life.

What! canst thou not forbear me half an hour?

Then get thee gone and dig my grave thyself,

And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear

That thou art crowned, not that I am dead.

Let all the tears that should bedew my hearse

Be drops of balm to sanctify thy head:

Only compound me with forgotten dust;

Give that which gave thee life unto the worms.

Pluck down my officers, break my decrees;

For now a time is come to mock at form:

Harry the Fifth is crowned: up, vanity!

Down, royal state! all you sage counsellors, hence!

And to the English court assemble now,

From every region, apes of idleness!

Now, neighbour confines, purge you of your scum:

Have you a ruffian that will swear, drink, dance,

Revel the night, rob, murder, and commit

The oldest sins the newest kind of ways?

Be happy, he will trouble you no more;

England shall double gild his treble guilt,

England shall give him office, honour, might;

For the fifth Harry from curbed license plucks

The muzzle of restraint, and the wild dog

Shall flesh his tooth on every innocent.

O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows!

When that my care could not withhold thy riots,

What wilt thou do when riot is thy care?

O, thou wilt be a wilderness again,

Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants!

PRINCE.

O, pardon me, my liege! but for my tears,

The moist impediments unto my speech,

I had forestalled this dear and deep rebuke

Ere you with grief had spoke and I had heard

The course of it so far. There is your crown:

And He that wears the crown immortally

Long guard it yours! If I affect it more

Than as your honour and as your renown,

Let me no more from this obedience rise,

Which my most inward true and duteous spirit

Teacheth, this prostrate and exterior bending.

God witness with me, when I here came in,

And found no course of breath within your majesty,

How cold it struck my heart! If I do feign,

O, let me in my present wildness die

And never live to show the incredulous world

The noble change that I have purposed!

Coming to look on you, thinking you dead,

And dead almost, my liege, to think you were,

I spake unto this crown as having sense,

And thus upbraided it: "The care on thee depending

Hath fed upon the body of my father;

Therefore, thou best of gold art worst of gold:

Other, less fine in carat, is more precious,

Preserving life in medicine potable;

But thou, most fine, most honoured, most renowned,

Hast eat thy bearer up." Thus, my most royal liege,

Accusing it, I put it on my head,

To try with it, as with an enemy

That had before my face murdered my father,

The quarrel of a true inheritor.

But if it did infect my blood with joy,

Or swell my thoughts to any strain of pride;

If any rebel or vain spirit of mine

Did with the least affection of a welcome

Give entertainment to the might of it,

Let God for ever keep it from my head

And make me as the poorest vassal is

That doth with awe and terror kneel to it!

KING.

O my son,

God put it in thy mind to take it hence,

That thou mightst win the more thy father's love,

Pleading so wisely in excuse of it!

Come hither, Harry, sit thou by my bed;

And hear, I think, the very latest counsel

That ever I shall breathe. God knows, my son,

By what by-paths and indirect crooked ways

I met this crown; and I myself know well

How troublesome it sat upon my head.

To thee it shall descend with better quiet,

Better opinion, better confirmation;

For all the soil of the achievement goes

With me into the earth. It seemed in me

But as an honour snatched with boisterous hand,

And I had many living to upbraid

My gain of it by their assistances;

Which daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed,

Wounding supposed peace: all these bold fears

Thou see'st with peril I have answered;

For all my reign hath been but as a scene

Acting that argument: and now my death

Changes the mode; for what in me was purchased,

Falls upon thee in a more fairer sort;

So thou the garland wear'st successively.

Yet, though thou stand'st more sure than I could do,

Thou art not firm enough, since griefs are green;

And all my friends, which thou must make thy friends,

Have but their stings and teeth newly ta'en out;

By whose fell working I was first advanced

And by whose power I well might lodge a fear

To be again displaced: which to avoid,

I cut them off; and had a purpose now

To lead out many to the Holy Land,

Lest rest and lying still might make them look

Too near unto my state. Therefore, my Harry,

Be it thy course to busy giddy minds

With foreign quarrels; that action, hence borne out,

May waste the memory of the former days.

More would I, but my lungs are wasted so

That strength of speech is utterly denied me.

How I came by the crown, O God, forgive;

And grant it may with thee in true peace live!

PRINCE.

My gracious liege,

You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me;

Then plain and right must my possession be:

Which I with more than with a common pain

'Gainst all the world will rightfully maintain.

[Enter Lord John of Lancaster.]

KING.

Look, look, here comes my John of Lancaster.

LANCASTER.

Health, peace, and happiness to my royal father!

KING.

Thou bring'st me happiness and peace, son John;

But health, alack, with youthful wings is flown

From this bare withered trunk: upon thy sight

My worldly business makes a period.

Where is my Lord of Warwick?

PRINCE.

My Lord of Warwick!

[Re-enter Warwick, and others.]

KING.

Doth any name particular belong

Unto the lodging where I first did swoon?

WARWICK.

'Tis called Jerusalem, my noble lord.

KING.

Laud be to God! even there my life must end.

It hath been prophesied to me many years,

I should not die but in Jerusalem;

Which vainly I supposed the Holy Land:

But bear me to that chamber; there I'll lie;

In that Jerusalem shall Harry die.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

Gloucestershire. Shallow's house.

[Enter Shallow, Falstaff, Bardolph, and Page.]

SHALLOW.

By cock and pie, sir, you shall not away to-night.

What, Davy, I say!

FALSTAFF.

You must excuse me, Master Robert Shallow.

SHALLOW.

I will not excuse you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not be admitted; there is no excuse shall serve; you shall not be excused. Why, Davy!

[Enter Davy.]

DAVY.

Here, sir.

SHALLOW.

Davy, Davy, Davy, Davy, let me see, Davy; let me see, Davy; let me see: yea, marry, William cook, bid him come hither. Sir John, you shall not be excused.

DAVY.

Marry, sir, thus; those precepts cannot be served; and, again, sir, shall we sow the headland with wheat?

SHALLOW.

With red wheat, Davy. But for William cook: are there no young pigeons?

DAVY.

Yes, sir. Here is now the smith's note for shoeing and plough-irons.

SHALLOW.

Let it be cast and paid. Sir John, you shall not be excused.

DAVY.

Now, sir, a new link to the bucket must needs be had: and, sir, do you mean to stop any of William's wages, about the sack he lost the other day at Hinckley fair?

SHALLOW.

A shall answer it. Some pigeons, Davy, a couple of short-legged hens, a joint of mutton, and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William cook.

DAVY.

Doth the man of war stay all night, sir?

SHALLOW.

Yea, Davy. I will use him well: a friend i' the court is better than a penny in purse. Use his men well, Davy; for they are arrant knaves, and will backbite.

DAVY.

No worse than they are backbitten, sir; for they have marvellous foul linen.

SHALLOW.

Well conceited, Davy: about thy business, Davy.

DAVY.

I beseech you, sir, to countenance William Visor of Woncot against Clement Perkes of the hill.

SHALLOW.

There is many complaints, Davy, against that Visor: that Visor is an arrant knave, on my knowledge.

DAVY.

I grant your worship that he is a knave, sir; but yet, God forbid, sir, but a knave should have some countenance at his friend's request. An honest man, sir, is able to speak for himself, when a knave is not. I have served your worship truly, sir, this eight years; and if I cannot once or twice in a quarter bear out a knave against an honest man, I have but a very little credit with your worship. The knave is mine honest friend, sir; therefore, I beseech your worship, let him be countenanced.

SHALLOW.

Go to; I say he shall have no wrong. Look about, Davy. [Exit Davy.] Where are you, Sir John? Come, come, come, off with your boots. Give me your hand, Master Bardolph.

BARDOLPH.

I am glad to see your worship.

SHALLOW.

I thank thee with all my heart, kind Master Bardolph: and welcome, my tall fellow [to the Page]. Come, Sir John.

FALSTAFF.

I'll follow you, good Master Robert Shallow. [Exit Shallow.] Bardolph, look to our horses. [Exeunt Bardolph and Page.] If I were sawed into quantities, I should make four dozen of such bearded hermits' staves as Master Shallow. It is a wonderful thing to see the semblable coherence of his men's spirits and his: they, by observing of him, do bear themselves like foolish justices: he, by conversing with them, is turned into a justice-like serving-man: their spirits are so married in conjunction with the participation of society that they flock together in consent, like so many wild-geese. If I had a suit to Master Shallow, I would humour his men with the imputation of being near their master: if to his men, I would curry with Master Shallow that no man could better command his servants. It is certain that either wise bearing or ignorant carriage is caught, as men take diseases, one of another: therefore let men take heed of their company. I will devise matter enough out of this Shallow to keep Prince Harry in continual laughter the wearing out of six fashions, which is four terms, or two actions; and a' shall laugh without intervallums. O, it is much that a lie with a slight oath and a jest with a sad brow will do with a fellow that never had the ache in his shoulders! O, you shall see him laugh till his face be like a wet cloak ill laid up!

SHALLOW.

[Within.] Sir John!

FALSTAFF.

I come, Master Shallow; I come, Master Shallow.

[Exit.]

ACT V. SCENE II.

Westminster. The palace.

[Enter Warwick and the Lord Chief-Justice, meeting.]

WARWICK.

How now, my lord chief-justice! whither away?

CHIEF JUSTICE.

How doth the king?

WARWICK.

Exceeding well; his cares are now all ended.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

I hope, not dead.

WARWICK.

He 's walked the way of nature;

And to our purposes he lives no more.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

I would his Majesty had called me with him:

The service that I truly did his life

Hath left me open to all injuries.

WARWICK.

Indeed I think the young king loves you not.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

I know he doth not, and do arm myself

To welcome the condition of the time,

Which cannot look more hideously upon me

Than I have drawn it in my fantasy.

[Enter Lancaster, Clarence, Gloucester, Westmoreland, and others.]

WARWICK.

Here comes the heavy issue of dead Harry:

O that the living Harry had the temper

Of him, the worst of these three gentlemen!

How many nobles then should hold their places,

That must strike sail to spirits of vile sort!

CHIEF JUSTICE.

O God, I fear all will be overturned!

LANCASTER.

Good morrow, cousin Warwick, good morrow.

GLOUCESTER & CLARENCE.

Good morrow, cousin.

LANCASTER.

We meet like men that had forgot to speak.

WARWICK.

We do remember; but our argument

Is all too heavy to admit much talk.

LANCASTER.

Well, peace be with him that hath made us heavy!

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Peace be with us, lest we be heavier!

GLOUCESTER.

O, good my lord, you have lost a friend indeed;

And I dare swear you borrow not that face

Of seeming sorrow, it is sure your own.

LANCASTER.

Though no man be assured what grace to find,

You stand in coldest expectation:

I am the sorrier; would 'twere otherwise.

CLARENCE.

Well, you must now speak Sir John Falstaff fair;

Which swims against your stream of quality.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Sweet Princes, what I did, I did in honour,

Led by the impartial conduct of my soul;

And never shall you see that I will beg

A ragged and forestalled remission.

If truth and upright innocency fail me,

I'll to the king my master that is dead,

And tell him who hath sent me after him.

WARWICK.

Here comes the prince.

[Enter King Henry the Fifth, attended.]

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Good morrow; and God save your majesty!

KING.

This new and gorgeous garment, majesty,

Sits not so easy on me as you think.

Brothers, you mix your sadness with some fear:

This is the English, not the Turkish court;

Not Amurath an Amurath succeeds,

But Harry Harry. Yet be sad, good brothers,

For, by my faith, it very well becomes you:

Sorrow so royally in you appears

That I will deeply put the fashion on

And wear it in my heart: why then, be sad;

But entertain no more of it, good brothers,

Than a joint burden laid upon us all.

For me, by heaven, I bid you be assured,

I'll be your father and your brother too;

Let me but bear your love, I'll bear your cares:

Yet weep that Harry 's dead, and so will I;

But Harry lives, that shall convert those tears

By number into hours of happiness.

PRINCES.

We hope no otherwise from your majesty.

KING.

You all look strangely on me: and you most;

You are, I think, assured I love you not.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

I am assured, if I be measured rightly,

Your majesty hath no just cause to hate me.

KING.

No!

How might a prince of my great hopes forget

So great indignities you laid upon me?

What! rate, rebuke, and roughly send to prison

The immediate heir of England! Was this easy?

May this be washed in Lethe, and forgotten?

CHIEF JUSTICE.

I then did use the person of your father;

The image of his power lay then in me;

And, in the administration of his law,

Whiles I was busy for the commonwealth,

Your highness pleased to forget my place,

The majesty and power of law and justice,

The image of the king whom I presented,

And struck me in my very seat of judgement;

Whereon, as an offender to your father,

I gave bold way to my authority

And did commit you. If the deed were ill,

Be you contented, wearing now the garland,

To have a son set your decrees at nought,

To pluck down justice from your awful bench,

To trip the course of law and blunt the sword

That guards the peace and safety of your person;

Nay, more, to spurn at your most royal image,

And mock your workings in a second body.

Question your royal thoughts, make the case yours;

Be now the father and propose a son,

Hear your own dignity so much profaned,

See your most dreadful laws so loosely slighted,

Behold yourself so by a son disdained;

And then imagine me taking your part

And in your power soft silencing your son:

After this cold considerance, sentence me;

And, as you are a king, speak in your state

What I have done that misbecame my place,

My person, or my liege's sovereignty.

KING.

You are right, justice, and you weigh this well;

Therefore still bear the balance and the sword:

And I do wish your honours may increase,

Till you do live to see a son of mine

Offend you and obey you, as I did.

So shall I live to speak my father's words:

"Happy am I, that have a man so bold,

That dares do justice on my proper son;

And not less happy, having such a son,

That would deliver up his greatness so

Into the hands of justice." You did commit me:

For which I do commit into your hand

The unstained sword that you have used to bear;

With this remembrance, that you use the same

With the like bold, just and impartial spirit

As you have done 'gainst me. There is my hand.

You shall be as a father to my youth:

My voice shall sound as you do prompt mine ear,

And I will stoop and humble my intents

To your well-practised wise directions.

And, princes all, believe me, I beseech you;

My father is gone wild into his grave,

For in his tomb lie my affections;

And with his spirit sadly I survive,

To mock the expectation of the world,

To frustrate prophecies and to raze out

Rotten opinion, who hath writ me down

After my seeming. The tide of blood in me

Hath proudly flowed in vanity till now:

Now doth it turn and ebb back to the sea,

Where it shall mingle with the state of floods,

And flow henceforth in formal majesty.

Now call we our high court of parliament:

And let us choose such limbs of noble counsel,

That the great body of our state may go

In equal rank with the best governed nation;

That war, or peace, or both at once, may be

As things acquainted and familiar to us;

In which you, father, shall have foremost hand.

Our coronation done, we will accite,

As I before remembered, all our state:

And, God consigning to my good intents,

No prince nor peer shall have just cause to say,

God shorten Harry's happy life one day!

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE III.

Gloucestershire. Shallow's orchard.

[Enter Falstaff, Shallow, Silence, Davy, Bardolph, and the Page.]

SHALLOW.

Nay, you shall see my orchard, where, in an arbour, we will eat a last year's pippin of mine own graffing, with a dish of caraways, and so forth: come, cousin Silence: and then to bed.

FALSTAFF.

'Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling and a rich.

SHALLOW.

Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir John: marry, good air. Spread, Davy; spread, Davy: well said, Davy.

FALSTAFF.

This Davy serves you for good uses; he is your serving-man and your husband.

SHALLOW.

A good varlet, a good varlet, a very good varlet, Sir John: by the mass, I have drunk too much sack at supper: a good varlet. Now sit down, now sit down: come, cousin.

SILENCE.

Ah, sirrah! quoth-a, we shall

Do nothing but eat, and make good cheer,

[Singing.]

And praise God for the merry year;

When flesh is cheap and females dear,

And lusty lads roam here and there

So merrily,

And ever among so merrily.

FALSTAFF.

There's a merry heart! Good Master Silence, I'll give you a health for that anon.

SHALLOW.

Give Master Bardolph some wine, Davy.

DAVY.

Sweet sir, sit; I'll be with you anon; most sweet sir, sit. Master page, good master page, sit. Proface! What you want in meat, we'll have in drink: but you must bear; the heart 's all.

[Exit.]

SHALLOW.

Be merry, Master Bardolph; and, my little soldier there, be merry.

SILENCE.

Be merry, be merry, my wife has all;

[Singing.]

For women are shrews, both short and tall;

'Tis merry in hall when beards wag all;

And welcome merry Shrove-tide.

Be merry, be merry.

FALSTAFF.

I did not think Master Silence had been a man of this mettle.

SILENCE.

Who, I? I have been merry twice and once ere now.

[Re-enter Davy.]

DAVY.

[To Bardolph.]

There 's a dish of leather-coats for you.

SHALLOW.

Davy!

DAVY.

Your worship! I'll be with you straight

[To BARDOLPH.].

A cup of wine, sir?

SILENCE.

[Singing.]

A cup of wine that 's brisk and fine,

And drink unto the leman mine;

And a merry heart lives long-a.

FALSTAFF.

Well said, Master Silence.

SILENCE.

An we shall be merry, now comes in the sweet o' the night.

FALSTAFF.

Health and long life to you, Master Silence!

SILENCE.

[Singing.]

Fill the cup, and let it come,

I'll pledge you a mile to the bottom.

SHALLOW.

Honest Bardolph, welcome: if thou wantest anything and wilt not call, beshrew thy heart. Welcome, my little tiny thief [to the Page], and welcome indeed too. I'll drink to Master Bardolph, and to all the cavaleros about London.

DAVY.

I hope to see London once ere I die.

BARDOLPH.

An I might see you there, Davy,—

SHALLOW.

By the mass, you'll crack a quart together, ha! will you not, Master Bardolph?

BARDOLPH.

Yea, sir, in a pottle-pot.

SHALLOW.

By God's liggens, I thank thee: the knave will stick by thee, I can assure thee that. A' will not out; he is true bred.

BARDOLPH.

And I'll stick by him, sir.

SHALLOW.

Why, there spoke a king. Lack nothing: be merry. [Knocking within.] Look who 's at door there, ho! who knocks?

[Exit Davy.]

FALSTAFF.

[To Silence, seeing him take off a bumper.]

Why, now you have done me right.

SILENCE.

[Singing.]

Do me right,

And dub me knight:

Samingo.

Is't not so?

FALSTAFF.

'Tis so.

SILENCE.

Is't so? Why then, say an old man can do somewhat.

[Re-enter Davy.]

DAVY.

An't please your worship, there 's one Pistol come from the court with news.

FALSTAFF.

From the court? Let him come in.

[Enter Pistol.]

How now, Pistol!

PISTOL.

Sir John, God save you!

FALSTAFF.

What wind blew you hither, Pistol?

PISTOL.

Not the ill wind which blows no man to good. Sweet knight, thou art now one of the greatest men in this realm.

SILENCE.

By'r lady, I think a' be, but goodman Puff of Barson.

PISTOL.

Puff!

Puff in thy teeth, most recreant coward base!

Sir John, I am thy Pistol and thy friend,

And helter-skelter have I rode to thee,

And tidings do I bring and lucky joys

And golden times and happy news of price.

FALSTAFF.

I pray thee now, deliver them like a man of this world.

PISTOL.

A foutre for the world and worldlings base!

I speak of Africa and golden joys.

FALSTAFF.

O base Assyrian knight, what is thy news?

Let King Cophetua know the truth thereof.

SILENCE.

[Singing.]

And Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John.

PISTOL.

Shall dunghill curs confront the Helicons?

And shall good news be baffled?

Then, Pistol, lay thy head in Furies' lap.

SHALLOW.

Honest gentleman, I know not your breeding.

PISTOL.

Why then, lament therefore.

SHALLOW.

Give me pardon, sir: if, sir, you come with news from the court, I take it there 's but two ways, either to utter them, or conceal them. I am, sir, under the king, in some authority.

PISTOL.

Under which king, Besonian? speak, or die.

SHALLOW.

Under King Harry.

PISTOL.

Harry the Fourth? or Fifth?

SHALLOW.

Harry the Fourth.

PISTOL.

A foutre for thine office!

Sir John, thy tender lambkin now is king;

Harry the Fifth's the man. I speak the truth.

When Pistol lies, do this; and fig me, like

The bragging Spaniard.

FALSTAFF.

What, is the old king dead?

PISTOL.

As nail in door: the things I speak are just.

FALSTAFF.

Away, Bardolph! saddle my horse. Master Robert Shallow, choose what office thou wilt in the land, 'tis thine. Pistol, I will double-charge thee with dignities.

BARDOLPH.

O joyful day!

I would not take a knighthood for my fortune.

PISTOL.

What! I do bring good news.

FALSTAFF.

Carry Master Silence to bed. Master Shallow, my Lord Shallow,-be what thou wilt; I am fortune's steward—get on thy boots: we'll ride all night. O sweet Pistol! Away, Bardolph! [Exit Bardolph.] Come, Pistol, utter more to me; and withal devise something to do thyself good. Boot, boot, Master Shallow: I know the young king is sick for me. Let us take any man's horses; the laws of England are at my commandment. Blessed are they that have been my friends; and woe to my lord chief-justice!

PISTOL.

Let vultures vile seize on his lungs also!

"Where is the life that late I led?" say they:

Why, here it is; welcome these pleasant days!

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE IV.

London. A street.

[Enter Beadles, dragging in Hostess Quickly and Doll Tearsheet.]

HOSTESS.

No, thou arrant knave; I would to God that I might die, that I might have thee hanged: thou hast drawn my shoulder out of joint.

FIRST BEADLE.

The constables have delivered her over to me; and she shall have whipping-cheer enough, I warrant her: there hath been a man or two lately killed about her.

DOLL.

Nut-hook, nut-hook, you lie. Come on; I'll tell thee what, thou damned tripe-visaged rascal, an the child I now go with do miscarry, thou wert better thou hadst struck thy mother, thou paper-faced villain.

HOSTESS.

O the Lord, that Sir John were come! he would make this a bloody day to somebody. But I pray God the fruit of her womb miscarry!

FIRST BEADLE.

If it do, you shall have a dozen of cushions again; you have but eleven now. Come, I charge you both go with me; for the man is dead that you and Pistol beat amongst you.

DOLL.

I'll tell you what, you thin man in a censer, I will have you as soundly swinged for this,—you blue-bottle rogue, you filthy famished correctioner, if you be not swinged, I'll forswear half-kirtles.

FIRST BEADLE.

Come, come, you she knight-errant, come.

HOSTESS.

O God, that right should thus overcome might! Well, of sufferance comes ease.

DOLL.

Come, you rogue, come; bring me to a justice.

HOSTESS.

Ay, come, you starved blood-hound.

DOLL.

Goodman death, goodman bones!

HOSTESS.

Thou atomy, thou!

DOLL.

Come, you thin thing; come, you rascal!

FIRST BEADLE.

Very well.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE V.

A public place near Westminster Abbey.

[Enter two Grooms, strewing rushes.]

FIRST GROOM.

More rushes, more rushes.

SECOND GROOM.

The trumpets have sounded twice.

FIRST GROOM.

'Twill be two o'clock ere they come from the coronation: dispatch, dispatch.

[Exeunt.]

[Enter Falstaff, Shallow, Pistol, Bardolph, and Page.]

FALSTAFF.

Stand here by me, Master Robert Shallow; I will make the king do you grace: I will leer upon him as a' comes by; and do but mark the countenance that he will give me.

PISTOL.

God bless thy lungs, good knight!

FALSTAFF.

Come here, Pistol; stand behind me. O, if I had had to have made new liveries, I would have bestowed the thousand pound I borrowed of you. But 'tis no matter; this poor show doth better: this doth infer the zeal I had to see him.

SHALLOW.

It doth so.

FALSTAFF.

It shows my earnestness of affection,—

SHALLOW.

It doth so.

FALSTAFF.

My devotion,—

SHALLOW.

It doth, it doth, it doth.

FALSTAFF.

As it were, to ride day and night; and not to deliberate, not to remember, not to have patience to shift me,—

SHALLOW.

It is best, certain.

FALSTAFF.

But to stand stained with travel, and sweating with desire to see him; thinking of nothing else, putting all affairs else in oblivion, as if there were nothing else to be done but to see him.

PISTOL.

'Tis "semper idem," for "obsque hoc nihil est:" 'tis all in every part.

SHALLOW.

'Tis so, indeed.

PISTOL.

My knight, I will inflame thy noble liver,

And make thee rage.

Thy Doll, and Helen of thy noble thoughts,

Is in base durance and contagious prison;

Haled thither

By most mechanical and dirty hand:

Rouse up revenge from ebon den with fell Alecto's snake,

For Doll is in. Pistol speaks nought but truth.

FALSTAFF.

I will deliver her.

[Shouts, within, and the trumpets sound.]

PISTOL.

There roared the sea, and trumpet-clangor sounds.

[Enter the King and his train, the Lord Chief-Justice among them.]

FALSTAFF.

God save thy grace, King Hal; my royal Hal!

PISTOL.

The heavens thee guard and keep, most royal imp of fame!

FALSTAFF.

God save thee, my sweet boy!

KING.

My lord chief-justice, speak to that vain man.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Have you your wits? know you what 'tis you speak?

FALSTAFF.

My king! my Jove! I speak to thee, my heart!

KING.

I know thee not, old man: fall to thy prayers;

How ill white hairs become a fool and jester!

I have long dreamed of such a kind of man,

So surfeit-swelled, so old, and so profane;

But, being awaked, I do despise my dream.

Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace;

Leave gormandizing; know the grave doth gape

For thee thrice wider than for other men.

Reply not to me with a fool-born jest:

Presume not that I am the thing I was;

For God doth know, so shall the world perceive,

That I have turned away my former self;

So will I those that kept me company.

When thou dost hear I am as I have been,

Approach me, and thou shalt be as thou wast,

The tutor and the feeder of my riots:

Till then, I banish thee, on pain of death,

As I have done the rest of my misleaders,

Not to come near our person by ten mile.

For competence of life I will allow you,

That lack of means enforce you not to evils:

And, as we hear you do reform yourselves,

We will, according to your strengths and qualities,

Give you advancement. Be it your charge, my lord,

To see performed the tenour of our word.

Set on.

[Exeunt King, &c.]

FALSTAFF.

Master Shallow, I owe you a thousand pounds.

SHALLOW.

Yea, marry, Sir John; which I beseech you to let me have home with me.

FALSTAFF.

That can hardly be, Master Shallow. Do not you grieve at this; I shall be sent for in private to him: look you, he must seem thus to the world: fear not your advancements; I will be the man yet that shall make you great.

SHALLOW.

I cannot perceive how, unless you give me your doublet and stuff me out with straw. I beseech you, good Sir John, let me have five hundred of my thousand.

FALSTAFF.

Sir, I will be as good as my word: this that you heard was but a colour.

SHALLOW.

A colour that I fear you will die in, Sir John.

FALSTAFF.

Fear no colours: go with me to dinner: come, Lieutenant Pistol; come, Bardolph: I shall be sent for soon at night.

[Re-enter Prince John, the Lord Chief-Justice; Officers with them.]

CHIEF JUSTICE.

Go, carry Sir John Falstaff to the Fleet:

Take all his company along with him.

FALSTAFF.

My lord, my lord,—

CHIEF JUSTICE.

I cannot now speak: I will hear you soon.

Take them away.

PISTOL.

Si fortuna me tormenta, spero me contenta.

[Exeunt all but Prince John and the Lord Chief-Justice.]

LANCASTER.

I like this fair proceeding of the king's:

He hath intent his wonted followers

Shall all be very well provided for;

But all are banished till their conversations

Appear more wise and modest to the world.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

And so they are.

LANCASTER.

The king hath called his parliament, my lord.

CHIEF JUSTICE.

He hath.

LANCASTER.

I will lay odds that, ere this year expire,

We bear our civil swords and native fire

As far as France: I heard a bird so sing,

Whose music, to my thinking, pleased the king.

Come, will you hence?

[Exeunt.]

EPILOGUE.

[Spoken by a Dancer.]

First my fear; then my courtesy; last my speech. My fear is, your displeasure; my courtesy, my duty; and my speech, to beg your pardons. If you look for a good speech now, you undo me: for what I have to say is of mine own making; and what indeed I should say will, I doubt, prove mine own marring. But to the urpose, and so to the venture. Be it known to you, as it is very well, I was lately here in the end of a displeasing play, to pray your patience for it and to promise you a better. I meant indeed to pay you with this; which, if like an ill venture it come unluckily home, I break, and you, my gentle creditors, lose. Here I promised you I would be and here I commit my body to your mercies: bate me some and I will pay you some and, as most debtors do, promise you infinitely.

If my tongue cannot entreat you to acquit me, will you command me to use my legs? and yet that were but light payment, to dance out of your debt. But a good conscience will make any possible satisfaction, and so would I. All the gentlewomen here have forgiven me: if the gentlemen will not, then the gentlemen do not agree with the gentlewomen, which was never seen before in such an assembly.

One word more, I beseech you. If you be not too much cloyed with fat meat, our humble author will continue the story, with Sir John in it, and make you merry with fair Katharine of France: where, for any thing I know, Falstaff shall die of a sweat, unless already a' be killed with your hard opinions; for Oldcastle died a martyr, and this is not the man. My tongue is weary; when my legs are too, I will bid you good night: and so kneel down before you; but, indeed, to pray for the queen.

THE END

KING HENRY V

List of Characters

Prologue

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act II, Prologue

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act II, Scene III

Act II, Scene IV

Act III, Prologue

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act III, Scene III

Act III, Scene IV

Act III, Scene V

Act III, Scene VI

Act III, Scene VII

Act IV, Prologue

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act IV, Scene III

Act IV, Scene IV

Act IV, Scene V

Act IV, Scene VI

Act IV, Scene VII

Act IV, Scene VIII

Act V, Prologue

Act V, Scene I

Act V, Scene II

Epilogue

List of Characters

KING HENRY V.

DUKE OF GLOUCESTER: brother to the King.

DUKE OF BEDFORD: brother to the King.

DUKE OF EXETER: uncle to the King.

DUKE OF YORK: cousin to the King.

EARL OF SALISBURY.

EARL OF WESTMORELAND.

EARL OF WARWICK.

ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY.

BISHOP OF ELY.

EARL OF CAMBRIDGE.

LORD SCROOP.

SIR THOMAS GREY.

SIR THOMAS ERPINGHAM: officer in King Henry's army.

GOWER: officer in King Henry's army.

FLUELLEN: officer in King Henry's army.

MACMORRIS: officer in King Henry's army.

JAMY: officer in King Henry's army.

BATES: soldier in the same.

COURT: soldier in the same.

WILLIAMS: soldier in the same.

PISTOL.

NYM.

BARDOLPH.

BOY.

A Herald.

CHARLES VI: king of France.

LEWIS: the Dauphin. DUKE OF BURGUNDY.

DUKE OF ORLEANS.

DUKE OF BOURBON. The Constable of France.

RAMBURES: French Lord.

GRANDPRE: French Lord.

Governor of Harfleur MONTJOY: a French herald.

Ambassadors to the King of England.

ISABEL: queen of France.

KATHARINE: daughter to Charles and Isabel.

ALICE: a lady attending on her.

HOSTESS of a tavern in Eastcheap, formerly Mistress Quickly, and now married to Pistol.

CHORUS.

Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Citizens, Messengers, and Attendants.

SCENE: England; afterwards France.

PROLOGUE.

[Enter CHORUS.]

CHORUS.

O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend

The brightest heaven of invention,

A kingdom for a stage, princes to act,

And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!

Then should the warlike Harry, like himself,

Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels,

Leashed in like hounds, should famine, sword, and fire

Crouch for employment. But pardon, gentles all,

The flat unraised spirits that hath dared

On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth

So great an object. Can this cockpit hold

The vasty fields of France? Or may we cram

Within this wooden O the very casques

That did affright the air at Agincourt?

O, pardon! since a crooked figure may

Attest in little place a million;

And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,

On your imaginary forces work.

Suppose within the girdle of these walls

Are now confined two mighty monarchies,

Whose high upreared and abutting fronts

The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder;

Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts:

Into a thousand parts divide one man,

And make imaginary puissance;

Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them

Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth.

For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,

Carry them here and there, jumping o'er times,

Turning the accomplishment of many years

Into an hour-glass: for the which supply,

Admit me Chorus to this history;

Who, prologue-like, your humble patience pray,

Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play.

[Exit.]

ACT I, SCENE I.

London. An ante-chamber in the King's palace.

[Enter the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Ely.]

CANTERBURY.

My lord, I'll tell you: that self bill is urged,

Which in the eleventh year of the last king's reign

Was like, and had indeed against us passed,

But that the scambling and unquiet time

Did push it out of farther question.

ELY.

But how, my lord, shall we resist it now?

CANTERBURY.

It must be thought on. If it pass against us,

We lose the better half of our possession;

For all the temporal lands, which men devout

By testament have given to the Church,

Would they strip from us; being valued thus:

As much as would maintain, to the King's honour,

Full fifteen earls and fifteen hundred knights,

Six thousand and two hundred good esquires;

And, to relief of lazars and weak age,

Of indigent faint souls, past corporal toil,

A hundred almshouses right well supplied;

And to the coffers of the King beside,

A thousand pounds by the year. Thus runs the bill.

ELY.

This would drink deep.

CANTERBURY.

'Twould drink the cup and all.

ELY.

But what prevention?

CANTERBURY.

The King is full of grace and fair regard.

ELY.

And a true lover of the holy Church.

CANTERBURY.

The courses of his youth promised it not.

The breath no sooner left his father's body,

But that his wildness, mortified in him,

Seemed to die too; yea, at that very moment

Consideration like an angel came

And whipped the offending Adam out of him,

Leaving his body as a paradise

To envelope and contain celestial spirits.

Never was such a sudden scholar made;

Never came reformation in a flood

With such a heady currance, scouring faults;

Nor never Hydra-headed wilfulness

So soon did lose his seat, and all at once,

As in this king.

ELY.

We are blessed in the change.

CANTERBURY.

Hear him but reason in divinity,

And, all-admiring, with an inward wish

You would desire the King were made a prelate;

Hear him debate of commonwealth affairs,

You would say it hath been all in all his study;

List his discourse of war, and you shall hear

A fearful battle rend'red you in music;

Turn him to any cause of policy,

The Gordian knot of it he will unloose,

Familiar as his garter; that, when he speaks,

The air, a chartered libertine, is still,

And the mute wonder lurketh in men's ears,

To steal his sweet and honeyed sentences;

So that the art and practic' part of life

Must be the mistress to this theoric:

Which is a wonder how his Grace should glean it,

Since his addiction was to courses vain,

His companies unlettered, rude, and shallow,

His hours filled up with riots, banquets, sports,

And never noted in him any study,

Any retirement, any sequestration

From open haunts and popularity.

ELY.

The strawberry grows underneath the nettle,

And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best

Neighboured by fruit of baser quality;

And so the Prince obscured his contemplation

Under the veil of wildness; which, no doubt,

Grew like the summer grass, fastest by night,

Unseen, yet crescive in his faculty.

CANTERBURY.

It must be so; for miracles are ceased,

And therefore we must needs admit the means

How things are perfected.

ELY.

But, my good lord,

How now for mitigation of this bill

Urged by the commons? Doth his Majesty

Incline to it, or no?

CANTERBURY.

He seems indifferent,

Or rather swaying more upon our part

Than cherishing the exhibiters against us;

For I have made an offer to his Majesty,

Upon our spiritual convocation

And in regard of causes now in hand,

Which I have opened to his Grace at large,

As touching France, to give a greater sum

Than ever at one time the clergy yet

Did to his predecessors part withal.

ELY.

How did this offer seem received, my lord?

CANTERBURY.

With good acceptance of his Majesty;

Save that there was not time enough to hear,

As I perceived his Grace would fain have done,

The severals and unhidden passages

Of his true titles to some certain dukedoms,

And generally to the crown and seat of France

Derived from Edward, his great-grandfather.

ELY.

What was the impediment that broke this off?

CANTERBURY.

The French ambassador upon that instant

Craved audience; and the hour, I think, is come

To give him hearing. Is it four o'clock?

ELY.

It is.

CANTERBURY.

Then go we in, to know his embassy;

Which I could with a ready guess declare,

Before the Frenchman speak a word of it.

ELY.

I'll wait upon you, and I long to hear it.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

The same. The presence chamber.

[Enter King Henry, Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Warwick, Westmoreland and Attendants.]

KING HENRY.

Where is my gracious Lord of Canterbury?

EXETER.

Not here in presence.

KING HENRY.

Send for him, good uncle.

WESTMORELAND.

Shall we call in the ambassador, my liege?

KING HENRY.

Not yet, my cousin. We would be resolved,

Before we hear him, of some things of weight

That task our thoughts, concerning us and France.

[Enter the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Ely.]

CANTERBURY.

God and his angels guard your sacred throne

And make you long become it!

KING HENRY.

Sure, we thank you.

My learned lord, we pray you to proceed

And justly and religiously unfold

Why the law Salique that they have in France

Or should, or should not, bar us in our claim;

And God forbid, my dear and faithful lord,

That you should fashion, wrest, or bow your reading,

Or nicely charge your understanding soul

With opening titles miscreate, whose right

Suits not in native colours with the truth;

For God doth know how many now in health

Shall drop their blood in approbation

Of what your reverence shall incite us to.

Therefore take heed how you impawn our person,

How you awake our sleeping sword of war.

We charge you, in the name of God, take heed;

For never two such kingdoms did contend

Without much fall of blood, whose guiltless drops

Are every one a woe, a sore complaint

'Gainst him whose wrongs gives edge unto the swords

That makes such waste in brief mortality.

Under this conjuration speak, my lord;

For we will hear, note, and believe in heart

That what you speak is in your conscience washed

As pure as sin with baptism.

CANTERBURY.

Then hear me, gracious sovereign, and you peers,

That owe yourselves, your lives, and services

To this imperial throne. There is no bar

To make against your Highness' claim to France

But this, which they produce from Pharamond:

"In terram Salicam mulieres ne succedant,"

"No woman shall succeed in Salique land;"

Which Salique land the French unjustly gloze

To be the realm of France, and Pharamond

The founder of this law and female bar.

Yet their own authors faithfully affirm

That the land Salique is in Germany,

Between the floods of Sala and of Elbe;

Where Charles the Great, having subdued the Saxons,

There left behind and settled certain French;

Who, holding in disdain the German women

For some dishonest manners of their life,

Established then this law, to wit, no female

Should be inheritrix in Salique land;

Which Salique, as I said, 'twixt Elbe and Sala,

Is at this day in Germany called Meisen.

Then doth it well appear the Salique law

Was not devised for the realm of France;

Nor did the French possess the Salique land

Until four hundred one and twenty years

After defunction of King Pharamond,

Idly supposed the founder of this law,

Who died within the year of our redemption

Four hundred twenty-six; and Charles the Great

Subdued the Saxons, and did seat the French

Beyond the river Sala, in the year

Eight hundred five. Besides, their writers say,

King Pepin, which deposed Childeric,

Did, as heir general, being descended

Of Blithild, which was daughter to King Clothair,

Make claim and title to the crown of France.

Hugh Capet also, who usurped the crown

Of Charles the Duke of Lorraine, sole heir male

Of the true line and stock of Charles the Great,

To find his title with some shows of truth,

Though, in pure truth, it was corrupt and naught,

Conveyed himself as the heir to the Lady Lingare,

Daughter to Charlemain, who was the son

To Lewis the Emperor, and Lewis the son

Of Charles the Great. Also, King Lewis the Tenth,

Who was sole heir to the usurper Capet,

Could not keep quiet in his conscience,

Wearing the crown of France, till satisfied

That fair Queen Isabel, his grandmother,

Was lineal of the Lady Ermengare,

Daughter to Charles, the foresaid Duke of Lorraine;

By the which marriage the line of Charles the Great

Was re-united to the crown of France.

So that, as clear as is the summer's sun,

King Pepin's title and Hugh Capet's claim,

King Lewis his satisfaction, all appear

To hold in right and title of the female.

So do the kings of France unto this day,

Howbeit they would hold up this Salique law

To bar your Highness claiming from the female,

And rather choose to hide them in a net

Than amply to imbar their crooked titles

Usurped from you and your progenitors.

KING HENRY.

May I with right and conscience make this claim?

CANTERBURY.

The sin upon my head, dread sovereign!

For in the book of Numbers is it writ,

'When the man dies, let the inheritance

Descend unto the daughter'. Gracious lord,

Stand for your own! Unwind your bloody flag!

Look back into your mighty ancestors!

Go, my dread lord, to your great-grandsire's tomb,

From whom you claim; invoke his warlike spirit,

And your great-uncle's, Edward the Black Prince,

Who on the French ground played a tragedy,

Making defeat on the full power of France,

Whiles his most mighty father on a hill

Stood smiling to behold his lion's whelp

Forage in blood of French nobility.

O noble English, that could entertain

With half their forces the full pride of France

And let another half stand laughing by,

All out of work and cold for action!

ELY.

Awake remembrance of these valiant dead,

And with your puissant arm renew their feats.

You are their heir; you sit upon their throne;

The blood and courage that renowned them

Runs in your veins; and my thrice-puissant liege

Is in the very May-morn of his youth,

Ripe for exploits and mighty enterprises.

EXETER.

Your brother kings and monarchs of the earth

Do all expect that you should rouse yourself,

As did the former lions of your blood.

WESTMORELAND.

They know your Grace hath cause and means and might;

So hath your Highness. Never King of England

Had nobles richer, and more loyal subjects,

Whose hearts have left their bodies here in England

And lie pavilioned in the fields of France.

CANTERBURY.

O, let their bodies follow, my dear liege,

With blood and sword and fire to win your right;

In aid whereof we of the spiritualty

Will raise your Highness such a mighty sum

As never did the clergy at one time

Bring in to any of your ancestors.

KING HENRY.

We must not only arm to invade the French,

But lay down our proportions to defend

Against the Scot, who will make road upon us

With all advantages.

CANTERBURY.

They of those marches, gracious sovereign,

Shall be a wall sufficient to defend

Our inland from the pilfering borderers.

KING HENRY.

We do not mean the coursing snatchers only,

But fear the main intendment of the Scot,

Who hath been still a giddy neighbour to us;

For you shall read that my great-grandfather

Never went with his forces into France

But that the Scot on his unfurnished kingdom

Came pouring, like the tide into a breach,

With ample and brim fullness of his force,

Galling the gleaned land with hot assays,

Girdling with grievous siege castles and towns;

That England, being empty of defence,

Hath shook and trembled at the ill neighbourhood.

CANTERBURY.

She hath been then more feared than harmed, my liege;

For hear her but exampled by herself:

When all her chivalry hath been in France,

And she a mourning widow of her nobles,

She hath herself not only well defended

But taken and impounded as a stray

The King of Scots; whom she did send to France

To fill King Edward's fame with prisoner kings,

And make her chronicle as rich with praise

As is the ooze and bottom of the sea

With sunken wreck and sumless treasuries.

WESTMORELAND.

But there's a saying very old and true,

"If that you will France win,

Then with Scotland first begin."

For once the eagle England being in prey,

To her unguarded nest the weasel Scot

Comes sneaking and so sucks her princely eggs,

Playing the mouse in absence of the cat,

To tear and havoc more than she can eat.

EXETER.

It follows then the cat must stay at home;

Yet that is but a crushed necessity,

Since we have locks to safeguard necessaries,

And pretty traps to catch the petty thieves.

While that the armed hand doth fight abroad,

The advised head defends itself at home;

For government, though high and low and lower,

Put into parts, doth keep in one consent,

Congreeing in a full and natural close,

Like music.

CANTERBURY.

Therefore doth heaven divide

The state of man in divers functions,

Setting endeavour in continual motion,

To which is fixed, as an aim or butt,

Obedience; for so work the honey-bees,

Creatures that by a rule in nature teach

The act of order to a peopled kingdom.

They have a king and officers of sorts,

Where some, like magistrates, correct at home,

Others like merchants, venture trade abroad,

Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings,

Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds,

Which pillage they with merry march bring home

To the tent-royal of their emperor;

Who, busied in his majesty, surveys

The singing masons building roofs of gold,

The civil citizens kneading up the honey,

The poor mechanic porters crowding in

Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate,

The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum,

Delivering o'er to executors pale

The lazy yawning drone. I this infer,

That many things, having full reference

To one consent, may work contrariously.

As many arrows, loosed several ways,

Come to one mark; as many ways meet in one town;

As many fresh streams meet in one salt sea;

As many lines close in the dial's centre;

So many a thousand actions, once afoot,

End in one purpose, and be all well borne

Without defeat. Therefore to France, my liege!

Divide your happy England into four,

Whereof take you one quarter into France,

And you withal shall make all Gallia shake.

If we, with thrice such powers left at home,

Cannot defend our own doors from the dog,

Let us be worried and our nation lose

The name of hardiness and policy.

KING HENRY.

Call in the messengers sent from the Dauphin.

[Exeunt some Attendants.]

Now are we well resolved; and, by God's help,

And yours, the noble sinews of our power,

France being ours, we'll bend it to our awe,

Or break it all to pieces. Or there we'll sit,

Ruling in large and ample empery

O'er France and all her almost kingly dukedoms,

Or lay these bones in an unworthy urn,

Tombless, with no remembrance over them.

Either our history shall with full mouth

Speak freely of our acts, or else our grave,

Like Turkish mute, shall have a tongueless mouth,

Not worshipped with a waxen epitaph.

[Enter Ambassadors of France.]

Now are we well prepared to know the pleasure

Of our fair cousin Dauphin; for we hear

Your greeting is from him, not from the King.

FIRST AMBASSADOR.

May't please your Majesty to give us leave

Freely to render what we have in charge,

Or shall we sparingly show you far off

The Dauphin's meaning and our embassy?

KING HENRY.

We are no tyrant, but a Christian king,

Unto whose grace our passion is as subject

As is our wretches fett'red in our prisons;

Therefore with frank and with uncurbed plainness

Tell us the Dauphin's mind.

AMBASSADOR.

Thus, then, in few.

Your Highness, lately sending into France,

Did claim some certain dukedoms, in the right

Of your great predecessor, King Edward the Third.

In answer of which claim, the prince our master

Says that you savour too much of your youth,

And bids you be advised there's nought in France

That can be with a nimble galliard won.

You cannot revel into dukedoms there.

He therefore sends you, meeter for your spirit,

This tun of treasure; and, in lieu of this,

Desires you let the dukedoms that you claim

Hear no more of you. This the Dauphin speaks.

KING HENRY.

What treasure, uncle?

EXETER.

Tennis-balls, my liege.

KING HENRY.

We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us.

His present and your pains we thank you for.

When we have matched our rackets to these balls,

We will, in France, by God's grace, play a set

Shall strike his father's crown into the hazard.

Tell him he hath made a match with such a wrangler

That all the courts of France will be disturbed

With chaces. And we understand him well,

How he comes o'er us with our wilder days,

Not measuring what use we made of them.

We never valued this poor seat of England;

And therefore, living hence, did give ourself

To barbarous licence; as 'tis ever common

That men are merriest when they are from home.

But tell the Dauphin I will keep my state,

Be like a king, and show my sail of greatness

When I do rouse me in my throne of France.

For that I have laid by my majesty

And plodded like a man for working days,

But I will rise there with so full a glory

That I will dazzle all the eyes of France,

Yea, strike the Dauphin blind to look on us.

And tell the pleasant prince this mock of his

Hath turned his balls to gun-stones, and his soul

Shall stand sore charged for the wasteful vengeance

That shall fly with them; for many a thousand widows

Shall this his mock mock out of their dear husbands,

Mock mothers from their sons, mock castles down;

And some are yet ungotten and unborn

That shall have cause to curse the Dauphin's scorn.

But this lies all within the will of God,

To whom I do appeal; and in whose name

Tell you the Dauphin I am coming on

To venge me as I may, and to put forth

My rightful hand in a well-hallowed cause.

So get you hence in peace; and tell the Dauphin

His jest will savour but of shallow wit,

When thousands weep more than did laugh at it.—

Convey them with safe conduct.—Fare you well.

[Exeunt Ambassadors.]

EXETER.

This was a merry message.

KING HENRY.

We hope to make the sender blush at it.

Therefore, my lords, omit no happy hour

That may give furtherance to our expedition;

For we have now no thought in us but France,

Save those to God, that run before our business.

Therefore, let our proportions for these wars

Be soon collected, and all things thought upon

That may with reasonable swiftness add

More feathers to our wings; for, God before,

We'll chide this Dauphin at his father's door.

Therefore let every man now task his thought,

That this fair action may on foot be brought.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. PROLOGUE.

[Flourish. Enter Chorus.]

CHORUS.

Now all the youth of England are on fire,

And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies.

Now thrive the armourers, and honour's thought

Reigns solely in the breast of every man.

They sell the pasture now to buy the horse,

Following the mirror of all Christian kings,

With winged heels, as English Mercuries.

For now sits Expectation in the air,

And hides a sword from hilts unto the point

With crowns imperial, crowns, and coronets,

Promised to Harry and his followers.

The French, advised by good intelligence

Of this most dreadful preparation,

Shake in their fear, and with pale policy

Seek to divert the English purposes.

O England! model to thy inward greatness,

Like little body with a mighty heart,

What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do,

Were all thy children kind and natural!

But see thy fault! France hath in thee found out

A nest of hollow bosoms, which he fills

With treacherous crowns; and three corrupted men,

One, Richard Earl of Cambridge, and the second,

Henry Lord Scroop of Masham, and the third,

Sir Thomas Grey, knight of Northumberland,

Have, for the gilt of France,—O guilt indeed!—

Confirmed conspiracy with fearful France;

And by their hands this grace of kings must die,

If hell and treason hold their promises,

Ere he take ship for France, and in Southampton.

Linger your patience on, and we'll digest

The abuse of distance, force a play.

The sum is paid; the traitors are agreed;

The King is set from London; and the scene

Is now transported, gentles, to Southampton.

There is the playhouse now, there must you sit;

And thence to France shall we convey you safe,

And bring you back, charming the narrow seas

To give you gentle pass; for, if we may,

We'll not offend one stomach with our play.

But, till the King come forth, and not till then,

Unto Southampton do we shift our scene.

[Exit.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

London. A street.

[Enter Corporal Nym and Lieutenant Bardolph.]

BARDOLPH.

Well met, Corporal Nym.

NYM.

Good morrow, Lieutenant Bardolph.

BARDOLPH.

What, are Ancient Pistol and you friends yet?

NYM.

For my part, I care not. I say little; but when time shall serve, there shall be smiles; but that shall be as it may. I dare not fight, but I will wink and hold out mine iron. It is a simple one, but what though? It will toast cheese, and it will endure cold as another man's sword will; and there's an end.

BARDOLPH.

I will bestow a breakfast to make you friends; and we'll be all three sworn brothers to France. Let it be so, good Corporal Nym.

NYM.

Faith, I will live so long as I may, that's the certain of it; and when I cannot live any longer, I will do as I may. That is my rest, that is the rendezvous of it.

BARDOLPH.

It is certain, corporal, that he is married to Nell Quickly; and certainly she did you wrong, for you were troth-plight to her.

NYM.

I cannot tell. Things must be as they may. Men may sleep, and they may have their throats about them at that time; and some say knives have edges. It must be as it may. Though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod. There must be conclusions. Well, I cannot tell.

[Enter Pistol and Hostess.]

BARDOLPH.

Here comes Ancient Pistol and his wife. Good Corporal, be patient here. How now, mine host Pistol!

PISTOL.

Base tike, call'st thou me host?

Now, by this hand, I swear I scorn the term;

Nor shall my Nell keep lodgers.

HOSTESS.

No, by my troth, not long; for we cannot lodge and board a dozen or fourteen gentlewomen that live honestly by the prick of their needles, but it will be thought we keep a bawdy house straight. [Nym and Pistol draw.] O well a day, Lady, if he be not drawn now! We shall see wilful adultery and murder committed.

BARDOLPH.

Good Lieutenant! good corporal! offer nothing here.

NYM.

Pish!

PISTOL.

Pish for thee, Iceland dog! thou prick-eared cur of Iceland!

HOSTESS.

Good Corporal Nym, show thy valour, and put up your sword.

NYM.

Will you shog off? I would have you solus.

PISTOL.

Solus, egregious dog! O viper vile!

The solus in thy most mervailous face;

The solus in thy teeth, and in thy throat,

And in thy hateful lungs, yea, in thy maw, perdy,

And, which is worse, within thy nasty mouth!

I do retort the solus in thy bowels;

For I can take, and Pistol's cock is up,

And flashing fire will follow.

NYM.

I am not Barbason; you cannot conjure me. I have an humour to knock you indifferently well. If you grow foul with me, Pistol, I will scour you with my rapier, as I may, in fair terms. If you would walk off, I would prick your guts a little, in good terms, as I may; and that's the humour of it.

PISTOL.

O braggart vile and damned furious wight!

The grave doth gape, and doting death is near,

Therefore exhale.

BARDOLPH.

Hear me, hear me what I say. He that strikes the first stroke I'll run him up to the hilts, as I am a soldier.

[Draws.]

PISTOL.

An oath of mickle might; and fury shall abate.

Give me thy fist, thy fore-foot to me give.

Thy spirits are most tall.

NYM.

I will cut thy throat, one time or other, in fair terms: that is the humour of it.

PISTOL.

"Couple a gorge!"

That is the word. I thee defy again.

O hound of Crete, think'st thou my spouse to get?

No! to the spital go,

And from the powdering tub of infamy

Fetch forth the lazar kite of Cressid's kind,

Doll Tearsheet she by name, and her espouse.

I have, and I will hold, the quondam Quickly

For the only she; and—pauca, there's enough.

Go to.

[Enter the Boy.]

BOY.

Mine host Pistol, you must come to my master, and you, hostess. He is very sick, and would to bed. Good Bardolph, put thy face between his sheets, and do the office of a warming-pan. Faith, he's very ill.

BARDOLPH.

Away, you rogue!

HOSTESS.

By my troth, he'll yield the crow a pudding one of these days. The King has killed his heart. Good husband, come home presently.

[Exeunt Hostess and Boy.]

BARDOLPH.

Come, shall I make you two friends? We must to France together; why the devil should we keep knives to cut one another's throats?

PISTOL.

Let floods o'erswell, and fiends for food howl on!

NYM.

You'll pay me the eight shillings I won of you at betting?

PISTOL.

Base is the slave that pays.

NYM.

That now I will have: that's the humour of it.

PISTOL.

As manhood shall compound. Push home.

[They draw.]

BARDOLPH.

By this sword, he that makes the first thrust, I'll kill

him; by this sword, I will.

PISTOL.

Sword is an oath, and oaths must have their course.

BARDOLPH.

Corporal Nym, and thou wilt be friends, be friends; an thou wilt not, why, then, be enemies with me too. Prithee, put up.

NYM.

I shall have my eight shillings I won from you at betting?

PISTOL.

A noble shalt thou have, and present pay;

And liquor likewise will I give to thee,

And friendship shall combine, and brotherhood.

I'll live by Nym, and Nym shall live by me.

Is not this just? For I shall sutler be

Unto the camp, and profits will accrue.

Give me thy hand.

NYM.

I shall have my noble?

PISTOL.

In cash most justly paid.

NYM.

Well, then, that's the humour of't.

[Re-enter Hostess.]

HOSTESS.

As ever you come of women, come in quickly to Sir John. Ah, poor heart! he is so shaked of a burning quotidian tertian, that it is most lamentable to behold. Sweet men, come to him.

NYM.

The King hath run bad humours on the knight; that's the even

of it.

PISTOL.

Nym, thou hast spoke the right.

His heart is fracted and corroborate.

NYM.

The King is a good king; but it must be as it may; he passes some humours and careers.

PISTOL.

Let us condole the knight; for, lambkins, we will live.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

Southampton. A council-chamber.

[Enter Exeter, Bedford, and Westmoreland.]

BEDFORD.

'Fore God, his Grace is bold, to trust these traitors.

EXETER.

They shall be apprehended by and by.

WESTMORELAND.

How smooth and even they do bear themselves!

As if allegiance in their bosoms sat

Crowned with faith and constant loyalty.

BEDFORD.

The King hath note of all that they intend,

By interception which they dream not of.

EXETER.

Nay, but the man that was his bed-fellow,

Whom he hath dulled and cloyed with gracious favours,

That he should, for a foreign purse, so sell

His sovereign's life to death and treachery.

[Trumpets sound. Enter King Henry, Scroop, Cambridge, and Grey.]

KING HENRY.

Now sits the wind fair, and we will aboard.

My Lord of Cambridge, and my kind Lord of Masham,

And you, my gentle knight, give me your thoughts.

Think you not that the powers we bear with us

Will cut their passage through the force of France,

Doing the execution and the act

For which we have in head assembled them?

SCROOP.

No doubt, my liege, if each man do his best.

KING HENRY.

I doubt not that, since we are well persuaded

We carry not a heart with us from hence

That grows not in a fair consent with ours,

Nor leave not one behind that doth not wish

Success and conquest to attend on us.

CAMBRIDGE.

Never was monarch better feared and loved

Than is your Majesty. There's not, I think, a subject

That sits in heart-grief and uneasiness

Under the sweet shade of your government.

GREY.

True; those that were your father's enemies

Have steeped their galls in honey, and do serve you

With hearts create of duty and of zeal.

KING HENRY.

We therefore have great cause of thankfulness,

And shall forget the office of our hand

Sooner than quittance of desert and merit

According to the weight and worthiness.

SCROOP.

So service shall with steeled sinews toil,

And labour shall refresh itself with hope,

To do your Grace incessant services.

KING HENRY.

We judge no less. Uncle of Exeter,

Enlarge the man committed yesterday,

That railed against our person. We consider

It was excess of wine that set him on,

And on his more advice we pardon him.

SCROOP.

That's mercy, but too much security.

Let him be punished, sovereign, lest example

Breed, by his sufferance, more of such a kind.

KING HENRY.

O, let us yet be merciful.

CAMBRIDGE.

So may your Highness, and yet punish too.

GREY.

Sir,

You show great mercy if you give him life

After the taste of much correction.

KING HENRY.

Alas, your too much love and care of me

Are heavy orisons 'gainst this poor wretch!

If little faults, proceeding on distemper,

Shall not be winked at, how shall we stretch our eye

When capital crimes, chewed, swallowed, and digested,

Appear before us? We'll yet enlarge that man,

Though Cambridge, Scroop, and Grey, in their dear care

And tender preservation of our person,

Would have him punished. And now to our French causes.

Who are the late commissioners?

CAMBRIDGE.

I one, my lord.

Your Highness bade me ask for it to-day.

SCROOP.

So did you me, my liege.

GREY.

And I, my royal sovereign.

KING HENRY.

[Gives papers.]

Then, Richard Earl of Cambridge, there is yours;

There yours, Lord Scroop of Masham; and, sir knight,

Grey of Northumberland, this same is yours.

Read them, and know I know your worthiness.

My Lord of Westmoreland, and uncle Exeter,

We will aboard to-night.—Why, how now, gentlemen!

What see you in those papers that you lose

So much complexion?—Look ye, how they change!

Their cheeks are paper.—Why, what read you there,

That have so cowarded and chased your blood

Out of appearance?

[Cambridge, Scroop and Grey fall upon their knees.]

CAMBRIDGE.

I do confess my fault,

And do submit me to your Highness' mercy.

GREY, SCROOP.

To which we all appeal.

KING HENRY.

The mercy that was quick in us but late,

By your own counsel is suppressed and killed.

You must not dare, for shame, to talk of mercy,

For your own reasons turn into your bosoms,

As dogs upon their masters, worrying you.

See you, my princes and my noble peers,

These English monsters! My Lord of Cambridge here,

You know how apt our love was to accord

To furnish him with an appertinents

Belonging to his honour; and this man

Hath, for a few light crowns, lightly conspired

And sworn unto the practices of France

To kill us here in Hampton; to the which

This knight, no less for bounty bound to us

Than Cambridge is, hath likewise sworn. But, O

What shall I say to thee, Lord Scroop? thou cruel,

Ingrateful, savage, and inhuman creature!

Thou that didst bear the key of all my counsels,

That knew'st the very bottom of my soul,

That almost mightst have coined me into gold,

Wouldst thou have practised on me for thy use,—

May it be possible that foreign hire

Could out of thee extract one spark of evil

That might annoy my finger? 'Tis so strange,

That, though the truth of it stands off as gross

As black and white, my eye will scarcely see it.

Treason and murder ever kept together,

As two yoke-devils sworn to either's purpose,

Working so grossly in a natural cause

That admiration did not whoop at them;

But thou, 'gainst all proportion, didst bring in

Wonder to wait on treason and on murder;

And whatsoever cunning fiend it was

That wrought upon thee so preposterously

Hath got the voice in hell for excellence;

And other devils that suggest by treasons

Do botch and bungle up damnation

With patches, colours, and with forms being fetched

From glist'ring semblances of piety.

But he that tempered thee bade thee stand up,

Gave thee no instance why thou shouldst do treason,

Unless to dub thee with the name of traitor.

If that same demon that hath gulled thee thus

Should with his lion gait walk the whole world,

He might return to vasty Tartar back,

And tell the legions, "I can never win

A soul so easy as that Englishman's."

O, how hast thou with jealousy infected

The sweetness of affiance! Show men dutiful?

Why, so didst thou. Seem they grave and learned?

Why, so didst thou. Come they of noble family?

Why, so didst thou. Seem they religious?

Why, so didst thou. Or are they spare in diet,

Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger,

Constant in spirit, not swerving with the blood,

Garnished and decked in modest complement,

Not working with the eye without the ear,

And but in purged judgement trusting neither?

Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem.

And thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot

To mark the full-fraught man and best indued

With some suspicion. I will weep for thee;

For this revolt of thine, methinks, is like

Another fall of man. Their faults are open.

Arrest them to the answer of the law;

And God acquit them of their practices!

[Cambridge, Scroop and Grey rise.]

EXETER.

I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of

Richard Earl of Cambridge.

I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Henry

Lord Scroop of Masham.

I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Thomas

Grey, knight, of Northumberland.

SCROOP.

Our purposes God justly hath discovered,

And I repent my fault more than my death,

Which I beseech your Highness to forgive,

Although my body pay the price of it.

CAMBRIDGE.

For me, the gold of France did not seduce,

Although I did admit it as a motive

The sooner to effect what I intended.

But God be thanked for prevention,

Which I in sufferance heartily will rejoice,

Beseeching God and you to pardon me.

GREY.

Never did faithful subject more rejoice

At the discovery of most dangerous treason

Than I do at this hour joy o'er myself,

Prevented from a damned enterprise.

My fault, but not my body, pardon, sovereign.

KING HENRY.

God quit you in his mercy! Hear your sentence.

You have conspired against our royal person,

Joined with an enemy proclaimed, and from his coffers

Received the golden earnest of our death;

Wherein you would have sold your king to slaughter,

His princes and his peers to servitude,

His subjects to oppression and contempt,

And his whole kingdom into desolation.

Touching our person seek we no revenge;

But we our kingdom's safety must so tender,

Whose ruin you have sought, that to her laws

We do deliver you. Get you therefore hence,

Poor miserable wretches, to your death,

The taste whereof God of his mercy give

You patience to endure, and true repentance

Of all your dear offences! Bear them hence.

[Exeunt Cambridge, Scroop, and Grey, guarded.]

Now, lords, for France; the enterprise whereof

Shall be to you, as us, like glorious.

We doubt not of a fair and lucky war,

Since God so graciously hath brought to light

This dangerous treason lurking in our way

To hinder our beginnings. We doubt not now

But every rub is smoothed on our way.

Then forth, dear countrymen! Let us deliver

Our puissance into the hand of God,

Putting it straight in expedition.

Cheerly to sea! The signs of war advance!

No king of England, if not king of France!

[Flourish.]

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE III.

London. Before a tavern.

[Enter Pistol, Nym, Bardolph, Boy, and Hostess.]

HOSTESS.

Prithee, honey, sweet husband, let me bring thee to Staines.

PISTOL.

No; for my manly heart doth yearn.

Bardolph, be blithe; Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins;

Boy, bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is dead,

And we must yearn therefore.

BARDOLPH.

Would I were with him, wheresome'er he is, either in heaven or in hell!

HOSTESS.

Nay, sure, he's not in hell. He's in Arthur's bosom, if ever man went to Arthur's bosom. 'A made a finer end and went away an it had been any christom child. 'A parted even just between twelve and one, even at the turning o' the tide: for after I saw him fumble with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile upon his fingers' ends, I knew there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and 'a babbled of green fields. "How now, Sir John!" quoth I; "what, man! be o' good cheer." So 'a cried out, "God, God, God!" three or four times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him 'a should not think of God; I hoped there was no need to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet. So 'a bade me lay more clothes on his feet. I put my hand into the bed and felt them, and they were as cold as any stone; then I felt to his knees, [and they were as cold as any stone;] and so upward and upward, and all was as cold as any stone.

NYM.

They say he cried out of sack.

HOSTESS.

Ay, that 'a did.

BARDOLPH.

And of women.

HOSTESS.

Nay, that 'a did not.

BOY.

Yes, that 'a did; and said they were devils incarnate.

HOSTESS.

'A could never abide carnation; 'twas a colour he never liked.

BOY.

'A said once, the devil would have him about women.

HOSTESS.

'A did in some sort, indeed, handle women; but then he was rheumatic, and talked of the whore of Babylon.

BOY.

Do you not remember, 'a saw a flea stick upon Bardolph's nose, and 'a said it was a black soul burning in hell-fire?

BARDOLPH.

Well, the fuel is gone that maintained that fire. That's all the riches I got in his service.

NYM.

Shall we shog? The King will be gone from Southampton.

PISTOL.

Come, let's away. My love, give me thy lips.

[Kisses her.]

Look to my chattels and my movables.

Let senses rule; the word is "Pitch and Pay."

Trust none;

For oaths are straws, men's faiths are wafer-cakes

And hold-fast is the only dog, my duck;

Therefore, Caveto be thy counsellor.

Go, clear thy crystals. Yoke-fellows in arms,

Let us to France; like horse-leeches, my boys,

To suck, to suck, the very blood to suck!

BOY.

And that's but unwholesome food, they say.

PISTOL.

Touch her soft mouth, and march.

BARDOLPH.

Farewell, hostess.

[Kissing her.]

NYM.

I cannot kiss; that is the humour of it; but, adieu.

PISTOL.

Let housewifery appear. Keep close, I thee command.

HOSTESS.

Farewell; adieu.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE IV.

France. The King's palace.

[Flourish. Enter the French King, the Dauphin, the Dukes of Berri and Bretagne [the Constable, and others.]

FRENCH KING.

Thus comes the English with full power upon us,

And more than carefully it us concerns

To answer royally in our defences.

Therefore the Dukes of Berri and of Bretagne,

Of Brabant and of Orleans, shall make forth,

And you, Prince Dauphin, with all swift dispatch,

To line and new repair our towns of war

With men of courage and with means defendant;

For England his approaches makes as fierce

As waters to the sucking of a gulf.

It fits us then to be as provident

As fears may teach us out of late examples

Left by the fatal and neglected English

Upon our fields.

DAUPHIN.

My most redoubted father,

It is most meet we arm us 'gainst the foe;

For peace itself should not so dull a kingdom,

Though war nor no known quarrel were in question,

But that defences, musters, preparations,

Should be maintained, assembled, and collected,

As were a war in expectation.

Therefore, I say, 'tis meet we all go forth

To view the sick and feeble parts of France.

And let us do it with no show of fear;

No, with no more than if we heard that England

Were busied with a Whitsun morris-dance;

For, my good liege, she is so idly kinged,

Her sceptre so fantastically borne

By a vain, giddy, shallow, humorous youth,

That fear attends her not.

CONSTABLE.

O peace, Prince Dauphin!

You are too much mistaken in this king.

Question your Grace the late ambassadors

With what great state he heard their embassy,

How well supplied with noble counsellors,

How modest in exception, and withal

How terrible in constant resolution,

And you shall find his vanities forespent

Were but the outside of the Roman Brutus,

Covering discretion with a coat of folly;

As gardeners do with ordure hide those roots

That shall first spring and be most delicate.

DAUPHIN.

Well, 'tis not so, my Lord High Constable;

But though we think it so, it is no matter.

In cases of defence 'tis best to weigh

The enemy more mighty than he seems,

So the proportions of defence are filled;

Which, of a weak and niggardly projection,

Doth, like a miser, spoil his coat with scanting

A little cloth.

FRENCH KING.

Think we King Harry strong;

And, Princes, look you strongly arm to meet him.

The kindred of him hath been fleshed upon us;

And he is bred out of that bloody strain

That haunted us in our familiar paths.

Witness our too much memorable shame

When Cressy battle fatally was struck,

And all our princes captived by the hand

Of that black name, Edward, Black Prince of Wales;

Whiles that his mountain sire, on mountain standing,

Up in the air, crowned with the golden sun,

Saw his heroical seed, and smiled to see him,

Mangle the work of nature and deface

The patterns that by God and by French fathers

Had twenty years been made. This is a stem

Of that victorious stock; and let us fear

The native mightiness and fate of him.

[Enter a Messenger.]

MESSENGER.

Ambassadors from Harry King of England

Do crave admittance to your Majesty.

FRENCH KING.

We'll give them present audience. Go, and bring them.

[Exeunt Messenger and certain Lords.]

You see this chase is hotly followed, friends.

DAUPHIN.

Turn head and stop pursuit; for coward dogs

Most spend their mouths when what they seem to threaten

Runs far before them. Good my sovereign,

Take up the English short, and let them know

Of what a monarchy you are the head.

Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin

As self-neglecting.

[Enter EXETER. with attendents.]

FRENCH KING.

From our brother of England?

EXETER.

From him; and thus he greets your Majesty:

He wills you, in the name of God Almighty,

That you divest yourself, and lay apart

The borrowed glories that by gift of heaven,

By law of nature and of nations, longs

To him and to his heirs; namely, the crown

And all wide-stretched honours that pertain

By custom and the ordinance of times

Unto the crown of France. That you may know

'Tis no sinister nor no awkward claim

Picked from the worm-holes of long-vanished days,

Nor from the dust of old oblivion raked,

He sends you this most memorable line,

In every branch truly demonstrative;

Willing you overlook this pedigree;

And when you find him evenly derived

From his most famed of famous ancestors,

Edward the Third, he bids you then resign

Your crown and kingdom, indirectly held

From him, the native and true challenger.

[Gives the French King a paper.]

FRENCH KING.

Or else what follows?

EXETER.

Bloody constraint; for if you hide the crown

Even in your hearts, there will he rake for it.

Therefore in fierce tempest is he coming,

In thunder and in earthquake, like a Jove,

That, if requiring fail, he will compel;

And bids you, in the bowels of the Lord,

Deliver up the crown, and to take mercy

On the poor souls for whom this hungry war

Opens his vasty jaws; and on your head

Turning the widows' tears, the orphans' cries,

The dead men's blood, the pining maidens' groans,

For husbands, fathers, and betrothed lovers,

That shall be swallowed in this controversy.

This is his claim, his threat'ning, and my message;

Unless the Dauphin be in presence here,

To whom expressly I bring greeting too.

FRENCH KING.

For us, we will consider of this further.

To-morrow shall you bear our full intent

Back to our brother of England.

DAUPHIN.

For the Dauphin,

I stand here for him. What to him from England?

EXETER.

Scorn and defiance. Slight regard, contempt,

And anything that may not misbecome

The mighty sender, doth he prize you at.

Thus says my king: an if your father's Highness

Do not, in grant of all demands at large,

Sweeten the bitter mock you sent his Majesty,

He'll call you to so hot an answer of it

That caves and womby vaultages of France

Shall chide your trespass and return your mock

In second accent of his ordinance.

DAUPHIN.

Say, if my father render fair return,

It is against my will; for I desire

Nothing but odds with England. To that end,

As matching to his youth and vanity,

I did present him with the Paris balls.

EXETER.

He'll make your Paris Louvre shake for it,

Were it the mistress-court of mighty Europe;

And, be assured, you'll find a difference,

As we his subjects have in wonder found,

Between the promise of his greener days

And these he masters now. Now he weighs time

Even to the utmost grain. That you shall read

In your own losses, if he stay in France.

FRENCH KING.

To-morrow shall you know our mind at full.

[Flourish.]

EXETER.

Dispatch us with all speed, lest that our king

Come here himself to question our delay;

For he is footed in this land already.

FRENCH KING.

You shall be soon dispatched with fair conditions.

A night is but small breath and little pause

To answer matters of this consequence.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. PROLOGUE.

[Flourish. Enter Chorus.]

CHORUS.

Thus with imagined wing our swift scene flies,

In motion of no less celerity

Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen

The well-appointed king at [Hampton] pier

Embark his royalty, and his brave fleet

With silken streamers the young Phoebus fanning.

Play with your fancies; and in them behold

Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing;

Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give

To sounds confused; behold the threaden sails,

Borne with the invisible and creeping wind,

Draw the huge bottoms through the furrowed sea,

Breasting the lofty surge. O, do but think

You stand upon the rivage and behold

A city on the inconstant billows dancing;

For so appears this fleet majestical,

Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow!

Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy,

And leave your England, as dead midnight still,

Guarded with grandsires, babies, and old women,

Either past or not arrived to pith and puissance.

For who is he, whose chin is but enriched

With one appearing hair, that will not follow

These culled and choice-drawn cavaliers to France?

Work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege;

Behold the ordnance on their carriages,

With fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur.

Suppose the ambassador from the French comes back,

Tells Harry that the King doth offer him

Katharine his daughter, and with her, to dowry,

Some petty and unprofitable dukedoms.

The offer likes not; and the nimble gunner

With linstock now the devilish cannon touches,

[Alarum, and chambers go off.]

And down goes all before them. Still be kind,

And eke out our performance with your mind.

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

France. Before Harfleur.

[Alarum. Enter King Henry, Exeter, Bedford, Gloucester, [and Soldiers, with] scaling-ladders.]

KING HENRY.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,

Or close the wall up with our English dead.

In peace there's nothing so becomes a man

As modest stillness and humility;

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,

Then imitate the action of the tiger;

Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,

Disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage;

Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;

Let it pry through the portage of the head

Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it

As fearfully as does a galled rock

O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,

Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean.

Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,

Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit

To his full height. On, on, you noblest English,

Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!

Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,

Have in these parts from morn till even fought,

And sheathed their swords for lack of argument.

Dishonour not your mothers; now attest

That those whom you called fathers did beget you.

Be copy now to men of grosser blood,

And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen,

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here

The mettle of your pasture; let us swear

That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not;

For there is none of you so mean and base,

That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,

Straining upon the start. The game's afoot!

Follow your spirit, and upon this charge

Cry, "God for Harry! England and Saint George!"

[Exeunt. Alarum, and chambers go off.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

The same.

[Enter Nym, Bardolph, Pistol, and Boy.]

BARDOLPH.

On, on, on, on, on! To the breach, to the breach!

NYM.

Pray thee, corporal, stay. The knocks are too hot; and, for mine own part, I have not a case of lives. The humour of it is too hot; that is the very plain-song of it.

PISTOL.

The plain-song is most just, for humours do abound.

"Knocks go and come; God's vassals drop and die;

And sword and shield,

In bloody field,

Doth win immortal fame."

BOY.

Would I were in an alehouse in London! I would give all my fame for a pot of ale and safety.

PISTOL.

And I.

"If wishes would prevail with me,

My purpose should not fail with me,

But thither would I hie."

BOY.

"As duly, but not as truly,

As bird doth sing on bough."

[Enter Fluellen.]

FLUELLEN.

Up to the breach, you dogs! Avaunt, you cullions!

[Driving them forward.]

PISTOL.

Be merciful, great Duke, to men of mould.

Abate thy rage, abate thy manly rage,

Abate thy rage, great Duke!

Good bawcock, bate thy rage; use lenity, sweet chuck!

NYM.

These be good humours! Your honour wins bad humours.

[Exeunt all but Boy.]

BOY.

As young as I am, I have observed these three swashers. I am boy to them all three; but all they three, though they would serve me, could not be man to me; for indeed three such antics do not amount to a man. For Bardolph, he is white-livered and red-faced; by the means whereof 'a faces it out, but fights not. For Pistol, he hath a killing tongue and a quiet sword; by the means whereof 'a breaks words, and keeps whole weapons. For Nym, he hath heard that men of few words are the best men; and therefore he scorns to say his prayers, lest 'a should be thought a coward. But his few bad words are matched with as few good deeds; for 'a never broke any man's head but his own, and that was against a post when he was drunk. They will steal anything, and call it purchase. Bardolph stole a lute-case, bore it twelve leagues, and sold it for three half-pence. Nym and Bardolph are sworn brothers in filching, and in Calais they stole a fire-shovel. I knew by that piece of service the men would carry coals. They would have me as familiar with men's pockets as their gloves or their handkerchers; which makes much against my manhood, if I should take from another's pocket to put into mine; for it is plain pocketing up of wrongs. I must leave them, and seek some better service. Their villainy goes against my weak stomach, and therefore I must cast it up.

[Exit.]

[Enter Gower [and Fluellen.]

GOWER.

Captain Fluellen, you must come presently to the mines. The Duke of Gloucester would speak with you.

FLUELLEN.

To the mines! Tell you the Duke, it is not so good to come to the mines; for, look you, the mines is not according to the disciplines of the war. The concavities of it is not sufficient; for, look you, the athversary, you may discuss unto the Duke, look you, is digt himself four yard under the countermines. By Cheshu, I think 'a will plow up all, if there is not better directions.

GOWER.

The Duke of Gloucester, to whom the order of the siege is given, is altogether directed by an Irishman, a very valiant gentleman, i' faith.

FLUELLEN.

It is Captain Macmorris, is it not?

GOWER.

I think it be.

FLUELLEN.

By Cheshu, he is an ass, as in the world. I will verify as much in his beard. He has no more directions in the true disciplines of the wars, look you, of the Roman disciplines, than is a puppy-dog.

[Enter Macmorris and Captain Jamy.]

GOWER.

Here 'a comes; and the Scots captain, Captain Jamy, with him.

FLUELLEN.

Captain Jamy is a marvellous falorous gentleman, that is certain; and of great expedition and knowledge in the aunchient wars, upon my particular knowledge of his directions. By Cheshu, he will maintain his argument as well as any military man in the world, in the disciplines of the pristine wars of the Romans.

JAMY.

I say gud-day, Captain Fluellen.

FLUELLEN.

God-den to your worship, good Captain James.

GOWER.

How now, Captain Macmorris! have you quit the mines? Have the pioneers given o'er?

MACMORRIS.

By Chrish, la! 'tish ill done! The work ish give over, the trompet sound the retreat. By my hand I swear, and my father's soul, the work ish ill done; it ish give over. I would have blowed up the town, so Chrish save me, la! in an hour. O, 'tish ill done, 'tish ill done; by my hand, 'tish ill done!

FLUELLEN.

Captain Macmorris, I beseech you now, will you voutsafe me, look you, a few disputations with you, as partly touching or concerning the disciplines of the war, the Roman wars, in the way of argument, look you, and friendly communication; partly to satisfy my opinion, and partly for the satisfaction, look you, of my mind, as touching the direction of the military discipline; that is the point.

JAMY.

It sall be vary gud, gud feith, gud captains bath: and I sall quit you with gud leve, as I may pick occasion; that sall I, marry.

MACMORRIS.

It is no time to discourse, so Chrish save me. The day is hot, and the weather, and the wars, and the King, and the Dukes. It is no time to discourse. The town is beseeched, and the trumpet call us to the breach, and we talk, and, be Chrish, do nothing. 'Tis shame for us all. So God sa' me, 'tis shame to stand still; it is shame, by my hand; and there is throats to be cut, and works to be done; and there ish nothing done, so Chrish sa' me, la!

JAMY.

By the mess, ere theise eyes of mine take themselves to slomber, I'll de gud service, or I'll lig i' the grund for it; ay, or go to death; and I'll pay't as valorously as I may, that sall I suerly do, that is the breff and the long. Marry, I wad full fain heard some question 'tween you tway.

FLUELLEN.

Captain Macmorris, I think, look you, under your correction, there is not many of your nation—

MACMORRIS.

Of my nation! What ish my nation? Ish a villain, and a bastard, and a knave, and a rascal? What ish my nation? Who talks of my nation?

FLUELLEN.

Look you, if you take the matter otherwise than is meant, Captain Macmorris, peradventure I shall think you do not use me with that affability as in discretion you ought to use me, look you, being as good a man as yourself, both in the disciplines of war, and in the derivation of my birth, and in other particularities.

MACMORRIS. I do not know you so good a man as myself. So Chrish save me, I will cut off your head.

GOWER.

Gentlemen both, you will mistake each other.

JAMY.

Ah! that's a foul fault.

[A parley [sounded.]

GOWER.

The town sounds a parley.

FLUELLEN.

Captain Macmorris, when there is more better opportunity to be required, look you, I will be so bold as to tell you I know the disciplines of war; and there is an end.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE III.

Before the gates.

[The Governor and some citizens on the walls; the English forces below. Enter King Henry and his train.]

KING HENRY.

How yet resolves the governor of the town?

This is the latest parle we will admit;

Therefore to our best mercy give yourselves,

Or like to men proud of destruction

Defy us to our worst; for, as I am a soldier,

A name that in my thoughts becomes me best,

If I begin the battery once again,

I will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur

Till in her ashes she lie buried.

The gates of mercy shall be all shut up,

And the fleshed soldier, rough and hard of heart,

In liberty of bloody hand shall range

With conscience wide as hell, mowing like grass

Your fresh fair virgins and your flow'ring infants.

What is it then to me, if impious War,

Arrayed in flames like to the prince of fiends,

Do with his smirched complexion all fell feats

Enlinked to waste and desolation?

What is't to me, when you yourselves are cause,

If your pure maidens fall into the hand

Of hot and forcing violation?

What rein can hold licentious wickedness

When down the hill he holds his fierce career?

We may as bootless spend our vain command

Upon the enraged soldiers in their spoil

As send precepts to the leviathan

To come ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur,

Take pity of your town and of your people,

Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command,

Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace

O'erblows the filthy and contagious clouds

Of heady murder, spoil, and villainy.

If not, why, in a moment look to see

The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand

Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters;

Your fathers taken by the silver beards,

And their most reverend heads dashed to the walls;

Your naked infants spitted upon pikes,

Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confused

Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry

At Herod's bloody-hunting slaughtermen.

What say you? Will you yield, and this avoid,

Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroyed?

GOVERNOR.

Our expectation hath this day an end.

The Dauphin, whom of succours we entreated,

Returns us that his powers are yet not ready

To raise so great a siege. Therefore, great King,

We yield our town and lives to thy soft mercy.

Enter our gates; dispose of us and ours;

For we no longer are defensible.

KING HENRY.

Open your gates. Come, uncle Exeter,

Go you and enter Harfleur; there remain,

And fortify it strongly 'gainst the French.

Use mercy to them all. For us, dear uncle,

The winter coming on, and sickness growing

Upon our soldiers, we will retire to Calais.

To-night in Harfleur will we be your guest;

To-morrow for the march are we addrest.

[Flourish. [The King and his train] enter the town.]

ACT III. SCENE IV.

The French King's palace.

[Enter Katharine and Alice, an old Gentlewoman.]

KATHARINE.

Alice, tu as ete en Angleterre, et tu parles bien le langage.

ALICE.

Un peu, madame.

KATHARINE.

Je te prie, m'enseignez; il faut que j'apprenne a parler. Comment appelez-vous la main en Anglois?

ALICE.

La main? Elle est appelee de hand.

KATHARINE.

De hand. Et les doigts?

ALICE.

Les doigts? Ma foi, j'oublie les doigts; mais je me souviendrai. Les doigts? Je pense qu'ils sont appeles de fingres; oui, de fingres.

KATHARINE.

La main, de hand; les doigts, de fingres. Je pense que je suis le bon ecolier; j'ai gagne deux mots d'Anglois vitement. Comment appelez-vous les ongles?

ALICE.

Les ongles? Nous les appelons de nails.

KATHARINE.

De nails. Ecoutez; dites-moi, si je parle bien: de hand, de fingres, et de nails.

ALICE.

C'est bien dit, madame; il est fort bon Anglois.

KATHARINE.

Dites-moi l'Anglois pour le bras.

ALICE.

De arm, madame.

KATHARINE.

Et le coude?

ALICE.

D'elbow.

KATHARINE.

D'elbow. Je m'en fais la repetition de tous les mots que vous m'avez appris des a present.

ALICE.

Il est trop difficile, madame, comme je pense.

KATHARINE.

Excusez-moi, Alice; ecoutez: d'hand, de fingres, de nails, d'arma, de bilbow.

ALICE.

D'elbow, madame.

KATHARINE.

O Seigneur Dieu, je m'en oublie! D'elbow. Comment appelez-vous le col?

ALICE.

De nick, madame.

KATHARINE.

De nick. Et le menton?

ALICE.

De chin.

KATHARINE.

De sin. Le col, de nick; le menton, de sin.

ALICE.

Oui. Sauf votre honneur, en verite, vous prononcez les mots aussi droit que les natifs d'Angleterre.

KATHARINE.

Je ne doute point d'apprendre, par la grace de Dieu, et en peu de temps.

ALICE.

N'avez-vous pas deja oublie ce que je vous ai enseigne?

KATHARINE.

Non, je reciterai a vous promptement: d'hand, de fingres, de mails,—

ALICE.

De nails, madame.

KATHARINE.

De nails, de arm, de ilbow.

ALICE.

Sauf votre honneur, de elbow.

KATHARINE.

Ainsi dis-je; d'elbow, de nick, et de sin. Comment appelez-vous le pied et la robe?

ALICE.

De foot, madame; et de coun.

KATHARINE.

De foot et de coun! O Seigneur Dieu! ce sont mots de son mauvais, corruptible, gros, et impudique, et non pour les dames d'honneur d'user. Je ne voudrais prononcer ces mots devant les seigneurs de France pour tout le monde. Foh! le foot et le coun! Neanmoins, je reciterai une autre fois ma lecon ensemble: d' hand, de fingres, de nails, d'arm, d'elbow, de nick, de sin, de foot, de coun.

ALICE.

Excellent, madame!

KATHARINE.

C'est assez pour une fois: allons-nous a diner.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE V.

The same.

[Enter the King of France, the Dauphin, the Duke of Bourbon, the Constable of France, and others.]

FRENCH KING.

'Tis certain he hath passed the river Somme.

CONSTABLE.

And if he be not fought withal, my lord,

Let us not live in France; let us quit all

And give our vineyards to a barbarous people.

DAUPHIN.

O Dieu vivant! shall a few sprays of us,

The emptying of our fathers' luxury,

Our scions put in wild and savage stock,

Spirt up so suddenly into the clouds,

And overlook their grafters?

BOURBON.

Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards!

Mort de ma vie! if they march along

Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom,

To buy a slobbery and a dirty farm

In that nook-shotten isle of Albion.

CONSTABLE.

Dieu de batailles! where have they this mettle?

Is not their climate foggy, raw, and dull,

On whom, as in despite, the sun looks pale,

Killing their fruit with frowns? Can sodden water,

A drench for sur-reined jades, their barley-broth,

Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat?

And shall our quick blood, spirited with wine,

Seem frosty? O, for honour of our land,

Let us not hang like roping icicles

Upon our houses' thatch, whiles a more frosty people

Sweat drops of gallant youth in our rich fields!

Poor we may call them in their native lords.

DAUPHIN.

By faith and honour,

Our madams mock at us, and plainly say

Our mettle is bred out, and they will give

Their bodies to the lust of English youth

To new-store France with bastard warriors.

BOURBON.

They bid us to the English dancing-schools,

And teach lavoltas high, and swift corantos;

Saying our grace is only in our heels,

And that we are most lofty runaways.

FRENCH KING.

Where is Montjoy the herald? Speed him hence.

Let him greet England with our sharp defiance.

Up, princes! and, with spirit of honour edged

More sharper than your swords, hie to the field!

Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France;

You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and of Berri,

Alencon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy;

Jacques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont,

Beaumont, Grandpre, Roussi, and Fauconberg,

Foix, Lestrale, Bouciqualt, and Charolois;

High dukes, great princes, barons, lords, and knights,

For your great seats now quit you of great shames.

Bar Harry England, that sweeps through our land

With pennons painted in the blood of Harfleur.

Rush on his host, as doth the melted snow

Upon the valleys, whose low vassal seat

The Alps doth spit and void his rheum upon.

Go down upon him, you have power enough,

And in a captive chariot into Rouen

Bring him our prisoner.

CONSTABLE.

This becomes the great.

Sorry am I his numbers are so few,

His soldiers sick and famished in their march;

For I am sure, when he shall see our army,

He'll drop his heart into the sink of fear

And for achievement offer us his ransom.

FRENCH KING.

Therefore, Lord Constable, haste on Montjoy,

And let him say to England that we send

To know what willing ransom he will give.

Prince Dauphin, you shall stay with us in Rouen.

DAUPHIN.

Not so, I do beseech your Majesty.

FRENCH KING.

Be patient, for you shall remain with us.

Now forth, Lord Constable and princes all,

And quickly bring us word of England's fall.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE VI.

The English camp in Picardy.

[Enter Gower and Fluellen, meeting.]

GOWER.

How now, Captain Fluellen! come you from the bridge?

FLUELLEN.

I assure you, there is very excellent services committed at the bridge.

GOWER.

Is the Duke of Exeter safe?

FLUELLEN.

The Duke of Exeter is as magnanimous as Agamemnon; and a man that I love and honour with my soul, and my heart, and my duty, and my live, and my living, and my uttermost power. He is not—God be praised and blessed!—any hurt in the world; but keeps the bridge most valiantly, with excellent discipline. There is an aunchient lieutenant there at the pridge, I think in my very conscience he is as valiant a man as Mark Antony; and he is a man of no estimation in the world, but I did see him do as gallant service.

GOWER.

What do you call him?

FLUELLEN.

He is called Aunchient Pistol.

GOWER. I know him not.

[Enter Pistol.]

FLUELLEN.

Here is the man.

PISTOL.

Captain, I thee beseech to do me favours.

The Duke of Exeter doth love thee well.

FLUELLEN.

Ay, I praise God; and I have merited some love at his hands.

PISTOL.

Bardolph, a soldier, firm and sound of heart,

And of buxom valour, hath by cruel fate

And giddy Fortune's furious fickle wheel,

That goddess blind,

That stands upon the rolling restless stone—

FLUELLEN.

By your patience, Aunchient Pistol. Fortune is painted blind, with a muffler afore his eyes, to signify to you that Fortune is blind; and she is painted also with a wheel, to signify to you, which is the moral of it, that she is turning, and inconstant, and mutability, and variation; and her foot, look you, is fixed upon a spherical stone, which rolls, and rolls, and rolls. In good truth, the poet makes a most excellent description of it. Fortune is an excellent moral.

PISTOL.

Fortune is Bardolph's foe, and frowns on him;

For he hath stolen a pax, and hanged must 'a be,—

A damned death!

Let gallows gape for dog; let man go free,

And let not hemp his windpipe suffocate.

But Exeter hath given the doom of death

For pax of little price.

Therefore, go speak; the Duke will hear thy voice;

And let not Bardolph's vital thread be cut

With edge of penny cord and vile reproach.

Speak, captain, for his life, and I will thee requite.

FLUELLEN.

Aunchient Pistol, I do partly understand your meaning.

PISTOL.

Why then, rejoice therefore.

FLUELLEN.

Certainly, aunchient, it is not a thing to rejoice at; for if, look you, he were my brother, I would desire the Duke to use his good pleasure, and put him to execution; for discipline ought to be used.

PISTOL.

Die and be damned! and figo for thy friendship!

FLUELLEN.

It is well.

PISTOL.

The fig of Spain.

[Exit.]

FLUELLEN.

Very good.

GOWER.

Why, this is an arrant counterfeit rascal. I remember him now; a bawd, a cutpurse.

FLUELLEN.

I'll assure you, 'a uttered as prave words at the pridge as you shall see in a summer's day. But it is very well; what he has spoke to me, that is well, I warrant you, when time is serve.

GOWER.

Why, 't is a gull, a fool, a rogue, that now and then goes to the wars, to grace himself at his return into London under the form of a soldier. And such fellows are perfect in the great commanders' names; and they will learn you by rote where services were done; at such and such a sconce, at such a breach, at such a convoy; who came off bravely, who was shot, who disgraced, what terms the enemy stood on; and this they con perfectly in the phrase of war, which they trick up with new-tuned oaths: and what a beard of the general's cut and a horrid suit of the camp will do among foaming bottles and ale-washed wits, is wonderful to be thought on. But you must learn to know such slanders of the age, or else you may be marvellously mistook.

FLUELLEN.

I tell you what, Captain Gower; I do perceive he is not the man that he would gladly make show to the world he is. If I find a hole in his coat, I will tell him my mind. [Drum heard.] Hark you, the King is coming, and I must speak with him from the pridge.

[Drum and colours. Enter King Henry, [Gloucester,] and his poor soldiers.]

God bless your Majesty!

KING HENRY.

How now, Fluellen! cam'st thou from the bridge?

FLUELLEN.

Ay, so please your Majesty. The Duke of Exeter has very gallantly maintained the pridge. The French is gone off, look you; and there is gallant and most prave passages. Marry, th' athversary was have possession of the pridge; but he is enforced to retire, and the Duke of Exeter is master of the pridge. I can tell your Majesty, the Duke is a prave man.

KING HENRY.

What men have you lost, Fluellen?

FLUELLEN.

The perdition of the athversary hath been very great, reasonable great. Marry, for my part, I think the Duke hath lost never a man, but one that is like to be executed for robbing a church, one Bardolph, if your Majesty know the man. His face is all bubukles, and whelks, and knobs, and flames o' fire; and his lips blows at his nose, and it is like a coal of fire, sometimes plue and sometimes red; but his nose is executed, and his fire's out.

KING HENRY.

We would have all such offenders so cut off; and we give express charge, that in our marches through the country, there be nothing compelled from the villages, nothing taken but paid for, none of the French upbraided or abused in disdainful language; for when lenity and cruelty play for a kingdom, the gentler gamester is the soonest winner.

[Tucket. Enter Montjoy.]

MONTJOY.

You know me by my habit.

KING HENRY.

Well then I know thee. What shall I know of thee?

MONTJOY.

My master's mind.

KING HENRY.

Unfold it.

MONTJOY.

Thus says my King: Say thou to Harry of England: Though we seemed dead, we did but sleep; advantage is a better soldier than rashness. Tell him we could have rebuked him at Harfleur, but that we thought not good to bruise an injury till it were full ripe. Now we speak upon our cue, and our voice is imperial. England shall repent his folly, see his weakness, and admire our sufferance. Bid him therefore consider of his ransom; which must proportion the losses we have borne, the subjects we have lost, the disgrace we have digested; which in weight to re-answer, his pettishness would bow under. For our losses, his exchequer is too poor; for the effusion of our blood, the muster of his kingdom too faint a number; and for our disgrace, his own person, kneeling at our feet, but a weak and worthless satisfaction. To this add defiance; and tell him, for conclusion, he hath betrayed his followers, whose condemnation is pronounced. So far my King and master; so much my office.

KING HENRY.

What is thy name? I know thy quality.

MONTJOY.

Montjoy.

KING HENRY.

Thou dost thy office fairly. Turn thee back,

And tell thy King I do not seek him now,

But could be willing to march on to Calais

Without impeachment; for, to say the sooth,

Though 'tis no wisdom to confess so much

Unto an enemy of craft and vantage,

My people are with sickness much enfeebled,

My numbers lessened, and those few I have

Almost no better than so many French;

Who when they were in health, I tell thee, herald,

I thought upon one pair of English legs

Did march three Frenchmen. Yet, forgive me, God,

That I do brag thus! This your air of France

Hath blown that vice in me. I must repent.

Go therefore, tell thy master here I am;

My ransom is this frail and worthless trunk,

My army but a weak and sickly guard;

Yet, God before, tell him we will come on,

Though France himself and such another neighbour

Stand in our way. There's for thy labour, Montjoy.

Go, bid thy master well advise himself.

If we may pass, we will; if we be hind'red,

We shall your tawny ground with your red blood

Discolour; and so, Montjoy, fare you well.

The sum of all our answer is but this:

We would not seek a battle, as we are;

Nor, as we are, we say we will not shun it.

So tell your master.

MONTJOY.

I shall deliver so. Thanks to your Highness.

[Exit.]

GLOUCESTER.

I hope they will not come upon us now.

KING HENRY.

We are in God's hands, brother, not in theirs.

March to the bridge; it now draws toward night.

Beyond the river we'll encamp ourselves,

And on to-morrow bid them march away.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE VII.

The French camp, near Agincourt.

[Enter the Constable of France, the Lord Rambures, Orleans, Dauphin, with others.]

CONSTABLE.

Tut! I have the best armour of the world. Would it were day!

ORLEANS.

You have an excellent armour; but let my horse have his due.

CONSTABLE.

It is the best horse of Europe.

ORLEANS.

Will it never be morning?

DAUPHIN.

My Lord of Orleans, and my Lord High Constable, you talk of horse and armour?

ORLEANS.

You are as well provided of both as any prince in the world.

DAUPHIN.

What a long night is this! I will not change my horse with any that treads but on four pasterns. Ca, ha! he bounds from the earth, as if his entrails were hairs; le cheval volant, the Pegasus, qui a les narines de feu! When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk. he trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.

ORLEANS.

He's of the colour of the nutmeg.

DAUPHIN.

And of the heat of the ginger. It is a beast for Perseus. He is pure air and fire; and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him, but only in patient stillness while his rider mounts him. He is indeed a horse, and all other jades you may call beasts.

CONSTABLE.

Indeed, my lord, it is a most absolute and excellent horse.

DAUPHIN.

It is the prince of palfreys; his neigh is like the bidding of a monarch, and his countenance enforces homage.

ORLEANS.

No more, cousin.

DAUPHIN.

Nay, the man hath no wit that cannot, from the rising of the lark to the lodging of the lamb, vary deserved praise on my palfrey. It is a theme as fluent as the sea; turn the sands into eloquent tongues, and my horse is argument for them all. 'Tis a subject for a sovereign to reason on, and for a sovereign's sovereign to ride on; and for the world, familiar to us and unknown, to lay apart their particular functions and wonder at him. I once writ a sonnet in his praise and began thus: "Wonder of nature,"—

ORLEANS.

I have heard a sonnet begin so to one's mistress.

DAUPHIN.

Then did they imitate that which I composed to my courser, for my horse is my mistress.

ORLEANS.

Your mistress bears well.

DAUPHIN.

Me well; which is the prescript praise and perfection of a good and particular mistress.

CONSTABLE.

Nay, for methought yesterday your mistress shrewdly shook your back.

DAUPHIN.

So perhaps did yours.

CONSTABLE.

Mine was not bridled.

DAUPHIN.

O then belike she was old and gentle; and you rode, like a kern of Ireland, your French hose off, and in your strait strossers.

CONSTABLE.

You have good judgment in horsemanship.

DAUPHIN.

Be warned by me, then; they that ride so and ride not warily, fall into foul bogs. I had rather have my horse to my mistress.

CONSTABLE.

I had as lief have my mistress a jade.

DAUPHIN.

I tell thee, Constable, my mistress wears his own hair.

CONSTABLE.

I could make as true a boast as that, if I had a sow to my mistress.

DAUPHIN.

"Le chien est retourne a son propre vomissement, et la truie lavee au bourbier." Thou mak'st use of anything.

CONSTABLE.

Yet do I not use my horse for my mistress, or any such proverb so little kin to the purpose.

RAMBURES.

My Lord Constable, the armour that I saw in your tent to-night, are those stars or suns upon it?

CONSTABLE.

Stars, my lord.

DAUPHIN.

Some of them will fall to-morrow, I hope.

CONSTABLE.

And yet my sky shall not want.

DAUPHIN.

That may be, for you bear a many superfluously, and 'twere more honour some were away.

CONSTABLE.

Even as your horse bears your praises; who would trot as well, were some of your brags dismounted.

DAUPHIN.

Would I were able to load him with his desert! Will it never be day? I will trot to-morrow a mile, and my way shall be paved with English faces.

CONSTABLE.

I will not say so, for fear I should be faced out of my way. But I would it were morning; for I would fain be about the ears of the English.

RAMBURES.

Who will go to hazard with me for twenty prisoners?

CONSTABLE.

You must first go yourself to hazard, ere you have them.

DAUPHIN.

'Tis midnight; I'll go arm myself.

[Exit.]

ORLEANS.

The Dauphin longs for morning.

RAMBURES.

He longs to eat the English.

CONSTABLE.

I think he will eat all he kills.

ORLEANS.

By the white hand of my lady, he's a gallant prince.

CONSTABLE.

Swear by her foot that she may tread out the oath.

ORLEANS.

He is simply the most active gentleman of France.

CONSTABLE.

Doing is activity; and he will still be doing.

ORLEANS.

He never did harm, that I heard of.

CONSTABLE.

Nor will do none to-morrow. He will keep that good name still.

ORLEANS.

I know him to be valiant.

CONSTABLE.

I was told that by one that knows him better than you.

ORLEANS.

What's he?

CONSTABLE.

Marry, he told me so himself; and he said he cared not who knew it.

ORLEANS.

He needs not; it is no hidden virtue in him.

CONSTABLE.

By my faith, sir, but it is; never anybody saw it but his lackey. 'Tis a hooded valour; and when it appears, it will bate.

ORLEANS.

"Ill will never said well."

CONSTABLE.

I will cap that proverb with "There is flattery in friendship."

ORLEANS.

And I will take up that with "Give the devil his due."

CONSTABLE.

Well placed. There stands your friend for the devil; have at the very eye of that proverb with "A pox of the devil."

ORLEANS.

You are the better at proverbs, by how much "A fool's bolt is soon shot."

CONSTABLE.

You have shot over.

ORLEANS.

'Tis not the first time you were overshot.

[Enter a Messenger.]

MESSENGER.

My Lord High Constable, the English lie within fifteen hundred paces of your tents.

CONSTABLE.

Who hath measured the ground?

MESSENGER.

The Lord Grandpre.

CONSTABLE.

A valiant and most expert gentleman. Would it were day! Alas, poor Harry of England, he longs not for the dawning as we do.

ORLEANS.

What a wretched and peevish fellow is this King of England, to mope with his fat-brained followers so far out of his knowledge!

CONSTABLE.

If the English had any apprehension, they would run away.

ORLEANS.

That they lack; for if their heads had any intellectual armour, they could never wear such heavy head-pieces.

RAMBURES.

That island of England breeds very valiant creatures. Their mastiffs are of unmatchable courage.

ORLEANS.

Foolish curs, that run winking into the mouth of a Russian bear and have their heads crushed like rotten apples! You may as well say, that's a valiant flea that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion.

CONSTABLE.

Just, just; and the men do sympathize with the mastiffs in robustious and rough coming on, leaving their wits with their wives; and then, give them great meals of beef and iron and steel, they will eat like wolves and fight like devils.

ORLEANS.

Ay, but these English are shrewdly out of beef.

CONSTABLE.

Then shall we find to-morrow they have only stomachs to eat and none to fight. Now is it time to arm. Come, shall we about it?

ORLEANS.

It is now two o'clock; but, let me see, by ten

We shall have each a hundred Englishmen.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. PROLOGUE.

[Enter Chorus.]

CHORUS.

Now entertain conjecture of a time

When creeping murmur and the poring dark

Fills the wide vessel of the universe.

From camp to camp through the foul womb of night

The hum of either army stilly sounds,

That the fixed sentinels almost receive

The secret whispers of each other's watch;

Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames

Each battle sees the other's umbered face;

Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs

Piercing the night's dull ear; and from the tents

The armourers, accomplishing the knights,

With busy hammers closing rivets up,

Give dreadful note of preparation.

The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,

And the third hour of drowsy morning name.

Proud of their numbers and secure in soul,

The confident and over-lusty French

Do the low-rated English play at dice;

And chide the cripple tardy-gaited Night

Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp

So tediously away. The poor condemned English,

Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires

Sit patiently and inly ruminate

The morning's danger; and their gesture sad,

Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats,

Presented them unto the gazing moon

So many horrid ghosts. O now, who will behold

The royal captain of this ruined band

Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,

Let him cry, "Praise and glory on his head!"

For forth he goes and visits all his host,

Bids them good morrow with a modest smile,

And calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen.

Upon his royal face there is no note

How dread an army hath enrounded him;

Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour

Unto the weary and all-watched night,

But freshly looks, and over-bears attaint

With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty;

That every wretch, pining and pale before,

Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks.

A largess universal like the sun

His liberal eye doth give to every one,

Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all

Behold, as may unworthiness define,

A little touch of Harry in the night.

And so our scene must to the battle fly,

Where—O for pity!—we shall much disgrace

With four or five most vile and ragged foils,

Right ill-disposed in brawl ridiculous,

The name of Agincourt. Yet sit and see,

Minding true things by what their mock'ries be.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

The English camp at Agincourt.

[Enter King Henry, Bedford, and Gloucester.]

KING HENRY.

Gloucester, 'tis true that we are in great danger;

The greater therefore should our courage be.

Good morrow, brother Bedford. God Almighty!

There is some soul of goodness in things evil,

Would men observingly distil it out;

For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers,

Which is both healthful and good husbandry.

Besides, they are our outward consciences,

And preachers to us all, admonishing

That we should dress us fairly for our end.

Thus may we gather honey from the weed,

And make a moral of the devil himself.

[Enter Erpingham.]

Good morrow, old Sir Thomas Erpingham:

A good soft pillow for that good white head

Were better than a churlish turf of France.

ERPINGHAM.

Not so, my liege; this lodging likes me better,

Since I may say, "Now lie I like a king."

KING HENRY.

'Tis good for men to love their present pains

Upon example; so the spirit is eased;

And when the mind is quick'ned, out of doubt,

The organs, though defunct and dead before,

Break up their drowsy grave and newly move,

With casted slough and fresh legerity.

Lend me thy cloak, Sir Thomas. Brothers both,

Commend me to the princes in our camp;

Do my good morrow to them, and anon

Desire them all to my pavilion.

GLOUCESTER.

We shall, my liege.

ERPINGHAM.

Shall I attend your Grace?

KING HENRY.

No, my good knight;

Go with my brothers to my lords of England.

I and my bosom must debate a while,

And then I would no other company.

ERPINGHAM.

The Lord in heaven bless thee, noble Harry!

[Exeunt [all but King.]

KING HENRY.

God-a-mercy, old heart! thou speak'st cheerfully.

[Enter Pistol.]

PISTOL.

Che vous la?

KING HENRY.

A friend.

PISTOL.

Discuss unto me; art thou officer?

Or art thou base, common, and popular?

KING HENRY.

I am a gentleman of a company.

PISTOL.

Trail'st thou the puissant pike?

KING HENRY.

Even so. What are you?

PISTOL.

As good a gentleman as the Emperor.

KING HENRY.

Then you are a better than the King.

PISTOL.

The King's a bawcock, and a heart of gold,

A lad of life, an imp of fame;

Of parents good, of fist most valiant.

I kiss his dirty shoe, and from heart-string

I love the lovely bully. What is thy name?

KING HENRY.

Harry le Roy.

PISTOL.

Le Roy! a Cornish name. Art thou of Cornish crew?

KING HENRY.

No, I am a Welshman.

PISTOL.

Know'st thou Fluellen?

KING HENRY.

Yes.

PISTOL.

Tell him I'll knock his leek about his pate

Upon Saint Davy's day.

KING HENRY.

Do not you wear your dagger in your cap that day, lest he knock that about yours.

PISTOL.

Art thou his friend?

KING HENRY.

And his kinsman too.

PISTOL.

The figo for thee, then!

KING HENRY.

I thank you. God be with you!

PISTOL.

My name is Pistol called.

[Exit.]

KING HENRY.

It sorts well with your fierceness.

[Enter Fluellen and Gower.]

GOWER.

Captain Fluellen!

FLUELLEN.

So! in the name of Jesu Christ, speak lower. It is the greatest admiration in the universal world, when the true and aunchient prerogatifes and laws of the wars is not kept. If you would take the pains but to examine the wars of Pompey the Great, you shall find, I warrant you, that there is no tiddle taddle nor pibble pabble in Pompey's camp. I warrant you, you shall find the ceremonies of the wars, and the cares of it, and the forms of it, and the sobriety of it, and the modesty of it, to be otherwise.

GOWER.

Why, the enemy is loud; you hear him all night.

FLUELLEN.

If the enemy is an ass and a fool and a prating coxcomb, is it meet, think you, that we should also, look you, be an ass and a fool and a prating coxcomb? In your own conscience, now?

GOWER. I will speak lower.

FLUELLEN.

I pray you and beseech you that you will.

[Exeunt [Gower and Fluellen.]

KING HENRY.

Though it appear a little out of fashion,

There is much care and valour in this Welshman.

[Enter three soldiers, John Bates, Alexander Court, And Michael Williams.]

COURT.

Brother John Bates, is not that the morning which breaks yonder?

BATES.

I think it be; but we have no great cause to desire the approach of day.

WILLIAMS.

We see yonder the beginning of the day, but I think we shall never see the end of it. Who goes there?

KING HENRY.

A friend.

WILLIAMS.

Under what captain serve you?

KING HENRY.

Under Sir Thomas Erpingham.

WILLIAMS.

A good old commander and a most kind gentleman. I pray you, what thinks he of our estate?

KING HENRY.

Even as men wrecked upon a sand, that look to be washed off the next tide.

BATES.

He hath not told his thought to the King?

KING HENRY.

No; nor it is not meet he should. For though I speak it to you, I think the King is but a man as I am. The violet smells to him as it doth to me; the element shows to him as it doth to me; all his senses have but human conditions. His ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man; and though his affections are higher mounted than ours, yet, when they stoop, they stoop with the like wing. Therefore, when he sees reason of fears as we do, his fears, out of doubt, be of the same relish as ours are; yet, in reason, no man should possess him with any appearance of fear, lest he, by showing it, should dishearten his army.

BATES.

He may show what outward courage he will; but I believe, as cold a night as 'tis, he could wish himself in Thames up to the neck; and so I would he were, and I by him, at all adventures, so we were quit here.

KING HENRY.

By my troth, I will speak my conscience of the King: I think he would not wish himself anywhere but where he is.

BATES.

Then I would he were here alone; so should he be sure to be ransomed, and a many poor men's lives saved.

KING HENRY.

I dare say you love him not so ill, to wish him here alone, howsoever you speak this to feel other men's minds. Methinks I could not die anywhere so contented as in the King's company, his cause being just and his quarrel honourable.

WILLIAMS.

That's more than we know.

BATES.

Ay, or more than we should seek after; for we know enough, if we know we are the King's subjects. If his cause be wrong, our obedience to the King wipes the crime of it out of us.

WILLIAMS.

But if the cause be not good, the King himself hath a heavy reckoning to make, when all those legs and arms and heads, chopped off in a battle, shall join together at the latter day and cry all, "We died at such a place"; some swearing, some crying for a surgeon, some upon their wives left poor behind them, some upon the debts they owe, some upon their children rawly left. I am afeard there are few die well that die in a battle; for how can they charitably dispose of anything, when blood is their argument? Now, if these men do not die well, it will be a black matter for the King that led them to it; who to disobey were against all proportion of subjection.

KING HENRY.

So, if a son that is by his father sent about merchandise do sinfully miscarry upon the sea, the imputation of his wickedness, by your rule, should be imposed upon his father that sent him; or if a servant, under his master's command transporting a sum of money, be assailed by robbers and die in many irreconciled iniquities, you may call the business of the master the author of the servant's damnation. But this is not so. The King is not bound to answer the particular endings of his soldiers, the father of his son, nor the master of his servant; for they purpose not their death, when they purpose their services. Besides, there is no king, be his cause never so spotless, if it come to the arbitrement of swords, can try it out with all unspotted soldiers. Some peradventure have on them the guilt of premeditated and contrived murder; some, of beguiling virgins with the broken seals of perjury; some, making the wars their bulwark, that have before gored the gentle bosom of Peace with pillage and robbery. Now, if these men have defeated the law and outrun native punishment, though they can outstrip men, they have no wings to fly from God. War is his beadle, war is his vengeance; so that here men are punished for before-breach of the King's laws in now the King's quarrel. Where they feared the death, they have borne life away; and where they would be safe, they perish. Then if they die unprovided, no more is the King guilty of their damnation than he was before guilty of those impieties for the which they are now visited. Every subject's duty is the King's; but every subject's soul is his own. Therefore should every soldier in the wars do as every sick man in his bed, wash every mote out of his conscience; and dying so, death is to him advantage; or not dying, the time was blessedly lost wherein such preparation was gained; and in him that escapes, it were not sin to think that, making God so free an offer, He let him outlive that day to see His greatness and to teach others how they should prepare.

WILLIAMS.

'Tis certain, every man that dies ill, the ill upon his own head, the King is not to answer for it.

BATES.

I do not desire he should answer for me; and yet I determine to fight lustily for him.

KING HENRY.

I myself heard the King say he would not be ransomed.

WILLIAMS.

Ay, he said so, to make us fight cheerfully; but when our throats are cut, he may be ransomed, and we ne'er the wiser.

KING HENRY.

If I live to see it, I will never trust his word after.

WILLIAMS.

You pay him then. That's a perilous shot out of an elder-gun, that a poor and a private displeasure can do against a monarch! You may as well go about to turn the sun to ice with fanning in his face with a peacock's feather. You'll never trust his word after! Come, 'tis a foolish saying.

KING HENRY.

Your reproof is something too round. I should be angry with you, if the time were convenient.

WILLIAMS.

Let it be a quarrel between us if you live.

KING HENRY.

I embrace it.

WILLIAMS.

How shall I know thee again?

KING HENRY.

Give me any gage of thine, and I will wear it in my bonnet; then, if ever thou dar'st acknowledge it, I will make it my quarrel.

WILLIAMS.

Here's my glove; give me another of thine.

KING HENRY.

There.

WILLIAMS.

This will I also wear in my cap. If ever thou come to me and say, after to-morrow, "This is my glove," by this hand I will take thee a box on the ear.

KING HENRY.

If ever I live to see it, I will challenge it.

WILLIAMS.

Thou dar'st as well be hanged.

KING HENRY.

Well, I will do it, though I take thee in the King's company.

WILLIAMS.

Keep thy word; fare thee well.

BATES.

Be friends, you English fools, be friends. We have French quarrels enow, if you could tell how to reckon.

[Exeunt soldiers.]

KING HENRY.

Indeed, the French may lay twenty French crowns to one they will beat us, for they bear them on their shoulders; but it is no English treason to cut French crowns, and to-morrow the King himself will be a clipper.

Upon the King! Let us our lives, our souls,

Our debts, our careful wives,

Our children, and our sins lay on the King!

We must bear all. O hard condition,

Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath

Of every fool, whose sense no more can feel

But his own wringing! What infinite heart's-ease

Must kings neglect, that private men enjoy!

And what have kings, that privates have not too,

Save ceremony, save general ceremony?

And what art thou, thou idol Ceremony?

What kind of god art thou, that suffer'st more

Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers?

What are thy rents? What are thy comings in?

O Ceremony, show me but thy worth!

What is thy soul of adoration?

Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form,

Creating awe and fear in other men?

Wherein thou art less happy being feared

Than they in fearing.

What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet,

But poisoned flattery? O, be sick, great greatness,

And bid thy Ceremony give thee cure!

Think'st thou the fiery fever will go out

With titles blown from adulation?

Will it give place to flexure and low bending?

Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee,

Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream,

That play'st so subtly with a king's repose;

I am a king that find thee, and I know

'Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball,

The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,

The intertissued robe of gold and pearl,

The farced title running 'fore the King,

The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp

That beats upon the high shore of this world,

No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous Ceremony,—

Not all these, laid in bed majestical,

Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave,

Who with a body filled and vacant mind

Gets him to rest, crammed with distressful bread,

Never sees horrid night, the child of hell,

But, like a lackey, from the rise to set

Sweats in the eye of Phoebus, and all night

Sleeps in Elysium; next day after dawn,

Doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse,

And follows so the ever-running year,

With profitable labour, to his grave:

And, but for ceremony, such a wretch,

Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep,

Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king.

The slave, a member of the country's peace,

Enjoys it, but in gross brain little wots

What watch the King keeps to maintain the peace,

Whose hours the peasant best advantages.

[Enter Erpingham.]

ERPINGHAM.

My lord, your nobles, jealous of your absence,

Seek through your camp to find you.

KING HENRY.

Good old knight,

Collect them all together at my tent.

I'll be before thee.

ERPINGHAM.

I shall do't, my lord.

[Exit.]

KING HENRY.

[Kneels.]

O God of battles! steel my soldiers' hearts.

Possess them not with fear. Take from them now

The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers

Pluck their hearts from them. Not to-day, O Lord,

O, not to-day, think not upon the fault

My father made in compassing the crown!

I Richard's body have interred new,

And on it have bestowed more contrite tears

Than from it issued forced drops of blood.

Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay,

Who twice a day their withered hands hold up

Toward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built

Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests

Sing still for Richard's soul. More will I do;

Though all that I can do is nothing worth,

Since that my penitence comes after all,

Imploring pardon.

[Enter Gloucester.]

GLOUCESTER.

My liege!

KING HENRY.

My brother Gloucester's voice? Ay;

I know thy errand, I will go with thee.

The day, my friends, and all things stay for me.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

The French camp.

[Enter the Dauphin, Orleans, Rambures, and others.]

ORLEANS.

The sun doth gild our armour; up, my lords!

DAUPHIN.

Montez a cheval! My horse, varlet! lackey! ha!

ORLEANS.

O brave spirit!

DAUPHIN.

Via! les eaux et la terre.

ORLEANS.

Rien puis? L'air et le feu.

DAUPHIN.

Cieux, cousin Orleans.

[Enter Constable.]

Now, my Lord Constable!

CONSTABLE.

Hark, how our steeds for present service neigh!

DAUPHIN.

Mount them, and make incision in their hides,

That their hot blood may spin in English eyes,

And dout them with superfluous courage, ha!

RAMBURES.

What, will you have them weep our horses' blood?

How shall we, then, behold their natural tears?

[Enter a Messenger.]

MESSENGER.

The English are embattled, you French peers.

CONSTABLE.

To horse, you gallant princes! straight to horse!

Do but behold yon poor and starved band,

And your fair show shall suck away their souls,

Leaving them but the shales and husks of men.

There is not work enough for all our hands;

Scarce blood enough in all their sickly veins

To give each naked curtle-axe a stain,

That our French gallants shall to-day draw out,

And sheathe for lack of sport. Let us but blow on them,

The vapour of our valour will o'erturn them.

'Tis positive 'gainst all exceptions, lords,

That our superfluous lackeys and our peasants,

Who in unnecessary action swarm

About our squares of battle, were enow

To purge this field of such a hilding foe,

Though we upon this mountain's basis by

Took stand for idle speculation,

But that our honours must not. What's to say?

A very little little let us do,

And all is done. Then let the trumpets sound

The tucket sonance and the note to mount;

For our approach shall so much dare the field

That England shall crouch down in fear and yield.

[Enter Grandpre.]

GRANDPRE.

Why do you stay so long, my lords of France?

Yond island carrions, desperate of their bones,

Ill-favouredly become the morning field.

Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose,

And our air shakes them passing scornfully.

Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggared host,

And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps;

The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks

With torch-staves in their hand; and their poor jades

Lob down their heads, drooping the hides and hips,

The gum down-roping from their pale-dead eyes,

And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal bit

Lies foul with chewed grass, still, and motionless;

And their executors, the knavish crows,

Fly o'er them, all impatient for their hour.

Description cannot suit itself in words

To demonstrate the life of such a battle,

In life so lifeless as it shows itself.

CONSTABLE.

They have said their prayers, and they stay for death.

DAUPHIN.

Shall we go send them dinners and fresh suits

And give their fasting horses provender,

And after fight with them?

CONSTABLE.

I stay but for my guard; on to the field!

I will the banner from a trumpet take,

And use it for my haste. Come, come, away!

The sun is high, and we outwear the day.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE III.

The English camp.

[Enter Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham, with all his host: Salisbury and Westmoreland.]

GLOUCESTER.

Where is the King?

BEDFORD.

The King himself is rode to view their battle.

WESTMORELAND.

Of fighting men they have full three-score thousand.

EXETER.

There's five to one; besides, they all are fresh.

SALISBURY.

God's arm strike with us! 'tis a fearful odds.

God be wi' you, princes all; I'll to my charge.

If we no more meet till we meet in heaven,

Then, joyfully, my noble Lord of Bedford,

My dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter,

And my kind kinsman, warriors all, adieu!

BEDFORD.

Farewell, good Salisbury, and good luck go with thee!

EXETER.

Farewell, kind lord; fight valiantly to-day!

And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it,

For thou art framed of the firm truth of valour.

[Exit Salisbury.]

BEDFORD.

He is as full of valour as of kindness,

Princely in both.

[Enter the King.]

WESTMORELAND.

O that we now had here

But one ten thousand of those men in England

That do no work to-day!

KING.

What's he that wishes so?

My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin.

If we are marked to die, we are enow

To do our country loss; and if to live,

The fewer men, the greater share of honour.

God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;

It yearns me not if men my garments wear;

Such outward things dwell not in my desires;

But if it be a sin to covet honour,

I am the most offending soul alive.

No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.

God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour

As one man more, methinks, would share from me

For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,

That he which hath no stomach to this fight,

Let him depart. His passport shall be made,

And crowns for convoy put into his purse.

We would not die in that man's company

That fears his fellowship to die with us.

This day is called the feast of Crispian.

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,

And say, "To-morrow is Saint Crispian."

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,

And say, "These wounds I had on Crispian's day."

Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,

But he'll remember with advantages

What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,

Familiar in his mouth as household words,

Harry the King, Bedford, and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,

Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.

This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remembered,

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition;

And gentlemen in England now a-bed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

[Re-enter Salisbury.]

SALISBURY.

My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed.

The French are bravely in their battles set,

And will with all expedience charge on us.

KING HENRY.

All things are ready, if our minds be so.

WESTMORELAND.

Perish the man whose mind is backward now!

KING HENRY.

Thou dost not wish more help from England, coz?

WESTMORELAND.

God's will! my liege, would you and I alone,

Without more help, could fight this royal battle!

KING HENRY.

Why, now thou hast unwished five thousand men,

Which likes me better than to wish us one.

You know your places. God be with you all!

[Tucket. Enter Montjoy.]

MONTJOY.

Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry,

If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound,

Before thy most assured overthrow;

For certainly thou art so near the gulf,

Thou needs must be englutted. Besides, in mercy,

The Constable desires thee thou wilt mind

Thy followers of repentance; that their souls

May make a peaceful and a sweet retire

From off these fields, where, wretches, their poor bodies

Must lie and fester.

KING HENRY.

Who hath sent thee now?

MONTJOY.

The Constable of France.

KING HENRY.

I pray thee, bear my former answer back:

Bid them achieve me and then sell my bones.

Good God! why should they mock poor fellows thus?

The man that once did sell the lion's skin

While the beast lived, was killed with hunting him.

A many of our bodies shall no doubt

Find native graves, upon the which, I trust,

Shall witness live in brass of this day's work;

And those that leave their valiant bones in France,

Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills,

They shall be famed; for there the sun shall greet them,

And draw their honours reeking up to heaven;

Leaving their earthly parts to choke your clime,

The smell whereof shall breed a plague in France.

Mark then abounding valour in our English,

That being dead, like to the bullet's grazing,

Break out into a second course of mischief,

Killing in relapse of mortality.

Let me speak proudly: tell the Constable

We are but warriors for the working-day.

Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirched

With rainy marching in the painful field;

There's not a piece of feather in our host—

Good argument, I hope, we will not fly—

And time hath worn us into slovenry;

But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim;

And my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night

They'll be in fresher robes, or they will pluck

The gay new coats o'er the French soldiers' heads

And turn them out of service. If they do this—

As, if God please, they shall,—my ransom then

Will soon be levied. Herald, save thou thy labour.

Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald.

They shall have none, I swear, but these my joints;

Which if they have as I will leave 'em them,

Shall yield them little, tell the Constable.

MONTJOY.

I shall, King Harry. And so fare thee well;

Thou never shalt hear herald any more.

[Exit.]

KING HENRY.

I fear thou'lt once more come again for ransom.

[Enter York.]

YORK.

My lord, most humbly on my knee I beg

The leading of the vaward.

KING HENRY.

Take it, brave York. Now, soldiers, march away;

And how thou pleasest, God, dispose the day!

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE IV.

The field of battle.

[Alarum. Excursions. Enter Pistol, French Soldier, and Boy.]

PISTOL.

Yield, cur!

FRENCH SOLDIER.

Je pense que vous etes le gentilhomme de bonne qualite.

PISTOL.

Qualitie? 'Caleno custure me! Art thou a gentleman?

What is thy name? Discuss.

FRENCH SOLDIER.

O Seigneur Dieu!

PISTOL.

O, Signieur Dew should be a gentleman.

Perpend my words, O Signieur Dew, and mark:

O Signieur Dew, thou diest on point of fox,

Except, O signieur, thou do give to me

Egregious ransom.

FRENCH SOLDIER.

O, prenez misericorde! Ayez pitie de moi!

PISTOL.

Moy shall not serve; I will have forty moys,

Or I will fetch thy rim out at thy throat

In drops of crimson blood.

FRENCH SOLDIER.

Est-il impossible d'echapper la force de ton bras?

PISTOL.

Brass, cur!

Thou damned and luxurious mountain goat,

Offer'st me brass?

FRENCH SOLDIER.

O pardonnez moi!

PISTOL.

Say'st thou me so? Is that a ton of moys?

Come hither, boy; ask me this slave in French

What is his name.

BOY.

Ecoutez: comment etes-vous appele?

FRENCH SOLDIER.

Monsieur le Fer.

BOY.

He says his name is Master Fer.

PISTOL.

Master Fer! I'll fer him, and firk him, and ferret him.

Discuss the same in French unto him.

BOY.

I do not know the French for fer, and ferret, and firk.

PISTOL.

Bid him prepare; for I will cut his throat.

FRENCH SOLDIER.

Que dit-il, monsieur?

BOY.

Il me commande a vous dire que vous faites vous pret; car ce soldat ici est dispose tout a cette heure de couper votre gorge.

PISTOL.

Owy, cuppele gorge, permafoy,

Peasant, unless thou give me crowns, brave crowns;

Or mangled shalt thou be by this my sword.

FRENCH SOLDIER.

O, je vous supplie, pour l'amour de Dieu, me pardonner! Je suis gentilhomme de bonne maison; gardez ma vie, et je vous donnerai deux cents ecus.

PISTOL.

What are his words?

BOY.

He prays you to save his life. He is a gentleman of a good house; and for his ransom he will give you two hundred crowns.

PISTOL.

Tell him my fury shall abate, and I

The crowns will take.

FRENCH SOLDIER.

Petit monsieur, que dit-il?

BOY.

Encore qu'il est contre son jurement de pardonner aucun prisonnier; neanmoins, pour les ecus que vous l'avez promis, il est content de vous donner la liberte, le franchisement.

FRENCH SOLDIER.

Sur mes genoux je vous donne mille remercimens; et je m'estime heureux que je suis tombe entre les mains d'un chevalier, je pense, le plus brave, vaillant, et tres distingue seigneur d'Angleterre.

PISTOL.

Expound unto me, boy.

BOY.

He gives you upon his knees, a thousand thanks; and he esteems himself happy that he hath fallen into the hands of one, as he thinks, the most brave, valorous, and thrice-worthy signieur of England.

PISTOL.

As I suck blood, I will some mercy show.

Follow me!

[Exit.]

BOY.

Suivez-vous le grand capitaine.

[Exeunt Pistol, and French Soldier.]

I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart; but the saying is true, "The empty vessel makes the greatest sound." Bardolph and Nym had ten times more valour than this roaring devil i' the old play, that every one may pare his nails with a wooden dagger; and they are both hanged; and so would this be, if he durst steal anything adventurously. I must stay with the lackeys with the luggage of our camp. The French might have a good prey of us, if he knew of it; for there is none to guard it but boys.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE V.

Another part of the field.

[Enter Constable, Orleans, Bourbon, Dauphin, and Rambures.]

CONSTABLE.

O diable!

ORLEANS.

O Seigneur! le jour est perdu, tout est perdu!

DAUPHIN.

Mort de ma vie! all is confounded, all!

Reproach and everlasting shame

Sits mocking in our plumes.

[A short alarum.]

O mechante fortune! Do not run away.

CONSTABLE.

Why, all our ranks are broke.

DAUPHIN.

O perdurable shame! let's stab ourselves,

Be these the wretches that we played at dice for?

ORLEANS.

Is this the king we sent to for his ransom?

BOURBON.

Shame and eternal shame, nothing but shame!

Let's die in honour! Once more back again!

And he that will not follow Bourbon now,

Let him go hence, and with his cap in hand,

Like a base pandar, hold the chamber door

Whilst by a slave, no gentler than my dog,

His fairest daughter is contaminated.

CONSTABLE.

Disorder, that hath spoiled us, friend us now!

Let us on heaps go offer up our lives.

ORLEANS.

We are enow yet living in the field

To smother up the English in our throngs,

If any order might be thought upon.

BOURBON.

The devil take order now! I'll to the throng.

Let life be short, else shame will be too long.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE VI.

Another part of the field.

[Alarum. Enter King Henry and his train, with prisoners.]

KING HENRY.

Well have we done, thrice valiant countrymen.

But all's not done; yet keep the French the field.

EXETER.

The Duke of York commends him to your Majesty.

KING HENRY.

Lives he, good uncle? Thrice within this hour

I saw him down; thrice up again, and fighting.

From helmet to the spur all blood he was.

EXETER.

In which array, brave soldier, doth he lie,

Larding the plain; and by his bloody side,

Yoke-fellow to his honour-owing wounds,

The noble Earl of Suffolk also lies.

Suffolk first died; and York, all haggled over,

Comes to him, where in gore he lay insteeped,

And takes him by the beard; kisses the gashes

That bloodily did yawn upon his face.

He cries aloud, "Tarry, my cousin Suffolk!

My soul shall thine keep company to heaven;

Tarry, sweet soul, for mine, then fly abreast,

As in this glorious and well-foughten field

We kept together in our chivalry."

Upon these words I came and cheered him up.

He smiled me in the face, raught me his hand,

And, with a feeble gripe, says, "Dear my lord,

Commend my service to my sovereign."

So did he turn and over Suffolk's neck

He threw his wounded arm and kissed his lips;

And so espoused to death, with blood he sealed

A testament of noble-ending love.

The pretty and sweet manner of it forced

Those waters from me which I would have stopped;

But I had not so much of man in me,

And all my mother came into mine eyes

And gave me up to tears.

KING HENRY.

I blame you not;

For, hearing this, I must perforce compound

With mistful eyes, or they will issue too.

[Alarum.]

But hark! what new alarum is this same?

The French have reinforced their scattered men.

Then every soldier kill his prisoners;

Give the word through.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE VII.

Another part of the field.

[Enter Fluellen and Gower.]

FLUELLEN.

Kill the poys and the luggage! 'Tis expressly against the law of arms. 'Tis as arrant a piece of knavery, mark you now, as can be offer't; in your conscience, now, is it not?

GOWER.

'Tis certain there's not a boy left alive; and the cowardly rascals that ran from the battle ha' done this slaughter. Besides, they have burned and carried away all that was in the King's tent; wherefore the King, most worthily, hath caused every soldier to cut his prisoner's throat. O, 'tis a gallant king!

FLUELLEN.

Ay, he was porn at Monmouth, Captain Gower. What call you the town's name where Alexander the Pig was born?

GOWER.

Alexander the Great.

FLUELLEN.

Why, I pray you, is not pig great? The pig, or the great, or the mighty, or the huge, or the magnanimous, are all one reckonings, save the phrase is a little variations.

GOWER.

I think Alexander the Great was born in Macedon. His father was called Philip of Macedon, as I take it.

FLUELLEN.

I think it is in Macedon where Alexander is porn. I tell you, Captain, if you look in the maps of the 'orld, I warrant you sall find, in the comparisons between Macedon and Monmouth, that the situations, look you, is both alike. There is a river in Macedon; and there is also moreover a river at Monmouth; it is called Wye at Monmouth; but it is out of my prains what is the name of the other river; but 'tis all one, 'tis alike as my fingers is to my fingers, and there is salmons in both. If you mark Alexander's life well, Harry of Monmouth's life is come after it indifferent well; for there is figures in all things. Alexander, God knows, and you know, in his rages, and his furies, and his wraths, and his cholers, and his moods, and his displeasures, and his indignations, and also being a little intoxicates in his prains, did, in his ales and his angers, look you, kill his best friend, Cleitus.

GOWER.

Our King is not like him in that. He never killed any of his friends.

FLUELLEN.

It is not well done, mark you now, to take the tales out of my mouth, ere it is made and finished. I speak but in the figures and comparisons of it. As Alexander killed his friend Cleitus, being in his ales and his cups; so also Harry Monmouth, being in his right wits and his good judgements, turned away the fat knight with the great belly doublet. He was full of jests, and gipes, and knaveries, and mocks; I have forgot his name.

GOWER.

Sir John Falstaff.

FLUELLEN.

That is he. I'll tell you there is good men porn at Monmouth.

GOWER.

Here comes his Majesty.

[Alarum. Enter King Henry and [forces; Warwick, Gloucester, Exeter, with prisoners. Flourish.]

KING HENRY.

I was not angry since I came to France

Until this instant. Take a trumpet, herald;

Ride thou unto the horsemen on yond hill.

If they will fight with us, bid them come down,

Or void the field; they do offend our sight.

If they'll do neither, we will come to them,

And make them skirr away, as swift as stones

Enforced from the old Assyrian slings.

Besides, we'll cut the throats of those we have,

And not a man of them that we shall take

Shall taste our mercy. Go and tell them so.

[Enter Montjoy.]

EXETER.

Here comes the herald of the French, my liege.

GLOUCESTER.

His eyes are humbler than they used to be.

KING HENRY.

How now! what means this, herald? Know'st thou not

That I have fined these bones of mine for ransom?

Com'st thou again for ransom?

MONTJOY.

No, great King;

I come to thee for charitable license,

That we may wander o'er this bloody field

To book our dead, and then to bury them;

To sort our nobles from our common men.

For many of our princes—woe the while!—

Lie drowned and soaked in mercenary blood;

So do our vulgar drench their peasant limbs

In blood of princes; and their wounded steeds

Fret fetlock deep in gore, and with wild rage

Yerk out their armed heels at their dead masters,

Killing them twice. O, give us leave, great King,

To view the field in safety, and dispose

Of their dead bodies!

KING HENRY.

I tell thee truly, herald,

I know not if the day be ours or no;

For yet a many of your horsemen peer

And gallop o'er the field.

MONTJOY.

The day is yours.

KING HENRY.

Praised be God, and not our strength, for it!

What is this castle called that stands hard by?

MONTJOY. They call it Agincourt.

KING HENRY.

Then call we this the field of Agincourt,

Fought on the day of Crispin Crispianus.

FLUELLEN.

Your grandfather of famous memory, an't please your Majesty, and your great-uncle Edward the Plack Prince of Wales, as I have read in the chronicles, fought a most prave pattle here in France.

KING HENRY.

They did, Fluellen.

FLUELLEN.

Your Majesty says very true. If your Majesties is rememb'red of it, the Welshmen did good service in garden where leeks did grow, wearing leeks in their Monmouth caps; which, your Majesty know, to this hour is an honourable badge of the service; and I do believe your Majesty takes no scorn to wear the leek upon Saint Tavy's day.

KING HENRY.

I wear it for a memorable honour;

For I am Welsh, you know, good countryman.

FLUELLEN.

All the water in Wye cannot wash your Majesty's Welsh plood out of your pody, I can tell you that. Got pless it and preserve it, as long as it pleases His grace, and His majesty too!

KING HENRY.

Thanks, good my countryman.

FLUELLEN.

By Jeshu, I am your Majesty's countryman, I care not who know it. I will confess it to all the 'orld. I need not be ashamed of your Majesty, praised be God, so long as your Majesty is an honest man.

KING HENRY.

God keep me so!

[Enter Williams.]

Our heralds go with him;

Bring me just notice of the numbers dead

On both our parts. Call yonder fellow hither.

[Exeunt Heralds with Montjoy.]

EXETER.

Soldier, you must come to the King.

KING HENRY.

Soldier, why wear'st thou that glove in thy cap?

WILLIAMS.

An't please your Majesty, 'tis the gage of one that I should fight withal, if he be alive.

KING HENRY.

An Englishman?

WILLIAMS.

An't please your Majesty, a rascal that swaggered with me last night; who, if alive and ever dare to challenge this glove, I have sworn to take him a box o' the ear; or if I can see my glove in his cap, which he swore, as he was a soldier, he would wear if alive, I will strike it out soundly.

KING HENRY.

What think you, Captain Fluellen? Is it fit this soldier keep his oath?

FLUELLEN.

He is a craven and a villain else, an't please your Majesty, in my conscience.

KING HENRY.

It may be his enemy is a gentlemen of great sort, quite from the answer of his degree.

FLUELLEN.

Though he be as good a gentleman as the devil is, as Lucifier and Belzebub himself, it is necessary, look your Grace, that he keep his vow and his oath. If he be perjured, see you now, his reputation is as arrant a villain and a Jacksauce, as ever his black shoe trod upon God's ground and His earth, in my conscience, la!

KING HENRY.

Then keep thy vow, sirrah, when thou meet'st the fellow.

WILLIAMS.

So I will, my liege, as I live.

KING HENRY.

Who serv'st thou under?

WILLIAMS.

Under Captain Gower, my liege.

FLUELLEN.

Gower is a good captain, and is good knowledge and literatured in the wars.

KING HENRY.

Call him hither to me, soldier.

WILLIAMS.

I will, my liege.

[Exit.]

KING HENRY.

Here, Fluellen; wear thou this favour for me and stick it in thy cap. When Alencon and myself were down together, I plucked this glove from his helm. If any man challenge this, he is a friend to Alencon, and an enemy to our person. If thou encounter any such, apprehend him, an thou dost me love.

FLUELLEN.

Your Grace does me as great honours as can be desired in the hearts of his subjects. I would fain see the man, that has but two legs, that shall find himself aggriefed at this glove; that is all. But I would fain see it once, an please God of His grace that I might see.

KING HENRY.

Know'st thou Gower?

FLUELLEN.

He is my dear friend, an please you.

KING HENRY.

Pray thee, go seek him, and bring him to my tent.

FLUELLEN.

I will fetch him.

[Exit.]

KING HENRY.

My Lord of Warwick, and my brother Gloucester,

Follow Fluellen closely at the heels.

The glove which I have given him for a favour

May haply purchase him a box o' the ear.

It is the soldier's; I by bargain should

Wear it myself. Follow, good cousin Warwick.

If that the soldier strike him, as I judge

By his blunt bearing he will keep his word,

Some sudden mischief may arise of it;

For I do know Fluellen valiant

And, touched with choler, hot as gunpowder,

And quickly will return an injury.

Follow, and see there be no harm between them.

Go you with me, uncle of Exeter.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE VIII.

Before King Henry's pavilion.

[Enter Gower and Williams.]

WILLIAMS.

I warrant it is to knight you, Captain.

[Enter Fluellen.]

FLUELLEN.

God's will and his pleasure, captain, I beseech you now, come apace to the King. There is more good toward you peradventure than is in your knowledge to dream of.

WILLIAMS.

Sir, know you this glove?

FLUELLEN.

Know the glove! I know the glove is a glove.

WILLIAMS.

I know this; and thus I challenge it.

[Strikes him.]

FLUELLEN.

'Sblood! an arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in France, or in England!

GOWER.

How now, sir! you villain!

WILLIAMS. Do you think I'll be forsworn?

FLUELLEN.

Stand away, Captain Gower. I will give treason his payment into plows, I warrant you.

WILLIAMS.

I am no traitor.

FLUELLEN.

That's a lie in thy throat. I charge you in his Majesty's name, apprehend him; he's a friend of the Duke Alencon's.

[Enter Warwick and Gloucester.]

WARWICK.

How now, how now! what's the matter?

FLUELLEN.

My lord of Warwick, here is—praised be God for it!—a most contagious treason come to light, look you, as you shall desire in a summer's day. Here is his Majesty.

[Enter King Henry and Exeter.]

KING HENRY.

How now! what's the matter?

FLUELLEN.

My liege, here is a villain and a traitor, that, look your Grace, has struck the glove which your Majesty is take out of the helmet of Alencon.

WILLIAMS.

My liege, this was my glove; here is the fellow of it; and he that I gave it to in change promised to wear it in his cap. I promised to strike him, if he did. I met this man with my glove in his cap, and I have been as good as my word.

FLUELLEN.

Your Majesty hear now, saving your Majesty's manhood, what an arrant, rascally, beggarly, lousy knave it is. I hope your Majesty is pear me testimony and witness, and will avouchment, that this is the glove of Alencon that your Majesty is give me; in your conscience, now?

KING HENRY.

Give me thy glove, soldier. Look, here is the fellow of it.

'Twas I, indeed, thou promisedst to strike;

And thou hast given me most bitter terms.

FLUELLEN.

An it please your Majesty, let his neck answer for it, if there is any martial law in the world.

KING HENRY.

How canst thou make me satisfaction?

WILLIAMS.

All offences, my lord, come from the heart. Never came any from mine that might offend your Majesty.

KING HENRY.

It was ourself thou didst abuse.

WILLIAMS.

Your Majesty came not like yourself. You appeared to me but as a common man; witness the night, your garments, your lowliness; and what your Highness suffered under that shape, I beseech you take it for your own fault and not mine; for had you been as I took you for, I made no offence; therefore, I beseech your Highness, pardon me.

KING HENRY.

Here, uncle Exeter, fill this glove with crowns,

And give it to this fellow. Keep it, fellow;

And wear it for an honour in thy cap

Till I do challenge it. Give him his crowns;

And, captain, you must needs be friends with him.

FLUELLEN.

By this day and this light, the fellow has mettle enough in his belly. Hold, there is twelve pence for you; and I pray you to serve God, and keep you out of prawls, and prabbles, and quarrels, and dissensions, and, I warrant you, it is the better for you.

WILLIAMS.

I will none of your money.

FLUELLEN.

It is with a good will; I can tell you, it will serve you to mend your shoes. Come, wherefore should you be so pashful? Your shoes is not so good. 'Tis a good silling, I warrant you, or I will change it.

[Enter an English Herald.]

KING HENRY.

Now, herald, are the dead numb'red?

HERALD.

Here is the number of the slaught'red French.

KING HENRY.

What prisoners of good sort are taken, uncle?

EXETER.

Charles Duke of Orleans, nephew to the King;

John Duke of Bourbon, and Lord Bouciqualt:

Of other lords and barons, knights and squires,

Full fifteen hundred, besides common men.

KING HENRY.

This note doth tell me of ten thousand French

That in the field lie slain; of princes, in this number,

And nobles bearing banners, there lie dead

One hundred twenty-six; added to these,

Of knights, esquires, and gallant gentlemen,

Eight thousand and four hundred; of the which,

Five hundred were but yesterday dubbed knights;

So that, in these ten thousand they have lost,

There are but sixteen hundred mercenaries;

The rest are princes, barons, lords, knights, squires,

And gentlemen of blood and quality.

The names of those their nobles that lie dead:

Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France;

Jacques of Chatillon, Admiral of France;

The master of the cross-bows, Lord Rambures;

Great Master of France, the brave Sir Guichard Dauphin,

John Duke of Alencon, Anthony Duke of Brabant,

The brother to the Duke of Burgundy,

And Edward Duke of Bar; of lusty earls,

Grandpre and Roussi, Fauconberg and Foix,

Beaumont and Marle, Vaudemont and Lestrale.

Here was a royal fellowship of death!

Where is the number of our English dead?

[Herald shows him another paper.]

Edward the Duke of York, the Earl of Suffolk,

Sir Richard Ketly, Davy Gam, esquire;

None else of name; and of all other men

But five and twenty.—O God, thy arm was here;

And not to us, but to thy arm alone,

Ascribe we all! When, without stratagem,

But in plain shock and even play of battle,

Was ever known so great and little loss

On one part and on the other? Take it, God,

For it is none but thine!

EXETER.

'Tis wonderful!

KING HENRY.

Come, go we in procession to the village;

And be it death proclaimed through our host

To boast of this or take that praise from God

Which is His only.

FLUELLEN.

Is it not lawful, an please your Majesty, to tell how many is killed?

KING HENRY.

Yes, Captain; but with this acknowledgment,

That God fought for us.

FLUELLEN.

Yes, my conscience, He did us great good.

KING HENRY.

Do we all holy rites.

Let there be sung Non nobis and Te Deum,

The dead with charity enclosed in clay,

And then to Calais; and to England then,

Where ne'er from France arrived more happy men.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. PROLOGUE.

[Enter Chorus.]

CHORUS.

Vouchsafe to those that have not read the story,

That I may prompt them; and of such as have,

I humbly pray them to admit the excuse

Of time, of numbers, and due course of things,

Which cannot in their huge and proper life

Be here presented. Now we bear the King

Toward Calais; grant him there; there seen,

Heave him away upon your winged thoughts

Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach

Pales in the flood with men, with wives and boys,

Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouthed sea,

Which like a mighty whiffler 'fore the King

Seems to prepare his way. So let him land,

And solemnly see him set on to London.

So swift a pace hath thought that even now

You may imagine him upon Blackheath,

Where that his lords desire him to have borne

His bruised helmet and his bended sword

Before him through the city. He forbids it,

Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride;

Giving full trophy, signal, and ostent

Quite from himself to God. But now behold,

In the quick forge and working-house of thought,

How London doth pour out her citizens!

The mayor and all his brethren in best sort,

Like to the senators of the antique Rome,

With the plebeians swarming at their heels,

Go forth and fetch their conquering Caesar in;

As, by a lower but loving likelihood,

Were now the general of our gracious empress,

As in good time he may, from Ireland coming,

Bringing rebellion broached on his sword,

How many would the peaceful city quit,

To welcome him! Much more, and much more cause,

Did they this Harry. Now in London place him;

As yet the lamentation of the French

Invites the King of England's stay at home,—

The Emperor's coming in behalf of France,

To order peace between them;—and omit

All the occurrences, whatever chanced,

Till Harry's back-return again to France.

There must we bring him; and myself have played

The interim, by rememb'ring you 'tis past.

Then brook abridgment, and your eyes advance

After your thoughts, straight back again to France.

[Exit.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

France. The English camp.

[Enter Fluellen and Gower.]

GOWER.

Nay, that's right; but why wear you your leek to-day? Saint Davy's day is past.

FLUELLEN.

There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in all things. I will tell you asse my friend, Captain Gower. The rascally, scald, beggarly, lousy, pragging knave, Pistol, which you and yourself and all the world know to be no petter than a fellow, look you now, of no merits, he is come to me and prings me pread and salt yesterday, look you, and bid me eat my leek. It was in a place where I could not breed no contention with him; but I will be so bold as to wear it in my cap till I see him once again, and then I will tell him a little piece of my desires.

[Enter Pistol.]

GOWER.

Why, here he comes, swelling like a turkey-cock.

FLUELLEN.

'Tis no matter for his swellings nor his turkey-cocks. God pless you, Aunchient Pistol! you scurvy, lousy knave, God pless you!

PISTOL.

Ha! art thou bedlam? Dost thou thirst, base Troyan,

To have me fold up Parca's fatal web?

Hence! I am qualmish at the smell of leek.

FLUELLEN.

I peseech you heartily, scurfy, lousy knave, at my desires, and my requests, and my petitions, to eat, look you, this leek. Because, look you, you do not love it, nor your affections and your appetites and your digestions doo's not agree with it, I would desire you to eat it.

PISTOL.

Not for Cadwallader and all his goats.

FLUELLEN.

There is one goat for you. [Strikes him.] Will you be so good, scald knave, as eat it?

PISTOL.

Base Troyan, thou shalt die.

FLUELLEN.

You say very true, scald knave, when God's will is. I will desire you to live in the mean time, and eat your victuals. Come, there is sauce for it. [Strikes him.] You called me yesterday mountain-squire; but I will make you to-day a squire of low degree. I pray you, fall to; if you can mock a leek, you can eat a leek.

GOWER.

Enough, captain; you have astonished him.

FLUELLEN.

I say, I will make him eat some part of my leek, or I will peat his pate four days. Bite, I pray you; it is good for your green wound and your ploody coxcomb.

PISTOL.

Must I bite?

FLUELLEN.

Yes, certainly, and out of doubt and out of question too, and ambiguities.

PISTOL.

By this leek, I will most horribly revenge. I eat and eat, I swear—

FLUELLEN.

Eat, I pray you. Will you have some more sauce to your leek? There is not enough leek to swear by.

PISTOL.

Quiet thy cudgel; thou dost see I eat.

FLUELLEN.

Much good do you, scald knave, heartily. Nay, pray you, throw none away; the skin is good for your broken coxcomb. When you take occasions to see leeks herefter, I pray you, mock at 'em; that is all.

PISTOL.

Good.

FLUELLEN.

Ay, leeks is good. Hold you, there is a groat to heal your pate.

PISTOL.

Me a groat!

FLUELLEN.

Yes, verily and in truth you shall take it; or I have another leek in my pocket, which you shall eat.

PISTOL.

I take thy groat in earnest of revenge.

FLUELLEN.

If I owe you anything I will pay you in cudgels. You shall be a woodmonger, and buy nothing of me but cudgels. God be wi' you, and keep you, and heal your pate.

[Exit.]

PISTOL.

All hell shall stir for this.

GOWER.

Go, go; you are a couterfeit cowardly knave. Will you mock at an ancient tradition, begun upon an honourable respect, and worn as a memorable trophy of predeceased valour, and dare not avouch in your deeds any of your words? I have seen you gleeking and galling at this gentleman twice or thrice. You thought, because he could not speak English in the native garb, he could not therefore handle an English cudgel. You find it otherwise; and henceforth let a Welsh correction teach you a good English condition. Fare ye well.

[Exit.]

PISTOL.

Doth Fortune play the huswife with me now?

News have I, that my Doll is dead i' the spital

Of malady of France;

And there my rendezvous is quite cut off.

Old I do wax; and from my weary limbs

Honour is cudgelled. Well, bawd I'll turn,

And something lean to cutpurse of quick hand.

To England will I steal, and there I'll steal;

And patches will I get unto these cudgelled scars,

And swear I got them in the Gallia wars.

[Exit.]

ACT V. SCENE II.

France. A royal palace.

[Enter, at one door, King Henry, Exeter, Bedford, Gloucester, Warwick, Westmoreland, and other Lords; at another, the French King, Queen Isabel, the Princess Katharine, Alice, and other Ladies; the Duke of Burgundy, and other French.]

KING HENRY.

Peace to this meeting, wherefore we are met!

Unto our brother France, and to our sister,

Health and fair time of day; joy and good wishes

To our most fair and princely cousin Katharine;

And, as a branch and member of this royalty,

By whom this great assembly is contrived,

We do salute you, Duke of Burgundy;

And, princes French, and peers, health to you all!

FRENCH KING.

Right joyous are we to behold your face,

Most worthy brother England; fairly met!

So are you, princes English, every one.

QUEEN ISABEL.

So happy be the issue, brother England,

Of this good day and of this gracious meeting

As we are now glad to behold your eyes;

Your eyes, which hitherto have borne in them

Against the French that met them in their bent

The fatal balls of murdering basilisks.

The venom of such looks, we fairly hope,

Have lost their quality; and that this day

Shall change all griefs and quarrels into love.

KING HENRY.

To cry amen to that, thus we appear.

QUEEN ISABEL.

You English princes all, I do salute you.

BURGUNDY.

My duty to you both, on equal love,

Great Kings of France and England! That I have laboured,

With all my wits, my pains, and strong endeavours,

To bring your most imperial Majesties

Unto this bar and royal interview,

Your mightiness on both parts best can witness.

Since then my office hath so far prevailed

That, face to face and royal eye to eye,

You have congreeted, let it not disgrace me

If I demand, before this royal view,

What rub or what impediment there is,

Why that the naked, poor, and mangled Peace,

Dear nurse of arts, plenties, and joyful births,

Should not in this best garden of the world,

Our fertile France, put up her lovely visage?

Alas, she hath from France too long been chased,

And all her husbandry doth lie on heaps,

Corrupting in it own fertility.

Her vine, the merry cheerer of the heart,

Unpruned dies; her hedges even-pleached,

Like prisoners wildly overgrown with hair,

Put forth disordered twigs; her fallow leas

The darnel, hemlock, and rank fumitory,

Doth root upon, while that the coulter rusts

That should deracinate such savagery;

The even mead, that erst brought sweetly forth

The freckled cowslip, burnet, and green clover,

Wanting the scythe, all uncorrected, rank,

Conceives by idleness, and nothing teems

But hateful docks, rough thistles, kexes, burs,

Losing both beauty and utility;

And as our vineyards, fallows, meads, and hedges,

Defective in their natures, grow to wildness.

Even so our houses and ourselves and children

Have lost, or do not learn for want of time,

The sciences that should become our country;

But grow like savages,—as soldiers will

That nothing do but meditate on blood,—

To swearing and stern looks, diffused attire,

And everything that seems unnatural.

Which to reduce into our former favour

You are assembled; and my speech entreats

That I may know the let, why gentle Peace

Should not expel these inconveniences

And bless us with her former qualities.

KING HENRY.

If, Duke of Burgundy, you would the peace,

Whose want gives growth to the imperfections

Which you have cited, you must buy that peace

With full accord to all our just demands;

Whose tenours and particular effects

You have enscheduled briefly in your hands.

BURGUNDY.

The King hath heard them; to the which as yet

There is no answer made.

KING HENRY.

Well, then, the peace,

Which you before so urged, lies in his answer.

FRENCH KING.

I have but with a cursorary eye

O'erglanced the articles. Pleaseth your Grace

To appoint some of your council presently

To sit with us once more, with better heed

To re-survey them, we will suddenly

Pass our accept and peremptory answer.

KING HENRY.

Brother, we shall. Go, uncle Exeter,

And brother Clarence, and you, brother Gloucester,

Warwick, and Huntington, go with the King;

And take with you free power to ratify,

Augment, or alter, as your wisdoms best

Shall see advantageable for our dignity,

Anything in or out of our demands,

And we'll consign thereto. Will you, fair sister,

Go with the princes, or stay here with us?

QUEEN ISABEL.

Our gracious brother, I will go with them.

Haply a woman's voice may do some good,

When articles too nicely urged be stood on.

KING HENRY.

Yet leave our cousin Katharine here with us:

She is our capital demand, comprised

Within the fore-rank of our articles.

QUEEN ISABEL.

She hath good leave.

[Exeunt all except Henry, Katharine and Alice.]

KING HENRY.

Fair Katharine, and most fair,

Will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms

Such as will enter at a lady's ear

And plead his love-suit to her gentle heart?

KATHARINE.

Your Majesty shall mock me; I cannot speak your England.

KING HENRY.

O fair Katharine, if you will love me soundly with your French heart, I will be glad to hear you confess it brokenly with your English tongue. Do you like me, Kate?

KATHARINE.

Pardonnez-moi, I cannot tell wat is "like me."

KING HENRY.

An angel is like you, Kate, and you are like an angel.

KATHARINE.

Que dit-il? Que je suis semblable a les anges?

ALICE.

Oui, vraiment, sauf votre grace, ainsi dit-il.

KING HENRY.

I said so, dear Katharine; and I must not blush to affirm it.

KATHARINE.

O bon Dieu! les langues des hommes sont pleines de tromperies.

KING HENRY.

What says she, fair one? That the tongues of men are full of deceits?

ALICE.

Oui, dat de tongues of de mans is be full of deceits: dat is de Princess.

KING HENRY.

The Princess is the better Englishwoman. I' faith, Kate, my wooing is fit for thy understanding: I am glad thou canst speak no better English; for if thou couldst, thou wouldst find me such a plain king that thou wouldst think I had sold my farm to buy my crown. I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say, "I love you"; then if you urge me farther than to say, "Do you in faith?" I wear out my suit. Give me your answer; i' faith, do; and so clap hands and a bargain. How say you, lady?

KATHARINE.

Sauf votre honneur, me understand well.

KING HENRY.

Marry, if you would put me to verses, or to dance for your sake, Kate, why you undid me; for the one, I have neither words nor measure, and for the other I have no strength in measure, yet a reasonable measure in strength. If I could win a lady at leap-frog, or by vaulting into my saddle with my armour on my back, under the correction of bragging be it spoken, I should quickly leap into a wife. Or if I might buffet for my love, or bound my horse for her favours, I could lay on like a butcher and sit like a jack-an-apes, never off. But, before God, Kate, I cannot look greenly, nor gasp out my eloquence, nor I have no cunning in protestation; only downright oaths, which I never use till urged, nor never break for urging. If thou canst love a fellow of this temper, Kate, whose face is not worth sunburning, that never looks in his glass for love of anything he sees there, let thine eye be thy cook. I speak to thee plain soldier. If thou canst love me for this, take me; if not, to say to thee that I shall die, is true; but for thy love, by the Lord, no; yet I love thee too. And while thou liv'st, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain and uncoined constancy; for he perforce must do thee right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other places; for these fellows of infinite tongue, that can rhyme themselves into ladies' favours, they do always reason themselves out again. What! a speaker is but a prater: a rhyme is but a ballad. A good leg will fall; a straight back will stoop; a black beard will turn white; a curled pate will grow bald; a fair face will wither; a full eye will wax hollow; but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon; or rather the sun and not the moon; for it shines bright and never changes, but keeps his course truly. If thou would have such a one, take me; and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier, take a king. And what say'st thou then to my love? Speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee.

KATHARINE.

Is it possible dat I should love de enemy of France?

KING HENRY.

No; it is not possible you should love the enemy of France, Kate; but, in loving me, you should love the friend of France; for I love France so well that I will not part with a village of it, I will have it all mine; and, Kate, when France is mine and I am yours, then yours is France and you are mine.

KATHARINE.

I cannot tell wat is dat.

KING HENRY.

No, Kate? I will tell thee in French; which I am sure will hang upon my tongue like a new-married wife about her husband's neck, hardly to be shook off. Je quand sur le possession de France, et quand vous avez le possession de moi,—let me see, what then? Saint Denis be my speed!—donc votre est France et vous etes mienne. It is as easy for me, Kate, to conquer the kingdom as to speak so much more French. I shall never move thee in French, unless it be to laugh at me.

KATHARINE.

Sauf votre honneur, le Francais que vous parlez, il est meilleur que l'Anglois lequel je parle.

KING HENRY.

No, faith, is't not, Kate; but thy speaking of my tongue, and I thine, most truly-falsely, must needs be granted to be much at one. But, Kate, dost thou understand thus much English: canst thou love me?

KATHARINE.

I cannot tell.

KING HENRY.

Can any of your neighbours tell, Kate? I'll ask them. Come, I know thou lovest me; and at night, when you come into your closet, you'll question this gentlewoman about me; and I know, Kate, you will to her dispraise those parts in me that you love with your heart. But, good Kate, mock me mercifully; the rather, gentle princess, because I love thee cruelly. If ever thou beest mine, Kate, as I have a saving faith within me tells me thou shalt, I get thee with scambling, and thou must therefore needs prove a good soldier-breeder. Shall not thou and I, between Saint Denis and Saint George, compound a boy, half French, half English, that shall go to Constantinople and take the Turk by the beard? Shall we not? What say'st thou, my fair flower-de-luce?

KATHARINE.

I do not know dat.

KING HENRY.

No; 'tis hereafter to know, but now to promise. Do but now promise, Kate, you will endeavour for your French part of such a boy; and for my English moiety, take the word of a king and a bachelor. How answer you, la plus belle Katherine du monde, mon tres cher et divin deesse?

KATHARINE.

Your Majestee ave fausse French enough to deceive de most sage damoiselle dat is en France.

KING HENRY.

Now, fie upon my false French! By mine honour, in true English, I love thee, Kate; by which honour I dare not swear thou lovest me; yet my blood begins to flatter me that thou dost, notwithstanding the poor and untempering effect of my visage. Now, beshrew my father's ambition! he was thinking of civil wars when he got me; therefore was I created with a stubborn outside, with an aspect of iron, that, when I come to woo ladies, I fright them. But, in faith, Kate, the elder I wax, the better I shall appear. My comfort is, that old age, that ill layer up of beauty, can do no more spoil upon my face. Thou hast me, if thou hast me, at the worst; and thou shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better; and therefore tell me, most fair Katharine, will you have me? Put off your maiden blushes; avouch the thoughts of your heart with the looks of an empress; take me by the hand, and say, Harry of England, I am thine; which word thou shalt no sooner bless mine ear withal, but I will tell thee aloud, England is thine, Ireland is thine, France is thine, and Henry Plantagenet is thine; who, though I speak it before his face, if he be not fellow with the best king, thou shalt find the best king of good fellows. Come, your answer in broken music; for thy voice is music and thy English broken; therefore, queen of all, Katharine, break thy mind to me in broken English. Wilt thou have me?

KATHARINE.

Dat is as it shall please de roi mon pere.

KING HENRY.

Nay, it will please him well, Kate; it shall please him, Kate.

KATHARINE.

Den it sall also content me.

KING HENRY.

Upon that I kiss your hand, and call you my queen.

KATHARINE.

Laissez, mon seigneur, laissez, laissez! Ma foi, je ne veux point que vous abaissez votre grandeur en baisant la main d'une indigne serviteur. Excusez-moi, je vous supplie, mon tres-puissant seigneur.

KING HENRY.

Then I will kiss your lips, Kate.

KATHARINE.

Les dames et demoiselles pour etre baisees devant leur noces, il n'est pas la coutume de France.

KING HENRY.

Madame my interpreter, what says she?

ALICE.

Dat it is not be de fashion pour les ladies of France,—I cannot tell wat is baiser en Anglish.

KING HENRY.

To kiss.

ALICE.

Your Majestee entendre bettre que moi.

KING HENRY.

It is not a fashion for the maids in France to kiss before they are married, would she say?

ALICE.

Oui, vraiment.

KING HENRY.

O Kate, nice customs curtsy to great kings. Dear Kate, you and I cannot be confined within the weak list of a country's fashion. We are the makers of manners, Kate; and the liberty that follows our places stops the mouth of all find-faults, as I will do yours, for upholding the nice fashion of your country in denying me a kiss; therefore, patiently and yielding. [Kissing her.] You have witchcraft in your lips, Kate; there is more eloquence in a sugar touch of them than in the tongues of the French council; and they should sooner persuade Harry of England than a general petition of monarchs. Here comes your father.

[Re-enter the French Power and the English Lords.]

BURGUNDY.

God save your Majesty! My royal cousin,

Teach you our princess English?

KING HENRY.

I would have her learn, my fair cousin, how perfectly I love her; and that is good English.

BURGUNDY.

Is she not apt?

KING HENRY.

Our tongue is rough, coz, and my condition is not smooth; so that, having neither the voice nor the heart of flattery about me, I cannot so conjure up the spirit of love in her, that he will appear in his true likeness.

BURGUNDY.

Pardon the frankness of my mirth, if I answer you for that. If you would conjure in her, you must make a circle; if conjure up Love in her in his true likeness, he must appear naked and blind. Can you blame her then, being a maid yet rosed over with the virgin crimson of modesty, if she deny the appearance of a naked blind boy in her naked seeing self? It were, my lord, a hard condition for a maid to consign to.

KING HENRY.

Yet they do wink and yield, as love is blind and enforces.

BURGUNDY.

They are then excused, my lord, when they see not what they do.

KING HENRY.

Then, good my lord, teach your cousin to consent winking.

BURGUNDY.

I will wink on her to consent, my lord, if you will teach her to know my meaning; for maids, well summered and warm kept, are like flies at Bartholomew-tide, blind, though they have their eyes; and then they will endure handling, which before would not abide looking on.

KING HENRY.

This moral ties me over to time and a hot summer; and so I shall catch the fly, your cousin, in the latter end, and she must be blind too.

BURGUNDY.

As love is, my lord, before it loves.

KING HENRY.

It is so; and you may, some of you, thank love for my blindness, who cannot see many a fair French city for one fair French maid that stands in my way.

FRENCH KING.

Yes, my lord, you see them perspectively, the cities turned into a maid; for they are all girdled with maiden walls that no war hath entered.

KING HENRY.

Shall Kate be my wife?

FRENCH KING.

So please you.

KING HENRY.

I am content, so the maiden cities you talk of may wait on her; so the maid that stood in the way for my wish shall show me the way to my will.

FRENCH KING.

We have consented to all terms of reason.

KING HENRY.

Is't so, my lords of England?

WESTMORELAND.

The king hath granted every article;

His daughter first, and then in sequel all,

According to their firm proposed natures.

EXETER.

Only he hath not yet subscribed this: where your Majesty demands, that the King of France, having any occasion to write for matter of grant, shall name your Highness in this form and with this addition, in French, Notre tres-cher fils Henri, Roi d'Angleterre, Heritier de France; and thus in Latin, Praeclarissimus filius noster Henricus, Rex Angliae et Haeres Franciae.

FRENCH KING.

Nor this I have not, brother, so denied

But our request shall make me let it pass.

KING HENRY.

I pray you then, in love and dear alliance,

Let that one article rank with the rest;

And thereupon give me your daughter.

FRENCH KING.

Take her, fair son, and from her blood raise up

Issue to me; that the contending kingdoms

Of France and England, whose very shores look pale

With envy of each other's happiness,

May cease their hatred; and this dear conjunction

Plant neighbourhood and Christian-like accord

In their sweet bosoms, that never war advance

His bleeding sword 'twixt England and fair France.

LORDS.

Amen!

KING HENRY.

Now, welcome, Kate; and bear me witness all,

That here I kiss her as my sovereign queen.

[Flourish]

QUEEN ISABEL.

God, the best maker of all marriages,

Combine your hearts in one, your realms in one!

As man and wife, being two, are one in love,

So be there 'twixt your kingdoms such a spousal,

That never may ill office, or fell jealousy,

Which troubles oft the bed of blessed marriage,

Thrust in between the paction of these kingdoms,

To make divorce of their incorporate league;

That English may as French, French Englishmen,

Receive each other. God speak this Amen!

ALL.

Amen!

KING HENRY.

Prepare we for our marriage; on which day,

My Lord of Burgundy, we'll take your oath,

And all the peers', for surety of our leagues,

Then shall I swear to Kate, and you to me;

And may our oaths well kept and prosperous be!

[Sennet. Exeunt.]

EPILOGUE.

[Enter Chorus.]

CHORUS.

Thus far, with rough and all-unable pen,

Our bending author hath pursued the story,

In little room confining mighty men,

Mangling by starts the full course of their glory.

Small time, but in that small most greatly lived

This star of England. Fortune made his sword,

By which the world's best garden he achieved,

And of it left his son imperial lord.

Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crowned King

Of France and England, did this king succeed;

Whose state so many had the managing,

That they lost France and made his England bleed:

Which oft our stage hath shown; and, for their sake,

In your fair minds let this acceptance take.

[Exit.]

THE END

KING HENRY VI, PART 1

List of Characters

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act I, Scene III

Act I, Scene IV

Act I, Scene V

Act I, Scene VI

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act II, Scene III

Act II, Scene IV

Act II, Scene V

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act III, Scene III

Act III, Scene IV

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act IV, Scene III

Act IV, Scene IV

Act IV, Scene V

Act IV, Scene VI

Act IV, Scene VII

Act V, Scene I

Act V, Scene II

Act V, Scene III

Act V, Scene IV

Act V, Scene V

List of Characters

KING HENRY the Sixth

DUKE OF GLOUCESTER: uncle to the King, and Protector

DUKE OF BEDFORD: uncle to the King, and Regent of France

THOMAS BEAUFORT: Duke of Exeter, great-uncle to the King

HENRY BEAUFORT: great-uncle to the King, Bishop of Winchester, and afterwards Cardinal

JOHN BEAUFORT: Earl, afterwards Duke, of Somerset

RICHARD PLANTAGENET: son of Richard, late Earl of Cambridge, afterwards Duke of York

EARL OF WARWICK

EARL OF SALISBURY

EARL OF SUFFOLK

LORD TALBOT, afterwards Earl of Shrewbury

JOHN TALBOT: his son

EDMUND MORTIMER: Earl of March

SIR JOHN FASTOLFE

SIR WILLIAM LUCY

SIR WILLIAM GLANSDALE

SIR THOMAS GARGRAVE

Mayor of London

WOODVILE: Lieutenant of the Tower

VERNON: of the White-Rose or York faction

BASSET: of the Red-Rose or Lancaster faction

A Lawyer, Mortimer's Keepers

CHARLES: Dauphin, and afterwards King, of France

REIGNIER: Duke of Anjou, and titular King of Naples

DUKE OF BURGUNDY

DUKE OF ALENCON

BASTARD OF ORLEANS

Governor of Paris

Master-Gunner of Orleans and his Son

General of the French forces in Bordeaux

A French Sergeant A Porter

An old Shepherd: father to Joan la Pucelle

MARGARET: daughter to Reignier, afterwards married to King Henry

COUNTESS OF AUVERGNE

JOAN LA PUCELLE: Commonly called Joan of Arc

Lords, Warders of the Tower, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and Attendants

Fiends appearing to La Pucelle

SCENE: Partly in England, and partly in France

ACT I. SCENE I.

Westminster Abbey.

[Dead March. Enter the funeral of King Henry the Fifth, attended on by the Duke of Bedford, Regent of France; the Duke of Gloucester, Protector; the Duke of Exeter, the Earl of Warwick, the Bishop of Winchester, Heralds, &c.]

BEDFORD.

Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night!

Comets, importing change of times and states,

Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky,

And with them scourge the bad revolting stars

That have consented unto Henry's death!

King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long!

England ne'er lost a king of so much worth.

GLOUCESTER.

England ne'er had a king until his time.

Virtue he had, deserving to command:

His brandished sword did blind men with his beams:

His arms spread wider than a dragon's wings;

His sparkling eyes, replete with wrathful fire,

More dazzled and drove back his enemies

Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces.

What should I say? his deeds exceed all speech:

He ne'er lift up his hand but conquered.

EXETER.

We mourn in black: why mourn we not in blood?

Henry is dead and never shall revive:

Upon a wooden coffin we attend,

And death's dishonourable victory

We with our stately presence glorify,

Like captives bound to a triumphant car.

What! shall we curse the planets of mishap

That plotted thus our glory's overthrow?

Or shall we think the subtle-witted French

Conjurers and sorcerers, that afraid of him

By magic verses have contrived his end?

WINCHESTER.

He was a king blessed of the King of kings;

Unto the French the dreadful judgment-day

So dreadful will not be as was his sight.

The battles of the Lord of hosts he fought:

The Church's prayers made him so prosperous.

GLOUCESTER.

The church! where is it? Had not churchmen prayed,

His thread of life had not so soon decayed:

None do you like but an effeminate prince,

Whom, like a school-boy, you may over-awe.

WINCHESTER.

Gloucester, whate'er we like, thou art Protector,

And lookest to command the Prince and realm.

Thy wife is proud; she holdeth thee in awe,

More than God or religious churchmen may.

GLOUCESTER.

Name not religion, for thou lov'st the flesh,

And ne'er throughout the year to church thou go'st,

Except it be to pray against thy foes.

BEDFORD.

Cease, cease these jars and rest your minds in peace:

Let's to the altar: heralds, wait on us:

Instead of gold, we'll offer up our arms;

Since arms avail not, now that Henry's dead.

Posterity, await for wretched years,

When at their mothers' moist eyes babes shall suck,

Our isle be made a marish of salt tears,

And none but women left to wail the dead.

Henry the Fifth, thy ghost I invocate:

Prosper this realm, keep it from civil broils,

Combat with adverse planets in the heavens!

A far more glorious star thy soul will make

Than Julius Caesar or bright—

[Enter a Messenger.]

MESSENGER.

My honourable lords, health to you all!

Sad tidings bring I to you out of France,

Of loss, of slaughter, and discomfiture:

Guienne, Champagne, Rheims, Orleans,

Paris, Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost.

BEDFORD.

What say'st thou, man, before dead Henry's corse?

Speak softly; or the loss of those great towns

Will make him burst his lead and rise from death.

GLOUCESTER.

Is Paris lost? Is Rouen yielded up

If Henry were recalled to life again,

These news would cause him once more yield the ghost.

EXETER.

How were they lost? What treachery was used?

MESSENGER.

No treachery; but want of men and money.

Amongst the soldiers this is muttered,

That here you maintain several factions,

And whilst a field should be dispatched and fought,

You are disputing of your generals:

One would have lingering wars with little cost;

Another would fly swift, but wanteth wings;

A third thinks, without expense at all,

By guileful fair words peace may be obtained.

Awake, awake, English nobility!

Let not sloth dim your honours new-begot:

Cropped are the flower-de-luces in your arms;

Of England's coat one half is cut away.

EXETER.

Were our tears wanting to this funeral,

These tidings would call forth their flowing tides.

BEDFORD.

Me they concern; Regent I am of France.

Give me my steeled coat. I'll fight for France.

Away with these disgraceful wailing robes!

Wounds will I lend the French instead of eyes,

To weep their intermissive miseries.

[Enter to them another Messenger.]

2 MESSENGER.

Lords, view these letters full of bad mischance.

France is revolted from the English quite,

Except some petty towns of no import:

The Dauphin Charles is crowned king in Rheims;

The Bastard of Orleans with him is joined;

Reignier, Duke of Anjou, doth take his part;

The Duke of Alencon flieth to his side.

EXETER.

The Dauphin crowned king! all fly to him!

O, whither shall we fly from this reproach?

GLOUCESTER.

We will not fly, but to our enemies' throats.

Bedford, if thou be slack, I'll fight it out.

BEDFORD.

Gloucester, why doubt'st thou of my forwardness?

An army have I mustered in my thoughts,

Wherewith already France is overrun.

[Enter another Messenger.]

3 MESSENGER.

My gracious lords, to add to your laments,

Wherewith you now bedew King Henry's hearse,

I must inform you of a dismal fight

Betwixt the stout Lord Talbot and the French.

WINCHESTER.

What! wherein Talbot overcame? is't so?

3 MESSENGER.

O, no; wherein Lord Talbot was o'erthrown:

The circumstance I'll tell you more at large.

The tenth of August last this dreadful lord,

Retiring from the siege of Orleans,

Having full scarce six thousand in his troop,

By three and twenty thousand of the French

Was round encompassed and set upon.

No leisure had he to enrank his men;

He wanted pikes to set before his archers;

Instead whereof sharp stakes plucked out of hedges

They pitched in the ground confusedly,

To keep the horsemen off from breaking in.

More than three hours the fight continued;

Where valiant Talbot above human thought

Enacted wonders with his sword and lance:

Hundreds he sent to hell, and none durst stand him;

Here, there, and every where, enraged he slew:

The French exclaimed, the devil was in arms;

All the whole army stood agazed on him.

His soldiers spying his undaunted spirit

A Talbot! a Talbot! cried out amain,

And rushed into the bowels of the battle.

Here had the conquest fully been sealed up,

If Sir John Fastolfe had not played the coward.

He, being in the vaward, placed behind

With purpose to relieve and follow them,

Cowardly fled, not having struck one stroke.

Hence grew the general wreck and massacre;

Enclosed were they with their enemies:

A base Walloon, to win the Dauphin's grace,

Thrust Talbot with a spear into the back;

Whom all France with their chief assembled strength

Durst not presume to look once in the face.

BEDFORD.

Is Talbot slain? then I will slay myself,

For living idly here in pomp and ease,

Whilst such a worthy leader, wanting aid,

Unto his dastard foemen is betrayed.

3 MESSENGER.

O no, he lives; but is took prisoner,

And Lord Scales with him, and Lord Hungerford:

Most of the rest slaughtered or took likewise.

BEDFORD.

His ransom there is none but I shall pay:

I'll hale the Dauphin headlong from his throne:

His crown shall be the ransom of my friend;

Four of their lords I'll change for one of ours.

Farewell, my masters; to my task will I;

Bonfires in France forthwith I am to make

To keep our great Saint George's feast withal:

Ten thousand soldiers with me I will take,

Whose bloody deeds shall make an Europe quake.

3 MESSENGER.

So you had need; for Orleans is besieged;

The English army is grown weak and faint:

The Earl of Salisbury craveth supply,

And hardly keeps his men from mutiny,

Since they, so few, watch such a multitude.

EXETER.

Remember, lords, your oaths to Henry sworn,

Either to quell the Dauphin utterly,

Or bring him in obedience to your yoke.

BEDFORD.

I do remember it, and here take my leave

To go about my preparation.

[Exit.]

GLOUCESTER.

I'll to the Tower with all the haste I can,

To view the artillery and munition;

And then I will proclaim young Henry king.

[Exit.]

EXETER.

To Eltham will I, where the young King is,

Being ordained his special governor;

And for his safety there I'll best devise.

[Exit.]

WINCHESTER.

Each hath his place and function to attend:

I am left out; for me nothing remains.

But long I will not be Jack out of office:

The King from Eltham I intend to steal,

And sit at chiefest stern of public weal.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

France. Before Orleans

[Sound a Flourish. Enter Charles, Alencon, and Reignier, marching with Drum and Soldiers.]

CHARLES.

Mars his true moving, even as in the heavens

So in the earth, to this day is not known:

Late did he shine upon the English side;

Now we are victors; upon us he smiles.

What towns of any moment but we have?

At pleasure here we lie near Orleans;

Otherwhiles the famished English, like pale ghosts,

Faintly besiege us one hour in a month.

ALENCON.

They want their porridge and their fat bull beeves

Either they must be dieted like mules,

And have their provender tied to their mouths,

Or piteous they will look, like drowned mice.

REIGNIER.

Let's raise the siege: why live we idly here?

Talbot is taken, whom we wont to fear:

Remaineth none but mad-brained Salisbury;

And he may well in fretting spend his gall,

Nor men nor money hath he to make war.

CHARLES.

Sound, sound alarum! we will rush on them.

Now for the honour of the forlorn French!

Him I forgive my death that killeth me

When he sees me go back one foot or flee.

[Exeunt.]

Here alarum; they are beaten back by the English, with

great loss. Re-enter Charles, Alencon, and Reignier.

CHARLES.

Who ever saw the like? what men have I!

Dogs! cowards! dastards! I would ne'er have fled,

But that they left me 'midst my enemies.

REIGNIER.

Salisbury is a desperate homicide;

He fighteth as one weary of his life.

The other lords, like lions wanting food,

Do rush upon us as their hungry prey.

ALENCON.

Froissart, a countryman of ours, records,

England all Olivers and Rowlands bred

During the time Edward the Third did reign.

More truly now may this be verified;

For none but Samsons and Goliases

It sendeth forth to skirmish. One to ten!

Lean raw-boned rascals! who would e'er suppose

They had such courage and audacity?

CHARLES.

Let's leave this town; for they are hare-brained slaves,

And hunger will enforce them to be more eager:

Of old I know them; rather with their teeth

The walls they'll tear down than forsake the siege.

REIGNIER.

I think by some odd gimmors or device

Their arms are set like clocks, still to strike on;

Else ne'er could they hold out so as they do.

By my consent, we'll even let them alone.

ALENCON.

Be it so.

[Enter the Bastard of Orleans.]

BASTARD.

Where's the Prince Dauphin? I have news for him.

CHARLES.

Bastard of Orleans, thrice welcome to us.

BASTARD.

Methinks your looks are sad, your cheer appalled:

Hath the late overthrow wrought this offence?

Be not dismayed, for succour is at hand:

A holy maid hither with me I bring,

Which by a vision sent to her from heaven

Ordained is to raise this tedious siege,

And drive the English forth the bounds of France.

The spirit of deep prophecy she hath,

Exceeding the nine sibyls of old Rome:

What's past and what's to come she can descry.

Speak, shall I call her in? Believe my words,

For they are certain and unfallible.

CHARLES.

Go, call her in. [Exit Bastard.]

But first, to try her skill,

Reignier, stand thou as Dauphin in my place;

Question her proudly; let thy looks be stern:

By this means shall we sound what skill she hath.

[Re-enter the Bastard of Orleans, with Joan La Pucelle.]

REIGNIER.

Fair maid, is 't thou wilt do these wondrous feats?

PUCELLE.

Reignier is 't thou that thinkest to beguile me?

Where is the Dauphin? Come, come from behind;

I know thee well, though never seen before.

Be not amazed, there's nothing hid from me.

In private will I talk with thee apart.

Stand back, you lords, and give us leave awhile.

REIGNIER.

She takes upon her bravely at first dash.

PUCELLE.

Dauphin, I am by birth a shepherd's daughter,

My wit untrained in any kind of art.

Heaven and our Lady gracious hath it pleased

To shine on my contemptible estate:

Lo, whilst I waited on my tender lambs

And to sun's parching heat displayed my cheeks,

God's mother deigned to appear to me,

And in a vision full of majesty

Willed me to leave my base vocation,

And free my country from calamity:

Her aid she promised and assured success:

In complete glory she revealed herself;

And, whereas I was black and swart before,

With those clear rays which she infused on me

That beauty am I blessed with which you may see.

Ask me what question thou canst possible,

And I will answer unpremeditated:

My courage try by combat, if thou dar'st,

And thou shalt find that I exceed my sex.

Resolve on this, thou shalt be fortunate,

If thou receive me for thy warlike mate.

CHARLES.

Thou hast astonished me with thy high terms;

Only this proof I 'll of thy valour make,

In single combat thou shalt buckle with me,

And if thou vanquishest, thy words are true;

Otherwise I renounce all confidence.

PUCELLE.

I am prepared: here is my keen-edged sword,

Decked with five flower-de-luces on each side,

The which at Touraine, in Saint Katharine's church-yard,

Out of a great deal of old iron I chose forth.

CHARLES.

Then come, o' God's name; I fear no woman.

PUCELLE.

And while I live, I 'll ne'er fly from a man.

[Here they fight, and Joan La Pucelle overcomes.]

CHARLES.

Stay, stay thy hands; thou art an Amazon,

And fightest with the sword of Deborah.

PUCELLE.

Christ's Mother helps me, else I were too weak.

CHARLES.

Whoe'er helps thee, 'tis thou that must help me:

Impatiently I burn with thy desire;

My heart and hands thou hast at once subdued.

Excellent Pucelle, if thy name be so,

Let me thy servant and not sovereign be:

'Tis the French Dauphin sueth to thee thus.

PUCELLE.

I must not yield to any rites of love,

For my profession's sacred from above:

When I have chased all thy foes from hence,

Then will I think upon a recompense.

CHARLES.

Meantime look gracious on thy prostrate thrall.

REIGNIER.

My lord, methinks, is very long in talk.

ALENCON.

Doubtless he shrives this woman to her smock;

Else ne'er could he so long protract his speech.

REIGNIER.

Shall we disturb him, since he keeps no mean?

ALENCON.

He may mean more than we poor men do know:

These women are shrewd tempters with their tongues.

REIGNIER.

My lord, where are you? what devise you on?

Shall we give over Orleans, or no?

PUCELLE.

Why, no, I say; distrustful recreants!

Fight till the last gasp; I will be your guard.

CHARLES.

What she says I'll confirm: we'll fight it out:

PUCELLE.

Assigned am I to be the English scourge.

This night the siege assuredly I 'll raise:

Expect Saint Martin's summer, halcyon days,

Since I have entered into these wars.

Glory is like a circle in the water,

Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself

Till by broad spreading it disperse to nought.

With Henry's death the English circle ends;

Dispersed are the glories it included.

Now am I like that proud insulting ship

Which Caesar and his fortune bare at once.

CHARLES.

Was Mahomet inspired with a dove?

Thou with an eagle art inspired then.

Helen, the mother of great Constantine,

Nor yet Saint Philip's daughters, were like thee.

Bright star of Venus, fall'n down on the earth,

How may I reverently worship thee enough?

ALENCON.

Leave off delays, and let us raise the siege.

REIGNIER.

Woman, do what thou canst to save our honors;

Drive them from Orleans and be immortalized.

CHARLES.

Presently we 'll try: come, let's away about it:

No prophet will I trust, if she prove false.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE III.

London. Before the Tower.

[Enter the Duke of Gloucester, with his Serving-men in blue coats.]

GLOUCESTER.

I am come to survey the Tower this day:

Since Henry's death, I fear, there is conveyance.

Where be these warders that they wait not here?

Open the gates; 'tis Gloucester that calls.

FIRST WARDER.

[Within]

Who's there that knocks so imperiously?

FIRST SERVING-MAN.

It is the noble Duke of Gloucester.

SECOND WARDER.

[Within]

Whoe'er he be, you may not be let in.

FIRST SERVING-MAN.

Villains, answer you so the lord protector?

FIRST WARDER.

[Within]

The Lord protect him! so we answer him:

We do no otherwise than we are willed.

GLOUCESTER.

Who willed you? or whose will stands but mine?

There's none protector of the realm but I.

Break up the gates, I 'll be your warrantize:

Shall I be flouted thus by dunghill grooms?

[Gloucester's men rush at the Tower Gates, and Woodvile the Lieutenant speaks within.]

WOODVILE.

What noise is this? what traitors have we here?

GLOUCESTER.

Lieutenant, is it you whose voice I hear?

Open the gates; here's Gloucester that would enter.

WOODVILE.

Have patience, noble duke; I may not open;

The Cardinal of Winchester forbids:

From him I have express commandment

That thou nor none of thine shall be let in.

GLOUCESTER.

Faint-hearted Woodvile, prizest him 'fore me?

Arrogant Winchester, that haughty prelate

Whom Henry, our late sovereign, ne'er could brook?

Thou art no friend to God or to the King.

Open the gates, or I 'll shut thee out shortly.

SERVING-MEN.

Open the gates unto the lord protector,

Or we 'll burst them open, if that you come not quickly.

[Enter to the Protector at the Tower Gates Winchester and his men in tawny coats.]

WINCHESTER.

How now, ambitious Humphry! what means this?

GLOUCESTER.

Peeled priest, dost thou command me to be shut out?

WINCHESTER.

I do, thou most usurping proditor,

And not protector, of the king or realm.

GLOUCESTER.

Stand back, thou manifest conspirator,

Thou that contrivedst to murder our dead lord;

Thou that givest whores indulgences to sin:

I 'll canvass thee in thy broad cardinal's hat,

If thou proceed in this thy insolence.

WINCHESTER.

Nay, stand thou back; I will not budge a foot:

This be Damascus, be thou cursed Cain,

To slay thy brother Abel, if thou wilt.

GLOUCESTER.

I will not slay thee, but I 'll drive thee back:

Thy scarlet robes as a child's bearing-cloth

I 'll use to carry thee out of this place.

WINCHESTER.

Do what thou darest; I beard thee to thy face.

GLOUCESTER.

What! am I dared and bearded to my face?

Draw, men, for all this privileged place;

Blue coats to tawny coats. Priest, beware your beard;

I mean to tug it and to cuff you soundly:

Under my feet I stamp thy cardinal's hat:

In spite of pope or dignities of church,

Here by the cheeks I 'll drag thee up and down.

WINCHESTER.

Gloucester, thou wilt answer this before the pope.

GLOUCESTER.

Winchester goose, I cry, a rope! a rope!

Now beat them hence; why do you let them stay?

Thee I 'll chase hence, thou wolf in sheep's array.

Out, tawny coats! out, scarlet hypocrite!

[Here Gloucester's men beat out the Cardinal's men, and enter in the hurly-burly the Mayor of London and his Officers.]

MAYOR.

Fie, lords! that you, being supreme magistrates,

Thus contumeliously should break the peace!

GLOUCESTER.

Peace, mayor! thou know'st little of my wrongs:

Here's Beaufort, that regards nor God nor king,

Hath here distrained the Tower to his use.

WINCHESTER.

Here's Gloucester, a foe to citizens,

One that still motions war and never peace,

O'ercharging your free purses with large fines,

That seeks to overthrow religion,

Because he is protector of the realm,

And would have armour here out of the Tower,

To crown himself king and suppress the prince.

GLOUCESTER.

I will not answer thee with words, but blows.

[Here they skirmish again.]

MAYOR.

Nought rests for me in this tumultuous strife

But to make open proclamation:

Come, officer; as loud as e'er thou canst:

[The Officer gives the cry.]

OFFICER.

All manner of men assembled here in arms this day against God's peace and the king's, we charge and command you, in his highness' name, to repair to your several dwelling-places; and not to wear, handle, or use any sword, weapon, or dagger, henceforward, upon pain of death.

GLOUCESTER.

Cardinal, I 'll be no breaker of the law;

But we shall meet, and break our minds at large.

WINCHESTER.

Gloucester, we will meet; to thy cost, be sure;

Thy heart-blood I will have for this day's work.

MAYOR.

I 'll call for clubs, if you will not away.

[To the audience.]

This Cardinal's more haughty than the devil.

GLOUCESTER.

Mayor, farewell: thou dost but what thou mayst.

WINCHESTER.

Abominable Gloucester, guard thy head;

For I intend to have it ere long.

[Exeunt, severally, Gloucester and Winchester with their Serving-men.]

MAYOR.

See the coast cleared, and then we will depart.

Good God, these nobles should such stomachs bear!

I myself fight not once in forty year.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE IV.

Orleans.

[Enter, on the walls, a Master Gunner and his Boy.]

MASTER GUNNER.

Sirrah, thou know'st how Orleans is besieged,

And how the English have the suburbs won.

BOY.

Father, I know; and oft have shot at them,

Howe'er unfortunate I missed my aim.

MASTER GUNNER.

But now thou shalt not. Be thou ruled by me:

Chief master-gunner am I of this town;

Something I must do to procure me grace.

The prince's espials have informed me

How the English, in the suburbs close intrenched,

Wont through a secret grate of iron bars

In yonder tower to overpeer the city,

And thence discover how with most advantage

They may vex us with shot or with assault.

To intercept this inconvenience,

A piece of ordnance 'gainst it I have placed;

And even these three days have I watched,

If I could see them.

Now do thou watch, for I can stay no longer.

If thou spy'st any, run and bring me word;

And thou shalt find me at the governor's.

[Exit.]

BOY.

Father, I warrant you; take you no care;

I'll never trouble you, if I may spy them.

[Exit.]

[Enter, on the turrets, the Lords Salisbury and Talbot, Sir William Glansdale, Sir Thomas Gargrave, and others.]

SALISBURY.

Talbot, my life, my joy, again returned!

How wert thou handled being prisoner?

Or by what means got'st thou to be released?

Discourse, I prithee, on this turret's top.

TALBOT.

The Duke of Bedford had a prisoner

Called the brave Lord Ponton de Santrailles;

For him was I exchanged and ransomed.

But with a baser man of arms by far

Once in contempt they would have bartered me:

Which I disdaining scorned, and craved death

Rather than I would be so vile-esteemed.

In fine, redeemed I was as I desired.

But, O! the treacherous Fastolfe wounds my heart,

Whom with my bare fists I would execute,

If I now had him brought into my power.

SALISBURY.

Yet tell'st thou not how thou wert entertained.

TALBOT.

With scoffs and scorns and contumelious taunts.

In open market-place produced they me,

To be a public spectacle to all:

Here, said they, is the terror of the French,

The scarecrow that affrights our children so.

Then broke I from the officers that led me,

And with my nails digged stones out of the ground

To hurl at the beholders of my shame;

My grisly countenance made others fly;

None durst come near for fear of sudden death.

In iron walls they deemed me not secure;

So great fear of my name 'mongst them was spread

That they supposed I could rend bars of steel,

And spurn in pieces posts of adamant:

Wherefore a guard of chosen shot I had,

That walked about me every minute while;

And if I did but stir out of my bed,

Ready they were to shoot me to the heart.

[Enter the Boy with a linstock lit and burning, and passes over the stage.]

SALISBURY.

I grieve to hear what torments you endured,

But we will be revenged sufficiently.

Now it is supper-time in Orleans:

Here, through this grate, I count each one,

And view the Frenchmen how they fortify:

Let us look in; the sight will much delight thee.

Sir Thomas Gargrave and Sir William Glansdale,

Let me have your express opinions

Where is best place to make our battery next.

GARGRAVE.

I think, at the north gate; for there stand lords.

GLANSDALE.

And I, here, at the bulwark of the bridge.

TALBOT.

For aught I see, this city must be famished,

Or with light skirmishes enfeebled.

[Here they shoot from offstage. Salisbury and Gargrave fall.]

SALISBURY.

O Lord, have mercy on us, wretched sinners!

GARGRAVE.

O Lord, have mercy on me, woful man!

TALBOT.

What chance is this that suddenly hath crossed us?

Speak, Salisbury: at least, if thou canst speak:

How farest thou, mirror of all martial men?

One of thy eyes and thy cheek's side struck off!

Accursed tower! accursed fatal hand

That hath contrived this woful tragedy!

In thirteen battles Salisbury o'ercame;

Henry the Fifth he first trained to the wars;

Whilst any trump did sound, or drum struck up,

His sword did ne'er leave striking in the field.

Yet liv'st thou, Salisbury? though thy speech doth fail,

One eye thou hast, to look to heaven for grace:

The sun with one eye vieweth all the world.

Heaven, be thou gracious to none alive,

If Salisbury wants mercy at thy hands!

Bear hence his body; I will help to bury it,

Sir Thomas Gargrave, hast thou any life?

Speak unto Talbot; nay, look up to him.

Salisbury, cheer thy spirit with this comfort,

Thou shalt not die whiles—

He beckons with his hand and smiles on me,

As who should say 'When I am dead and gone,

Remember to avenge me on the French.'

Plantagenet, I will; and like thee, Nero,

Play on the lute, beholding the towns burn;

Wretched shall France be only in thy name.

[Here an alarum, and it thunders and lightens. ]

What stir is this? what tumult's in the heavens?

Whence cometh this alarum and the noise?

[Enter a Messenger.]

MESSENGER.

My lord, my lord, the French have gathered head:

The Dauphin, with one Joan la Pucelle joined,

A holy prophetess new risen up,

Is come with a great power to raise the siege.

[Here SALISBURY lifteth himself up and groans.]

TALBOT.

Hear, hear how dying Salisbury doth groan!

It irks his heart he cannot be revenged.

Frenchmen, I 'll be a Salisbury to you:

Pucelle or puzzel, dolphin or dogfish,

Your hearts I 'll stamp out with my horse's heels,

And make a quagmire of your mingled brains.

Convey me Salisbury into his tent,

And then we 'll try what these dastard Frenchmen dare.

[Alarum. Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE V.

The same.

[Here an alarum again: and Talbot pursueth the Dauphin, and driveth him: then enter Joan La Pucelle, driving Englishmen before her, and exit after them: then re-enter Talbot.]

TALBOT.

Where is my strength, my valor, and my force?

Our English troops retire, I cannot stay them:

A woman clad in armour chaseth them.

[Re-enter La Pucelle.]

Here, here she comes. I 'll have a bout with thee;

Devil or devil's dam, I 'll conjure thee:

Blood will I draw on thee, thou art a witch,

And straightway give thy soul to him thou servest.

PUCELLE.

Come, come, 'tis only I that must disgrace thee.

[Here they fight.]

TALBOT.

Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail?

My breast I 'll burst with straining of my courage,

And from my shoulders crack my arms asunder,

But I will chastise this high-minded strumpet.

[They fight again.]

PUCELLE.

Talbot, farewell; thy hour is not yet come:

I must go victual Orleans forthwith.

[A short alarum: then Charles passes over the stage and enter the town with soldiers.]

O'ertake me, if thou canst; I scorn thy strength.

Go, go, cheer up thy hungry-starved men;

Help Salisbury to make his testament:

This day is ours, as many more shall be.

[Exit.]

TALBOT.

My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel;

I know not where I am, nor what I do;

A witch, by fear, not force, like Hannibal,

Drives back our troops and conquers as she lists.

So bees with smoke and doves with noisome stench

Are from their hives and houses driven away.

They called us for our fierceness English dogs;

Now, like to whelps, we crying run away.

[A short alarum.]

Hark, countrymen! either renew the fight,

Or tear the lions out of England's coat;

Renounce your soil, give sheep in lions' stead:

Sheep run not half so treacherous from the wolf,

Or horse or oxen from the leopard,

As you fly from your oft-subdued slaves.

[Alarum. Here another skirmish in which the English attempt to enter Orleans.]

It will not be: retire into your trenches:

You all consented unto Salisbury's death,

For none would strike a stroke in his revenge.

Pucelle is ent'red into Orleans,

In spite of us or aught that we could do.

O, would I were to die with Salisbury!

The shame hereof will make me hide my head.

[Exit Talbot. Alarum; The English sound a retreat and exeunt. The French sound a flourish.]

ACT I. SCENE VI.

The Same.

[Enter, on the walls, La Pucelle, Charles, Reignier, Alencon, and Soldiers.]

PUCELLE.

Advance our waving colours on the walls;

Rescued is Orleans from the English:

Thus Joan la Pucelle hath performed her word.

CHARLES.

Divinest creature, Astraea's daughter,

How shall I honour thee for this success?

Thy promises are like Adonis' gardens

That one day bloomed and fruitful were the next.

France, triumph in thy glorious prophetess!

Recovered is the town of Orleans.

More blessed hap did ne'er befall our state.

REIGNIER.

Why ring not out the bells aloud throughout the town?

Dauphin, command the citizens make bonfires

And feast and banquet in the open streets,

To celebrate the joy that God hath given us.

ALENCON.

All France will be replete with mirth and joy,

When they shall hear how we have played the men.

CHARLES.

'Tis Joan, not we, by whom the day is won;

For which I will divide my crown with her;

And all the priests and friars in my realm

Shall in procession sing her endless praise.

A statelier pyramis to her I 'll rear

Than Rhodope's of Memphis ever was;

In memory of her when she is dead,

Her ashes, in an urn more precious

Than the rich-jeweled coffer of Darius,

Transported shall be at high festivals

Before the kings and queens of France.

No longer on Saint Denis will we cry,

But Joan la Pucelle shall be France's saint.

Come in, and let us banquet royally

After this golden day of victory.

[Flourish. Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

Before Orleans.

[Enter on the walls a French Sergeant of a band, with two Sentinels.]

SERGEANT.

Sirs, take your places and be vigilant:

If any noise or soldier you perceive

Near to the walls, by some apparent sign

Let us have knowledge at the court of guard.

FIRST SENTINEL.

Sergeant, you shall. [Exit Sergeant.]

Thus are poor servitors,

When others sleep upon their quiet beds,

Constrained to watch in darkness, rain and cold.

[Enter Talbot, Bedford, Burgundy, and forces, with scaling-ladders, their drums beating a dead march.]

TALBOT.

Lord Regent, and redoubted Burgundy,

By whose approach the regions of Artois,

Wallon and Picardy are friends to us,

This happy night the Frenchmen are secure,

Having all day caroused and banqueted:

Embrace we then this opportunity,

As fitting best to quittance their deceit

Contrived by art and baleful sorcery.

BEDFORD.

Coward of France, how much he wrongs his fame,

Despairing of his own arm's fortitude,

To join with witches and the help of hell!

BURGUNDY.

Traitors have never other company.

But what 's that Pucelle whom they term so pure?

TALBOT.

A maid, they say.

BEDFORD.

A maid! and be so martial!

BURGUNDY.

Pray God she prove not masculine ere long,

If underneath the standard of the French

She carry armour as she hath begun.

TALBOT.

Well, let them practice and converse with spirits:

God is our fortress, in whose conquering name

Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks.

BEDFORD.

Ascend, brave Talbot; we will follow thee.

TALBOT.

Not all together: better far, I guess,

That we do make our entrance several ways;

That, if it chance the one of us do fail,

The other yet may rise against their force.

BEDFORD.

Agreed: I 'll to yond corner.

BURGUNDY.

And I to this.

TALBOT.

And here will Talbot mount, or make his grave.

Now, Salisbury, for thee, and for the right

Of English Henry, shall this night appear

How much in duty I am bound to both.

[The English cry: 'St George,' 'A Talbot.' as the enter Orleans.]

SENTINEL.

Arm! arm! the enemy doth make assault!

[The French leap over the walls in their shirts. Enter, several ways, the Bastard of Orleans, Alencon, and Reignier, half ready, and half unready.]

ALENCON.

How now, my lords! what, all unready so?

BASTARD.

Unready! aye, and glad we 'scaped so well.

REIGNIER.

'Twas time, I trow, to wake and leave our beds,

Hearing alarums at our chamber-doors.

ALENCON.

Of all exploits since first I followed arms,

Ne'er heard I of a warlike enterprise

More venturous or desperate than this.

BASTARD.

I think this Talbot be a fiend of hell.

REIGNIER.

If not of hell, the heavens, sure, favor him.

ALENCON.

Here cometh Charles: I marvel how he sped.

[Enter Charles and La Pucelle.]

BASTARD.

Tut, holy Joan was his defensive guard.

CHARLES.

Is this thy cunning, thou deceitful dame?

Didst thou at first, to flatter us withal,

Make us partakers of a little gain,

That now our loss might be ten times so much?

PUCELLE.

Wherefore is Charles impatient with his friend?

At all times will you have my power alike?

Sleeping or waking must I still prevail,

Or will you blame and lay the fault on me?

Improvident soldiers! had your watch been good,

This sudden mischief never could have fall'n.

CHARLES.

Duke of Alencon, this was your default,

That, being captain of the watch to-night,

Did look no better to that weighty charge.

ALENCON.

Had all your quarters been as safely kept

As that whereof I had the government,

We had not been thus shamefully surprised.

BASTARD.

Mine was secure.

REIGNIER.

And so was mine, my lord.

CHARLES.

And, for myself, most part of all this night,

Within her quarter and mine own precinct

I was employed in passing to and fro,

About relieving of the sentinels:

Then how or which way should they first break in?

PUCELLE.

Question, my lords, no further of the case,

How or which way: 'tis sure they found some place

But weakly guarded, where the breach was made.

And now there rests no other shift but this;

To gather our soldiers, scattered and dispersed,

And lay new platforms to endamage them.

[Alarum. Enter an English Soldier, crying 'A Talbot! a Talbot!' They fly, leaving their clothes behind.]

SOLDIER.

I 'll be so bold to take what they have left.

The cry of Talbot serves me for a sword;

For I have loaden me with many spoils,

Using no other weapon but his name.

[Exit.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

Orleans. Within the town.

[Enter Talbot, Bedford, Burgundy, a Captain, and others.]

BEDFORD.

The day begins to break, and night is fled,

Whose pitchy mantle over-veiled the earth.

Here sound retreat, and cease our hot pursuit.

[Retreat sounded.]

TALBOT.

Bring forth the body of old Salisbury,

And here advance it in the market-place,

The middle centre of this cursed town.

Now have I paid my vow unto his soul;

For every drop of blood was drawn from him

There hath at least five Frenchmen died to-night.

And that hereafter ages may behold

What ruin happened in revenge of him,

Within their chiefest temple I 'll erect

A tomb, wherein his corpse shall be interred;

Upon the which, that every one may read,

Shall be engraved the sack of Orleans,

The treacherous manner of his mournful death

And what a terror he had been to France.

But, lords, in all our bloody massacre,

I muse we met not with the Dauphin's grace,

His new-come champion, virtuous Joan of Arc,

Nor any of his false confederates.

BEDFORD.

'Tis thought, Lord Talbot, when the fight began,

Roused on the sudden from their drowsy beds,

They did amongst the troops of armed men

Leap o'er the walls for refuge in the field.

BURGUNDY.

Myself, as far as I could well discern

For smoke and dusky vapors of the night,

Am sure I scared the Dauphin and his trull,

When arm in arm they both came swiftly running,

Like to a pair of loving turtle-doves

That could not live asunder day or night.

After that things are set in order here,

We'll follow them with all the power we have.

[Enter a Messenger.]

MESSENGER.

All hail, my lords! Which of this princely train

Call ye the warlike Talbot, for his acts

So much applauded through the realm of France?

TALBOT.

Here is the Talbot: who would speak with him?

MESSENGER.

The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne,

With modesty admiring thy renown,

By me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe

To visit her poor castle where she lies,

That she may boast she hath beheld the man

Whose glory fills the world with loud report.

BURGUNDY.

Is it even so? Nay, then I see our wars

Will turn into a peaceful comic sport,

When ladies crave to be encount'red with.

You may not, my lord, despise her gentle suit.

TALBOT.

Ne'er trust me then; for when a world of men

Could not prevail with all their oratory,

Yet hath a woman's kindness over-ruled:

And therefore tell her I return great thanks,

And in submission will attend on her.

Will not your honors bear me company?

BEDFORD.

No, truly; it is more than manners will:

And I have heard it said, unbidden guests

Are often welcomest when they are gone.

TALBOT.

Well then, alone, since there 's no remedy,

I mean to prove this lady's courtesy.

Come hither, Captain. [Whispers] You perceive my mind?

CAPTAIN.

I do, my lord, and mean accordingly.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE III.

Auvergne. The Countess's castle.

[Enter the Countess and her Porter.]

COUNTESS.

Porter, remember what I gave in charge;

And when you have done so, bring the keys to me.

PORTER.

Madam, I will.

[Exit.]

COUNTESS.

The plot is laid: if all things fall out right,

I shall as famous be by this exploit

As Scythian Tomyris by Cyrus' death.

Great is the rumor of this dreadful knight,

And his achievements of no less account:

Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears,

To give their censure of these rare reports.

[Enter Messenger and Talbot.]

MESSENGER.

Madam, according as your ladyship desired,

By message craved, so is Lord Talbot come.

COUNTESS.

And he is welcome. What! is this the man?

MESSENGER.

Madam, it is.

COUNTESS.

Is this the scourge of France?

Is this the Talbot, so much feared abroad

That with his name the mothers still their babes?

I see report is fabulous and false:

I thought I should have seen some Hercules,

A second Hector, for his grim aspect,

And large proportion of his strong-knit limbs.

Alas, this is a child, a silly dwarf!

It cannot be this weak and writhled shrimp

Should strike such terror to his enemies.

TALBOT.

Madam, I have been bold to trouble you;

But since your ladyship is not at leisure,

I 'll sort some other time to visit you.

COUNTESS.

What means he now? Go ask him whither he goes.

MESSENGER.

Stay, my Lord Talbot; for my lady craves

To know the cause of your abrupt departure.

TALBOT.

Marry, for that she's in a wrong belief,

I go to certify her Talbot's here.

[Re-enter Porter with keys.]

COUNTESS.

If thou be he, then art thou prisoner.

TALBOT.

Prisoner! to whom?

COUNTESS.

To me, blood-thirsty lord;

And for that cause I trained thee to my house.

Long time thy shadow hath been thrall to me,

For in my gallery thy picture hangs:

But now the substance shall endure the like,

And I will chain these legs and arms of thine,

That hast by tyranny these many years

Wasted our country, slain our citizens,

And sent our sons and husbands captivate.

TALBOT.

Ha, ha, ha!

COUNTESS.

Laughest thou, wretch? Thy mirth shall turn to moan.

TALBOT.

I laugh to see your ladyship so fond

To think that you have aught but Talbot's shadow

Whereon to practice your severity.

COUNTESS.

Why, art not thou the man?

TALBOT.

I am indeed.

COUNTESS.

Then have I substance too.

TALBOT.

No, no, I am but shadow of myself:

You are deceived, my substance is not here;

For what you see is but the smallest part

And least proportion of humanity:

I tell you, madam, were the whole frame here,

It is of such a spacious lofty pitch,

Your roof were not sufficient to contain 't.

COUNTESS.

This is a riddling merchant for the nonce;

He will be here, and yet he is not here:

How can these contrarieties agree?

TALBOT.

That will I show you presently.

[Winds his horn. Drums strike up: a peal of ordnance. Enter Soldiers.]

How say you, madam? are you now persuaded

That Talbot is but shadow of himself?

These are his substance, sinews, arms and strength,

With which he yoketh your rebellious necks,

Razeth your cities and subverts your towns,

And in a moment makes them desolate.

COUNTESS.

Victorious Talbot! pardon my abuse:

I find thou art no less than fame hath bruited,

And more than may be gathered by thy shape.

Let my presumption not provoke thy wrath;

For I am sorry that with reverence

I did not entertain thee as thou art.

TALBOT.

Be not dismayed, fair lady; nor misconstrue

The mind of Talbot, as you did mistake

The outward composition of his body.

What you have done hath not offended me;

Nor other satisfaction do I crave,

But only, with your patience, that we may

Taste of your wine and see what cates you have;

For soldiers' stomachs always serve them well.

COUNTESS.

With all my heart, and think me honored

To feast so great a warrior in my house.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE IV.

London. The Temple-garden.

[Enter the Earls of Somerset, Suffolk, and Warwick; Richard Plantagenet, Vernon, and another Lawyer.]

PLANTAGENET.

Great lords and gentlemen, what means this silence?

Dare no man answer in a case of truth?

SUFFOLK.

Within the Temple-hall we were too loud;

The garden here is more convenient.

PLANTAGENET.

Then say at once if I maintained the truth;

Or else was wrangling Somerset in the error?

SUFFOLK.

Faith, I have been a truant in the law,

And never yet could frame my will to it;

And therefore frame the law unto my will.

SOMERSET.

Judge you, my Lord of Warwick, then, between us.

WARWICK.

Between two hawks, which flies the higher pitch;

Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth;

Between two blades, which bears the better temper:

Between two horses, which doth bear him best;

Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye;

I have perhaps some shallow spirit of judgment:

But in these nice sharp quillets of the law,

Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw.

PLANTAGENET.

Tut, tut, here is a mannerly forbearance:

The truth appears so naked on my side

That any purblind eye may find it out.

SOMERSET.

And on my side it is so well apparelled,

So clear, so shining and so evident,

That it will glimmer through a blind man's eye.

PLANTAGENET.

Since you are tongue-tied and so loath to speak,

In dumb significants proclaim your thoughts:

Let him that is a true-born gentleman

And stands upon the honor of his birth,

If he suppose that I have pleaded truth,

From off this brier pluck a white rose with me.

SOMERSET.

Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer,

But dare maintain the party of the truth,

Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me.

WARWICK.

I love no colours, and without all colour

Of base insinuating flattery

I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet.

SUFFOLK.

I pluck this red rose with young Somerset,

And say withal I think he held the right.

VERNON.

Stay, lords and gentlemen, and pluck no more,

Till you conclude that he, upon whose side

The fewest roses are cropped from the tree

Shall yield the other in the right opinion.

SOMERSET.

Good Master Vernon, it is well objected:

If I have fewest, I subscribe in silence.

PLANTAGENET.

And I.

VERNON.

Then for the truth and plainness of the case,

I pluck this pale and maiden blossom here,

Giving my verdict on the white rose side.

SOMERSET.

Prick not your finger as you pluck it off,

Lest bleeding, you do paint the white rose red,

And fall on my side so, against your will.

VERNON.

If I, my lord, for my opinion bleed,

Opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt

And keep me on the side where still I am.

SOMERSET.

Well, well, come on: who else?

LAWYER.

Unless my study and my books be false,

The argument you held was wrong in you;

[To Somerset.]

In sign whereof I pluck a white rose too.

PLANTAGENET.

Now, Somerset, where is your argument?

SOMERSET.

Here in my scabbard, meditating that

Shall dye your white rose in a bloody red.

PLANTAGENET.

Meantime your cheeks do counterfeit our roses;

For pale they look with fear, as witnessing

The truth on our side.

SOMERSET.

No, Plantagenet,

'Tis not for fear but anger that thy cheeks

Blush for pure shame to counterfeit our roses,

And yet thy tongue will not confess thy error.

PLANTAGENET.

Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset?

SOMERSET.

Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet?

PLANTAGENET.

Ay, sharp and piercing, to maintain his truth;

Whiles thy consuming canker eats his falsehood.

SOMERSET.

Well, I 'll find friends to wear my bleeding roses,

That shall maintain what I have said is true,

Where false Plantagenet dare not be seen.

PLANTAGENET.

Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand,

I scorn thee and thy fashion, peevish boy.

SUFFOLK.

Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet.

PLANTAGENET.

Proud Pole, I will, and scorn both him and thee.

SUFFOLK.

I'll turn my part thereof into thy throat.

SOMERSET.

Away, away, good William de la Pole!

We grace the yeoman by conversing with him.

WARWICK.

Now, by God's will, thou wrong'st him, Somerset;

His grandfather was Lionel Duke of Clarence,

Third son to the third Edward King of England:

Spring crestless yeomen from so deep a root?

PLANTAGENET.

He bears him on the place's privilege,

Or durst not, for his craven heart, say thus.

SOMERSET.

By Him that made me, I'll maintain my words

On any plot of ground in Christendom.

Was not thy father, Richard Earl of Cambridge,

For treason executed in our late king's days?

And, by his treason, stand'st not thou attainted,

Corrupted, and exempt from ancient gentry?

His trespass yet lives guilty in thy blood;

And, till thou be restored, thou art a yeoman.

PLANTAGENET.

My father was attached, not attainted,

Condemned to die for treason, but no traitor;

And that I'll prove on better men than Somerset,

Were growing time once ripened to my will.

For your partaker Pole and you yourself,

I'll note you in my book of memory,

To scourge you for this apprehension:

Look to it well and say you are well warned.

SOMERSET.

Ay, thou shalt find us ready for thee still;

And know us by these colors for thy foes,

For these my friends in spite of thee shall wear.

PLANTAGENET.

And, by my soul, this pale and angry rose,

As cognizance of my blood-drinking hate,

Will I for ever and my faction wear,

Until it wither with me to my grave,

Or flourish to the height of my degree.

SUFFOLK.

Go forward, and be choked with thy ambition!

And so farewell until I meet thee next.

[Exit.]

SOMERSET.

Have with thee, Pole. Farewell, ambitious Richard.

[Exit.]

PLANTAGENET.

How I am braved and must perforce endure it!

WARWICK.

This blot that they object against your house

Shall be wiped out in the next parliament

Called for the truce of Winchester and Gloucester;

And if thou be not then created York,

I will not live to be accounted Warwick.

Meantime, in signal of my love to thee,

Against proud Somerset and William Pole,

Will I upon thy party wear this rose:

And here I prophesy: this brawl to-day,

Grown to this faction in the Temple-garden,

Shall send between the red rose and the white

A thousand souls to death and deadly night.

PLANTAGENET.

Good Master Vernon, I am bound to you,

That you on my behalf would pluck a flower.

VERNON.

In your behalf still will I wear the same.

LAWYER.

And so will I.

PLANTAGENET.

Thanks, gentle sir.

Come, let us four to dinner: I dare say

This quarrel will drink blood another day.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE V.

The Tower of London.

[Enter Mortimer, brought in a chair, and Jailers.]

MORTIMER.

Kind keepers of my weak decaying age,

Let dying Mortimer here rest himself.

Even like a man new haled from the rack,

So fare my limbs with long imprisonment;

And these gray locks, the pursuivants of death,

Nestor-like aged in an age of care,

Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer.

These eyes, like lamps whose wasting oil is spent,

Wax dim, as drawing to their exigent;

Weak shoulders, overborne with burdening grief,

And pithless arms, like to a withered vine

That droops his sapless branches to the ground:

Yet are these feet, whose strengthless stay is numb,

Unable to support this lump of clay,

Swift-winged with desire to get a grave,

As witting I no other comfort have.

But tell me, keeper, will my nephew come?

FIRST JAILER.

Richard Plantagenet, my lord, will come:

We sent unto the Temple, unto his chamber;

And answer was returned that he will come.

MORTIMER.

Enough: my soul shall then be satisfied.

Poor gentleman! his wrong doth equal mine.

Since Henry Monmouth first began to reign,

Before whose glory I was great in arms,

This loathsome sequestration have I had;

And even since then hath Richard been obscured,

Deprived of honour and inheritance.

But now the arbitrator of despairs,

Just Death, kind umpire of men's miseries,

With sweet enlargement doth dismiss me hence:

I would his troubles likewise were expired,

That so he might recover what was lost.

[Enter Richard Plantagenet.]

FIRST JAILER.

My lord, your loving nephew now is come.

MORTIMER.

Richard Plantagenet, my friend, is he come?

PLANTAGENET.

Aye, noble uncle, thus ignobly used,

Your nephew, late despised Richard, comes.

MORTIMER.

Direct mine arms I may embrace his neck,

And in his bosom spend my latter gasp:

O, tell me when my lips do touch his cheeks,

That I may kindly give one fainting kiss.

And now declare, sweet stem from York's great stock,

Why didst thou say of late thou wert despised?

PLANTAGENET.

First, lean thine aged back against mine arm;

And, in that case, I'll tell thee my disease.

This day, in argument upon a case,

Some words there grew 'twixt Somerset and me;

Among which terms he used his lavish tongue

And did upbraid me with my father's death:

Which obloquy set bars before my tongue,

Else with the like I had requited him.

Therefore, good uncle, for my father's sake,

In honor of a true Plantagenet

And for alliance sake, declare the cause

My father, Earl of Cambridge, lost his head.

MORTIMER.

That cause, fair nephew, that imprisoned me

And hath detained me all my flowering youth

Within a loathsome dungeon, there to pine,

Was cursed instrument of his decease.

PLANTAGENET.

Discover more at large what cause that was,

For I am ignorant and cannot guess.

MORTIMER.

I will, if that my fading breath permit,

And death approach not ere my tale be done.

Henry the Fourth, grandfather to this king,

Deposed his nephew Richard, Edward's son,

The first-begotten and the lawful heir

Of Edward king, the third of that descent;

During whose reign the Percies of the north,

Finding his usurpation most unjust,

Endeavoured my advancement to the throne.

The reason moved these warlike lords to this

Was, for that—young King Richard thus removed,

Leaving no heir begotten of his body—

I was the next by birth and parentage;

For by my mother I derived am

From Lionel Duke of Clarence, third son

To King Edward the Third; whereas he

From John of Gaunt doth bring his pedigree,

Being but fourth of that heroic line.

But mark: as in this haughty great attempt

They labored to plant the rightful heir,

I lost my liberty and they their lives.

Long after this, when Henry the Fifth,

Succeeding his father Bolingbroke, did reign,

Thy father, Earl of Cambridge, then derived

From famous Edmund Langley, Duke of York,

Marrying my sister that thy mother was,

Again in pity of my hard distress.

Levied an army, weening to redeem

And have installed me in the diadem:

But, as the rest, so fell that noble earl

And was beheaded. Thus the Mortimers,

In whom the title rested, were suppressed.

PLANTAGENET.

Of which, my lord, your honor is the last.

MORTIMER.

True; and thou seest that I no issue have,

And that my fainting words do warrant death:

Thou art my heir; the rest I wish thee gather:

But yet be wary in thy studious care.

PLANTAGENET.

Thy grave admonishments prevail with me:

But yet, methinks, my father's execution

Was nothing less than bloody tyranny.

MORTIMER.

With silence, nephew, be thou politic:

Strong-fixed is the house of Lancaster,

And like a mountain not to be removed.

But now thy uncle is removing hence;

As princes do their courts, when they are cloyed

With long continuance in a settled place.

PLANTAGENET.

O, uncle, would some part of my young years

Might but redeem the passage of your age!

MORTIMER.

Thou dost then wrong me, as that slaughterer doth

Which giveth many wounds when one will kill.

Mourn not, except thou sorrow for my good;

Only give order for my funeral:

And so farewell, and fair be all thy hopes,

And prosperous be thy life in peace and war!

[Dies.]

PLANTAGENET.

And peace, no war, befall thy parting soul!

In prison hast thou spent a pilgrimage,

And like a hermit overpassed thy days.

Well, I will lock his counsel in my breast;

And what I do imagine let that rest.

Keepers, convey him hence; and I myself

Will see his burial better than his life.

[Exeunt Jailers, bearing out the body of Mortimer.]

Here dies the dusky torch of Mortimer,

Choked with ambition of the meaner sort:

And for those wrongs, those bitter injuries,

Which Somerset hath offered to my house,

I doubt not but with honour to redress;

And therefore haste I to the parliament,

Either to be restored to my blood,

Or make my ill the advantage of my good.

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

London. The Parliament-house.

[Flourish. Enter King, Exeter, Gloucester, Warwick, Somerset, and Suffolk; the Bishop of Winchester, Richard Plantagenet, and others. Gloucester offers to put up a bill; Winchester snatches it, tears it.]

WINCHESTER.

Comest thou with deep premeditated lines,

With written pamphlets studiously devised,

Humphrey of Gloucester? If thou canst accuse,

Or aught intend'st to lay unto my charge.

Do it without invention, suddenly;

As I with sudden and extemporal speech

Purpose to answer what thou canst object.

GLOUCESTER.

Presumptuous priest! this place commands my patience,

Or thou shouldst find thou hast dishonored me.

Think not, although in writing I preferred

The manner of thy vile outrageous crimes,

That therefore I have forged, or am not able

Verbatim to rehearse the method of my pen:

No, prelate; such is thy audacious wickedness,

Thy lewd, pestiferous and dissentious pranks,

As very infants prattle of thy pride.

Thou art a most pernicious usurer,

Froward by nature, enemy to peace;

Lascivious, wanton, more than well beseems

A man of thy profession and degree;

And for thy treachery, what's more manifest

In that thou laid'st a trap to take my life,

As well at London-bridge as at the Tower.

Beside, I fear me, if thy thoughts are sifted

The king, thy sovereign, is not quite exempt

From envious malice of thy swelling heart.

WINCHESTER.

Gloucester, I do defy thee. Lords, vouchsafe

To give me hearing what I shall reply.

If I were covetous, ambitious, or perverse,

As he will have me, how am I so poor?

Or how haps it I seek not to advance

Or raise myself, but keep my wonted calling?

And for dissension, who preferreth peace

More than I do?—except I be provoked.

No, my good lords, it is not that offends;

It is not that that hath incensed the duke:

It is, because no one should sway but he;

No one but he should be about the king;

And that engenders thunder in his breast,

And makes him roar these accusations forth.

But he shall know I am as good—

GLOUCESTER.

As good!

Thou bastard of my grandfather!

WINCHESTER.

Aye, lordly sir; for what are you, I pray,

But one imperious in another's throne?

GLOUCESTER.

Am I not protector, saucy priest?

WINCHESTER.

And am not I a prelate of the church?

GLOUCESTER.

Yes, as an outlaw in a castle keeps

And useth it to patronage his theft.

WINCHESTER.

Unreverent Gloucester!

GLOUCESTER.

Thou art reverent

Touching thy spiritual function, not thy life.

WINCHESTER.

Rome shall remedy this.

GLOUCESTER.

Roam thither, then.

WARWICK.

[To Gloucester.]

My lord, it were your duty to forbear.

SOMERSET.

Ay, see the bishop be not overborne.

Methinks my lord should be religious,

And know the office that belongs to such.

WARWICK.

Methinks his lordship should be humbler;

It fitteth not a prelate so to plead.

SOMERSET.

Yes, when his holy state is touched so near.

WARWICK.

State holy or unhallowed, what of that?

Is not his grace protector to the king?

PLANTAGENET.

[Aside]

Plantagenet, I see, must hold his tongue,

Lest it be said, 'Speak, sirrah, when you should:

Must your bold verdict enter talk with lords?'

Else would I have a fling at Winchester.

KING.

Uncles of Gloucester and of Winchester,

The special watchmen of our English weal,

I would prevail, if prayers might prevail,

To join your hearts in love and amity.

O, what a scandal is it to our crown,

That two such noble peers as ye should jar!

Believe me, lords, my tender years can tell

Civil dissension is a viperous worm

That gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth.

[A noise within. Gloucester's men shout:] 'Down with the tawny-coats!'

What tumult's this?

WARWICK.

An uproar, I dare warrant,

Begun through malice of the bishop's men.

[A noise again. Gloucester's and Winchester's men shout:] 'Stones! stones!'

[Enter Mayor.]

MAYOR.

O, my good lords, and virtuous Henry,

Pity the city of London, pity us!

The bishop and the Duke of Gloucester's men,

Forbidden late to carry any weapon,

Have filled their pockets full of pebble stones,

And banding themselves in contrary parts

Do pelt so fast at one another's pate

That many have their giddy brains knocked out:

Our windows are broke down in every street,

And we for fear compelled to shut our shops.

[Enter Serving-men, in skirmish, with bloody pates.]

KING.

We charge you, on allegiance to ourself,

To hold your slaughtering hands and keep the peace.

Pray, uncle Gloucester, mitigate this strife.

FIRST SERVING-MAN.

Nay, if we be forbidden stones, we 'll fall to it with our teeth.

SECOND SERVING-MAN.

Do what ye dare, we are as resolute.

[Skirmish again.]

GLOUCESTER.

You of my household, leave this peevish broil

And set this unaccustomed fight aside.

THIRD SERVING-MAN.

My lord, we know your grace to be a man

Just and upright; and, for your royal birth,

Inferior to none but to his Majesty:

And ere that we will suffer such a prince,

So kind a father of the commonweal,

To be disgraced by an inkhorn mate,

We and our wives and children all will fight,

And have our bodies slaughtered by thy foes.

FIRST SERVING-MAN.

Aye, and the very parings of our nails

Shall pitch a field when we are dead.

[Begin again.]

GLOUCESTER.

Stay, stay, I say!

And if you love me, as you say you do,

Let me persuade you to forbear awhile.

KING.

O, how this discord doth afflict my soul!

Can you, my Lord of Winchester, behold

My sighs and tears and will not once relent?

Who should be pitiful, if you be not?

Or who should study to prefer a peace,

If holy churchmen take delight in broils?

WARWICK.

Yield, my lord protector; yield, Winchester;

Except you mean with obstinate repulse

To slay your sovereign and destroy the realm.

You see what mischief and what murder too

Hath been enacted through your enmity;

Then be at peace, except ye thirst for blood.

WINCHESTER.

He shall submit, or I will never yield.

GLOUCESTER.

Compassion on the king commands me stoop;

Or I would see his heart out, ere the priest

Should ever get that privilege of me.

WARWICK.

Behold, my Lord of Winchester, the duke

Hath banished moody discontented fury,

As by his smoothed brows it doth appear:

Why look you still so stem and tragical?

GLOUCESTER.

Here, Winchester, I offer thee my hand.

[Winchester ignores Gloucester's offered hand.]

KING.

Fie, uncle Beaufort! I have heard you preach

That malice was a great and grievous sin;

And will not you maintain the thing you teach,

But prove a chief offender in the same?

WARWICK.

Sweet king! the bishop hath a kindly gird.

For shame, my lord of Winchester, relent!

What, shall a child instruct you what to do?

WINCHESTER.

Well, Duke of Gloucester, I will yield to thee;

Love for thy love and hand for hand I give.

[He takes Gloucester's hand.]

GLOUCESTER.

[Aside]

Aye, but, I fear me, with a hollow heart.—

See here, my friends and loving countrymen;

This token serveth for a flag of truce

Betwixt ourselves and all our followers:

So help me God, as I dissemble not!

WINCHESTER.

[Aside]

So help me God, as I intend it not!

KING.

O loving uncle, kind Duke of Gloucester,

How joyful am I made by this contract!

Away, my masters! trouble us no more;

But join in friendship, as your lords have done.

FIRST SERVING-MAN.

Content: I'll to the surgeon's.

SECOND SERVING-MAN.

And so will I.

THIRD SERVING-MAN.

And I will see what physic the tavern affords.

[Exeunt Serving-men, Mayor, &C.]

WARWICK.

Accept this scroll, most gracious sovereign;

Which in the right of Richard Plantagenet.

We do exhibit to your majesty.

GLOUCESTER.

Well urged, my Lord of Warwick: for, sweet prince,

An if your Grace mark every circumstance,

You have great reason to do Richard right:

Especially for those occasions

At Eltham place I told your majesty.

KING.

And those occasions, uncle, were of force;

Therefore, my loving lords, our pleasure is

That Richard be restored to his blood.

WARWICK.

Let Richard be restored to his blood;

So shall his father's wrongs be recompensed.

WINCHESTER.

As will the rest, so willeth Winchester.

KING.

If Richard will be true, not that alone

But all the whole inheritance I give

That doth belong unto the house of York,

From whence you spring by lineal descent.

PLANTAGENET.

Thy humble servant vows obedience

And humble service till the point of death.

KING.

Stoop then and set your knee against my foot;

And, in reguerdon of that duty done,

I girt thee with the valiant sword of York:

Rise, Richard, like a true Plantagenet,

And rise created princely Duke of York.

PLANTAGENET.

And so thrive Richard as thy foes may fall!

And as my duty springs, so perish they

That grudge one thought against your majesty!

ALL.

Welcome, high prince, the mighty Duke of York!

SOMERSET.

[Aside]

Perish, base prince, ignoble Duke of York!

GLOUCESTER.

Now will it best avail your majesty

To cross the seas and to be crowned in France:

The presence of a king engenders love

Amongst his subjects and his loyal friends,

As it disanimates his enemies.

KING.

When Gloucester says the word, King Henry goes;

For friendly counsel cuts off many foes.

GLOUCESTER.

Your ships already are in readiness.

[Sennet. Flourish. Exeunt all but Exeter.]

EXETER.

Aye, we may march in England or in France,

Not seeing what is likely to ensue.

This late dissension grown betwixt the peers

Burns under feigned ashes of forged love,

And will at last break out into a flame;

As fest'red members rot but by degree,

Till bones and flesh and sinews fall away,

So will this base and envious discord breed.

And now I fear that fatal prophecy

Which in the time of Henry named the fifth

Was in the mouth of every sucking babe;

That Henry born at Monmouth should win all

And Henry born at Windsor lose all:

Which is so plain, that Exeter doth wish

His days may finish ere that hapless time.

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

France. Before Rouen.

[Enter La Pucelle disguised, with four Soldiers with sacks upon their backs.]

PUCELLE.

These are the city gates, the gates of Rouen,

Through which our policy must make a breach:

Take heed, be wary how you place your words;

Talk like the vulgar sort of market men

That come to gather money for their corn.

If we have entrance, as I hope we shall,

And that we find the slothful watch but weak,

I 'll by a sign give notice to our friends,

That Charles the Dauphin may encounter them.

FIRST SOLDIER.

Our sacks shall be a mean to sack the city,

And we be lords and rulers over Rouen;

Therefore we 'll knock. [Knocks.]

WATCH.

[Within] Qui est la?

PUCELLE.

Paysans, pauvres gens de France;

Poor market folks that come to sell their corn.

WATCH.

Enter, go in; the market bell is rung.

PUCELLE.

Now, Rouen, I 'll shake thy bulwarks to the ground.

[Exeunt.]

[Enter Charles, the Bastard of Orleans, Alencon, Reignier, and forces.]

CHARLES.

Saint Denis bless this happy stratagem!

And once again we 'll sleep secure in Rouen.

BASTARD.

Here entered Pucelle and her practisants;

Now she is there, how will she specify

Here is the best and safest passage in?

REIGNIER.

By thrusting out a torch from yonder tower;

Which, once discerned, shows that her meaning is,

No way to that, for weakness, which she entered.

[Enter La Pucelle, on the top, thrusting out a torch burning.]

PUCELLE.

Behold, this is the happy wedding torch

That joineth Rouen unto her countrymen,

But burning fatal to the Talbotites!

[Exit.]

BASTARD.

See, noble Charles, the beacon of our friend;

The burning torch in yonder turret stands.

CHARLES.

Now shine it like a comet of revenge,

A prophet to the fall of all our foes!

REIGNIER.

Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends;

Enter, and cry, 'The Dauphin!' presently,

And then do execution on the watch.

[Alarum. Exeunt.]

[An alarum. Enter Talbot in an excursion.]

TALBOT.

France, thou shalt rue this treason with thy tears,

If Talbot but survive thy treachery.

Pucelle, that witch, that damned sorceress,

Hath wrought this hellish mischief unawares,

That hardly we escaped the pride of France.

[Exit.]

[An alarum: excursions.]

[Bedford, brought in sick in a chair. Enter Talbot and Burgundy without: within La Pucelle, Charles, Bastard, Alencon, and Reignier, on the walls.]

PUCELLE.

Good morrow, gallants! want ye corn for bread?

I think the Duke of Burgundy will fast

Before he 'll buy again at such a rate:

'Twas full of darnel: do you like the taste?

BURGUNDY.

Scoff on, vile fiend and shameless courtezan!

I trust ere long to choke thee with thine own,

And make thee curse the harvest of that corn.

CHARLES.

Your Grace may starve perhaps before that time.

BEDFORD.

O, let no words, but deeds, revenge this treason!

PUCELLE.

What will you do, good graybeard? break a lance,

And run a tilt at death within a chair?

TALBOT.

Foul fiend of France, and hag of all despite,

Encompassed with thy lustful paramours!

Becomes it thee to taunt his valiant age,

And twit with cowardice a man half dead?

Damsel, I 'll have a bout with you again,

Or else let Talbot perish with this shame.

PUCELLE.

Are ye so hot? yet, Pucelle, hold thy peace;

If Talbot do but thunder, rain will follow.

[The English party whisper together in council. ]

God speed the parliament! who shall be the speaker?

TALBOT.

Dare ye come forth and meet us in the field?

PUCELLE.

Belike your lordship takes us then for fools,

To try if that our own be ours or no.

TALBOT.

I speak not to that railing Hecate,

But unto thee, Alencon, and the rest;

Will ye, like soldiers, come and fight it out?

ALENCON.

Seigneur, no.

TALBOT.

Seigneur, hang! base muleters of France!

Like peasant foot-boys do they keep the walls,

And dare not take up arms like gentlemen.

PUCELLE.

Away, captains! let 's get us from the walls;

For Talbot means no goodness by his looks.

God be wi' you, my lord! we came but to tell you

That we are here.

[Exeunt from the walls.]

TALBOT.

And there will we be too, ere it be long,

Or else reproach be Talbot's greatest fame!

Vow, Burgundy, by honor of thy house,

Pricked on by public wrongs sustained in France,

Either to get the town again or die:

And I, as sure as English Henry lives,

And as his father here was conqueror,

As sure as in this late-betrayed town

Great Coeur-de-lion's heart was buried,

So sure I swear to get the town or die.

BURGUNDY.

My vows are equal partners with thy vows.

TALBOT.

But, ere we go, regard this dying prince,

The valiant Duke of Bedford. Come, my lord,

We will bestow you in some better place,

Fitter for sickness and for crazy age.

BEDFORD.

Lord Talbot, do not so dishonor me:

Here will I sit before the walls of Rouen,

And will be partner of your weal or woe.

BURGUNDY.

Courageous Bedford, let us now persuade you.

BEDFORD.

Not to be gone from hence; for once I read

That stout Pendragon in his litter sick

Came to the field and vanquished his foes.

Methinks I should revive the soldiers' hearts,

Because I ever found them as myself.

TALBOT.

Undaunted spirit in a dying breast!

Then be it so: heavens keep old Bedford safe!

And now no more ado, brave Burgundy,

But gather we our forces out of hand

And set upon our boasting enemy.

[Exeunt all but Bedford and Attendants.]

[An alarum: excursions. Enter Sir John Fastolfe and a Captain.]

CAPTAIN.

Whither away, Sir John Fastolfe, in such haste?

FASTOLFE.

Whither away! to save myself by flight:

We are like to have the overthrow again.

CAPTAIN.

What! Will you fly, and leave Lord Talbot?

FASTOLFE.

Aye,

All the Talbots in the world, to save my life.

[Exit.]

CAPTAIN.

Cowardly knight! ill fortune follow thee!

[Exit.]

[Retreat: excursions. La Pucelle, Alencon, and Charles fly.]

BEDFORD.

Now, quiet soul, depart when heaven please,

For I have seen our enemies' overthrow.

What is the trust or strength of foolish man?

They that of late were daring with their scoffs

Are glad and fain by flight to save themselves.

[Bedford dies, and is carried in by two in his chair.]

[An alarum. Re-enter Talbot, Burgundy, and the rest.]

TALBOT.

Lost, and recovered in a day again!

This is a double honor, Burgundy:

Yet heavens have glory for this victory!

BURGUNDY.

Warlike and martial Talbot, Burgundy

Enshrines thee in his heart, and there erects

Thy noble deeds as valor's monuments.

TALBOT.

Thanks, gentle duke. But where is Pucelle now?

I think her old familiar is asleep:

Now where 's the Bastard's braves, and Charles his gleeks?

What, all amort? Rouen hangs her head for grief

That such a valiant company are fled.

Now will we take some order in the town,

Placing therein some expert officers;

And then depart to Paris to the king,

For there young Henry with his nobles lie.

BURGUNDY.

What Lord Talbot pleaseth Burgundy.

TALBOT.

But yet, before we go, let 's not forget

The noble Duke of Bedford late deceased,

But see his exequies fulfilled in Rouen:

A braver soldier never couched lance,

A gentler heart did never sway in court;

But kings and mightiest potentates must die,

For that's the end of human misery.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE III.

The plains near Rouen.

[Enter Charles, the Bastard of Orleans, Alencon, La Pucelle, and forces.]

PUCELLE.

Dismay not, princes, at this accident,

Nor grieve that Rouen is so recovered:

Care is no cure, but rather corrosive,

For things that are not to be remedied.

Let frantic Talbot triumph for a while

And like a peacock sweep along his tail;

We 'll pull his plumes and take away his train,

If Dauphin and the rest will be but ruled.

CHARLES.

We have been guided by thee hitherto,

And of thy cunning had no diffidence:

One sudden foil shall never breed distrust

BASTARD.

Search out thy wit for secret policies,

And we will make thee famous through the world.

ALENCON.

We'll set thy statue in some holy place,

And have thee reverenced like a blessed saint.

Employ thee then, sweet virgin, for our good.

PUCELLE.

Then thus it must be; this doth Joan devise:

By fair persuasions mixed with sugared words

We will entice the Duke of Burgundy

To leave the Talbot and to follow us.

CHARLES.

Aye, marry, sweeting, if we could do that,

France were no place for Henry's warriors;

Nor should that nation boast it so with us,

But be extirped from our provinces.

ALENCON.

For ever should they be expulsed from France,

And not have tide of an earldom here.

PUCELLE.

Your honours shall perceive how I will work

To bring this matter to the wished end.

[Drum sounds afar off.]

Hark! by the sound of drum you may perceive

Their powers are marching unto Paris-ward.

[Here sound an English march. Enter, and pass over at a distance, Talbot and his forces.]

There goes the Talbot, with his colors spread,

And all the troops of English after him.

[French march. Enter the Duke of Burgundy and forces.]

Now in the rearward comes the duke and his:

Fortune in favor makes him lag behind.

Summon a parley; we will talk with him.

[Trumpets sound a parley.]

CHARLES.

A parley with the Duke of Burgundy!

BURGUNDY.

Who craves a parley with the Burgundy?

PUCELLE.

The princely Charles of France, thy countryman.

BURGUNDY.

What say'st thou, Charles? For I am marching hence.

CHARLES.

Speak, Pucelle, and enchant him with thy words.

PUCELLE.

Brave Burgundy, undoubted hope of France!

Stay, let thy humble handmaid speak to thee.

BURGUNDY.

Speak on; but be not over-tedious.

PUCELLE.

Look on thy country, look on fertile France,

And see the cities and the towns defaced

By wasting ruin of the cruel foe.

As looks the mother on her lowly babe

When death doth close his tender dying eyes,

See, see the pining malady of France;

Behold the wounds, the most unnatural wounds,

Which thou thyself hast given her woful breast.

O, turn thy edged sword another way;

Strike those that hurt, and hurt not those that help.

One drop of blood drawn from thy country's bosom

Should grieve thee more than streams of foreign gore:

Return thee therefore with a flood of tears,

And wash away thy country's stained spots.

BURGUNDY.

[Aside.]

Either she hath bewitched me with her words,

Or nature makes me suddenly relent.

PUCELLE.

Besides, all French and France exclaims on thee,

Doubting thy birth and lawful progeny.

Who join'st thou with but with a lordly nation

That will not trust thee but for profit's sake?

When Talbot hath set footing once in France,

And fashioned thee that instrument of ill,

Who then but English Henry will be lord,

And thou be thrust out like a fugitive?

Call we to mind, and mark but this for proof,

Was not the Duke of Orleans thy foe?

And was he not in England prisoner?

But when they heard he was thine enemy,

They set him free without his ransom paid,

In spite of Burgundy and all his friends.

See, then, thou fight'st against thy countrymen

And join'st with them will be thy slaughtermen.

Come, come, return; return, thou wandering lord;

Charles and the rest will take thee in their arms.

BURGUNDY.

[Aside.]

I am vanquished; these haughty words of hers

Have batt'red me like roaring cannon-shot,

And made me almost yield upon my knees.

Forgive me, country, and sweet countrymen,

And, lords, accept this hearty kind embrace:

My forces and my power of men are yours:

So, farewell, Talbot; I 'll no longer trust thee.

PUCELLE.

[Aside]

Done like a Frenchman: turn and turn again!

CHARLES.

Welcome, brave duke; thy friendship makes us fresh.

BASTARD.

And doth beget new courage in our breasts.

ALENCON.

Pucelle hath bravely played her part in this,

And doth deserve a coronet of gold.

CHARLES.

Now let us on, my lords, and join our powers,

And seek how we may prejudice the foe.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE IV.

Paris. The palace.

[Enter the King, Gloucester, Bishop of Winchester, York, Suffolk, Somerset, Warwick, Exeter: Vernon, Basset, and others. To them with his soldiers, Talbot.]

TALBOT.

My gracious Prince, and honourable peers,

Hearing of your arrival in this realm,

I have awhile given truce unto my wars,

To do my duty to my sovereign:

In sign whereof, this arm, that hath reclaimed

To your obedience fifty fortresses,

Twelve cities and seven walled towns of strength,

Beside five hundred prisoners of esteem,

Lets fall his sword before your highness' feet,

[Kneels.]

And with submissive loyalty of heart

Ascribes the glory of his conquest got

First to my God and next unto your grace. [Kneels.]

KING.

Is this the Lord Talbot, uncle Gloucester,

That hath so long been resident in France?

GLOUCESTER.

Yes, if it please your majesty, my liege.

KING.

Welcome, brave captain and victorious lord!

When I was young, as yet I am not old.

I do remember how my father said

A stouter champion never handled sword.

Long since we were resolved of your truth,

Your faithful service and your toil in war;

Yet never have you tasted our reward,

Or been reguerdoned with so much as thanks.

Because till now we never saw your face:

Therefore, stand up: and for these good deserts,

We here create you Earl of Shrewsbury;

And in our coronation take your place.

[Sennet. Flourish. Exeunt all but Vernon and Basset.]

VERNON.

Now, sir, to you, that were so hot at sea,

Disgracing of these colors that I wear

In honor of my noble Lord of York:—

Dar'st thou maintain the former words thou spakest?

BASSET.

Yes, sir; as well as you dare patronage

The envious barking of your saucy tongue

Against my lord the Duke of Somerset.

VERNON.

Sirrah, thy lord I honor as he is.

BASSET.

Why, what is he? As good a man as York.

VERNON.

Hark ye; not so: in witness, take ye that.

[Strikes him.]

BASSET.

Villain, thou know'st the law of arms is such

That whoso draws a sword, 'tis present death,

Or else this blow should broach thy dearest blood.

But I 'll unto his majesty, and crave

I may have liberty to venge this wrong;

When thou shalt see I 'll meet thee to thy cost.

VERNON.

Well, miscreant, I 'll be there as soon as you;

And, after, meet you sooner than you would.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

Paris. A hall of state.

[Enter the King, Gloucester, Bishop of Winchester, York, Suffolk, Somerset, Warwick, Talbot, Exeter, the Governor of Paris, and others.]

GLOUCESTER.

Lord bishop, set the crown upon his head.

WINCHESTER.

God save King Henry, of that name the sixth!

GLOUCESTER.

Now, Governor of Paris, take your oath,

That you elect no other king but him;

Esteem none friends but such as are his friends,

And none your foes but such as shall pretend

Malicious practices against his state:

This shall ye do, so help you righteous God!

[Enter Sir John Fastolfe.]

FASTOLFE.

My gracious sovereign, as I rode from Calais,

To haste unto your coronation,

A letter was delivered to my hands,

Writ to your Grace from the Duke of Burgundy.

TALBOT.

Shame to the Duke of Burgundy and thee!

I vowed, base knight, when I did meet thee next,

To tear the garter from thy craven's leg,

[Plucking it off.]

Which I have done, because unworthily

Thou wast installed in that high degree.

Pardon me, princely Henry, and the rest:

This dastard, at the battle of Patay,

When but in all I was six thousand strong

And that the French were almost ten to one,

Before we met or that a stroke was given,

Like to a trusty squire did run away:

In which assault we lost twelve hundred men;

Myself and divers gentlemen beside

Were there surprised and taken prisoners.

Then judge, great lords, if I have done amiss;

Or whether that such cowards ought to wear

This ornament of knighthood, yea or no.

GLOUCESTER.

To say the truth, this fact was infamous

And ill beseeming any common man,

Much more a knight, a captain, and a leader.

TALBOT.

When first this order was ordained, my lords,

Knights of the garter were of noble birth,

Valiant and virtuous, full of haughty courage,

Such as were grown to credit by the wars;

Not fearing death, nor shrinking for distress,

But always resolute in most extremes.

He then that is not furnished in this sort

Doth but usurp the sacred name of knight,

Profaning this most honorable order,

And should, if I were worthy to be judge,

Be quite degraded, like a hedge-born swain

That doth presume to boast of gentle blood.

KING.

Stain to thy countrymen, thou hear'st thy doom!

Be packing, therefore, thou that wast a knight;

Henceforth we banish thee, on pain of death.

[Exit Fastolfe.]

And now, my lord protector, view the letter

Sent from our uncle Duke of Burgundy.

GLOUCESTER.

What means his grace,

that he hath changed his style?

No more but, plain and bluntly, 'To the King!'

Hath he forgot he is his sovereign?

Or doth this churlish superscription

Pretend some alteration in good will?

What's here? [Reads] 'I have, upon especial cause,

Moved with compassion of my country's wreck,

Together with the pitiful complaints

Of such as your oppression feeds upon,

Forsaken your pernicious faction,

And joined with Charles, the rightful King of France.'

O monstrous treachery! can this be so,

That in alliance, amity and oaths,

There should be found such false dissembling guile?

KING.

What! doth my uncle Burgundy revolt?

GLOUCESTER.

He doth, my lord, and is become your foe.

KING.

Is that the worst this letter doth contain?

GLOUCESTER.

It is the worst, and all, my lord, he writes.

KING.

Why, then, Lord Talbot there shall talk with him,

And give him chastisement for this abuse.

How say you, my lord? are you not content?

TALBOT.

Content, my liege! yes; but that I am prevented,

I should have begged I might have been employed.

KING.

Then gather strength, and march unto him straight:

Let him perceive how ill we brook his treason.

And what offence it is to flout his friends.

TALBOT.

I go, my lord, in heart desiring still

You may behold confusion of your foes.

[Exit.]

[Enter Vernon and Basset.]

VERNON.

Grant me the combat, gracious sovereign.

BASSET.

And me, my lord, grant me the combat too.

YORK.

This is my servant: hear him, noble prince.

SOMERSET.

And this is mine: sweet Henry, favor him.

KING.

Be patient, lords, and give them leave to speak.

Say, gentlemen, what makes you thus exclaim?

And wherefore crave you combat? or with whom?

VERNON.

With him, my lord; for he hath done me wrong.

BASSET.

And I with him; for he hath done me wrong.

KING.

What is that wrong whereof you both complain?

First let me know, and then I'll answer you.

BASSET.

Crossing the sea from England into France,

This fellow here, with envious carping tongue,

Upbraided me about the rose I wear;

Saying, the sanguine colour of the leaves

Did represent my master's blushing cheeks,

When stubbornly he did repugn the truth

About a certain question in the law

Argued betwixt the Duke of York and him;

With other vile and ignominious terms:

In confutation of which rude reproach,

And in defence of my lord's worthiness,

I crave the benefit of law of arms.

VERNON.

And that is my petition, noble lord:

For though he seem with forged quaint conceit

To set a gloss upon his bold intent,

Yet know, my lord, I was provoked by him;

And he first took exceptions at this badge,

Pronouncing that the paleness of this flower

Bewrayed the faintness of my master's heart.

YORK.

Will not this malice, Somerset, be left?

SOMERSET.

Your private grudge, my Lord of York, will out,

Though ne'er so cunningly you smother it.

KING.

Good Lord, what madness rules in brainsick men,

When for so slight and frivolous a cause

Such factious emulations shall arise!

Good cousins both, of York and Somerset,

Quiet yourselves, I pray, and be at peace.

YORK.

Let this dissension first be tried by fight,

And then your highness shall command a peace.

SOMERSET.

The quarrel toucheth none but us alone;

Betwixt ourselves let us decide it then.

YORK.

There is my pledge; accept it, Somerset.

[York throws down his gauntlet.]

VERNON.

Nay, let it rest where it began at first.

BASSET.

Confirm it so, mine honorable lord.

GLOUCESTER.

Confirm it so! Confounded be your strife!

And perish ye, with your audacious prate!

Presumptuous vassals, are you not ashamed

With this immodest clamorous outrage

To trouble and disturb the king and us?

And you, my lords, methinks you do not well

To bear with their perverse objections;

Much less to take occasion from their mouths

To raise a mutiny betwixt yourselves:

Let me persuade you take a better course.

EXETER.

It grieves his highness: good my lords, be friends.

KING.

Come hither, you that would be combatants:

Henceforth I charge you, as you love our favor,

Quite to forget this quarrel and the cause.

And you, my lords, remember where we are:

In France, amongst a fickle wavering nation;

If they perceive dissension in our looks

And that within ourselves we disagree,

How will their grudging stomachs be provoked

To willful disobedience, and rebel!

Beside, what infamy will there arise

When foreign princes shall be certified

That for a toy, a thing of no regard,

King Henry's peers and chief nobility

Destroyed themselves and lost the realm of France

O, think upon the conquest of my father,

My tender years; and let us not forgo

That for a trifle that was bought with blood!

Let me be umpire in this doubtful strife.

I see no reason, if I wear this rose,

[Putting on a red rose.]

That any one should therefore be suspicious

I more incline to Somerset than York:

Both are my kinsmen, and I love them both:

As well they may upbraid me with my crown,

Because, forsooth, the king of Scots is crowned.

But your discretions better can persuade

Than I am able to instruct or teach;

And, therefore, as we hither came in peace,

So let us still continue peace and love.

Cousin of York, we institute your grace

To be our Regent in these parts of France:

And, good my Lord of Somerset, unite

Your troops of horsemen with his bands of foot;

And, like true subjects, sons of your progenitors,

Go cheerfully together and digest

Your angry choler on your enemies.

Ourself, my lord protector and the rest

After some respite will return to Calais;

From thence to England; where I hope ere long

To be presented, by your victories,

With Charles, Alencon, and that traitorous rout.

[Flourish. Exeunt all but York, Warwick, Exeter and Vernon.]

WARWICK.

My Lord of York, I promise you, the king

Prettily, methought, did play the orator.

YORK.

And so he did; but yet I like it not,

In that he wears the badge of Somerset.

WARWICK.

Tush, that was but his fancy, blame him not;

I dare presume, sweet prince, he thought no harm.

YORK.

An if I wist he did,—but let it rest;

Other affairs must now be managed.

[Exeunt all but Exeter.]

EXETER.

Well didst thou, Richard, to suppress thy voice;

For, had the passions of thy heart burst out,

I fear we should have seen deciphered there

More rancorous spite, more furious raging broils,

Than yet can be imagined or supposed.

But howsoe'er, no simple man that sees

This jarring discord of nobility,

This shouldering of each other in the court,

This factious bandying of their favorites,

But that it doth presage some ill event.

Tis much when scepters are in children's hands;

But more when envy breeds unkind division;

There comes the ruin, there begins confusion.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

Before Bordeaux.

[Enter Talbot, with trump and drum.]

TALBOT.

Go to the gates of Bordeaux, trumpeter:

Summon their general unto the wall.

[Trumpet sounds. Enter General and others, aloft.]

English John Talbot, Captains, calls you forth,

Servant in arms to Harry King of England;

And thus he would: Open your city-gates,

Be humble to us; call my sovereign yours,

And do him homage as obedient subjects;

And I 'll withdraw me and my bloody power:

But, if you frown upon this proffered peace,

You tempt the fury of my three attendants,

Lean famine, quartering steel, and climbing fire;

Who in a moment even with the earth

Shall lay your stately and air-braving towers,

If you forsake the offer of their love.

GENERAL.

Thou ominous and fearful owl of death,

Our nation's terror and their bloody scourge!

The period of thy tyranny approacheth.

On us thou canst not enter but by death;

For, I protest, we are well fortified

And strong enough to issue out and fight:

If thou retire, the Dauphin, well appointed,

Stands with the snares of war to tangle thee:

On either hand thee there are squadrons pitched

To wall thee from the liberty of flight;

And no way canst thou turn thee for redress,

But death doth front thee with apparent spoil,

And pale destruction meets thee in the face.

Ten thousand French have ta'en the sacrament

To rive their dangerous artillery

Upon no Christian soul but English Talbot.

Lo, there thou stand'st, a breathing valiant man,

Of an invincible unconquered spirit!

This is the latest glory of thy praise

That I, thy enemy, due thee withal;

For ere the glass, that now begins to run,

Finish the process of his sandy hour,

These eyes, that see thee now well colored,

Shall see thee withered, bloody, pale, and dead.

[Drum afar off.]

Hark! hark! the Dauphin's drum, a warning bell,

Sings heavy music to thy timorous soul;

And mine shall ring thy dire departure out.

[Exeunt General, etc.]

TALBOT.

He fables not; I hear the enemy:

Out, some light horsemen, and peruse their wings.

O, negligent and heedless discipline!

How are we parked and bounded in a pale,

A little herd of England's timorous deer,

Mazed with a yelping kennel of French curs!

If we be English deer, be then in blood;

Not rascal-like, to fall down with a pinch,

But rather, moody-mad and desperate stags,

Turn on the bloody hounds with heads of steel

And make the cowards stand aloof at bay:

Sell every man his life as dear as mine,

And they shall find dear deer of us, my friends.

God and Saint George, Talbot and England's right,

Prosper our colors in this dangerous fight!

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE III.

Plains in Gascony.

[Enter a Messenger that meets York. Enter York with trumpet and many soldiers.]

YORK.

Are not the speedy scouts returned again,

That dogged the mighty army of the Dauphin?

MESSENGER.

They are returned, my lord, and give it out

That he is marched to Bordeaux with his power,

To fight with Talbot: as he marched along,

By your espials were discovered

Two mightier troops than that the Dauphin led,

Which joined with him and made their march for Bordeaux.

YORK.

A plague upon that villain Somerset,

That thus delays my promised supply

Of horsemen, that were levied for this siege!

Renowned Talbot doth expect my aid,

And I am lowted by a traitor villain,

And cannot help the noble chevalier:

God comfort him in this necessity!

If he miscarry, farewell wars in France.

[Enter Sir William Lucy.]

LUCY.

Thou princely leader of our English strength,

Never so needful on the earth of France,

Spur to the rescue of the noble Talbot,

Who now is girdled with a waist of iron,

And hemmed about with grim destruction.

To Bordeaux, warlike Duke! to Bordeaux, York!

Else, farewell, Talbot, France, and England's honor.

YORK.

O God, that Somerset, who in proud heart

Doth stop my cornets, were in Talbot's place!

So should we save a valiant gentleman

By forfeiting a traitor and a coward.

Mad ire and wrathful fury makes me weep,

That thus we die, while remiss traitors sleep.

LUCY.

O, send some succor to the distressed lord!

YORK.

He dies; we lose; I break my warlike word;

We mourn, France smiles; we lose, they daily get;

All 'long of this vile traitor Somerset.

LUCY.

Then God take mercy on brave Talbot's soul;

And on his son young John, who two hours since

I met in travel toward his warlike father!

This seven years did not Talbot see his son;

And now they meet where both their lives are done.

YORK.

Alas, what joy shall noble Talbot have,

To bid his young son welcome to his grave?

Away! vexation almost stops my breath,

That sundered friends greet in the hour of death.

Lucy, farewell: no more my fortune can,

But curse the cause I cannot aid the man.

Maine, Blois, Poictiers, and Tours, are won away,

'Long all of Somerset and his delay.

[Exit, with his soldiers.]

LUCY.

Thus, while the vulture of sedition

Feeds in the bosom of such great commanders,

Sleeping neglection doth betray to loss

The conquest of our scarce cold conqueror,

That ever living man of memory,

Henry the Fifth: whiles they each other cross,

Lives, honors, lands and all hurry to loss.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE IV.

Other plains in Gascony.

[Enter Somerset, with his army; a Captain of Talbot's with him.]

SOMERSET.

It is too late; I cannot send them now:

This expedition was by York and Talbot

Too rashly plotted: all our general force

Might with a sally of the very town

Be buckled with: the over-daring Talbot

Hath sullied all his gloss of former honor

By this unheedful, desperate, wild adventure:

York set him on to fight and die in shame,

That, Talbot dead, great York might bear the name.

CAPTAIN.

[To Somerset.]

Here is Sir William Lucy, who with me

Set from our o'er-matched forces forth for aid.

[Enter Sir William Lucy.]

SOMERSET.

How now, Sir William! whither were you sent?

LUCY.

Whither, my lord? from bought and sold Lord Talbot;

Who, ringed about with bold adversity,

Cries out for noble York and Somerset,

To beat assailing death from his weak legions;

And whiles the honorable captain there

Drops bloody sweat from his war-wearied limbs,

And, in advantage lingering, looks for rescue,

You, his false hopes, the trust of England's honor,

Keep off aloof with worthless emulation.

Let not your private discord keep away

The levied succors that should lend him aid,

While he, renowned noble gentleman,

Yield up his life unto a world of odds.

Orleans the Bastard, Charles, Burgundy,

Alencon, Reignier, compass him about,

And Talbot perisheth by your default.

SOMERSET.

York set him on; York should have sent him aid.

LUCY.

And York as fast upon your grace exclaims;

Swearing that you withhold his levied host,

Collected for this expedition.

SOMERSET.

York lies; he might have sent and had the horse:

I owe him little duty, and less love;

And take foul scorn to fawn on him by sending.

LUCY.

The fraud of England, not the force of France,

Hath now entrapped the noble-minded Talbot:

Never to England shall he bear his life;

But dies, betrayed to fortune by your strife.

SOMERSET.

Come, go; I will dispatch the horsemen straight:

Within six hours they will be at his aid.

LUCY.

Too late comes rescue; he is ta'en or slain;

For fly he could not, if he would have fled;

And fly would Talbot never, though he might.

SOMERSET.

If he be dead, brave Talbot, then adieu!

LUCY.

His fame lives in the world, his shame in you.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE V.

The English camp near Bordeaux.

[Enter Talbot and John his son.]

TALBOT.

O young John Talbot! I did send for thee

To tutor thee in stratagems of war,

That Talbot's name might be in thee revived

When sapless age and weak unable limbs

Should bring thy father to his drooping chair.

But, O malignant and ill-boding stars!

Now thou art come unto a feast of death,

A terrible and unavoided danger:

Therefore, dear boy, mount on my swiftest horse;

And I'll direct thee how thou shalt escape

By sudden flight: come, dally not, be gone.

JOHN.

Is my name Talbot? and am I your son?

And shall I fly? O, if you love my mother,

Dishonor not her honorable name,

To make a bastard and a slave of me!

The world will say, he is not Talbot's blood,

That basely fled when noble Talbot stood.

TALBOT.

Fly, to revenge my death, if I be slain.

JOHN.

He that flies so will ne'er return again.

TALBOT.

If we both stay, we both are sure to die.

JOHN.

Then let me stay; and, father, do you fly;

Your loss is great, so your regard should be;

My worth unknown, no loss is known in me.

Upon my death the French can little boast;

In yours they will, in you all hopes are lost.

Flight cannot stain the honor you have won;

But mine it will, that no exploit have done;

You fled for vantage, every one will swear;

But, if I bow, they 'll say it was for fear.

There is no hope that ever I will stay,

If the first hour I shrink and run away.

Here on my knee I beg mortality,

Rather than life preserved with infamy.

[He Kneels.]

TALBOT.

Shall all thy mother's hopes lie in one tomb?

JOHN.

Aye, rather than I 'll shame my mother's womb.

TALBOT.

Upon my blessing, I command thee go.

[John Rises.]

JOHN.

To fight I will, but not to fly the foe.

TALBOT.

Part of thy father may be saved in thee.

JOHN.

No part of him but will be shame in me.

TALBOT.

Thou never hadst renown, nor canst not lose it.

JOHN.

Yes, your renowned name: shall flight abuse it?

TALBOT.

Thy father's charge shall clear thee from that stain.

JOHN.

You cannot witness for me, being slain.

If death be so apparent, then both fly.

TALBOT.

And leave my followers here to fight and die;

My age was never tainted with such shame.

JOHN.

And shall my youth be guilty of such blame?

No more can I be severed from your side,

Than can yourself yourself in twain divide:

Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I;

For live I will not, if my father die.

TALBOT.

Then here I take my leave of thee, fair son,

Born to eclipse thy life this afternoon.

Come, side by side together live and die;

And soul with soul from France to heaven fly.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE VI.

A field of battle.

[Alarum: excursions, wherein Talbot's Son is hemmed about, and Talbot rescues him.]

TALBOT.

Saint George and victory; fight, soldiers, fight:

The regent hath with Talbot broke his word,

And left us to the rage of France his sword.

Where is John Talbot? Pause, and take thy breath;

I gave thee life and rescued thee from death.

JOHN.

O, twice my father, twice am I thy son!

The life thou gavest me first was lost and done,

Till with thy warlike sword, despite of fate,

To my determined time thou gavest new date.

TALBOT.

When from the Dauphin's crest thy sword struck fire,

It warmed thy father's heart with proud desire

Of bold-faced victory. Then leaden age,

Quickened with youthful spleen and warlike rage,

Beat down Alencon, Orleans, Burgundy,

And from the pride of Gallia rescued thee.

The ireful bastard Orleans, that drew blood

From thee, my boy, and had the maidenhood

Of thy first fight, I soon encountered,

And interchanging blows I quickly shed

Some of his bastard blood; and in disgrace

Bespoke him thus; 'Contaminated base

And misbegotten blood I spill of thine,

Mean and right poor, for that pure blood of mine,

Which thou didst force from Talbot, my brave boy:'

Here, purposing the Bastard to destroy,

Came in strong rescue. Speak, thy father's care,

Art thou not weary, John? how dost thou fare?

Wilt thou yet leave the battle, boy, and fly,

Now thou art sealed the son of chivalry?

Fly, to revenge my death when I am dead:

The help of one stands me in little stead.

O, too much folly is it, well I wot,

To hazard all our lives in one small boat!

If I to-day die not with Frenchmen's rage,

To-morrow I shall die with mickle age:

By me they nothing gain an if I stay;

'Tis but the short'ning of my life one day:

In thee thy mother dies, our household's name,

My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame:

All these and more we hazard by thy stay;

All these are saved if thou wilt fly away.

JOHN.

The sword of Orleans hath not made me smart;

These words of yours draw life-blood from my heart:

On that advantage, bought with such a shame,

To save a paltry life and slay bright fame,

Before young Talbot from old Talbot fly,

The coward horse that bears me fall and die!

And like me to the peasant boys of France,

To be shame's scorn and subject of mischance!

Surely, by all the glory you have won,

An if I fly, I am not Talbot's son;

Then talk no more of flight, it is no boot;

If son to Talbot, die at Talbot's foot.

TALBOT.

Then follow thou thy desperate sire of Crete,

Thou Icarus; thy life to me is sweet:

If thou wilt fight, fight by thy father's side;

And, commendable proved, let 's die in pride.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE VII.

Another part of the field.

[Alarum: excursions. Enter old Talbot led by a Servant.]

TALBOT.

Where is my other life? mine own is gone;

O, where's young Talbot? where is valiant John?

Triumphant death, smeared with captivity,

Young Talbot's valor makes me smile at thee:

When he perceived me shrink and on my knee,

His bloody sword he brandished over me,

And, like a hungry lion, did commence

Rough deeds of rage and stern impatience;

But when my angry guardant stood alone,

Tendering my ruin and assailed of none,

Dizzy-eyed fury and great rage of heart

Suddenly made him from my side to start

Into the clustering battle of the French;

And in that sea of blood my boy did drench

His over-mounting spirit, and there died,

My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride.

SERVANT.

O my dear lord, lo where your son is borne!

[Enter soldiers, with the body of young Talbot.]

TALBOT.

Thou antic Death, which laugh'st us here to scorn,

Anon, from thy insulting tyranny,

Coupled in bonds of perpetuity,

Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky,

In thy despite shall 'scape mortality.

O thou, whose wounds become hard-favored death,

Speak to thy father ere thou yield thy breath!

Brave death by speaking, whether he will or no;

Imagine him a Frenchman and thy foe.

Poor boy! he smiles, methinks, as who should say,

Had death been French, then death had died to-day.

Come, come and lay him in his father's arms:

My spirit can no longer bear these harms.

Soldiers, adieu! I have what I would have,

Now my old arms are young John Talbot's grave.

[Dies.]

[Enter Charles, Alencon, Burgundy, Bastard, La Pucelle, and forces.]

CHARLES.

Had York and Somerset brought rescue in,

We should have found a bloody day of this.

BASTARD.

How the young whelp of Talbot's, raging-wood,

Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen's blood!

PUCELLE.

Once I encountered him, and thus I said:

'Thou maiden youth, be vanquished by a maid.'

But, with a proud majestical high scorn,

He answered thus: 'Young Talbot was not born

To be the pillage of a giglot wench:'

So, rushing in the bowels of the French,

He left me proudly, as unworthy fight.

BURGUNDY.

Doubtless he would have made a noble knight:

See, where he lies inhearsed in the arms

Of the most bloody nurser of his harms!

BASTARD.

Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asunder,

Whose life was England's glory, Gallia's wonder.

CHARLES.

O, no, forbear! for that which we have fled

During the life, let us not wrong it dead.

[Enter Sir William Lucy, attended; Herald of the French preceding.]

LUCY.

Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin's tent,

To know who hath obtained the glory of the day.

CHARLES.

On what submissive message art thou sent?

LUCY.

Submission, Dauphin! 'tis a mere French word;

We English warriors wot not what it means.

I come to know what prisoners thou hast ta'en,

And to survey the bodies of the dead.

CHARLES.

For prisoners ask'st thou? hell our prison is.

But tell me whom thou seek'st.

LUCY.

But where's the great Alcides of the field,

Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury,

Created for his rare success in arms,

Great Earl of Washford, Waterford, and Valence;

Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield,

Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of Alton,

Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffield,

The thrice-victorious Lord of Falconbridge;

Knight of the noble order of Saint George,

Worthy Saint Michael, and the Golden Fleece;

Great marshal to Henry the Sixth

Of all his wars within the realm of France?

PUCELLE.

Here's a silly stately style indeed!

The Turk, that two and fifty kingdoms hath,

Writes not so tedious a style as this.

Him that thou magnifiest with all these titles

Stinking and fly-blown lies here at our feet.

LUCY.

Is Talbot slain, the Frenchman's only scourge,

Your kingdom's terror and black Nemesis?

O, were mine eye-balls into bullets turned,

That I in rage might shoot them at your faces!

O, that I could but can these dead to life!

It were enough to fright the realm of France:

Were but his picture left amongst you here,

It would amaze the proudest of you all.

Give me their bodies, that I may bear them hence

And give them burial as beseems their worth.

PUCELLE.

I think this upstart is old Talbot's ghost,

He speaks with such a proud commanding spirit,

For God's sake, let him have 'em; to keep them here,

They would but stink, and putrify the air.

CHARLES.

Go, take their bodies hence.

LUCY.

I 'll bear them hence;

But from their ashes shall be reared

A phoenix that shall make all France afeard.

CHARLES.

So we be rid of them, do with 'em what thou wilt.

And now to Paris, in this conquering vein:

All will be ours, now bloody Talbot's slain.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

London. The palace.

[Sennet. Enter King, Gloucester, and Exeter.]

KING.

Have you perused the letters from the Pope,

The Emperor, and the Earl of Armagnac?

GLOUCESTER.

I have, my lord: and their intent is this:

They humbly sue unto your excellence

To have a godly peace concluded of

Between the realms of England and of France.

KING.

How doth your grace affect their motion?

GLOUCESTER.

Well, my good lord; and as the only means

To stop effusion of our Christian blood

And stablish quietness on every side.

KING.

Aye, marry, uncle; for I always thought

It was both impious and unnatural

That such immanity and bloody strife

Should reign among professors of one faith.

GLOUCESTER.

Beside, my lord, the sooner to effect

And surer bind this knot of amity,

The Earl of Armagnac, near knit to Charles,

A man of great authority in France,

Proffers his only daughter to your grace

In marriage, with a large and sumptuous dowry.

KING.

Marriage, uncle! alas, my years are young!

And fitter is my study and my books

Than wanton dalliance with a paramour.

Yet call the ambassadors; and, as you please,

So let them have their answers every one:

I shall be well content with any choice

Tends to God's glory and my country's weal.

[Enter Winchester in Cardinal's habit, a Legate and two Ambassadors.]

EXETER.

What! is my Lord of Winchester installed

And called unto a cardinal's degree?

Then I perceive that will be verified

Henry the Fifth did sometime prophesy,

'If once he come to be a cardinal,

He'll make his cap co-equal with the crown.'

KING.

My lords ambassadors, your several suits

Have been considered and debated on.

Your purpose is both good and reasonable;

And therefore are we certainly resolved

To draw conditions of a friendly peace;

Which by my Lord of Winchester we mean

Shall be transported presently to France.

GLOUCESTER.

{To the Ambassador of the Earl of Armagnac.]

And for the proffer of my lord your master,

I have informed his highness so at large,

As liking of the lady's virtuous gifts,

Her beauty and the value of her dower,

He doth intend she shall be England's Queen.

KING.

In argument and proof of which contract,

Bear her this jewel, pledge of my affection.

[Gives the Ambassador a ring.]

And so, my lord protector, see them guarded

And safely brought to Dover; where inshipped,

Commit them to the fortune of the sea.

[Exeunt all but Winchester and Legate.]

WINCHESTER.

Stay my lord legate: you shall first receive

The sum of money which I promised

Should be delivered to his holiness

For clothing me in these grave ornaments.

LEGATE.

I will attend upon your lordship's leisure.

WINCHESTER.

[Aside]

Now Winchester will not submit, I trow,

Or be inferior to the proudest peer.

Humphrey of Gloucester, thou shalt well perceive

That neither in birth or for authority,

The bishop will be overborne by thee:

I 'll either make thee stoop and bend thy knee,

Or sack this country with a mutiny.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE II.

France. Plains in Anjou.

[Enter Charles, Burgundy, Alencon, Bastard, Reignier, La Pucelle, and forces.]

CHARLES.

These news, my lords, may cheer our drooping spirits:

'Tis said the stout Parisians do revolt

And turn again unto the warlike French.

ALENCON.

Then march to Paris, royal Charles of France,

And keep not back your powers in dalliance.

PUCELLE.

Peace be amongst them, if they turn to us;

Else, ruin combat with their palaces!

[Enter Scout.]

SCOUT.

Success unto our valiant general,

And happiness to his accomplices!

CHARLES.

What tidings send our scouts? I prithee, speak.

SCOUT.

The English army, that divided was

Into two parties, is now conjoined in one,

And means to give you battle presently.

CHARLES.

Somewhat too sudden, sirs, the warning is;

But we will presently provide for them.

BURGUNDY.

I trust the ghost of Talbot is not there:

Now he is gone, my lord, you need not fear.

PUCELLE.

Of all base passions, fear is most accursed.

Command the conquest, Charles, it shall be thine,

Let Henry fret and all the world repine.

CHARLES.

Then on, my lords; and France be fortunate!

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE III.

Before Angiers.

[Alarum. Excursions. Enter La Pucelle.]

PUCELLE.

The regent conquers, and the Frenchmen fly.

Now help, ye charming spells and periapts;

And ye choice spirits that admonish me,

And give me signs of future accidents. [Thunder]

You speedy helpers, that are substitutes

Under the lordly monarch of the north,

Appear and aid me in this enterprise.

[Enter Fiends.]

This speedy and quick appearance argues proof

Of your accustomed diligence to me.

Now, ye familiar spirits, that are culled

Out of the powerful regions under earth,

Help me this once, that France may get the field.

[They walk and speak not.]

O, hold me not with silence over-long!

Where I was wont to feed you with my blood,

I 'll lop a member off and give it you

In earnest of a further benefit,

So you do condescend to help me now.

[They hang their heads.]

No hope to have redress? My body shall

Pay recompense, if you will grant my suit.

[They shake their heads.]

Cannot my body nor blood-sacrifice

Entreat you to your wonted furtherance?

Then take my soul, my body, soul and all,

Before that England give the French the foil.

[They depart.]

See, they forsake me! Now the time is come

That France must vail her lofty-plumed crest,

And let her head fall into England's lap.

My ancient incantations are too weak,

And hell too strong for me to buckle with:

Now, France, thy glory droopeth to the dust.

[Exit.]

[Excursions. Re-enter La Pucelle fighting hand to hand with York: La Pucelle is taken. The French fly.]

YORK.

Damsel of France, I think I have you fast:

Unchain your spirits now with spelling charms,

And try if they can gain your liberty.

A goodly prize, fit for the devil's grace!

See, how the ugly witch doth bend her brows,

As if with Circe she would change my shape!

PUCELLE.

Changed to a worser shape thou canst not be.

YORK.

O, Charles the Dauphin is a proper man;

No shape but his can please your dainty eye.

PUCELLE.

A plaguing mischief light on Charles and thee!

And may ye both be suddenly surprised

By bloody hands, in sleeping on your beds!

YORK.

Fell banning hag; enchantress, hold thy tongue!

PUCELLE.

I prithee, give me leave to curse awhile.

YORK.

Curse, miscreant, when thou comest to the stake.

[Exeunt.]

[Alarum. Enter Suffolk, with Margaret in his hand.]

SUFFOLK.

Be what thou wilt, thou art my prisoner.

[Gazes on her.]

O fairest beauty, do not fear nor fly!

For I will touch thee but with reverent hands;

I kiss these fingers for eternal peace,

And lay them gently on thy tender side.

Who art thou? say, that I may honor thee.

MARGARET.

Margaret my name, and daughter to a king,

The King of Naples, whosoe'er thou art.

SUFFOLK.

An earl I am, and Suffolk am I called.

Be not offended, nature's miracle,

Thou art allotted to be ta'en by me.

So doth the swan her downy cygnets save,

Keeping them prisoner underneath her wings.

Yet, if this servile usage once offend,

Go and be free again as Suffolk's friend.

[She is going.]

O, stay! I have no power to let her pass;

My hand would free her, but my heart says no.

As plays the sun upon the glassy streams,

Twinkling another counterfeited beam,

So seems this gorgeous beauty to mine eyes.

Fain would I woo her, yet I dare not speak:

I'll call for pen and ink, and write my mind.

Fie, de la Pole! disable not thyself;

Hast not a tongue? is she not here?

Wilt thou be daunted at a woman's sight?

Aye, beauty's princely majesty is such,

Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough.

MARGARET.

Say, Earl of Suffolk,—if thy name be so—

What ransom must I pay before I pass?

For I perceive I am thy prisoner.

SUFFOLK.

[To himself.]

How canst thou tell she will deny thy suit,

Before thou make a trial of her love?

MARGARET.

Why speak'st thou not? what ransom must I pay?

SUFFOLK.

[To himself.]

She's beautiful and therefore to be wooed;

She is a woman, therefore to be won.

MARGARET.

[To herself.]

Wilt thou accept of ransom? yea, or no.

SUFFOLK.

[To himself.]

Fond man, remember that thou hast a wife;

Then how can Margaret be thy paramour?

MARGARET.

[To herself.]

I were best leave him, for he will not hear.

SUFFOLK.

[To himself.]

There all is marred; there lies a cooling card.

MARGARET.

[To herself.]

He talks at random; sure, the man is mad.

SUFFOLK.

[To himself.]

And yet a dispensation may be had.

MARGARET.

And yet I would that you would answer me.

SUFFOLK.

[To himself.]

I'll win this Lady Margaret. For whom?

Why, for my king; tush, that 's a wooden thing!

MARGARET.

He talks of wood: it is some carpenter.

SUFFOLK.

[To himself.]

Yet so my fancy may be satisfied,

And peace established between these realms.

But there remains a scruple in that too;

For though her father be the King of Naples,

Duke of Anjou and Maine, yet is he poor,

And our nobility will scorn the match.

MARGARET.

Hear ye, captain, are you not at leisure?

SUFFOLK.

[To himself.]

It shall be so, disdain they ne'er so much:

Henry is youthful and will quickly yield.

[To Margaret.]

Madam, I have a secret to reveal.

MARGARET.

[To herself.]

What though I be enthralled? he seems a knight,

And will not any way dishonor me.

SUFFOLK.

Lady, vouchsafe to listen what I say.

MARGARET.

[To herself.]

Perhaps I shall be rescued by the French;

And then I need not crave his courtesy.

SUFFOLK.

Sweet madam, give me hearing in a cause—

MARGARET.

[To herself.]

Tush! women have been captivate ere now.

SUFFOLK.

Lady, wherefore talk you so?

MARGARET.

I cry you mercy, 'tis but quid for quo.

SUFFOLK.

Say, gentle princess, would you not suppose

Your bondage happy, to be made a queen?

MARGARET.

To be a queen in bondage is more vile

Than is a slave in base servility;

For princes should be free.

SUFFOLK.

And so shall you,

If happy England's royal king be free.

MARGARET.

Why, what concerns his freedom unto me?

SUFFOLK.

I'll undertake to make thee Henry's queen,

To put a golden scepter in thy hand

And set a precious crown upon thy head,

If thou wilt condescend to be my—

MARGARET.

What?

SUFFOLK.

His love.

MARGARET.

I am unworthy to be Henry's wife.

SUFFOLK.

No, gentle madam; I unworthy am

To woo so fair a dame to be his wife,

And have no portion in the choice myself.

How say you, madam, are ye so content?

MARGARET.

An if my father please, I am content.

SUFFOLK.

Then call our captain and our colors forth.

And, madam, at your father's castle walls

We'll crave a parley, to confer with him.

[A parley sounded. Enter Reignier on the walls.]

See, Reignier, see, thy daughter prisoner!

REIGNIER. To whom?

SUFFOLK.

To me.

REIGNIER.

Suffolk, what remedy?

I am a soldier, and unapt to weep,

Or to exclaim on fortune's fickleness.

SUFFOLK.

Yes, there is remedy enough, my lord:

Consent, and for thy honor give consent,

Thy daughter shall be wedded to my king;

Whom I with pain have wooed and won thereto;

And this her easy-held imprisonment

Hath gained thy daughter princely liberty.

REIGNIER.

Speaks Suffolk as he thinks?

SUFFOLK.

Fair Margaret knows

That Suffolk doth not flatter, face, or feign.

REIGNIER.

Upon thy princely warrant, I descend

To give thee answer of thy just demand.

[Exit Reignier from the walls.]

SUFFOLK.

And here I will expect thy coming.

[Trumpets sound. Enter Reignier, below.]

REIGNIER.

Welcome, brave earl, into our territories:

Command in Anjou what your honor pleases.

SUFFOLK.

Thanks, Reignier, happy for so sweet a child,

Fit to be made companion with a king:

What answer makes your grace unto my suit?

REIGNIER.

Since thou dost deign to woo her little worth

To be the princely bride of such a lord;

Upon condition I may quietly

Enjoy mine own, the country Maine and Anjou,

Free from oppression or the stroke of war,

My daughter shall be Henry's, if he please.

SUFFOLK.

That is her ransom; I deliver her;

And those two counties I will undertake

Your Grace shall well and quietly enjoy.

REIGNIER.

And I — again in Henry's royal name,

As deputy unto that gracious king,

Give thee her hand, for sign of plighted faith.

SUFFOLK.

Reignier of France, I give thee kingly thanks,

Because this is in traffic of a king.

[Aside]

And yet, methinks, I could be well content

To be mine own attorney in this case.

I 'll over then to England with this news,

And make this marriage to be solemnized.

So, farewell, Reignier; set this diamond safe

In golden palaces, as it becomes.

REIGNIER.

I do embrace thee as I would embrace

The Christian prince, King Henry, were he here.

MARGARET.

Farewell, my lord: good wishes, praise and prayers.

Shall Suffolk ever have of Margaret.

[Exit Reignier. She is going after him, when Suffolk stops her.]

SUFFOLK.

Farewell, sweet madam: but hark you, Margaret;

No princely commendations to my king?

MARGARET.

Such commendations as becomes a maid,

A virgin and his servant, say to him.

SUFFOLK.

Words sweetly placed and modestly directed.

But, madam, I must trouble you again—

No loving token to his majesty?

MARGARET.

Yes, my good lord, a pure unspotted heart,

Never yet taint with love, I send the king.

SUFFOLK.

And this withal. [Kisses her.]

MARGARET.

That for thyself: I will not so presume

To send such peevish tokens to a king.

[Exeunt Reignier and Margaret.]

SUFFOLK. O, wert thou for myself! But, Suffolk, stay;

Thou mayst not wander in that labyrinth;

There Minotaurs and ugly treasons lurk.

Solicit Henry with her wondrous praise:

Bethink thee on her virtues that surmount,

And natural graces that extinguish art;

Repeat their semblance often on the seas,

That, when thou comest to kneel at Henry's feet,

Thou mayst bereave him of his wits with wonder.

[Exit.]

ACT V. SCENE IV.

Camp of the Duke of York in Anjou.

[Enter York, Warwick, and others.]

YORK.

Bring forth that sorceress condemned to burn.

[Enter La Pucelle, guarded, and a Shepherd.]

SHEPHERD.

Ah, Joan, this kills thy father's heart outright!

Have I sought every country far and near,

And—now it is my chance to find thee out,

Must I behold thy timeless cruel death?

Ah, Joan, sweet daughter Joan, I 'll die with thee!

PUCELLE.

Decrepit miser! base ignoble wretch!

I am descended of a gentler blood:

Thou art no father nor no friend of mine.

SHEPHERD.

Out, out! My lords, as please you, 'tis not so;

I did beget her, all the parish knows.

Her mother liveth yet, can testify

She was the first fruit of my bachelorship.

WARWICK.

Graceless, wilt thou deny thy parentage?

YORK.

This argues what her kind of life hath been,

Wicked and vile; and so her death concludes.

SHEPHERD.

Fie, Joan, that thou wilt be so obstacle!

God knows thou art a collop of my flesh;

And for thy sake have I shed many a tear:

Deny me not, I prithee, gentle Joan.

PUCELLE.

Peasant, avaunt! [to York.] You have suborned this man,

Of purpose to obscure my noble birth.

SHEPHERD.

'Tis true, I gave a noble to the priest

The morn that I was wedded to her mother.

Kneel down and take my blessing, good my girl.

Wilt thou not stoop? Now cursed be the time

Of thy nativity! I would the milk

Thy mother gave thee when thou suckedst her breast,

Had been a little ratsbane for thy sake!

Or else, when thou didst keep my lambs a-field,

I wish some ravenous wolf had eaten thee!

Dost thou deny thy father, cursed drab?

O, burn her, burn her! hanging is too good.

[Exit.]

YORK.

Take her away; for she hath lived too long,

To fill the world with vicious qualities.

PUCELLE.

First, let me tell you whom you have condemned:

Not me begotten of a shepherd swain,

But issued from the progeny of kings;

Virtuous and holy; chosen from above,

By inspiration of celestial grace,

To work exceeding miracles on earth.

I never had to do with wicked spirits:

But you, that are polluted with your lusts,

Stained with the guiltless blood of innocents,

Corrupt and tainted with a thousand vices,

Because you want the grace that others have,

You judge it straight a thing impossible

To compass wonders but by help of devils.

No, misconceived! Joan of Arc hath been

A virgin from her tender infancy,

Chaste and immaculate in very thought;

Whose maiden blood, thus rigorously effused,

Will cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven.

YORK.

Aye, aye: away with her to execution!

WARWICK.

And hark ye, sirs; because she is a maid,

Spare for no faggots, let there be enow:

Place barrels of pitch upon the fatal stake,

That so her torture may be shortened.

PUCELLE.

Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts?

Then, Joan, discover thine infirmity,

That warranteth by law to be thy privilege.

I am with child, ye bloody homicides:

Murder not then the fruit within my womb,

Although ye hale me to a violent death.

YORK.

Now heaven forfend! the holy maid with child!

WARWICK.

The greatest miracle that e'er ye wrought:

Is all your strict preciseness come to this?

YORK.

She and the Dauphin have been juggling:

I did imagine what would be her refuge.

WARWICK.

Well, go to; we'll have no bastards live;

Especially since Charles must father it.

PUCELLE.

You are deceived; my child is none of his:

It was Alencon that enjoyed my love.

YORK.

Alencon! that notorious Machiavel!

It dies, an if it had a thousand lives.

PUCELLE.

O, give me leave, I have deluded you:

'Twas neither Charles nor yet the duke I named,

But Reignier, king of Naples, that prevailed.

WARWICK.

A married man! that's most intolerable.

YORK.

Why, here's a girl! I think she knows not well

There were so many, whom she may accuse.

WARWICK.

It's sign she hath been liberal and free.

YORK.

And yet, forsooth, she is a virgin pure.

Strumpet, thy words condemn thy brat and thee:

Use no entreaty, for it is in vain.

PUCELLE.

Then lead me hence; with whom I leave my curse:

May never glorious sun reflex his beams

Upon the country where you make abode:

But darkness and the gloomy shade of death

Environ you, till mischief and despair

Drive you to break your necks or hang yourselves!

[Exit, guarded.]

[Enter Cardinal Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, attended.]

YORK.

Break thou in pieces and consume to ashes,

Thou foul accursed minister of hell!

CARDINAL.

Lord Regent, I do greet your excellence

With letters of commission from the king.

For know, my lords, the states of Christendom,

Moved with remorse of these outrageous broils,

Have earnestly implored a general peace

Betwixt our nation and the aspiring French;

And here at hand the Dauphin and his train

Approacheth, to confer about some matter.

YORK.

Is all our travail turned to this effect?

After the slaughter of so many peers,

So many captains, gentlemen and soldiers,

That in this quarrel have been overthrown,

And sold their bodies for their country's benefit,

Shall we at last conclude effeminate peace?

Have we not lost most part of all the towns,

By treason, falsehood, and by treachery,

Our great progenitors had conquered?

O, Warwick, Warwick! I foresee with grief

The utter loss of all the realm of France.

WARWICK.

Be patient, York: if we conclude a peace,

It shall be with such strict and severe covenants

As little shall the Frenchmen gain thereby.

[Enter Charles, Alencon, Bastard, Reignier, and others.]

CHARLES.

Since, lords of England, it is thus agreed

That peaceful truce shall be proclaimed in France,

We come to be informed by yourselves

What the conditions of that league must be.

YORK.

Speak, Winchester; for boiling choler chokes

The hollow passage of my poisoned voice,

By sight of these our baleful enemies.

CARDINAL.

Charles, and the rest, it is enacted thus:

That, in regard King Henry gives consent,

Of mere compassion and of lenity,

To ease your country of distressful war,

And suffer you to breathe in fruitful peace,

You shall become true liegemen to his crown:

And, Charles, upon condition thou wilt swear

To pay him tribute and submit thyself,

Thou shalt be placed as viceroy under him,

And still enjoy the regal dignity.

ALENCON.

Must he be then as shadow of himself?

Adorn his temples with a coronet,

And yet, in substance and authority,

Retain but privilege of a private man?

This proffer is absurd and reasonless.

CHARLES.

'Tis known already that I am possessed

With more than half the Gallian territories,

And therein reverenced for their lawful king:

Shall I, for lucre of the rest unvanquished,

Detract so much from that prerogative,

As to be called but viceroy of the whole?

No, lord ambassador, I 'll rather keep

That which I have than, coveting for more,

Be cast from possibility of all.

YORK.

Insulting Charles! hast thou by secret means

Used intercession to obtain a league,

And, now the matter grows to compromise,

Stand'st thou aloof upon comparison?

Either accept the title thou usurp'st,

Of benefit proceeding from our king

And not of any challenge of desert,

Or we will plague thee with incessant wars.

[The French turn to talk among themselves.]

REIGNIER.

My lord, you do not well in obstinacy

To cavil in the course of this contract:

If once it be neglected, ten to one

We shall not find like opportunity.

ALENCON.

To say the truth, it is your policy

To save your subjects from such massacre

And ruthless slaughters as are daily seen,

By our proceeding in hostility;

And therefore take this compact of a truce,

Although you break it when your pleasure serves.

WARWICK.

How say'st thou, Charles? Shall our condition stand?

CHARLES.

It shall;

Only reserved, you claim no interest

In any of our towns of garrison.

YORK.

Then swear allegiance to his majesty,

As thou art knight, never to disobey

Nor be rebellious to the crown of England

Thou, nor thy nobles, to the crown of England.

So, now dismiss your army when ye please;

Hang up your ensigns, let your drums be still,

For here we entertain a solemn peace.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE V.

London. The royal palace.

[Enter Suffolk in conference with the King, Gloucester and Exeter.]

KING.

Your wondrous rare description, noble earl,

Of beauteous Margaret hath astonished me.

Her virtues graced with external gifts

Do breed love's settled passions in my heart:

And like as rigor of tempestuous gusts

Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide,

So am I driven by breath of her renown,

Either to suffer shipwreck or arrive

Where I may have fruition of her love.

SUFFOLK.

Tush, my good lord, this superficial tale

Is but a preface of her worthy praise;

The chief perfections of that lovely dame,

Had I sufficient skill to utter them,

Would make a volume of enticing lines,

Able to ravish any dull conceit:

And, which is more, she is not so divine,

So full-replete with choice of all delights,

But with as humble lowliness of mind

She is content to be at your command;

Command, I mean, of virtuous intents,

To love and honor Henry as her lord.

KING.

And otherwise will Henry ne'er presume.

Therefore, my lord protector, give consent

That Margaret may be England's royal queen.

GLOUCESTER.

So should I give consent to flatter sin.

You know, my lord, your highness is betrothed

Unto another lady of esteem:

How shall we then dispense with that contract,

And not deface your honor with reproach?

SUFFOLK.

As doth a ruler with unlawful oaths;

Or one that, at a triumph having vowed

To try his strength, forsaketh yet the lists

By reason of his adversary's odds:

A poor earl's daughter is unequal odds,

And therefore may be broke without offense.

GLOUCESTER.

Why, what, I pray, is Margaret more than that?

Her father is no better than an earl,

Although in glorious titles he excel.

SUFFOLK.

Yes, my lord, her father is a king,

The King of Naples and Jerusalem;

And of such great authority in France,

As his alliance will confirm our peace,

And keep the Frenchmen in allegiance.

GLOUCESTER.

And so the Earl of Armagnac may do,

Because he is near kinsman unto Charles.

EXETER.

Beside, his wealth doth warrant a liberal dower,

Where Reignier sooner will receive than give.

SUFFOLK.

A dower, my lords! disgrace not so your king,

That he should be so abject, base and poor,

To choose for wealth and not for perfect love.

Henry is able to enrich his queen,

And not to seek a queen to make him rich:

So worthless peasants bargain for their wives,

As market-men for oxen, sheep, or horse.

Marriage is a matter of more worth

Than to be dealt in by attorneyship;

Not whom we will; but whom his grace affects,

Must be companion of his nuptial bed:

And therefore, lords, since he affects her most,

It most of all these reasons bindeth us,

In our opinions she should be preferred.

For what is wedlock forced but a hell,

An age of discord and continual strife?

Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss,

And is a pattern of celestial peace.

Whom should we match with Henry, being a king,

But Margaret, that is daughter to a king?

Her peerless feature, joined with her birth,

Approves her fit for none but for a king;

Her valiant courage and undaunted spirit,

More than in women commonly is seen,

Will answer our hope in issue of a king;

For Henry, son unto a conqueror,

Is likely to beget more conquerors,

If with a lady of so high resolve

As is fair Margaret he be linked in love.

Then yield, my lords; and here conclude with me

That Margaret shall be queen, and none but she.

KING.

Whether it be through force of your report,

My noble Lord of Suffolk, or for that

My tender youth was never yet attaint

With any passion of inflaming love,

I cannot tell; but this I am assured,

I feel such sharp dissension in my breast,

Such fierce alarums both of hope and fear,

As I am sick with working of my thoughts.

Take, therefore, shipping; post, my lord, to France;

Agree to any covenants, and procure

That Lady Margaret do vouchsafe to come

To cross the seas to England, and be crowned

King Henry's faithful and anointed queen:

For your expenses and sufficient charge,

Among the people gather up a tenth.

Be gone, I say; for till you do return,

I rest perplexed with a thousand cares.

And you, good uncle, banish all offense:

If you do censure me by what you were,

Not what you are, I know it will excuse

This sudden execution of my will.

And so, conduct me where, from company,

I may revolve and ruminate my grief.

[Exit.]

GLOUCESTER.

Aye, grief, I fear me, both at first and last.

[Exeunt Gloucester and Exeter.]

SUFFOLK.

Thus Suffolk hath prevailed; and thus he goes,

As did the youthful Paris once to Greece,

With hope to find the like event in love,

But prosper better than the Troyan did.

Margaret shall now be queen, and rule the king;

But I will rule both her, the king and realm.

[Exit.]

THE END

KING HENRY VI, PART 2

List of Characters

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act I, Scene III

Act I, Scene IV

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act II, Scene III

Act II, Scene IV

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act III, Scene III

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act IV, Scene III

Act IV, Scene IV

Act IV, Scene V

Act IV, Scene VI

Act IV, Scene VII

Act IV, Scene VIII

Act IV, Scene IX

Act IV, Scene X

Act V, Scene I

Act V, Scene II

Act V, Scene III

List of Characters

KING HENRY THE SIXTH.

HUMPHREY, Duke of Gloucester: his uncle.

CARDINAL BEAUFORT, Bishop of Winchester: great-uncle to the King.

RICHARD PLANTAGENET: Duke of York.

EDWARD and RICHARD: his sons.

DUKE OF SOMERSET.

DUKE OF SUFFOLK.

DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.

LORD CLIFFORD.

YOUNG CLIFFORD: his son.

EARL OF SALISBURY.

EARL OF WARWICK.

LORD SCALES.

LORD SAY.

SIR HUMPHREY STAFFORD, and WILLIAM STAFFORD, his brother.

SIR JOHN STANLEY.

VAUX.

MATTHEW GOFFE.

A Sea-Captain, Master, and Master's-Mate, and WALTER WHITMORE.

Two Gentlemen, prisoners with Suffolk.

JOHN HUME and JOHN SOUTHWELL: priests.

ROGER BOLINGBROKE: a conjurer.

THOMAS HORNER: an armourer. PETER: his man.

Clerk of Chatham. Mayor of Saint Albans.

SIMPCOX: an impostor.

ALEXANDER IDEN: a Kentish gentleman.

JACK CADE: a rebel.

GEORGE BEVIS, JOHN HOLLAND, DICK the butcher, SMITH the weaver, MICHAEL, etc.: followers of Cade.

Two Murderers.

MARGARET: Queen to King Henry.

ELEANOR: Duchess of Gloucester.

MARGARET JOURDAIN: a witch.

Wife to Simpcox.

Lords, Ladies, and Attendants, Petitioners, Aldermen, a Herald, a Beadle, Sheriff, and Officers, Citizens, Prentices, Falconers, Guards, Soldiers, Messengers, &c.

A Spirit.

SCENE: England.

ACT I. SCENE I.

London. The palace

[Flourish of trumpets: then hautboys. Enter the KING, GLOUCESTER, SALISBURY, WARWICK, and CARDINAL BEAUFORT, on the one side; the QUEEN, SUFFOLK, YORK, SOMERSET, and BUCKINGHAM, on the other.]

SUFFOLK.

As by your high imperial Majesty

I had in charge at my depart for France,

As procurator to your excellence,

To marry Princess Margaret for your grace,

So, in the famous ancient city Tours,

In presence of the Kings of France and Sicil,

The Dukes of Orleans, Calaber, Bretagne, and Alencon,

Seven earls, twelve barons, and twenty reverend bishops,

I have performed my task and was espoused,

And humbly now upon my bended knee,

In sight of England and her lordly peers,

Deliver up my title in the queen

To your most gracious hands, that are the substance

Of that great shadow I did represent:

The happiest gift that ever marquess gave,

The fairest queen that ever king received.

KING.

Suffolk, arise [Suffolk Rises.].—Welcome, Queen Margaret.

I can express no kinder sign of love

Than this kind kiss [Kisses her.].—O Lord, that lends me life,

Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness!

For thou hast given me in this beauteous face

A world of earthly blessings to my soul,

If sympathy of love unite our thoughts.

QUEEN.

Great King of England and my gracious lord,

The mutual conference that my mind hath had,

By day, by night, waking and in my dreams,

In courtly company or at my beads,

With you, mine alder-liefest sovereign,

Makes me the bolder to salute my king

With ruder terms, such as my wit affords

And over-joy of heart doth minister.

KING.

Her sight did ravish, but her grace in speech,

Her words yclad with wisdom's majesty,

Makes me from wondering fall to weeping joys;

Such is the fulness of my heart's content.—

Lords, with one cheerful voice welcome my love.

ALL.

[Kneeling]

Long live Queen Margaret, England's happiness!

QUEEN.

We thank you all.

[Flourish.]

SUFFOLK.

My Lord Protector, so it please your grace,

Here are the articles of contracted peace

Between our sovereign and the French king Charles,

For eighteen months concluded by consent.

GLOUCESTER.

[Reads] 'Imprimis, It is agreed between the French king Charles and William de la Pole, Marquess of Suffolk, ambassador for Henry King of England, that the said Henry shall espouse the Lady Margaret, daughter unto Reignier King of Naples, Sicilia, and Jerusalem, and crown her Queen of England ere the thirtieth of May next ensuing. Item, that the duchy of Anjou and the county of Maine shall be released and delivered to the king her father'—

[Lets the paper fall.]

KING.

Uncle, how now!

GLOUCESTER.

Pardon me, gracious lord;

Some sudden qualm hath struck me at the heart

And dimmed mine eyes, that I can read no further.

KING.

Uncle of Winchester, I pray, read on.

CARDINAL.

[Reads] 'Item, It is further agreed between them, that the duchies of Anjou and Maine shall be released and delivered over to the king her father, and she sent over of the King of England's own proper cost and charges, without having any dowry.'

KING.

They please us well.—Lord marquess, kneel down.

[Suffolk kneels.]

We here create thee the first duke of Suffolk,

[Suffolk rises.]

And girt thee with the sword.—Cousin of York,

We here discharge your grace from being regent

I' the parts of France, till term of eighteen months

Be full expired.—Thanks, uncle Winchester,

Gloucester, York, Buckingham, Somerset,

Salisbury, and Warwick;

We thank you all for this great favour done

In entertainment to my princely queen.

Come, let us in, and with all speed provide

To see her coronation be performed.

[Exeunt King, Queen, and Suffolk.]

GLOUCESTER.

Brave peers of England, pillars of the state,

To you Duke Humphrey must unload his grief,

Your grief, the common grief of all the land.

What! did my brother Henry spend his youth,

His valour, coin, and people, in the wars?

Did he so often lodge in open field,

In winter's cold and summer's parching heat,

To conquer France, his true inheritance?

And did my brother Bedford toil his wits

To keep by policy what Henry got?

Have you yourselves, Somerset, Buckingham,

Brave York, Salisbury, and victorious Warwick,

Received deep scars in France and Normandy?

Or hath mine uncle Beaufort and myself,

With all the learned counsel of the realm,

Studied so long, sat in the council-house

Early and late, debating to and fro

How France and Frenchmen might be kept in awe,

And had his highness in his infancy

Crowned in Paris in despite of foes?

And shall these labours and these honours die?

Shall Henry's conquest, Bedford's vigilance,

Your deeds of war, and all our counsel die?

O peers of England, shameful is this league!

Fatal this marriage, cancelling your fame,

Blotting your names from books of memory,

Razing the characters of your renown,

Defacing monuments of conquered France,

Undoing all, as all had never been!

CARDINAL.

Nephew, what means this passionate discourse,

This peroration with such circumstance?

For France, 't is ours; and we will keep it still.

GLOUCESTER.

Ay, uncle, we will keep it if we can,

But now it is impossible we should.

Suffolk, the new-made duke that rules the roast,

Hath given the duchy of Anjou and Maine

Unto the poor King Reignier, whose large style

Agrees not with the leanness of his purse.

SALISBURY.

Now, by the death of Him that died for all,

These counties were the keys of Normandy!—

But wherefore weeps Warwick, my valiant son?

WARWICK.

For grief that they are past recovery;

For, were there hope to conquer them again,

My sword should shed hot blood, mine eyes no tears.

Anjou and Maine! myself did win them both,

Those provinces these arms of mine did conquer;

And are the cities that I got with wounds

Delivered up again with peaceful words?

Mort Dieu!

YORK.

For Suffolk's duke, may he be suffocate,

That dims the honour of this warlike isle!

France should have torn and rent my very heart,

Before I would have yielded to this league.

I never read but England's kings have had

Large sums of gold and dowries with their wives;

And our King Henry gives away his own,

To match with her that brings no vantages.

GLOUCESTER.

A proper jest, and never heard before,

That Suffolk should demand a whole fifteenth

For costs and charges in transporting her!

She should have staid in France, and starved in France,

Before—

CARDINAL.

My Lord of Gloucester, now ye grow too hot;

It was the pleasure of my lord the King.

GLOUCESTER.

My Lord of Winchester, I know your mind;

'T is not my speeches that you do mislike,

But 't is my presence that doth trouble ye.

Rancour will out: proud prelate, in thy face

I see thy fury; if I longer stay,

We shall begin our ancient bickerings.—

Lordings, farewell; and say, when I am gone,

I prophesied France will be lost ere long.

[Exit.]

CARDINAL.

So, there goes our protector in a rage.

'T is known to you he is mine enemy,

Nay, more, an enemy unto you all,

And no great friend, I fear me, to the king.

Consider, lords, he is the next of blood,

And heir apparent to the English crown.

Had Henry got an empire by his marriage,

And all the wealthy kingdoms of the west,

There's reason he should be displeased at it.

Look to it, lords; let not his smoothing words

Bewitch your hearts; be wise and circumspect.

What though the common people favour him,

Calling him 'Humphrey, the good Duke of Gloucester,'

Clapping their hands, and crying with loud voice,

'Jesu maintain your royal excellence!'

With 'God preserve the good Duke Humphrey!'

I fear me, lords, for all this flattering gloss,

He will be found a dangerous protector.

BUCKINGHAM.

Why should he, then, protect our sovereign,

He being of age to govern of himself?—

Cousin of Somerset, join you with me,

And all together, with the Duke of Suffolk,

We'll quickly hoise Duke Humphrey from his seat.

CARDINAL.

This weighty business will not brook delay;

I'll to the Duke of Suffolk presently.

[Exit.]

SOMERSET.

Cousin of Buckingham, though Humphrey's pride

And greatness of his place be grief to us,

Yet let us watch the haughty cardinal;

His insolence is more intolerable

Than all the princes in the land beside;

If Gloucester be displaced, he 'll be protector.

BUCKINGHAM.

Or thou or I, Somerset, will be protector,

Despite Duke Humphrey or the cardinal.

[Exeunt Buckingham and Somerset.]

SALISBURY.

Pride went before, ambition follows him.

While these do labour for their own preferment,

Behoves it us to labour for the realm.

I never saw but Humphrey Duke of Gloucester

Did bear him like a noble gentleman.

Oft have I seen the haughty cardinal,

More like a soldier than a man o' the church,

As stout and proud as he were lord of all,

Swear like a ruffian and demean himself

Unlike the ruler of a commonweal.—

Warwick my son, the comfort of my age,

Thy deeds, thy plainness, and thy housekeeping,

Hath won the greatest favour of the commons,

Excepting none but good Duke Humphrey;—

And, brother York, thy acts in Ireland,

In bringing them to civil discipline,

Thy late exploits done in the heart of France,

When thou wert regent for our sovereign,

Have made thee feared and honoured of the people.—

Join we together, for the public good,

In what we can, to bridle and suppress

The pride of Suffolk and the cardinal,

With Somerset's and Buckingham's ambition,

And, as we may, cherish Duke Humphrey's deeds

While they do tend the profit of the land.

WARWICK.

So God help Warwick, as he loves the land

And common profit of his country!

YORK.

[Aside.]

And so says York, for he hath greatest cause.

SALISBURY.

Then let's make haste away, and look unto the main.

WARWICK.

Unto the main! O father, Maine is lost;

That Maine which by main force Warwick did win,

And would have kept so long as breath did last!

Main chance, father, you meant; but I meant Maine,

Which I will win from France, or else be slain.

[Exeunt Warwick and Salisbury.]

YORK.

Anjou and Maine are given to the French;

Paris is lost; the state of Normandy

Stands on a tickle point now they are gone.

Suffolk concluded on the articles,

The peers agreed; and Henry was well pleased

To changes two dukedoms for a duke's fair daughter.

I cannot blame them all: what is't to them?

'T is thine they give away, and not their own.

Pirates may make cheap pennyworths of their pillage,

And purchase friends, and give to courtesans,

Still revelling like lords till all be gone;

Whileas the silly owner of the goods

Weeps over them and wrings his hapless hands

And shakes his head and trembling stands aloof,

While all is shared and all is borne away,

Ready to starve and dare not touch his own.

So York must sit and fret and bite his tongue,

While his own lands are bargained for and sold.

Methinks the realms of England, France, and Ireland

Bear that proportion to my flesh and blood

As did the fatal brand Althaea burned

Unto the prince's heart of Calydon.

Anjou and Maine both given unto the French!

Cold news for me, for I had hope of France,

Even as I have of fertile England's soil.

A day will come when York shall claim his own;

And therefore I will take the Nevils' parts,

And make a show of love to proud Duke Humphrey,

And when I spy advantage, claim the crown,

For that 's the golden mark I seek to hit.

Nor shall proud Lancaster usurp my right,

Nor hold the sceptre in his childish fist,

Nor wear the diadem upon his head,

Whose church-like humours fits not for a crown.

Then, York, be still awhile till time do serve;

Watch thou and wake when others be asleep,

To pry into the secrets of the state;

Till Henry, surfeiting in joys of love,

With his new bride and England's dear-bought queen,

And Humphrey with the peers be fallen at jars.

Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose,

With whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed,

And in my standard bear the arms of York,

To grapple with the house of Lancaster;

And, force perforce, I 'll make him yield the crown

Whose bookish rule hath pulled fair England down.

[Exit.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

The Duke of Gloster's House.

[Enter DUKE HUMPHREY and his wife ELEANOR]

DUCHESS.

Why droops my lord, like over-ripened corn,

Hanging the head at Ceres' plenteous load?

Why doth the great Duke Humphrey knit his brows,

As frowning at the favours of the world?

Why are thine eyes fixed to the sullen earth,

Gazing on that which seems to dim thy sight?

What see'st thou there? King Henry's diadem,

Enchased with all the honours of the world?

If so, gaze on, and grovel on thy face,

Until thy head be circled with the same.

Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold.

What, is't too short? I'll lengthen it with mine,

And, having both together heaved it up,

We'll both together lift our heads to heaven,

And never more abase our sight so low

As to vouchsafe one glance unto the ground.

GLOUCESTER.

O Nell, sweet Nell, if thou dost love thy lord,

Banish the canker of ambitious thoughts;

And may that thought when I imagine ill

Against my king and nephew, virtuous Henry,

Be my last breathing in this mortal world!

My troublous dreams this night doth make me sad.

DUCHESS.

What dreamed my lord? Tell me, and I'll requite it

With sweet rehearsal of my morning's dream.

GLOUCESTER.

Methought this staff, mine office-badge in court,

Was broke in twain;—by whom I have forgot,

But, as I think, it was by the cardinal,—

And on the pieces of the broken wand

Were placed the heads of Edmund Duke of Somerset

And William de la Pole, first duke of Suffolk.

This was my dream; what it doth bode, God knows.

DUCHESS.

Tut, this was nothing but an argument

That he that breaks a stick of Gloster's grove

Shall lose his head for his presumption.

But list to me, my Humphrey, my sweet duke:

Methought I sat in seat of majesty

In the cathedral church of Westminster

And in that chair where kings and queens are crowned,

Where Henry and Dame Margaret kneeled to me

And on my head did set the diadem.

GLOUCESTER.

Nay, Eleanor, then must I chide outright.

Presumptuous dame, ill-nurtured Eleanor,

Art thou not second woman in the realm,

And the protector's wife, beloved of him?

Hast thou not worldly pleasure at command,

Above the reach or compass of thy thought?

And wilt thou still be hammering treachery,

To tumble down thy husband and thyself

From top of honour to disgrace's feet?

Away from me, and let me hear no more!

DUCHESS.

What, what, my lord! are you so choleric

With Eleanor for telling but her dream?

Next time I'll keep my dreams unto myself,

And not be checked.

GLOUCESTER.

Nay, be not angry; I am pleased again.

[Enter Messenger.]

MESSENGER.

My lord protector, 't is his highness' pleasure

You do prepare to ride unto Saint Alban's,

Whereas the king and queen do mean to hawk.

GLOUCESTER.

I go.—Come, Nell, thou wilt ride with us?

DUCHESS.

Yes, my good lord, I'll follow presently.

[Exeunt Gloucester and Messenger.]

Follow I must; I cannot go before

While Gloucester bears this base and humble mind.

Were I a man, a duke, and next of blood,

I would remove these tedious stumbling-blocks

And smooth my way upon their headless necks;

And, being a woman, I will not be slack

To play my part in Fortune's pageant.—

Where are you there? Sir John! nay, fear not, man,

We are alone; here's none but thee and I.

[Enter HUME.]

HUME.

Jesus preserve your royal majesty!

DUCHESS.

What say'st thou? majesty! I am but grace.

HUME.

But, by the grace of God, and Hume's advice,

Your grace's title shall be multiplied.

DUCHESS.

What say'st thou, man? hast thou as yet conferred

With Margery Jourdain, the cunning witch,

With Roger Bolingbroke, the conjurer?

And will they undertake to do me good?

HUME.

This they have promised,—to show your highness

A spirit raised from depth of underground,

That shall make answer to such questions

As by your Grace shall be propounded him.

DUCHESS.

It is enough; I'll think upon the questions.

When from Saint Alban's we do make return,

We'll see these things effected to the full.

Here, Hume, take this reward; make merry, man,

With thy confederates in this weighty cause.

[Exit.]

HUME.

Hume must make merry with the duchess' gold,

Marry, and shall. But, how now, Sir John Hume!

Seal up your lips, and give no words but mum;

The business asketh silent secrecy.

Dame Eleanor gives gold to bring the witch;

Gold cannot come amiss, were she a devil.

Yet have I gold flies from another coast.

I dare not say, from the rich cardinal

And from the great and new-made Duke of Suffolk,

Yet I do find it so; for, to be plain,

They, knowing Dame Eleanor's aspiring humour,

Have hired me to undermine the duchess

And buzz these conjurations in her brain.

They say ' A crafty knave does need no broker;'

Yet am I Suffolk and the cardinal's broker.

Hume, if you take not heed, you shall go near

To call them both a pair of crafty knaves.

Well, so its stands; and thus, I fear, at last

Hume's knavery will be the duchess' wrack,

And her attainture will be Humphrey's fall.

Sort how it will, I shall have gold for all.

[Exit.]

ACT I. SCENE III.

London. The palace.

[Enter PETER and other PETITIONERS.]

1 PETITIONER.

My masters, let's stand close; my lord protector will come this way by and by, and then we may deliver our supplications in the quill.

2 PETITIONER.

Marry, the Lord protect him, for he's a good man! Jesu bless him!

[Enter SUFFOLK and QUEEN.]

PETER.

Here 'a comes, methinks, and the queen with him. I'll be the first, sure.

2 PETITIONER.

Come back, fool; this is the Duke of Suffolk and not my lord protector.

SUFFOLK.

How now, fellow! wouldst any thing with me?

1 PETITIONER.

I pray, my lord, pardon me; I took ye for my lord protector.

QUEEN.

[Reading] 'To my Lord Protector!' Are your supplications to his lordship? Let me see them; what is thine?

1 PETITIONER.

Mine is, an 't please your grace, against John Goodman, my lord cardinal's man, for keeping my house and lands, and wife and all, from me.

SUFFOLK.

Thy wife too! that's some wrong, indeed.—What's yours?—What's here! [Reads] 'Against the Duke of Suffolk for enclosing the commons of Melford.'—How now, sir knave!

2 PETITIONER.

Alas, sir, I am but a poor petitioner of our whole township.

PETER.

[Giving his petition] Against my master, Thomas Horner, for saying that the Duke of York was rightful heir to the crown.

QUEEN.

What say'st thou? did the Duke of York say he was rightful heir to the crown?

PETER.

That my master was? no, forsooth; my master said that he was, and that the king was an usurper.

SUFFOLK.

Who is there? [Enter Servant.] Take this fellow in, and send for his master with a pursuivant presently.—We'll hear more of your matter before the king.

[Exit Servant with Peter.]

QUEEN.

And as for you, that love to be protected

Under the wings of our protector's grace,

Begin your suits anew and sue to him.

[Tears the supplications.]

Away, base cullions!—Suffolk, let them go.

ALL.

Come, let's be gone.

[Exeunt.]

QUEEN.

My Lord of Suffolk, say, is this the guise,

Is this the fashion in the court of England?

Is this the government of Britain's isle,

And this the royalty of Albion's king?

What, shall King Henry be a pupil still

Under the surly Gloster's governance?

Am I a queen in title and in style,

And must be made a subject to a duke?

I tell thee, Pole, when in the city Tours

Thou ran'st a tilt in honour of my love

And stol'st away the ladies' hearts of France,

I thought King Henry had resembled thee

In courage, courtship, and proportion;

But all his mind is bent to holiness,

To number Ave-Maries on his beads,

His champions are the prophets and apostles,

His weapons holy saws of sacred writ,

His study is his tilt-yard, and his loves

Are brazen images of canonized saints.

I would the college of the cardinals

Would choose him pope and carry him to Rome,

And set the triple crown upon his head;

That were a state fit for his holiness.

SUFFOLK.

Madam, be patient; as I was cause

Your highness came to England, so will I

In England work your grace's full content.

QUEEN.

Beside the haughty protector, have we Beaufort

The imperious churchman, Somerset, Buckingham,

And grumbling York; and not the least of these

But can do more in England than the king.

SUFFOLK.

And he of these that can do most of all

Cannot do more in England than the Nevils;

Salisbury and Warwick are no simple peers.

QUEEN.

Not all these lords do vex me half so much

As that proud dame, the lord protector's wife.

She sweeps it through the court with troops of ladies,

More like an empress than Duke Humphrey's wife.

Strangers in court do take her for the queen;

She bears a duke's revenues on her back,

And in her heart she scorns our poverty.

Shall I not live to be avenged on her?

Contemptuous base-born callat as she is,

She vaunted 'mongst her minions t' other day,

The very train of her worst wearing gown

Was better worth than all my father's land

Till Suffolk gave two dukedoms for his daughter.

SUFFOLK.

Madam, myself have limed a bush for her,

And placed a quire of such enticing birds

That she will light to listen to the lays,

And never mount to trouble you again.

So, let her rest; and, madam, list to me,

For I am bold to counsel you in this.

Although we fancy not the cardinal,

Yet must we join with him and with the lords

Till we have brought Duke Humphrey in disgrace.

As for the Duke of York, this late complaint

Will make but little for his benefit.

So, one by one, we'll weed them all at last,

And you yourself shall steer the happy helm.

[Sennet. Enter the KING, DUKE HUMPHREY, CARDINAL BEAUFORT, BUCKINGHAM, YORK, SOMERSET, SALISBURY, WARWICK, and the DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER.]

KING.

For my part, noble lords, I care not which;

Or Somerset or York, all's one to me.

YORK.

If York have ill demeaned himself in France,

Then let him be denayed the regentship.

SOMERSET.

If Somerset be unworthy of the place,

Let York be regent; I will yield to him.

WARWICK.

Whether your grace be worthy, yea or no,

Dispute not that; York is the worthier.

CARDINAL.

Ambitious Warwick, let thy betters speak.

WARWICK.

The cardinal's not my better in the field.

BUCKINGHAM.

All in this presence are thy betters, Warwick.

WARWICK.

Warwick may live to be the best of all.

SALISBURY.

Peace, son!—and show some reason, Buckingham,

Why Somerset should be preferred in this.

QUEEN.

Because the king, forsooth, will have it so.

GLOUCESTER.

Madam, the King is old enough himself

To give his censure; these are no women's matters.

QUEEN.

If he be old enough, what needs your grace

To be protector of his excellence?

GLOUCESTER.

Madam, I am protector of the realm,

And, at his pleasure, will resign my place.

SUFFOLK.

Resign it then, and leave thine insolence.

Since thou wert king—as who is king but thou?—

The commonwealth hath daily run to wrack;

The Dauphin hath prevailed beyond the seas;

And all the peers and nobles of the realm

Have been as bondmen to thy sovereignty.

CARDINAL.

The commons hast thou racked; the clergy's bags

Are lank and lean with thy extortions.

SOMERSET.

Thy sumptuous buildings and thy wife's attire

Have cost a mass of public treasury.

BUCKINGHAM.

Thy cruelty in execution

Upon offenders hath exceeded law,

And left thee to the mercy of the law.

QUEEN.

Thy sale of offices and towns in France,

If they were known, as the suspect is great,

Would make thee quickly hop without thy head.—

[Exit Gloucester. The Queen drops her fan..]

Give me my fan. What minion! can ye not?

[She gives the Duchess a box on the ear.]

I cry your mercy, madam; was it you?

DUCHESS.

Was't I! yea, I it was, proud Frenchwoman.

Could I come near your beauty with my nails,

I'd set my ten commandments in your face.

KING.

Sweet aunt, be quiet; 't was against her will.

DUCHESS.

Against her will! good king, look to 't in time;

She'll hamper thee and dandle thee like a baby.

Though in this place most master wear no breeches,

She shall not strike Dame Eleanor unrevenged.

[Exit.]

BUCKINGHAM.

Lord cardinal, I will follow Eleanor,

And listen after Humphrey, how he proceeds.

She's tickled now; her fume needs no spurs,

She'll gallop far enough to her destruction.

[Exit.]

[Re-enter GLOUCESTER.]

GLOUCESTER.

Now, lords, my choler being overblown

With walking once about the quadrangle,

I come to talk of commonwealth affairs.

As for your spiteful false objections,

Prove them, and I lie open to the law;

But God in mercy so deal with my soul

As I in duty love my king and country!

But, to the matter that we have in hand:

I say, my sovereign, York is meetest man

To be your regent in the realm of France.

SUFFOLK.

Before we make election, give me leave

To show some reason, of no little force,

That York is most unmeet of any man.

YORK.

I'll tell thee, Suffolk, why I am unmeet:

First, for I cannot flatter thee in pride;

Next, if I be appointed for the place,

My Lord of Somerset will keep me here,

Without discharge, money, or furniture,

Till France be won into the Dauphin's hands.

Last time, I danced attendance on his will

Till Paris was besieged, famished, and lost.

WARWICK.

That can I witness; and a fouler fact

Did never traitor in the land commit.

SUFFOLK.

Peace, headstrong Warwick!

WARWICK.

Image of pride, why should I hold my peace?

[Enter HORNER and his man PETER, guarded.]

SUFFOLK.

Because here is a man accused of treason.

Pray God the Duke of York excuse himself!

YORK.

Doth any one accuse York for a traitor?

KING.

What mean'st thou, Suffolk? tell me, what are these?

SUFFOLK.

Please it your majesty, this is the man

That doth accuse his master of high treason.

His words were these: that Richard Duke of York

Was rightful heir unto the English crown,

And that your majesty was an usurper.

KING.

Say, man, were these thy words?

HORNER.

An 't shall please your majesty, I never said nor thought any such matter; God is my witness, I am falsely accused by the villain.

PETER.

By these ten bones, my lords, he did speak them to me in the garret one night, as we were scouring my Lord of York's armour.

YORK.

Base dunghill villain and mechanical,

I'll have thy head for this thy traitor's speech.—

I do beseech your royal majesty,

Let him have all the rigour of the law.

HORNER.

Alas, my lord, hang me if ever I spake the words. My accuser is my prentice; and when I did correct him for his fault the other day, he did vow upon his knees he would be even with me. I have good witness of this; therefore I beseech your majesty, do not cast away an honest man for a villain's accusation.

KING.

Uncle, what shall we say to this in law?

GLOUCESTER.

This doom, my lord, if I may judge:

Let Somerset be Regent o'er the French,

Because in York this breeds suspicion;

And let these have a day appointed them

For single combat in convenient place,

For he hath witness of his servant's malice.

This is the law, and this Duke Humphrey's doom.

SOMERSET.

I humbly thank your royal Majesty.

HORNER.

And I accept the combat willingly.

PETER.

Alas, my lord, I cannot fight; for God's sake, pity my case. The spite of man prevaileth against me. O Lord, have mercy upon me! I shall never be able to fight a blow! O Lord, my heart!

GLOUCESTER.

Sirrah, or you must fight or else be hanged.

KING.

Away with them to prison; and the day

Of combat shall be the last of the next month.

Come, Somerset, we'll see thee sent away.

[Flourish. Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE IV.

Gloster's Garden

[Enter MARGERY JOURDAIN, HUME, SOUTHWELL, and BOLINGBROKE.]

HUME.

Come, my masters; the duchess, I tell you, expects performance of your promises.

BOLINGBROKE.

Master Hume, we are therefore provided; will her ladyship behold and hear our exorcisms?

HUME.

Ay, what else? fear you not her courage.

BOLINGBROKE.

I have heard her reported to be a woman of an invincible spirit: but it shall be convenient, Master Hume, that you be by her aloft while we be busy below; and so, I pray you go, in God's name, and leave us.—[Exit Hume.] Mother Jourdain, be you prostrate and grovel on the earth.—John Southwell, read you; and let us to our work.

[Enter DUCHESS aloft, HUME following.]

DUCHESS.

Well said, my masters; and welcome all. To this gear the sooner the better.

BOLINGBROKE.

Patience, good lady, wizards know their times:

Deep night, dark night, the silent of the night,

The time of night when Troy was set on fire,

The time when screech-owls cry and ban-dogs howl

And spirits walk and ghosts break up their graves,

That time best fits the work we have in hand.

Madam, sit you and fear not; whom we raise,

We will make fast within a hallowed verge.

[Here they do the ceremonies belonging, and make the circle; Bolingbroke or Southwell reads, Conjuro te, etc. It thunders and lightens terribly; then the Spirit riseth.]

SPIRIT.

Adsum.

M. JOURDAIN.

Asnath,

By the eternal God, whose name and power

Thou tremblest at, answer that I shall ask;

For till thou speak thou shalt not pass from hence.

SPIRIT.

Ask what thou wilt. That I had said and done!

BOLINGBROKE.

[Reads] 'First of the king: what shall of him become?'

SPIRIT.

The duke yet lives that Henry shall depose,

But him outlive and die a violent death.

[As the Spirit speaks, Southwell writes the answer.]

BOLINGBROKE.

'Tell me, what fates await the Duke of Suffolk?'

SPIRIT.

By water shall he die and take his end.

BOLINGBROKE.

'What shall befall the Duke of Somerset?'

SPIRIT.

Let him shun castles;

Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains

Than where castles mounted stand.

Have done, for more I hardly can endure.

BOLINGBROKE.

Descend to darkness and the burning lake!

False fiend, avoid!

[Thunder and lightning. Exit Spirit.]

[Enter the DUKE OF YORK and the DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM with their Guard and break in YORK.]

Lay hands upon these traitors and their trash.—

Beldam, I think we watched you at an inch.

What, madam, are you there? the king and commonweal

Are deeply indebted for this piece of pains;

My lord protector will, I doubt it not,

See you well guerdoned for these good deserts.

DUCHESS.

Not half so bad as thine to England's king,

Injurious duke, that threatest where's no cause.

BUCKINGHAM.

True, madam, none at all; what call you this?—

Away with them! let them be clapped up close,

And kept asunder.—You, madam, shall with us.—

Stafford, take her to thee.—

[Exeunt above, Duchess and Hume, guarded.]

We'll see your trinkets here all forthcoming.—

All, away!

[Exeunt guard with Jourdain, Southwell, etc.]

YORK.

Lord Buckingham, methinks you watched her well;

A pretty plot, well chosen to build upon!

Now, pray, my lord, let's see the devil's writ.

What have we here?

[Reads] 'The duke yet lives that Henry shall depose.

But him outlive and die a violent death.'

Why, this is just

'Aio te, Aeacida, Romanos vincere posse.'

Well, to the rest:

'Tell me what fate awaits the Duke of Suffolk?'

By water shall he die and take his end.

'What shall betide the Duke of Somerset?'

Let him shun castles;

Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains

Than where castles mounted stand.'—

Come, come, my lords;

These oracles are hardly attained,

And hardly understood.

The king is now in progress towards Saint Alban's,

With him the husband of this lovely lady.

Thither go these news, as fast as horse can carry them;

A sorry breakfast for my lord protector.

BUCKINGHAM.

Your Grace shall give me leave, my Lord of York,

To be the post, in hope of his reward.

YORK.

At your pleasure, my good lord.—

Who's within there, ho!

[Enter a Servingman.]

Invite my Lords of Salisbury and Warwick

To sup with me to-morrow night. Away!

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

Saint Alban's.

[Enter the KING, QUEEN, GLOUCESTER, CARDINAL, and SUFFOLK, with FALCONERS halloing.]

QUEEN.

Believe me, lords, for flying at the brook,

I saw not better sport these seven years' day;

Yet, by your leave, the wind was very high,

And, ten to one, old Joan had not gone out.

KING.

[To Gloucester.]

But what a point, my lord, your falcon made,

And what a pitch she flew above the rest!

To see how God in all His creatures works!

Yea, man and birds are fain of climbing high.

SUFFOLK.

No marvel, an it like your majesty,

My lord protector's hawks do tower so well;

They know their master loves to be aloft,

And bears his thoughts above his falcon's pitch.

GLOUCESTER.

My lord, 't is but a base ignoble mind

That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.

CARDINAL.

I thought as much; he would be above the clouds.

GLOUCESTER.

Ay, my lord cardinal? how think you by that?

Were it not good your grace could fly to heaven?

KING.

The treasury of everlasting joy.

CARDINAL.

Thy heaven is on earth; thine eyes and thoughts

Beat on a crown, the treasure of thy heart,

Pernicious protector, dangerous peer,

That smooth'st it so with king and commonweal.

GLOUCESTER.

What, cardinal, is your priesthood grown peremptory?

Tantaene animis coelestibus irae?

Churchmen so hot? good uncle, hide such malice;

With such holiness can you do it?

SUFFOLK.

No malice, sir; no more than well becomes

So good a quarrel and so bad a peer.

GLOUCESTER.

As who, my lord?

SUFFOLK.

Why, as you, my lord,

An 't like your lordly lord-protectorship.

GLOUCESTER.

Why, Suffolk, England knows thine insolence.

QUEEN.

And thy ambition, Gloucester.

KING.

I prithee, peace, good queen,

And whet not on these furious peers;

For blessed are the peacemakers on earth.

CARDINAL.

[Aside to Suffolk.]

Let me be blessed for the peace I make

Against this proud protector, with my sword!

GLOUCESTER.

[Aside to Cardinal.]

Faith, holy uncle, would 't were come to that!

CARDINAL.

[Aside to Gloucester.]

Marry, when thou dar'st.

GLOUCESTER.

[Aside to Cardinal.]

Make up no factious numbers for the matter;

In thine own person answer thy abuse.

CARDINAL.

[Aside to Gloucester.]

Ay, where thou dar'st not peep; an if thou dar'st,

This evening, on the east side of the grove.

KING.

How now, my lords!

CARDINAL.

Believe me, cousin Gloucester,

Had not your man put up the fowl so suddenly,

We had had more sport.—[Aside to Gloucester.]

Come with thy two-hand sword.

GLOUCESTER.

True, uncle.

[Aside to Cardinal.]

Are ye advised? the east side of the grove?

CARDINAL.

[Aside to Gloucester.]

I am with you.

KING.

Why, how now, uncle Gloucester!

GLOUCESTER.

Talking of hawking; nothing else, my lord.—

[Aside to Cardinal.]

Now, by God's mother, priest, I'll shave your crown for this,

Or all my fence shall fail.

CARDINAL.

[Aside to Gloucester.]

Medice, teipsum—

Protector, see to 't well, protect yourself.

KING.

The winds grow high; so do your stomachs, lords.

How irksome is this music to my heart!

When such strings jar, what hope of harmony?

I pray, my lords, let me compound this strife.

[Enter a Townsman of Saint Alban's, crying 'A miracle!']

GLOUCESTER.

What means this noise?

Fellow, what miracle dost thou proclaim?

TOWNSMAN.

A miracle! A miracle!

SUFFOLK.

Come to the king, and tell him what miracle.

TOWNSMAN.

Forsooth, a blind man at Saint Alban's shrine,

Within this half hour, hath received his sight;

A man that ne'er saw in his life before.

KING.

Now, God be praised, that to believing souls

Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair!

[Enter the Mayor of Saint Alban's and his brethren, bearing SIMPCOX, between two in a chair, SIMPCOX's Wife following.]

CARDINAL.

Here comes the townsmen on procession,

To present your highness with the man.

KING HENRY.

Great is his comfort in this earthly vale,

Although by his sight his sin be multiplied.

GLOUCESTER.

Stand by, my masters, bring him near the king;

His highness' pleasure is to talk with him.

KING.

Good fellow, tell us here the circumstance,

That we for thee may glorify the Lord.

What, hast thou been long blind and now restored?

SIMPCOX.

Born blind, an 't please your grace.

WIFE.

Ay indeed was he.

SUFFOLK.

What woman is this?

WIFE.

His wife, an 't like your worship.

GLOUCESTER.

Hadst thou been his mother, thou couldst have better told.

KING.

Where wert thou born?

SIMPCOX.

At Berwick in the north, an 't like your grace.

KING.

Poor soul, God's goodness hath been great to thee;

Let never day nor night unhallowed pass,

But still remember what the Lord hath done.

QUEEN.

Tell me, good fellow, cam'st thou here by chance,

Or of devotion, to this holy shrine?

SIMPCOX.

God knows, of pure devotion; being called

A hundred times and oftener, in my sleep,

By good Saint Alban, who said 'Simpcox, come,

Come, offer at my shrine, and I will help thee.'

WIFE.

Most true, forsooth; and many time and oft

Myself have heard a voice to call him so.

CARDINAL.

What, art thou lame?

SIMPCOX.

Ay, God Almighty help me!

SUFFOLK.

How cam'st thou so?

SIMPCOX.

A fall off of a tree.

WIFE.

A plum-tree, master.

GLOUCESTER.

How long hast thou been blind?

SIMPCOX.

O, born so, master!

GLOUCESTER.

What, and wouldst climb a tree?

SIMPCOX.

But that in all my life, when I was a youth.

WIFE.

Too true; and bought his climbing very dear.

GLOUCESTER.

Mass, thou lovedst plums well that wouldst venture so.

SIMPCOX.

Alas, good master, my wife desired some damsons,

And made me climb, with danger of my life.

GLOUCESTER.

A subtle knave! but yet it shall not serve.—

Let me see thine eyes.—Wink now;—now open them.

In my opinion yet thou seest not well.

SIMPCOX.

Yes, master, clear as day, I thank God and Saint Alban.

GLOUCESTER.

Say'st thou me so? What colour is this cloak of?

SIMPCOX.

Red, master, red as blood.

GLOUCESTER.

Why, that's well said. What colour is my gown of?

SIMPCOX.

Black, forsooth, coal-black as jet.

KING.

Why, then, thou know'st what colour jet is of?

SUFFOLK.

And yet, I think, jet did he never see.

GLOUCESTER.

But cloaks and gowns before this day, a many.

WIFE.

Never before this day in all his life.

GLOUCESTER.

Tell me, sirrah, what's my name?

SIMPCOX.

Alas, master, I know not.

GLOUCESTER.

What's his name?

SIMPCOX.

I know not.

GLOUCESTER.

Nor his?

SIMPCOX.

No, indeed, master.

GLOUCESTER.

What's thine own name?

SIMPCOX.

Saunder Simpcox, an if it please you, master.

GLOUCESTER.

Then, Saunder, sit there, the lyingest knave

In Christendom. If thou hadst been born blind,

Thou mightst as well have known all our names as thus

To name the several colours we do wear.

Sight may distinguish of colours; but suddenly

To nominate them all, it is impossible.

My lords, Saint Alban here hath done a miracle.

And would ye not think his cunning to be great

That could restore this cripple to his legs again?

SIMPCOX.

O master, that you could!

GLOUCESTER.

My masters of Saint Alban's, have you not

Beadles in your town, and things called whips?

MAYOR.

Yes, my lord, if it please your grace.

GLOUCESTER.

Then send for one presently.

MAYOR.

Sirrah, go fetch the beadle hither straight.

[Exit an Attendant.]

GLOUCESTER.

Now fetch me a stool hither by and by.

Now, sirrah, if you mean to save yourself from whipping,

Leap me over this stool and run away.

SIMPCOX.

Alas, master, I am not able to stand alone;

You go about to torture me in vain.

[Enter a Beadle with whips.]

GLOUCESTER.

Well, sir, we must have you find your legs.—

Sirrah beadle, whip him till he leap over that same stool.

BEADLE.

I will, my lord.—Come on, sirrah; off with your doublet quickly.

SIMPCOX.

Alas, master, what shall I do? I am not able to stand.

[After the Beadle hath hit him once, he leaps over the stool and runs away; and they follow and cry, 'A miracle!']

KING.

O God, seest Thou this, and bearest so long?

QUEEN.

It made me laugh to see the villain run.

GLOUCESTER.

Follow the knave, and take this drab away.

WIFE.

Alas, sir, we did it for pure need!

GLOUCESTER.

Let them be whipped through every market-town

Till they come to Berwick, from whence they came.

[Exeunt Wife, Beadle, Mayor, etc.]

CARDINAL.

Duke Humphrey has done a miracle to-day.

SUFFOLK.

True; made the lame to leap and fly away.

GLOUCESTER.

But you have done more miracles than I;

You made in a day, my lord, whole towns to fly.

[Enter BUCKINGHAM.]

KING.

What tidings with our cousin Buckingham?

BUCKINGHAM.

Such as my heart doth tremble to unfold.

A sort of naughty persons, lewdly bent,

Under the countenance and confederacy

Of Lady Eleanor, the protector's wife,

The ringleader and head of all this rout,

Have practised dangerously against your state,

Dealing with witches and with conjurers,

Whom we have apprehended in the fact,

Raising up wicked spirits from underground,

Demanding of King Henry's life and death,

And other of your highness' privy-council,

As more at large your Grace shall understand.

CARDINAL.

[Aside to Gloucester.]

And so, my lord protector, by this means

Your lady is forthcoming yet at London.

This news, I think, hath turned your weapon's edge;

'T is like, my lord, you will not keep your hour.

GLOUCESTER.

Ambitious churchman, leave to afflict my heart.

Sorrow and grief have vanquished all my powers;

And, vanquished as I am, I yield to thee,

Or to the meanest groom.

KING.

O God, what mischiefs work the wicked ones,

Heaping confusion on their own heads thereby!

QUEEN.

Gloucester, see here the tainture of thy nest;

And look thyself be faultless, thou wert best.

GLOUCESTER.

Madam, for myself, to heaven I do appeal,

How I have loved my king and commonweal;

And, for my wife, I know not how it stands.

Sorry I am to hear what I have heard;

Noble she is; but if she have forgot

Honour and virtue, and conversed with such

As like to pitch defile nobility,

I banish her my bed and company,

And give her as a prey to law and shame,

That hath dishonoured Gloster's honest name.

KING.

Well, for this night we will repose us here;

To-morrow toward London back again,

To look into this business thoroughly,

And call these foul offenders to their answers,

And poise the cause in justice' equal scales,

Whose beam stands sure, whose rightful cause prevails.

[Flourish. Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

London. The Duke of York's Garden.

[Enter YORK, SALISBURY, and WARWICK.]

YORK.

Now, my good Lords of Salisbury and Warwick,

Our simple supper ended, give me leave

In this close walk to satisfy myself,

In craving your opinion of my title,

Which is infallible, to England's crown.

SALISBURY.

My lord, I long to hear it at full.

WARWICK.

Sweet York, begin; and if thy claim be good,

The Nevils are thy subjects to command.

YORK.

Then thus:

Edward the Third, my lords, had seven sons:

The first, Edward the Black Prince, Prince of Wales;

The second, William of Hatfield; and the third,

Lionel Duke of Clarence; next to whom

Was John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster;

The fifth was Edmund Langley, Duke of York;

The sixth was Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester;

William of Windsor was the seventh and last.

Edward the Black Prince died before his father

And left behind him Richard, his only son,

Who after Edward the Third's death reigned as king;

Till Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster,

The eldest son and heir of John of Gaunt,

Crowned by the name of Henry the Fourth,

Seized on the realm, deposed the rightful king,

Sent his poor queen to France, from whence she came,

And him to Pomfret, where, as all you know,

Harmless Richard was murthered traitorously.

WARWICK.

Father, the duke hath told the truth;

Thus got the house of Lancaster the crown.

YORK.

Which now they hold by force and not by right;

For Richard, the first son's heir, being dead,

The issue of the next son should have reigned.

SALISBURY.

But William of Hatfield died without an heir.

YORK.

The third son, Duke of Clarence, from whose line

I claim the crown, had issue, Philippe, a daughter,

Who married Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March.

Edmund had issue, Roger Earl of March;

Roger had issue, Edmund, Anne, and Eleanor.

SALISBURY.

This Edmund, in the reign of Bolingbroke,

As I have read, laid claim unto the crown;

And, but for Owen Glendower, had been king,

Who kept him in captivity till he died.

But to the rest.

YORK.

His eldest sister, Anne,

My mother, being heir unto the crown,

Married Richard Earl of Cambridge, who was son

To Edmund Langley, Edward the Third's fifth son.

By her I claim the kingdom; she was heir

To Roger Earl of March, who was the son

Of Edmund Mortimer, who married Philippe,

Sole daughter unto Lionel Duke of Clarence.

So, if the issue of the elder son

Succeed before the younger, I am king.

WARWICK.

What plain proceeding is more plain than this?

Henry doth claim the crown from John of Gaunt,

The fourth son; York claims it from the third.

Till Lionel's issue fails, his should not reign;

It fails not yet, but flourishes in thee

And in thy sons, fair slips of such a stock.—

Then, father Salisbury, kneel we together;

[They kneel.]

And in this private plot be we the first

That shall salute our rightful sovereign

With honour of his birthright to the crown.

BOTH.

Long live our sovereign Richard, England's king!

YORK.

We thank you, lords. [They rise.] But I am not your king

Till I be crowned, and that my sword be stained

With heart-blood of the house of Lancaster;

And that's not suddenly to be performed,

But with advice and silent secrecy.

Do you as I do in these dangerous days,—

Wink at the Duke of Suffolk's insolence,

At Beaufort's pride, at Somerset's ambition,

At Buckingham, and all the crew of them,

Till they have snared the shepherd of the flock,

That virtuous prince, the good Duke Humphrey;

'T is that they seek, and they in seeking that

Shall find their deaths, if York can prophesy.

SALISBURY.

My lord, break we off; we know your mind at full.

WARWICK.

My heart assures me that the Earl of Warwick

Shall one day make the Duke of York a king.

YORK.

And, Nevil, this I do assure myself:

Richard shall live to make the Earl of Warwick

The greatest man in England but the king.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE III.

A Hall of Justice.

[Sound trumpets. Enter the KING, the QUEEN, GLOUCESTER, YORK, SUFFOLK, and SALISBURY; the DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER, MARGERY JOURDAIN, SOUTHWELL, HUME, and BOLINGBROKE, under guard.]

KING.

Stand forth, Dame Eleanor Cobham, Gloster's wife.

In sight of God and us, your guilt is great;

Receive the sentence of the law for sins

Such as by God's book are adjudged to death.—

You four, from hence to prison back again,

From thence unto the place of execution.

The witch in Smithfield shall be burned to ashes,

And you three shall be strangled on the gallows.—

You, madam, for you are more nobly born,

Despoiled of your honour in your life,

Shall, after three days' open penance done,

Live in your country here in banishment,

With Sir John Stanley, in the Isle of Man.

DUCHESS.

Welcome is banishment; welcome were my death.

GLOUCESTER.

Eleanor, the law, thou seest, hath judged thee;

I cannot justify whom the law condemns.—

[Exeunt Duchess and the other prisoners, guarded..]

Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief.

Ah, Humphrey, this dishonour in thine age

Will bring thy head with sorrow to the ground!—

I beseech your majesty, give me leave to go;

Sorrow would solace, and mine age would ease.

KING.

Stay, Humphrey Duke of Gloucester. Ere thou go,

Give up thy staff; Henry will to himself

Protector be, and God shall be my hope,

My stay, my guide, and lantern to my feet.

And go in peace, Humphrey, no less beloved

Than when thou wert protector to thy king.

QUEEN.

I see no reason why a king of years

Should be to be protected like a child.—

God and King Henry govern England's realm.

Give up your staff, sir, and the king his realm.

GLOUCESTER.

My staff? Here, noble Henry, is my staff.

As willingly do I the same resign

As e'er thy father Henry made it mine;

And even as willingly at thy feet I leave it

As others would ambitiously receive it.

[Lays down staff.]

Farewell, good king; when I am dead and gone,

May honourable peace attend thy throne!

[Exit.]

QUEEN.

Why, now is Henry king, and Margaret queen;

And Humphrey Duke of Gloucester scarce himself,

That bears so shrewd a maim; two pulls at once—

His lady banished, and a limb lopped off.

This staff of honour raught [Picks up staff.], there let it stand

Where it best fits to be, in Henry's hand.

SUFFOLK.

Thus droops this lofty pine and hangs his sprays;

Thus Eleanor's pride dies in her youngest days.

YORK.

Lords, let him go.—Please it your majesty,

This is the day appointed for the combat;

And ready are the appellant and defendant,

The armourer and his man, to enter the lists,

So please your highness to behold the fight.

QUEEN.

Ay, good my lord; for purposely therefore

Left I the court, to see this quarrel tried.

KING.

O' God's name, see the lists and all things fit.

Here let them end it; and God defend the right!

YORK.

I never saw a fellow worse bested,

Or more afraid to fight, than is the appellant,

The servant of his armourer, my lords.

[Enter at one door, HORNER the Armourer, and his Neighbours, drinking to him so much that he is drunk; and he enters with a drum before him and his staff with a sand-bag fastened to it; and at the other door PETER, his man, with a drum and sandbag, and Prentices drinking to him.]

1 NEIGHBOUR.

Here, neighbour Horner, I drink to you in a cup of sack; and fear not, neighbour, you shall do well enough.

2 NEIGHBOUR.

And here, neighbour, here's a cup of charneco.

3 NEIGHBOUR.

And here's a pot of good double beer, neighbour; drink, and fear not your man.

HORNER.

Let it come, i' faith, and I'll pledge you all; and a fig for Peter!

1 PRENTICE.

Here, Peter, I drink to thee; and be not afraid.

2 PRENTICE.

Here, Peter, here's a pint of claret wine for three.

3 PRENTICE.

And here's a quart for me; and be merry, Peter, and fear not thy master. Fight for credit of the prentices.

PETER.

I thank you all; drink, and pray for me, I pray you, for I think I have taken my last draught in this world.—Here, Robin, an if I die, I give thee my apron;—and, Will, thou shalt have my hammer;—and here, Tom, take all the money that I have.—O Lord bless me! I pray God! for I am never able to deal with my master, he hath learnt so much fence already.

SALISBURY.

Come, leave your drinking and fall to blows.—

Sirrah, what's thy name?

PETER.

Peter, forsooth.

SALISBURY.

Peter? what more?

PETER.

Thump.

SALISBURY.

Thump! Then see thou thump thy master well.

HORNER.

Masters, I am come hither, as it were, upon my man's instigation, to prove him a knave and myself an honest man; and touching the Duke of York, I will take my death, I never meant him any ill, nor the king, nor the queen;—and therefore, Peter, have at thee with a downright blow!

YORK.

Dispatch; this knave's tongue begins to double.—

Sound, trumpets, alarum to the combatants!

[Alarum. They fight, and Peter strikes him down.]

HORNER.

Hold, Peter, hold! I confess, I confess treason.

[Dies.]

YORK.

Take away his weapon.—Fellow, thank God, and the good wine in thy master's way.

PETER.

O God, have I overcome mine enemies in this presence? O Peter, thou hast prevailed in right!

KING.

Go, take hence that traitor from our sight,

For by his death we do perceive his guilt;

And God in justice hath revealed to us

The truth and innocence of this poor fellow,

Which he had thought to have murthered wrongfully.—

Come, fellow, follow us for thy reward.

[Sound a flourish. Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE IV.

A Street.

[Enter GLOUCESTER and his Servingmen, in mourning cloaks.]

GLOUCESTER.

Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud,

And after summer evermore succeeds

Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold;

So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet.

Sirs, what's o'clock?

SERVINGMEN.

Ten, my lord.

GLOUCESTER.

Ten is the hour that was appointed me

To watch the coming of my punished duchess.

Uneath may she endure the flinty streets,

To tread them with her tender-feeling feet.—

Sweet Nell, ill can thy noble mind abrook

The abject people gazing on thy face

With envious looks, laughing at thy shame,

That erst did follow thy proud chariot-wheels

When thou didst ride in triumph through the streets.—

But, soft! I think she comes; and I'll prepare

My tear-stained eyes to see her miseries.

[Enter the DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER in a white sheet, and a taper burning in her hand; with SIR JOHN STANLEY, the Sheriff, and Officers.]

SERVINGMEN.

So please your Grace, we'll take her from the sheriff.

GLOUCESTER.

No, stir not for your lives; let her pass by.

DUCHESS.

Come you, my lord, to see my open shame?

Now thou dost penance too. Look how they gaze!

See how the giddy multitude do point,

And nod their heads, and throw their eyes on thee!

Ah, Gloucester, hide thee from their hateful looks,

And, in thy closet pent up, rue my shame,

And ban thine enemies, both mine and thine!

GLOUCESTER.

Be patient, gentle Nell; forget this grief.

DUCHESS.

Ah, Gloucester, teach me to forget myself!

For whilst I think I am thy married wife,

And thou a prince, protector of this land,

Methinks I should not thus be led along,

Mailed up in shame, with papers on my back,

And followed with a rabble that rejoice

To see my tears and hear my deep-fet groans.

The ruthless flint doth cut my tender feet,

And when I start, the envious people laugh

And bid me be advised how I tread.

Ah, Humphrey, can I bear this shameful yoke?

Trow'st thou that e'er I'll look upon the world,

Or count them happy that enjoy the sun?

No; dark shall be my light and night my day;

To think upon my pomp shall be my hell.

Sometimes I'll say, I am Duke Humphrey's wife,

And he a prince and ruler of the land;

Yet so he ruled and such a prince he was

As he stood by whilst I, his forlorn duchess,

Was made a wonder and a pointing-stock

To every idle rascal follower.

But be thou mild and blush not at my shame,

Nor stir at nothing till the axe of death

Hang over thee, as, sure, it shortly will;

For Suffolk, he that can do all in all

With her that hateth thee and hates us all,

And York, and impious Beaufort, that false priest,

Have all limed bushes to betray thy wings,

And, fly thou how thou canst, they'll tangle thee;

But fear not thou until thy foot be snared,

Nor never seek prevention of thy foes.

GLOUCESTER.

Ah, Nell, forbear! thou aimest all awry.

I must offend before I be attainted;

And had I twenty times so many foes,

And each of them had twenty times their power,

All these could not procure me any scath

So long as I am loyal, true, and crimeless.

Wouldst have me rescue thee from this reproach?

Why, yet thy scandal were not wiped away,

But I in danger for the breach of law.

Thy greatest help is quiet, gentle Nell.

I pray thee, sort thy heart to patience;

These few days' wonder will be quickly worn.

[Enter a Herald.]

HERALD.

I summon your grace to his majesty's parliament,

Holden at Bury the first of this next month.

GLOUCESTER.

And my consent ne'er asked herein before!

This is close dealing.—Well, I will be there.—

[Exit Herald.]

My Nell, I take my leave;—and, master sheriff,

Let not her penance exceed the king's commission.

SHERIFF.

An 't please your grace, here my commission stays,

And Sir John Stanley is appointed now

To take her with him to the Isle of Man.

GLOUCESTER.

Must you, Sir John, protect my lady here?

STANLEY.

So am I given in charge, may 't please your grace.

GLOUCESTER.

Entreat her not the worse in that I pray

You use her well. The world may laugh again,

And I may live to do you kindness if

You do it her; and so, Sir John, farewell!

DUCHESS.

What, gone, my lord, and bid me not farewell!

GLOUCESTER.

Witness my tears, I cannot stay to speak.

[Exeunt Gloucester and Servingmen.]

DUCHESS.

Art thou gone too? all comfort go with thee!

For none abides with me; my joy is death,

Death, at whose name I oft have been afeard,

Because I wished this world's eternity.—

Stanley, I prithee, go, and take me hence;

I care not whither, for I beg no favour,

Only convey me where thou art commanded.

STANLEY.

Why, madam, that is to the Isle of Man;

There to be used according to your state.

DUCHESS.

That's bad enough, for I am but reproach;

And shall I then be used reproachfully?

STANLEY.

Like to a duchess, and Duke Humphrey's lady;

According to that state you shall be used.

DUCHESS.

Sheriff, farewell, and better than I fare,

Although thou hast been conduct of my shame.

SHERIFF.

It is my office; and, madam, pardon me.

DUCHESS.

Ay, ay, farewell; thy office is discharged.—

Come, Stanley, shall we go?

STANLEY.

Madam, your penance done, throw off this sheet,

And go we to attire you for our journey.

DUCHESS.

My shame will not be shifted with my sheet;

No, it will hang upon my richest robes

And show itself, attire me how I can.

Go, lead the way; I long to see my prison.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

The Abbey at Bury St. Edmund's.

[Sound a sennet. Enter the KING, the QUEEN, CARDINAL BEAUFORT, SUFFOLK, YORK, BUCKINGHAM, SALISBURY, and WARWICK to the Parliament.]

KING.

I muse my Lord of Gloucester is not come;

'Tis not his wont to be the hindmost man,

Whate'er occasion keeps him from us now.

QUEEN.

Can you not see? or will ye not observe

The strangeness of his altered countenance?

With what a majesty he bears himself,

How insolent of late he is become,

How proud, how peremptory, and unlike himself?

We know the time since he was mild and affable,

And if we did but glance a far-off look,

Immediately he was upon his knee,

That all the court admired him for submission;

But meet him now, and be it in the morn

When every one will give the time of day,

He knits his brow, and shows an angry eye,

And passeth by with stiff unbowed knee,

Disdaining duty that to us belongs.

Small curs are not regarded when they grin,

But great men tremble when the lion roars;

And Humphrey is no little man in England.

First note that he is near you in descent,

And should you fall, he is the next will mount.

Me seemeth then it is no policy,

Respecting what a rancorous mind he bears

And his advantage following your decease,

That he should come about your royal person

Or be admitted to your highness' council.

By flattery hath he won the commons' hearts,

And when he please to make commotion

'T is to be feared they all will follow him.

Now 't is the spring and weeds are shallow-rooted;

Suffer them now, and they'll o'ergrow the garden

And choke the herbs for want of husbandry.

The reverent care I bear unto my lord

Made me collect these dangers in the duke.

If it be fond, can it a woman's fear;

Which fear if better reasons can supplant,

I will subscribe and say I wronged the duke.—

My Lord of Suffolk, Buckingham, and York,

Reprove my allegation if you can,

Or else conclude my words effectual.

SUFFOLK.

Well hath your highness seen into this duke;

And, had I first been put to speak my mind,

I think I should have told your grace's tale.

The duchess by his subornation,

Upon my life, began her devilish practices;

Or, if he were not privy to those faults,

Yet, by reputing of his high descent,

As next the king he was successive heir,

And such high vaunts of his nobility,

Did instigate the bedlam brain-sick duchess

By wicked means to frame our sovereign's fall.

Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep,

And in his simple show he harbours treason.

The fox barks not when he would steal the lamb.—

No, no, my sovereign; Gloucester is a man

Unsounded yet and full of deep deceit.

CARDINAL.

Did he not, contrary to form of law,

Devise strange deaths for small offences done?

YORK.

And did he not, in his protectorship,

Levy great sums of money through the realm

For soldiers' pay in France, and never sent it?

By means whereof the towns each day revolted.

BUCKINGHAM.

Tut, these are petty faults to faults unknown,

Which time will bring to light in smooth Duke Humphrey.

KING.

My lords, at once: the care you have of us,

To mow down thorns that would annoy our foot,

Is worthy praise; but, shall I speak my conscience,

Our kinsman Gloucester is as innocent

From meaning treason to our royal person

As is the sucking lamb or harmless dove.

The duke is virtuous, mild, and too well given

To dream on evil or to work my downfall.

QUEEN.

Ah, what's more dangerous than this fond affiance!

Seems he a dove? his feathers are but borrowed,

For he's disposed as the hateful raven;

Is he a lamb? his skin is surely lent him,

For he's inclined as is the ravenous wolf.

Who cannot steal a shape that means deceit?

Take heed, my lord; the welfare of us all

Hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man.

[Enter SOMERSET.]

SOMERSET.

All health unto my gracious sovereign!

KING.

Welcome, Lord Somerset. What news from France?

SOMERSET.

That all your interest in those territories

Is utterly bereft you; all is lost.

KING.

Cold news, Lord Somerset; but God's will be done!

YORK.

[Aside.]

Cold news for me, for I had hope of France

As firmly as I hope for fertile England.

Thus are my blossoms blasted in the bud,

And caterpillars eat my leaves away;

But I will remedy this gear ere long

Or sell my title for a glorious grave.

[Enter GLOUCESTER.]

GLOUCESTER.

All happiness unto my lord the king!

Pardon, my liege, that I have staid so long.

SUFFOLK.

Nay, Gloucester, know that thou art come too soon,

Unless thou wert more loyal than thou art.

I do arrest thee of high treason here.

GLOUCESTER.

Well, Suffolk's Duke, thou shalt not see me blush,

Nor change my countenance for this arrest;

A heart unspotted is not easily daunted.

The purest spring is not so free from mud

As I am clear from treason to my sovereign.

Who can accuse me? wherein am I guilty?

YORK.

'T is thought, my lord, that you took bribes of France,

And, being protector, stayed the soldiers' pay,

By means whereof his highness hath lost France.

GLOUCESTER.

Is it but thought so? what are they that think it?

I never robbed the soldiers of their pay,

Nor ever had one penny bribe from France.

So help me God, as I have watched the night,

Ay, night by night, in studying good for England!

That doit that e'er I wrested from the king,

Or any groat I hoarded to my use,

Be brought against me at my trial-day!

No; many a pound of mine own proper store,

Because I would not tax the needy commons,

Have I dispursed to the garrisons,

And never asked for restitution.

CARDINAL.

It serves you well, my lord, to say so much.

GLOUCESTER.

I say no more than truth, so help me God!

YORK.

In your protectorship you did devise

Strange tortures for offenders never heard of,

That England was defamed by tyranny.

GLOUCESTER.

Why, 't is well known that, whiles I was protector,

Pity was all the fault that was in me;

For I should melt at an offender's tears,

And lowly words were ransom for their fault.

Unless it were a bloody murtherer,

Or foul felonious thief that fleeced poor passengers,

I never gave them condign punishment.

Murther indeed, that bloody sin, I tortured

Above the felon or what trespass else.

SUFFOLK.

My lord, these faults are easy, quickly answered;

But mightier crimes are laid unto your charge,

Whereof you cannot easily purge yourself.

I do arrest you in his highness' name,

And here commit you to my lord cardinal

To keep until your further time of trial.

KING.

My Lord of Gloucester, 't is my special hope

That you will clear yourself from all suspect;

My conscience tells me you are innocent.

GLOUCESTER.

Ah, gracious lord, these days are dangerous.

Virtue is choked with foul ambition,

And charity chased hence by rancour's hand;

Foul subornation is predominant,

And equity exiled your highness' land.

I know their complot is to have my life,

And if my death might make this island happy

And prove the period of their tyranny,

I would expend it with all willingness;

But mine is made the prologue to their play,

For thousands more, that yet suspect no peril,

Will not conclude their plotted tragedy.

Beaufort's red sparkling eyes blab his heart's malice,

And Suffolk's cloudy brow his stormy hate;

Sharp Buckingham unburthens with his tongue

The envious load that lies upon his heart;

And dogged York, that reaches at the moon,

Whose overweening arm I have plucked back,

By false accuse doth level at my life.—

And you, my sovereign lady, with the rest,

Causeless have laid disgraces on my head

And with your best endeavour have stirred up

My liefest liege to be mine enemy.—

Ay, all of you have laid your heads together—

Myself had notice of your conventicles—

And all to make away my guiltless life.

I shall not want false witness to condemn me,

Nor store of treasons to augment my guilt;

The ancient proverb will be well effected,—

'A staff is quickly found to beat a dog.'

CARDINAL.

My liege, his railing is intolerable;

If those that care to keep your royal person

From treason's secret knife and traitor's rage

Be thus upbraided, chid, and rated at,

And the offender granted scope of speech,

'T will make them cool in zeal unto your grace.

SUFFOLK.

Hath he not twit our sovereign lady here

With ignominious words, though clerkly couched,

As if she had suborned some to swear

False allegations to o'erthrow his state?

QUEEN.

But I can give the loser leave to chide.

GLOUCESTER.

Far truer spoke than meant; I lose, indeed.

Beshrew the winners, for they played me false!

And well such losers may have leave to speak.

BUCKINGHAM.

He'll wrest the sense and hold us here all day.—

Lord Cardinal, he is your prisoner.

CARDINAL.

Sirs, take away the Duke, and guard him sure.

GLOUCESTER.

Ah, thus King Henry throws away his crutch

Before his legs be firm to bear his body.

Thus is the shepherd beaten from thy side,

And wolves are gnarling who shall gnaw thee first.

Ah, that my fear were false! ah, that it were!

For, good King Henry, thy decay I fear.

[Exit, guarded.]

KING.

My lords, what to your wisdoms seemeth best,

Do or undo, as if ourself were here.

QUEEN.

What, will your highness leave the parliament?

KING.

Ay, Margaret; my heart is drowned with grief,

Whose flood begins to flow within mine eyes,

My body round engirt with misery,

For what's more miserable than discontent?—

Ah, uncle Humphrey! in thy face I see

The map of honour, truth, and loyalty;

And yet, good Humphrey, is the hour to come

That e'er I proved thee false or feared thy faith.

What lowering star now envies thy estate,

That these great lords and Margaret our queen

Do seek subversion of thy harmless life?

Thou never didst them wrong nor no man wrong;

And as the butcher takes away the calf

And binds the wretch and beats it when it strays,

Bearing it to the bloody slaughter-house,

Even so remorseless have they borne him hence;

And as the dam runs lowing up and down,

Looking the way her harmless young one went,

And can do nought but wail her darling's loss,

Even so myself bewails good Gloster's case

With sad unhelpful tears, and with dimmed eyes

Look after him, and cannot do him good,

So mighty are his vowed enemies.

His fortunes I will weep and 'twixt each groan

Say 'Who's a traitor? Gloucester he is none.'

[Exeunt all but Queen, Cardinal Beaufort, Suffolk and York; Somerset remains apart.]

QUEEN.

Free lords, cold snow melts with the sun's hot beams.

Henry my lord is cold in great affairs,

Too full of foolish pity, and Gloster's show

Beguiles him as the mournful crocodile

With sorrow snares relenting passengers,

Or as the snake rolled in a flowering bank,

With shining checkered slough, doth sting a child

That for the beauty thinks it excellent.

Believe me, lords, were none more wise than I—

And yet herein I judge mine own wit good—

This Gloucester should be quickly rid the world,

To rid us from the fear we have of him.

CARDINAL.

That he should die is worthy policy,

But yet we want a colour for his death,

'T is meet he be condemned by course of law.

SUFFOLK.

But, in my mind, that were no policy.

The king will labour still to save his life;

The commons haply rise to save his life,

And yet we have but trivial argument,

More than mistrust, that shows him worthy death.

YORK.

So that, by this, you would not have him die.

SUFFOLK.

Ah, York, no man alive so fain as I!

YORK.

[Aside]

'T is York that hath more reason for his death.—

But, my lord cardinal, and you, my Lord of Suffolk,

Say as you think, and speak it from your souls,

Were 't not all one an empty eagle were set

To guard the chicken from a hungry kite,

As place Duke Humphrey for the king's protector?

QUEEN.

So the poor chicken should be sure of death.

SUFFOLK.

Madam, 't is true; and were 't not madness, then,

To make the fox surveyor of the fold?

Who being accused a crafty murtherer,

His guilt should be but idly posted over,

Because his purpose is not executed.

No; let him die, in that he is a fox,

By nature proved an enemy to the flock,

Before his chaps be stained with crimson blood,

As Humphrey, proved by reasons, to my liege.

And do not stand on quillets how to slay him.

Be it by gins, by snares, by subtlety,

Sleeping or waking, 't is no matter how,

So he be dead; for that is good deceit

Which mates him first that first intends deceit.

QUEEN.

Thrice-noble Suffolk, 't is resolutely spoke.

SUFFOLK.

Not resolute, except so much were done,

For things are often spoke and seldom meant;

But that my heart accordeth with my tongue,—

Seeing the deed is meritorious,

And to preserve my sovereign from his foe,—

Say but the word, and I will be his priest.

CARDINAL.

But I would have him dead, my Lord of Suffolk,

Ere you can take due orders for a priest.

Say you consent and censure well the deed,

And I'll provide his executioner,

I tender so the safety of my liege.

SUFFOLK.

Here is my hand, the deed is worthy doing.

QUEEN.

And so say I.

YORK.

And I; and now we three have spoke it,

It skills not greatly who impugns our doom.

[Enter a Post.]

POST.

Great lords, from Ireland am I come amain,

To signify that rebels there are up

And put the Englishmen unto the sword.

Send succours, lords, and stop the rage betime,

Before the wound do grow uncurable;

For, being green, there is great hope of help.

CARDINAL.

A breach that craves a quick expedient stop!

What council give you in this weighty cause?

YORK.

That Somerset be sent as regent thither.

'T is meet that lucky ruler be employed;

Witness the fortune he hath had in France.

SOMERSET.

If York, with all his far-fet policy,

Had been the regent there instead of me,

He never would have stayed in France so long.

YORK.

No, not to lose it all as thou hast done;

I rather would have lost my life betimes

Than bring a burden of dishonour home

By staying there so long till all were lost.

Show me one scar charactered on thy skin;

Men's flesh preserved so whole do seldom win.

QUEEN.

Nay then, this spark will prove a raging fire,

If wind and fuel be brought to feed it with.

No more, good York.—Sweet Somerset, be still.—

Thy fortune, York, hadst thou been regent there,

Might happily have proved far worse than his.

YORK.

What, worse than nought? nay, then a shame take all!

SOMERSET.

And, in the number, thee that wishest shame!

CARDINAL.

My Lord of York, try what your fortune is.

The uncivil kerns of Ireland are in arms,

And temper clay with blood of Englishmen.

To Ireland will you lead a band of men,

Collected choicely, from each county some,

And try your hap against the Irishmen?

YORK.

I will, my lord, so please his majesty.

SUFFOLK.

Why, our authority is his consent,

And what we do establish he confirms.—

Then, noble York, take thou this task in hand.

YORK.

I am content.—Provide me soldiers, lords,

Whiles I take order for mine own affairs.

SUFFOLK.

A charge, Lord York, that I will see performed.

But now return we to the false Duke Humphrey.

CARDINAL.

No more of him; for I will deal with him

That henceforth he shall trouble us no more.

And so break off; the day is almost spent.—

[Aside]

Lord Suffolk, you and I must talk of that event.

YORK.

My Lord of Suffolk, within fourteen days

At Bristol I expect my soldiers;

For there I'll ship them all for Ireland.

SUFFOLK.

I'll see it truly done, my Lord of York.

[Exeunt all but York.]

YORK.

Now, York, or never, steel thy fearful thoughts,

And change misdoubt to resolution.

Be that thou hop'st to be, or what thou art

Resign to death; it is not worth the enjoying.

Let pale-faced fear keep with the mean-born man,

And find no harbour in a royal heart.

Faster than spring-time showers comes thought on thought,

And not a thought but thinks on dignity.

My brain more busy than the labouring spider

Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.

Well, nobles, well, 't is politicly done,

To send me packing with an host of men;

I fear me you but warm the starved snake,

Who, cherished in your breasts, will sting your hearts.

'T was men I lacked, and you will give them me;

I take it kindly, yet be well-assured

You put sharp weapons in a madman's hands.

Whiles I in Ireland nourish a mighty band,

I will stir up in England some black storm

Shall blow ten thousand souls to heaven or hell;

And this fell tempest shall not cease to rage

Until the golden circuit on my head,

Like to the glorious sun's transparent beams,

Do calm the fury of this mad-bred flaw.

And for a minister of my intent,

I have seduced a headstrong Kentishman,

John Cade of Ashford,

To make commotion, as full well he can,

Under the tide of John Mortimer.

In Ireland have I seen this stubborn Cade

Oppose himself against a troop of kerns,

And fought so long till that his thighs with darts

Were almost like a sharp-quilled porpentine;

And, in the end being rescued, I have seen

Him caper upright like a wild Morisco,

Shaking the bloody darts as he his bells.

Full often, like a shag-haired crafty kern,

Hath he conversed with the enemy,

And undiscovered come to me again

And given me notice of their villainies.

This devil here shall be my substitute;

For that John Mortimer, which now is dead,

In face, in gait, in speech, he doth resemble.

By this I shall perceive the commons' mind,

How they affect the house and claim of York.

Say he be taken, racked, and tortured,

I know no pain they can inflict upon him

Will make him say I moved him to those arms.

Say that he thrive, as 't is great like he will,

Why, then from Ireland come I with my strength

And reap the harvest which that rascal sowed;

For Humphrey being dead, as he shall be,

And Henry put apart, the next for me.

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

Bury St. Edmund's. A Room of State.

[Enter certain Murderers, hastily.]

1 MURDERER.

Run to my Lord of Suffolk; let him know

We have dispatched the duke, as he commanded.

2 MURDERER.

O that it were to do! What have we done?

Didst ever hear a man so penitent?

[Enter SUFFOLK.]

1 MURDERER.

Here comes my lord.

SUFFOLK.

Now, sirs, have you dispatched this thing?

1 MURDERER.

Ay, my good lord, he's dead.

SUFFOLK.

Why, that's well said. Go, get you to my house;

I will reward you for this venturous deed.

The king and all the peers are here at hand.

Have you laid fair the bed? Is all things well,

According as I gave directions?

1 MURDERER.

'T is, my good lord.

SUFFOLK.

Away! be gone.

[Exeunt Murderers.]

[Sound trumpets. Enter the KING, the QUEEN, CARDINAL BEAUFORT, SOMERSET, with attendants.]

KING.

Go, call our uncle to our presence straight;

Say we intend to try his grace to-day,

If he be guilty, as 't is published.

SUFFOLK.

I'll call him presently, my noble lord.

[Exit.]

KING.

Lords, take your places; and, I pray you all,

Proceed no straiter 'gainst our uncle Gloucester

Than from true evidence of good esteem

He be approved in practice culpable.

QUEEN.

God forbid any malice should prevail

That faultless may condemn a nobleman!

Pray God he may acquit him of suspicion!

KING.

I thank thee, Meg; these words content me much.—

[Re-enter SUFFOLK.]

How now! Why look'st thou pale? Why tremblest thou?

Where is our uncle? What's the matter, Suffolk?

SUFFOLK.

Dead in his bed, my lord; Gloucester is dead.

QUEEN.

Marry, God forfend!

CARDINAL.

God's secret judgment!—I did dream to-night

The duke was dumb and could not speak a word.

[The King swoons.]

QUEEN.

How fares my lord?—Help, lords! the king is dead.

SOMERSET.

Rear up his body; wring him by the nose.

QUEEN.

Run, go, help, help!—O Henry, ope thine eyes!

SUFFOLK.

He doth revive again.—Madam, be patient.

KING.

O heavenly God!

QUEEN.

How fares my gracious lord?

SUFFOLK.

Comfort, my sovereign! gracious Henry, comfort!

KING.

What, doth my Lord of Suffolk comfort me?

Came he right now to sing a raven's note

Whose dismal tune bereft my vital powers,

And thinks he that the chirping of a wren,

By crying comfort from a hollow breast,

Can chase away the first-conceived sound?

Hide not thy poison with such sugared words;

Lay not thy hands on me; forbear, I say!

Their touch affrights me as a serpent's sting.

Thou baleful messenger, out of my sight!

Upon thy eye-balls murtherous tyranny

Sits in grim majesty, to fright the world.

Look not upon me, for thine eyes are wounding.

Yet do not go away; come, basilisk,

And kill the innocent gazer with thy sight,

For in the shade of death I shall find joy,

In life but double death, now Gloster's dead.

QUEEN.

Why do you rate my Lord of Suffolk thus?

Although the duke was enemy to him,

Yet he most Christian-like laments his death;

And for myself, foe as he was to me,

Might liquid tears or heart-offending groans

Or blood-consuming sighs recall his life,

I would be blind with weeping, sick with groans,

Look pale as primrose with blood-drinking sighs,

And all to have the noble duke alive.

What know I how the world may deem of me?

For it is known we were but hollow friends.

It may be judged I made the duke away;

So shall my name with slander's tongue be wounded

And princes' courts be filled with my reproach.

This get I by his death. Ay me, unhappy!

To be a queen, and crowned with infamy!

KING.

Ah, woe is me for Gloucester, wretched man!

QUEEN.

Be woe for me, more wretched than he is.

What, dost thou turn away and hide thy face?

I am no loathsome leper; look on me.

What! art thou, like the adder, waxen deaf?

Be poisonous too and kill thy forlorn queen.

Is all thy comfort shut in Gloster's tomb?

Why, then, dame Margaret was ne'er thy joy.

Erect his statue and worship it,

And make my image but an alehouse sign.

Was I for this nigh wracked upon the sea,

And twice by awkward wind from England's bank

Drove back again unto my native clime?

What boded this but well forewarning wind

Did seem to say 'Seek not a scorpion's nest,

Nor set no footing on this unkind shore?'

What did I then, but cursed the gentle gusts

And he that loosed them forth their brazen caves,

And bid them blow towards England's blessed shore,

Or turn our stern upon a dreadful rock?

Yet Aeolus would not be a murtherer,

But left that hateful office unto thee.

The pretty-vaulting sea refused to drown me,

Knowing that thou wouldst have me drowned on shore,

With tears as salt as sea, through thy unkindness.

The splitting rocks cowered in the sinking sands

And would not dash me with their ragged sides,

Because thy flinty heart, more hard than they,

Might in thy palace perish Margaret.

As far as I could ken thy chalky cliffs,

When from thy shore the tempest beat us back,

I stood upon the hatches in the storm,

And when the dusky sky began to rob

My earnest-gaping sight of thy land's view,

I took a costly jewel from my neck—

A heart it was, bound in with diamonds—

And threw it towards thy land; the sea received it,

And so I wished thy body might my heart.

And even with this I lost fair England's view,

And bid mine eyes be packing with my heart,

And called them blind and dusky spectacles,

For losing ken of Albion's wished coast.

How often have I tempted Suffolk's tongue,

The agent of thy foul inconstancy,

To sit and witch me, as Ascanius did

When he to madding Dido would unfold

His father's acts commenced in burning Troy!

Am I not witched like her? or thou not false like him?

Ay me, I can no more! die, Margaret!

For Henry weeps that thou dost live so long.

[Noise within. Enter WARWICK, SALISBURY, and many Commons.]

WARWICK.

It is reported, mighty sovereign,

That good Duke Humphrey traitorously is murthered

By Suffolk and the Cardinal Beaufort's means.

The commons, like an angry hive of bees

That want their leader, scatter up and down

And care not who they sting in his revenge.

Myself have calmed their spleenful mutiny

Until they hear the order of his death.

KING.

That he is dead, good Warwick, 't is too true;

But how he died God knows, not Henry.

Enter his chamber, view his breathless corpse,

And comment then upon his sudden death.

WARWICK.

That shall I do, my liege.—Stay, Salisbury,

With the rude multitude till I return.

[Exit.]

KING.

O Thou that judgest all things, stay my thoughts,

My thoughts, that labour to persuade my soul

Some violent hands were laid on Humphrey's life!

If my suspect be false, forgive me, God,

For judgment only doth belong to thee.

Fain would I go to chafe his paly lips

With twenty thousand kisses, and to drain

Upon his face an ocean of salt tears

To tell my love unto his dumb deaf trunk,

And with my fingers feel his hand unfeeling;

But all in vain are these mean obsequies;

And to survey his dead and earthy image,

What were it but to make my sorrow greater?

[Re-enter WARWICK and others, bearing GLOSTER's body on a bed.]

WARWICK.

Come hither, gracious sovereign, view this body.

KING.

That is to see how deep my grave is made;

For with his soul fled all my worldly solace,

For seeing him I see my life in death.

WARWICK.

As surely as my soul intends to live

With that dread King that took our state upon him

To free us from his father's wrathful curse,

I do believe that violent hands were laid

Upon the life of this thrice-famed duke.

SUFFOLK.

A dreadful oath, sworn with a solemn tongue!

What instance gives Lord Warwick for his vow?

WARWICK.

See how the blood is settled in his face.

Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost,

Of ashy semblance, meagre, pale, and bloodless,

Being all descended to the labouring heart,

Who, in the conflict that it holds with death,

Attracts the same for aidance 'gainst the enemy,

Which with the heart there cools and ne'er returneth

To blush and beautify the cheek again.

But see, his face is black and full of blood,

His eyeballs further out than when he lived,

Staring full ghastly like a strangled man;

His hair upreared, his nostrils stretched with struggling,

His hands abroad displayed, as one that grasped

And tugged for life and was by strength subdued.

Look, on the sheets his hair, you see, is sticking;

His well-proportioned beard made rough and rugged,

Like to the summer's corn by tempest lodged.

It cannot be but he was murthered here;

The least of all these signs were probable.

SUFFOLK.

Why, Warwick, who should do the duke to death?

Myself and Beaufort had him in protection;

And we, I hope, sir, are no murtherers.

WARWICK.

But both of you were vowed Duke Humphrey's foes,

And you, forsooth, had the good duke to keep;

'T is like you would not feast him like a friend,

And 't is well seen he found an enemy.

QUEEN.

Then you, belike, suspect these noblemen

As guilty of Duke Humphrey's timeless death.

WARWICK.

Who finds the heifer dead and bleeding fresh

And sees fast by a butcher with an axe

But will suspect 't was he that made the slaughter?

Who finds the partridge in the puttock's nest

But may imagine how the bird was dead,

Although the kite soar with unbloodied beak?

Even so suspicious is this tragedy.

QUEEN.

Are you the butcher, Suffolk? Where's your knife?

Is Beaufort termed a kite? Where are his talons?

SUFFOLK.

I wear no knife to slaughter sleeping men;

But here's a vengeful sword, rusted with ease,

That shall be scoured in his rancorous heart

That slanders me with murther's crimson badge.—

Say, if thou dar'st, proud Lord of Warwickshire,

That I am faulty in Duke Humphrey's death.

[Exeunt Cardinal, Somerset, and others.]

WARWICK.

What dares not Warwick, if false Suffolk dare him?

QUEEN.

He dares not calm his contumelious spirit,

Nor cease to be an arrogant controller,

Though Suffolk dare him twenty thousand times.

WARWICK.

Madam, be still,—with reverence may I say;

For every word you speak in his behalf

Is slander to your royal dignity.

SUFFOLK.

Blunt-witted lord, ignoble in demeanour!

If ever lady wronged her lord so much,

Thy mother took into her blameful bed

Some stern untutored churl, and noble stock

Was graft with crab-tree slip, whose fruit thou art,

And never of the Nevils' noble race.

WARWICK.

But that the guilt of murther bucklers thee

And I should rob the deathsman of his fee,

Quitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames,

And that my sovereign's presence makes me mild,

I would, false murtherous coward, on thy knee

Make thee beg pardon for thy passed speech

And say it was thy mother that thou meant'st,

That thou thyself was born in bastardy;

And after all this fearful homage done,

Give thee thy hire and send thy soul to hell,

Pernicious blood-sucker of sleeping men!

SUFFOLK.

Thou shalt be waking while I shed thy blood,

If from this presence thou dar'st go with me.

WARWICK.

Away even now, or I will drag thee hence.

Unworthy though thou art, I'll cope with thee

And do some service to Duke Humphrey's ghost.

[Exeunt Suffolk and Warwick.]

KING.

What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted!

Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just,

And he but naked, though locked up in steel,

Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.

[A noise within.]

QUEEN.

What noise is this?

[Re-enter Suffolk and Warwick, with their weapons drawn.]

KING.

Why, how now, lords! your wrathful weapons drawn

Here in our presence! dare you be so bold?

Why, what tumultuous clamour have we here?

SUFFOLK.

The traitorous Warwick with the men of Bury

Set all upon me, mighty sovereign.

SALISBURY.

[To the Commons, entering.]

Sirs, stand apart; the king shall know your mind.—

Dread lord, the commons send you word by me,

Unless false Suffolk straight be done to death,

Or banished fair England's territories,

They will by violence tear him from your palace

And torture him with grievous lingering death.

They say, by him the good Duke Humphrey died;

They say, in him they fear your highness' death;

And mere instinct of love and loyalty,

Free from a stubborn opposite intent,

As being thought to contradict your liking,

Makes them thus forward in his banishment.

They say, in care of your most royal person,

That if your highness should intend to sleep

And charge that no man should disturb your rest

In pain of your dislike or pain of death,

Yet, notwithstanding such a strait edict,

Were there a serpent seen, with forked tongue,

That slily glided towards your majesty,

It were but necessary you were waked,

Lest, being suffered in that harmful slumber,

The mortal worm might make the sleep eternal;

And therefore do they cry, though you forbid,

That they will guard you, whether you will or no,

From such fell serpents as false Suffolk is,

With whose envenomed and fatal sting,

Your loving uncle, twenty times his worth,

They say, is shamefully bereft of life.

COMMONS.

[Within.]

An answer from the king, my Lord of Salisbury!

SUFFOLK.

'T is like the commons, rude unpolished hinds,

Could send such message to their sovereign;

But you, my lord, were glad to be employed,

To show how quaint an orator you are.

But all the honour Salisbury hath won

Is that he was the lord ambassador

Sent from a sort of tinkers to the king.

COMMONS.

[Within.]

An answer from the king, or we will all break in!

KING.

Go, Salisbury, and tell them all from me,

I thank them for their tender loving care,

And had I not been cited so by them,

Yet did I purpose as they do entreat,

For, sure, my thoughts do hourly prophesy

Mischance unto my state by Suffolk's means;

And therefore, by His majesty I swear,

Whose far unworthy deputy I am,

He shall not breathe infection in this air

But three days longer, on the pain of death.

[Exit Salisbury.]

QUEEN.

O Henry, let me plead for gentle Suffolk!

KING.

Ungentle queen, to call him gentle Suffolk!

No more, I say; if thou dost plead for him,

Thou wilt but add increase unto my wrath.

Had I but said, I would have kept my word,

But when I swear, it is irrevocable.—

If, after three days' space, thou here be'st found

On any ground that I am ruler of,

The world shall not be ransom for thy life.—

Come, Warwick, come, good Warwick, go with me;

I have great matters to impart to thee.

[Exeunt all but Queen and Suffolk.]

QUEEN.

Mischance and sorrow go along with you!

Heart's discontent and sour affliction

Be playfellows to keep you company!

There's two of you; the devil make a third!

And threefold vengeance tend upon your steps!

SUFFOLK.

Cease, gentle queen, these execrations,

And let thy Suffolk take his heavy leave.

QUEEN.

Fie, coward woman and soft-hearted wretch,

Has thou not spirit to curse thine enemy?

SUFFOLK.

A plague upon them! wherefore should I curse them?

Would curses kill, as doth the mandrake's groan,

I would invent as bitter-searching terms,

As curst, as harsh and horrible to hear,

Delivered strongly through my fixed teeth,

With full as many signs of deadly hate,

As lean-faced Envy in her loathsome cave.

My tongue should stumble in mine earnest words;

Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint;

Mine hair be fixed an end, as one distract;

Ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban;

And even now my burthened heart would break,

Should I not curse them. Poison be their drink!

Gall, worse than gall, the daintiest that they taste!

Their sweetest shade a grove of cypress-trees!

Their chiefest prospect murthering basilisks!

Their softest touch as smart as lizards' stings!

Their music frightful as the serpent's hiss,

And boding screech-owls make the consort full!

All the foul terrors in dark-seated hell—

QUEEN.

Enough, sweet Suffolk; thou torment'st thyself;

And these dread curses, like the sun 'gainst glass,

Or like an overcharged gun, recoil

And turns the force of them upon thyself.

SUFFOLK.

You bade me ban, and will you bid me leave?

Now, by the ground that I am banished from,

Well could I curse away a winter's night,

Though standing naked on a mountain top

Where biting cold would never let grass grow,

And think it but a minute spent in sport.

QUEEN.

O, let me entreat thee cease. Give me thy hand,

That I may dew it with my mournful tears;

Nor let the rain of heaven wet this place,

To wash away my woeful monuments.

O, could this kiss be printed in thy hand,

That thou mightest think upon these by the seal,

Through whom a thousand sighs are breathed for thee!

So, get thee gone, that I may know my grief;

'T is but surmised whiles thou art standing by,

As one that surfeits thinking on a want.

I will repeal thee, or, be well assured,

Adventure to be banished myself;

And banished I am, if but from thee.

Go; speak not to me, even now be gone.—

O, go not yet!—Even thus two friends condemned

Embrace and kiss and take ten thousand leaves,

Loather a hundred times to part than die.

Yet now farewell; and farewell life with thee!

SUFFOLK.

Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished;

Once by the king, and three times thrice by thee.

'T is not the land I care for, wert thou thence;

A wilderness is populous enough,

So Suffolk had thy heavenly company;

For where thou art, there is the world itself,

With every several pleasure in the world,

And where thou art not, desolation.

I can no more; live thou to joy thy life,

Myself no joy in nought but that thou liv'st.

[Enter VAUX.]

QUEEN.

Whither goes Vaux so fast? What news, I prithee?

VAUX.

To signify unto his majesty

That Cardinal Beaufort is at point of death;

For suddenly a grievous sickness took him,

That makes him gasp and stare and catch the air,

Blaspheming God and cursing men on earth.

Sometime he talks as if Duke Humphrey's ghost

Were by his side, sometime he calls the king

And whispers to his pillow as to him

The secrets of his overcharged soul;

And I am sent to tell his majesty

That even now he cries aloud for him.

QUEEN.

Go tell this heavy message to the king.—

[Exit Vaux.]

Ay me! what is this world! what news are these!

But wherefore grieve I at an hour's poor loss,

Omitting Suffolk's exile, my soul's treasure?

Why only, Suffolk, mourn I not for thee,

And with the southern clouds contend in tears,

Theirs for the earth's increase, mine for my sorrows?

Now get thee hence. The king, thou know'st, is coming;

If thou be found by me; thou art but dead.

SUFFOLK.

If I depart from thee, I cannot live;

And in thy sight to die, what were it else

But like a pleasant slumber in thy lap?

Here could I breathe my soul into the air,

As mild and gentle as the cradle-babe

Dying with mother's dug between its lips;

Where, from thy sight, I should be raging mad

And cry out for thee to close up mine eyes,

To have thee with thy lips to stop my mouth.

So shouldst thou either turn my flying soul,

Or I should breathe it so into thy body,

And then it lived in sweet Elysium.

To die by thee were but to die in jest;

From thee to die were torture more than death.

O, let me stay, befall what may befall!

QUEEN.

Away! though parting be a fretful corrosive,

It is applied to a deathful wound.

To France, sweet Suffolk; let me hear from thee,

For whereso'er thou art in this world's globe

I'll have an Iris that shall find thee out.

SUFFOLK.

I go.

QUEEN.

And take my heart with thee.

SUFFOLK.

A jewel, locked into the wofull'st cask

That ever did contain a thing of worth.

Even as a splitted bark, so sunder we;

This way fall I to death.

QUEEN.

This way for me.

[Exeunt severally.]

ACT III. SCENE III.

A Bedchamber.

[Enter the KING, SALISBURY, and WARWICK, to the CARDINAL in bed.]

KING.

How fares my lord? Speak, Beaufort, to thy sovereign.

CARDINAL.

If thou be'st Death, I'll give thee England's treasure,

Enough to purchase such another island,

So thou wilt let me live and feel no pain.

KING.

Ah, what a sign it is of evil life

Where death's approach is seen so terrible!

WARWICK.

Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks to thee.

CARDINAL.

Bring me unto my trial when you will.

Died he not in his bed? where should he die?

Can I make men live, whether they will or no?

O, torture me no more! I will confess.—

Alive again? then show me where he is;

I'll give a thousand pound to look upon him.

He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them.

Comb down his hair; look, look! it stands upright,

Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul.—

Give me some drink; and bid the apothecary

Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.

KING.

O Thou eternal Mover of the Heavens,

Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch!

O, beat away the busy meddling fiend

That lays strong siege unto this wretch's soul,

And from his bosom purge this black despair!

WARWICK.

See how the pangs of death do make him grin!

SALISBURY.

Disturb him not; let him pass peaceably.

KING.

Peace to his soul, if God's good pleasure be!—

Lord cardinal, if thou think'st on heaven's bliss,

Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope.—

He dies, and makes no sign.—O God, forgive him!

WARWICK.

So bad a death argues a monstrous life.

KING HENRY.

Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.—

Close up his eyes and draw the curtain close;

And let us all to meditation.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

The Coast of Kent.

[Alarum. Fight at sea. Ordnance goes off. Enter a Captain, a Master, a Master's Mate, WALTER WHITMORE, and others; with them SUFFOLK, and others, prisoners.]

CAPTAIN.

The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day

Is crept into the bosom of the sea;

And now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades

That drag the tragic melancholy night,

Who, with their drowsy, slow, and flagging wings,

Clip dead men's graves and from their misty jaws

Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air.

Therefore bring forth the soldiers of our prize;

For, whilst our pinnace anchors in the Downs,

Here shall they make their ransom on the sand

Or with their blood stain this discoloured shore.—

Master, this prisoner freely give I thee;—

And thou that art his mate, make boot of this;—

The other, Walter Whitmore, is thy share.

1 GENTLEMAN.

What is my ransom, master? let me know?

MASTER.

A thousand crowns, or else lay down your head.

MATE.

And so much shall you give, or off goes yours.

CAPTAIN.

What, think you much to pay two thousand crowns,

And bear the name and port of gentlemen?—

WHITMORE.

Cut both the villains' throats;—for die you shall.

CAPTAIN.

The lives of those which we have lost in fight

Be counterpoised with such a petty sum!

1 GENTLEMAN.

I'll give it, sir; and therefore spare my life.

2 GENTLEMAN.

And so will I, and write home for it straight.

WHITMORE.

I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboard,—

[To Suffolk] And therefore, to revenge it, shalt thou die;—

And so should these, if I might have my will.

CAPTAIN.

Be not so rash; take ransom, let him live.

SUFFOLK.

Look on my George; I am a gentleman.

Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid.

WHITMORE.

And so am I; my name is Walter Whitmore.

How now! Why start'st thou? What, doth death affright?

SUFFOLK.

Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is death.

A cunning man did calculate my birth

And told me that by water I should die.

Yet let not this make thee be bloody-minded;

Thy name is Gaultier, being rightly sounded.

WHITMORE.

Gaultier or Walter, which it is, I care not.

Never yet did base dishonour blur our name

But with our sword we wiped away the blot;

Therefore, when merchant-like I sell revenge,

Broke be my sword, my arms torn and defaced,

And I proclaimed a coward through the world!

SUFFOLK.

Stay, Whitmore; for thy prisoner is a prince,

The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Pole.

WHITMORE.

The Duke of Suffolk muffled up in rags!

SUFFOLK.

Ay, but these rags are no part of the duke;

Jove sometime went disguised, and why not I?

CAPTAIN.

But Jove was never slain, as thou shalt be.

SUFFOLK.

Obscure and lowly swain, King Henry's blood,

The honourable blood of Lancaster,

Must not be shed by such a jaded groom.

Hast thou not kissed thy hand and held my stirrup?

Bare-headed plodded by my foot-cloth mule

And thought thee happy when I shook my head?

How often hast thou waited at my cup,

Fed from my trencher, kneeled down at the board,

When I have feasted with Queen Margaret?

Remember it and let it make thee crest-fallen,

Ay, and allay thus thy abortive pride,

How in our voiding lobby hast thou stood

And duly waited for my coming forth.

This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf,

And therefore shall it charm thy riotous tongue.

WHITMORE.

Speak, captain, shall I stab the forlorn swain?

CAPTAIN.

First let my words stab him, as he hath me.

SUFFOLK.

Base slave, thy words are blunt and so art thou.

CAPTAIN.

Convey him hence, and on our long-boat's side

Strike off his head.

SUFFOLK.

Thou dar'st not, for thy own.

CAPTAIN.

Yes, poll!

SUFFOLK.

Pole!

CAPTAIN.

Pool! Sir Pool! lord!

Ay, kennel, puddle, sink, whose filth and dirt

Troubles the silver spring where England drinks.

Now will I dam up this thy yawning mouth

For swallowing the treasure of the realm;

Thy lips that kissed the queen shall sweep the ground;

And thou that smiledst at good Duke Humphrey's death

Against the senseless winds shalt grin in vain,

Who in contempt shall hiss at thee again.

And wedded be thou to the hags of hell,

For daring to affy a mighty lord

Unto the daughter of a worthless king,

Having neither subject, wealth, nor diadem.

By devilish policy art thou grown great

And, like ambitious Sylla, overgorged

With gobbets of thy mother's bleeding heart.

By thee Anjou and Maine were sold to France,

The false revolting Normans thorough thee

Disdain to call us lord, and Picardy

Hath slain their governors, surprised our forts,

And sent the ragged soldiers wounded home.

The princely Warwick, and the Nevils all,

Whose dreadful swords were never drawn in vain,

As hating thee are rising up in arms;

And now the house of York, thrust from the crown

By shameful murther of a guiltless king

And lofty proud encroaching tyranny,

Burns with revenging fire, whose hopeful colours

Advance our half-faced sun, striving to shine,

Under the which is writ 'Invitis nubibus.'

The commons here in Kent are up in arms;

And, to conclude, reproach and beggary

Is crept into the palace of our king,

And all by thee.—Away! convey him hence.

SUFFOLK.

O that I were a god, to shoot forth thunder

Upon these paltry, servile, abject drudges!

Small things make base men proud; this villain here,

Being captain of a pinnace, threatens more

Than Bargulus the strong Illyrian pirate.—

Drones suck not eagles' blood but rob bee-hives.

It is impossible that I should die

By such a lowly vassal as thyself.

Thy words move rage and not remorse in me.

CAPTAIN.

Ay, but my deeds shall stay thy fury soon.

SUFFOLK.

I go of message from the queen to France;

I charge thee waft me safely cross the Channel.

CAPTAIN.

Walter,—

WHITMORE.

Come, Suffolk, I must waft thee to thy death.

SUFFOLK.

Gelidus timor occupat artus;

It is thee I fear.

WHITMORE.

Thou shalt have cause to fear before I leave thee.

What, are ye daunted now? now will ye stoop?

1 GENTLEMAN.

My gracious lord, entreat him, speak him fair.

SUFFOLK.

Suffolk's imperial tongue is stern and rough,

Used to command, untaught to plead for favour.

Far be it we should honour such as these

With humble suit; no, rather let my head

Stoop to the block than these knees bow to any

Save to the God of heaven and to my king,

And sooner dance upon a bloody pole

Than stand uncovered to the vulgar groom.

True nobility is exempt from fear;

More can I bear than you dare execute.

CAPTAIN.

Hale him away, and let him talk no more.

SUFFOLK.

Come, soldiers, show what cruelty ye can,

That this my death may never be forgot!

Great men oft die by vile bezonians:

A Roman sworder and banditto slave

Murthered sweet Tully; Brutus' bastard hand

Stabbed Julius Caesar; savage islanders

Pompey the Great; and Suffolk dies by pirates.

[Exeunt Whitmore and others with Suffolk.]

CAPTAIN.

And as for these whose ransom we have set,

It is our pleasure one of them depart,

Therefore come you with us, and let him go.

[Exeunt all but the 1 Gentleman.]

[Re-enter WHITMORE with SUFFOLK'S body.]

WHITMORE.

There let his head and lifeless body lie

Until the queen his mistress bury it.

[Exit.]

1 GENTLEMAN.

O barbarous and bloody spectacle!

His body will I bear unto the king.

If he revenge it not, yet will his friends;

So will the queen, that living held him dear.

[Exit with the body.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

Blackheath.

[Enter GEORGE BEVIS and JOHN HOLLAND.]

GEORGE.

Come, and get thee a sword, though made of a lath; they have been up these two days.

HOLLAND.

They have the more need to sleep now, then.

BEVIS.

I tell thee, Jack Cade the clothier means to dress the commonwealth, and turn it, and set a new nap upon it.

HOLLAND.

So he had need, for 't is threadbare. Well, I say it was never merry world in England since gentlemen came up.

BEVIS.

O miserable age! virtue is not regarded in handicraftsmen.

HOLLAND.

The nobility think scorn to go in leather aprons.

BEVIS.

Nay, more, the king's council are no good workmen.

HOLLAND.

True; and yet it is said, labour in thy vocation, which is as much to say as, let the magistrates be labouring men; and therefore should we be magistrates.

BEVIS.

Thou hast hit it; for there's no better sign of a brave mind than a hard hand.

HOLLAND.

I see them! I see them! There's Best's son, the tanner of Wingham,—

BEVIS.

He shall have the skin of our enemies, to make dog'sleather of.

HOLLAND.

And Dick the butcher,—

BEVIS.

Then is sin struck down like an ox, and iniquity's throat cut like a calf.

HOLLAND.

And Smith the weaver,—

BEVIS.

Argo, their thread of life is spun.

HOLLAND.

Come, come, let's fall in with them.

[Drum. Enter CADE, DICK the Butcher, SMITH the Weaver, and a Sawyer, with infinite numbers.]

CADE.

We John Cade, so termed of our supposed father,—

DICK.

[Aside.]

Or rather, of stealing a cade of herrings.

CADE.

For our enemies shall fall before us, inspired with the spirit of putting down kings and princes,—Command silence.

DICK.

Silence!

CADE.

My father was a Mortimer,—

DICK.

[Aside.] He was an honest man and a good bricklayer.

CADE.

My mother a Plantagenet,—

DICK.

[Aside.] I knew her well; she was a midwife.

CADE.

My wife descended of the Lacies,—

DICK.

[Aside.] She was, indeed, a pedler's daughter, and sold many laces.

SMITH.

[Aside.] But now of late, not able to travel with her furred pack, she washes bucks here at home.

CADE.

Therefore am I of an honourable house.

DICK.

[Aside.] Ay, by my faith, the field is honourable; and there was he born, under a hedge, for his father had never a house but the cage.

CADE.

Valiant I am.

SMITH.

[Aside.] A' must needs; for beggary is valiant.

CADE.

I am able to endure much.

DICK.

[Aside.] No question of that; for I have seen him whipped three market-days together.

CADE.

I fear neither sword nor fire.

SMITH.

[Aside.] He need not fear the sword, for his coat is of proof.

DICK.

[Aside.] But methinks he should stand in fear of fire, being burnt i' the hand for stealing of sheep.

CADE.

Be brave, then; for your captain is brave, and vows reformation. There shall be in England seven halfpenny loaves sold for a penny; the three-hooped pot shall have ten hoops; and I will make it felony to drink small beer. All the realm shall be in common; and in Cheapside shall my palfry go to grass; and when I am king, as king I will be,—

ALL.

God save your majesty!

CADE.

I thank you, good people;—there shall be no money; all shall eat and drink on my score, and I will apparel them all in one livery, that they may agree like brothers and worship me their lord.

DICK.

The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.

CADE.

Nay, that I mean to do. Is not this a lamentable thing, that of the skin of an innocent lamb should be made parchment, that parchment, being scribbled o'er, should undo a man? Some say the bee stings; but I say 't is the bee's wax, for I did but seal once to a thing, and I was never mine own man since.—How now! who's there?

[Enter some, bringing in the Clerk of Chatham.]

SMITH.

The clerk of Chatham; he can write and read and cast accompt.

CADE.

O monstrous!

SMITH.

We took him setting of boys' copies.

CADE.

Here's a villain!

SMITH.

Has a book in his pocket with red letters in 't.

CADE.

Nay, then, he is a conjurer.

DICK.

Nay, he can make obligations and write court-hand.

CADE.

I am sorry for 't. The man is a proper man, of mine honour; unless I find him guilty, he shall not die.—Come hither, sirrah, I must examine thee; what is thy name?

CLERK.

Emmanuel.

DICK.

They use to write it on the top of letters.—'T will go hard with you.

CADE.

Let me alone.—Dost thou use to write thy name? or hast thou a mark to thyself, like a honest, plain-dealing man?

CLERK.

Sir, I thank God, I have been so well brought up that I can write my name.

ALL.

He hath confessed; away with him! he's a villain and a traitor.

CADE.

Away with him, I say! Hang him with his pen and inkhorn about his neck.

[Exit one with the Clerk.]

[Enter MICHAEL.]

MICHAEL.

Where's our general?

CADE.

Here I am, thou particular fellow.

MICHAEL.

Fly, fly, fly! Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother are hard by, with the king's forces.

CADE.

Stand, villain, stand, or I'll fell thee down. He shall be encountered with a man as good as himself; he is but a knight, is a'?

MICHAEL.

No.

CADE.

To equal him, I will make myself a knight presently.-[Kneels.] Rise up Sir John Mortimer.—[Rises.] Now have at him!

[Enter SIR HUMPHREY STAFFORD and his Brother, with drum and soldiers.]

STAFFORD.

Rebellious hinds, the filth and scum of Kent,

Marked for the gallows, lay your weapons down;

Home to your cottages, forsake this groom.

The king is merciful, if you revolt.

BROTHER.

But angry, wrathful, and inclined to blood,

If you go forward; therefore yield, or die.

CADE.

As for these silken-coated slaves, I pass not;

It is to you, good people, that I speak,

OVer whom, in time to come, I hope to reign,

For I am rightful heir unto the crown.

STAFFORD.

Villain, thy father was a plasterer;

And thou thyself a shearman, art thou not?

CADE.

And Adam was a gardener.

BROTHER.

And what of that?

CADE.

Marry, this: Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March,

Married the Duke of Clarence' daughter, did he not?

STAFFORD.

Ay, sir.

CADE.

By her he had two children at one birth.

BROTHER.

That's false.

CADE.

Ay, there's the question; but I say 't is true.

The elder of them, being put to nurse,

Was by a beggar-woman stolen away,

And, ignorant of his birth and parentage,

Became a bricklayer when he came to age.

His son am I; deny it, if you can.

DICK.

Nay, 't is too true; therefore he shall be king.

SMITH.

Sir, he made a chimney in my father's house, and the bricks are alive at this day to testify it; therefore deny it not.

STAFFORD.

And will you credit this base drudge's words,

That speaks he knows not what?

ALL.

Ay, marry, will we; therefore get ye gone.

BROTHER.

Jack Cade, the Duke of York hath taught you this.

CADE.

[Aside.] He lies, for I invented it myself.—Go to, sirrah, tell the king from me that, for his father's sake, Henry the Fifth, in whose time boys went to span-counter for French crowns, I am content he shall reign; but I'll be protector over him.

DICK.

And furthermore, we'll have the Lord Say's head for selling the dukedom of Maine.

CADE.

And good reason; for thereby is England mained, and fain to go with a staff, but that my puissance holds it up. Fellow kings, I tell you that that Lord Say hath gelded the commonwealth and made it an eunuch; and more than that, he can speak French, and therefore he is a traitor.

STAFFORD.

O gross and miserable ignorance!

CADE.

Nay, answer if you can: the Frenchmen are our enemies; go to, then, I ask but this: can he that speaks with the tongue of an enemy be a good counsellor, or no?

ALL.

No, no; and therefore we'll have his head.

BROTHER.

Well, seeing gentle words will not prevail,

Assail them with the army of the king.

STAFFORD.

Herald, away; and throughout every town

Proclaim them traitors that are up with Cade;

That those which fly before the battle ends

May, even in their wives' and children's sight,

Be hanged up for example at their doors.—

And you that be the king's friends, follow me.

[Exeunt the two Staffords, and soldiers.]

CADE.

And you that love the commons follow me.

Now show yourselves men; 't is for liberty.

We will not leave one lord, one gentleman;

Spare none but such as go in clouted shoon,

For they are thrifty honest men and such

As would, but that they dare not, take our parts.

DICK.

They are all in order and march toward us.

CADE.

But then are we in order when we are most out of order.—Come, march forward.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE III.

Another part of Blackheath.

[Alarums to the fight, wherein both the STAFFORDS are slain. Enter CADE and the rest.]

CADE.

Where's Dick, the butcher of Ashford?

DICK.

Here, sir.

CADE.

They fell before thee like sheep and oxen, and thou behavedst thyself as if thou hadst been in thine own slaughter-house; therefore thus will I reward thee: the Lent shall be as long again as it is, and thou shalt have a licence to kill for a hundred lacking one.

DICK.

I desire no more.

CADE.

And, to speak truth, thou deservest no less. This monument of the victory will I bear [putting on Sir Humphrey's brigandine]; and the bodies shall be dragged at my horse heels till I do come to London, where we will have the mayor's sword borne before us.

DICK.

If we mean to thrive and do good, break open the gaols and let out the prisoners.

CADE.

Fear not that, I warrant thee. Come, let's march towards

London.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE IV.

London. The Palace.

[Enter the KING with a supplication, and the QUEEN with Suffolk's head, the DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM and the LORD SAY.]

QUEEN.

Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind

And makes it fearful and degenerate;

Think therefore on revenge and cease to weep.

But who can cease to weep and look on this?

Here may his head lie on my throbbing breast;

But where's the body that I should embrace?

BUCKINGHAM.

What answer makes your grace to the rebels' supplication?

KING.

I'll send some holy bishop to entreat;

For God forbid so many simple souls

Should perish by the sword! And I myself,

Rather than bloody war shall cut them short,

Will parley with Jack Cade their general.—

But stay, I'll read it over once again.

QUEEN.

Ah, barbarous villains! hath this lovely face

Ruled, like a wandering planet, over me,

And could it not enforce them to relent

That were unworthy to behold the same?

KING.

Lord Say, Jack Cade hath sworn to have thy head.

SAY.

Ay, but I hope your highness shall have his.

KING.

How now, madam!

Still lamenting and mourning for Suffolk's death?

I fear me, love, if that I had been dead,

Thou wouldst not have mourned so much for me.

QUEEN.

No, my love, I should not mourn, but die for thee.

[Enter a Messenger.]

KING.

How now! what news? why com'st thou in such haste?

MESSENGER.

The rebels are in Southwark; fly, my lord!

Jack Cade proclaims himself Lord Mortimer,

Descended from the Duke of Clarence' house,

And calls your grace usurper openly,

And vows to crown himself in Westminster.

His army is a ragged multitude

Of hinds and peasants, rude and merciless;

Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother's death

Hath given them heart and courage to proceed.

All scholars, lawyers, courtiers, gentlemen,

They call false caterpillars, and intend their death.

KING.

O graceless men! they know not what they do.

BUCKINGHAM.

My gracious lord, retire to Killingworth

Until a power be raised to put them down.

QUEEN.

Ah, were the Duke of Suffolk now alive,

These Kentish rebels would be soon appeased!

KING.

Lord Say, the traitors hate thee;

Therefore away with us to Killingworth.

SAY.

So might your grace's person be in danger.

The sight of me is odious in their eyes;

And therefore in this city will I stay

And live alone as secret as I may.

[Enter another Messenger.]

2 MESSENGER.

Jack Cade hath gotten London bridge;

The citizens fly and forsake their houses.

The rascal people, thirsting after prey,

Join with the traitor, and they jointly swear

To spoil the city and your royal court.

BUCKINGHAM.

Then linger not, my lord; away, take horse.

KING.

Come Margaret; God, our hope, will succour us.

QUEEN.

My hope is gone, now Suffolk is deceased.

KING.

Farewell, my lord; trust not the Kentish rebels.

BUCKINGHAM.

Trust nobody, for fear you be betrayed.

SAY.

The trust I have is in mine innocence,

And therefore am I bold and resolute.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE V.

London. The Tower.

[Enter LORD SCALES upon the Tower, walking. Then enter two or three Citizens, below.]

SCALES.

How now! Is Jack Cade slain?

1 CITIZEN.

No, my lord, nor likely to be slain; for they have won the bridge, killing all those that withstand them. The lord mayor craves aid of your honour from the Tower to defend the city from the rebels.

SCALES.

Such aid as I can spare you shall command,

But I am troubled here with them myself;

The rebels have assayed to win the Tower.

But get you to Smithfield and gather head,

And thither I will send you Matthew Goffe.

Fight for your king, your country, and your lives;

And so, farewell, for I must hence again.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE VI.

London. Cannon Street.

[Enter JACK CADE and the rest, and strikes his staff on London-stone.]

CADE.

Now is Mortimer lord of this city. And here, sitting upon London-stone, I charge and command that, of the city's cost, the conduit run nothing but claret wine this first year of our reign. And now henceforward it shall be treason for any that calls me other than Lord Mortimer.

[Enter a Soldier, running.]

SOLDIER.

Jack Cade! Jack Cade!

CADE.

Knock him down there.

[They kill him.]

DICK.

If this fellow be wise, he'll never call ye Jack Cade more; I think he hath a very fair warning. [Reads soldier's message.] My lord, there's an army gathered together in Smithfield.

CADE.

Come then, let's go fight with them. But first, go and set London bridge on fire; and, if you can, burn down the Tower too. Come, let's away.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE VII.

London. Smithfield.

[Alarums. MATTHEW GOFFE is slain, and all the rest. Then enter JACK CADE, with his company.]

CADE.

So, sirs.—Now go some and pull down the Savoy; others to the inns of court; down with them all.

DICK.

I have a suit unto your lordship.

CADE.

Be it a lordship, thou shalt have it for that word.

DICK.

Only that the laws of England may come out of your mouth.

HOLLAND.

[Aside.] Mass, 't will be sore law, then; for he was thrust in the mouth with a spear, and 't is not whole yet.

SMITH.

[Aside.] Nay, John, it will be stinking law, for his breath stinks with eating toasted cheese.

CADE.

I have thought upon it, it shall be so. Away, burn all the records of the realm. My mouth shall be the parliament of England.

HOLLAND.

[Aside.] Then we are like to have biting statutes, unless his teeth be pulled out.

CADE.

And henceforward all things shall be in common.

[Enter a Messenger.]

MESSENGER.

My lord, a prize, a prize! here's the Lord Say, which sold the towns in France; he that made us pay one and twenty fifteens, and one shilling to the pound, the last subsidy.

[Enter GEOGE BEVIS, with the LORD SAY.]

CADE.

Well, he shall be beheaded for it ten times.—Ah, thou say, thou serge, nay, thou buckram lord! now art thou within pointblank of our jurisdiction regal. What canst thou answer to my majesty for giving up of Normandy unto Mounsieur Basimecu, the dauphin of France? Be it known unto thee by these presence, even the presence of Lord Mortimer, that I am the besom that must sweep the court clean of such filth as thou art. Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school; and whereas, before, our forefathers had no other books but the score and the tally, thou hast caused printing to be used, and, contrary to the king, his crown, and dignity, thou hast built a paper-mill. It will be proved to thy face that thou hast men about thee that usually talk of a noun and a verb, and such abominable words as no Christian ear can endure to hear. Thou hast appointed justices of peace, to call poor men before them about matters they were not able to answer. Moreover, thou hast put them in prison, and because they could not read, thou hast hanged them; when, indeed, only for that cause they have been most worthy to live. Thou dost ride in a foot-cloth, dost thou not?

SAY.

What of that?

CADE.

Marry, thou oughtest not to let thy horse wear a cloak when honester men than thou go in their hose and doublets.

DICK.

And work in their shirt too; as myself, for example, that am a butcher.

SAY.

You men of Kent,—

DICK.

What say you of Kent?

SAY.

Nothing but this; 't is 'bona terra, mala gens.'

CADE.

Away with him, away with him! he speaks Latin.

SAY.

Hear me but speak, and bear me where you will.

Kent, in the Commentaries Caesar writ,

Is termed the civil'st place of all this isle.

Sweet is the country, because full of riches;

The people liberal, valiant, active, wealthy;

Which makes me hope you are not void of pity.

I sold not Maine, I lost not Normandy,

Yet, to recover them, would lose my life.

Justice with favour have I always done;

Prayers and tears have moved me, gifts could never.

When have I aught exacted at your hands

But to maintain the king, the realm, and you?

Large gifts have I bestowed on learned clerks,

Because my book preferred me to the king;

And seeing ignorance is the curse of God,

Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven,

Unless you be possessed with devilish spirits,

You cannot but forbear to murther me.

This tongue hath parleyed unto foreign kings

For your behoof,—

CADE.

Tut, when struck'st thou one blow in the field?

SAY.

Great men have reaching hands; oft have I struck

Those that I never saw, and struck them dead.

GEORGE.

O monstrous coward! what, to come behind folks?

SAY.

These cheeks are pale for watching for your good.

CADE.

Give him a box o' the ear, and that will make 'em red again.

SAY.

Long sitting to determine poor men's causes

Hath made me full of sickness and diseases.

CADE.

Ye shall have a hempen caudle then, and the help of hatchet.

DICK.

Why dost thou quiver, man?

SAY.

The palsy, and not fear, provokes me.

CADE.

Nay, he nods at us, as who should say, I'll be even with you. I'll see if his head will stand steadier on a pole or no. Take him away, and behead him.

SAY.

Tell me wherein have I offended most?

Have I affected wealth or honour? speak.

Are my chests filled up with extorted gold?

Is my apparel sumptuous to behold?

Whom have I injured, that ye seek my death?

These hands are free from guiltless bloodshedding,

This breast from harbouring foul deceitful thoughts.

O, let me live!

CADE.

[Aside.] I feel remorse in myself with his words, but I'll bridle it; he shall die, an it be but for pleading so well for his life.-Away with him! he has a familiar under his tongue; he speaks not o' God's name. Go, take him away, I say, and strike off his head presently; and then break into his son-in-law's house, Sir James Cromer, and strike off his head , and bring them both upon two poles hither.

ALL.

It shall be done.

SAY.

Ah, countrymen! if when you make your prayers,

God should be so obdurate as yourselves,

How would it fare with your departed souls?

And therefore yet relent, and save my life.

CADE.

Away with him! and do as I command ye.

[Exeunt some with Lord Say.]

The proudest peer in the realm shall not wear a head on his shoulders unless he pay me tribute; there shall not a maid be married but she shall pay to me her maidenhead ere they have it. Men shall hold of me in capite; and we charge and command that their wives be as free as heart can wish or tongue can tell.

DICK.

My lord, when shall we go to Cheapside, and take up commodities upon our bills?

CADE.

Marry, presently.

ALL.

O, brave!

[Re-enter one with the heads.]

CADE.

But is not this braver? Let them kiss one another, for they loved well when they were alive. Now part them again, lest they consult about the giving up of some more towns in France.—Soldiers, defer the spoil of the city until night; for with these borne before us, instead of maces will we ride through the streets, and at every corner have them kiss.—Away!

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE VIII.

Southwark.

[Alarum and retreat. Enter CADE and all his rabblement.]

CADE.

Up Fish Street! down Saint Magnus' Corner! kill and knock down! Throw them into Thames!

[Sound a parley.]

What noise is this I hear? Dare any be so bold to sound retreat or parley when I command them kill?

[Enter BUCKINGHAM and old CLIFFORD, attended.]

BUCKINGHAM.

Ay, here they be that dare and will disturb thee.

Know, Cade, we come ambassadors from the king

Unto the commons whom thou hast misled,

And here pronounce free pardon to them all

That will forsake thee and go home in peace.

CLIFFORD.

What say ye, countrymen? will ye relent

And yield to mercy whilst 't is offered you,

Or let a rebel lead you to your deaths?

Who loves the king and will embrace his pardon,

Fling up his cap, and say 'God save his Majesty!'

Who hateth him and honours not his father,

Henry the Fifth, that made all France to quake,

Shake he his weapon at us and pass by.

ALL.

God save the king! God save the king!

CADE.

What, Buckingham and Clifford, are ye so brave?-And you, base peasants, do ye believe him? will you needs be hanged with your about your necks? Hath my sword therefore broke through London gates, that you should leave me at the White Hart in Southwark? I thought ye would never have given out these arms till you had recovered your ancient freedom; but you are all recreants and dastards, and delight to live in slavery to the nobility. Let them break your backs with burthens, take your houses over your heads, ravish your wives and daughters before your faces. For me, I will make shift for one; and so, God's curse light upon you all!

ALL.

We'll follow Cade, we'll follow Cade!

CLIFFORD.

Is Cade the son of Henry the Fifth,

That thus you do exclaim you'll go with him?

Will he conduct you through the heart of France,

And make the meanest of you earls and dukes?

Alas, he hath no home, no place to fly to;

Nor knows he how to live but by the spoil,

Unless by robbing of your friends and us.

Were 't not a shame that whilst you live at jar

The fearful French, whom you late vanquished,

Should make a start o'er seas and vanquish you?

Methinks already in this civil broil

I see them lording it in London streets,

Crying 'Villiaco!' unto all they meet.

Better ten thousand base-born Cades miscarry

Than you should stoop unto a Frenchman's mercy.

To France, to France, and get what you have lost;

Spare England, for it is your native coast.

Henry hath money, you are strong and manly;

God on our side, doubt not of victory.

ALL.

A Clifford! a Clifford! we'll follow the king and Clifford.

CADE.

Was ever feather so lightly blown to and fro as this multitude? The name of Henry the Fifth hales them to an hundred mischiefs and makes them leave me desolate. I see them lay their heads together to surprise me. My sword make way for me, for here is no staying.—In despite of the devils and hell, have through the very middest of you! and heavens and honour be witness that no want of resolution in me, but only my followers' base and ignominious treasons, makes me betake me to my heels.

[Exit.]

BUCKINGHAM.

What, is he fled?—Go some, and follow him;

And he that brings his head unto the king

Shall have a thousand crowns for his reward.—

[Exeunt some of them.]

Follow me, soldiers; we'll devise a mean

To reconcile you all unto the king.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE IX.

Kenilworth Castle.

[Sound trumpets. Enter KING, QUEEN, and SOMERSET, on the terrace.]

KING.

Was ever king that joyed an earthly throne,

And could command no more content than I?

No sooner was I crept out of my cradle

But I was made a king at nine months old.

Was never subject longed to be a king

As I do long and wish to be a subject.

[Enter BUCKINGHAM and old CLIFFORD.]

BUCKINGHAM.

Health and glad tidings to your majesty!

KING.

Why, Buckingham, is the traitor Cade surprised?

Or is he but retired to make him strong?

[Enter, below, multitudes with halters about their necks.]

CLIFFORD.

He is fled, my lord, and all his powers do yield,

And humbly thus, with halters on their necks,

Expect your highness' doom, of life or death.

KING.

Then, heaven, set ope thy everlasting gates,

To entertain my vows of thanks and praise!—

Soldiers, this day have you redeemed your lives

And showed how well you love your prince and country.

Continue still in this so good a mind,

And Henry, though he be infortunate,

Assure yourselves, will never be unkind.

And so, with thanks and pardon to you all,

I do dismiss you to your several countries.

ALL.

God save the king! God save the king!

[Enter a Messenger.]

MESSENGER.

Please it your grace to be advertised

The Duke of York is newly come from Ireland,

And with a puissant and a mighty power

Of gallowglasses and stout kerns

Is marching hitherward in proud array,

And still proclaimeth, as he comes along,

His arms are only to remove from thee

The Duke of Somerset, whom he terms a traitor.

KING.

Thus stands my state, 'twixt Cade and York distressed,

Like to a ship that, having scaped a tempest,

Is straightway calmed and boarded with a pirate;

But now is Cade driven back, his men dispersed,

And now is York in arms to second him.—

I pray thee, Buckingham, go and meet him,

And ask him wha t's the reason of these arms.

Tell him I'll send Duke Edmund to the Tower;—

And, Somerset, we will commit thee thither,

Until his army be dismissed from him.

SOMERSET.

My lord, I'll yield myself to prison willingly,

Or unto death, to do my country good.

KING.

In any case, be not too rough in terms,

For he is fierce and cannot brook hard language.

BUCKINGHAM.

I will, my lord, and doubt not so to deal

As all things shall redound unto your good.

KING.

Come, wife, let's in, and learn to govern better;

For yet may England curse my wretched reign.

[Flourish. Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE X.

Kent. Iden's Garden.

[Enter CADE.]

CADE.

Fie on ambitions! fie on myself, that have a sword and yet am ready to famish! These five days have I hid me in these woods and durst not peep out, for all the country is laid for me; but now am I so hungry that if I might have a lease of my life for a thousand years I could stay no longer. Wherefore, on a brick wall have I climbed into this garden, to see if I can eat grass, or pick a sallet another while, which is not amiss to cool a man's stomach this hot weather. And I think this word 'sallet' was born to do me good; for many a time, but for a sallet, my brain-pain had been cleft with a brown bill; and many a time, when I have been dry and bravely marching, it hath served me instead of a quart pot to drink in; and now the word 'sallet' must serve me to feed on.

[Enter IDEN.]

IDEN.

Lord, who would live turmoiled in the court,

And may enjoy such quiet walks as these?

This small inheritance my father left me

Contenteth me, and worth a monarchy.

I seek not to wax great by others' waning,

Or gather wealth, I care not with what envy;

Sufficeth that I have maintains my state

And sends the poor well pleased from my gate.

CADE.

Here's the lord of the soil come to seize me for a stray, for entering his fee-simple without leave.—Ah, villain, thou wilt betray me, and get a thousand crowns of the king by carrying my head to him; but I'll make thee eat iron like an ostrich, and swallow my sword like a great pin, ere thou and I part.

IDEN.

Why, rude companion, whatsoe'er thou be, I know

Thee not! why, then, should I betray thee?

Is 't not enough to break into my garden,

And, like a thief, to come to rob my grounds,

Climbing my walls in spite of me the owner,

But thou wilt brave me with these saucy terms?

CADE.

Brave thee? ay, by the best blood that ever was broached, and beard thee too. Look on me well: I have eat no meat these five days; yet, come thou and thy five men, and if I do not leave you all as dead as a door-nail, I pray God I may never eat grass more.

IDEN.

Nay, it shall ne'er be said, while England stands,

That Alexander Iden, an esquire of Kent,

Took odds to combat a poor famished man.

Oppose thy steadfast-gazing eyes to mine,

See if thou canst outface me with thy looks.

Set limb to limb and thou art far the lesser;

Thy hand is but a finger to my fist,

Thy leg a stick compared with this truncheon;

My foot shall fight with all the strength thou hast;

And if mine arm be heaved in the air,

Thy grave is digged already in the earth.

As for words, whose greatness answers words,

Let this my sword report what speech forbears.

CADE.

By my valour, the most complete champion that ever I heard!—Steel, if thou turn the edge, or cut not out the burly-boned clown in chines of beef ere thou sleep in thy sheath, I beseech God on my knees thou mayst be turned to hobnails.—[Here they fight. Cade falls.] O, I am slain! famine and no other hath slain me; let ten thousand devils come against me, and give me but the ten meals I have lost, and I'd defy them all.—Wither, garden; and be henceforth a burying place to all that do dwell in this house, because the unconquered soul of Cade is fled.

IDEN.

Is't Cade that I have slain, that monstrous traitor?—

Sword, I will hallow thee for this thy deed,

And hang thee o'er my tomb when I am dead;

Ne'er shall this blood be wiped from thy point,

But thou shalt wear it as a herald's coat,

To emblaze the honour that thy master got.

CADE.

Iden, farewell; and be proud of thy victory. Tell Kent from me, she hath lost her best man, and exhort all the world to be cowards; for I, that never feared any, am vanquished by famine, not by valour.

[Dies.]

IDEN.

How much thou wrong'st me, heaven be my judge.

Die, damned wretch, the curse of her that bare thee;

And as I thrust thy body in with my sword,

So wish I I might thrust thy soul to hell.

Hence will I drag thee headlong by the heels

Unto a dunghill which shall be thy grave,

And there cut off thy most ungracious head,

Which I will bear in triumph to the king,

Leaving thy trunk for crows to feed upon.

[Exit.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

Fields between Dartford and Blackheath.

[Enter YORK, and his army of Irish, with drum and colours.]

YORK.

From Ireland thus comes York to claim his right,

And pluck the crown from feeble Henry's head.

Ring, bells, aloud; burn, bonfires, clear and bright,

To entertain great England's lawful king.

Ah! sancta majestas! who would not buy thee dear?

Let them obey that knows not how to rule;

This hand was made to handle nought but gold.

I cannot give due action to my words

Except a sword or sceptre balance it.

A sceptre shall it have, have I a soul,

On which I'll toss the flower-de-luce of France.—

[Enter BUCKINGHAM.]

Whom have we here? Buckingham, to disturb me?

The king hath sent him, sure: I must dissemble.

BUCKINGHAM.

York, if thou meanest well, I greet thee well.

YORK.

Humphrey of Buckingham, I accept thy greeting.

Art thou a messenger, or come of pleasure?

BUCKINGHAM.

A messenger from Henry, our dread liege,

To know the reason of these arms in peace;

Or why thou, being a subject as I am,

Against thy oath and true allegiance sworn,

Should raise so great a power without his leave,

Or dare to bring thy force so near the court.

YORK.

[Aside.]

Scarce can I speak, my choler is so great:

O, I could hew up rocks and fight with flint,

I am so angry at these abject terms;

And now, like Ajax Telamonius,

On sheep or oxen could I spend my fury.

I am far better born than is the king,

More like a king, more kingly in my thoughts;

But I must make fair weather yet a while,

Till Henry be more weak and I more strong.—

Buckingham, I prithee, pardon me,

That I have given no answer all this while;

My mind was troubled with deep melancholy.

The cause why I have brought this army hither

Is to remove proud Somerset from the king,

Seditious to his grace and to the state.

BUCKINGHAM.

That is too much presumption on thy part;

But if thy arms be to no other end,

The king hath yielded unto thy demand.

The Duke of Somerset is in the Tower.

YORK.

Upon thine honour, is he prisoner?

BUCKINGHAM.

Upon mine honour, he is prisoner.

YORK.

Then, Buckingham, I do dismiss my powers.—

Soldiers, I thank you all; disperse yourselves;

Meet me to-morrow in Saint George's field,

You shall have pay and everything you wish.—

And let my sovereign, virtuous Henry,

Command my eldest son, nay, all my sons,

As pledges of my fealty and love,

I'll send them all as willing as I live;

Lands, goods, horse, armour, anything I have,

Is his to use, so Somerset may die.

BUCKINGHAM.

York, I commend this kind submission;

We twain will go into his highness' tent.

[Enter KING and Attendants.]

KING.

Buckingham, doth York intend no harm to us,

That thus he marcheth with thee arm in arm?

YORK.

In all submission and humility

York doth present himself unto your highness.

KING.

Then what intends these forces thou dost bring?

YORK.

To heave the traitor Somerset from hence,

And fight against that monstrous rebel Cade,

Who since I heard to be discomfited.

[Enter IDEN, with CADE's head.]

IDEN.

If one so rude and of so mean condition

May pass into the presence of a king,

Lo, I present your grace a traitor's head,

The head of Cade, whom I in combat slew.

KING.

The head of Cade!—Great God, how just art Thou!—

O, let me view his visage, being dead,

That living wrought me such exceeding trouble.

Tell me, my friend, art thou the man that slew him?

IDEN.

I was, an 't like your majesty.

KING.

How art thou called? and what is thy degree?

IDEN.

Alexander Iden, that's my name;

A poor esquire of Kent, that loves his king.

BUCKINGHAM.

So please it you, my lord, 't were not amiss

He were created knight for his good service.

KING.

Iden, kneel down. [He kneels.] Rise up a knight.

We give thee for reward a thousand marks,

And will that thou thenceforth attend on us.

IDEN.

May Iden live to merit such a bounty,

And never live but true unto his liege!

[Rises.]

[Enter QUEEN and SOMERSET.]

KING.

See, Buckingham, Somerset comes with the queen.

Go, bid her hide him quickly from the duke.

QUEEN.

For thousand Yorks he shall not hide his head,

But boldly stand and front him to his face.

YORK.

How now! is Somerset at liberty?

Then, York, unloose thy long-imprisoned thoughts,

And let thy tongue be equal with thy heart.

Shall I endure the sight of Somerset?

False king! why hast thou broken faith with me,

Knowing how hardly I can brook abuse?

King did I call thee? no, thou art not king,

Not fit to govern and rule multitudes,

Which dar'st not, no, nor canst not rule a traitor.

That head of thine doth not become a crown;

Thy hand is made to grasp a palmer's staff,

And not to grace an awful princely sceptre.

That gold must round engirt these brows of mine,

Whose smile and frown, like to Achilles' spear,

Is able with the change to kill and cure.

Here is a hand to hold a sceptre up

And with the same to act controlling laws.

Give place; by heaven, thou shalt rule no more

O'er him whom heaven created for thy ruler.

SOMERSET.

O monstrous traitor!—I arrest thee, York,

Of capital treason 'gainst the king and crown.

Obey, audacious traitor; kneel for grace.

YORK.

Wouldst have me kneel? first let me ask of these

If they can brook I bow a knee to man.—

Sirrah, call in my sons to be my bail.—

[Exit Attendant.]

I know, ere thy will have me go to ward,

They'll pawn their swords for my enfranchisement.

QUEEN.

Call hither Clifford; bid him come amain,

To say if that the bastard boys of York

Shall be the surety for their traitor father.

[Exit Buckingham.]

YORK.

O blood-bespotted Neapolitan,

Outcast of Naples, England's bloody scourge!

The sons of York, thy betters in their birth,

Shall be their father's bail; and bane to those

That for my surety will refuse the boys!

[Enter EDWARD and RICHARD.]

See where they come; I'll warrant they'll make it good.

[Enter old CLIFFORD and his SON.]

QUEEN.

And here comes Clifford to deny their bail.

CLIFFORD.

Health and all happiness to my lord the king!

[Kneels.]

YORK.

I thank thee, Clifford; say, what news with thee?

Nay, do not fright us with an angry look.

We are thy sovereign, Clifford, kneel again;

For thy mistaking so, we pardon thee.

CLIFFORD.

This is my king, York, I do not mistake;

But thou mistakes me much to think I do.—

To Bedlam with him! is the man grown mad?

KING.

Ay, Clifford; a bedlam and ambitious humour

Makes him oppose himself against his king.

CLIFFORD.

He is a traitor; let him to the Tower,

And chop away that factious pate of his.

QUEEN.

He is arrested, but will not obey;

His sons, he says, shall give their words for him.

YORK.

Will you not, sons?

EDWARD.

Ay, noble father, if our words will serve.

RICHARD.

And if words will not, then our weapons shall.

CLIFFORD.

Why, what a brood of traitors have we here!

YORK.

Look in a glass, and call thy image so;

I am thy king, and thou a false-heart traitor.—

Call hither to the stake my two brave bears,

That with the very shaking of their chains

They may astonish these fell-lurking curs.

Bid Salisbury and Warwick come to me.

[Enter the EARLS OF WARWICK and SALISBURY.]

CLIFFORD.

Are these thy bears? we'll bait thy bears to death,

And manacle the bear-herd in their chains,

If thou dar'st bring them to the baiting-place.

RICHARD.

Oft have I seen a hot o'erweening cur

Run back and bite because he was withheld,

Who, being suffered with the bear's fell paw,

Hath clapped his tail between his legs and cried;

And such a piece of service will you do

If you oppose yourselves to match Lord Warwick.

CLIFFORD.

Hence, heap of wrath, foul indigested lump,

As crooked in thy manners as thy shape!

YORK.

Nay, we shall heat you thoroughly anon.

CLIFFORD.

Take heed, lest by your heat you burn yourselves.

KING.

Why, Warwick, hath thy knee forgot to bow?—

Old Salisbury, shame to thy silver hair,

Thou mad misleader of thy brainsick son!

What, wilt thou on thy death-bed play the ruffian,

And seek for sorrow with thy spectacles?

O, where is faith? O, where is loyalty?

If it be banished from the frosty head,

Where shall it find a harbour in the earth?

Wilt thou go dig a grave to find out war,

And shame thine honourable age with blood?

Why art thou old, and want'st experience?

Or wherefore dost abuse it, if thou hast it?

For shame! in duty bend thy knee to me

That bows unto the grave with mickle age.

SALISBURY.

My lord, I have considered with myself

The tide of this most renowned duke,

And in my conscience do repute his grace

The rightful heir to England's royal seat.

KING.

Hast thou not sworn allegiance unto me?

SALISBURY.

I have.

KING.

Canst thou dispense with heaven for such an oath?

SALISBURY.

It is great sin to swear unto a sin,

But greater sin to keep a sinful oath.

Who can be bound by any solemn vow

To do a murtherous deed, to rob a man,

To force a spotless virgin's chastity,

To reave the orphan of his patrimony,

To wring the widow from her customed right,

And have no other reason for this wrong

But that he was bound by a solemn oath?

QUEEN.

A subtle traitor needs no sophister.

KING.

Call Buckingham, and bid him arm himself.

YORK.

Call Buckingham, and all the friends thou hast,

I am resolved for death or dignity.

CLIFFORD.

The first I warrant thee if dreams prove true.

WARWICK.

You were best to go to bed and dream again,

To keep thee from the tempest of the field.

CLIFFORD.

I am resolved to bear a greater storm

Than any thou canst conjure up to-day;

And that I'll write upon thy burgonet,

Might I but know thee by thy household badge.

WARWICK.

Now, by my father's badge, old Nevil's crest,

The rampant bear chained to the ragged staff,

This day I'll wear aloft my burgonet,

As on a mountain top the cedar shows

That keeps his leaves in spite of any storm,

Even to affright thee with the view thereof.

CLIFFORD.

And from thy burgonet I'll rend thy bear

And tread it under foot with all contempt,

Despite the bear-herd that protects the bear.

YOUNG CLIFFORD.

And so to arms, victorious father,

To quell the rebels and their complices.

RICHARD.

Fie! charity, for shame! speak not in spite,

For you shall sup with Jesu Christ to-night.

YOUNG CLIFFORD.

Foul stigmatic, that's more than thou canst tell.

RICHARD.

If not in heaven, you'll surely sup in hell.

[Exeunt severally.]

ACT V. SCENE II.

Saint Alban's.

[Alarums to the battle. Enter WARWICK.]

WARWICK.

Clifford of Cumberland, 't is Warwick calls;

And if thou dost not hide thee from the bear,

Now, when the angry trumpet sounds alarum

And dead men's cries do fill the empty air,

Clifford, I say, come forth and fight with me!

Proud northern lord, Clifford of Cumberland,

Warwick is hoarse with calling thee to arms.—

[Enter YORK.]

How now, my noble lord! what, all afoot?

YORK.

The deadly-handed Clifford slew my steed,

But match to match I have encount'red him,

And made a prey for carrion kites and crows

Even of the bonny beast he loved so well.

[Enter old CLIFFORD.]

WARWICK.

Of one or both of us the time is come.

YORK.

Hold, Warwick, seek thee out some other chase,

For I myself must hunt this deer to death.

WARWICK.

Then, nobly, York; 't is for a crown thou fight'st.—

As I intend, Clifford, to thrive to-day,

It grieves my soul to leave thee unassailed.

[Exit.]

CLIFFORD.

What seest thou in me, York? why dost thou pause?

YORK.

With thy brave bearing should I be in love

But that thou art so fast mine enemy.

CLIFFORD.

Nor should thy prowess want praise and esteem

But that 't is shown ignobly and in treason.

YORK.

So let it help me now against thy sword

As I in justice and true right express it!

CLIFFORD.

My soul and body on the action both!

YORK.

A dreadful lay!—Address thee instantly.

[They fight, and Clifford falls.]

CLIFFORD.

La fin couronne les oeuvres.

[Dies.]

YORK.

Thus war hath given thee peace, for thou art still.

Peace with his soul, heaven, if it be thy will!

[Exit.]

[Enter young CLIFFORD.]

YOUNG CLIFFORD.

Shame and confusion! all is on the rout;

Fear frames disorder, and disorder wounds

Where it should guard.—O war, thou son of hell,

Whom angry heavens do make their minister,

Throw in the frozen bosoms of our part

Hot coals of vengeance!—Let no soldier fly.

He that is truly dedicate to war

Hath no self-love; nor he that loves himself

Hath not essentially but by circumstance

The name of valour.—[Seeing his dead father.]

O, let the vile world end,

And the premised flames of the last day

Knit earth and heaven together!

Now let the general trumpet blow his blast,

Particularities and petty sounds

To cease!—Wast thou ordained, dear father,

To lose thy youth in peace, and to achieve

The silver livery of advised age,

And in thy reverence and thy chair-days, thus

To die in ruffian battle?—Even at this sight

My heart is turned to stone; and while 't is mine

It shall be stony. York not our old men spares;

No more will I their babes; tears virginal

Shall be to me even as the dew to fire,

And beauty that the tyrant oft reclaims

Shall to my flaming wrath be oil and flax.

Henceforth I will not have to do with pity;

Meet I an infant of the house of York,

Into as many gobbets will I cut it

As wild Medea young Absyrtus did.

In cruelty will I seek out my fame.—

Come, thou new ruin of old Clifford's house:

As did Aeneas old Anchises bear,

So bear I thee upon my manly shoulders;

But then Aeneas bare a living load,

Nothing so heavy as these woes of mine.

[Exit, bearing off his father. Enter RICHARD and SOMERSET to fight. SOMERSET is killed.]

RICHARD.

So, lie thou there;

For underneath an alehouse' paltry sign,

The Castle in Saint Alban's, Somerset

Hath made the wizard famous in his death.

Sword, hold thy temper; heart, be wrathful still;

Priests pray for enemies, but princes kill.

[Exit.]

[Fight: excursions. Enter KING, QUEEN, and others.]

QUEEN.

Away, my lord! you are slow; for shame, away!

KING HENRY.

Can we outrun the heavens? good Margaret, stay.

QUEEN.

What are you made of? you'll nor fight nor fly;

Now is it manhood, wisdom, and defence,

To give the enemy way, and to secure us

By what we can, which can no more but fly.

[Alarum afar off.]

If you be ta'en, we then should see the bottom

Of all our fortunes; but if we haply scape,

As well we may, if not through your neglect,

We shall to London get, where you are loved,

And where this breach now in our fortunes made

May readily be stopped.

[Enter young CLIFFORD.]

YOUNG CLIFFORD.

But that my heart's on future mischief set,

I would speak blasphemy ere bid you fly.

But fly you must; uncurable discomfit

Reigns in the hearts of all our present parts.

Away, for your relief! and we will live

To see their day and them our fortune give.

Away, my lord, away!

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE III.

Fields near Saint Alban's.

[Alarum. Retreat. Enter YORK, RICHARD, WARWICK, and Soldiers, with drum and colours.]

YORK.

Of Salisbury, who can report of him,

That winter lion, who in rage forgets

Aged contusions and all brush of time

And, like a gallant in the brow of youth,

Repairs him with occasion? This happy day

Is not itself, nor have we won one foot,

If Salisbury be lost.

RICHARD.

My noble father,

Three times to-day I holp him to his horse,

Three times bestrid him; thrice I led him off,

Persuaded him from any further act;

But still, where danger was, still there I met him;

And like rich hangings in a homely house,

So was his will in his old feeble body.

But, noble as he is, look where he comes.

[Enter SALISBURY.]

SALISBURY.

Now, by my sword, well hast thou fought to-day;

By the mass, so did we all.—I thank you, Richard;

God knows how long it is I have to live,

And it hath pleased him that three times to-day

You have defended me from imminent death.—

Well, lords, we have not got that which we have;

'T is not enough our foes are this time fled,

Being opposites of such repairing nature.

YORK.

I know our safety is to follow them;

For, as I hear, the king is fled to London,

To call a present court of parliament.

Let us pursue him ere the writs go forth.—

What says Lord Warwick? shall we after them?

WARWICK.

After them! nay, before them, if we can.

Now, by my hand, lords, 'twas a glorious day;

Saint Alban's battle won by famous York

Shall be eternized in all age to come.—

Sound drums and trumpets!—and to London all;

And more such days as these to us befall!

[Exeunt.]

THE END

KING HENRY VI, PART 3

List of Characters

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act I, Scene III

Act I, Scene IV

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act II, Scene III

Act II, Scene IV

Act II, Scene V

Act II, Scene VI

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act III, Scene III

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act IV, Scene III

Act IV, Scene IV

Act IV, Scene V

Act IV, Scene VI

Act IV, Scene VII

Act IV, Scene VIII

Act V, Scene I

Act V, Scene II

Act V, Scene III

Act V, Scene IV

Act V, Scene V

Act V, Scene VI

Act V, Scene VII

List of Characters

KING HENRY the Sixth.

EDWARD: Prince of Wales, his son.

LEWIS XI: King of France.

DUKE OF SOMERSET.

DUKE OF EXETER.

EARL OF OXFORD.

EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND.

EARL OF WESTMORELAND.

LORD CLIFFORD.

RICHARD PLANTAGENET: Duke of York.

EDWARD: Earl of March, afterwards King Edward IV., his son.

EDMUND: Earl of Rutland, his son.

GEORGE: afterwards Duke of Clarence, his son.

RICHARD: afterwards Duke of Gloucester, his son.

DUKE OF NORFOLK.

MARQUESS OF MONTAGUE.

EARL OF WARWICK.

EARL OF PEMBROKE.

LORD HASTINGS.

LORD STAFFORD.

SIR JOHN MORTIMER: uncle to the Duke of York.

SIR HUGH MORTIMER: uncle to the Duke of York.

HENRY: Earl of Richmond, a youth.

LORD RIVERS: brother to Lady Grey.

SIR WILLIAM STANLEY.

SIR JOHN MONTGOMERY.

SIR JOHN SOMERVILLE.

Tutor to Rutland.

Mayor of York.

Lieutenant of the Tower.

A Nobleman. Two Keepers. A Huntsman.

A Son that has killed his father.

A Father that has killed his son.

QUEEN MARGARET.

LADY GREY: afterwards Queen to Edward IV.

BONA: sister to the French Queen.

Soldiers, Attendants, Messengers, Watchmen, etc.

SCENE: England and France.

ACT I. SCENE I.

London. The Parliament-house

[Alarum. Enter DUKE of YORK, EDWARD, RICHARD, NORFOLK, MONTAGUE, WARWICK, and Soldiers.]

WARWICK.

I wonder how the king escaped our hands.

YORK.

While we pursued the horsemen of the North,

He slyly stole away and left his men,

Whereat the great Lord of Northumberland,

Whose warlike ears could never brook retreat,

Cheered up the drooping army; and himself,

Lord Clifford, and Lord Stafford, all abreast,

Charged our main battle's front, and breaking in,

Were by the swords of common soldiers slain.

EDWARD.

Lord Stafford's father, Duke of Buckingham,

Is either slain or wounded dangerously;

I cleft his beaver with a downright blow.

That this is true, father, behold his blood.

[Showing his bloody sword.]

MONTAGUE.

And, brother, here 's the Earl of Wiltshire's blood,

[To York, showing his.]

Whom I encountered as the battles joined.

RICHARD.

Speak thou for me, and tell them what I did.

[Throwing down the Duke of Somerset's head.]

YORK.

Richard hath best deserved of all my sons.—

But is your grace dead, my Lord of Somerset?

NORFOLK.

Such hope have all the line of John of Gaunt!

RICHARD.

Thus do I hope to shake King Henry's head.

WARWICK.

And so do I.—Victorious Prince of York,

Before I see thee seated in that throne

Which now the house of Lancaster usurps,

I vow by heaven these eyes shall never close.

This is the palace of the fearful king,

And this the regal seat; possess it, York,

For this is thine, and not King Henry's heirs'.

YORK.

Assist me, then, sweet Warwick, and I will;

For hither we have broken in by force.

NORFOLK.

We'll all assist you; he that flies shall die.

YORK.

Thanks, gentle Norfolk.—Stay by me, my lords;—

And, soldiers, stay and lodge by me this night.

WARWICK.

And when the king comes, offer him no violence,

Unless he seek to thrust you out perforce.

[They retire.]

YORK.

The queen this day here holds her parliament,

But little thinks we shall be of her council.

By words or blows here let us win our right.

RICHARD.

Armed as we are, let 's stay within this house.

WARWICK.

The bloody parliament shall this be called,

Unless Plantagenet, Duke of York, be king,

And bashful Henry deposed, whose cowardice

Hath made us bywords to our enemies.

YORK.

Then leave me not, my lords; be resolute.

I mean to take possession of my right.

WARWICK.

Neither the king, nor he that loves him best,

The proudest he that holds up Lancaster,

Dares stir a wing if Warwick shake his bells.

I'll plant Plantagenet, root him up who dares.—

Resolve thee, Richard; claim the English crown.

[Warwick leads York to the throne, who seats himself.]

[Flourish. Enter KING HENRY, CLIFFORD, NORTHUMBERLAND, WESTMORELAND, EXETER, and the rest.]

KING HENRY.

My lords, look where the sturdy rebel sits,

Even in the chair of state! belike he means,

Backed by the power of Warwick, that false peer,

To aspire unto the crown and reign as king.—

Earl of Northumberland, he slew thy father;

And thine, Lord Clifford; and you both have vowed revenge

On him, his sons, his favourites, and his friends.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

If I be not, heavens be revenged on me!

CLIFFORD.

The hope thereof makes Clifford mourn in steel.

WESTMORELAND.

What! shall we suffer this? let 's pluck him down;

My heart for anger burns; I cannot brook it.

KING HENRY.

Be patient, gentle Earl of Westmoreland.

CLIFFORD.

Patience is for poltroons, such as he;

He durst not sit there had your father lived.

My gracious lord, here in the parliament

Let us assail the family of York.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Well hast thou spoken, cousin; be it so.

KING HENRY.

Ah, know you not the city favours them,

And they have troops of soldiers at their beck?

EXETER.

But when the duke is slain, they'll quickly fly.

KING HENRY.

Far be the thought of this from Henry's heart,

To make a shambles of the parliament-house!

Cousin of Exeter, frowns, words, and threats

Shall be the war that Henry means to use.—

[They advance to the duke.]

Thou factious Duke of York, descend my throne,

And kneel for grace and mercy at my feet;

I am thy sovereign.

YORK.

I am thine.

EXETER.

For shame, come down; he made thee Duke of York.

YORK.

'T was my inheritance, as the earldom was.

EXETER.

Thy father was a traitor to the crown.

WARWICK.

Exeter, thou art a traitor to the crown

In following this usurping Henry.

CLIFFORD.

Whom should he follow, but his natural king?

WARWICK.

True, Clifford; and that 's Richard, Duke of York.

KING HENRY.

And shall I stand, and thou sit in my throne?

YORK.

It must and shall be so. Content thyself.

WARWICK.

Be Duke of Lancaster; let him be king.

WESTMORELAND.

He is both king and Duke of Lancaster;

And that the Lord of Westmoreland shall maintain.

WARWICK.

And Warwick shall disprove it. You forget

That we are those which chased you from the field,

And slew your fathers, and with colours spread

Marched through the city to the palace gates.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Yes, Warwick, I remember it to my grief;

And, by his soul, thou and thy house shall rue it.

WESTMORELAND.

Plantagenet, of thee, and these thy sons,

Thy kinsmen, and thy friends, I'll have more lives

Than drops of blood were in my father's veins.

CLIFFORD.

Urge it no more; lest that instead of words

I send thee, Warwick, such a messenger

As shall revenge his death before I stir.

WARWICK.

Poor Clifford! how I scorn his worthless threats!

YORK.

Will you we show our title to the crown?

If not, our swords shall plead it in the field.

KING HENRY.

What title hast thou, traitor, to the crown?

Thy father was, as thou art, Duke of York;

Thy grandfather, Roger Mortimer, Earl of March.

I am the son of Henry the Fifth,

Who made the Dauphin and the French to stoop,

And seized upon their towns and provinces.

WARWICK.

Talk not of France, sith thou hast lost it all.

KING HENRY.

The lord protector lost it, and not I;

When I was crowned I was but nine months old.

RICHARD.

You are old enough now, and yet, methinks, you lose.—

Father, tear the crown from the usurper's head.

EDWARD.

Sweet father, do so; set it on your head.

MONTAGUE.

Good brother, as thou lov'st and honourest arms,

Let's fight it out and not stand cavilling thus.

RICHARD.

Sound drums and trumpets, and the king will fly.

YORK.

Sons, peace!

KING HENRY.

Peace thou, and give King Henry leave to speak.

WARWICK.

Plantagenet shall speak first; hear him, lords,

And be you silent and attentive too,

For he that interrupts him shall not live.

KING HENRY.

Think'st thou that I will leave my kingly throne,

Wherein my grandsire and my father sat?

No! first shall war unpeople this my realm;

Ay, and their colours—often borne in France,

And now in England, to our heart's great sorrow—

Shall be my winding sheet.—Why faint you, lords?

My title's good, and better far than his.

WARWICK.

Prove it, Henry, and thou shalt be king.

KING HENRY.

Henry the Fourth by conquest got the crown.

YORK.

'T was by rebellion against his king.

KING HENRY.

[Aside.]

I know not what to say; my title's weak.—

Tell me, may not a king adopt an heir?

YORK.

What then?

KING HENRY.

An if he may, then am I lawful king;

For Richard, in the view of many lords,

Resigned the crown to Henry the Fourth,

Whose heir my father was, and I am his.

YORK.

He rose against him, being his sovereign,

And made him to resign his crown perforce.

WARWICK.

Suppose, my lords, he did it unconstrained,

Think you 't were prejudicial to his crown?

EXETER.

No; for he could not so resign his crown

But that the next heir should succeed and reign.

KING HENRY.

Art thou against us, Duke of Exeter?

EXETER.

His is the right, and therefore pardon me.

YORK.

Why whisper you, my lords, and answer not?

EXETER.

My conscience tells me he is lawful king.

KING HENRY.

[Aside.] All will revolt from me and turn to him.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Plantagenet, for all the claim thou lay'st,

Think not that Henry shall be so deposed.

WARWICK.

Deposed he shall be, in despite of all.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Thou art deceived; 't is not thy southern power,

Of Essex, Norfolk, Suffolk, nor of Kent,

Which makes thee thus presumptuous and proud,

Can set the duke up in despite of me.

CLIFFORD.

King Henry, be thy title right or wrong,

Lord Clifford vows to fight in thy defence.

May that ground gape and swallow me alive,

Where I shall kneel to him that slew my father!

KING HENRY.

O Clifford, how thy words revive my heart!

YORK.

Henry of Lancaster, resign thy crown.—

What mutter you, or what conspire you, lords?

WARWICK.

Do right unto this princely Duke of York,

Or I will fill the house with armed men,

And over the chair of state where now he sits

Write up his title with usurping blood.

[He stamps, and the soldiers show themselves.]

KING HENRY.

My Lord of Warwick, hear but one word:

Let me for this my lifetime reign as king.

YORK.

Confirm the crown to me, and to mine heirs,

And thou shalt reign in quiet while thou liv'st.

KING HENRY.

I am content; Richard Plantagenet,

Enjoy the kingdom after my decease.

CLIFFORD.

What wrong is this unto the prince your son!

WARWICK.

What good is this to England and himself!

WESTMORELAND.

Base, fearful, and despairing Henry!

CLIFFORD.

How hast thou injured both thyself and us!

WESTMORELAND.

I cannot stay to hear these articles.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Nor I.

CLIFFORD.

Come, cousin, let us tell the queen these news.

WESTMORELAND.

Farewell, faint-hearted and degenerate king,

In whose cold blood no spark of honour bides.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Be thou a prey unto the house of York,

And die in bands for this unmanly deed!

CLIFFORD.

In dreadful war mayst thou be overcome,

Or live in peace abandoned and despised!

[Exeunt Northumberland, Clifford, and Westmoreland.]

WARWICK.

Turn this way, Henry, and regard them not.

EXETER.

They seek revenge, and therefore will not yield.

KING HENRY.

Ah, Exeter!

WARWICK.

Why should you sigh, my lord?

KING HENRY.

Not for myself, Lord Warwick, but my son,

Whom I unnaturally shall disinherit.—

But be it as it may, I here entail

The crown to thee, and to thine heirs for ever;

Conditionally, that here thou take an oath

To cease this civil war, and whilst I live

To honour me as thy king and sovereign,

And neither by treason nor hostility

To seek to put me down and reign thyself.

YORK.

This oath I willingly take and will perform.

[Coming from the throne.]

WARWICK.

Long live King Henry!—Plantagenet, embrace him.

KING HENRY.

And long live thou, and these thy forward sons!

YORK.

Now York and Lancaster are reconciled.

EXETER.

Accursed be he that seeks to make them foes!

[Sennet. The Lords come forward.]

YORK.

Farewell, my gracious lord; I'll to my castle.

WARWICK.

And I'll keep London with my soldiers.

NORFOLK.

And I to Norfolk with my followers.

MONTAGUE.

And I unto the sea from whence I came.

[Exeunt York and his Sons, Warwick, Norfolk, Montague, Soldiers, and Attendants.]

KING HENRY.

And I, with grief and sorrow, to the court.

[Enter QUEEN MARGARET and the PRINCE OF WALES.]

EXETER.

Here comes the queen, whose looks bewray her anger.

I'll steal away.

KING HENRY.

Exeter, so will I.

[Going.]

QUEEN MARGARET.

Nay, go not from me; I will follow thee.

KING HENRY.

Be patient, gentle queen, and I will stay.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Who can be patient in such extremes?

Ah, wretched man! would I had died a maid,

And never seen thee, never borne thee son,

Seeing thou hast proved so unnatural a father!

Hath he deserved to lose his birthright thus?

Hadst thou but loved him half so well as I,

Or felt that pain which I did for him once,

Or nourished him as I did with my blood,

Thou wouldst have left thy dearest heart-blood there

Rather than have made that savage duke thine heir

And disinherited thine only son.

PRINCE.

Father, you cannot disinherit me.

If you be king, why should not I succeed?

KING HENRY.

Pardon me, Margaret;—pardon me, sweet son;

The Earl of Warwick and the duke enforced me.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Enforced thee! art thou king, and wilt be forced?

I shame to hear thee speak. Ah, timorous wretch!

Thou hast undone thyself, thy son, and me,

And given unto the house of York such head

As thou shalt reign but by their sufferance.

To entail him and his heirs unto the crown,

What is it but to make thy sepulchre

And creep into it far before thy time?

Warwick is chancellor and the lord of Calais;

Stern Falconbridge commands the narrow seas;

The duke is made protector of the realm;

And yet shalt thou be safe? such safety finds

The trembling lamb environed with wolves.

Had I been there, which am a silly woman,

The soldiers should have tossed me on their pikes

Before I would have granted to that act.

But thou prefer'st thy life before thine honour;

And seeing thou dost, I here divorce myself,

Both from thy table, Henry, and thy bed,

Until that act of parliament be repealed

Whereby my son is disinherited.

The northern lords that have forsworn thy colours

Will follow mine if once they see them spread;

And spread they shall be to thy foul disgrace

And utter ruin of the house of York.

Thus do I leave thee.—Come, son, let's away:

Our army is ready; come, we'll after them.

KING HENRY.

Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me speak.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Thou hast spoke too much already; get thee gone.

KING HENRY.

Gentle son Edward, thou wilt stay with me?

QUEEN MARGARET.

Ay, to be murthered by his enemies.

PRINCE.

When I return with victory from the field

I'll see your grace; till then I'll follow her.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Come, son, away! we may not linger thus.

[Exeunt Queen Margaret and the Prince.]

KING HENRY.

Poor queen! how love to me and to her son

Hath made her break out into terms of rage!

Revenged may she be on that hateful duke

Whose haughty spirit, winged with desire,

Will cost my crown, and like an empty eagle

Tire on the flesh of me and of my son.

The loss of those three lords torments my heart;

I'll write unto them, and entreat them fair.—

Come, cousin, you shall be the messenger.

EXETER.

And I, I hope, shall reconcile them all.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

Sandal Castle

[Enter EDWARD, RICHARD, and MONTAGUE.]

RICHARD.

Brother, though I be youngest, give me leave.

EDWARD.

No; I can better play the orator.

MONTAGUE.

But I have reasons strong and forcible.

[Enter YORK.]

YORK.

Why, how now, sons and brother! at a strife?

What is your quarrel? how began it first?

EDWARD.

No quarrel, but a slight contention.

YORK.

About what?

RICHARD.

About that which concerns your grace and us—

The crown of England, father, which is yours.

YORK.

Mine, boy? not till King Henry be dead.

RICHARD.

Your right depends not on his life or death.

EDWARD.

Now you are heir, therefore enjoy it now;

By giving the house of Lancaster leave to breathe,

It will outrun you, father, in the end.

YORK.

I took an oath that he should quietly reign.

EDWARD.

But for a kingdom any oath may be broken;

I would break a thousand oaths to reign one year.

RICHARD.

No; God forbid your grace should be forsworn.

YORK.

I shall be, if I claim by open war.

RICHARD.

I'll prove the contrary if you'll hear me speak.

YORK.

Thou canst not, son; it is impossible.

RICHARD.

An oath is of no moment, being not took

Before a true and lawful magistrate

That hath authority over him that swears.

Henry had none, but did usurp the place;

Then, seeing 't was he that made you to depose,

Your oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous.

Therefore, to arms! And, father, do but think

How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown,

Within whose circuit is Elysium

And all that poets feign of bliss and joy.

Why do we linger thus? I cannot rest

Until the white rose that I wear be dyed

Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry's heart.

YORK.

Richard, enough; I will be king, or die.—

Brother, thou shalt to London presently,

And whet on Warwick to this enterprise.—

Thou, Richard, shalt to the Duke of Norfolk,

And tell him privily of our intent.—

You, Edward, shall unto my Lord Cobham,

With whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise.

In them I trust; for they are soldiers,

Witty, courteous, liberal, full of spirit.—

While you are thus employed, what resteth more

But that I seek occasion how to rise,

And yet the king not privy to my drift,

Nor any of the house of Lancaster?

[Enter a Messenger.]

But stay.—What news? Why com'st thou in such post?

MESSENGER.

The queen, with all the northern earls and lords,

Intend here to besiege you in your castle.

She is hard by with twenty thousand men,

And therefore fortify your hold, my lord.

YORK.

Ay, with my sword. What! think'st thou that we fear them?—

Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me;

My brother Montague shall post to London.

Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest,

Whom we have left protectors of the king,

With powerful policy strengthen themselves,

And trust not simple Henry nor his oaths.

MONTAGUE.

Brother, I go; I'll win them, fear it not:

And thus most humbly I do take my leave.

[Exit.]

[Enter SIR JOHN and SIR HUGH MORTIMER.]

YORK.

Sir John and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles,

You are come to Sandal in a happy hour;

The army of the queen mean to besiege us.

SIR JOHN.

She shall not need; we'll meet her in the field.

YORK.

What, with five thousand men?

RICHARD.

Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need.

A woman-general! what should we fear?

[A march afar off.]

EDWARD.

I hear their drums; let's set our men in order,

And issue forth and bid them battle straight.

YORK.

Five men to twenty!—though the odds be great,

I doubt not, uncle, of our victory.

Many a battle have I won in France

Whenas the enemy hath been ten to one;

Why should I not now have the like success?

[Alarum. Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE III.

Plains near Sandal Castle.

[Alarums. Enter RUTLAND and his TUTOR]

RUTLAND.

Ah! whither shall I fly to scape their hands?

Ah, tutor! look where bloody Clifford comes.

[Enter CLIFFORD and Soldiers.]

CLIFFORD.

Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy life.

As for the brat of this accursed duke

Whose father slew my father, he shall die.

TUTOR.

And I, my lord, will bear him company.

CLIFFORD.

Soldiers, away with him!

TUTOR.

Ah, Clifford, murder not this innocent child,

Lest thou be hated both of God and man.

[Exit, forced off by Soldiers.]

CLIFFORD.

How now! is he dead already? Or is it fear

That makes him close his eyes?—I'll open them.

RUTLAND.

So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch

That trembles under his devouring paws;

And so he walks, insulting o'er his prey,

And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder.—

Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword,

And not with such a cruel threat'ning look.

Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die:

I am too mean a subject for thy wrath;

Be thou revenged on men, and let me live.

CLIFFORD.

In vain thou speak'st, poor boy; my father's blood

Hath stopped the passage where thy words should enter.

RUTLAND.

Then let my father's blood open it again;

He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him.

CLIFFORD.

Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine

Were not revenge sufficient for me.

No; if I digged up thy forefathers' graves

And hung their rotten coffins up in chains,

It could not slake mine ire nor ease my heart.

The sight of any of the house of York

Is as a fury to torment my soul;

And till I root out their accursed line

And leave not one alive, I live in hell.

Therefore—

RUTLAND.

O, let me pray before I take my death!—

To thee I pray; sweet Clifford, pity me!

CLIFFORD.

Such pity as my rapier's point affords.

RUTLAND.

I never did thee harm; why wilt thou slay me?

CLIFFORD.

Thy father hath.

RUTLAND.

But 't was ere I was born.

Thou hast one son; for his sake pity me,

Lest in revenge thereof, sith God is just,

He be as miserably slain as I.

Ah, let me live in prison all my days,

And when I give occasion of offence,

Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause.

CLIFFORD.

No cause?

Thy father slew my father; therefore, die. [Clifford stabs him.]

RUTLAND.

Di faciant laudis summa sit ista tuae! [Dies.]

CLIFFORD.

Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet!

And this thy son's blood cleaving to my blade

Shall rust upon my weapon till thy blood

Congealed with this, do make me wipe off both.

[Exit.]

ACT I. SCENE IV.

The Same

[Alarum. Enter YORK.]

YORK.

The army of the queen hath got the field.

My uncles both are slain in rescuing me;

And all my followers to the eager foe

Turn back and fly like ships before the wind,

Or lambs pursued by hunger-starved wolves.

My sons—God knows what hath bechanced them;

But this I know,—they have demeaned themselves

Like men born to renown by life or death.

Three times did Richard make a lane to me,

And thrice cried 'Courage, father! fight it out!'

And full as oft came Edward to my side

With purple falchion painted to the hilt

In blood of those that had encount'red him;

And when the hardiest warriors did retire

Richard cried 'Charge! and give no foot of ground!'

And cried 'A crown, or else a glorious tomb!

A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre!'

With this, we charged again; but, out, alas!

We budged again, as I have seen a swan

With bootless labour swim against the tide

And spend her strength with overmatching waves.

[A short alarum within.]

Ah, hark! the fatal followers do pursue,

And I am faint and cannot fly their fury;

And were I strong, I would not shun their fury.

The sands are numbered that make up my life;

Here must I stay, and here my life must end.—

[Enter QUEEN MARGARET, CLIFFORD, NORTHUMBERLAND, and Soldiers]

Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,

I dare your quenchless fury to more rage.

I am your butt, and I abide your shot.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.

CLIFFORD.

Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm

With downright payment showed unto my father.

Now Phaethon hath tumbled from his car,

And made an evening at the noontide prick.

YORK.

My ashes, as the phoenix, may bring forth

A bird that will revenge upon you all;

And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heaven

Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with.

Why come you not?—what! multitudes, and fear?

CLIFFORD.

So cowards fight when they can fly no further;

So doves do peck the falcon's piercing talons;

So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,

Breathe out invectives 'gainst the officers.

YORK.

O Clifford, but bethink thee once again,

And in thy thought o'errun my former time;

And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face,

And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with cowardice

Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this.

CLIFFORD.

I will not bandy with thee word for word,

But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand causes

I would prolong awhile the traitor's life.—

Wrath makes him deaf; speak thou, Northumberland.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Hold, Clifford! do not honour him so much

To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart.

What valour were it, when a cur doth grin,

For one to thrust his hand between his teeth,

When he might spurn him with his foot away?

It is war's prize to take all vantages,

And ten to one is no impeach of valour.

[They lay hands on York, who struggles.]

CLIFFORD.

Ay, ay; so strives the woodcock with the gin.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

So doth the cony struggle in the net.

[York is taken prisoner.]

YORK.

So triumph thieves upon their conquered booty;

So true men yield, with robbers so o'ermatched.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

What would your grace have done unto him now?

QUEEN MARGARET.

Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,

Come, make him stand upon this molehill here,

That raught at mountains with outstretched arms,

Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.—

What! was it you that would be England's king?

Was 't you that revelled in our Parliament,

And made a preachment of your high descent?

Where are your mess of sons to back you now?

The wanton Edward and the lusty George?

And where's that valiant crook-back prodigy,

Dicky your boy, that with his grumbling voice

Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies?

Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland?

Look, York; I stained this napkin with the blood

That valiant Clifford with his rapier's point

Made issue from the bosom of the boy,

And, if thine eyes can water for his death,

I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal.

Alas, poor York! but that I hate thee deadly

I should lament thy miserable state.

I prithee, grieve to make me merry, York;

Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.

What, hath thy fiery heart so parched thine entrails

That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death?

Why art thou patient, man? thou shouldst be mad;

And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus.

Thou wouldst be feed, I see, to make me sport;

York cannot speak unless he wear a crown.—

A crown for York!—and, lords, bow low to him.—

Hold you his hands whilst I do set it on.—

[Putting a paper crown on his head.]

Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king.

Ay, this is he that took King Henry's chair;

And this is he was his adopted heir.—

But how is it that great Plantagenet

Is crowned so soon and broke his solemn oath?

As I bethink me, you should not be king

Till our King Henry had shook hands with Death.

And will you pale your head in Henry's glory,

And rob his temples of the diadem,

Now in his life, against your holy oath?

O, 't is a fault too too unpardonable.—

Off with the crown, and with the crown his head!

And whilst we breathe take time to do him dead.

CLIFFORD.

That is my office, for my father's sake.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Nay, stay; let's hear the orisons he makes.

YORK.

She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France,

Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth,

How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex

To triumph, like an Amazonian trull,

Upon their woes whom fortune captivates!

But that thy face is, vizard-like, unchanging,

Made impudent with use of evil deeds,

I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush.

To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom derived,

Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless.

Thy father bears the type of King of Naples,

Of both the Sicils and Jerusalem,

Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman.

Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult?

It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen;

Unless the adage must be verified,

That beggars mounted run their horse to death.

'T is beauty that doth oft make women proud;

But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small.

'T is virtue that doth make them most admired;

The contrary doth make thee wond'red at.

'T is government that makes them seem divine;

The want thereof makes thee abominable.

Thou art as opposite to every good

As the Antipodes are unto us,

Or as the south to the Septentrion.

O tiger's heart wrapped in a woman's hide!

How couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child,

To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,

And yet be seen to bear a woman's face?

Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible;

Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.

Bid'st thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish:

Wouldst have me weep? why, now thou hast thy will;

For raging wind blows up incessant showers,

And when the rage allays the rain begins.

These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies,

And every drop cries vengeance for his death,

'Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false Frenchwoman.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Beshrew me, but his passion moves me so

That hardly can I check my eyes from tears.

YORK.

That face of his the hungry cannibals

Would not have touched, would not have stained with blood;

But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,

O, ten times more, than tigers of Hyrcania.

See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears;

This cloth thou dippedst in blood of my sweet boy,

And I with tears do wash the blood away.

Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this;

And if thou tell'st the heavy story right,

Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears,

Yea, even my foes will shed fast-falling tears

And say 'Alas! it was a piteous deed!'—

There, take the crown, and with the crown my curse;

And in thy need such comfort come to thee

As now I reap at thy too cruel hand!—

Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world;

My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads!

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin,

I should not, for my life, but weep with him,

To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul.

QUEEN MARGARET.

What! weeping-ripe, my Lord Northumberland?

Think but upon the wrong he did us all,

And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.

CLIFFORD.

Here's for my oath, here's for my father's death.

[Stabbing him.]

QUEEN MARGARET.

And here's to right our gentle-hearted king.

[Stabbing him.]

YORK.

Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God!

My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee.

[Dies.]

QUEEN MARGARET.

Off with his head, and set it on York gates;

So York may overlook the town of York.

[Flourish. Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

A plain near Mortimer's Cross in Herefordshire.

[A march. Enter EDWARD and RICHARD, with their Power.]

EDWARD.

I wonder how our princely father scaped,

Or whether he be scaped away or no

From Clifford's and Northumberland's pursuit.

Had he been ta'en, we should have heard the news;

Had he been slain, we should have heard the news;

Or had he scaped, methinks we should have heard

The happy tidings of his good escape.—

How fares my brother? why is he so sad?

RICHARD.

I cannot joy until I be resolved

Where our right valiant father is become.

I saw him in the battle range about,

And watched him how he singled Clifford forth.

Methought he bore him in the thickest troop

As doth a lion in a herd of neat;

Or as a bear, encompassed round with dogs,

Who having pinched a few and made them cry,

The rest stand all aloof and bark at him.

So fared our father with his enemies;

So fled his enemies my warlike father.

Methinks 'tis pride enough to be his son.—

See how the morning opes her golden gates

And takes her farewell of the glorious sun.

How well resembles it the prime of youth,

Trimmed like a younker prancing to his love!

EDWARD.

Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?

RICHARD.

Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun;

Not separated with the racking clouds,

But severed in a pale clear-shining sky.

See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,

As if they vowed some league inviolable;

Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun.

In this the heaven figures some event.

EDWARD.

'T is wondrous strange, the like yet never heard of.

I think it cites us, brother, to the field,

That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet,

Each one already blazing by our meeds,

Should, notwithstanding, join our lights together,

And overshine the earth, as this the world.

Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear

Upon my target three fair shining suns.

RICHARD.

Nay, bear three daughters; by your leave I speak it,

You love the breeder better than the male.—

[Enter a Messenger.]

But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell

Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?

MESSENGER.

Ah, one that was a woeful looker-on

When as the noble Duke of York was slain,

Your princely father and my loving lord.

EDWARD.

O, speak no more, for I have heard too much!

RICHARD.

Say how he died, for I will hear it all.

MESSENGER.

Environed he was with many foes,

And stood against them as the hope of Troy

Against the Greeks that would have ent'red Troy.

But Hercules himself must yield to odds;

And many strokes, though with a little axe,

Hew down and fell the hardest-timbered oak.

By many hands your father was subdued,

But only slaught'red by the ireful arm

Of unrelenting Clifford and the queen,

Who crowned the gracious duke in high despite,

Laughed in his face, and when with grief he wept

The ruthless queen gave him, to dry his cheeks,

A napkin steeped in the harmless blood

Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain.

And, after many scorns, many foul taunts,

They took his head, and on the gates of York

They set the same; and there it doth remain,

The saddest spectacle that e'er I viewed.

EDWARD.

Sweet Duke of York! our prop to lean upon,

Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay.

O Clifford! boisterous Clifford! thou hast slain

The flower of Europe for his chivalry;

And treacherously hast thou vanquished him,

For hand to hand he would have vanquished thee.

Now my soul's palace is become a prison.

Ah, would she break from hence, that this my body

Might in the ground be closed up in rest!

For never henceforth shall I joy again,

Never, O, never, shall I see more joy!

RICHARD.

I cannot weep, for all my body's moisture

Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart;

Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burthen,

For selfsame wind that I should speak withal

Is kindling coals that fires all my breast

And burns me up with flames that tears would quench.

To weep is to make less the depth of grief;

Tears, then, for babes, blows and revenge for me!—

Richard, I bear thy name; I'll venge thy death,

Or die renowned by attempting it.

EDWARD.

His name that valiant duke hath left with thee;

His dukedom and his chair with me is left.

RICHARD.

Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird,

Show thy descent by gazing 'gainst the sun;

For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say:

Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his.

[March. Enter WARWICK and MONTAGUE, with their Army.]

WARWICK.

How now, fair lords! What fare? what news abroad?

RICHARD.

Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount

Our baleful news, and at each word's deliverance

Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told,

The words would add more anguish than the wounds.

O valiant lord, the Duke of York is slain!

EDWARD.

O, Warwick, Warwick! that Plantagenet

Which held thee dearly as his soul's redemption

Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death.

WARWICK.

Ten days ago I drowned these news in tears,

And now, to add more measure to your woes,

I come to tell you things sith then befallen.

After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,

Where your brave father breathed his latest gasp,

Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run,

Were brought me of your loss and his depart.

I, then in London, keeper of the king,

Mustered my soldiers, gathered flocks of friends,

And very well appointed, as I thought,

Marched toward Saint Alban's to intercept the queen,

Bearing the king in my behalf along;

For by my scouts I was advertised

That she was coming with a full intent

To dash our late decree in parliament

Touching King Henry's oath and your succession.

Short tale to make, we at Saint Alban's met,

Our battles joined, and both sides fiercely fought;

But, whether 't was the coldness of the king,

Who looked full gently on his warlike queen,

That robbed my soldiers of their heated spleen,

Or whether 't was report of her success,

Or more than common fear of Clifford's rigour,

Who thunders to his captives blood and death,

I cannot judge; but, to conclude with truth,

Their weapons like to lightning came and went,

Our soldiers',—like the night-owl's lazy flight,

Or like an idle thrasher with a flail—

Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends.

I cheered them up with justice of our cause,

With promise of high pay and great rewards,

But all in vain; they had no heart to fight,

And we in them no hope to win the day;

So that we fled: the king unto the queen;

Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and myself,

In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you;

For in the marches here, we heard, you were

Making another head to fight again.

EDWARD.

Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick?

And when came George from Burgundy to England?

WARWICK.

Some six miles off the duke is with the soldiers;

And for your brother, he was lately sent

From your kind aunt, Duchess of Burgundy,

With aid of soldiers to this needful war.

RICHARD.

'T was odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled;

Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit,

But ne'er till now his scandal of retire.

WARWICK.

Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou hear;

For thou shalt know, this strong right hand of mine

Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry's head

And wring the awful sceptre from his fist,

Were he as famous and as bold in war

As he is famed for mildness, peace, and prayer.

RICHARD.

I know it well, Lord Warwick, blame me not;

'T is love I bear thy glories makes me speak.

But in this troublous time what's to be done?

Shall we go throw away our coats of steel

And wrap our bodies in black mourning-gowns,

Numbering our Ave-Maries with our beads?

Or shall we on the helmets of our foes

Tell our devotion with revengeful arms?

If for the last, say ay, and to it, lords.

WARWICK.

Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you out,

And therefore comes my brother Montague.

Attend me, lords. The proud insulting queen,

With Clifford and the haught Northumberland,

And of their feather many moe proud birds,

Have wrought the easy-melting king like wax.

He swore consent to your succession,

His oath enrolled in the parliament;

And now to London all the crew are gone,

To frustrate both his oath and what beside

May make against the house of Lancaster.

Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong;

Now, if the help of Norfolk and myself,

With all the friends that thou, brave Earl of March,

Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure,

Will but amount to five and twenty thousand,

Why, Via! to London will we march amain,

And once again bestride our foaming steeds,

And once again cry 'Charge upon our foes!'

But never once again turn back and fly.

RICHARD.

Ay, now, methinks, I hear great Warwick speak.

Ne'er may he live to see a sunshine day

That cries 'Retire,' if Warwick bid him stay.

EDWARD.

Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean;

And when thou fail'st—as God forbid the hour!—

Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forfend!

WARWICK.

No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York.

The next degree is England's royal throne;

For King of England shalt thou be proclaimed

In every borough as we pass along,

And he that throws not up his cap for joy

Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head.

King Edward,—valiant Richard,— Montague,—

Stay we no longer dreaming of renown,

But sound the trumpets and about our task.

RICHARD.

Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as steel,

As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds,

I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine.

EDWARD.

Then strike up, drums!—God and Saint George for us!

[Enter a Messenger.]

WARWICK.

How now! what news?

MESSENGER.

The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me,

The queen is coming with a puissant host,

And craves your company for speedy counsel.

WARWICK.

Why then it sorts; brave warriors, let's away.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

Before York

[Flourish. Enter KING HENRY, QUEEN MARGARET, the PRINCE OF WALES, CLIFFORD, and NORTHUMBERLAND, with drums and trumpets.]

QUEEN MARGARET.

Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York.

Yonder's the head of that arch-enemy

That sought to be encompassed with your crown;

Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?

KING HENRY.

Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their wreck;

To see this sight, it irks my very soul.—

Withhold revenge, dear God! 't is not my fault,

Nor wittingly have I infringed my vow.

CLIFFORD.

My gracious liege, this too much lenity

And harmful pity must be laid aside.

To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?

Not to the beast that would usurp their den.

Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick?

Not his that spoils her young before her face.

Who scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting?

Not he that sets his foot upon her back.

The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on,

And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood.

Ambitious York did level at thy crown,

Thou smiling while he knit his angry brows.

He, but a duke, would have his son a king,

And raise his issue like a loving sire;

Thou, being a king, blest with a goodly son,

Didst yield consent to disinherit him,

Which argued thee a most unloving father.

Unreasonable creatures feed their young;

And though man's face be fearful to their eyes,

Yet, in protection of their tender ones,

Who hath not seen them, even with those wings

Which sometime they have used with fearful flight,

Make war with him that climbed unto their nest,

Offering their own lives in their young's defence?

For shame, my liege! make them your precedent.

Were it not pity that this goodly boy

Should lose his birthright by his father's fault,

And long hereafter say unto his child,

'What my great-grandfather and grandsire got,

My careless father fondly gave away?'

Ah, what a shame were this! Look on the boy,

And let his manly face, which promiseth

Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart

To hold thine own, and leave thine own with him.

KING HENRY.

Full well hath Clifford played the orator,

Inferring arguments of mighty force.

But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear

That things ill got had ever bad success?

And happy always was it for that son

Whose father for his hoarding went to hell?

I'll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind,

And would my father had left me no more;

For all the rest is held at such a rate

As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep

Than in possession any jot of pleasure.—

Ah, cousin York! would thy best friends did know

How it doth grieve me that thy head is here!

QUEEN MARGARET.

My lord, cheer up your spirits; our foes are nigh,

And this soft courage makes your followers faint.

You promised knighthood to our forward son;

Unsheathe your sword and dub him presently.—

Edward, kneel down.

KING HENRY.

Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight;

And learn this lesson,—draw thy sword in right.

PRINCE.

My gracious father, by your kingly leave,

I'll draw it as apparent to the crown,

And in that quarrel use it to the death.

CLIFFORD.

Why, that is spoken like a toward prince.

[Enter a Messenger.]

MESSENGER.

Royal commanders, be in readiness;

For with a band of thirty thousand men

Comes Warwick, backing of the Duke of York,

And in the towns, as they do march along,

Proclaims him king, and many fly to him.

Darraign your battle, for they are at hand.

CLIFFORD.

I would your highness would depart the field;

The queen hath best success when you are absent.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fortune.

KING HENRY.

Why, that's my fortune too; therefore I'll stay.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Be it with resolution then to fight.

PRINCE.

My royal father, cheer these noble lords,

And hearten those that fight in your defence.

Unsheathe your sword, good father; cry'saint George!'

[March. Enter EDWARD, GEORGE, RICHARD, WARWICK, NORFOLK, MONTAGUE, and Soldiers.]

EDWARD.

Now, perjured Henry, wilt thou kneel for grace

And set thy diadem upon my head,

Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?

QUEEN MARGARET.

Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting boy!

Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms

Before thy sovereign and thy lawful king?

EDWARD.

I am his king, and he should bow his knee.

I was adopted heir by his consent;

Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear,

You, that are king, though he do wear the crown,

Have caused him by new act of parliament

To blot out me and put his own son in.

CLIFFORD.

And reason, too;

Who should succeed the father but the son?

RICHARD.

Are you there, butcher?—O, I cannot speak!

CLIFFORD.

Ay, crook-back; here I stand, to answer thee,

Or any he the proudest of thy sort.

RICHARD.

'T was you that killed young Rutland, was it not?

CLIFFORD.

Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied.

RICHARD.

For God's sake, lords, give signal to the fight.

WARWICK.

What say'st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown?

QUEEN MARGARET.

Why, how now, long-tongued Warwick! dare you speak?

When you and I met at Saint Alban's last,

Your legs did better service than your hands.

WARWICK.

Then 't was my turn to fly, and now 't is thine.

CLIFFORD.

You said so much before, and yet you fled.

WARWICK.

'T was not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay.

RICHARD.

Northumberland, I hold thee reverently.

Break off the parley; for scarce I can refrain

The execution of my big-swoln heart

Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.

CLIFFORD.

I slew thy father; call'st thou him a child?

RICHARD.

Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward,

As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland,

But ere sunset I'll make thee curse the deed.

KING HENRY.

Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Defy them then, or else hold close thy lips.

KING HENRY.

I prithee, give no limits to my tongue;

I am a king, and privileged to speak.

CLIFFORD.

My liege, the wound that bred this meeting here

Cannot be cured by words; therefore be still.

RICHARD.

Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword.

By him that made us all, I am resolved

That Clifford's manhood lies upon his tongue.

EDWARD.

Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or no?

A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day

That ne'er shall dine unless thou yield the crown.

WARWICK.

If thou deny, their blood upon thy head;

For York in justice puts his armour on.

PRINCE.

If that be right which Warwick says is right,

There is no wrong, but every thing is right.

RICHARD.

Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands;

For, well I wot, thou hast thy mother's tongue.

QUEEN MARGARET.

But thou art neither like thy sire nor dam,

But like a foul misshapen stigmatic,

Marked by the destinies to be avoided,

As venom toads or lizards' dreadful stings.

RICHARD.

Iron of Naples hid with English gilt,

Whose father bears the title of a king,—

As if a channel should be called the sea,—

Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,

To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?

EDWARD.

A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns

To make this shameless callat know herself.—

Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,

Although thy husband may be Menelaus;

And ne'er was Agamemmon's brother wronged

By that false woman as this king by thee.

His father revelled in the heart of France,

And tamed the king, and made the dauphin stoop;

And, had he matched according to his state,

He might have kept that glory to this day;

But when he took a beggar to his bed,

And graced thy poor sire with his bridal day,

Even then that sunshine brewed a shower for him

That washed his father's fortunes forth of France

And heaped sedition on his crown at home.

For what hath broached this tumult but thy pride?

Hadst thou been meek, our title still had slept;

And we, in pity of the gentle king,

Had slipped our claim until another age.

GEORGE.

But when we saw our sunshine made thy spring,

And that thy summer bred us no increase,

We set the axe to thy usurping root;

And though the edge hath something hit ourselves,

Yet, know thou, since we have begun to strike,

We'll never leave till we have hewn thee down

Or bathed thy growing with our heated bloods.

EDWARD.

And in this resolution I defy thee;

Not willing any longer conference,

Since thou deniest the gentle king to speak.—

Sound trumpets;—let our bloody colours wave,

And either victory or else a grave!

QUEEN MARGARET.

Stay, Edward.

EDWARD.

No, wrangling woman, we'll no longer stay;

These words will cost ten thousand lives this day.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE III.

A field of battle between Towton.

[Alarums. Excursions. Enter WARWICK.]

WARWICK.

Forspent with toil, as runners with a race,

I lay me down a little while to breathe;

For strokes received, and many blows repaid,

Have robbed my strong-knit sinews of their strength,

And, spite of spite, needs must I rest awhile.

[Enter EDWARD, running.]

EDWARD.

Smile, gentle heaven, or strike, ungentle death!

For this world frowns and Edward's sun is clouded.

WARWICK.

How now, my lord? What hap? What hope of good?

[Enter GEORGE.]

GEORGE.

Our hap is lost, our hope but sad despair;

Our ranks are broke and ruin follows us.

What counsel give you? whither shall we fly?

EDWARD.

Bootless is flight, they follow us with wings;

And weak we are and cannot shun pursuit.

[Enter RICHARD.]

RICHARD.

Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?

Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk,

Broached with the steely point of Clifford's lance;

And in the very pangs of death he cried,

Like to a dismal clangor heard from far,

'Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death!'

So, underneath the belly of their steeds

That stained their fetlocks in his smoking blood,

The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.

WARWICK.

Then let the earth be drunken with our blood;

I'll kill my horse, because I will not fly.

Why stand we like soft-hearted women here,

Wailing our losses whiles the foe doth rage,

And look upon, as if the tragedy

Were played in jest by counterfeiting actors?

Here on my knee I vow to God above,

I'll never pause again, never stand still,

Till either death hath closed these eyes of mine,

Or fortune given me measure of revenge.

EDWARD.

O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine,

And in this vow do chain my soul to thine!—

And, ere my knee rise from the earth's cold face,

I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee,

Thou setter-up and plucker-down of kings,

Beseeching thee, if with thy will it stands

That to my foes this body must be prey,

Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope,

And give sweet passage to my sinful soul.—

Now, lords, take leave until we meet again,

Where'er it be, in heaven or in earth.

RICHARD.

Brother, give me thy hand;—and, gentle Warwick,

Let me embrace thee in my weary arms.

I, that did never weep, now melt with woe,

That winter should cut off our spring-time so.

WARWICK.

Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell.

GEORGE.

Yet let us all together to our troops,

And give them leave to fly that will not stay,

And call them pillars that will stand to us;

And if we thrive, promise them such rewards

As victors wear at the Olympian games.

This may plant courage in their quailing breasts,

For yet is hope of life and victory.—

Forslow no longer; make we hence amain.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE IV.

Another Part of the Field.

[Excursions. Enter RICHARD and CLIFFORD.]

RICHARD.

Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone.

Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York,

And this for Rutland; both bound to revenge,

Wert thou environed with a brazen wall.

CLIFFORD.

Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone.

This is the hand that stabbed thy father York,

And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland;

And here's the heart that triumphs in their death,

And cheers these hands that slew thy sire and brother

To execute the like upon thyself;

And so have at thee!

[They fight. Warwick enters; Clifford flies.]

RICHARD.

Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase;

For I myself will hunt this wolf to death.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE V.

Another Part of the Field.

[Alarum. Enter KING HENRY.]

KING HENRY.

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 wait on him.

[Alarum. Enter a Son that hath killed his father, bringing in the dead body.]

SON.

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.

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 a Father who has killed his son, with the body in his arms.]

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 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!

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 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 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.

[Exit with the body.]

FATHER.

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.

[Exit with the body.]

KING HENRY.

Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care,

Here sits a king more woeful than you are.

[Alarums. Excursions. Enter QUEEN MARGARET, PRINCE OF WALES, and EXETER.]

PRINCE.

Fly, father, fly! for all your friends are fled,

And Warwick rages like a chafed bull.

Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit.

QUEEN MARGARET.

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.

EXETER.

Away! for vengeance comes along with them.

Nay, stay not to expostulate; make speed,

Or else come after; I'll away before.

KING HENRY.

Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exeter;

Not that I fear to stay, but love to go

Whither the queen intends. Forward! away!

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE VI.

Another Part of the Field

[A loud alarum. Enter CLIFFORD, wounded.]

CLIFFORD.

Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies,

Which whiles it lasted gave King Henry light.

O Lancaster! I fear thy overthrow

More than my body's parting with my soul!

My love and fear glued many friends to thee;

And, now I fall, thy tough commixtures melt,

Impairing Henry, strengthening mis-proud York.

The common people swarm like summer flies;

And whither fly the gnats but to the sun?

And who shines now but Henry's enemies?

O Phoebus, hadst thou never given consent

That Phaethon should check thy fiery steeds,

Thy burning car never had scorched the earth!

And, Henry, hadst thou swayed as kings should do,

Or as thy father and his father did,

Giving no ground unto the house of York,

They never then had sprung like summer flies;

I, and ten thousand in this luckless realm,

Had left no mourning widows for our death,

And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace.

For what doth cherish weeds but gentle air?

And what makes robbers bold but too much lenity?

Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds;

No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight.

The foe is merciless and will not pity,

For at their hands I have deserved no pity.

The air hath got into my deadly wounds,

And much effuse of blood doth make me faint.—

Come, York and Richard, Warwick, and the rest;

I stabbed your fathers' bosoms, split my breast.

[He faints.]

[Alarum and retreat. Enter EDWARD, GEORGE, RICHARD, MONTAGUE, WARWICK, and Soldiers.]

EDWARD.

Now breathe we, lords; good fortune bids us pause,

And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks.—

Some troops pursue the bloody-minded queen

That led calm Henry, though he were a king,

As doth a sail, filled with a fretting gust,

Command an argosy to stem the waves.

But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them?

WARWICK.

No, 't is impossible he should escape;

For, though before his face I speak the words,

Your brother Richard marked him for the grave,

And whereso'er he is he's surely dead.

[Clifford groans and dies.]

RICHARD.

Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave?

A deadly groan, like life and death's departing.

EDWARD.

See who it is; and, now the battle's ended,

If friend or foe, let him be gently used.

RICHARD.

Revoke that doom of mercy, for 't is Clifford,

Who, not contented that he lopped the branch,

In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth,

But set his murthering knife unto the root

From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring;

I mean our princely father, Duke of York.

WARWICK.

From off the gates of York fetch down the head,

Your father's head, which Clifford placed there;

Instead whereof, let this supply the room.

Measure for measure must be answered.

EDWARD.

Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house,

That nothing sung but death to us and ours;

Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound,

And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.

[Soldiers bring the body forward.]

WARWICK.

I think his understanding is bereft.—

Speak, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee?—

Dark cloudy death o'ershades his beams of life,

And he nor sees nor hears us, what we say.

RICHARD.

O, would he did! and so, perhaps, he doth;

'T is but his policy to counterfeit,

Because he would avoid such bitter taunts

Which in the time of death he gave our father.

GEORGE.

If so thou think'st, vex him with eager words.

RICHARD.

Clifford, ask mercy, and obtain no grace.

EDWARD.

Clifford, repent in bootless penitence.

WARWICK.

Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults.

GEORGE.

While we devise fell tortures for thy faults.

RICHARD.

Thou didst love York, and I am son to York.

EDWARD.

Thou pitiedst Rutland, I will pity thee.

GEORGE.

Where's Captain Margaret to fence you now?

WARWICK.

They mock thee, Clifford; swear as thou wast wont.

RICHARD.

What! not an oath? nay then, the world goes hard

When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath.—

I know by that he's dead; and, by my soul,

If this right hand would buy two hours' life,

That I in all despite might rail at him,

This hand should chop it off, and with the issuing blood

Stifle the villain whose unstanched thirst

York and young Rutland could not satisfy.

WARWICK.

Ay, but he's dead. Off with the traitor's head,

And rear it in the place your father's stands.—

And now to London with triumphant march,

There to be crowned England's royal king;

From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France,

And ask the Lady Bona for thy queen.

So shalt thou sinew both these lands together,

And, having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread

The scatt'red foe that hopes to rise again;

For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt,

Yet look to have them buzz to offend thine ears.

First will I see the coronation,

And then to Brittany I'll cross the sea

To effect this marriage, so it please my lord.

EDWARD.

Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be;

For in thy shoulder do I build my seat,

And never will I undertake the thing

Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting.—

Richard, I will create thee Duke of Gloucester;—

And George, of Clarence.—Warwick, as ourself,

Shall do and undo as him pleaseth best.

RICHARD.

Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloucester,

For Gloster's dukedom is too ominous.

WARWICK.

Tut! that's a foolish observation;

Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London,

To see these honours in possession.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

A Forest in the North of England.

[Enter two Keepers, with crossbows in their hands.]

1 KEEPER.

Under this thick-grown brake we'll shroud ourselves,

For through this laund anon the deer will come;

And in this covert will we make our stand,

Culling the principal of all the deer.

2 KEEPER.

I'll stay above the hill, so both may shoot.

1 KEEPER.

That cannot be; the noise of thy crossbow

Will scare the herd, and so my shoot is lost.

Here stand we both, and aim we at the best;

And, for the time shall not seem tedious,

I'll tell thee what befell me on a day

In this self place where now we mean to stand.

2 KEEPER.

Here comes a man; let's stay till he be past.

[Enter KING HENRY, disguised, with a prayer-book.]

KING HENRY.

From Scotland am I stolen, even of pure love,

To greet mine own land with my wishful sight.

No, Harry, Harry, 't is no land of thine;

Thy place is filled, thy sceptre wrung from thee,

Thy balm washed off wherewith thou wast anointed.

No bending knee will call thee Caesar now,

No humble suitors press to speak for right;

No, not a man comes for redress of thee,

For how can I help them, and not myself?

1 KEEPER.

Ay, here's a deer whose skin's a keeper's fee.

This is the quondam king; let's seize upon him.

KING HENRY.

Let me embrace thee, sour adversity;

For wise men say it is the wisest course.

2 KEEPER.

Why linger we? let us lay hands upon him.

1 KEEPER.

Forbear awhile; we'll hear a little more.

KING HENRY.

My queen and son are gone to France for aid;

And, as I hear, the great commanding Warwick

Is thither gone to crave the French king's sister

To wife for Edward. If this news be true,

Poor queen and son, your labour is but lost,

For Warwick is a subtle orator,

And Lewis a prince soon won with moving words.

By this account then Margaret may win him,

For she's a woman to be pitied much.

Her sighs will make a batt'ry in his breast,

Her tears will pierce into a marble heart;

The tiger will be mild whiles she doth mourn,

And Nero will be tainted with remorse

To hear and see her plaints, her brinish tears.

Ay, but she's come to beg, Warwick to give;

She on his left side craving aid for Henry,

He on his right asking a wife for Edward.

She weeps and says her Henry is deposed,

He smiles and says his Edward is installed;

That she, poor wretch, for grief can speak no more;

Whiles Warwick tells his title, smooths the wrong,

Inferreth arguments of mighty strength,

And, in conclusion, wins the king from her,

With promise of his sister, and what else,

To strengthen and support King Edward's place.

O Margaret, thus 't will be! and thou, poor soul,

Art then forsaken, as thou went'st forlorn!

2 KEEPER.

Say, what art thou, that talk'st of kings and queens?

KING HENRY.

More than I seem, and less than I was born to;

A man at least, for less I should not be;

And men may talk of kings, and why not I?

2 KEEPER.

Ay, but thou talk'st as if thou wert a king.

KING HENRY.

Why, so I am, in mind; and that's enough.

2 KEEPER.

But, if thou be a king, where is thy crown?

KING HENRY.

My crown is in my heart, not on my head,

Not decked with diamonds and Indian stones,

Not to be seen; my crown is called content,

A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.

2 KEEPER.

Well, if you be a king crowned with content,

Your crown content and you must be contented

To go along with us; for, as we think,

You are the king King Edward hath deposed,

And we his subjects, sworn in all allegiance,

Will apprehend you as his enemy.

KING HENRY.

But did you never swear, and break an oath?

2 KEEPER.

No, never such an oath; nor will not now.

KING HENRY.

Where did you dwell when I was King of England?

2 KEEPER.

Here in this country, where we now remain.

KING HENRY.

I was anointed king at nine months old,

My father and my grandfather were kings,

And you were sworn true subjects unto me;

And tell me, then, have you not broke your oaths?

1 KEEPER.

No, for we were subjects but while you were king.

KING HENRY.

Why, am I dead? do I not breathe, a man?

Ah, simple men! you know not what you swear.

Look, as I blow this feather from my face,

And as the air blows it to me again,

Obeying with my wind when I do blow,

And yielding to another when it blows,

Commanded always by the greater gust,

Such is the lightness of you common men.

But do not break your oaths; for of that sin

My mild entreaty shall not make you guilty.

Go where you will, the king shall be commanded;

And be you kings, command, and I'll obey.

1 KEEPER.

We are true subjects to the king,—King Edward.

KING HENRY.

So would you be again to Henry

If he were seated as King Edward is.

1 KEEPER.

We charge you, in God's name and the king's

To go with us unto the officers.

KING HENRY.

In God's name lead; your king's name be obeyed;

And what God will, that let your king perform;

And what he will, I humbly yield unto.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

The palace.

[Enter KING EDWARD, GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE, and LADY GREY.]

KING EDWARD.

Brother of Gloucester, at Saint Alban's field

This lady's husband, Sir John Grey, was slain,

His land then seized on by the conqueror;

Her suit is now to repossess those lands,

Which we in justice cannot well deny,

Because in quarrel of the house of York

The worthy gentleman did lose his life.

GLOUCESTER.

Your highness shall do well to grant her suit;

It were dishonour to deny it her.

KING EDWARD.

It were no less; but yet I'll make a pause.

GLOUCESTER.

[Aside to Clarence.]

Yea; is it so?

I see the lady hath a thing to grant

Before the king will grant her humble suit.

CLARENCE.

[Aside to Gloucester.]

He knows the game; how true he keeps the wind!

GLOUCESTER.

[Aside to Clarence.]

Silence!

KING EDWARD.

Widow, we will consider of your suit,

And come some other time to know our mind.

LADY GREY.

Right gracious lord, I cannot brook delay;

May it please your highness to resolve me now,

And what your pleasure is shall satisfy me.

GLOUCESTER.

[Aside to Clarence.]

Ay, widow? then I'll warrant you all your lands,

An if what pleases him shall pleasure you.

Fight closer, or, good faith, you'll catch a blow.

CLARENCE.

[Aside to Gloucester.]

I fear her not, unless she chance to fall.

GLOUCESTER.

[Aside to CLARENCE.]

God forbid that, for he'll take vantages.

KING EDWARD.

How many children hast thou, widow? tell me.

CLARENCE.

[Aside to Gloucester.]

I think he means to beg a child of her.

GLOUCESTER.

[Aside to Clarence.]

Nay, whip me then; he'll rather give her two.

LADY GREY.

Three, my most gracious lord.

GLOUCESTER.

[Aside to Clarence.]

You shall have four if you'll be ruled by him.

KING EDWARD.

'T were pity they should lose their father's lands.

LADY GREY.

Be pitiful, dread lord, and grant it then.

KING EDWARD.

Lords, give us leave; I'll try this widow's wit.

GLOUCESTER.

[Aside to Clarence.]

Ay, good leave have you; for you will have leave

Till youth take leave and leave you to the crutch.

[Gloucester and Clarence stand apart.]

KING EDWARD.

Now tell me, madam, do you love your children?

LADY GREY.

Ay, full as dearly as I love myself.

KING EDWARD.

And would you not do much to do them good?

LADY GREY.

To do them good I would sustain some harm.

KING EDWARD.

Then get your husband's lands to do them good.

LADY GREY.

Therefore I came unto your majesty.

KING EDWARD.

I'll tell you how these lands are to be got.

LADY GREY.

So shall you bind me to your highness' service.

KING EDWARD.

What service wilt thou do me if I give them?

LADY GREY.

What you command that rests in me to do.

KING EDWARD.

But you will take exceptions to my boon.

LADY GREY.

No, gracious lord, except I cannot do it.

KING EDWARD.

Ay, but thou canst do what I mean to ask.

LADY GREY.

Why, then, I will do what your grace commands.

GLOUCESTER.

He plies her hard; and much rain wears the marble.

CLARENCE.

As red as fire! nay, then her wax must melt.

LADY GREY.

Why stops my lord? shall I not hear my task?

KING EDWARD.

An easy task; 't is but to love a king.

LADY GREY.

That's soon performed, because I am a subject.

KING EDWARD.

Why, then, thy husband's lands I freely give thee.

LADY GREY.

I take my leave with many thousand thanks.

GLOUCESTER.

The match is made; she seals it with a curtsy.

KING EDWARD.

But stay thee; 't is the fruits of love I mean.

LADY GREY.

The fruits of love I mean, my loving liege.

KING EDWARD.

Ay, but, I fear me, in another sense.

What love, thinkst thou, I sue so much to get?

LADY GREY.

My love till death, my humble thanks, my prayers;

That love which virtue begs, and virtue grants.

KING EDWARD.

No, by my troth, I did not mean such love.

LADY GREY.

Why, then, you mean not as I thought you did.

KING EDWARD.

But now you partly may perceive my mind.

LADY GREY.

My mind will never grant what I perceive

Your Highness aims at, if I aim aright.

KING EDWARD.

To tell thee plain, I aim to lie with thee.

LADY GREY.

To tell you plain, I had rather lie in prison.

KING EDWARD.

Why, then thou shalt not have thy husband's lands.

LADY GREY.

Why, then mine honesty shall be my dower,

For by that loss I will not purchase them.

KING EDWARD.

Therein thou wrong'st thy children mightily.

LADY GREY.

Herein your highness wrongs both them and me.

But, mighty lord, this merry inclination

Accords not with the sadness of my suit;

Please you dismiss me either with ay or no.

KING EDWARD.

Ay, if thou wilt say ay to my request.

No, if thou dost say no to my demand.

LADY GREY.

Then no, my lord. My suit is at an end.

GLOUCESTER.

The widow likes him not, she knits her brows.

CLARENCE.

He is the bluntest wooer in Christendom.

KING EDWARD.

[Aside.]

Her looks doth argue her replete with modesty,

Her words doth show her wit incomparable,

All her perfections challenge sovereignty;

One way or other she is for a king,

And she shall be my love, or else my queen.—

Say that King Edward take thee for his queen?

LADY GREY.

'T is better said than done, my gracious lord;

I am a subject fit to jest withal,

But far unfit to be a sovereign.

KING EDWARD.

Sweet widow, by my state I swear to thee,

I speak no more than what my soul intends;

And that is to enjoy thee for my love.

LADY GREY.

And that is more than I will yield unto.

I know I am too mean to be your queen,

And yet too good to be your concubine.

KING EDWARD.

You cavil, widow; I did mean my queen.

LADY GREY.

'T will grieve your grace my sons should call you father.

KING EDWARD.

No more than when my daughters call thee mother.

Thou art a widow, and thou hast some children;

And, by God's mother, I, being but a bachelor,

Have other some; why, 't is a happy thing

To be the father unto many sons.

Answer no more, for thou shalt be my queen.

GLOUCESTER.

The ghostly father now hath done his shrift.

CLARENCE.

When he was made a shriver, 't was for shift.

KING EDWARD.

Brothers, you muse what chat we two have had.

[Gloucester and Clarence come forward.]

GLOUCESTER.

The widow likes it not, for she looks very sad.

KING EDWARD.

Youed think it strange if I should marry her.

CLARENCE.

To whom, my lord?

KING EDWARD.

Why, Clarence, to myself.

GLOUCESTER.

That would be ten days' wonder, at the least.

CLARENCE.

That's a day longer than a wonder lasts.

GLOUCESTER.

By so much is the wonder in extremes.

KING EDWARD.

Well, jest on, brothers; I can tell you both,

Her suit is granted for her husband's lands.

[Enter a Nobleman.]

NOBLEMAN.

My gracious lord, Henry your foe is taken,

And brought your prisoner to your palace gate.

KING EDWARD.

See that he be conveyed unto the Tower.—

And go we, brothers, to the man that took him,

To question of his apprehension.—

Widow, go you along.—Lords, use her honourably.

[Exeunt King Edward, Lady Grey, Clarence, and Nobleman.]

GLOUCESTER.

Ay, Edward will use women honourably.

Would he were wasted, marrow, bones, and all,

That from his loins no hopeful branch may spring,

To cross me from the golden time I look for!

And yet, between my soul's desire and me—

The lustful Edward's title buried—

Is Clarence, Henry, and his son young Edward,

And all the unlooked-for issue of their bodies,

To take their rooms ere I can place myself;

A cold premeditation for my purpose!

Why, then I do but dream on sovereignty,

Like one that stands upon a promontory,

And spies a far-off shore where he would tread,

Wishing his foot were equal with his eye,

And chides the sea that sunders him from thence,

Saying, he'll lade it dry to have his way.

So do I wish the crown, being so far off,

And so I chide the means that keeps me from it;

And so I say I'll cut the causes off,

Flattering me with impossibilities.—

My eye's too quick, my heart o'erweens too much,

Unless my hand and strength could equal them.

Well, say there is no kingdom then for Richard,

What other pleasure can the world afford?

I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap,

And deck my body in gay ornaments,

And witch sweet ladies with my words and looks.

O miserable thought! and more unlikely

Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns.

Why, love forswore me in my mother's womb;

And, for I should not deal in her soft laws,

She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe

To shrink mine arm up like a withered shrub;

To make an envious mountain on my back,

Where sits deformity to mock my body;

To shape my legs of an unequal size;

To disproportion me in every part,

Like to a chaos, or an unlicked bear-whelp

That carries no impression like the dam.

And am I then a man to be beloved?

O, monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought!

Then, since this earth affords no joy to me

But to command, to check, to o'erbear such

As are of better person than myself,

I'll make my heaven to dream upon the crown,

And, whiles I live, to account this world but hell

Until my mis-shaped trunk that bear this head

Be round impaled with a glorious crown.

And yet I know not how to get the crown,

For many lives stand between me and home,

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,

Not knowing how to find the open air,

But toiling desperately to find it out,

Torment myself to catch the English crown;

And from that torment I will free myself,

Or hew my way out with a bloody axe.

Why, I can smile, and murther while I smile,

And cry 'Content!' to that which grieves my heart,

And wet my cheeks with artificial tears,

And frame my face to all occasions.

I'll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall,

I'll slay more gazers than the basilisk;

I'll play the orator as well as Nestor,

Deceive more slyly than Ulysses could,

And like a Sinon take another Troy.

I can add colours to the chameleon,

Change shapes with Protheus for advantages,

And set the murtherous Machiavel to school.

Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?

Tut, were it farther off, I'll pluck it down.

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE III.

France. The King's Palace.

[Flourish. Enter LEWIS, the French King, and LADY BONA, attended: the King takes his state. Then enter QUEEN MARGARET, PRINCE EDWARD, and the EARL OF OXFORD; LEWIS rising as she enters.]

KING LEWIS.

Fair Queen of England, worthy Margaret,

Sit down with us; it ill befits thy state

And birth that thou shouldst stand while Lewis doth sit.

QUEEN MARGARET.

No, mighty King of France; now Margaret

Must strike her sail and learn a while to serve

Where kings command. I was, I must confess,

Great Albion's queen in former golden days;

But now mischance hath trod my title down

And with dishonour laid me on the ground,

Where I must take like seat unto my fortune,

And to my humble seat conform myself.

KING LEWIS.

Why, say, fair queen, whence springs this deep despair?

QUEEN MARGARET.

From such a cause as fills mine eyes with tears

And stops my tongue, while heart is drowned in cares.

KING LEWIS.

Whate'er it be, be thou still like thyself,

And sit thee by our side; yield not thy neck

[Seats her by him.]

To fortune's yoke, but let thy dauntless mind

Still ride in triumph over all mischance.

Be plain, Queen Margaret, and tell thy grief;

It shall be eased if France can yield relief.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Those gracious words revive my drooping thoughts,

And give my tongue-tied sorrows leave to speak.

Now, therefore, be it known to noble Lewis

That Henry, sole possessor of my love,

Is of a king become a banished man

And forced to live in Scotland a forlorn,

While proud ambitious Edward, Duke of York,

Usurps the regal title and the seat

Of England's true-anointed lawful king.

This is the cause that I, poor Margaret,

With this my son, Prince Edward, Henry's heir,

Am come to crave thy just and lawful aid;

And if thou fail us, all our hope is done.

Scotland hath will to help, but cannot help;

Our people and our peers are both misled,

Our treasure seized, our soldiers put to flight,

And, as thou seest, ourselves in heavy plight.

KING LEWIS.

Renowned queen, with patience calm the storm

While we bethink a means to break it off.

QUEEN MARGARET.

The more we stay, the stronger grows our foe.

KING LEWIS.

The more I stay, the more I'll succour thee.

QUEEN MARGARET.

O, but impatience waiteth on true sorrow!—

And see where comes the breeder of my sorrow.

[Enter WARWICK, attended.]

KING LEWIS.

What's he approacheth boldly to our presence?

QUEEN MARGARET.

Our Earl of Warwick, Edward's greatest friend.

KING LEWIS.

Welcome, brave Warwick. What brings thee to France?

[He descends. Queen Margaret rises.]

QUEEN MARGARET.

Ay, now begins a second storm to rise,

For this is he that moves both wind and tide.

WARWICK.

From worthy Edward, king of Albion,

My lord and sovereign, and thy vowed friend,

I come, in kindness and unfeigned love,

First, to do greetings to thy royal person;

And then, to crave a league of amity;

And lastly, to confirm that amity

With nuptial knot, if thou vouchsafe to grant

That virtuous Lady Bona, thy fair sister,

To England's king in lawful marriage.

QUEEN MARGARET.

[Aside.]

If that go forward, Henry's hope is done.

WARWICK.

[To BONA.]

And, gracious madam, in our king's behalf,

I am commanded, with your leave and favour,

Humbly to kiss your hand, and with my tongue

To tell the passion of my sovereign's heart,

Where fame, late entering at his heedful ears,

Hath placed thy beauty's image and thy virtue.

QUEEN MARGARET.

King Lewis,—and Lady Bona,—hear me speak

Before you answer Warwick. His demand

Springs not from Edward's well-meant honest love,

But from deceit, bred by necessity;

For how can tyrants safely govern home

Unless abroad they purchase great alliance?

To prove him tyrant this reason may suffice,—

That Henry liveth still; but were he dead,

Yet here Prince Edward stands, King Henry's son.

Look therefore, Lewis, that by this league and marriage

Thou draw not on thy danger and dishonour;

For though usurpers sway the rule awhile,

Yet heavens are just, and time suppresseth wrongs.

WARWICK.

Injurious Margaret!

PRINCE.

And why not queen?

WARWICK.

Because thy father Henry did usurp,

And thou no more art prince than she is queen.

OXFORD.

Then Warwick disannuls great John of Gaunt,

Which did subdue the greatest part of Spain;

And, after John of Gaunt, Henry the Fourth,

Whose wisdom was a mirror to the wisest;

And, after that wise prince, Henry the Fifth,

Who by his prowess conquered all France.

From these our Henry lineally descends.

WARWICK.

Oxford, how haps it in this smooth discourse,

You told not how Henry the Sixth hath lost

All that which Henry the Fifth had gotten?

Methinks these peers of France should smile at that.

But for the rest, you tell a pedigree

Of threescore and two years,—a silly time

To make prescription for a kingdom's worth.

OXFORD.

Why, Warwick, canst thou speak against thy liege,

Whom thou obeyedst thirty and six years,

And not bewray thy treason with a blush?

WARWICK.

Can Oxford, that did ever fence the right,

Now buckler falsehood with a pedigree?

For shame Leave Henry, and call Edward king.

OXFORD.

Call him my king by whose injurious doom

My elder brother, the Lord Aubrey Vere,

Was done to death? and more than so, my father,

Even in the downfall of his mellowed years,

When nature brought him to the door of death?

No, Warwick, no; while life upholds this arm,

This arm upholds the house of Lancaster.

WARWICK.

And I the house of York.

KING LEWIS.

Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, and Oxford,

Vouchsafe at our request to stand aside

While I use further conference with Warwick.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Heavens grant that Warwick's words bewitch him not!

[They stand aloof.]

KING LEWIS.

Now, Warwick, tell me, even upon thy conscience,

Is Edward your true king? for I were loath

To link with him that were not lawful chosen.

WARWICK.

Thereon I pawn my credit and mine honour.

KING LEWIS.

But is he gracious in the people's eye?

WARWICK.

The more that Henry was unfortunate.

LEWIS.

Then further, all dissembling set aside,

Tell me for truth the measure of his love

Unto our sister Bona.

WARWICK.

Such it seems

As may beseem a monarch like himself.

Myself have often heard him say and swear

That this his love was an eternal plant,

Whereof the root was fixed in virtue's ground,

The leaves and fruit maintained with beauty's sun,

Exempt from envy, but not from disdain,

Unless the Lady Bona quit his pain.

LEWIS.

Now, sister, let us hear your firm resolve.

BONA.

Your grant or your denial shall be mine.

Yet I confess [to Warwick] that often ere this day,

When I have heard your king's desert recounted,

Mine ear hath tempted judgment to desire.

KING LEWIS.

Then, Warwick, thus: our sister shall be Edward's;

And now forthwith shall articles be drawn

Touching the jointure that your king must make,

Which with her dowry shall be counterpoised.—

Draw near, Queen Margaret, and be a witness

That Bona shall be wife to the English king.

PRINCE.

To Edward, but not to the English king.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Deceitful Warwick! it was thy device

By this alliance to make void my suit.

Before thy coming Lewis was Henry's friend.

KING LEWIS.

And still is friend to him and Margaret;

But if your title to the crown be weak,

As may appear by Edward's good success,

Then 't is but reason that I be released

From giving aid which late I promised.

Yet shall you have all kindness at my hand

That your estate requires and mine can yield.

WARWICK.

Henry now lives in Scotland, at his ease,

Where, having nothing, nothing can he lose.

And as for you yourself, our quondam queen,

You have a father able to maintain you,

And better 't were you troubled him than France.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Peace, impudent and shameless Warwick,

Proud setter-up and puller-down of kings!

I will not hence, till, with my talk and tears,

Both full of truth, I make King Lewis behold

Thy sly conveyance and thy lord's false love;

For both of you are birds of selfsame feather.

[A horn sounded within.]

KING LEWIS.

Warwick, this is some post to us or thee.

[Enter the Post.]

POST.

My lord ambassador, these letters are for you.

Sent from your brother Marquess Montague.—

These from our king unto your majesty.—

And, madam, these for you, from whom I know not.

[They all read their letters.]

OXFORD.

I like it well that our fair queen and mistress

Smiles at her news while Warwick frowns at his.

PRINCE.

Nay, mark how Lewis stamps as he were nettled;

I hope all's for the best.

KING LEWIS.

Warwick, what are thy news?—and yours, fair queen?

QUEEN MARGARET.

Mine, such as fill my heart with unhoped joys.

WARWICK.

Mine, full of sorrow and heart's discontent.

KING LEWIS.

What! has your king married the Lady Grey,

And now, to soothe your forgery and his,

Sends me a paper to persuade me patience?

Is this the alliance that he seeks with France?

Dare he presume to scorn us in this manner?

QUEEN MARGARET.

I told your majesty as much before;

This proveth Edward's love and Warwick's honesty.

WARWICK.

King Lewis, I here protest, in sight of heaven,

And by the hope I have of heavenly bliss,

That I am clear from this misdeed of Edward's;

No more my king, for he dishonours me,

But most himself, if he could see his shame.

Did I forget that by the house of York

My father came untimely to his death?

Did I let pass the abuse done to my niece?

Did I impale him with the regal crown?

Did I put Henry from his native right?

And am I guerdoned at the last with shame?

Shame on himself! for my desert is honour;

And to repair my honour lost for him,

I here renounce him and return to Henry.—

My noble queen, let former grudges pass,

And henceforth I am thy true servitor.

I will revenge his wrong to Lady Bona,

And replant Henry in his former state.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Warwick, these words have turned my hate to love;

And I forgive and quite forget old faults,

And joy that thou becom'st King Henry's friend.

WARWICK.

So much his friend, ay, his unfeigned friend,

That if King Lewis vouchsafe to furnish us

With some few bands of chosen soldiers,

I'll undertake to land them on our coast

And force the tyrant from his seat by war.

'T is not his new-made bride shall succour him;

And as for Clarence,—as my letters tell me,—

He's very likely now to fall from him,

For matching more for wanton lust than honour,

Or than for strength and safety of our country.

BONA.

Dear brother, how shall Bona be revenged

But by thy help to this distressed queen?

QUEEN MARGARET.

Renowned prince, how shall poor Henry live

Unless thou rescue him from foul despair?

BONA.

My quarrel and this English queen's are one.

WARWICK.

And mine, fair Lady Bona, joins with yours.

KING LEWIS.

And mine with hers, and thine, and Margaret's.

Therefore, at last, I firmly am resolved

You shall have aid.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Let me give humble thanks for all at once.

KING LEWIS.

Then, England's messenger, return in post

And tell false Edward, thy supposed king,

That Lewis of France is sending over maskers

To revel it with him and his new bride.

Thou seest what's past; go fear thy king withal.

BONA.

Tell him, in hope he'll prove a widower shortly,

I'll wear the willow garland for his sake.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Tell him my mourning weeds are laid aside,

And I am ready to put armour on.

WARWICK.

Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong,

And therefore I'll uncrown him ere 't be long.

There's thy reward; be gone.

[Exit Post.]

KING LEWIS.

But, Warwick,

Thou and Oxford, with five thousand men,

Shall cross the seas and bid false Edward battle;

And, as occasion serves, this noble queen

And prince shall follow with a fresh supply.

Yet, ere thou go, but answer me one doubt:

What pledge have we of thy firm loyalty?

WARWICK.

This shall assure my constant loyalty,—

That if our queen and this young prince agree,

I'll join mine eldest daughter and my joy

To him forthwith in holy wedlock bands.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Yes, I agree, and thank you for your motion.—

Son Edward, she is fair and virtuous;

Therefore delay not, give thy hand to Warwick,

And with thy hand thy faith irrevocable

That only Warwick's daughter shall be thine.

PRINCE.

Yes, I accept her, for she well deserves it;

And here, to pledge my vow, I give my hand.

[He gives his hand to Warwick.]

KING LEWIS.

Why stay we now? These soldiers shall be levied,

And thou, Lord Bourbon, our high admiral,

Shall waft them over with our royal fleet.—

I long till Edward fall by war's mischance

For mocking marriage with a dame of France.

[Exeunt all but Warwick.]

WARWICK.

I came from Edward as ambassador,

But I return his sworn and mortal foe;

Matter of marriage was the charge he gave me,

But dreadful war shall answer his demand.

Had he none else to make a stale but me?

Then none but I shall turn his jest to sorrow.

I was the chief that raised him to the crown,

And I'll be chief to bring him down again;

Not that I pity Henry's misery,

But seek revenge on Edward's mockery.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

London. The Palace

[Enter GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE, SOMERSET, and MONTAGUE.]

GLOUCESTER.

Now tell me, brother Clarence, what think you

Of this new marriage with the Lady Grey?

Hath not our brother made a worthy choice?

CLARENCE.

Alas! you know 't is far from hence to France;

How could he stay till Warwick made return?

SOMERSET.

My lords, forbear this talk;

Here comes the King.

[Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD, attended; LADY GREY, as Queen; PEMBROKE, STAFFORD, HASTINGS, and others.]

GLOUCESTER.

And his well-chosen bride.

CLARENCE.

I mind to tell him plainly what I think.

KING EDWARD.

Now, brother Clarence, how like you our choice

That you stand pensive as half malcontent?

CLARENCE.

As well as Lewis of France, or the Earl of Warwick,

Which are so weak of courage and in judgment

That they'll take no offence at our abuse.

KING EDWARD.

Suppose they take offence without a cause,

They are but Lewis and Warwick: I am Edward,

Your King and Warwick's, and must have my will.

GLOUCESTER.

And shall have your will, because our King;

Yet hasty marriage seldom proveth well.

KING EDWARD.

Yea, brother Richard, are you offended too?

GLOUCESTER.

Not I, no!.

God forbid that I should wish them severed

Whom God hath joined together; ay, and 't were pity

To sunder them that yoke so well together.

KING EDWARD.

Setting your scorns and your mislike aside,

Tell me some reason why the Lady Grey

Should not become my wife and England's queen.—

And you too, Somerset and Montague,

Speak freely what you think.

CLARENCE.

Then this is mine opinion,—that King Lewis

Becomes your enemy, for mocking him

About the marriage of the Lady Bona.

GLOUCESTER.

And Warwick, doing what you gave in charge,

Is now dishonoured by this new marriage.

KING EDWARD.

What if both Lewis and Warwick be appeased

By such invention as I can devise?

MONTAGUE.

Yet to have joined with France in such alliance

Would more have strength'ned this our commonwealth

'Gainst foreign storms than any home-bred marriage.

HASTINGS.

Why, knows not Montague that of itself

England is safe if true within itself?

MONTAGUE.

But the safer when 't is backed with France.

HASTINGS.

'T is better using France than trusting France.

Let us be backed with God, and with the seas

Which he hath giv'n for fence impregnable,

And with their helps only defend ourselves;

In them and in ourselves our safety lies.

CLARENCE.

For this one speech Lord Hastings well deserves

To have the heir of the Lord Hungerford.

KING EDWARD.

Ay, what of that? it was my will and grant;

And for this once my will shall stand for law.

GLOUCESTER.

And yet, methinks, your grace hath not done well

To give the heir and daughter of Lord Scales

Unto the brother of your loving bride.

She better would have fitted me or Clarence;

But in your bride you bury brotherhood.

CLARENCE.

Or else you would not have bestowed the heir

Of the Lord Bonville on your new wife's son,

And leave your brothers to go speed elsewhere.

KING EDWARD.

Alas, poor Clarence! is it for a wife

That thou art malcontent? I will provide thee.

CLARENCE.

In choosing for yourself you showed your judgment,

Which being shallow you shall give me leave

To play the broker in mine own behalf;

And to that end I shortly mind to leave you.

KING EDWARD.

Leave me or tarry, Edward will be king,

And not be tied unto his brother's will.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

My lords, before it pleased his majesty

To raise my state to title of a queen,

Do me but right, and you must all confess

That I was not ignoble of descent,

And meaner than myself have had like fortune.

But as this title honours me and mine,

So your dislikes, to whom I would be pleasing,

Doth cloud my joys with danger and with sorrow.

KING EDWARD.

My love, forbear to fawn upon their frowns.

What danger or what sorrow can befall thee

So long as Edward is thy constant friend

And their true sovereign, whom they must obey?

Nay, whom they shall obey, and love thee too,

Unless they seek for hatred at my hands;

Which if they do, yet will I keep thee safe,

And they shall feel the vengeance of my wrath.

GLOUCESTER.

[Aside.]

I hear, yet say not much, but think the more.

[Enter a Messenger.]

KING EDWARD.

Now, messenger, what letters or what news

From France?

MESSENGER.

My sovereign liege, no letters, and few words,

But such as I, without your special pardon,

Dare not relate.

KING EDWARD.

Go to, we pardon thee; therefore, in brief,

Tell me their words as near as thou canst guess them.

What answer makes King Lewis unto our letters?

MESSENGER.

At my depart these were his very words:

'Go tell false Edward, thy supposed king,

That Lewis of France is sending over maskers

To revel it with him and his new bride.'

KING EDWARD.

Is Lewis so brave? belike he thinks me Henry.

But what said Lady Bona to my marriage?

MESSENGER.

These were her words, utt'red with mild disdain:

'Tell him, in hope he'll prove a widower shortly,

I'll wear the willow garland for his sake.'

KING EDWARD.

I blame not her, she could say little less,

She had the wrong; but what said Henry's queen?

For I have heard that she was there in place.

MESSENGER.

'Tell him' quoth she 'my mourning weeds are done,

And I am ready to put armour on.'

KING EDWARD.

Belike she minds to play the Amazon.

But what said Warwick to these injuries?

MESSENGER.

He, more incensed against your majesty

Than all the rest, discharged me with these words:

'Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong,

And therefore I'll uncrown him ere 't be long.'

KING EDWARD.

Ha! durst the traitor breathe out so proud words?

Well, I will arm me, being thus forewarned;

They shall have wars, and pay for their presumption.

But say, is Warwick friends with Margaret?

MESSENGER.

Ay, gracious sovereign; they are so linked in friendship

That young Prince Edward marries Warwick's daughter.

CLARENCE.

Belike the elder; Clarence will have the younger.

Now, brother king, farewell, and sit you fast,

For I will hence to Warwick's other daughter;

That, though I want a kingdom, yet in marriage

I may not prove inferior to yourself.—

You that love me and Warwick, follow me.

[Exit Clarence, and Somerset follows.]

GLOUCESTER.

[Aside.]

Not I. My thoughts aim at a further matter:

I stay not for the love of Edward, but the crown.

KING EDWARD.

Clarence and Somerset both gone to Warwick!

Yet am I armed against the worst can happen,

And haste is needful in this desperate case.—

Pembroke and Stafford, you in our behalf

Go levy men and make prepare for war;

They are already, or quickly will be landed.

Myself in person will straight follow you.—

[Exeunt Pembroke and Stafford.]

But, ere I go, Hastings and Montague,

Resolve my doubt. You twain, of all the rest,

Are near to Warwick by blood and by alliance;

Tell me if you love Warwick more than me?

If it be so, then both depart to him.

I rather wish you foes than hollow friends;

But if you mind to hold your true obedience,

Give me assurance with some friendly vow,

That I may never have you in suspect.

MONTAGUE.

So God help Montague as he proves true!

HASTINGS.

And Hastings as he favours Edward's cause!

KING EDWARD.

Now, brother Richard, will you stand by us?

GLOUCESTER.

Ay, in despite of all that shall withstand you.

KING EDWARD.

Why, so! then am I sure of victory.

Now, therefore, let us hence; and lose no hour

Till we meet Warwick with his foreign pow'r.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

A Plain in Warwickshire

[Enter WARWICK and OXFORD with French and other Forces.]

WARWICK.

Trust me, my lord, all hitherto goes well;

The common people by numbers swarm to us.

But see where Somerset and Clarence comes!—

[Enter CLARENCE and SOMERSET.]

Speak suddenly, my lords, are we all friends?

CLARENCE.

Fear not that, my lord.

WARWICK.

Then, gentle Clarence, welcome unto Warwick;—

And welcome, Somerset.—I hold it cowardice

To rest mistrustful where a noble heart

Hath pawned an open hand in sign of love;

Else might I think that Clarence, Edward's brother,

Were but a feigned friend to our proceedings.

But welcome, sweet Clarence; my daughter shall be thine.

And now what rests but, in night's coverture,

Thy brother being carelessly encamped,

His soldiers lurking in the towns about,

And but attended by a simple guard,

We may surprise and take him at our pleasure?

Our scouts have found the adventure very easy;

That as Ulysses and stout Diomede

With sleight and manhood stole to Rhesus' tents,

And brought from thence the Thracian fatal steeds,

So we, well covered with the night's black mantle,

At unawares may beat down Edward's guard,

And seize himself,—I say not slaughter him,

For I intend but only to surprise him.—

You that will follow me to this attempt,

Applaud the name of Henry with your leader.

[They all cry, 'Henry!']

Why then, let's on our way in silent sort;

For Warwick and his friends, God and Saint George!

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE III.

Edward's Camp near Warwick.

[Enter certain Watchmen, to guard the KING'S tent.]

1 WATCHMAN.

Come on, my masters, each man take his stand;

The king by this is set him down to sleep.

2 WATCHMAN.

What, will he not to bed?

1 WATCHMAN.

Why, no; for he hath made a solemn vow

Never to lie and take his natural rest

Till Warwick or himself be quite suppressed.

2 WATCHMAN.

To-morrow, then, belike shall be the day,

If Warwick be so near as men report.

3 WATCHMAN.

But say, I pray, what nobleman is that

That with the king here resteth in his tent?

1 WATCHMAN.

'T is the Lord Hastings, the king's chiefest friend.

3 WATCHMAN.

O, is it So? But why commands the king

That his chief followers lodge in towns about him,

While he himself keeps in the cold field?

2 WATCHMAN.

'T is the more honour, because more dangerous.

3 WATCHMAN.

Ay, but give me worship and quietness;

I like it better than dangerous honour.

If Warwick knew in what estate he stands,

'T is to be doubted he would waken him.

1 WATCHMAN.

Unless our halberds did shut up his passage.

2 WATCHMAN.

Ay; wherefore else guard we his royal tent

But to defend his person from night-foes?

[Enter WARWICK, CLARENCE, OXFORD, SOMERSET,

and Forces silently.]

WARWICK.

This is his tent; and see where, stand his guard.

Courage, my masters! honour now or never!

But follow me, and Edward shall be ours.

1 WATCHMAN.

Who goes there?

2 WATCHMAN.

Stay, or thou diest.

[Warwick and the rest cry all, 'Warwick! Warwick!' and set upon the guard, who fly, crying 'Arm! Arm!' Warwick and the rest following them.]

[Drum beating and trumpet sounding; enter WARWICK and the rest, bringing the KING out in his gown sitting in a chair. GLOUCESTER and HASTINGS fly over the stage.]

SOMERSET.

What are they that fly there?

WARWICK.

Richard and Hastings. Let them go; here is

The duke.

KING EDWARD.

The duke! why, Warwick, when we parted,

Thou calledst me king?

WARWICK.

Ay, but the case is altered;

When you disgraced me in my embassade,

Then I degraded you from being king,

And come now to create you Duke of York.

Alas! how should you govern any kingdom

That know not how to use ambassadors,

Nor how to be contented with one wife,

Nor how to use your brothers brotherly,

Nor how to study for the people's welfare,

Nor how to shroud yourself from enemies?

KING EDWARD.

Yea, brother of Clarence, art thou here too?

Nay, then I see that Edward needs must down.—

Yet, Warwick, in despite of all mischance

Of thee thyself and all thy complices,

Edward will always bear himself as king;

Though fortune's malice overthrow my state,

My mind exceeds the compass of her wheel.

WARWICK.

Then for his mind be Edward England's king;

[Takes off his crown.]

But Henry now shall wear the English crown

And be true king indeed, thou but the shadow.—

My Lord of Somerset, at my request,

See that forthwith Duke Edward be conveyed

Unto my brother, Archbishop of York.

When I have fought with Pembroke and his fellows,

I'll follow you and tell what answer

Lewis and the Lady Bona send to him.—

Now, for a while farewell, good Duke of York.

KING EDWARD.

What fates impose, that men must needs abide;

It boots not to resist both wind and tide.

[Exit King Edward, led out; Somerset with him.]

OXFORD.

What now remains, my lords, for us to do,

But march to London with our soldiers?

WARWICK.

Ay, that's the first thing that we have to do,—

To free King Henry from imprisonment

And see him seated in the regal throne.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE IV.

London. The Palace

[Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH and RIVERS.]

RIVERS.

Madam, what makes you in this sudden change?

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Why, brother Rivers, are you yet to learn

What late misfortune is befallen King Edward?

RIVERS.

What! loss of some pitched battle against Warwick?

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

No, but the loss of his own royal person.

RIVERS.

Then is my sovereign slain?

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Ay, almost slain, for he is taken prisoner,

Either betrayed by falsehood of his guard

Or by his foe surprised at unawares,

And, as I further have to understand,

Is new committed to the Bishop of York,

Fell Warwick's brother and by that our foe.

RIVERS.

These news, I must confess, are full of grief;

Yet, gracious madam, bear it as you may.

Warwick may lose, that now hath won the day.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Till then, fair hope must hinder life's decay;

And I the rather wean me from despair,

For love of Edward's offspring in my womb.

This is it that makes me bridle passion

And bear with mildness my misfortune's cross;

Ay, ay, for this I draw in many a tear,

And stop the rising of blood-sucking sighs,

Lest with my sighs or tears I blast or drown

King Edward's fruit, true heir to the English crown.

RIVERS.

But, madam, where is Warwick then become?

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

I am informed that he comes towards London,

To set the crown once more on Henry's head.

Guess thou the rest: King Edward's friends must down;

But to prevent the tyrant's violence,—

For trust not him that hath once broken faith,—

I'll hence forthwith unto the sanctuary,

To save at least the heir of Edward's right.

There shall I rest secure from force and fraud.

Come therefore, let us fly while we may fly;

If Warwick take us, we are sure to die.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE V.

A park near Middleham Castle in Yorkshire

[Enter GLOUCESTER, HASTINGS, SIR WILLIAM STANLEY, and others.]

GLOUCESTER.

Now, my Lord Hastings, and Sir William Stanley,

Leave off to wonder why I drew you hither

Into this chiefest thicket of the park.

Thus stands the case: you know our King, my brother,

Is prisoner to the Bishop here, at whose hands

He hath good usage and great liberty,

And often, but attended with weak guard,

Comes hunting this way to disport himself.

I have advertised him by secret means

That if about this hour he make this way,

Under the colour of his usual game,

He shall here find his friends, with horse and men,

To set him free from his captivity.

[Enter KING EDWARD and a Huntsman.]

HUNTSMAN.

This way, my lord, for this way lies the game.

KING EDWARD.

Nay, this way, man; see, where the huntsmen stand.—

Now, brother of Gloucester, Lord Hastings, and the rest,

Stand you thus close to steal the bishop's deer?

GLOUCESTER.

Brother, the time and case requireth haste;

Your horse stands ready at the park corner.

KING EDWARD.

But whither shall we then?

HASTINGS.

To Lynn, my lord, and shipt from thence to Flanders.

GLOUCESTER.

Well guessed, believe me, for that was my meaning.

KING EDWARD.

Stanley, I will requite thy forwardness.

GLOUCESTER.

But wherefore stay we? 't is no time to talk.

KING EDWARD.

Huntsman, what say'st thou? wilt thou go along?

HUNTSMAN.

Better do so than tarry and be hanged.

GLOUCESTER.

Come then; away! let's have no more ado.

KING EDWARD.

Bishop, farewell; shield thee from Warwick's frown,

And pray that I may repossess the crown.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE VI.

London. The Tower

[Enter KING HENRY, CLARENCE, WARWICK, SOMERSET, Young RICHMOND, OXFORD, MONTAGUE, Lieutenant of the Tower, and Attendants.]

KING HENRY.

Master Lieutenant, now that God and friends

Have shaken Edward from the regal seat

And turned my captive state to liberty,

My fear to hope, my sorrows unto joys,

At our enlargement what are thy due fees?

LIEUTENANT.

Subjects may challenge nothing of their sovereigns;

But if an humble prayer may prevail,

I then crave pardon of your Majesty.

KING HENRY.

For what, lieutenant? for well using me?

Nay, be thou sure I'll well requite thy kindness,

For that it made my imprisonment a pleasure;

Ay, such a pleasure as incaged birds

Conceive when, after many moody thoughts,

At last by notes of household harmony

They quite forget their loss of liberty.—

But, Warwick, after God thou sett'st me free,

And chiefly therefore I thank God and thee;

He was the author, thou the instrument.

Therefore, that I may conquer fortune's spite,

By living low where fortune cannot hurt me,

And that the people of this blessed land

May not be punished with my thwarting stars,

Warwick, although my head still wear the crown,

I here resign my government to thee,

For thou art fortunate in all thy deeds.

WARWICK.

Your grace hath still been famed for virtuous,

And now may seem as wise as virtuous

By spying and avoiding fortune's malice,

For few men rightly temper with the stars;

Yet in this one thing let me blame your grace,

For choosing me when Clarence is in place.

CLARENCE.

No, Warwick, thou art worthy of the sway,

To whom the heavens in thy nativity

Adjudged an olive branch and laurel crown,

As likely to be blest in peace and war;

And therefore, I yield thee my free consent.

WARWICK.

And I choose Clarence only for protector.

KING HENRY.

Warwick and Clarence, give me both your hands.

Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts,

That no dissension hinder government.

I make you both protectors of this land,

While I myself will lead a private life

And in devotion spend my latter days,

To sin's rebuke and my Creator's praise.

WARWICK.

What answers Clarence to his sovereign's will?

CLARENCE.

That he consents if Warwick yield consent,

For on thy fortune I repose myself.

WARWICK.

Why, then, though loath, yet I must be content.

We'll yoke together, like a double shadow

To Henry's body, and supply his place,—

I mean in bearing weight of government

While he enjoys the honour and his ease.

And, Clarence, now then it is more than needful

Forthwith that Edward be pronounced a traitor,

And all his lands and goods confiscated.

CLARENCE.

What else? and that succession be determined.

WARWICK.

Ay, therein Clarence shall not want his part.

KING HENRY.

But with the first of all your chief affairs,

Let me entreat—for I command no more—

That Margaret your queen, and my son Edward,

Be sent for to return from France with speed;

For, till I see them here, by doubtful fear

My joy of liberty is half eclipsed.

CLARENCE.

It shall be done, my sovereign, with all speed.

KING HENRY.

My Lord of Somerset, what youth is that

Of whom you seem to have so tender care?

SOMERSET.

My liege, it is young Henry, Earl of Richmond.

KING HENRY.

Come hither, England's hope.—If secret powers

[Lays his hand on his head.]

Suggest but truth to my divining thoughts,

This pretty lad will prove our country's bliss.

His looks are full of peaceful majesty,

His head by nature framed to wear a crown,

His hand to wield a sceptre, and himself

Likely in time to bless a regal throne.

Make much of him, my lords; for this is he

Must help you more than you are hurt by me.

[Enter a Messenger.]

WARWICK.

What news, my friend?

MESSENGER.

That Edward is escaped from your brother,

And fled, as he hears since, to Burgundy.

WARWICK.

Unsavoury news! but how made he escape?

MESSENGER.

He was conveyed by Richard Duke of Gloucester

And the Lord Hastings, who attended him

In secret ambush on the forest side,

And from the bishop's huntsmen rescued him,

For hunting was his daily exercise.

WARWICK.

My brother was too careless of his charge.—

But let us hence, my sovereign, to provide

A salve for any sore that may betide.

[Exeunt King Henry, Warwick, Clarence, Lieutenant, and attendants.]

SOMERSET.

My lord, I like not of this flight of Edward's,

For doubtless Burgundy will yield him help,

And we shall have more wars before 't be long.

As Henry's late presaging prophecy

Did glad my heart with hope of this young Richmond,

So doth my heart misgive me, in these conflicts

What may befall him, to his harm and ours;

Therefore, Lord Oxford, to prevent the worst,

Forthwith we'll send him hence to Brittany

Till storms be past of civil enmity.

OXFORD.

Ay; for if Edward repossess the crown,

'T is like that Richmond with the rest shall down.

SOMERSET.

It shall be so; he shall to Brittany.

Come therefore, let's about it speedily.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE VII.

Before York

[Enter KING EDWARD, GLOUCESTER, HASTINGS, and Forces.]

KING EDWARD.

Now, brother Richard, Lord Hastings, and the rest,

Yet thus far fortune maketh us amends,

And says that once more I shall interchange

My waned state for Henry's regal crown.

Well have we passed and now repassed the seas,

And brought desired help from Burgundy.

What then remains, we being thus arrived

From Ravenspurg haven before the gates of York,

But that we enter as into our dukedom?

GLOUCESTER.

The gates made fast!—Brother, I like not this;

For many men that stumble at the threshold

Are well foretold that danger lurks within.

KING EDWARD.

Tush, man! abodements must not now affright us;

By fair or foul means we must enter in,

For hither will our friends repair to us.

HASTINGS.

My liege, I'll knock once more to summon them.

[Enter on the walls, the Mayor of York and his Brethren.]

MAYOR.

My lords, we were forewarned of your coming

And shut the gates for safety of ourselves,

For now we owe allegiance unto Henry.

KING EDWARD.

But master mayor, if Henry be your king,

Yet Edward, at the least, is Duke of York.

MAYOR.

True, my good lord; I know you for no less.

KING EDWARD.

Why, and I challenge nothing but my dukedom,

As being well content with that alone.

GLOUCESTER.

[Aside.]

But when the fox hath once got in his nose,

He'll soon find means to make the body follow.

HASTINGS.

Why, master mayor, why stand you in a doubt?

Open the gates; we are King Henry's friends.

MAYOR.

Ay, say you so? the gates shall then be opened.

[Exeunt from above.]

GLOUCESTER.

A wise, stout captain, and soon persuaded.

HASTINGS.

The good old man would fain that all were well,

So 't were not long of him; but, being entered,

I doubt not, I, but we shall soon persuade

Both him and all his brothers unto reason.

[Enter the Mayor and two Aldermen, below.]

KING EDWARD.

So, master mayor; these gates must not be shut

But in the night or in the time of war.

What! fear not, man, but yield me up the keys;

[Takes his keys.]

For Edward will defend the town and thee,

And all those friends that deign to follow me.

[March. Enter MONTGOMERY and Forces.]

GLOUCESTER.

Brother, this is Sir John Montgomery,

Our trusty friend unless I be deceived.

KING EDWARD.

Welcome, Sir John; but why come you in arms?

MONTGOMERY.

To help King Edward in his time of storm,

As every loyal subject ought to do.

KING EDWARD.

Thanks, good Montgomery; but we now forget

Our title to the crown, and only claim

Our dukedom till God please to send the rest.

MONTGOMERY.

Then fare you well, for I will hence again;

I came to serve a king, and not a duke.—

Drummer, strike up, and let us march away.

[A march begun.]

KING EDWARD.

Nay, stay, Sir John, awhile, and we'll debate

By what safe means the crown may be recovered.

MONTGOMERY.

What talk you of debating? in few words,

If you'll not here proclaim yourself our king,

I'll leave you to your fortune and begone

To keep them back that come to succour you.

Why shall we fight if you pretend no title?

GLOUCESTER.

Why, brother, wherefore stand you on nice points?

KING EDWARD.

When we grow stronger, then we'll make our claim;

Till then 't is wisdom to conceal our meaning.

HASTINGS.

Away with scrupulous wit! now arms must rule.

GLOUCESTER.

And fearless minds climb soonest unto crowns.—

Brother, we will proclaim you out of hand;

The bruit thereof will bring you many friends.

KING EDWARD.

Then be it as you will; for 't is my right,

And Henry but usurps the diadem.

MONTGOMERY.

Ay, now my sovereign speaketh like himself,

And now will I be Edward's champion.

HASTINGS.

Sound, trumpet; Edward shall be here proclaimed.—

Come, fellow-soldier, make thou proclamation.

[Gives him a paper. Flourish.]

SOLDIER.

[Reads.] 'Edward the Fourth, by the grace of God, King of England and France, and Lord of Ireland,' etc.

MONTGOMERY.

And whoso'er gainsays King Edward's right,

By this I challenge him to single fight.

[Throws down gauntlet.]

ALL.

Long live Edward the Fourth!

KING EDWARD.

Thanks, brave Montgomery, and thanks unto you all;

If fortune serve me, I'll requite this kindness.

Now for this night let's harbour here in York;

And when the morning sun shall raise his car

Above the border of this horizon

We'll forward towards Warwick and his mates,

For well I wot that Henry is no soldier.—

Ah, froward Clarence! how evil it beseems thee

To flatter Henry and forsake thy brother!

Yet, as we may, we'll meet both thee and Warwick.—

Come on, brave soldiers; doubt not of the day,

And, that once gotten, doubt not of large pay.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE VIII.

London. The Palace.

[Flourish. Enter KING HENRY, WARWICK, CLARENCE, MONTAGUE, EXETER, and OXFORD.]

WARWICK.

What counsel, lords? Edward from Belgia,

With hasty Germans and blunt Hollanders,

Hath passed in safety through the narrow seas,

And with his troops doth march amain to London;

And many giddy people flock to him.

KING HENRY.

Let's levy men and beat him back again.

CLARENCE.

A little fire is quickly trodden out,

Which, being suffered, rivers cannot quench.

WARWICK.

In Warwickshire I have true-hearted friends,

Not mutinous in peace, yet bold in war.

Those will I muster up;—and thou, son Clarence,

Shalt stir up in Suffolk, Norfolk, and in Kent

The knights and gentlemen to come with thee.—

Thou, brother Montague, in Buckingham,

Northampton, and in Leicestershire shalt find

Men well inclined to hear what thou command'st. —

And thou, brave Oxford, wondrous well beloved,

In Oxfordshire shalt muster up thy friends.—

My sovereign, with the loving citizens,

Like to his island girt in with the ocean,

Or modest Dian circled with her nymphs,

Shall rest in London till we come to him.—

Fair lords, take leave and stand not to reply.—

Farewell, my sovereign.

KING HENRY.

Farewell, my Hector, and my Troy's true hope.

CLARENCE.

In sign of truth I kiss your highness' hand.

KING HENRY.

Well-minded Clarence, be thou fortunate!

MONTAGUE.

Comfort, my lord;—and so I take my leave.

OXFORD.

And thus [kissing Henry's hand] I seal my truth, and bid adieu.

KING HENRY.

Sweet Oxford, and my loving Montague,

And all at once, once more a happy farewell.

WARWICK.

Farewell, sweet lords; let's meet at Coventry.

[Exeunt Warwick, Clarendon, Oxford, and Montague.]

KING HENRY.

Here at the palace will I rest a while.—

Cousin of Exeter, what thinks your lordship?

Methinks the power that Edward hath in field

Should not be able to encounter mine.

EXETER.

The doubt is that he will seduce the rest.

KING HENRY.

That's not my fear; my meed hath got me fame.

I have not stopped mine ears to their demands,

Nor posted off their suits with slow delays;

My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds,

My mildness hath allayed their swelling griefs,

My mercy dried their water-flowing tears.

I have not been desirous of their wealth

Nor much oppressed them with great subsidies,

Nor forward of revenge, though they much erred;

Then, why should they love Edward more than me?

No, Exeter, these graces challenge grace;

And when the lion fawns upon the lamb

The lamb will never cease to follow him.

[Shout within 'A Lancaster! A Lancaster!']

EXETER.

Hark, hark, my lord! what shouts are these?

[Enter KING EDWARD, GLOUCESTER, and Soldiers.]

KING EDWARD.

Seize on the shame-faced Henry! bear him hence,

And once again proclaim us king of England.—

You are the fount that makes small brooks to flow.

Now stops thy spring; my sea shall suck them dry

And swell so much the higher by their ebb.—

Hence with him to the Tower! let him not speak.—

[Exeunt some with King Henry.]

And, lords, towards Coventry bend we our course,

Where peremptory Warwick now remains.

The sun shines hot, and, if we use delay,

Cold biting winter mars our hoped-for hay.

GLOUCESTER.

Away betimes, before his forces join,

And take the great-grown traitor unawares.

Brave warriors, march amain towards Coventry.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

Coventry.

[Enter, upon the walls, WARWICK, the Mayor of Coventry, two Messengers, and others.]

WARWICK.

Where is the post that came from valiant Oxford?—

How far hence is thy lord, mine honest fellow?

1 MESSENGER.

By this at Dunsmore, marching hitherward.

WARWICK.

How far off is our brother Montague?

Where is the post that came from Montague?

2 MESSENGER.

By this at Daintry, with a puissant troop.

[Enter SIR JOHN SOMERVILLE.]

WARWICK.

Say, Somerville, what says my loving son?

And, by thy guess, how nigh is Clarence now?

SOMERVILLE.

At Southam I did leave him with his forces

And do expect him here some two hours hence.

[Drum heard.]

WARWICK.

Then Clarence is at hand; I hear his drum.

SOMERVILLE.

It is not his, my lord; here Southam lies.

The drum your honour hears marcheth from Warwick.

WARWICK.

Who should that be? belike, unlooked-for friends.

SOMERVILLE.

They are at hand, and you shall quickly know.

[March. Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD, GLOUCESTER, and Forces.]

KING EDWARD.

Go, trumpet, to the walls and sound a parle.

GLOUCESTER.

See how the surly Warwick mans the wall.

WARWICK.

O, unbid spite! Is sportful Edward come?

Where slept our scouts, or how are they seduced,

That we could hear no news of his repair?

KING EDWARD.

Now, Warwick, wilt thou ope the city gates?

Speak gentle words and humbly bend thy knee,

Call Edward king and at his hands beg mercy?

And he shall pardon thee these outrages.

WARWICK.

Nay, rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence,

Confess who set thee up and plucked thee down?

Call Warwick patron and be penitent,

And thou shalt still remain the Duke of York.

GLOUCESTER.

I thought, at least, he would have said the king;

Or did he make the jest against his will?

WARWICK.

Is not a dukedom, sir, a goodly gift?

GLOUCESTER.

Ay, by my faith, for a poor earl to give;

I'll do thee service for so good a gift.

WARWICK.

'T was I that gave the kingdom to thy brother.

KING EDWARD.

Why, then, 't is mine, if but by Warwick's gift.

WARWICK.

Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight,

And, weakling, Warwick takes his gift again;

And Henry is my king, Warwick his subject.

KING EDWARD.

But Warwick's king is Edward's prisoner;

And, gallant Warwick, do but answer this:

What is the body when the head is off?

GLOUCESTER.

Alas! that Warwick had no more forecast,

But, whiles he thought to steal the single ten,

The king was slily fingered from the deck!

You left poor Henry at the Bishop's palace,

And ten to one, you'll meet him in the Tower.

KING EDWARD.

'T is even so; yet you are Warwick still.

GLOUCESTER.

Come, Warwick, take the time; kneel down, kneel down.

Nay, when? strike now, or else the iron cools.

WARWICK.

I had rather chop this hand off at a blow,

And with the other fling it at thy face,

Than bear so low a sail, to strike to thee.

KING EDWARD.

Sail how thou canst, have wind and tide thy friend,

This hand, fast wound about thy coal-black hair,

Shall, whiles thy head is warm and new cut off,

Write in the dust this sentence with thy blood,

'Wind-changing Warwick now can change no more.'

[Enter OXFORD, with Forces.]

WARWICK.

O cheerful colours! see where Oxford comes.

OXFORD.

Oxford, Oxford, for Lancaster!

[He and his forces enter the city.]

GLOUCESTER.

The gates are open; let us enter too.

KING EDWARD.

So other foes may set upon our backs.

Stand we in good array, for they no doubt

Will issue out again and bid us battle;

If not, the city being but of small defence,

We'll quietly rouse the traitors in the same.

WARWICK.

O, welcome, Oxford, for we want thy help.

[Enter MONTAGUE, with Forces.]

MONTAGUE.

Montague, Montague, for Lancaster!

[He and his forces enter the city.]

GLOUCESTER.

Thou and thy brother both shall buy this treason,

Even with the dearest blood your bodies bear.

KING EDWARD.

The harder matched, the greater victory;

My mind presageth happy gain and conquest.

[Enter SOMERSET, with forces.]

SOMERSET.

Somerset, Somerset, for Lancaster!

[He and his forces enter the city.]

GLOUCESTER.

Two of thy name, both Dukes of Somerset,

Have sold their lives unto the House of York;

And thou shalt be the third if this sword hold.

[Enter CLARENCE, with Forces.]

WARWICK.

And lo, where George of Clarence sweeps along,

Of force enough to bid his brother battle;

With whom an upright zeal to right prevails,

More than the nature of a brother's love!—

[Gloucester and Clarence whisper.]

Come, Clarence, come; thou wilt if Warwick call.

CLARENCE.

Father of Warwick, know you what this means?

[Taking the red rose out of his hat.]

Look here, I throw my infamy at thee;

I will not ruinate my father's house,

Who gave his blood to lime the stones together,

And set up Lancaster. Why, trow'st thou, Warwick,

That Clarence is so harsh, so blunt, unnatural,

To bend the fatal instruments of war

Against his brother and his lawful king?

Perhaps thou wilt object my holy oath;

To keep that oath were more impiety

Than Jephtha's when he sacrificed his daughter.

I am so sorry for my trespass made

That, to deserve well at my brother's hands,

I here proclaim myself thy mortal foe,

With resolution, whereso'er I meet thee—

As I will meet thee, if thou stir abroad—

To plague thee for thy foul misleading me.

And so, proud-hearted Warwick, I defy thee,

And to my brother turn my blushing cheeks.—

Pardon me, Edward, I will make amends;—

And, Richard, do not frown upon my faults,

For I will henceforth be no more unconstant.

KING EDWARD.

Now, welcome more, and ten times more beloved,

Than if thou never hadst deserved our hate.

GLOUCESTER.

Welcome, good Clarence; this is brother-like.

WARWICK.

O passing traitor, perjured and unjust!

KING EDWARD.

What, Warwick, wilt thou leave the town and fight,

Or shall we beat the stones about thine ears?

WARWICK.

Alas! I am not cooped here for defence;

I will away towards Barnet presently,

And bid thee battle, Edward, if thou dar'st.

KING EDWARD.

Yes, Warwick, Edward dares and leads the way.—

Lords, to the field! Saint George and victory!

[March. Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE II.

A Field of Battle near Barnet.

[Alarum and excursions. Enter KING EDWARD, bringing in WARWICK wounded.]

KING EDWARD.

So, lie thou there; die thou, and die our fear,

For Warwick was a bug that feared us all.—

Now, Montague, sit fast; I seek for thee,

That Warwick's bones may keep thine company.

[Exit.]

WARWICK.

Ah! who is nigh? come to me, friend or foe,

And tell me who is victor, York or Warwick.

Why ask I that? my mangled body shows;

My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows

That I must yield my body to the earth

And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe.

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 overpeered Jove's spreading tree,

And kept low shrubs from winter's pow'rful wind.

These eyes, that now are dimmed with death's black veil,

Have been as piercing as the midday sun,

To search the secret treasons of the world;

The wrinkles in my brows, now filled with blood,

Were likened oft to kingly sepulchres,

For who lived king but I could dig his grave?

And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow?

Lo, now my glory smeared in dust and blood!

My parks, my walks, my manors that I had,

Even now forsake me, and of all my lands

Is nothing left me but my body's length.

Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust?

And live we how we can, yet die we must.

[Enter OXFORD and SOMERSET.]

SOMERSET.

Ah, Warwick, Warwick! wert thou as we are,

We might recover all our loss again.

The queen from France hath brought a puissant power;

Even now we heard the news. Ah, couldst thou fly!

WARWICK.

Why, then I would not fly.—Ah, Montague!

If thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand

And with thy lips keep in my soul awhile.

Thou lov'st me not; for, brother, if thou did'st,

Thy tears would wash this cold, congealed blood

That glues my lips and will not let me speak.

Come quickly, Montague, or I am dead.

SOMERSET.

Ah, Warwick, Montague hath breathed his last,

And to the latest gasp cried out for Warwick,

And said 'Commend me to my valiant brother.'

And more he would have said, and more he spoke,

Which sounded like a clamour in a vault,

That might not be distinguished; but at last

I well might hear, delivered with a groan,—

'O farewell, Warwick!'

WARWICK.

Sweet rest his soul!—Fly, lords, and save yourselves;

For Warwick bids you all farewell, to meet in heaven.

[Dies.]

OXFORD.

Away, away, to meet the queen's great power!

[Exeunt bearing off Warwick's body.]

ACT V. SCENE III.

Another Part of the Field

[Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD in triumph; with CLARENCE, GLOUCESTER, and the rest.]

KING EDWARD.

Thus far our fortune keeps an upward course,

And we are graced with wreaths of victory.

But, in the midst of this bright-shining day,

I spy a black, suspicious, threatEning cloud,

That will encounter with our glorious sun

Ere he attain his easeful western bed.

I mean, my lords, those powers that the Queen

Hath raised in Gallia have arrived our coast

And, as we hear, march on to fight with us.

CLARENCE.

A little gale will soon disperse that cloud

And blow it to the source from whence it came;

Thy very beams will dry those vapours up,

For every cloud engenders not a storm.

GLOUCESTER.

The queen is valued thirty thousand strong,

And Somerset, with Oxford, fled to her;

If she have time to breathe, be well assured,

Her faction will be full as strong as ours.

KING EDWARD.

We are advertised by our loving friends

That they do hold their course toward Tewkesbury.

We, having now the best at Barnet field,

Will thither straight, for willingness rids way;

And, as we march, our strength will be augmented

In every county as we go along.—

Strike up the drum! cry 'Courage!' and away.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE IV.

Plains wear Tewkesbury

[March. Enter QUEEN MARGARET, PRINCE EDWARD, SOMERSET, OXFORD, and Soldiers.]

QUEEN MARGARET.

Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss,

But cheerly seek how to redress their harms.

What though the mast be now blown overboard,

The cable broke, the holding-anchor lost,

And half our sailors swallowed in the flood?

Yet lives our pilot still. Is 't meet that he

Should leave the helm, and like a fearful lad

With tearful eyes add water to the sea,

And give more strength to that which hath too much,

Whiles in his moan the ship splits on the rock,

Which industry and courage might have saved?

Ah, what a shame! ah, what a fault were this!

Say Warwick was our anchor; what of that?

And Montague our topmast; what of him?

Our slaught'red friends the tackles; what of these?

Why, is not Oxford here another anchor,

And Somerset another goodly mast?

The friends of France our shrouds and tacklings?

And, though unskilful, why not Ned and I

For once allowed the skilful pilot's charge?

We will not from the helm to sit and weep,

But keep our course, though the rough wind say no,

From shelves and rocks that threaten us with wrack,

As good to chide the waves as speak them fair.

And what is Edward but a ruthless sea?

What Clarence but a quicksand of deceit?

And Richard but a ragged fatal rock?

All these the enemies to our poor bark?

Say you can swim; alas, 't is but a while!

Tread on the sand; why, there you quickly sink;

Bestride the rock; the tide will wash you off,

Or else you famish,—that's a threefold death.

This speak I, lords, to let you understand,

If case some one of you would fly from us,

That there's no hoped-for mercy with the brothers

More than with ruthless waves, with sands, and rocks.

Why, courage then! what cannot be avoided

'T were childish weakness to lament or fear.

PRINCE.

Methinks, a woman of this valiant spirit

Should, if a coward heard her speak these words,

Infuse his breast with magnanimity,

And make him, naked, foil a man at arms.

I speak not this as doubting any here;

For, did I but suspect a fearful man,

He should have leave to go away betimes,

Lest in our need he might infect another

And make him of the like spirit to himself.

If any such be here—as God forbid!—

Let him depart before we need his help.

OXFORD.

Women and children of so high a courage,

And warriors faint! why, 't were perpetual shame.—

O, brave young prince! thy famous grandfather

Doth live again in thee; long mayst thou live

To bear his image and renew his glories!

SOMERSET.

And he that will not fight for such a hope,

Go home to bed, and like the owl by day,

If he arise, be mocked and wondered at.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Thanks, gentle Somerset.—Sweet Oxford, thanks.

PRINCE.

And take his thanks that yet hath nothing else.

[Enter a Messenger.]

MESSENGER.

Prepare you, lords, for Edward is at hand

Ready to fight; therefore be resolute.

OXFORD.

I thought no less; it is his policy

To haste thus fast, to find us unprovided.

SOMERSET.

But he's deceived; we are in readiness.

QUEEN MARGARET.

This cheers my heart, to see your forwardness.

OXFORD.

Here pitch our battle; hence we will not budge.

[Flourish and march. Enter KING EDWARD, CLARENCE, GLOUCESTER, and Forces.]

KING EDWARD.

Brave followers, yonder stands the thorny wood

Which, by the heaven's assistance and your strength,

Must by the roots be hewn up yet ere night.

I need not add more fuel to your fire,

For, well I wot, ye blaze to burn them out.

Give signal to the fight, and to it, lords.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Lords, knights, and gentlemen, what I should say,

My tears gainsay; for every word I speak,

Ye see I drink the water of my eyes.

Therefore, no more but this: Henry, your sovereign,

Is prisoner to the foe, his state usurped,

His realm a slaughter-house, his subjects slain,

His statutes cancelled, and his treasure spent;

And yonder is the wolf that makes this spoil.

You fight in justice; then, in God's name, lords,

Be valiant and give signal to the fight.

[Exeunt both armies.]

ACT V. SCENE V.

Another part of the Field.

[Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD, CLARENCE, GLOUCESTER, and Forces; With QUEEN MARGARET, OXFORD, and SOMERSET, as prisoners.]

KING EDWARD.

Now, here a period of tumultuous broils.

Away with Oxford to Hames Castle straight;

For Somerset, off with his guilty head.

Go, bear them hence; I will not hear them speak.

OXFORD.

For my part, I'll not trouble thee with words.

SOMERSET.

Nor I, but stoop with patience to my fortune.

[Exeunt Oxford and Somerset, guarded.]

QUEEN MARGARET.

So part we sadly in this troublous world,

To meet with joy in sweet Jerusalem.

KING EDWARD.

Is proclamation made that who finds Edward

Shall have a high reward, and he his life?

GLOUCESTER.

It is; and lo, where youthful Edward comes!

[Enter soldiers with PRINCE EDWARD.]

KING EDWARD.

Bring forth the gallant; let us hear him speak.

What! can so young a man begin to prick?—

Edward, what satisfaction canst thou make

For bearing arms, for stirring up my subjects,

And all the trouble thou hast turned me to?

PRINCE.

Speak like a subject, proud, ambitious York!

Suppose that I am now my father's mouth;

Resign thy chair, and where I stand kneel thou,

Whilst I propose the selfsame words to thee

Which, traitor, thou wouldst have me answer to.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Ah, thy father had been so resolved!

GLOUCESTER.

That you might still have worn the petticoat,

And ne'er have stol'n the breech from Lancaster.

PRINCE.

Let Aesop fable in a winter's night;

His currish riddle sorts not with this place.

GLOUCESTER.

By heaven, brat, I'll plague you for that word.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Ay, thou wast born to be a plague to men.

GLOUCESTER.

For God's sake, take away this captive scold.

PRINCE.

Nay, take away this scolding crook-back rather.

KING EDWARD.

Peace, wilful boy, or I will charm your tongue.

CLARENCE.

Untutored lad, thou art too malapert.

PRINCE.

I know my duty; you are all undutiful.

Lascivious Edward,—and thou perjured George,—

And thou misshapen Dick,—I tell ye all,

I am your better, traitors as ye are;—

And thou usurp'st my father's right and mine.

KING EDWARD.

Take that, the likeness of this railer here.

[Stabs him.]

GLOUCESTER.

Sprawl'st thou? take that, to end thy agony.

[Stabs him.]

CLARENCE.

And there's for twitting me with perjury.

[Stabs him.]

QUEEN MARGARET.

O, kill me too!

GLOUCESTER.

Marry, and shall.

[Offers to kill her.]

KING EDWARD.

Hold, Richard, hold! for we have done to much.

GLOUCESTER.

Why should she live to fill the world with words?

KING EDWARD.

What! doth she swoon? Use means for her recovery.

GLOUCESTER.

Clarence, excuse me to the king, my brother.

I'll hence to London on a serious matter;

Ere ye come there, be sure to hear some news.

CLARENCE.

What? what?

GLOUCESTER.

The Tower! the Tower!

[Exit.]

QUEEN MARGARET.

O Ned! sweet Ned! speak to thy mother, boy.

Canst thou not speak?—O traitors! murtherers!

They that stabbed Caesar shed no blood at all,

Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame,

If this foul deed were by to equal it.

He was a man: this, in respect, a child,

And men ne'er spend their fury on a child.

What's worse than murtherer, that I may name it?

No, no, my heart will burst, an if I speak;

And I will speak, that so my heart may burst.—

Butchers and villains! bloody cannibals!

How sweet a plant have you untimely cropped!

You have no children, butchers! if you had,

The thought of them would have stirred up remorse;

But, if you ever chance to have a child,

Look in his youth to have him so cut off

As, deathsmen, you have rid this sweet young prince!

KING EDWARD.

Away with her! go, bear her hence perforce.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Nay, never bear me hence, dispatch me here;

Here sheathe thy sword, I'll pardon thee my death.

What! wilt thou not?—then, Clarence, do it thou.

CLARENCE.

By heaven, I will not do thee so much ease.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Good Clarence, do; sweet Clarence, do thou do it.

CLARENCE.

Didst thou not hear me swear I would not do it?

QUEEN MARGARET.

Ay, but thou usest to forswear thyself;

'T was sin before, but now 't is charity.

What! wilt thou not? where is that devil's butcher,

Hard-favoured Richard?—Richard, where art thou?

Thou art not here; murther is thy alms-deed,

Petitioners for blood thou ne'er putt'st back.

KING EDWARD.

Away, I say! I charge ye, bear her hence.

QUEEN MARGARET.

So come to you and yours as to this prince!

[She is taken out.]

KING EDWARD.

Where's Richard gone?

CLARENCE.

To London, all in post, and, as I guess,

To make a bloody supper in the Tower.

KING EDWARD.

He's sudden if a thing comes in his head.

Now march we hence; discharge the common sort

With pay and thanks, and let's away to London,

And see our gentle queen how well she fares.

By this, I hope, she hath a son for me.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE VI.

London. The Tower.

[KING HENRY is discovered sitting with a book in his hand, the Lieutenant attending. Enter GLOUCESTER.]

GLOUCESTER.

Good day, my lord. What! at your book so hard?

KING HENRY.

Ay, my good lord;—my lord, I should say rather.

'T is sin to flatter; 'good' was little better.

Good Gloucester and good devil were alike,

And both preposterous; therefore, not good lord.

GLOUCESTER.

Sirrah, leave us to ourselves; we must confer.

[Exit Lieutenant.]

KING HENRY.

So flies the reckless shepherd from the wolf;

So first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece,

And next his throat unto the butcher's knife.—

What scene of death hath Roscius now to act?

GLOUCESTER.

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind;

The thief doth fear each bush an officer.

KING HENRY.

The bird that hath been limed in a bush

With trembling wings misdoubteth every bush;

And I, the hapless male to one sweet bird,

Have now the fatal object in my eye

Where my poor young was limed, was caught, and killed.

GLOUCESTER.

Why, what a peevish fool was that of Crete

That taught his son the office of a fowl!

And yet, for all his wings, the fool was drowned.

KING HENRY.

I, Daedalus; my poor boy, Icarus;

Thy father, Minos, that denied our course;

The sun that seared the wings of my sweet boy,

Thy brother Edward; and thyself, the sea

Whose envious gulf did swallow up his life.

Ah, kill me with thy weapon, not with words!

My breast can better brook thy dagger's point

Than can my ears that tragic history.

But wherefore dost thou come? is 't for my life?

GLOUCESTER.

Think'st thou I am an executioner?

KING HENRY.

A persecutor, I am sure, thou art;

If murdering innocents be executing,

Why, then thou are an executioner.

GLOUCESTER.

Thy son I killed for his presumption.

KING HENRY.

Hadst thou been killed when first thou didst presume,

Thou hadst not lived to kill a son of mine.

And thus I prophesy,—that many a thousand,

Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear,

And many an old man's sigh and many a widow's,

And many an orphan's water-standing eye,—

Men for their sons', wives for their husbands' fate,

And orphans for their parents' timeless death,—

Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born.

The owl shrieked at thy birth, an evil sign;

The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time;

Dogs howled, and hideous tempest shook down trees;

The raven rooked her on the chimney's top,

And chatt'ring pies in dismal discord sung.

Thy mother felt more than a mother's pain,

And yet brought forth less than a mother's hope,

An indigested and deformed lump,

Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree.

Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born,

To signify thou cam'st to bite the world;

And, if the rest be true which I have heard,

Thou cam'st—

GLOUCESTER.

I'll hear no more. Die, prophet, in thy speech.

[Stabs him.]

For this, amongst the rest, was I ordained.

KING HENRY.

Ay, and for much more slaughter after this.

O, God forgive my sins, and pardon thee!

[Dies.]

GLOUCESTER.

What! will the aspiring blood of Lancaster

Sink in the ground? I thought it would have mounted.

See, how my sword weeps for the poor King's death!

O, may such purple tears be always shed

From those that wish the downfall of our house!—

If any spark of life be yet remaining,

Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither,

[Stabs him again.]

I, that have neither pity, love, nor fear.

Indeed, 't is true that Henry told me of;

For I have often heard my mother say

I came into the world with my legs forward.

Had I not reason, think ye, to make haste

And seek their ruin that usurped our right?

The midwife wondered; and the women cried

'O, Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth!'

And so I was, which plainly signified

That I should snarl and bite and play the dog.

Then, since the heavens have shaped my body so,

Let hell make crooked my mind to answer it.

I have no brother, I am like no brother,

And this word 'love,' which greybeards call divine,

Be resident in men like one another,

And not in me! I am myself alone.—

Clarence, beware! thou keep'st me from the light;

But I will sort a pitchy day for thee;

For I will buzz abroad such prophecies

That Edward shall be fearful of his life,

And then, to purge his fear, I'll be thy death.

King Henry and the prince his son are gone;

Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest,

Counting myself but bad till I be best.

I'll throw thy body in another room,

And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom.

[Exit with the body.]

ACT V. SCENE VII.

London. The Palace.

[KING EDWARD is discovered sitting on his throne; QUEEN ELIZABETH with the infant Prince, CLARENCE, GLOUCESTER, HASTINGS, and others, near him.]

KING EDWARD.

Once more we sit in England's royal throne,

Re-purchased with the blood of enemies.

What valiant foemen, like to autumn's corn,

Have we mowed down in tops of all their pride!

Three Dukes of Somerset, threefold renowned

For hardy and undoubted champions;

Two Cliffords, as the father and the son;

And two Northumberlands,—two braver men

Ne'er spurred their coursers at the trumpet's sound;

With them the two brave bears, Warwick and Montague,

That in their chains fettered the kingly lion

And made the forest tremble when they roared.

Thus have we swept suspicion from our seat

And made our footstool of security.—

Come hither, Bess, and let me kiss my boy.—

Young Ned, for thee thine uncles and myself

Have in our armours watched the winter's night,

Went all afoot in summer's scalding heat,

That thou mightst repossess the crown in peace;

And of our labours thou shalt reap the gain.

GLOUCESTER.

[Aside.]

I'll blast his harvest if your head were laid;

For yet I am not looked on in the world.

This shoulder was ordained so thick to heave;

And heave it shall some weight or break my back.—

Work thou the way,—and that shall execute.

KING EDWARD.

Clarence and Gloucester, love my lovely queen;

And kiss your princely nephew, brothers both.

CLARENCE.

The duty that I owe unto your Majesty

I seal upon the lips of this sweet babe.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Thanks, noble Clarence; worthy brother, thanks.

GLOUCESTER.

And, that I love the tree from whence thou sprang'st,

Witness the loving kiss I give the fruit.—

[Aside.] To say the truth, so Judas kissed his Master,

And cried, all hail! when as he meant all harm.

KING EDWARD.

Now am I seated as my soul delights;

Having my country's peace and brothers' loves.

CLARENCE.

What will your Grace have done with Margaret?

Reignier, her father, to the King of France

Hath pawned the Sicils and Jerusalem,

And hither have they sent it for her ransom.

KING EDWARD.

Away with her and waft her hence to France.—

And now what rests but that we spend the time

With stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows,

Such as befits the pleasure of the court?

Sound drums and trumpets!—farewell sour annoy!

For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy.

[Exeunt.]

THE END

KING HENRY VIII

List of Characters

The Prologue

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act I, Scene III

Act I, Scene IV

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act II, Scene III

Act II, Scene IV

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act V, Scene I

Act V, Scene II

Act V, Scene III

Act V, Scene IV

Epilogue

List of Characters

KING HENRY THE EIGHTH

CARDINAL WOLSEY

CARDINAL CAMPEIUS

CAPUCIUS: Ambassador from the Emperor Charles V

CRANMER: archbishop of Canterbury

DUKE OF NORFOLK

DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM

DUKE OF SUFFOLK

EARL OF SURREY

LORD CHAMBERLAIN

LORD CHANCELLOR

GARDINER, bishop of Winchester

BISHOP OF LINCOLN

LORD ABERGAVENNY

LORD SANDYS (called also SIR WILLIAM SANDYS)

SIR HENRY GUILDFORD

SIR THOMAS LOVELL

SIR ANTHONY DENNY

SIR NICHOLAS VAUX

Secretaries to Wolsey

CROMWELL, servant to Wolsey

GRIFFITH, gentleman usher to Queen Katherine

Three Gentlemen

DOCTOR BUTTS: physician to the King

Garter King-at-Arms

Surveyor to the Duke of Buckingham

BRANDON, and a Sergeant-at-Arms

Door-keeper of the Council-chamber

Porter, and his Man

Page to Gardiner

A Crier

QUEEN KATHERINE: wife to King Henry, afterwards divorced

ANNE BULLEN: her Maid of Honour, afterwards Queen

An old Lady, friend to Anne Bullen

PATIENCE: woman to Queen Katherine

Spirits

Several Lords and Ladies in the Dumb Shows; Women attending upon the Queen; Scribes, Officers, Guards, and other Attendants

SCENE: London; Westminster; Kimbolton

THE PROLOGUE.

I come no more to make you laugh: things now

That bear a weighty and a serious brow,

Sad, high, and working, full of state and woe,

Such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow,

We now present. Those that can pity, here

May, if they think it well, let fall a tear;

The subject will deserve it. Such as give

Their money out of hope they may believe,

May here find truth too. Those that come to see

Only a show or two, and so agree

The play may pass, if they be still and willing,

I'll undertake may see away their shilling

Richly in two short hours. Only they

That come to hear a merry bawdy play,

A noise of targets, or to see a fellow

In a long motley coat guarded with yellow,

Will be deceived; for, gentle hearers, know,

To rank our chosen truth with such a show

As fool and fight is, beside forfeiting

Our own brains, and the opinion that we bring

To make that only true we now intend,

Will leave us never an understanding friend.

Therefore, for goodness' sake, and as you are known

The first and happiest hearers of the town,

Be sad, as we would make ye; think ye see

The very persons of our noble story

As they were living; think you see them great,

And followed with the general throng and sweat

Of thousand friends; then, in a moment, see

How soon this mightiness meets misery;

And if you can be merry then, I'll say

A man may weep upon his wedding-day.

ACT I. SCENE I.

London. An ante-chamber in the palace.

[Enter the Duke of Norfolk at one door; at the other, the Duke of Buckingham and the Lord Abergavenny.]

BUCKINGHAM.

Good morrow, and well met. How have ye done

Since last we saw in France?

NORFOLK.

I thank your Grace,

Healthful; and ever since a fresh admirer

Of what I saw there.

BUCKINGHAM

An untimely ague

Stayed me a prisoner in my chamber when

Those suns of glory, those two lights of men,

Met in the vale of Andren.

NORFOLK.

'Twixt Guynes and Arde.

I was then present, saw them salute on horseback;

Beheld them, when they lighted, how they clung

In their embracement, as they grew together;

Which had they, what four throned ones could have weighed

Such a compounded one?

BUCKINGHAM

All the whole time

I was my chamber's prisoner.

NORFOLK.

Then you lost

The view of earthly glory. Men might say,

Till this time pomp was single, but now married

To one above itself. Each following day

Became the next day's master, till the last

Made former wonders its. To-day the French,

All clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods,

Shone down the English; and, to-morrow, they

Made Britain India: every man that stood

Showed like a mine. Their dwarfish pages were

As cherubins, all gilt; the madams too,

Not used to toil, did almost sweat to bear

The pride upon them, that their very labour

Was to them as a painting. Now this masque

Was cried incomparable; and the ensuing night

Made it a fool and beggar. The two kings,

Equal in lustre, were now best, now worst,

As presence did present them; him in eye,

Still him in praise; and, being present both,

'Twas said they saw but one; and no discerner

Durst wag his tongue in censure. When these suns—

For so they phrase 'em—by their heralds challenged

The noble spirits to arms, they did perform

Beyond thought's compass, that former fabulous story,

Being now seen possible enough, got credit,

That Bevis was believed.

BUCKINGHAM

O, you go far!

NORFOLK.

As I belong to worship and affect

In honour honesty, the tract of ev'rything

Would by a good discourser lose some life,

Which action's self was tongue to. All was royal;

To the disposing of it nought rebelled,

Order gave each thing view; the office did

Distinctly his full function.

BUCKINGHAM

Who did guide,

I mean, who set the body and the limbs

Of this great sport together, as you guess?

NORFOLK.

One, certes, that promises no element

In such a business.

BUCKINGHAM

I pray you, who, my lord?

NORFOLK.

All this was ord'red by the good discretion

Of the right reverend Cardinal of York.

BUCKINGHAM

The devil speed him! no man's pie is freed

From his ambitious finger. What had he

To do in these fierce vanities? I wonder

That such a keech can with his very bulk

Take up the rays o' th' beneficial sun,

And keep it from the earth.

NORFOLK.

Surely, sir,

There's in him stuff that puts him to these ends;

For, being not propped by ancestry, whose grace

Chalks successors their way, nor called upon

For high feats done to the crown; neither allied

To eminent assistants; but, spider-like,

Out of his self-drawing web, he gives us note,

The force of his own merit makes his way;

A gift that heaven gives for him, which buys

A place next to the King.

ABERGAVENNY.

I cannot tell

What heaven hath given him,—let some graver eye

Pierce into that; but I can see his pride

Peep through each part of him. Whence has he that?

If not from hell, the devil is a niggard,

Or has given all before, and he begins

A new hell in himself.

BUCKINGHAM.

Why the devil,

Upon this French going out, took he upon him,

Without the privity o' the King, to appoint

Who should attend on him? He makes up the file

Of all the gentry; for the most part such

To whom as great a charge as little honour

He meant to lay upon; and his own letter,

The honourable board of council out,

Must fetch him in he papers.

ABERGAVENNY.

I do know

Kinsmen of mine, three at the least, that have

By this so sickened their estates, that never

They shall abound as formerly.

BUCKINGHAM.

O, many

Have broke their backs with laying manors on 'em

For this great journey. What did this vanity

But minister communication of

A most poor issue?

NORFOLK.

Grievingly I think

The peace between the French and us not values

The cost that did conclude it.

BUCKINGHAM.

Every man,

After the hideous storm that followed, was

A thing inspired; and, not consulting, broke

Into a general prophecy, that this tempest,

Dashing the garment of this peace, aboded

The sudden breach on't.

NORFOLK.

Which is budded out;

For France hath flawed the league, and hath attached

Our merchants' goods at Bordeaux.

ABERGAVENNY.

Is it therefore

Th'ambassador is silenced?

NORFOLK.

Marry, is't.

ABERGAVENNY.

A proper title of a peace, and purchased

At a superfluous rate!

BUCKINGHAM.

Why, all this business

Our reverend Cardinal carried.

NORFOLK.

Like it your Grace,

The state takes notice of the private difference

Betwixt you and the Cardinal. I advise you—

And take it from a heart that wishes towards you

Honour and plenteous safety—that you read

The Cardinal's malice and his potency

Together, to consider further that

What his high hatred would effect wants not

A minister in his power. You know his nature,

That he's revengeful, and I know his sword

Hath a sharp edge; it's long, and, 't may be said,

It reaches far, and where 'twill not extend,

Thither he darts it. Bosom up my counsel,

You'll find it wholesome. Lo, where comes that rock

That I advise your shunning.

[Enter Cardinal Wolsey, the purse borne before him, certain of the Guard, and two Secretaries, with papers. The Cardinal in his passage fixeth his eye on Buckingham, and Buckingham on him, both full of disdain.]

WOLSEY.

The Duke of Buckingham's surveyor, ha?

Where's his examination?

SECRETARY.

Here, so please you.

WOLSEY.

Is he in person ready?

SECRETARY.

Ay, please your Grace.

WOLSEY.

Well, we shall then know more; and Buckingham

Shall lessen this big look.

[Exeunt Wolsey and his train.]

BUCKINGHAM.

This butcher's cur is venom-mouthed, and I

Have not the power to muzzle him; therefore best

Not wake him in his slumber. A beggar's book

Outworths a noble's blood.

NORFOLK.

What, are you chafed?

Ask God for temp'rance; that's the appliance only

Which your disease requires.

BUCKINGHAM.

I read in 's looks

Matter against me, and his eye reviled

Me as his abject object. At this instant

He bores me with some trick. He's gone to the King;

I'll follow, and outstare him.

NORFOLK.

Stay, my lord,

And let your reason with your choler question

What 'tis you go about. To climb steep hills

Requires slow pace at first. Anger is like

A full hot horse, who being allowed his way,

Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England

Can advise me like you; be to yourself

As you would to your friend.

BUCKINGHAM.

I'll to the King,

And from a mouth of honour quite cry down

This Ipswich fellow's insolence, or proclaim

There's difference in no persons.

NORFOLK.

Be advised;

Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot

That it do singe yourself. We may outrun,

By violent swiftness, that which we run at,

And lose by over-running. Know you not,

The fire that mounts the liquor till 't run o'er,

In seeming to augment it wastes it? Be advised.

I say again, there is no English soul

More stronger to direct you than yourself,

If with the sap of reason you would quench,

Or but allay, the fire of passion.

BUCKINGHAM.

Sir,

I am thankful to you; and I'll go along

By your prescription; but this top-proud fellow,

Whom from the flow of gall I name not, but

From sincere motions, by intelligence,

And proofs as clear as founts in July when

We see each grain of gravel, I do know

To be corrupt and treasonous.

NORFOLK.

Say not "treasonous."

BUCKINGHAM.

To the King I'll say't, and make my vouch as strong

As shore of rock. Attend. This holy fox,

Or wolf, or both,—for he is equal ravenous

As he is subtle, and as prone to mischief

As able to perform't; his mind and place

Infecting one another, yea, reciprocally—

Only to show his pomp as well in France

As here at home, suggests the King our master

To this last costly treaty, the interview,

That swallowed so much treasure, and like a glass

Did break i' the rinsing.

NORFOLK.

Faith, and so it did.

BUCKINGHAM.

Pray, give me favour, sir. This cunning Cardinal

The articles o' the combination drew

As himself pleased; and they were ratified

As he cried "Thus let be," to as much end

As give a crutch to the dead. But our count-cardinal

Has done this, and 'tis well; for worthy Wolsey,

Who cannot err, he did it. Now this follows,—

Which, as I take it, is a kind of puppy

To the old dam, treason,—Charles the Emperor,

Under pretence to see the Queen his aunt,—

For 'twas indeed his colour, but he came

To whisper Wolsey,—here makes visitation.

His fears were, that the interview betwixt

England and France might, through their amity,

Breed him some prejudice; for from this league

Peeped harms that menaced him. He privily

Deals with our Cardinal; and, as I trow,—

Which I do well, for I am sure the Emperor

Paid ere he promised; whereby his suit was granted

Ere it was asked—but when the way was made,

And paved with gold, the Emperor thus desired,

That he would please to alter the King's course,

And break the foresaid peace. Let the King know,

As soon he shall by me, that thus the Cardinal

Does buy and sell his honour as he pleases

And for his own advantage.

NORFOLK.

I am sorry

To hear this of him; and could wish he were

Something mistaken in't.

BUCKINGHAM.

No, not a syllable:

I do pronounce him in that very shape

He shall appear in proof.

[Enter Brandon, a Sergeant-at-arms before him, and two or three of the Guard.]

BRANDON.

Your office, sergeant; execute it.

SERGEANT.

Sir,

My lord the Duke of Buckingham, and Earl

Of Hereford, Stafford, and Northampton, I

Arrest thee of high treason, in the name

Of our most sovereign king.

BUCKINGHAM.

Lo, you, my lord,

The net has fall'n upon me! I shall perish

Under device and practice.

BRANDON.

I am sorry

To see you ta'en from liberty, to look on

The business present. 'Tis his Highness' pleasure

You shall to the Tower.

BUCKINGHAM.

It will help nothing

To plead mine innocence; for that dye is on me

Which makes my whit'st part black. The will of Heaven

Be done in this and all things! I obey.

O my Lord Abergavenny, fare you well!

BRANDON.

Nay, he must bear you company.

[To Abergavenny.] The King

Is pleased you shall to the Tower, till you know

How he determines further.

ABERGAVENNY.

As the Duke said,

The will of Heaven be done, and the King's pleasure

By me obeyed!

BRANDON.

Here is warrant from

The King to attach Lord Montacute, and the bodies

Of the Duke's confessor, John de la Car,

One Gilbert Peck, his chancellor,—

BUCKINGHAM.

So, so;

These are the limbs o' the plot. No more, I hope?

BRANDON.

A monk o' the Chartreux.

BUCKINGHAM

O, Nicholas Hopkins?

BRANDON.

He.

BUCKINGHAM.

My surveyor is false; the o'er-great Cardinal

Hath showed him gold; my life is spanned already.

I am the shadow of poor Buckingham,

Whose figure even this instant cloud puts on,

By dark'ning my clear sun. My lord, farewell.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

The same. The council-chamber.

[Cornetts. Enter the King, leaning on the Cardinal's shoulder, the Nobles, and Sir Thomas Lovell; the Cardinal places himself under the King's feet on his right side.]

KING.

My life itself, and the best heart of it,

Thanks you for this great care. I stood i' the level

Of a full-charged confederacy, and give thanks

To you that choked it. Let be called before us

That gentleman of Buckingham's; in person

I'll hear his confessions justify;

And point by point the treasons of his master

He shall again relate.

[A noise within, crying "Room for the Queen!" Enter Queen Katherine, ushered by the Duke of Norfolk, and the Duke of Suffolk; she kneels. The King riseth from his state, takes her up, kisses and placeth her by him.]

QUEEN KATHERINE.

Nay, we must longer kneel; I am a suitor.

KING.

Arise, and take place by us. Half your suit

Never name to us, you have half our power;

The other moiety, ere you ask, is given.

Repeat your will and take it.

QUEEN KATHERINE.

Thank your Majesty.

That you would love yourself, and in that love

Not unconsidered leave your honour, nor

The dignity of your office, is the point

Of my petition.

KING.

Lady mine, proceed.

QUEEN KATHERINE.

I am solicited, not by a few,

And those of true condition, that your subjects

Are in great grievance. There have been commissions

Sent down among 'em, which hath flawed the heart

Of all their loyalties; wherein, although,

My good Lord Cardinal, they vent reproaches

Most bitterly on you, as putter on

Of these exactions, yet the King our master—

Whose honour Heaven shield from soil!—even he escapes not

Language unmannerly, yea, such which breaks

The sides of loyalty, and almost appears

In loud rebellion.

NORFOLK.

Not "almost appears,"

It doth appear; for, upon these taxations,

The clothiers all, not able to maintain

The many to them longing, have put off

The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers, who,

Unfit for other life, compelled by hunger

And lack of other means, in desperate manner

Daring the event to the teeth, are all in uproar,

And danger serves among them.

KING.

Taxation!

Wherein? and what taxation? My Lord Cardinal,

You that are blamed for it alike with us,

Know you of this taxation?

WOLSEY.

Please you, sir,

I know but of a single part, in aught

Pertains to the state, and front but in that file

Where others tell steps with me.

QUEEN KATHERINE.

No, my lord?

You know no more than others? But you frame

Things that are known alike, which are not wholesome

To those which would not know them, and yet must

Perforce be their acquaintance. These exactions,

Whereof my sovereign would have note, they are

Most pestilent to the hearing; and, to bear 'em,

The back is sacrifice to the load. They say

They are devised by you; or else you suffer

Too hard an exclamation.

KING.

Still exaction!

The nature of it? In what kind, let's know,

Is this exaction?

QUEEN KATHERINE.

I am much too venturous

In tempting of your patience; but am bold'ned

Under your promised pardon. The subjects' grief

Comes through commissions, which compels from each

The sixth part of his substance, to be levied

Without delay; and the pretence for this

Is named, your wars in France. This makes bold mouths;

Tongues spit their duties out, and cold hearts freeze

Allegiance in them; their curses now

Live where their prayers did; and it's come to pass

This tractable obedience is a slave

To each incensed will. I would your Highness

Would give it quick consideration, for

There is no primer business.

KING.

By my life,

This is against our pleasure.

WOLSEY.

And for me,

I have no further gone in this than by

A single voice; and that not passed me but

By learned approbation of the judges. If I am

Traduced by ignorant tongues, which neither know

My faculties nor person, yet will be

The chronicles of my doing, let me say

'Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake

That virtue must go through. We must not stint

Our necessary actions, in the fear

To cope malicious censurers; which ever,

As ravenous fishes, do a vessel follow

That is new-trimmed, but benefit no further

Than vainly longing. What we oft do best,

By sick interpreters, once weak ones, is

Not ours, or not allowed; what worst, as oft,

Hitting a grosser quality, is cried up

For our best act. If we shall stand still,

In fear our motion will be mocked or carped at,

We should take root here where we sit, or sit

State-statues only.

KING.

Things done well,

And with a care, exempt themselves from fear;

Things done without example, in their issue

Are to be feared. Have you a precedent

Of this commission? I believe, not any.

We must not rend our subjects from our laws,

And stick them in our will. Sixth part of each?

A trembling contribution! Why, we take

From every tree lop, bark, and part o' the timber;

And, though we leave it with a root, thus hacked,

The air will drink the sap. To every county

Where this is questioned send our letters, with

Free pardon to each man that has denied

The force of this commission. Pray, look to't;

I put it to your care.

WOLSEY.

A word with you.

[To the Secretary, aside.]

Let there be letters writ to every shire,

Of the King's grace and pardon. The grieved commons

Hardly conceive of me; let it be noised

That through our intercession this revokement

And pardon comes. I shall anon advise you

Further in the proceeding.

[Exit Secretary.]

[Enter Surveyor.]

QUEEN KATHERINE.

I am sorry that the Duke of Buckingham

Is run in your displeasure.

KING.

It grieves many.

The gentleman is learned, and a most rare speaker;

To nature none more bound; his training such

That he may furnish and instruct great teachers,

And never seek for aid out of himself. Yet see,

When these so noble benefits shall prove

Not well disposed, the mind growing once corrupt,

They turn to vicious forms, ten times more ugly

Than ever they were fair. This man so complete,

Who was enrolled 'mongst wonders, and when we,

Almost with ravished list'ning, could not find

His hour of speech a minute; he, my lady,

Hath into monstrous habits put the graces

That once were his, and is become as black

As if besmeared in hell. Sit by us; you shall hear—

This was his gentleman in trust—of him

Things to strike honour sad. Bid him recount

The fore-recited practices, whereof

We cannot feel too little, hear too much.

WOLSEY.

Stand forth, and with bold spirit relate what you,

Most like a careful subject, have collected

Out of the Duke of Buckingham.

KING.

Speak freely.

SURVEYOR.

First, it was usual with him, every day

It would infect his speech, that if the King

Should without issue die, he'll carry it so

To make the sceptre his. These very words

I've heard him utter to his son-in-law,

Lord Abergavenny; to whom by oath he menaced

Revenge upon the Cardinal.

WOLSEY.

Please your Highness, note

This dangerous conception in this point.

Not friended by his wish, to your high person

His will is most malignant; and it stretches

Beyond you, to your friends.

QUEEN KATHERINE.

My learned Lord Cardinal,

Deliver all with charity.

KING.

Speak on.

How grounded he his title to the crown?

Upon our fail? To this point hast thou heard him

At any time speak aught?

SURVEYOR.

He was brought to this

By a vain prophecy of Nicholas Hopkins.

KING.

What was that Hopkins?

SURVEYOR.

Sir, a Chartreux friar,

His confessor; who fed him every minute

With words of sovereignty.

KING.

How know'st thou this?

SURVEYOR.

Not long before your Highness sped to France,

The Duke being at the Rose, within the parish

Saint Lawrence Poultney, did of me demand

What was the speech among the Londoners

Concerning the French journey. I replied,

Men fear the French would prove perfidious,

To the King's danger. Presently the Duke

Said, 'twas the fear, indeed; and that he doubted

'Twould prove the verity of certain words

Spoke by a holy monk, "that oft," says he,

"Hath sent to me, wishing me to permit

John de la Car, my chaplain, a choice hour

To hear from him a matter of some moment;

Whom after under the confession's seal

He solemnly had sworn, that what he spoke

My chaplain to no creature living but

To me should utter, with demure confidence

This pausingly ensued: 'Neither the King nor's heirs,

Tell you the Duke, shall prosper. Bid him strive

To gain the love o' the commonalty. The Duke

Shall govern England."'

QUEEN KATHERINE.

If I know you well,

You were the Duke's surveyor, and lost your office

On the complaint o' the tenants. Take good heed

You charge not in your spleen a noble person

And spoil your nobler soul; I say, take heed;

Yes, heartily beseech you.

KING.

Let him on.

[To the Surveyor.]

Go forward.

SURVEYOR.

On my soul, I'll speak but truth.

I told my lord the Duke, by the devil's illusions

The monk might be deceived; and that 'twas dangerous

For him to ruminate on this so far, until

It forged him some design; which, being believed,

It was much like to do. He answered, "Tush,

It can do me no damage;" adding further

That, had the King in his last sickness failed,

The Cardinal's and Sir Thomas Lovell's heads

Should have gone off.

KING.

Ha! what, so rank? Ah ha!

There's mischief in this man. Canst thou say further?

SURVEYOR.

I can, my liege.

KING.

Proceed.

SURVEYOR.

Being at Greenwich,

After your Highness had reproved the Duke

About Sir William Bulmer,—

KING.

I remember

Of such a time; being my sworn servant,

The Duke retained him his. But on; what hence?

SURVEYOR.

"If," quoth he, "I for this had been committed,"

—As, to the Tower, I thought,—"I would have played

The part my father meant to act upon

The usurper Richard; who, being at Salisbury,

Made suit to come in 's presence; which if granted,

As he made semblance of his duty, would

Have put his knife into him."

KING.

A giant traitor!

WOLSEY.

Now, madam, may his Highness live in freedom,

And this man out of prison?

QUEEN KATHERINE.

God mend all!

KING.

There's something more would out of thee; what say'st?

SURVEYOR.

After "the Duke his father," with "the knife,"

He stretched him, and, with one hand on his dagger,

Another spread on 's breast, mounting his eyes,

He did discharge a horrible oath; whose tenour

Was, were he evil used, he would outgo

His father by as much as a performance

Does an irresolute purpose.

KING.

There's his period,

To sheathe his knife in us. He is attached.

Call him to present trial. If he may

Find mercy in the law, 'tis his; if none,

Let him not seek 't of us. By day and night,

He's traitor to th' height.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE III.

An ante-chamber in the palace.

[Enter the Lord Chamberlain and Lord Sandys.]

CHAMBERLAIN.

Is't possible the spells of France should juggle

Men into such strange mysteries?

SANDYS.

New customs,

Though they be never so ridiculous,

Nay, let 'em be unmanly, yet are followed.

CHAMBERLAIN.

As far as I see, all the good our English

Have got by the late voyage is but merely

A fit or two o' the face; but they are shrewd ones;

For when they hold 'em, you would swear directly

Their very noses had been counsellors

To Pepin or Clotharius, they keep state so.

SANDYS.

They have all new legs, and lame ones. One would take it,

That never saw 'em pace before, the spavin

Or springhalt reigned among 'em.

CHAMBERLAIN.

Death! my lord,

Their clothes are after such a pagan cut too,

That, sure, they've worn out Christendom.

[Enter Sir Thomas Lovell.]

How now!

What news, Sir Thomas Lovell?

LOVELL.

Faith, my lord,

I hear of none, but the new proclamation

That's clapped upon the court-gate.

CHAMBERLAIN.

What is't for?

LOVELL.

The reformation of our travelled gallants,

That fill the court with quarrels, talk, and tailors.

CHAMBERLAIN.

I'm glad 'tis there. Now I would pray our monsieurs

To think an English courtier may be wise,

And never see the Louvre.

LOVELL.

They must either,

For so run the conditions, leave those remnants

Of fool and feather that they got in France,

With all their honourable points of ignorance

Pertaining thereunto, as fights and fireworks,

Abusing better men than they can be,

Out of a foreign wisdom, renouncing clean

The faith they have in tennis and tall stockings,

Short blist'red breeches, and those types of travel,

And understand again like honest men,

Or pack to their old playfellows. There, I take it,

They may, "cum privilegio," wear away

The lag end of their lewdness and be laughed at.

SANDYS.

'Tis time to give 'em physic, their diseases

Are grown so catching.

CHAMBERLAIN.

What a loss our ladies

Will have of these trim vanities!

LOVELL.

Ay, marry,

There will be woe indeed, lords; the sly whoresons

Have got a speeding trick to lay down ladies.

A French song and a fiddle has no fellow.

SANDYS.

The devil fiddle 'em! I am glad they are going,

For, sure, there's no converting of 'em. Now

An honest country lord, as I am, beaten

A long time out of play, may bring his plainsong

And have an hour of hearing; and, by 'r Lady,

Held current music too.

CHAMBERLAIN.

Well said, Lord Sandys;

Your colt's tooth is not cast yet.

SANDYS.

No, my lord;

Nor shall not, while I have a stump.

CHAMBERLAIN.

Sir Thomas,

Whither were you a-going?

LOVELL.

To the Cardinal's.

Your lordship is a guest too.

CHAMBERLAIN.

O, 'tis true:

This night he makes a supper, and a great one,

To many lords and ladies; there will be

The beauty of this kingdom, I'll assure you.

LOVELL.

That churchman bears a bounteous mind indeed,

A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us;

His dews fall everywhere.

CHAMBERLAIN.

No doubt he's noble;

He had a black mouth that said other of him.

SANDYS.

He may, my lord; has wherewithal; in him

Sparing would show a worse sin than ill doctrine.

Men of his way should be most liberal;

They are set here for examples.

CHAMBERLAIN.

True, they are so;

But few now give so great ones. My barge stays;

Your lordship shall along. Come, good Sir Thomas,

We shall be late else; which I would not be,

For I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guildford,

This night to be comptrollers.

SANDYS.

I am your lordship's.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE IV.

A Hall in York Place.

[Hautboys. A small table under a state for the Cardinal, a longer table for the guests. Then enter Anne Bullen and divers other Ladies and Gentlemen as guests, at one door; at another door, enter Sir Henry Guildford.]

GUILDFORD.

Ladies, a general welcome from his Grace

Salutes ye all; this night he dedicates

To fair content and you. None here, he hopes,

In all this noble bevy, has brought with her

One care abroad. He would have all as merry

As, first, good company, good wine, good welcome,

Can make good people.

[Enter Lord Chamberlain, Lord Sandys, and Sir Thomas Lovell.]

O, my lord, you're tardy;

The very thought of this fair company

Clapped wings to me.

CHAMBERLAIN.

You are young, Sir Harry Guildford.

SANDYS.

Sir Thomas Lovell, had the Cardinal

But half my lay thoughts in him, some of these

Should find a running banquet ere they rested,

I think would better please 'em. By my life,

They are a sweet society of fair ones.

LOVELL.

O, that your lordship were but now confessor

To one or two of these!

SANDYS.

I would I were;

They should find easy penance.

LOVELL.

Faith, how easy?

SANDYS.

As easy as a down-bed would afford it.

CHAMBERLAIN.

Sweet ladies, will it please you sit? Sir Harry,

Place you that side; I'll take the charge of this.

His Grace is ent'ring. Nay, you must not freeze;

Two women placed together makes cold weather.

My Lord Sandys, you are one will keep 'em waking;

Pray, sit between these ladies.

SANDYS.

By my faith,

And thank your lordship. By your leave, sweet ladies.

If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me;

I had it from my father.

ANNE.

Was he mad, sir?

SANDYS.

O, very mad, exceeding mad; in love too;

But he would bite none. Just as I do now,

He would kiss you twenty with a breath.

[Kisses her.]

CHAMBERLAIN.

Well said, my lord.

So, now you're fairly seated. Gentlemen,

The penance lies on you, if these fair ladies

Pass away frowning.

SANDYS.

For my little cure,

Let me alone.

[Hautboys. Enter Cardinal Wolsey, and takes his state.]

WOLSEY.

You're welcome, my fair guests. That noble lady

Or gentleman that is not freely merry

Is not my friend. This, to confirm my welcome;

And to you all, good health.

[Drinks.]

SANDYS.

Your Grace is noble.

Let me have such a bowl may hold my thanks,

And save me so much talking.

WOLSEY.

My Lord Sandys,

I am beholding to you; cheer your neighbours.

Ladies, you are not merry. Gentlemen,

Whose fault is this?

SANDYS.

The red wine first must rise

In their fair cheeks, my lord; then we shall have 'em

Talk us to silence.

ANNE.

You are a merry gamester,

My Lord Sandys.

SANDYS.

Yes, if I make my play.

Here's to your ladyship; and pledge it, madam,

For 'tis to such a thing,—

ANNE.

You cannot show me.

SANDYS.

I told your Grace they would talk anon.

[Drum and trumpet, chambers discharged.]

WOLSEY.

What's that?

CHAMBERLAIN.

Look out there, some of ye.

[Exit Servant.]

WOLSEY.

What warlike voice,

And to what end, is this? Nay, ladies, fear not;

By all the laws of war you're privileged.

[Re-enter Servant.]

CHAMBERLAIN.

How now! what is't?

SERVANT.

A noble troop of strangers,

For so they seem. They've left their barge and landed,

And hither make, as great ambassadors

From foreign princes.

WOLSEY.

Good Lord Chamberlain,

Go, give 'em welcome; you can speak the French tongue;

And, pray, receive 'em nobly, and conduct 'em

Into our presence, where this heaven of beauty

Shall shine at full upon them. Some attend him.

[Exit Chamberlain, attended. All rise, and tables removed.]

You have now a broken banquet; but we'll mend it.

A good digestion to you all; and once more

I shower a welcome on ye. Welcome all!

[Hautboys. Enter the King, and others, as masquers, habited like shepherds, ushered by the Lord Chamberlain. They pass directly before the Cardinal, and gracefully salute him.]

A noble company! What are their pleasures?

CHAMBERLAIN.

Because they speak no English, thus they prayed

To tell your Grace, that, having heard by fame

Of this so noble and so fair assembly

This night to meet here, they could do no less,

Out of the great respect they bear to beauty,

But leave their flocks; and, under your fair conduct,

Crave leave to view these ladies and entreat

An hour of revels with 'em.

WOLSEY.

Say, Lord Chamberlain,

They have done my poor house grace; for which I pay 'em

A thousand thanks, and pray 'em take their pleasures.

[They choose ladies for the dance. The King chooses Anne Bullen.]

KING.

The fairest hand I ever touched! O beauty,

Till now I never knew thee!

[Music. Dance.]

WOLSEY.

My lord!

CHAMBERLAIN.

Your Grace?

WOLSEY.

Pray, tell 'em thus much from me:

There should be one amongst 'em, by his person,

More worthy this place than myself; to whom,

If I but knew him, with my love and duty

I would surrender it.

CHAMBERLAIN.

I will, my lord.

[Whispers the Masquers.]

WOLSEY.

What say they?

CHAMBERLAIN.

Such a one, they all confess,

There is indeed; which they would have your Grace

Find out, and he will take it.

WOLSEY.

Let me see, then.

By all your good leaves, gentlemen; here I'll make

My royal choice.

KING.

Ye have found him, Cardinal. [Unmasking.]

You hold a fair assembly; you do well, lord.

You are a churchman, or, I'll tell you, Cardinal,

I should judge now unhappily.

WOLSEY.

I am glad

Your Grace is grown so pleasant.

KING.

My Lord Chamberlain,

Prithee come hither. What fair lady's that?

CHAMBERLAIN.

An't please your Grace, Sir Thomas Bullen's daughter,—

The Viscount Rochford,—one of her Highness' women.

KING.

By heaven, she is a dainty one. Sweetheart,

I were unmannerly to take you out

And not to kiss you. A health, gentlemen

Let it go round.

WOLSEY.

Sir Thomas Lovell, is the banquet ready

I' the privy chamber?

LOVELL.

Yes, my lord.

WOLSEY.

Your Grace,

I fear, with dancing is a little heated.

KING.

I fear, too much.

WOLSEY.

There's fresher air, my lord,

In the next chamber.

KING.

Lead in your ladies, every one. Sweet partner,

I must not yet forsake you; let's be merry.

Good my Lord Cardinal, I have half a dozen healths

To drink to these fair ladies, and a measure

To lead 'em once again; and then let's dream

Who's best in favour. Let the music knock it.

[Exeunt with trumpets.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

Westminster. A street.

[Enter two Gentlemen at several doors.]

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Whither away so fast?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

O, God save ye!

Even to the hall, to hear what shall become

Of the great Duke of Buckingham.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

I'll save you

That labour, sir. All's now done, but the ceremony

Of bringing back the prisoner.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Were you there?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Yes, indeed, was I.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Pray, speak what has happened.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

You may guess quickly what.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Is he found guilty?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Yes, truly is he, and condemned upon't.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

I am sorry for't.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

So are a number more.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

But, pray, how passed it?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

I'll tell you in a little. The great Duke

Came to the bar; where to his accusations

He pleaded still not guilty and alleged

Many sharp reasons to defeat the law.

The King's attorney on the contrary

Urged on the examinations, proofs, confessions

Of divers witnesses; which the Duke desired

To have brought viva voce to his face;

At which appeared against him his surveyor;

Sir Gilbert Peck his chancellor; and John Car,

Confessor to him, with that devil-monk,

Hopkins, that made this mischief.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

That was he

That fed him with his prophecies?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

The same.

All these accused him strongly; which he fain

Would have flung from him, but, indeed, he could not.

And so his peers, upon this evidence,

Have found him guilty of high treason. Much

He spoke, and learnedly, for life; but all

Was either pitied in him or forgotten.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

After all this, how did he bear himself?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

When he was brought again to the bar, to hear

His knell rung out, his judgment, he was stirred

With such an agony, he sweat extremely,

And something spoke in choler, ill, and hasty.

But he fell to himself again, and sweetly

In all the rest showed a most noble patience.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

I do not think he fears death.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Sure, he does not;

He never was so womanish. The cause

He may a little grieve at.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Certainly

The Cardinal is the end of this.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

'Tis likely,

By all conjectures: first, Kildare's attainder,

Then deputy of Ireland; who removed,

Earl Surrey was sent thither, and in haste too,

Lest he should help his father.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

That trick of state

Was a deep envious one.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

At his return

No doubt he will requite it. This is noted,

And generally, whoever the King favours,

The Cardinal instantly will find employment,

And far enough from court too.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

All the commons

Hate him perniciously, and, o' my conscience,

Wish him ten fathom deep. This duke as much

They love and dote on; call him bounteous Buckingham,

The mirror of all courtesy,—

[Enter Buckingham from his arraignment; tipstaves before him; the axe with the edge towards him; halberds on each side; accompanied with Sir Thomas Lovell, Sir Nicholas Vaux, Sir William Sandys, and common people.]

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Stay there, sir,

And see the noble ruined man you speak of.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Let's stand close, and behold him.

BUCKINGHAM.

All good people,

You that thus far have come to pity me,

Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me.

I have this day received a traitor's judgement,

And by that name must die; yet, Heaven bear witness,

And if I have a conscience, let it sink me,

Even as the axe falls, if I be not faithful!

The law I bear no malice for my death;

'T has done, upon the premises, but justice;

But those that sought it I could wish more Christians.

Be what they will, I heartily forgive 'em;

Yet let 'em look they glory not in mischief,

Nor build their evils on the graves of great men,

For then my guiltless blood must cry against 'em.

For further life in this world I ne'er hope,

Nor will I sue, although the King have mercies

More than I dare make faults. You few that loved me

And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham,

His noble friends and fellows, whom to leave

Is only bitter to him, only dying,

Go with me, like good angels, to my end;

And, as the long divorce of steel falls on me,

Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice,

And lift my soul to heaven. Lead on, o' God's name.

LOVELL.

I do beseech your Grace, for charity,

If ever any malice in your heart

Were hid against me, now to forgive me frankly.

BUCKINGHAM.

Sir Thomas Lovell, I as free forgive you

As I would be forgiven. I forgive all.

There cannot be those numberless offences

'Gainst me, that I cannot take peace with; no black envy

Shall mark my grave. Commend me to his Grace;

And, if he speak of Buckingham, pray, tell him

You met him half in heaven. My vows and prayers

Yet are the King's; and, till my soul forsake,

Shall cry for blessings on him. May he live

Longer than I have time to tell his years!

Ever beloved and loving may his rule be!

And when old Time shall lead him to his end,

Goodness and he fill up one monument!

LOVELL.

To th'waterside I must conduct your Grace;

Then give my charge up to Sir Nicholas Vaux,

Who undertakes you to your end.

VAUX.

Prepare there,

The Duke is coming. See the barge be ready;

And fit it with such furniture as suits

The greatness of his person.

BUCKINGHAM.

Nay, Sir Nicholas,

Let it alone; my state now will but mock me.

When I came hither, I was Lord High Constable

And Duke of Buckingham; now, poor Edward Bohun.

Yet I am richer than my base accusers,

That never knew what truth meant. I now seal it;

And with that blood will make 'em one day groan for't.

My noble father, Henry of Buckingham,

Who first raised head against usurping Richard,

Flying for succour to his servant Banister,

Being distressed, was by that wretch betrayed,

And without trial fell; God's peace be with him!

Henry the Seventh succeeding, truly pitying

My father's loss, like a most royal prince,

Restored me to my honours, and, out of ruins,

Made my name once more noble. Now his son,

Henry the Eighth, life, honour, name, and all

That made me happy, at one stroke has taken

For ever from the world. I had my trial,

And, must needs say, a noble one; which makes me

A little happier than my wretched father.

Yet thus far we are one in fortunes: both

Fell by our servants, by those men we loved most;

A most unnatural and faithless service.

Heaven has an end in all; yet, you that hear me,

This from a dying man receive as certain:

Where you are liberal of your loves and counsels

Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends

And give your hearts to, when they once perceive

The least rub in your fortunes, fall away

Like water from ye; never found again

But where they mean to sink ye. All good people,

Pray for me! I must now forsake ye. The last hour

Of my long weary life is come upon me.

Farewell, and when you would say something that is sad,

Speak how I fell. I have done; and God forgive me!

[Exeunt Duke and train.]

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

O, this is full of pity! Sir, it calls,

I fear, too many curses on their heads

That were the authors.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

If the Duke be guiltless,

'Tis full of woe; yet I can give you inkling

Of an ensuing evil, if it fall,

Greater than this.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Good angels keep it from us!

What may it be? You do not doubt my faith, sir?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

This secret is so weighty, 'twill require

A strong faith to conceal it.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Let me have it.

I do not talk much.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

I am confident;

You shall, sir. Did you not of late days hear

A buzzing of a separation

Between the King and Katherine?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Yes, but it held not;

For when the King once heard it, out of anger

He sent command to the Lord Mayor straight

To stop the rumour, and allay those tongues

That durst disperse it.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

But that slander, sir,

Is found a truth now; for it grows again

Fresher than e'er it was; and held for certain

The King will venture at it. Either the Cardinal,

Or some about him near, have, out of malice

To the good Queen, possessed him with a scruple

That will undo her. To confirm this too,

Cardinal Campeius is arrived, and lately;

As all think, for this business.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

'Tis the Cardinal;

And merely to revenge him on the Emperor

For not bestowing on him, at his asking,

The archbishopric of Toledo, this is purposed.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

I think you have hit the mark; but is't not cruel

That she should feel the smart of this? The Cardinal

Will have his will, and she must fall.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

'Tis woeful.

We are too open here to argue this;

Let's think in private more.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

An ante-chamber in the palace.

[Enter the Lord Chamberlain, reading this letter:.]

CHAMBERLAIN.

"My lord, the horses your lordship sent for, with all the care had, I saw well chosen, ridden, and furnished. They were young and handsome, and of the best breed in the north. When they were ready to set out for London, a man of my Lord Cardinal's, by commission and main power, took 'em from me, with this reason: His master would be served before a subject, if not before the King; which stopped our mouths, sir."

I fear he will indeed. Well, let him have them:

He will have all, I think.

[Enter to the Lord Chamberlain the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk.]

NORFOLK.

Well met, my Lord Chamberlain.

CHAMBERLAIN.

Good day to both your Graces.

SUFFOLK.

How is the King employed?

CHAMBERLAIN.

I left him private,

Full of sad thoughts and troubles.

NORFOLK.

What's the cause?

CHAMBERLAIN.

It seems the marriage with his brother's wife

Has crept too near his conscience.

SUFFOLK.

No, his conscience

Has crept too near another lady.

NORFOLK.

'Tis so.

This is the Cardinal's doing, the king-cardinal.

That blind priest, like the eldest son of Fortune,

Turns what he list. The King will know him one day.

SUFFOLK.

Pray God he do! he'll never know himself else.

NORFOLK.

How holily he works in all his business!

And with what zeal! for, now he has cracked the league

Between us and the Emperor, the Queen's great nephew,

He dives into the King's soul, and there scatters

Dangers, doubts, wringing of the conscience,

Fears, and despairs; and all these for his marriage.

And out of all these to restore the King,

He counsels a divorce; a loss of her

That, like a jewel, has hung twenty years

About his neck, yet never lost her lustre;

Of her that loves him with that excellence

That angels love good men with; even of her

That, when the greatest stroke of fortune falls,

Will bless the King. And is not this course pious?

CHAMBERLAIN.

Heaven keep me from such counsel! 'Tis most true

These news are everywhere; every tongue speaks 'em,

And every true heart weeps for't. All that dare

Look into these affairs see this main end,

The French king's sister. Heaven will one day open

The King's eyes, that so long have slept upon

This bold bad man.

SUFFOLK.

And free us from his slavery.

NORFOLK.

We had need pray,

And heartily, for our deliverance;

Or this imperious man will work us an

From princes into pages. All men's honours

Lie like one lump before him, to be fashioned

Into what pitch he please.

SUFFOLK.

For me, my lords,

I love him not, nor fear him; there's my creed.

As I am made without him, so I'll stand,

If the King please; his curses and his blessings

Touch me alike, they'are breath I not believe in.

I knew him, and I know him; so I leave him

To him that made him proud, the Pope.

NORFOLK.

Let's in;

And with some other business put the King

From these sad thoughts, that work too much upon him.

My lord, you'll bear us company?

CHAMBERLAIN.

Excuse me,

The King has sent me otherwhere. Besides,

You'll find a most unfit time to disturb him.

Health to your lordships!

NORFOLK.

Thanks, my good Lord Chamberlain.

[Exit Lord Chamberlain; Norfolk draws the curtain, and discovers the King reading pensively.]

SUFFOLK.

How sad he looks! Sure, he is much afflicted.

KING.

Who's there, ha?

NORFOLK.

Pray God he be not angry.

KING.

Who's there, I say? How dare you thrust yourselves

Into my private meditations?

Who am I? ha?

NORFOLK.

A gracious king that pardons all offences

Malice ne'er meant. Our breach of duty this way

Is business of estate; in which we come

To know your royal pleasure.

KING.

Ye are too bold.

Go to; I'll make ye know your times of business.

Is this an hour for temporal affairs, ha?

[Enter Wolsey and Campeius, with a commission.]

Who's there? My good Lord Cardinal? O my Wolsey,

The quiet of my wounded conscience,

Thou art a cure fit for a King. [To Campeius.] You're welcome,

Most learned reverend sir, into our kingdom;

Use us and it. [To Wolsey.] My good lord, have great care

I be not found a talker.

WOLSEY.

Sir, you cannot.

I would your Grace would give us but an hour

Of private conference.

KING.

[To Norfolk and Suffolk.] We are busy; go.

NORFOLK.

[Aside to Suffolk.] This priest has no pride in him?

SUFFOLK.

[Aside to Norfolk.] Not to speak of.

I would not be so sick, though, for his place.

But this cannot continue.

NORFOLK.

[Aside to Suffolk.] If it do,

I'll venture one have-at-him.

SUFFOLK.

[Aside to Norfolk.] I another.

[Exeunt Norfolk and Suffolk.]

WOLSEY.

Your Grace has given a precedent of wisdom

Above all princes, in committing freely

Your scruple to the voice of Christendom.

Who can be angry now? What envy reach you?

The Spaniard, tied by blood and favour to her,

Must now confess, if they have any goodness,

The trial just and noble. All the clerks,

I mean the learned ones, in Christian kingdoms

Have their free voices. Rome, the nurse of judgement,

Invited by your noble self, hath sent

One general tongue unto us, this good man,

This just and learned priest, Cardinal Campeius,

Whom once more I present unto your Highness.

KING.

And once more in mine arms I bid him welcome,

And thank the holy conclave for their loves.

They have sent me such a man I would have wished for.

CAMPEIUS.

Your Grace must needs deserve all strangers' loves,

You are so noble. To your Highness' hand

I tender my commission; by whose virtue,

The court of Rome commanding—you, my Lord

Cardinal of York, are joined with me their servant

In the unpartial judging of this business.

KING.

Two equal men. The Queen shall be acquainted

Forthwith for what you come. Where's Gardiner?

WOLSEY.

I know your Majesty has always loved her

So dear in heart not to deny her that

A woman of less place might ask by law,

Scholars allowed freely to argue for her.

KING.

Ay, and the best she shall have; and my favour

To him that does best; God forbid else. Cardinal,

Prithee, call Gardiner to me, my new secretary.

I find him a fit fellow.

[Exit Wolsey.]

[Re-enter Wolsey, with Gardiner.]

WOLSEY.

[Aside to Gardiner.]

Give me your hand. Much joy and favour to you;

You are the King's now.

GARDINER.

[Aside to Wolsey.] But to be commanded

For ever by your Grace, whose hand has raised me.

KING.

Come hither, Gardiner.

[Walks and whispers.]

CAMPEIUS.

My Lord of York, was not one Doctor Pace

In this man's place before him?

WOLSEY.

Yes, he was.

CAMPEIUS.

Was he not held a learned man?

WOLSEY.

Yes, surely.

CAMPEIUS.

Believe me, there's an ill opinion spread then

Even of yourself, Lord Cardinal.

WOLSEY.

How! of me?

CAMPEIUS.

They will not stick to say you envied him,

And fearing he would rise, he was so virtuous,

Kept him a foreign man still; which so grieved him

That he ran mad and died.

WOLSEY.

Heav'n's peace be with him!

That's Christian care enough. For living murmurers

There's places of rebuke. He was a fool,

For he would needs be virtuous. That good fellow,

If I command him, follows my appointment;

I will have none so near else. Learn this, brother,

We live not to be griped by meaner persons.

KING.

Deliver this with modesty to the Queen.

[Exit Gardiner.]

The most convenient place that I can think of

For such receipt of learning is Black-Friars;

There ye shall meet about this weighty business.

My Wolsey, see it furnished. O, my lord,

Would it not grieve an able man to leave

So sweet a bedfellow? But, conscience, conscience!

O, 'tis a tender place; and I must leave her.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE III.

An ante-chamber of the Queen's apartments.

[Enter Anne Bullen and an Old Lady.]

ANNE.

Not for that neither. Here's the pang that pinches:

His Highness having lived so long with her, and she

So good a lady that no tongue could ever

Pronounce dishonour of her,—by my life,

She never knew harm-doing—O, now, after

So many courses of the sun enthroned,

Still growing in a majesty and pomp, the which

To leave a thousand-fold more bitter than

'Tis sweet at first to acquire,—after this process,

To give her the avaunt, it is a pity

Would move a monster.

OLD LADY.

Hearts of most hard temper

Melt and lament for her.

ANNE.

O, God's will, much better

She ne'er had known pomp! Though't be temporal,

Yet, if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce

It from the bearer, 'tis a sufferance panging

As soul and body's severing.

OLD LADY.

Alas, poor lady!

She's a stranger now again.

ANNE.

So much the more

Must pity drop upon her. Verily,

I swear, 'tis better to be lowly born

And range with humble livers in content,

Than to be perked up in a glist'ring grief,

And wear a golden sorrow.

OLD LADY.

Our content

Is our best having.

ANNE.

By my troth and maidenhead,

I would not be a queen.

OLD LADY.

Beshrew me, I would,

And venture maidenhead for't; and so would you,

For all this spice of your hypocrisy.

You, that have so fair parts of woman on you,

Have too a woman's heart, which ever yet

Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty;

Which, to say sooth, are blessings; and which gifts,

Saving your mincing, the capacity

Of your soft cheveril conscience would receive,

If you might please to stretch it.

ANNE.

Nay, good troth.

OLD LADY.

Yes, troth and troth. You would not be a queen?

ANNE.

No, not for all the riches under heaven.

OLD LADY.

'Tis strange. A three-pence bowed would hire me,

Old as I am, to queen it. But, I pray you,

What think you of a duchess? Have you limbs

To bear that load of title?

ANNE.

No, in truth.

OLD LADY.

Then you are weakly made; pluck off a little.

I would not be a young count in your way,

For more than blushing comes to. If your back

Cannot vouchsafe this burden, 'tis too weak

Ever to get a boy.

ANNE.

How you do talk!

I swear again I would not be a queen

For all the world.

OLD LADY.

In faith, for little England

Youed venture an emballing. I myself

Would for Carnarvonshire, although there longed

No more to the crown but that. Lo, who comes here?

[Enter the Lord Chamberlain.]

CHAMBERLAIN.

Good morrow, ladies. What were't worth to know

The secret of your conference?

ANNE.

My good lord,

Not your demand; it values not your asking.

Our mistress' sorrows we were pitying.

CHAMBERLAIN.

It was a gentle business, and becoming

The action of good women. There is hope

All will be well.

ANNE.

Now, I pray God, amen!

CHAMBERLAIN.

You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings

Follow such creatures. That you may, fair lady,

Perceive I speak sincerely, and high note's

Ta'en of your many virtues, the King's Majesty

Commends his good opinion of you, and

Does purpose honour to you no less flowing

Than Marchioness of Pembroke; to which title

A thousand pound a year, annual support,

Out of his grace he adds.

ANNE.

I do not know

What kind of my obedience I should tender.

More than my all is nothing; nor my prayers

Are not words duly hallowed, nor my wishes

More worth than empty vanities; yet prayers and wishes

Are all I can return. Beseech your lordship,

Vouchsafe to speak my thanks and my obedience,

As from a blushing handmaid, to his Highness;

Whose health and royalty I pray for.

CHAMBERLAIN.

Lady,

I shall not fail to approve the fair conceit

The King hath of you. [Aside.] I have perused her well.

Beauty and honour in her are so mingled

That they have caught the King; and who knows yet

But from this lady may proceed a gem

To lighten all this isle? I'll to the King,

And say I spoke with you.

ANNE.

My honoured lord.

[Exit Lord Chamberlain.]

OLD LADY.

Why, this it is: see, see!

I have been begging sixteen years in court,

Am yet a courtier beggarly, nor could

Come pat betwixt too early and too late

For any suit of pounds; and you, O fate!

A very fresh-fish here—fie, fie, fie upon

This compelled fortune!—have your mouth filled up

Before you open it.

ANNE.

This is strange to me.

OLD LADY.

How tastes it? Is it bitter? Forty pence, no.

There was a lady once, 'tis an old story,

That would not be a queen, that would she not,

For all the mud in Egypt. Have you heard it?

ANNE.

Come, you are pleasant.

OLD LADY.

With your theme, I could

O'ermount the lark. The Marchioness of Pembroke!

A thousand pounds a year for pure respect!

No other obligation! By my life,

That promises moe thousands; Honour's train

Is longer than his foreskirt. By this time

I know your back will bear a duchess. Say,

Are you not stronger than you were?

ANNE.

Good lady,

Make yourself mirth with your particular fancy,

And leave me out on't. Would I had no being,

If this salute my blood a jot. It faints me,

To think what follows.

The Queen is comfortless, and we forgetful

In our long absence. Pray, do not deliver

What here you've heard to her.

OLD LADY.

What do you think me?

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE IV.

A hall in Black-Friars.

[Trumpets, sennet, and cornets. Enter two Vergers, with short silver wands; next them, two Scribes, in the habit of doctors; after them, the Archbishop of Canterbury alone; after him, the Bishops of Lincoln, Ely, Rochester, and Saint Asaph; next them, with some small distance, follows a Gentleman bearing the purse, with the great seal, and a cardinal's hat; then two Priests, bearing each silver cross; then a Gentleman Usher bareheaded, accompanied with a Sergeant-at-arms bearing a silver mace; then two Gentlemen bearing two great silver pillars; after them, side by side, the two Cardinals; two Noblemen with the sword and mace. The King takes place under the cloth of state; the two Cardinals sit under him as judges. The Queen takes place some distance from the King. The Bishops place themselves on each side the court, in manner of consistory; below them, the Scribes. The Lords sit next the Bishops. The rest of the Attendants stand in convenient order about the stage.]

WOLSEY.

Whilst our commission from Rome is read,

Let silence be commanded.

KING.

What's the need?

It hath already publicly been read,

And on all sides the authority allowed;

You may, then, spare that time.

WOLSEY.

Be't so. Proceed.

SCRIBE.

Say, 'Henry King of England, come into the court.'

CRIER.

Henry King of England, come into the court.

KING.

Here.

SCRIBE.

Say, Katherine Queen of England, come into the court.'

CRIER.

Katherine Queen of England, come into the court.

[The Queen makes no answer, rises out of her chair, goes about the court, comes to the King, and kneels at his feet; then speaks.]

QUEEN KATHERINE.

Sir, I desire you do me right and justice,

And to bestow your pity on me; for

I am a most poor woman, and a stranger,

Born out of your dominions, having here

No judge indifferent, nor no more assurance

Of equal friendship and proceeding. Alas, sir,

In what have I offended you? What cause

Hath my behaviour given to your displeasure,

That thus you should proceed to put me off

And take your good grace from me? Heaven witness,

I have been to you a true and humble wife,

At all times to your will conformable;

Ever in fear to kindle your dislike,

Yea, subject to your countenance, glad or sorry

As I saw it inclined. When was the hour

I ever contradicted your desire,

Or made it not mine too? Or which of your friends

Have I not strove to love, although I knew

He were mine enemy? What friend of mine

That had to him derived your anger, did I

Continue in my liking? nay, gave notice

He was from thence discharged? Sir, call to mind

That I have been your wife in this obedience

Upward of twenty years, and have been blest

With many children by you. If, in the course

And process of this time, you can report,

And prove it too, against mine honour aught,

My bond to wedlock, or my love and duty,

Against your sacred person, in God's name,

Turn me away; and let the foul'st contempt

Shut door upon me, and so give me up

To the sharp'st kind of justice. Please you, sir,

The King, your father, was reputed for

A prince most prudent, of an excellent

And unmatched wit and judgment; Ferdinand,

My father, King of Spain, was reckoned one

The wisest prince that there had reigned by many

A year before; it is not to be questioned

That they had gathered a wise council to them

Of every realm, that did debate this business,

Who deemed our marriage lawful; wherefore I humbly

Beseech you, sir, to spare me till I may

Be by my friends in Spain advised, whose counsel

I will implore. If not, i' the name of God,

Your pleasure be fulfilled!

WOLSEY.

You have here, lady,

And of your choice, these reverend fathers; men

Of singular integrity and learning,

Yea, the elect o' the land, who are assembled

To plead your cause. It shall be therefore bootless

That longer you desire the court; as well

For your own quiet, as to rectify

What is unsettled in the King.

CAMPEIUS.

His Grace

Hath spoken well and justly; therefore, madam,

It's fit this royal session do proceed,

And that, without delay, their arguments

Be now produced and heard.

QUEEN KATHERINE.

Lord Cardinal,

To you I speak.

WOLSEY.

Your pleasure, madam?

QUEEN KATHERINE.

Sir,

I am about to weep; but, thinking that

We are a queen, or long have dreamed so, certain

The daughter of a king, my drops of tears

I'll turn to sparks of fire.

WOLSEY.

Be patient yet.

QUEEN KATHERINE.

I will, when you are humble; nay, before,

Or God will punish me. I do believe,

Induced by potent circumstances, that

You are mine enemy, and make my challenge

You shall not be my judge; for it is you

Have blown this coal betwixt my lord and me,

Which God's dew quench! Therefore I say again,

I utterly abhor, yea, from my soul

Refuse you for my judge; whom, yet once more,

I hold my most malicious foe, and think not

At all a friend to truth.

WOLSEY.

I do profess

You speak not like yourself, who ever yet

Have stood to charity and displayed the effects

Of disposition gentle, and of wisdom

O'ertopping woman's pow'r. Madam, you do me wrong.

I have no spleen against you, nor injustice

For you or any. How far I have proceeded,

Or how far further shall, is warranted

By a commission from the consistory,

Yea, the whole consistory of Rome. You charge me

That I have blown this coal. I do deny it.

The King is present: if it be known to him

That I gainsay my deed, how may he wound,

And worthily, my falsehood! yea, as much

As you have done my truth. If he know

That I am free of your report, he knows

I am not of your wrong. Therefore in him

It lies to cure me; and the cure is, to

Remove these thoughts from you; the which before

His Highness shall speak in, I do beseech

You, gracious madam, to unthink your speaking

And to say so no more.

QUEEN KATHERINE.

My lord, my lord,

I am a simple woman, much too weak

To oppose your cunning. You're meek and humble-mouthed;

You sign your place and calling, in full seeming,

With meekness and humility; but your heart

Is crammed with arrogancy, spleen, and pride.

You have, by fortune and his Highness' favours,

Gone slightly o'er low steps and now are mounted

Where powers are your retainers, and your words,

Domestics to you, serve your will as 't please

Yourself pronounce their office. I must tell you,

You tender more your person's honour than

Your high profession spiritual; that again

I do refuse you for my judge; and here,

Before you all, appeal unto the Pope,

To bring my whole cause 'fore his Holiness,

And to be judged by him.

[She curtsies to the King, and offers to depart.]

CAMPEIUS.

The Queen is obstinate,

Stubborn to justice, apt to accuse it, and

Disdainful to be tried by't; 'tis not well.

She's going away.

KING.

Call her again.

CRIER.

Katherine Queen of England, come into the court.

GENTLEMAN USHER.

Madam, you are called back.

QUEEN KATHERINE.

What need you note it? Pray you keep your way;

When you are called, return. Now, the Lord help!

They vex me past my patience. Pray you, pass on.

I will not tarry; no, nor ever more

Upon this business my appearance make

In any of their courts.

[Exeunt Queen, and her Attendants.]

KING.

Go thy ways, Kate.

That man i' the world who shall report he has

A better wife, let him in nought be trusted,

For speaking false in that. Thou art, alone,

If thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness,

Thy meekness saint-like, wife-like government,

Obeying in commanding, and thy parts

Sovereign and pious else, could speak thee out,

The queen of earthly queens. She's noble born;

And, like her true nobility, she has

Carried herself towards me.

WOLSEY.

Most gracious sir,

In humblest manner I require your Highness,

That it shall please you to declare, in hearing

Of all these ears,—for, where I am robbed and bound,

There must I be unloosed, although not there

At once and fully satisfied,—whether ever I

Did broach this business to your Highness, or

Laid any scruple in your way, which might

Induce you to the question on't? or ever

Have to you, but with thanks to God for such

A royal lady, spake one the least word that might

Be to the prejudice of her present state,

Or touch of her good person?

KING.

My Lord Cardinal,

I do excuse you; yea, upon mine honour,

I free you from't. You are not to be taught

That you have many enemies, that know not

Why they are so, but, like to village-curs,

Bark when their fellows do: by some of these

The Queen is put in anger. You're excused;

But will you be more justified? You ever

Have wished the sleeping of this business; never desired

It to be stirred; but oft have hind'red, oft,

The passages made toward it. On my honour,

I speak my good Lord Cardinal to this point,

And thus far clear him. Now, what moved me to't,

I will be bold with time and your attention:

Then mark the inducement. Thus it came; give heed to't:

My conscience first received a tenderness,

Scruple, and prick, on certain speeches uttered

By the Bishop of Bayonne, then French ambassador;

Who had been hither sent on the debating

A marriage 'twixt the Duke of Orleans and

Our daughter Mary. I' the progress of this business,

Ere a determinate resolution, he,

I mean the Bishop, did require a respite;

Wherein he might the King his lord advertise

Whether our daughter were legitimate,

Respecting this our marriage with the dowager,

Sometimes our brother's wife. This respite shook

The bosom of my conscience, entered me,

Yea, with a splitting power, and made to tremble

The region of my breast; which forced such way,

That many mazed considerings did throng

And pressed in with this caution. First, methought

I stood not in the smile of Heaven; who had

Commanded nature, that my lady's womb,

If it conceived a male child by me, should

Do no more offices of life to't than

The grave does to the dead; for her male issue

Or died where they were made, or shortly after

This world had aired them. Hence I took a thought

This was a judgement on me; that my kingdom,

Well worthy the best heir o' the world, should not

Be gladded in't by me. Then follows, that

I weighed the danger which my realms stood in

By this my issue's fail; and that gave to me

Many a groaning throe. Thus hulling in

The wild sea of my conscience, I did steer

Toward this remedy, whereupon we are

Now present here together; that's to say,

I meant to rectify my conscience,—which

I then did feel full sick, and yet not well,—

By all the reverend fathers of the land

And doctors learned. First I began in private

With you, my Lord of Lincoln. You remember

How under my oppression I did reek,

When I first moved you.

LINCOLN.

Very well, my liege.

KING.

I have spoke long; be pleased yourself to say

How far you satisfied me.

LINCOLN.

So please your Highness,

The question did at first so stagger me,

Bearing a state of mighty moment in't

And consequence of dread, that I committed

The daring'st counsel which I had to doubt;

And did entreat your Highness to this course

Which you are running here.

KING.

I then moved you,

My Lord of Canterbury; and got your leave

To make this present summons. Unsolicited

I left no reverend person in this court;

But by particular consent proceeded

Under your hands and seals. Therefore, go on;

For no dislike i' the world against the person

Of the good queen, but the sharp thorny points

Of my alleged reasons, drives this forward.

Prove but our marriage lawful, by my life

And kingly dignity, we are contented

To wear our mortal state to come with her,

Katherine our queen, before the primest creature

That's paragoned o' the world.

CAMPEIUS.

So please your Highness,

The Queen being absent, 'tis a needful fitness

That we adjourn this court till further day.

Meanwhile must be an earnest motion

Made to the Queen, to call back her appeal

She intends unto his Holiness.

KING.

[Aside.] I may perceive

These Cardinals trifle with me; I abhor

This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome.

My learned and well-beloved servant, Cranmer,

Prithee, return. With thy approach, I know,

My comfort comes along.—Break up the court!

I say, set on.

[Exuent in manner as they entered.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

London. The Queen's apartments.

[The Queen and her women, as at work.]

QUEEN KATHERINE.

Take thy lute, wench; my soul grows sad with troubles.

Sing, and disperse 'em, if thou canst. Leave working.

WOMAN (Sings).

SONG

Orpheus with his lute made trees

And the mountain tops that freeze

Bow themselves when he did sing.

To his music plants and flowers

Ever sprung; as sun and showers

There had made a lasting spring.

Every thing that heard him play,

Even the billows of the sea,

Hung their heads, and then lay by.

In sweet music is such art,

Killing care and grief of heart

Fall asleep, or hearing, die.

[Enter GRIFFITH.]

QUEEN KATHERINE.

How now!

GRIFFITH.

An't please your Grace, the two great Cardinals

Wait in the presence.

QUEEN KATHERINE.

Would they speak with me?

GRIFFITH.

They willed me say so, madam.

QUEEN KATHERINE.

Pray their Graces

To come near. [Exit Gentleman.] What can be their business

With me, a poor weak woman, fallen from favour?

I do not like their coming. Now I think on't,

They should be good men, their affairs as righteous.

But all hoods make not monks.

[Enter the two Cardinals, Wolsey and Campeius.]

WOLSEY.

Peace to your Highness!

QUEEN KATHERINE.

Your Graces find me here part of housewife;

I would be all, against the worst may happen.

What are your pleasures with me, reverend lords?

WOLSEY.

May it please you, noble madam, to withdraw

Into your private chamber, we shall give you

The full cause of our coming.

QUEEN KATHERINE.

Speak it here;

There's nothing I have done yet, o' my conscience,

Deserves a corner. Would all other women

Could speak this with as free a soul as I do!

My lords, I care not, so much I am happy

Above a number, if my actions

Were tried by every tongue, every eye saw 'em,

Envy and base opinion set against 'em,

I know my life so even. If your business

Seek me out, and that way I am wife in,

Out with it boldly. Truth loves open dealing.

WOLSEY.

Tanta est erga te mentis integritas, regina serenissima,—

QUEEN KATHERINE.

O, good my lord, no Latin;

I am not such a truant since my coming,

As not to know the language I have lived in.

A strange tongue makes my cause more strange, suspicious;

Pray, speak in English. Here are some will thank you,

If you speak truth, for their poor mistress' sake.

Believe me, she has had much wrong. Lord Cardinal,

The willing'st sin I ever yet committed

May be absolved in English.

WOLSEY.

Noble lady,

I am sorry my integrity should breed,

And service to his Majesty and you,

So deep suspicion, where all faith was meant.

We come not by the way of accusation

To taint that honour every good tongue blesses,

Nor to betray you any way to sorrow;

You have too much, good lady; but to know

How you stand minded in the weighty difference

Between the King and you; and to deliver,

Like free and honest men, our just opinions

And comforts to your cause.

CAMPEIUS.

Most honoured madam,

My Lord of York, out of his noble nature,

Zeal and obedience he still bore your Grace,

Forgetting, like a good man, your late censure

Both of his truth and him, which was too far,

Offers, as I do, in a sign of peace,

His service and his counsel.

QUEEN KATHERINE.

[Aside.] To betray me.—

My lords, I thank you both for your good wills.

Ye speak like honest men; pray God, ye prove so!

But how to make ye suddenly an answer,

In such a point of weight, so near mine honour,—

More near my life, I fear,—with my weak wit,

And to such men of gravity and learning,

In truth I know not. I was set at work

Among my maids; full little, God knows, looking

Either for such men or such business.

For her sake that I have been,—for I feel

The last fit of my greatness—good your Graces,

Let me have time and counsel for my cause.

Alas, I am a woman, friendless, hopeless!

WOLSEY.

Madam, you wrong the King's love with these fears.

Your hopes and friends are infinite.

QUEEN KATHERINE.

In England

But little for my profit. Can you think, lords,

That any Englishman dare give me counsel?

Or be a known friend, 'gainst his Highness' pleasure,

Though he be grown so desperate to be honest,

And live a subject? Nay, forsooth; my friends,

They that much weigh out my afflictions,

They that my trust must grow to, live not here;

They are, as all my other comforts, far hence

In mine own country, lords.

CAMPEIUS.

I would your Grace

Would leave your griefs, and take my counsel.

QUEEN KATHERINE.

How, sir?

CAMPEIUS.

Put your main cause into the King's protection;

He's loving and most gracious. 'Twill be much

Both for your honour better and your cause;

For if the trial of the law o'ertake ye,

You'll part away disgraced.

WOLSEY.

He tells you rightly.

QUEEN KATHERINE.

Ye tell me what ye wish for both,—my ruin.

Is this your Christian counsel? Out upon ye!

Heaven is above all yet; there sits a judge

That no king can corrupt.

CAMPEIUS.

Your rage mistakes us.

QUEEN KATHERINE.

The more shame for ye! Holy men I thought ye,

Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues;

But cardinal sins and hollow hearts I fear ye.

Mend 'em, for shame, my lords! Is this your comfort,

The cordial that ye bring a wretched lady,

A woman lost among ye, laughed at, scorned?

I will not wish ye half my miseries;

I have more charity; but say, I warned ye.

Take heed, for heaven's sake, take heed, lest at once

The burden of my sorrows fall upon ye.

WOLSEY.

Madam, this is a mere distraction;

You turn the good we offer into envy.

QUEEN KATHERINE.

Ye turn me into nothing. Woe upon ye

And all such false professors! Would you have me—

If you have any justice, any pity;

If ye be anything but churchmen's habits—

Put my sick cause into his hands that hates me?

Alas, he's banished me his bed already,

His love, too, long ago! I am old, my lords,

And all the fellowship I hold now with him

Is only my obedience. What can happen

To me above this wretchedness? All your studies

Make me a curse like this.

CAMPEIUS.

Your fears are worse.

QUEEN KATHERINE.

Have I lived thus long—let me speak myself,

Since virtue finds no friends—a wife, a true one?

A woman, I dare say without vain-glory,

Never yet branded with suspicion?

Have I with all my full affections

Still met the King? loved him next Heav'n? obeyed him?

Been, out of fondness, superstitious to him?

Almost forgot my prayers to content him?

And am I thus rewarded! 'Tis not well, lords.

Bring me a constant woman to her husband,

One that ne'er dreamed a joy beyond his pleasure;

And to that woman, when she has done most,

Yet will I add an honour,—a great patience.

WOLSEY.

Madam, you wander from the good we aim at.

QUEEN KATHERINE.

My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty,

To give up willingly that noble title

Your master wed me to. Nothing but death

Shall e'er divorce my dignities.

WOLSEY.

Pray hear me.

QUEEN KATHERINE.

Would I had never trod this English earth,

Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it!

Ye have angels' faces, but Heaven knows your hearts.

What will become of me now, wretched lady!

I am the most unhappy woman living.

Alas, poor wenches, where are now your fortunes!

Shipwrecked upon a kingdom, where no pity,

No friends, no hope; no kindred weep for me;

Almost no grave allowed me. Like the lily,

That once was mistress of the field and flourished,

I'll hang my head and perish.

WOLSEY.

If your Grace

Could but be brought to know our ends are honest,

Youed feel more comfort. Why should we, good lady,

Upon what cause, wrong you? Alas, our places,

The way of our profession is against it;

We are to cure such sorrows, not to sow 'em.

For goodness' sake, consider what you do;

How you may hurt yourself, ay, utterly

Grow from the King's acquaintance, by this carriage.

The hearts of princes kiss obedience,

So much they love it; but to stubborn spirits

They swell, and grow as terrible as storms.

I know you have a gentle, noble temper,

A soul as even as a calm; pray, think us

Those we profess, peacemakers, friends, and servants.

CAMPEIUS.

Madam, you'll find it so. You wrong your virtues

With these weak women's fears. A noble spirit

As yours was, put into you, ever casts

Such doubts, as false coin, from it. The King loves you;

Beware you lose it not. For us, if you please

To trust us in your business, we are ready

To use our utmost studies in your service.

QUEEN KATHERINE.

Do what ye will, my lords; and, pray, forgive me

If I have used myself unmannerly;

You know I am a woman, lacking wit

To make a seemly answer to such persons.

Pray, do my service to his Majesty;

He has my heart yet, and shall have my prayers

While I shall have my life. Come, reverend fathers,

Bestow your counsels on me. She now begs,

That little thought, when she set footing here,

She should have bought her dignities so dear.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

Ante-chamber to the King's apartment.

[Enter the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke of Suffolk, the Earl of Surrey, and the Lord Chamberlain.]

NORFOLK.

If you will now unite in your complaints

And force them with a constancy, the Cardinal

Cannot stand under them. If you omit

The offer of this time, I cannot promise

But that you shall sustain moe new disgraces,

With these you bear already.

SURREY.

I am joyful

To meet the least occasion that may give me

Remembrance of my father-in-law, the Duke,

To be revenged on him.

SUFFOLK.

Which of the peers

Have uncontemned gone by him, or at least

Strangely neglected? When did he regard

The stamp of nobleness in any person

Out of himself?

CHAMBERLAIN.

My lords, you speak your pleasures.

What he deserves of you and me I know;

What we can do to him, though now the time

Gives way to us, I much fear. If you cannot

Bar his access to the King, never attempt

Anything on him; for he hath a witchcraft

Over the King in 's tongue.

NORFOLK.

O, fear him not;

His spell in that is out. The King hath found

Matter against him that for ever mars

The honey of his language. No, he's settled,

Not to come off, in his displeasure.

SURREY.

Sir,

I should be glad to hear such news as this

Once every hour.

NORFOLK.

Believe it, this is true.

In the divorce his contrary proceedings

Are all unfolded; wherein he appears

As I would wish mine enemy.

SURREY.

How came

His practices to light?

SUFFOLK.

Most strangely.

SURREY.

O, how, how?

SUFFOLK.

The Cardinal's letters to the Pope miscarried,

And came to the eye o' the King; wherein was read,

How that the Cardinal did entreat his Holiness

To stay the judgement o' the divorce; for if

It did take place, "I do" quoth he "perceive

My king is tangled in affection to

A creature of the Queen's, Lady Anne Bullen."

SURREY.

Has the King this?

SUFFOLK.

Believe it.

SURREY.

Will this work?

CHAMBERLAIN.

The King in this perceives him, how he coasts

And hedges his own way. But in this point

All his tricks founder, and he brings his physic

After his patient's death. The King already

Hath married the fair lady.

SURREY.

Would he had!

SUFFOLK.

May you be happy in your wish, my lord!

For, I profess, you have it.

SURREY.

Now, all my joy

Trace the conjunction!

SUFFOLK.

My amen to't!

NORFOLK.

All men's!

SUFFOLK.

There's order given for her coronation.

Marry, this is yet but young, and may be left

To some ears unrecounted. But, my lords,

She is a gallant creature, and complete

In mind and feature. I persuade me, from her

Will fall some blessing to this land, which shall

In it be memorized.

SURREY.

But, will the King

Digest this letter of the Cardinal's?

The Lord forbid!

NORFOLK.

Marry, amen!

SUFFOLK.

No, no;

There be moe wasps that buzz about his nose

Will make this sting the sooner. Cardinal Campeius

Is stolen away to Rome; hath ta'en no leave;

He's left the cause o' the King unhandled, and

Is posted, as the agent of our Cardinal,

To second all his plot. I do assure you

The King cried "Ha!" at this.

CHAMBERLAIN.

Now, God incense him,

And let him cry "Ha!" louder!

NORFOLK.

But, my lord,

When returns Cranmer?

SUFFOLK.

He is returned in his opinions; which

Have satisfied the King for his divorce,

Together with all famous colleges

Almost in Christendom. Shortly, I believe,

His second marriage shall be published, and

Her coronation. Katherine no more

Shall be called Queen, but Princess Dowager

And widow to Prince Arthur.

NORFOLK.

This same Cranmer's

A worthy fellow, and hath ta'en much pain

In the King's business.

SUFFOLK.

He has; and we shall see him

For it an archbishop.

NORFOLK.

So I hear.

SUFFOLK.

'Tis so.

[Enter Wolsey and Cromwell.]

The Cardinal!

NORFOLK.

Observe, observe, he's moody.

WOLSEY.

The packet, Cromwell, gave't you the King?

CROMWELL.

To his own hand, in 's bedchamber.

WOLSEY.

Looked he o' the inside of the paper?

CROMWELL.

Presently

He did unseal them; and the first he viewed,

He did it with a serious mind; a heed

Was in his countenance. You he bade

Attend him here this morning.

WOLSEY.

Is he ready

To come abroad?

CROMWELL.

I think, by this he is.

WOLSEY.

Leave me awhile.

[Exit Cromwell.]

[Aside.] It shall be to the Duchess of Alencon,

The French king's sister; he shall marry her.

Anne Bullen! No; I'll no Anne Bullens for him;

There's more in't than fair visage. Bullen!

No, we'll no Bullens. Speedily I wish

To hear from Rome. The Marchioness of Pembroke!

NORFOLK.

He's discontented.

SUFFOLK.

May be, he hears the King

Does whet his anger to him.

SURREY.

Sharp enough,

Lord, for thy justice!

WOLSEY.

[Aside.]

The late queen's gentlewoman, a knight's daughter,

To be her mistress' mistress! the Queen's queen!

This candle burns not clear: 'tis I must snuff it;

Then out it goes. What though I know her virtuous

And well deserving? yet I know her for

A spleeny Lutheran; and not wholesome to

Our cause, that she should lie i' the bosom of

Our hard-ruled King. Again, there is sprung up

An heretic, an arch one, Cranmer; one

Hath crawled into the favour of the King,

And is his oracle.

NORFOLK.

He's vexed at something.

[Enter the King, reading a schedule, and Lovell.]

SURREY.

I would 'twere something that would fret the string,

The master-cord on 's heart!

SUFFOLK.

The King, the King!

KING.

What piles of wealth hath he accumulated

To his own portion! and what expense by the hour

Seems to flow from him! How, i' the name of thrift,

Does he rake this together! Now, my lords,

Saw you the Cardinal?

NORFOLK.

My lord, we have

Stood here observing him. Some strange commotion

Is in his brain; he bites his lip, and starts;

Stops on a sudden, looks upon the ground,

Then lays his finger on his temple; straight

Springs out into fast gait; then stops again,

Strikes his breast hard; and anon he casts

His eye against the moon. In most strange postures

We have seen him set himself.

KING.

It may well be;

There is a mutiny in 's mind. This morning

Papers of state he sent me to peruse,

As I required; and wot you what I found

There,—on my conscience, put unwittingly?

Forsooth, an inventory, thus importing

The several parcels of his plate, his treasure,

Rich stuffs, and ornaments of household; which

I find at such proud rate, that it out-speaks

Possession of a subject.

NORFOLK.

It's Heaven's will!

Some spirit put this paper in the packet,

To bless your eye withal.

KING.

If we did think

His contemplation were above the earth ,

And fixed on spiritual object, he should still

Dwell in his musings; but I am afraid

His thinkings are below the moon, not worth

His serious considering.

[King takes his seat; whispers Lovell, who goes to the Cardinal.]

WOLSEY.

Heaven forgive me!

Ever God bless your Highness!

KING.

Good my lord,

You are full of heavenly stuff, and bear the inventory

Of your best graces in your mind; the which

You were now running o'er. You have scarce time

To steal from spiritual leisure a brief span

To keep your earthly audit. Sure, in that

I deem you an ill husband, and am glad

To have you therein my companion.

WOLSEY.

Sir,

For holy offices I have a time; a time

To think upon the part of business which

I bear i' the state; and Nature does require

Her times of preservation, which perforce

I, her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal,

Must give my tendance to.

KING.

You have said well.

WOLSEY.

And ever may your Highness yoke together,

As I will lend you cause, my doing well

With my well saying!

KING.

'Tis well said again;

And 'tis a kind of good deed to say well;

And yet words are no deeds. My father loved you;

He said he did; and with his deed did crown

His word upon you. Since I had my office,

I have kept you next my heart; have not alone

Employed you where high profits might come home,

But pared my present havings, to bestow

My bounties upon you.

WOLSEY.

[Aside.] What should this mean?

SURREY.

[Aside.] The Lord increase this business!

KING.

Have I not made you

The prime man of the state? I pray you, tell me,

If what I now pronounce you have found true

And, if you may confess it, say withal,

If you are bound to us or no. What say you?

WOLSEY.

My sovereign, I confess your royal graces,

Showered on me daily, have been more than could

My studied purposes requite, which went

Beyond all man's endeavours. My endeavours

Have ever come too short of my desires,

Yet filed with my abilities. Mine own ends

Have been mine so that evermore they pointed

To the good of your most sacred person and

The profit of the state. For your great graces

Heaped upon me, poor undeserver, I

Can nothing render but allegiant thanks,

My prayers to heaven for you, my loyalty,

Which ever has and ever shall be growing,

Till death, that winter, kill it.

KING.

Fairly answered.

A loyal and obedient subject is

Therein illustrated. The honour of it

Does pay the act of it, as i' the contrary,

The foulness is the punishment. I presume

That, as my hand has opened bounty to you,

My heart dropped love, my pow'r rained honour, more

On you than any, so your hand and heart,

Your brain, and every function of your power,

Should, notwithstanding that your bond of duty,

As 'twere in love's particular, be more

To me, your friend, than any.

WOLSEY.

I do profess

That for your Highness' good I ever laboured

More than mine own, that am, have, and will be—

Though all the world should crack their duty to you,

And throw it from their soul; though perils did

Abound, as thick as thought could make 'em, and

Appear in forms more horrid,—yet my duty,

As doth a rock against the chiding flood,

Should the approach of this wild river break,

And stand unshaken yours.

KING.

'Tis nobly spoken.

Take notice, lords, he has a loyal breast,

For you have seen him open't. Read o'er this;

[Giving him papers.]

And, after, this; and then to breakfast with

What appetite you have.

[Exit King, frowning upon Cardinal Wolsey; the Nobles throng after him, smiling and whispering.]

WOLSEY.

What should this mean?

What sudden anger's this? How have I reaped it?

He parted frowning from me, as if ruin

Leaped from his eyes. So looks the chafed lion

Upon the daring huntsman that has galled him;

Then makes him nothing. I must read this paper;

I fear, the story of his anger. 'Tis so;

This paper has undone me. 'Tis the account

Of all that world of wealth I have drawn together

For mine own ends; indeed, to gain the popedom

And fee my friends in Rome. O negligence,

Fit for a fool to fall by! What cross devil

Made me put this main secret in the packet

I sent the King? Is there no way to cure this?

No new device to beat this from his brains?

I know 'twill stir him strongly; yet I know

A way, if it take right, in spite of fortune,

Will bring me off again. What's this? "To the Pope!"

The letter, as I live, with all the business

I writ to 's Holiness. Nay then, farewell!

I have touched the highest point of all my greatness;

And from that full meridian of my glory,

I haste now to my setting. I shall fall

Like a bright exhalation in the evening,

And no man see me more.

[Re-enter to Wolsey, the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, the Earl Of Surrey, and the Lord Chamberlain.]

NORFOLK.

Hear the King's pleasure, Cardinal! who commands you

To render up the great seal presently

Into our hands; and to confine yourself

To Asher House, my Lord of Winchester's,

Till you hear further from his Highness.

WOLSEY.

Stay!

Where's your commission, lords? Words cannot carry

Authority so weighty.

SUFFOLK.

Who dares cross 'em,

Bearing the King's will from his mouth expressly?

WOLSEY.

Till I find more than will or words to do it,

I mean your malice, know, officious lords,

I dare and must deny it. Now I feel

Of what coarse metal ye are moulded, envy.

How eagerly ye follow my disgraces,

As if it fed ye! and how sleek and wanton

Ye appear in every thing may bring my ruin!

Follow your envious courses, men of malice!

You have Christian warrant for 'em, and, no doubt,

In time will find their fit rewards. That seal

You ask with such a violence, the King,

Mine and your master, with his own hand gave me,

Bade me enjoy it, with the place and honours,

During my life; and, to confirm his goodness,

Tied it by letters-patents. Now, who'll take it?

SURREY.

The King, that gave it.

WOLSEY.

It must be himself, then.

SURREY.

Thou art a proud traitor, priest.

WOLSEY.

Proud lord, thou liest!

Within these forty hours Surrey durst better

Have burnt that tongue than said so.

SURREY.

Thy ambition,

Thou scarlet sin, robbed this bewailing land

Of noble Buckingham, my father-in-law.

The heads of all thy brother cardinals,

With thee and all thy best parts bound together,

Weighed not a hair of his. Plague of your policy!

You sent me deputy for Ireland,

Far from his succour, from the King, from all

That might have mercy on the fault thou gav'st him;

Whilst your great goodness, out of holy pity,

Absolved him with an axe.

WOLSEY.

This, and all else

This talking lord can lay upon my credit,

I answer is most false. The Duke by law

Found his deserts. How innocent I was

From any private malice in his end,

His noble jury and foul cause can witness.

If I loved many words, lord, I should tell you

You have as little honesty as honour,

That in the way of loyalty and truth

Toward the King, my ever royal master,

Dare mate a sounder man than Surrey can be

And all that love his follies.

SURREY.

By my soul,

Your long coat, priest, protects you; thou shouldst feel

My sword i' the life-blood of thee else. My lords,

Can ye endure to hear this arrogance?

And from this fellow? If we live thus tamely,

To be thus jaded by a piece of scarlet,

Farewell nobility! Let his Grace go forward

And dare us with his cap like larks.

WOLSEY.

All goodness

Is poison to thy stomach.

SURREY.

Yes, that "goodness"

Of gleaning all the land's wealth into one,

Into your own hands, Cardinal, by extortion;

The "goodness" of your intercepted packets

You writ to the Pope against the King. Your "goodness",

Since you provoke me, shall be most notorious.

My Lord of Norfolk, as you are truly noble,

As you respect the common good, the state

Of our despised nobility, our issues,

Who, if he live, will scarce be gentlemen,

Produce the grand sum of his sins, the articles

Collected from his life. I'll startle you

Worse than the sacring bell, when the brown wench

Lay kissing in your arms, Lord Cardinal.

WOLSEY.

How much, methinks, I could despise this man,

But that I am bound in charity against it!

NORFOLK.

Those articles, my lord, are in the King's hand:

But, thus much, they are foul ones.

WOLSEY.

So much fairer

And spotless shall mine innocence arise,

When the King knows my truth.

SURREY.

This cannot save you.

I thank my memory, I yet remember

Some of these articles; and out they shall.

Now, if you can blush and cry "guilty," Cardinal,

You'll show a little honesty.

WOLSEY.

Speak on, sir;

I dare your worst objections. If I blush,

It is to see a nobleman want manners.

SURREY.

I had rather want those than my head. Have at you!

First, that, without the King's assent or knowledge,

You wrought to be a legate; by which power

You maimed the jurisdiction of all bishops.

NORFOLK.

Then, that in all you writ to Rome, or else

To foreign princes, "Ego et Rex meus"

Was still inscribed; in which you brought the King

To be your servant.

SUFFOLK.

Then, that, without the knowledge

Either of king or council, when you went

Ambassador to the Emperor, you made bold

To carry into Flanders the great seal.

SURREY.

Item, you sent a large commission

To Gregory de Cassado, to conclude,

Without the King's will or the state's allowance,

A league between his Highness and Ferrara.

SUFFOLK.

That, out of mere ambition, you have caused

Your holy hat to be stamped on the King's coin.

SURREY.

Then, that you have sent innumerable substance—

By what means got, I leave to your own conscience—

To furnish Rome, and to prepare the ways

You have for dignities; to the mere undoing

Of all the kingdom. Many more there are;

Which, since they are of you, and odious,

I will not taint my mouth with.

CHAMBERLAIN.

O my lord,

Press not a falling man too far! 'tis virtue.

His faults lie open to the laws; let them,

Not you, correct him. My heart weeps to see him

So little of his great self.

SURREY.

I forgive him.

SUFFOLK.

Lord Cardinal, the King's further pleasure is,

Because all those things you have done of late

By your power legatine within this kingdom,

Fall into the compass of a praemunire,

That therefore such a writ be sued against you;

To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements,

Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be

Out of the King's protection. This is my charge.

NORFOLK.

And so we'll leave you to your meditations

How to live better. For your stubborn answer

About the giving back the great seal to us,

The King shall know it, and, no doubt, shall thank you.

So fare you well, my little good Lord Cardinal.

[Exeunt all but Wolsey.]

WOLSEY.

So farewell to the little good you bear me.

Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!

This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth

The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,

And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,

And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely

His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,

This many summers in a sea of glory,

But far beyond my depth. My high-blown pride

At length broke under me, and now has left me,

Weary and old with service, to the mercy

Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye!

I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched

Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!

There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,

That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,

More pangs and fears than wars or women have;

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

[Enter Cromwell, standing amazed.]

Why, how now, Cromwell!

CROMWELL.

I have no power to speak, sir.

WOLSEY.

What, amazed

At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder

A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep,

I am fallen indeed.

CROMWELL.

How does your Grace?

WOLSEY.

Why, well,

Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.

I know myself now; and I feel within me

A peace above all earthly dignities,

A still and quiet conscience. The King has cured me,

I humbly thank his Grace; and from these shoulders,

These ruined pillars, out of pity, taken

A load would sink a navy, too much honour.

O, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden

Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven!

CROMWELL.

I am glad your Grace has made that right use of it.

WOLSEY.

I hope I have. I am able now, methinks,

Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,

To endure more miseries and greater far

Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.

What news abroad?

CROMWELL.

The heaviest and the worst

Is your displeasure with the King.

WOLSEY.

God bless him!

CROMWELL.

The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen

Lord Chancellor in your place.

WOLSEY.

That's somewhat sudden;

But he's a learned man. May he continue

Long in his Highness' favour, and do justice

For truth's sake and his conscience; that his bones,

When he has run his course and sleeps in blessings,

May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on 'em!

What more?

CROMWELL.

That Cranmer is returned with welcome,

Installed Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.

WOLSEY.

That's news indeed.

CROMWELL.

Last, that the Lady Anne,

Whom the King hath in secrecy long married,

This day was viewed in open as his queen,

Going to chapel; and the voice is now

Only about her coronation.

WOLSEY.

There was the weight that pulled me down. O Cromwell,

The King has gone beyond me! All my glories

In that one woman I have lost for ever.

No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours,

Or gild again the noble troops that waited

Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell!

I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now

To be thy lord and master. Seek the King!

That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told him

What and how true thou art. He will advance thee;

Some little memory of me will stir him—

I know his noble nature—not to let

Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell,

Neglect him not; make use now, and provide

For thine own future safety.

CROMWELL.

O my lord,

Must I, then, leave you? Must I needs forgo

So good, so noble, and so true a master?

Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,

With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.

The King shall have my service; but my prayers

For ever and for ever shall be yours.

WOLSEY.

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear

In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,

Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.

Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell;

And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention

Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee;

Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,

And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,

Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;

A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.

Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me.

Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition!

By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,

The image of his Maker, hope to win by it?

Love thyself last. Cherish those hearts that hate thee;

Corruption wins not more than honesty.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not;

Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,

Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,

Thou fall'st a blessed martyr! Serve the King!

And, prithee, lead me in.

There take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny; 'tis the King's. My robe,

And my integrity to Heaven, is all

I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!

Had I but served my God with half the zeal

I served my king, He would not in mine age

Have left me naked to mine enemies.

CROMWELL.

Good sir, have patience.

WOLSEY.

So I have. Farewell

The hopes of court! My hopes in heaven do dwell.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

A street in Westminster.

[Enter two Gentlemen, meeting one another.]

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

You're well met once again.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

So are you.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

You come to take your stand here, and behold

The Lady Anne pass from her coronation?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

'Tis all my business. At our last encounter,

The Duke of Buckingham came from his trial.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

'Tis very true; but that time offered sorrow;

This, general joy.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

'Tis well. The citizens,

I am sure, have shown at full their royal minds—

As, let 'em have their rights, they are ever forward—

In celebration of this day with shows,

Pageants, and sights of honour.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Never greater,

Nor, I'll assure you, better taken, sir.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

May I be bold to ask what that contains,

That paper in your hand?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Yes; 'tis the list

Of those that claim their offices this day

By custom of the coronation.

The Duke of Suffolk is the first, and claims

To be High Steward; next, the Duke of Norfolk,

He to be Earl Marshal. You may read the rest.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

I thank you, sir; had I not known those customs,

I should have been beholding to your paper.

But, I beseech you, what's become of Katherine,

The Princess Dowager? How goes her business?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

That I can tell you too. The Archbishop

Of Canterbury, accompanied with other

Learned and reverend fathers of his order,

Held a late court at Dunstable, six miles off

From Ampthill where the Princess lay; to which

She was often cited by them, but appeared not;

And, to be short, for not appearance and

The King's late scruple, by the main assent

Of all these learned men she was divorced,

And the late marriage made of none effect;

Since which she was removed to Kimbolton,

Where she remains now sick.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Alas, good lady!

[Trumpets.]

The trumpets sound; stand close, the Queen is coming.

[Hautboys.]

THE ORDER OF THE CORONATION.

1. A lively flourish of trumpets.

2. Then, Two Judges.

3. Lord Chancellor, with purse and mace before him.

4. Choristers, singing. Music.

5. Mayor of London, bearing the mace. Then Garter, in his coat of arms, and on his head he wore a gilt copper crown.

6. Marquess Dorset, bearing a sceptre of gold, on his head a demi-coronal of gold. With him, the Earl of Surrey, bearing the rod of silver with the dove, crowned with an earl's coronet. Collars of esses.

7. Duke of Suffolk, in his robe of estate, his coronet on his head, bearing a long white wand, as high steward. With him, The Duke of Norfolk, with the rod of marshalship, a coronet on his head. Collars of esses.

8. A canopy borne by four of the Cinque-ports; under it, the Queen in her robe, in her hair richly adorned with pearl, crowned. On each side her, the Bishops of London and Winchester.

9. The old Duchess of Norfolk, in a coronal of gold, wrought with flowers, bearing the Queen's train.

10. Certain Ladies or Countesses, with plain circlets of gold without flowers.

[Exeunt, first passing over the stage in order and state, and then a great flourish of trumpets.]

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

A royal train, believe me. These I know.

Who's that that bears the sceptre?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Marquess Dorset;

And that the Earl of Surrey, with the rod.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

A bold brave gentleman. That should be

The Duke of Suffolk?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

'Tis the same: High Steward.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

And that my Lord of Norfolk?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Yes.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Heaven bless thee! [Looking on the Queen.]

Thou hast the sweetest face I ever looked on.

Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel;

Our king has all the Indies in his arms,

And more and richer, when he strains that lady.

I cannot blame his conscience.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

They that bear

The cloth of honour over her, are four barons

Of the Cinque-ports.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Those men are happy; and so are all are near her.

I take it, she that carries up the train

Is that old noble lady, Duchess of Norfolk.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

It is; and all the rest are countesses.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Their coronets say so. These are stars indeed;

And sometimes falling ones.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

No more of that.

[Exit the last of the procession.]

[Enter a third Gentleman.]

God save you, sir! Where have you been broiling?

THIRD GENTLEMAN.

Among the crowds i' the Abbey, where a finger

Could not be wedged in more. I am stifled

With the mere rankness of their joy.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

You saw the ceremony?

THIRD GENTLEMAN.

That I did.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

How was it?

THIRD GENTLEMAN.

Well worth the seeing.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Good sir, speak it to us.

THIRD GENTLEMAN.

As well as I am able. The rich stream

Of lords and ladies, having brought the Queen

To a prepared place in the choir, fell of

A distance from her; while her Grace sat down

To rest a while, some half an hour or so,

In a rich chair of state, opposing freely

The beauty of her person to the people,—

Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest woman

That ever lay by man;—which when the people

Had the full view of, such a noise arose

As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest,

As loud, and to as many tunes. Hats, cloaks,—

Doublets, I think,—flew up; and had their faces

Been loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy

I never saw before. Great-bellied women,

That had not half a week to go, like rams

In the old time of war, would shake the press

And make 'em reel before 'em. No man living

Could say "This is my wife" there; all were woven

So strangely in one piece.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

But what followed?

THIRD GENTLEMAN.

At length her Grace rose, and with modest paces

Came to the altar; where she kneeled, and saintlike

Cast her fair eyes to heaven and prayed devoutly;

Then rose again and bowed her to the people,

When by the Archbishop of Canterbury

She had all the royal makings of a queen,

As holy oil, Edward Confessor's crown,

The rod, and bird of peace, and all such emblems

Laid nobly on her; which performed, the choir,

With all the choicest music of the kingdom,

Together sung "Te Deum." So she parted,

And with the same full state paced back again

To York Place, where the feast is held.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Sir,

You must no more call it 'York Place', that's past;

For, since the Cardinal fell, that title's lost.

'Tis now the King's, and called 'Whitehall'.

THIRD GENTLEMAN.

I know it;

But 'tis so lately altered, that the old name

Is fresh about me.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

What two reverend bishops

Were those that went on each side of the Queen?

THIRD GENTLEMAN.

Stokesly and Gardiner; the one of Winchester,

Newly preferred from the King's secretary;

The other, London.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

He of Winchester

Is held no great good lover of the Archbishop's,

The virtuous Cranmer.

THIRD GENTLEMAN.

All the land knows that.

However, yet there is no great breach; when it comes,

Cranmer will find a friend will not shrink from him.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Who may that be, I pray you?

THIRD GENTLEMAN.

Thomas Cromwell;

A man in much esteem with the King, and truly

A worthy friend. The King has made him master

O' the jewel house,

And one, already, of the privy council.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

He will deserve more.

THIRD GENTLEMAN.

Yes, without all doubt.

Come, gentlemen, ye shall go my way, which

Is to the court, and there ye shall be my guests;

Something I can command. As I walk thither,

I'll tell ye more.

BOTH.

You may command us, sir.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

Kimbolton.

[Enter Katherine, Dowager, sick; led between Griffith, her gentleman usher, and Patience, her woman.]

GRIFFITH.

How does your Grace?

KATHERINE.

O Griffith, sick to death!

My legs, like loaden branches, bow to the earth,

Willing to leave their burden. Reach a chair.

So; now, methinks, I feel a little ease.

Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led'st me,

That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolsey,

Was dead?

GRIFFITH.

Yes, madam; but I think your Grace,

Out of the pain you suffered, gave no ear to't.

KATHERINE.

Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he died.

If well, he stepped before me, happily

For my example.

GRIFFITH.

Well, the voice goes, madam:

For after the stout Earl Northumberland

Arrested him at York, and brought him forward,

As a man sorely tainted, to his answer,

He fell sick suddenly, and grew so ill

He could not sit his mule.

KATHERINE.

Alas, poor man!

GRIFFITH.

At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester,

Lodged in the abbey; where the reverend abbot,

With all his covent, honourably received him;

To whom he gave these words: "O, father abbot,

An old man, broken with the storms of state,

Is come to lay his weary bones among ye;

Give him a little earth for charity!"

So went to bed, where eagerly his sickness

Pursued him still; and, three nights after this,

About the hour of eight, which he himself

Foretold should be his last, full of repentance,

Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows,

He gave his honours to the world again,

His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.

KATHERINE.

So may he rest; his faults lie gently on him!

Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him,

And yet with charity. He was a man

Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking

Himself with princes; one that, by suggestion,

Tied all the kingdom. Simony was fair-play;

His own opinion was his law; i' the presence

He would say untruths; and be ever double

Both in his words and meaning. He was never,

But where he meant to ruin, pitiful.

His promises were, as he then was, mighty;

But his performance, as he is now, nothing.

Of his own body he was ill, and gave

The clergy ill example.

GRIFFITH.

Noble madam,

Men's evil manners live in brass; their virtues

We write in water. May it please your Highness

To hear me speak his good now?

KATHERINE.

Yes, good Griffith;

I were malicious else.

GRIFFITH.

This Cardinal,

Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly

Was fashioned to much honour from his cradle.

He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one;

Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading;

Lofty and sour to them that loved him not,

But to those men that sought him, sweet as summer.

And though he were unsatisfied in getting,

Which was a sin, yet in bestowing, madam,

He was most princely: ever witness for him

Those twins of learning that he raised in you,

Ipswich and Oxford! one of which fell with him,

Unwilling to outlive the good that did it;

The other, though unfinished, yet so famous,

So excellent in art, and still so rising,

That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue.

His overthrow heaped happiness upon him;

For then, and not till then, he felt himself,

And found the blessedness of being little;

And, to add greater honours to his age

Than man could give him, he died fearing God.

KATHERINE.

After my death I wish no other herald,

No other speaker of my living actions,

To keep mine honour from corruption,

But such an honest chronicler as Griffith.

Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me,

With thy religious truth and modesty,

Now in his ashes honour. Peace be with him!

Patience, be near me still, and set me lower:

I have not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith,

Cause the musicians play me that sad note

I named my knell, whilst I sit meditating

On that celestial harmony I go to.

[Sad and solemn music.]

GRIFFITH.

She is asleep. Good wench, let's sit down quiet,

For fear we wake her; softly, gentle Patience.

[The vision. Enter, solemnly tripping one after another, six personages, clad in white robes, wearing on their heads garlands of bays, and golden vizards on their faces; branches of bays or palm in their hands. They first congee unto her, then dance; and, at certain changes, the first two hold a spare garland over her head; at which the other four make reverent curtsies. Then the two that held the garland deliver the same to the other next two, who observe the same order in their changes, and holding the garland over her head; which done, they deliver the same garland to the last two, who likewise observe the same order; at which, as it were by inspiration, she makes in her sleep signs of rejoicing, and holdeth up her hands to heaven: and so in their dancing vanish, carrying the garland with them. The music continues.]

KATHERINE.

Spirits of peace, where are ye? Are ye all gone,

And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye?

GRIFFITH.

Madam, we are here.

KATHERINE.

It is not you I call for.

Saw ye none enter since I slept?

GRIFFITH.

None, madam.

KATHERINE.

No? Saw you not, even now, a blessed troop

Invite me to a banquet; whose bright faces

Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun?

They promised me eternal happiness,

And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel

I am not worthy yet to wear. I shall, assuredly.

GRIFFITH.

I am most joyful, madam, such good dreams

Possess your fancy.

KATHERINE.

Bid the music leave,

They are harsh and heavy to me.

[Music ceases.]

PATIENCE.

Do you note

How much her Grace is altered on the sudden?

How long her face is drawn! How pale she looks,

And of an earthly cold! Mark her eyes!

GRIFFITH.

She is going, wench. Pray, pray.

PATIENCE.

Heaven comfort her!

[Enter a Messenger.]

MESSENGER.

An't like your Grace,—

KATHERINE.

You are a saucy fellow.

Deserve we no more reverence?

GRIFFITH.

You are to blame,

Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness,

To use so rude behaviour. Go to, kneel.

MESSENGER.

I humbly do entreat your Highness' pardon;

My haste made me unmannerly. There is staying

A gentleman, sent from the King, to see you.

KATHERINE.

Admit him entrance, Griffith; but this fellow

Let me ne'er see again.

[Exit Messenger.]

[Enter Capucius.]

If my sight fail not,

You should be lord ambassador from the Emperor,

My royal nephew, and your name Capucius.

CAPUCIUS.

Madam, the same; your servant.

KATHERINE.

O, my lord,

The times and titles now are altered strangely

With me since first you knew me. But, I pray you,

What is your pleasure with me?

CAPUCIUS.

Noble lady,

First, mine own service to your Grace; the next,

The King's request that I would visit you,

Who grieves much for your weakness, and by me

Sends you his princely commendations,

And heartily entreats you take good comfort.

KATHERINE.

O my good lord, that comfort comes too late;

'Tis like a pardon after execution.

That gentle physic, given in time, had cured me;

But now I am past all comforts here, but prayers.

How does his Highness?

CAPUCIUS.

Madam, in good health.

KATHERINE.

So may he ever do! and ever flourish,

When I shall dwell with worms, and my poor name

Banished the kingdom! Patience, is that letter,

I caused you write, yet sent away?

PATIENCE.

No, madam.

[Giving it to Katherine.]

KATHERINE.

Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver

This to my lord the King.

CAPUCIUS.

Most willing, madam.

KATHERINE.

In which I have commended to his goodness

The model of our chaste loves, his young daughter;

The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on her!

Beseeching him to give her virtuous breeding,—

She is young, and of a noble modest nature,

I hope she will deserve well,—and a little

To love her for her mother's sake, that loved him,

Heaven knows how dearly. My next poor petition

Is, that his noble Grace would have some pity

Upon my wretched women, that so long

Have followed both my fortunes faithfully;

Of which there is not one, I dare avow,

And now I should not lie, but will deserve,

For virtue and true beauty of the soul,

For honesty and decent carriage,

A right good husband; let him be a noble;

And, sure, those men are happy that shall have 'em.

The last is, for my men,—they are the poorest,

But poverty could never draw 'em from me—

That they may have their wages duly paid 'em,

And something over to remember me by.

If Heaven had pleased to have given me longer life

And able means, we had not parted thus.

These are the whole contents; and, good my lord,

By that you love the dearest in this world,

As you wish Christian peace to souls departed,

Stand these poor people's friend, and urge the King

To do me this last right.

CAPUCIUS.

By heaven, I will,

Or let me lose the fashion of a man!

KATHERINE.

I thank you, honest lord. Remember me

In all humility unto his Highness.

Say his long trouble now is passing

Out of this world; tell him, in death I blessed him,

For so I will. Mine eyes grow dim. Farewell,

My lord. Griffith, farewell. Nay, Patience,

You must not leave me yet. I must to bed;

Call in more women. When I am dead, good wench,

Let me be used with honour. Strew me over

With maiden flowers, that all the world may know

I was a chaste wife to my grave. Embalm me,

Then lay me forth. Although unqueened, yet like

A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me.

I can no more.

[Exeunt, leading Katherine.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

A gallery in the palace.

[Enter Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, a page with a torch before him, met by Sir Thomas Lovell.]

GARDINER.

It's one o'clock, boy, is't not?

PAGE.

It hath struck.

GARDINER.

These should be hours for necessities,

Not for delights; times to repair our nature

With comforting repose, and not for us

To waste these times. Good hour of night, Sir Thomas!

Whither so late?

LOVELL.

Came you from the King, my lord?

GARDINER.

I did, Sir Thomas; and left him at primero

With the Duke of Suffolk.

LOVELL.

I must to him too,

Before he go to bed. I'll take my leave.

GARDINER.

Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell. What's the matter?

It seems you are in haste. An if there be

No great offence belongs to't, give your friend

Some touch of your late business. Affairs, that walk,

As they say spirits do, at midnight, have

In them a wilder nature than the business

That seeks despatch by day.

LOVELL.

My lord, I love you;

And durst commend a secret to your ear

Much weightier than this work. The Queen's in labour,

They say in great extremity; and feared

She'll with the labour end.

GARDINER.

The fruit she goes with

I pray for heartily, that it may find

Good time, and live; but for the stock, Sir Thomas,

I wish it grubbed up now.

LOVELL.

Methinks I could

Cry thee amen; and yet my conscience says

She's a good creature, and, sweet lady, does

Deserve our better wishes.

GARDINER.

But, sir, sir,

Hear me, Sir Thomas. You're a gentleman

Of mine own way; I know you wise, religious;

And, let me tell you, it will ne'er be well,

'Twill not, Sir Thomas Lovell, take't of me,

Till Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she,

Sleep in their graves.

LOVELL.

Now, sir, you speak of two

The most remarked i' the kingdom. As for Cromwell,

Beside that of the jewel house, is made master

O' the rolls, and the King's secretary; further, sir,

Stands in the gap and trade of moe preferments,

With which the time will load him. The Archbishop

Is the King's hand and tongue; and who dare speak

One syllable against him?

GARDINER.

Yes, yes, Sir Thomas,

There are that dare; and I myself have ventured

To speak my mind of him: and indeed this day,

Sir, I may tell it you, I think I have

Incensed the lords o' the council, that he is,

For so I know he is, they know he is,

A most arch heretic, a pestilence

That does infect the land; with which they moved

Have broken with the King, who hath so far

Given ear to our complaint, of his great grace

And princely care foreseeing those fell mischiefs

Our reasons laid before him, hath commanded

To-morrow morning to the council-board

He be convented. He's a rank weed, Sir Thomas,

And we must root him out. From your affairs

I hinder you too long. Good-night, Sir Thomas.

LOVELL.

Many good-nights, my lord! I rest your servant.

[Exeunt Gardiner and Page.]

[Enter the King and Suffolk.]

KING.

Charles, I will play no more to-night.

My mind's not on't; you are too hard for me.

SUFFOLK.

Sir, I did never win of you before.

KING.

But little, Charles;

Nor shall not, when my fancy's on my play.

Now, Lovell, from the Queen what is the news?

LOVELL.

I could not personally deliver to her

What you commanded me, but by her woman

I sent your message; who returned her thanks

In the great'st humbleness, and desired your Highness

Most heartily to pray for her.

KING.

What say'st thou, ha?

To pray for her? What, is she crying out?

LOVELL.

So said her woman; and that her suff'rance made

Almost each pang a death.

KING.

Alas, good lady!

SUFFOLK.

God safely quit her of her burden, and

With gentle travail, to the gladding of

Your Highness with an heir!

KING.

'Tis midnight, Charles;

Prithee, to bed; and in thy prayers remember

The estate of my poor queen. Leave me alone;

For I must think of that which company

Will not be friendly to.

SUFFOLK.

I wish your Highness

A quiet night; and my good mistress will

Remember in my prayers.

KING.

Charles, good-night.

[Exit Suffolk.]

[Enter Sir Anthony Denny.]

Well, sir, what follows?

DENNY.

Sir, I have brought my lord the Archbishop,

As you commanded me.

KING.

Ha! Canterbury?

DENNY.

Ay, my good lord.

KING.

'Tis true; where is he, Denny?

DENNY.

He attends your Highness' pleasure.

KING.

Bring him to us.

[Exit Denny.]

LOVELL.

[Aside.]

This is about that which the bishop spake.

I am happily come hither.

[Re-enter Denny, with Cranmer.]

KING.

Avoid the gallery. [Lovell seems to stay.]

Ha! I have said. Be gone.

What!

[Exeunt Lovell and Denny.]

CRANMER.

[Aside.]

I am fearful; wherefore frowns he thus?

'Tis his aspect of terror. All's not well.

KING.

How now, my lord! you do desire to know

Wherefore I sent for you.

CRANMER.

[Kneeling.] It is my duty

To attend your Highness' pleasure.

KING.

Pray you, arise,

My good and gracious Lord of Canterbury.

Come, you and I must walk a turn together;

I have news to tell you. Come, come, me your hand.

Ah, my good lord, I grieve at what I speak,

And am right sorry to repeat what follows.

I have, and most unwillingly, of late

Heard many grievous, I do say, my lord,

Grievous complaints of you; which, being considered,

Have moved us and our council, that you shall

This morning come before us; where, I know,

You cannot with such freedom purge yourself

But that, till further trial in those charges

Which will require your answer, you must take

Your patience to you, and be well contented

To make your house our Tower. You a brother of us,

It fits we thus proceed, or else no witness

Would come against you.

CRANMER.

[Kneeling.] I humbly thank your Highness;

And am right glad to catch this good occasion

Most throughly to be winnowed, where my chaff

And corn shall fly asunder; for, I know,

There's none stands under more calumnious tongues

Than I myself, poor man.

KING.

Stand up, good Canterbury!

Thy truth and thy integrity is rooted

In us, thy friend. Give me thy hand, stand up;

Prithee, let's walk. Now, by my holidame,

What manner of man are you? My lord, I looked

You would have given me your petition, that

I should have ta'en some pains to bring together

Yourself and your accusers; and to have heard you,

Without indurance, further.

CRANMER.

Most dread liege,

The good I stand on is my truth and honesty.

If they shall fail, I, with mine enemies,

Will triumph o'er my person; which I weigh not,

Being of those virtues vacant. I fear nothing

What can be said against me.

KING.

Know you not

How your state stands i' th' world, with the whole world?

Your enemies are many, and not small; their practices

Must bear the same proportion; and not ever

The justice and the truth o' the question carries

The due o' the verdict with it. At what ease

Might corrupt minds procure knaves as corrupt

To swear against you? Such things have been done.

You are potently opposed, and with a malice

Of as great size. Ween you of better luck,

I mean, in perjured witness, than your Master,

Whose minister you are, whiles here He lived

Upon this naughty earth? Go to, go to!

You take a precipice for no leap of danger,

And woo your own destruction.

CRANMER.

God and your Majesty

Protect mine innocence, or I fall into

The trap is laid for me!

KING.

Be of good cheer;

They shall no more prevail than we give way to.

Keep comfort to you; and this morning see

You do appear before them. If they shall chance,

In charging you with matters, to commit you,

The best persuasions to the contrary

Fail not to use, and with what vehemency

The occasion shall instruct you. If entreaties

Will render you no remedy, this ring

Deliver them, and your appeal to us

There make before them. Look, the good man weeps!

He's honest, on mine honour. God's blest mother!

I swear he is true-hearted; and a soul

None better in my kingdom. Get you gone,

And do as I have bid you.

[Exit Cranmer.]

He has strangled

His language in his tears.

[Enter Old Lady, Lovell following.]

LOVELL.

[Within.]

Come back! What mean you?

OLD LADY.

I'll not come back; the tidings that I bring

Will make my boldness manners. Now, good angels

Fly o'er thy royal head, and shade thy person

Under their blessed wings!

KING.

Now, by thy looks

I guess thy message. Is the Queen delivered?

Say ay; and of a boy.

OLD LADY.

Ay, ay, my liege;

And of a lovely boy. The God of Heaven

Both now and ever bless her! 'tis a girl,

Promises boys hereafter. Sir, your queen

Desires your visitation, and to be

Acquainted with this stranger. 'Tis as like you

As cherry is to cherry.

KING.

Lovell!

LOVELL.

Sir?

KING.

Give her an hundred marks. I'll to the Queen.

[Exit.]

OLD LADY.

An hundred marks! By this light, I'll ha' more.

An ordinary groom is for such payment.

I will have more, or scold it out of him.

Said I for this, the girl was like to him?

I will have more, or else unsay't; and now,

While it is hot, I'll put it to the issue.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE II.

Lobby before the council-chamber.

[Pursuivants, Pages, etc., attending. Enter Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury.]

CRANMER.

I hope I am not too late; and yet the gentleman,

That was sent to me from the council, prayed me

To make great haste. All fast? what means this? Ho!

Who waits there? Sure, you know me?

[Enter Keeper.]

KEEPER.

Yes, my lord;

But yet I cannot help you.

CRANMER.

Why?

KEEPER.

Your Grace must wait till you be called for.

[Enter Doctor Butts.]

CRANMER.

So.

BUTTS.

[Aside.]

This is a piece of malice. I am glad

I came this way so happily; the King

Shall understand it presently.

[Exit.]

CRANMER.

[Aside.] 'Tis Butts,

The King's physician. As he passed along,

How earnestly he cast his eyes upon me!

Pray Heaven, he sound not my disgrace! For certain,

This is of purpose laid by some that hate me—

God turn their hearts! I never sought their malice—

To quench mine honour; they would shame to make me

Wait else at door, a fellow-counsellor,

'Mong boys, grooms, and lackeys. But their pleasures

Must be fulfilled, and I attend with patience.

[Enter the King and Butts, at a window above.]

BUTTS.

I'll show your Grace the strangest sight—

KING.

What's that, Butts?

BUTTS.

I think your Highness saw this many a day.

KING.

Body o' me, where is it?

BUTTS.

There, my lord,

The high promotion of his Grace of Canterbury;

Who holds his state at door, 'mongst pursuivants,

Pages, and footboys.

KING.

Ha! 'tis he, indeed.

Is this the honour they do one another?

'Tis well there's one above 'em yet. I had thought

They had parted so much honesty among 'em,

At least, good manners, as not thus to suffer

A man of his place, and so near our favour,

To dance attendance on their lordships' pleasures,

And at the door too, like a post with packets.

By holy Mary, Butts, there's knavery.

Let 'em alone, and draw the curtain close;

We shall hear more anon.

[A council-table brought in with chairs and stools, and placed under the state. Enter Lord Chancellor; places himself at the upper end of the table on the left hand, a seat being left void above him, as for Canterbury's seat. Duke of Suffolk, Duke of Norfolk, Surrey, Lord Chamberlain, Gardiner, seat themselves in order on each side. Cromwell at lower end, as secretary. Keeper at the door.]

CHANCELLOR.

Speak to the business, master secretary.

Why are we met in council?

CROMWELL.

Please your honours,

The chief cause concerns his Grace of Canterbury.

GARDINER.

Has he had knowledge of it?

CROMWELL.

Yes.

NORFOLK.

Who waits there?

KEEPER.

Without, my noble lords?

GARDINER.

Yes.

KEEPER.

My Lord Archbishop;

And has done half an hour, to know your pleasures.

CHANCELLOR.

Let him come in.

KEEPER.

Your Grace may enter now.

[Cranmer approaches the council-table.]

CHANCELLOR.

My good Lord Archbishop, I'm very sorry

To sit here at this present, and behold

That chair stand empty; but we all are men,

In our own natures frail, and capable

Of our flesh; few are angels: out of which frailty

And want of wisdom, you, that best should teach us,

Have misdemeaned yourself, and not a little,

Toward the King first, then his laws, in filling

The whole realm, by your teaching and your chaplains,

For so we are informed, with new opinions

Divers and dangerous, which are heresies

And, not reformed, may prove pernicious.

GARDINER.

Which reformation must be sudden too,

My noble lords; for those that tame wild horses

Pace 'em not in their hands to make 'em gentle,

But stop their mouth with stubborn bits and spur 'em

Till they obey the manage. If we suffer,

Out of our easiness and childish pity

To one man's honour, this contagious sickness,

Farewell all physic! And what follows then?

Commotions, uproars, with a general taint

Of the whole state; as, of late days, our neighbours,

The upper Germany, can dearly witness,

Yet freshly pitied in our memories.

CRANMER.

My good lords, hitherto in all the progress

Both of my life and office, I have laboured,

And with no little study, that my teaching

And the strong course of my authority

Might go one way, and safely; and the end

Was ever, to do well; nor is there living,

I speak it with a single heart, my lords,

A man that more detests, more stirs against,

Both in his private conscience and his place,

Defacers of a public peace, than I do.

Pray Heaven, the King may never find a heart

With less allegiance in it! Men that make

Envy and crooked malice nourishment

Dare bite the best. I do beseech your lordships,

That, in this case of justice, my accusers,

Be what they will, may stand forth face to face

And freely urge against me.

SUFFOLK.

Nay, my lord,

That cannot be. You are a counsellor,

And, by that virtue, no man dare accuse you.

GARDINER.

My lord, because we have business of more moment,

We will be short with you. 'Tis his Highness' pleasure

And our consent, for better trial of you,

From hence you be committed to the Tower;

Where, being but a private man again,

You shall know many dare accuse you boldly,

More than, I fear, you are provided for.

CRANMER.

Ah, my good Lord of Winchester, I thank you.

You are always my good friend; if your will pass,

I shall both find your lordship judge and juror,

You are so merciful. I see your end;

'Tis my undoing. Love and meekness, lord,

Become a churchman better than ambition.

Win straying souls with modesty again,

Cast none away. That I shall clear myself,

Lay all the weight ye can upon my patience,

I make as little doubt as you do conscience

In doing daily wrongs. I could say more,

But reverence to your calling makes me modest.

GARDINER.

My lord, my lord, you are a sectary,

That's the plain truth. Your painted gloss discovers,

To men that understand you, words and weakness.

CROMWELL.

My Lord of Winchester, you are a little,

By your good favour, too sharp; men so noble,

However faulty, yet should find respect

For what they have been. 'Tis a cruelty

To load a falling man.

GARDINER.

Good master secretary,

I cry your honour mercy. You may, worst

Of all this table, say so.

CROMWELL.

Why, my lord?

GARDINER.

Do not I know you for a favourer

Of this new sect? Ye are not sound.

CROMWELL.

Not sound?

GARDINER.

Not sound, I say.

CROMWELL.

Would you were half so honest!

Men's prayers then would seek you, not their fears.

GARDINER.

I shall remember this bold language.

CROMWELL.

Do.

Remember your bold life too.

CHANCELLOR.

This is too much.

Forbear, for shame, my lords.

GARDINER.

I have done.

CROMWELL.

And I.

CHANCELLOR.

Then thus for you, my lord: it stands agreed,

I take it, by all voices, that forthwith

You be conveyed to the Tower a prisoner;

There to remain till the King's further pleasure

Be known unto us. Are you all agreed, lords?

ALL.

We are.

CRANMER.

Is there no other way of mercy,

But I must needs to the Tower, my lords?

GARDINER.

What other

Would you expect? You are strangely troublesome.

Let some o' the guard be ready there.

[Enter the guard.]

CRANMER.

For me?

Must I go like a traitor thither?

GARDINER.

Receive him,

And see him safe i' the Tower.

CRANMER.

Stay, good my lords,

I have a little yet to say. Look there, my lords;

By virtue of that ring, I take my cause

Out of the gripes of cruel men, and give it

To a most noble judge, the King my master.

CHAMBERLAIN.

This is the King's ring.

SURREY.

'Tis no counterfeit.

SUFFOLK.

'Tis the right ring, by heaven! I told ye all,

When we first put this dangerous stone a-rolling,

'Twould fall upon ourselves.

NORFOLK.

Do you think, my lords,

The King will suffer but the little finger

Of this man to be vexed?

CHAMBERLAIN.

'Tis now too certain.

How much more is his life in value with him?

Would I were fairly out on't!

CROMWELL.

My mind gave me,

In seeking tales and informations

Against this man, whose honesty the devil

And his disciples only envy at,

Ye blew the fire that burns ye. Now have at ye!

[Enter King, frowning on them; takes his seat.]

GARDINER.

Dread sovereign, how much are we bound to Heaven

In daily thanks, that gave us such a prince;

Not only good and wise, but most religious;

One that, in all obedience, makes the Church

The chief aim of his honour; and, to strengthen

That holy duty, out of dear respect,

His royal self in judgement comes to hear

The cause betwixt her and this great offender.

KING.

You were ever good at sudden commendations,

Bishop of Winchester. But know, I come not

To hear such flattery now, and in my presence;

They are too thin and bare to hide offences.

To me you cannot reach you play the spaniel,

And think with wagging of your tongue to win me;

But, whatsoe'er thou tak'st me for, I'm sure

Thou hast a cruel nature and a bloody.

[To Cranmer.] Good man, sit down. Now let me see the proudest

He, that dares most, but wag his finger at thee:

By all that's holy, he had better starve

Than but once think this place becomes thee not.

SURREY.

May it please your Grace,—

KING.

No, sir, it does not please me.

I had thought I had had men of some understanding

And wisdom of my council; but I find none.

Was it discretion, lords, to let this man,

This good man,—few of you deserve that title,—

This honest man, wait like a lousy footboy

At chamber-door? and one as great as you are?

Why, what a shame was this! Did my commission

Bid ye so far forget yourselves? I gave ye

Power as he was a councillor to try him,—

Not as a groom. There's some of ye, I see,

More out of malice than integrity,

Would try him to the utmost, had ye mean;

Which ye shall never have while I live.

CHANCELLOR.

Thus far,

My most dread sovereign, may it like your Grace

To let my tongue excuse all. What was purposed

Concerning his imprisonment was rather,

If there be faith in men, meant for his trial

And fair purgation to the world, than malice,

I'm sure, in me.

KING.

Well, well, my lords, respect him;

Take him, and use him well, he's worthy of it.

I will say thus much for him, if a prince

May be beholding to a subject, I

Am, for his love and service, so to him.

Make me no more ado, but all embrace him.

Be friends, for shame, my lords! My Lord of Canterbury,

I have a suit which you must not deny me;

That is, a fair young maid that yet wants baptism,

You must be godfather, and answer for her.

CRANMER.

The greatest monarch now alive may glory

In such an honour; how may I deserve it,

That am a poor and humble subject to you?

KING.

Come, come, my lord, youed spare your spoons. You shall have two noble partners with you, the old Duchess of Norfolk and Lady Marquess Dorset. Will these please you?

Once more, my Lord of Winchester, I charge you,

Embrace and love this man.

GARDINER.

With a true heart

And brother-love I do it.

CRANMER.

And let Heaven

Witness how dear I hold this confirmation.

KING.

Good man, those joyful tears show thy true heart.

The common voice, I see, is verified

Of thee, which says thus, "Do my Lord of Canterbury

A shrewd turn, and he is your friend for ever."

Come, lords, we trifle time away; I long

To have this young one made a Christian.

As I have made ye one, lords, one remain;

So I grow stronger, you more honour gain.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE III.

The palace yard.

[Noise and tumult within. Enter Porter and his Man.]

PORTER.

You'll leave your noise anon, ye rascals; do you take the court for Paris-garden? Ye rude slaves, leave your gaping.

VOICE.

[Within.] Good master porter, I belong to the larder.

PORTER.

Belong to the gallows, and be hanged, ye rogue! Is this a place to roar in? Fetch me a dozen crab-tree staves, and strong ones; these are but switches to 'em. I'll scratch your heads. You must be seeing christenings? Do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals?

MAN.

Pray, sir, be patient. 'Tis as much impossible—

Unless we sweep 'em from the door with cannons—

To scatter 'em, as 'tis to make 'em sleep

On May-day morning; which will never be.

We may as well push against Paul's, as stir 'em.

PORTER.

How got they in, and be hanged?

MAN.

Alas, I know not: how gets the tide in?

As much as one sound cudgel of four foot—

You see the poor remainder—could distribute,

I made no spare, sir.

PORTER.

You did nothing, sir.

MAN.

I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand,

To mow 'em down before me; but if I spared any

That had a head to hit, either young or old,

He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker,

Let me ne'er hope to see a chine again;

And that I would not for a cow, God save her!

VOICE.

[Within.] Do you hear, master porter?

PORTER.

I shall be with you presently, good master puppy.—

Keep the door close, sirrah.

MAN.

What would you have me do?

PORTER.

What should you do, but knock 'em down by the dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? Or have we some strange Indian with the great tool come to court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a fry of fornication is at door! On my Christian conscience, this one christening will beget a thousand; here will be father, godfather, and all together.

MAN.

The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a fellow somewhat near the door, he should be a brazier by his face, for, o' my conscience, twenty of the dog-days now reign in's nose; all that stand about him are under the line, they need no other penance: that fire-drake did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged against me; he stands there, like a mortar-piece, to blow us. There was a haberdasher's wife of small wit near him, that railed upon me till her pinked porringer fell off her head, for kindling such a combustion in the state. I missed the meteor once, and hit that woman; who cried out "Clubs!" when I might see from far some forty truncheoners draw to her succour, which were the hope o' the Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my place; at length they came to the broomstaff to me; I defied 'em still; when suddenly a file of boys behind 'em, loose shot, delivered such a shower of pebbles, that I was fain to draw mine honour in, and let 'em win the work. The devil was amongst 'em, I think, surely.

PORTER.

These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse, and fight for bitten apples; that no audience but the tribulation of Tower-hill or the limbs of Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure. I have some of 'em in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance these three days; besides the running banquet of two beadles that is to come.

[Enter Lord Chamberlain.]

CHAMBERLAIN.

Mercy o' me, what a multitude are here!

They grow still too; from all parts they are coming

As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters,

These lazy knaves? Ye have made a fine hand, fellows.

There's a trim rabble let in. Are all these

Your faithful friends o' the suburbs? We shall have

Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies,

When they pass back from the christening.

PORTER.

An't please your honour,

We are but men; and what so many may do,

Not being torn a-pieces, we have done.

An army cannot rule 'em.

CHAMBERLAIN.

As I live,

If the King blame me for't, I'll lay ye all

By the heels, and suddenly; and on your heads

Clap round fines for neglect. Ye're lazy knaves;

And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when

Ye should do service. Hark! the trumpets sound;

They're come already from the christening.

Go, break among the press, and find a way out

To let the troops pass fairly; or I'll find

A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months.

PORTER.

Make way there for the princess.

MAN.

You great fellow,

Stand close up, or I'll make your head ache.

PORTER.

You i' the camlet, get up o' the rail;

I'll peck you o'er the pales else.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE IV.

The palace.

[Enter trumpets, sounding; then two Aldermen, Lord Mayor, Garter, Cranmer, Duke of Norfolk with his marshal's staff, Duke of Suffolk, two Noblemen bearing great standing-bowls for the christening-gifts; then four Noblemen bearing a canopy, under which the Duchess of Norfolk, godmother, bearing the child richly habited in a mantle, etc., train borne by a Lady; then follows the Marchioness Dorset, the other godmother, and Ladies. The troop pass once about the stage, and Garter speaks.]

GARTER.

Heaven, from thy endless goodness, send prosperous life, long and ever happy, to the high and mighty Princess of England, Elizabeth!

[Flourish. Enter King and Guard.]

CRANMER.

[Kneeling.]

And to your royal Grace, and the good queen,

My noble partners, and myself, thus pray:

All comfort, joy, in this most gracious lady,

Heaven ever laid up to make parents happy,

May hourly fall upon ye!

KING.

Thank you, good Lord Archbishop.

What is her name?

CRANMER.

Elizabeth.

KING.

Stand up, lord.

[The King kisses the child.]

With this kiss take my blessing: God protect thee!

Into whose hand I give thy life.

CRANMER.

Amen.

KING.

My noble gossips, ye have been too prodigal.

I thank ye heartily; so shall this lady,

When she has so much English.

CRANMER.

Let me speak, sir,

For Heaven now bids me; and the words I utter

Let none think flattery, for they'll find 'em truth.

This royal infant—Heaven still move about her!—

Though in her cradle, yet now promises

Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings,

Which time shall bring to ripeness. She shall be—

But few now living can behold that goodness—

A pattern to all princes living with her,

And all that shall succeed. Saba was never

More covetous of wisdom and fair virtue

Than this pure soul shall be. All princely graces,

That mould up such a mighty piece as this is,

With all the virtues that attend the good,

Shall still be doubled on her. Truth shall nurse her,

Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her.

She shall be loved and feared: her own shall bless her;

Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn,

And hang their heads with sorrow. Good grows with her.

In her days every man shall eat in safety,

Under his own vine, what he plants, and sing

The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours.

God shall be truly known; and those about her

From her shall read the perfect ways of honour,

And by those claim their greatness, not by blood.

Nor shall this peace sleep with her; but as when

The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix,

Her ashes new create another heir

As great in admiration as herself;

So shall she leave her blessedness to one,

When heaven shall call her from this cloud of darkness,

Who from the sacred ashes of her honour

Shall star-like rise as great in fame as she was,

And so stand fixed. Peace, plenty, love, truth, terror,

That were the servants to this chosen infant,

Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him.

Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine,

His honour and the greatness of his name

Shall be, and make new nations. He shall flourish,

And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches

To all the plains about him. Our children's children

Shall see this, and bless Heaven.

KING.

Thou speakest wonders.

CRANMER.

She shall be, to the happiness of England,

An aged princess; many days shall see her,

And yet no day without a deed to crown it.

Would I had known no more! but she must die,

She must, the saints must have her; yet a virgin,

A most unspotted lily shall she pass

To the ground, and all the world shall mourn her.

KING.

O Lord Archbishop,

Thou hast made me now a man! Never, before

This happy child, did I get anything.

This oracle of comfort has so pleased me,

That when I am in heaven I shall desire

To see what this child does, and praise my Maker.

I thank ye all. To you, my good Lord Mayor,

And you, good brethren, I am much beholding;

I have received much honour by your presence,

And ye shall find me thankful. Lead the way, lords.

Ye must all see the Queen, and she must thank ye,

She will be sick else. This day, no man think

Has business at his house; for all shall stay.

This little one shall make it holiday.

[Exeunt.]

EPILOGUE.

'Tis ten to one this play can never please

All that are here. Some come to take their ease,

And sleep an act or two; but those, we fear,

We have frighted with our trumpets; so, 'tis clear,

They'll say 'tis nought: others, to hear the city

Abused extremely, and to cry "That's witty!"

Which we have not done neither: that, I fear,

All the expected good we're like to hear

For this play at this time, is only in

The merciful construction of good women;

For such a one we showed 'em. If they smile

And say 'twill do, I know, within a while

All the best men are ours; for 'tis ill hap

If they hold when their ladies bid 'em clap.

THE END

KING JOHN

List of Characters

Act I, Scene I

Act II, Scene I

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act III, Scene III

Act III, Scene IV

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act IV, Scene III

Act V, Scene I

Act V, Scene II

Act V, Scene III

Act V, Scene IV

Act V, Scene V

Act V, Scene VI

Act V, Scene VII

List of Characters

KING JOHN.

PRINCE HENRY: his son; afterwards KING HENRY III.

ARTHUR: Duke of Bretagne, son to GEFFREY, late Duke of Bretagne, the elder brother to King John.

WILLIAM MARSHALL: Earl of Pembroke.

GEOFFREY FITZ-PETER: Earl of Essex, Chief Justiciary of England.

WILLIAM LONGSWORD: Earl of Salisbury.

ROBERT BIGOT: Earl of Norfolk.

HUBERT DE BURGH: Chamberlain to the King.

ROBERT FALCONBRIDGE: son to Sir Robert Falconbridge.

PHILIP FALCONBRIDGE: his half-brother, bastard son to King Richard I.

JAMES GURNEY: servant to Lady Falconbridge.

PETER OF POMFRET: a prophet

PHILIP: King of France.

LEWIS: the Dauphin.

ARCHDUKE OF AUSTRIA.

CARDINAL PANDULPH: the Pope's legate.

MELUN: a French lord.

CHATILLON: Ambassador from France to King John.

ELINOR: Widow of King Henry II and Mother to King John.

CONSTANCE: Mother to Arthur.

BLANCH OF SPAIN: Daughter to Alphonso, King of Castile, and Niece to King John.

LADY FALCONBRIDGE: Mother to the Bastard and Robert Falconbridge.

Lords, Citizens of Angiers, Sheriff, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, Attendants and other Attendants.

SCENE: Sometimes in England, and sometimes in France.

ACT I. SCENE I.

Northampton. A Room of State in the Palace.

[Enter KING JOHN, QUEEN ELINOR, PEMBROKE, ESSEX, SALISBURY, and others, with CHATILLON.]

KING JOHN.

Now, say, Chatillon, what would France with us?

CHATILLON.

Thus, after greeting, speaks the King of France,

In my behaviour, to the majesty,

The borrowed majesty of England here.

ELINOR.

A strange beginning:—borrowed majesty!

KING JOHN.

Silence, good mother; hear the embassy.

CHATILLON.

Philip of France, in right and true behalf

Of thy deceased brother Geffrey's son,

Arthur Plantagenet, lays most lawful claim

To this fair island and the territories,—

To Ireland, Poictiers, Anjou, Touraine, Maine;

Desiring thee to lay aside the sword

Which sways usurpingly these several titles,

And put the same into young Arthur's hand,

Thy nephew and right royal sovereign.

KING JOHN.

What follows if we disallow of this?

CHATILLON.

The proud control of fierce and bloody war,

To enforce these rights so forcibly withheld.

KING JOHN.

Here have we war for war, and blood for blood,

Controlment for controlment;—so answer France.

CHATILLON.

Then take my king's defiance from my mouth,

The farthest limit of my embassy.

KING JOHN.

Bear mine to him, and so depart in peace:

Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France;

For ere thou canst report I will be there,

The thunder of my cannon shall be heard:

So, hence! Be thou the trumpet of our wrath,

And sullen presage of your own decay.—

An honourable conduct let him have:—

Pembroke, look to 't. Farewell, Chatillon.

[Exeunt CHATILLON and PEMBROKE.]

ELINOR.

What now, my son! Have I not ever said

How that ambitious Constance would not cease

Till she had kindled France and all the world

Upon the right and party of her son?

This might have been prevented and made whole

With very easy arguments of love;

Which now the manage of two kingdoms must

With fearful bloody issue arbitrate.

KING JOHN.

Our strong possession and our right for us.

ELINOR.

Your strong possession much more than your right,

Or else it must go wrong with you and me:

So much my conscience whispers in your ear,

Which none but heaven and you and I shall hear.

[Enter the Sheriff of Northamptonshire, who whispers to Essex.]

ESSEX.

My liege, here is the strangest controversy,

Come from the country to be judged by you,

That e'er I heard: shall I produce the men?

KING JOHN.

Let them approach.—

[Exit SHERIFF.]

Our abbeys and our priories shall pay

This expedition's charge.

[Re-enter Sheriff, with ROBERT FAULCONBRIDGE and PHILIP, his bastard Brother.]

What men are you?

BASTARD.

Your faithful subject I, a gentleman

Born in Northamptonshire, and eldest son,

As I suppose, to Robert Falconbridge,—

A soldier by the honour-giving hand

Of Coeur-de-lion knighted in the field.

KING JOHN.

What art thou?

ROBERT.

The son and heir to that same Falconbridge.

KING JOHN.

Is that the elder, and art thou the heir?

You came not of one mother then, it seems.

BASTARD.

Most certain of one mother, mighty king,—

That is well known; and, as I think, one father:

But for the certain knowledge of that truth

I put you o'er to heaven and to my mother:—

Of that I doubt, as all men's children may.

ELINOR.

Out on thee, rude man! thou dost shame thy mother,

And wound her honour with this diffidence.

BASTARD.

I, madam? no, I have no reason for it,—

That is my brother's plea, and none of mine;

The which if he can prove, 'a pops me out

At least from fair five hundred pound a-year:

Heaven guard my mother's honour and my land!

KING JOHN.

A good blunt fellow.—Why, being younger born,

Doth he lay claim to thine inheritance?

BASTARD.

I know not why, except to get the land.

But once he slandered me with bastardy:

But whe'er I be as true begot or no,

That still I lay upon my mother's head;

But that I am as well begot, my liege,—

Fair fall the bones that took the pains for me!—

Compare our faces and be judge yourself.

If old Sir Robert did beget us both,

And were our father, and this son like him,—

O old Sir Robert, father, on my knee

I give heaven thanks I was not like to thee!

KING JOHN.

Why, what a madcap hath heaven lent us here!

ELINOR.

He hath a trick of Coeur-de-lion's face;

The accent of his tongue affecteth him:

Do you not read some tokens of my son

In the large composition of this man?

KING JOHN.

Mine eye hath well examined his parts,

And finds them perfect Richard.—Sirrah, speak,

What doth move you to claim your brother's land?

BASTARD.

Because he hath a half-face, like my father;

With half that face would he have all my land:

A half-faced groat five hundred pound a-year!

ROBERT.

My gracious liege, when that my father lived,

Your brother did employ my father much,—

BASTARD.

Well, sir, by this you cannot get my land:

Your tale must be how he employed my mother.

ROBERT.

And once despatched him in an embassy

To Germany, there with the emperor

To treat of high affairs touching that time.

The advantage of his absence took the King,

And in the meantime sojourned at my father's;

Where how he did prevail I shame to speak,—

But truth is truth: large lengths of seas and shores

Between my father and my mother lay,—

As I have heard my father speak himself,—

When this same lusty gentleman was got.

Upon his death-bed he by will bequeathed

His lands to me; and took it, on his death,

That this, my mother's son, was none of his;

And if he were, he came into the world

Full fourteen weeks before the course of time.

Then, good my liege, let me have what is mine,

My father's land, as was my father's will.

KING JOHN.

Sirrah, your brother is legitimate;

Your father's wife did after wedlock bear him;

And if she did play false, the fault was hers;

Which fault lies on the hazards of all husbands

That marry wives. Tell me, how if my brother,

Who, as you say, took pains to get this son,

Had of your father claimed this son for his?

In sooth, good friend, your father might have kept

This calf, bred from his cow, from all the world;

In sooth, he might; then, if he were my brother's,

My brother might not claim him; nor your father,

Being none of his, refuse him. This concludes,—

My mother's son did get your father's heir;

Your father's heir must have your father's land.

ROBERT.

Shall then my father's will be of no force

To dispossess that child which is not his?

BASTARD.

Of no more force to dispossess me, sir,

Than was his will to get me, as I think.

ELINOR.

Whether hadst thou rather be a Falconbridge,

And like thy brother, to enjoy thy land,

Or the reputed son of Coeur-de-lion,

Lord of thy presence and no land beside?

BASTARD.

Madam, an if my brother had my shape

And I had his, Sir Robert's his, like him;

And if my legs were two such riding-rods,

My arms such eel-skins stuffed, my face so thin

That in mine ear I durst not stick a rose

Lest men should say 'Look where three-farthings goes!'

And, to his shape, were heir to all this land,

Would I might never stir from off this place,

I would give it every foot to have this face;

I would not be Sir Nob in any case.

ELINOR.

I like thee well: wilt thou forsake thy fortune,

Bequeath thy land to him, and follow me?

I am a soldier, and now bound to France.

BASTARD.

Brother, take you my land, I'll take my chance:

Your face hath got five hundred pound a-year;

Yet sell your face for fivepence and 'tis dear.—

Madam, I'll follow you unto the death.

ELINOR.

Nay, I would have you go before me thither.

BASTARD.

Our country manners give our betters way.

KING JOHN.

What is thy name?

BASTARD.

Philip, my liege, so is my name begun;

Philip, good old Sir Robert's wife's eldest son.

KING JOHN.

From henceforth bear his name whose form thou bear'st:

Kneel thou down Philip, but rise more great,—

Arise Sir Richard and Plantagenet.

BASTARD.

Brother by the mother's side, give me your hand:

My father gave me honour, yours gave land.—

Now blessed be the hour, by night or day,

When I was got, Sir Robert was away!

ELINOR.

The very spirit of Plantagenet!—

I am thy grandam, Richard; call me so.

BASTARD.

Madam, by chance, but not by truth; what though?

Something about, a little from the right,

In at the window, or else o'er the hatch;

Who dares not stir by day must walk by night;

And have is have, however men do catch:

Near or far off, well won is still well shot;

And I am I, howe'er I was begot.

KING JOHN.

Go, Falconbridge; now hast thou thy desire:

A landless knight makes thee a landed squire.—

Come, madam,—and come, Richard; we must speed

For France, for France, for it is more than need.

BASTARD.

Brother, adieu. Good fortune come to thee!

For thou wast got i' th' way of honesty.

[Exeunt all but the BASTARD.]

A foot of honour better than I was;

But many a many foot of land the worse.

Well, now can I make any Joan a lady:—

'Good den, Sir Richard:'—'God-a-mercy, fellow:'—

And if his name be George, I'll call him Peter:

For new-made honour doth forget men's names:

'Tis too respective and too sociable

For your conversion. Now your traveller,—

He and his toothpick at my worship's mess;—

And when my knightly stomach is sufficed,

Why then I suck my teeth, and catechize

My picked man of countries:—'My dear sir,'—

Thus leaning on mine elbow I begin,—

'I shall beseech you'—that is question now;

And then comes answer like an ABC-book:—

'O sir,' says answer 'at your best command;

At your employment; at your service, sir:'—

'No, sir,' says question 'I, sweet sir, at yours:

And so, ere answer knows what question would,—

Saving in dialogue of compliment,

And talking of the Alps and Apennines,

The Pyrenean and the river Po,—

It draws toward supper in conclusion so.

But this is worshipful society,

And fits the mounting spirit like myself:

For he is but a bastard to the time,

That doth not smack of observation,—

And so am I, whether I smack or no;

And not alone in habit and device,

Exterior form, outward accoutrement,

But from the inward motion to deliver

Sweet, sweet, sweet poison for the age's tooth;

Which, though I will not practise to deceive,

Yet, to avoid deceit, I mean to learn;

For it shall strew the footsteps of my rising.—

But who comes in such haste in riding-robes?

What woman-post is this? hath she no husband

That will take pains to blow a horn before her?

[Enter LADY FALCONBRIDGE, and JAMES GURNEY.]

O me, 'tis my mother!—How now, good lady!

What brings you here to court so hastily?

LADY FALCONBRIDGE.

Where is that slave, thy brother? where is he

That holds in chase mine honour up and down?

BASTARD.

My brother Robert? Old Sir Robert's son?

Colbrand the giant, that same mighty man?

Is it Sir Robert's son that you seek so?

LADY FALCONBRIDGE.

Sir Robert's son! Ay, thou unreverend boy,

Sir Robert's son: why scorn'st thou at Sir Robert?

He is Sir Robert's son, and so art thou.

BASTARD.

James Gurney, wilt thou give us leave awhile?

GURNEY.

Good leave, good Philip.

BASTARD.

Philip—sparrow!—James,

There's toys abroad:—anon I'll tell thee more.

[Exit GURNEY.]

Madam, I was not old Sir Robert's son;

Sir Robert might have eat his part in me

Upon Good-Friday, and ne'er broke his fast.

Sir Robert could do well: marry, to confess,

Could not get me; Sir Robert could not do it,—

We know his handiwork:—therefore, good mother,

To whom am I beholding for these limbs?

Sir Robert never holp to make this leg.

LADY FALCONBRIDGE.

Hast thou conspired with thy brother too,

That for thine own gain shouldst defend mine honour?

What means this scorn, thou most untoward knave?

BASTARD.

Knight, knight, good mother,—Basilisco-like;

What! I am dubbed; I have it on my shoulder.

But, mother, I am not Sir Robert's son:

I have disclaimed Sir Robert and my land;

Legitimation, name, and all is gone:

Then, good my mother, let me know my father,—

Some proper man, I hope: who was it, mother?

LADY FalcoNBRIDGE.

Hast thou denied thyself a Falconbridge?

BASTARD.

As faithfully as I deny the devil.

LADY FALCONBRIDGE.

King Richard Coeur-de-lion was thy father:

By long and vehement suit I was seduced

To make room for him in my husband's bed:—

Heaven lay not my transgression to my charge!—

Thou art the issue of my dear offence,

Which was so strongly urged, past my defence.

BASTARD.

Now, by this light, were I to get again,

Madam, I would not wish a better father.

Some sins do bear their privilege on earth,

And so doth yours; your fault was not your folly:

Needs must you lay your heart at his dispose,—

Subjected tribute to commanding love,—

Against whose fury and unmatched force

The aweless lion could not wage the fight

Nor keep his princely heart from Richard's hand:

He that perforce robs lions of their hearts

May easily win a woman's. Ay, my mother,

With all my heart I thank thee for my father!

Who lives and dares but say, thou didst not well

When I was got, I'll send his soul to hell.

Come, lady, I will show thee to my kin;

And they shall say when Richard me begot,

If thou hadst said him nay, it had been sin:

Who says it was, he lies; I say 'twas not.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

France. Before the walls of Angiers.

[Enter, on one side, the ARCHDUKE OF AUSTRIA and Forces; on the other, PHILIP, King of France, LEWIS, CONSTANCE, ARTHUR, and Forces.]

LEWIS.

Before Angiers well met, brave Austria.

KING PHILIP.

Arthur, that great forerunner of thy blood,

Richard, that robbed the lion of his heart,

And fought the holy wars in Palestine,

By this brave duke came early to his grave:

And, for amends to his posterity,

At our importance hither is he come

To spread his colours, boy, in thy behalf;

And to rebuke the usurpation

Of thy unnatural uncle, English John:

Embrace him, love him, give him welcome hither.

ARTHUR.

God shall forgive you Coeur-de-lion's death

The rather that you give his offspring life,

Shadowing their right under your wings of war:

I give you welcome with a powerless hand,

But with a heart full of unstained love,—

Welcome before the gates of Angiers, duke.

LEWIS.

A noble boy! Who would not do thee right?

AUSTRIA.

Upon thy cheek lay I this zealous kiss,

As seal to this indenture of my love,—

That to my home I will no more return,

Till Angiers, and the right thou hast in France,

Together with that pale, that white-faced shore,

Whose foot spurns back the ocean's roaring tides,

And coops from other lands her islanders,—

Even till that England, hedged in with the main,

That water-walled bulwark, still secure

And confident from foreign purposes,—

Even till that utmost corner of the west

Salute thee for her king: till then, fair boy,

Will I not think of home, but follow arms.

CONSTANCE.

O, take his mother's thanks, a widow's thanks,

Till your strong hand shall help to give him strength

To make a more requital to your love!

AUSTRIA.

The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords

In such a just and charitable war.

KING PHILIP.

Well then, to work: our cannon shall be bent

Against the brows of this resisting town.—

Call for our chiefest men of discipline,

To cull the plots of best advantages:

We'll lay before this town our royal bones,

Wade to the market-place in Frenchmen's blood,

But we will make it subject to this boy.

CONSTANCE.

Stay for an answer to your embassy,

Lest unadvised you stain your swords with blood:

My Lord Chatillon may from England bring

That right in peace which here we urge in war;

And then we shall repent each drop of blood

That hot rash haste so indirectly shed.

KING PHILIP.

A wonder, lady!—lo, upon thy wish,

Our messenger Chatillon is arrived.

[Enter CHATILLON.]

What England says, say briefly, gentle lord;

We coldly pause for thee; Chatillon, speak.

CHATILLON.

Then turn your forces from this paltry siege,

And stir them up against a mightier task.

England, impatient of your just demands,

Hath put himself in arms: the adverse winds,

Whose leisure I have stayed, have given him time

To land his legions all as soon as I;

His marches are expedient to this town,

His forces strong, his soldiers confident.

With him along is come the mother-queen,

An Ate, stirring him to blood and strife;

With her her neice, the Lady Blanch of Spain;

With them a bastard of the king's deceased:

And all the unsettled humours of the land,—

Rash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries,

With ladies' faces and fierce dragons' spleens,—

Have sold their fortunes at their native homes,

Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs,

To make a hazard of new fortunes here.

In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits

Than now the English bottoms have waft o'er

Did never float upon the swelling tide

To do offence and scathe in Christendom.

[Drums beat within.]

The interruption of their churlish drums

Cuts off more circumstance: they are at hand;

To parley or to fight: therefore prepare.

KING PHILIP.

How much unlooked-for is this expedition!

AUSTRIA.

By how much unexpected, by so much

We must awake endeavour for defence;

For courage mounteth with occasion:

Let them be welcome, then; we are prepared.

[Enter KING JOHN, ELINOR, BLANCH, the BASTARD, PEMBROKE, Lords, and Forces.]

KING JOHN.

Peace be to France, if France in peace permit

Our just and lineal entrance to our own!

If not, bleed France, and peace ascend to heaven,

Whiles we, God's wrathful agent, do correct

Their proud contempt that beats his peace to heaven!

KING PHILIP.

Peace be to England, if that war return

From France to England, there to live in peace!

England we love; and for that England's sake

With burden of our armour here we sweat.

This toil of ours should be a work of thine;

But thou from loving England art so far

That thou hast under-wrought his lawful king,

Cut off the sequence of posterity,

Outfaced infant state, and done a rape

Upon the maiden virtue of the crown.

Look here upon thy brother Geffrey's face:—

These eyes, these brows, were moulded out of his:

This little abstract doth contain that large

Which died in Geffrey; and the hand of time

Shall draw this brief into as huge a volume.

That Geffrey was thy elder brother born,

And this his son; England was Geffrey's right,

And this is Geffrey's: in the name of God,

How comes it then, that thou art called a king,

When living blood doth in these temples beat,

Which owe the crown that thou o'er-masterest?

KING JOHN.

From whom hast thou this great commission, France,

To draw my answer from thy articles?

KING PHILIP.

From that supernal judge that stirs good thoughts

In any breast of strong authority,

To look into the blots and stains of right.

That judge hath made me guardian to this boy:

Under whose warrant I impeach thy wrong;

And by whose help I mean to chastise it.

KING JOHN.

Alack, thou dost usurp authority.

KING PHILIP.

Excuse it is to beat usurping down.

ELINOR.

Who is it thou dost call usurper, France?

CONSTANCE.

Let me make answer;—thy usurping son.

ELINOR.

Out, insolent! thy bastard shall be king,

That thou mayst be a queen, and check the world!

CONSTANCE.

My bed was ever to thy son as true

As thine was to thy husband; and this boy

Liker in feature to his father Geffrey

Than thou and John in manners,—being as like

As rain to water, or devil to his dam.

My boy a bastard! By my soul, I think

His father never was so true begot:

It cannot be, an if thou wert his mother.

ELINOR.

There's a good mother, boy, that blots thy father.

CONSTANCE.

There's a good grandam, boy, that would blot thee.

AUSTRIA.

Peace!

BASTARD.

Hear the crier.

AUSTRIA.

What the devil art thou?

BASTARD.

One that will play the devil, sir, with you,

An 'a may catch your hide and you alone.

You are the hare of whom the proverb goes,

Whose valour plucks dead lions by the beard:

I'll smoke your skin-coat an I catch you right;

Sirrah, look to 't; i' faith I will, i' faith.

BLANCH.

O, well did he become that lion's robe

That did disrobe the lion of that robe!

BASTARD.

It lies as sightly on the back of him

As great Alcides' shows upon an ass:—

But, ass, I'll take that burden from your back,

Or lay on that shall make your shoulders crack.

AUSTRIA.

What cracker is this same that deafs our ears

With this abundance of superfluous breath?

KING PHILIP.

Lewis, determine what we shall do straight.

LEWIS.

Women and fools, break off your conference.—

King John, this is the very sum of all,—

England and Ireland, Anjou, Touraine, Maine,

In right of Arthur, do I claim of thee:

Wilt thou resign them, and lay down thy arms?

KING JOHN.

My life as soon:—I do defy thee, France.

Arthur of Bretagne, yield thee to my hand;

And out of my dear love, I'll give thee more

Than e'er the coward hand of France can win:

Submit thee, boy.

ELINOR.

Come to thy grandam, child.

CONSTANCE.

Do, child, go to it' grandam, child;

Give grandam kingdom, and it' grandam will

Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig.

There's a good grandam!

ARTHUR.

Good my mother, peace!

I would that I were low laid in my grave:

I am not worth this coil that's made for me.

ELINOR.

His mother shames him so, poor boy, he weeps.

CONSTANCE.

Now, shame upon you, whe'er she does or no!

His grandam's wrongs, and not his mother's shames,

Draws those heaven-moving pearls from his poor eyes,

Which heaven shall take in nature of a fee:

Ay, with these crystal beads heaven shall be bribed

To do him justice, and revenge on you.

ELINOR.

Thou monstrous slanderer of heaven and earth!

CONSTANCE.

Thou monstrous injurer of heaven and earth!

Call not me slanderer: thou and thine usurp

The dominations, royalties, and rights,

Of this oppressed boy: this is thy eldest son's son,

Infortunate in nothing but in thee:

Thy sins are visited in this poor child;

The canon of the law is laid on him,

Being but the second generation

Removed from thy sin-conceiving womb.

KING JOHN.

Bedlam, have done.

CONSTANCE.

I have but this to say,—

That he is not only plagued for her sin,

But God hath made her sin and her the plague

On this removed issue, plagued for her

And with her plague, her sin; his injury

Her injury,—the beadle to her sin;

All punished in the person of this child,

And all for her: a plague upon her!

ELINOR.

Thou unadvised scold, I can produce

A will that bars the title of thy son.

CONSTANCE.

Ay, who doubts that? a will, a wicked will;

A woman's will; a cankered grandam's will!

KING PHILIP.

Peace, lady! pause, or be more temperate:

It ill beseems this presence to cry aim

To these ill-tuned repetitions.—

Some trumpet summon hither to the walls

These men of Angiers: let us hear them speak

Whose title they admit, Arthur's or John's.

[Trumpet sounds. Enter citizens upon the walls.]

FIRST CITIZEN.

Who is it that hath warned us to the walls?

KING PHILIP.

'Tis France, for England.

KING JOHN.

England for itself:—

You men of Angiers, and my loving subjects,—

KING PHILIP.

You loving men of Angiers, Arthur's subjects,

Our trumpet called you to this gentle parle.

KING JOHN.

For our advantage; therefore hear us first.

These flags of France, that are advanced here

Before the eye and prospect of your town,

Have hither marched to your endamagement;

The cannons have their bowels full of wrath,

And ready mounted are they to spit forth

Their iron indignation 'gainst your walls:

All preparation for a bloody siege

And merciless proceeding by these French

Confronts your city's eyes, your winking gates;

And, but for our approach, those sleeping stones

That as a waist doth girdle you about,

By the compulsion of their ordinance

By this time from their fixed beds of lime

Had been dishabited, and wide havoc made

For bloody power to rush upon your peace.

But, on the sight of us, your lawful king,—

Who, painfully, with much expedient march,

Have brought a countercheck before your gates,

To save unscratched your city's threatned cheeks,—

Behold, the French, amazed, vouchsafe a parle;

And now, instead of bullets wrapped in fire,

To make a shaking fever in your walls,

They shoot but calm words folded up in smoke,

To make a faithless error in your ears:

Which trust accordingly, kind citizens,

And let us in, your king; whose laboured spirits,

Forwearied in this action of swift speed,

Craves harbourage within your city-walls.

KING PHILIP.

When I have said, make answer to us both.

Lo, in this right hand, whose protection

Is most divinely vowed upon the right

Of him it holds, stands young Plantagenet,

Son to the elder brother of this man,

And king o'er him and all that he enjoys:

For this down-trodden equity we tread

In war-like march these greens before your town;

Being no further enemy to you

Than the constraint of hospitable zeal

In the relief of this oppressed child

Religiously provokes. Be pleased then

To pay that duty which you truly owe

To him that owes it, namely, this young prince:

And then our arms, like to a muzzled bear,

Save in aspect, hath all offence sealed up;

Our cannons' malice vainly shall be spent

Against the invulnerable clouds of heaven;

And with a blessed and unvexed retire,

With unhacked swords and helmets all unbruised,

We will bear home that lusty blood again

Which here we came to spout against your town,

And leave your children, wives, and you, in peace.

But if you fondly pass our proffered offer,

'Tis not the roundure of your old-faced walls

Can hide you from our messengers of war,

Though all these English, and their discipline,

Were harboured in their rude circumference.

Then, tell us, shall your city call us lord

In that behalf which we have challenged it?

Or shall we give the signal to our rage,

And stalk in blood to our possession?

FIRST CITIZEN.

In brief: we are the King of England's subjects:

For him, and in his right, we hold this town.

KING JOHN.

Acknowledge then the king, and let me in.

CITIZEN.

That can we not; but he that proves the king,

To him will we prove loyal: till that time

Have we rammed up our gates against the world.

KING JOHN.

Doth not the crown of England prove the king?

And if not that, I bring you witnesses,

Twice fifteen thousand hearts of England's breed,—

BASTARD.

Bastards, and else.

KING JOHN.

To verify our title with their lives.

KING PHILIP.

As many and as well-born bloods as those,—

BASTARD.

Some bastards too.

KING PHILIP.

Stand in his face, to contradict his claim.

FIRST CITIZEN.

Till you compound whose right is worthiest,

We for the worthiest hold the right from both.

KING JOHN.

Then God forgive the sin of all those souls

That to their everlasting residence,

Before the dew of evening fall, shall fleet,

In dreadful trial of our kingdom's king!

KING PHILIP.

Amen, Amen!—Mount, chevaliers; to arms!

BASTARD.

Saint George, that swinged the dragon, and e'er since

Sits on his horse' back at mine hostess' door,

Teach us some fence!—Sirrah [To AUSTRIA.], were I at home,

At your den, sirrah, with your lioness,

I would set an ox-head to your lion's hide,

And make a monster of you.

AUSTRIA.

Peace! no more.

BASTARD.

O, tremble, for you hear the lion roar.

KING JOHN.

Up higher to the plain; where we'll set forth

In best appointment all our regiments.

BASTARD.

Speed, then, to take advantage of the field.

KING PHILIP.

It shall be so;—[To LEWIS.] and at the other hill

Command the rest to stand.—God and our right!

[Exeunt severally.]

[After excursions, enter a French Herald, with trumpets, to the gates.]

FRENCH HERALD.

You men of Angiers, open wide your gates

And let young Arthur, Duke of Bretagne, in,

Who, by the hand of France, this day hath made

Much work for tears in many an English mother,

Whose sons lie scattered on the bleeding ground;

Many a widow's husband grovelling lies,

Coldly embracing the discoloured earth;

And victory, with little loss, doth play

Upon the dancing banners of the French,

Who are at hand, triumphantly displayed,

To enter conquerors, and to proclaim

Arthur of Bretagne England's king and yours.

[Enter an ENGLISH HERALD, with trumpets.]

ENGLISH HERALD.

Rejoice, you men of Angiers, ring your bells:

King John, your king and England's, doth approach,

Commander of this hot malicious day:

Their armours, that marched hence so silver-bright,

Hither return all gilt with Frenchmen's blood;

There stuck no plume in any English crest

That is removed by a staff of France,

Our colours do return in those same hands

That did display them when we first marched forth;

And, like a jolly troop of huntsmen, come

Our lusty English, all with purpled hands,

Dyed in the dying slaughter of their foes:

Open your gates and give the victors way.

FIRST CITIZEN.

Heralds, from off our towers, we might behold,

From first to last, the onset and retire

Of both your armies; whose equality

By our best eyes cannot be censured:

Blood hath bought blood, and blows have answered blows;

Strength matched with strength, and power confronted power:

Both are alike, and both alike we like.

One must prove greatest: while they weigh so even,

We hold our town for neither; yet for both.

[Enter, on one side, KING JOHN, ELINOR, BLANCH, the BASTARD, and Forces; at the other, KING PHILIP, LEWIS, AUSTRIA, and Forces.]

KING JOHN.

France, hast thou yet more blood to cast away?

Say, shall the current of our right run on?

Whose passage, vexed with thy impediment,

Shall leave his native channel, and o'erswell

With course disturbed even thy confining shores,

Unless thou let his silver water keep

A peaceful progress to the ocean.

KING PHILIP.

England, thou hast not saved one drop of blood

In this hot trial, more than we of France;

Rather, lost more: and by this hand I swear,

That sways the earth this climate overlooks,

Before we will lay down our just-borne arms,

We'll put thee down, 'gainst whom these arms we bear,

Or add a royal number to the dead,

Gracing the scroll that tells of this war's loss

With slaughter coupled to the name of kings.

BASTARD.

Ha, majesty! how high thy glory towers

When the rich blood of kings is set on fire!

O, now doth Death line his dead chaps with steel;

The swords of soldiers are his teeth, his fangs;

And now he feasts, mousing the flesh of men,

In undetermined differences of kings.—

Why stand these royal fronts amazed thus?

Cry, havoc, kings! back to the stained field,

You equal potents, fiery-kindled spirits!

Then let confusion of one part confirm

The other's peace: till then, blows, blood, and death!

KING JOHN.

Whose party do the townsmen yet admit?

KING PHILIP.

Speak, citizens, for England; who's your king?

FIRST CITIZEN.

The King of England, when we know the king.

KING PHILIP.

Know him in us, that here hold up his right.

KING JOHN.

In us, that are our own great deputy,

And bear possession of our person here;

Lord of our presence, Angiers, and of you.

FIRST CITIZEN.

A greater power than we denies all this;

And till it be undoubted, we do lock

Our former scruple in our strong-barred gates;

Kinged of our fears, until our fears, resolved,

Be by some certain king purged and deposed.

BASTARD.

By heaven, these scroyles of Angiers flout you, kings,

And stand securely on their battlements

As in a theatre, whence they gape and point

At your industrious scenes and acts of death.

Your royal presences be ruled by me:—

Do like the mutines of Jerusalem,

Be friends awhile, and both conjointly bend

Your sharpest deeds of malice on this town:

By east and west let France and England mount

Their battering cannon, charged to the mouths,

Till their soul-fearing clamours have brawled down

The flinty ribs of this contemptuous city:

I'd play incessantly upon these jades,

Even till unfenced desolation

Leave them as naked as the vulgar air.

That done, dissever your united strengths,

And part your mingled colours once again:

Turn face to face, and bloody point to point;

Then, in a moment, fortune shall cull forth

Out of one side her happy minion,

To whom in favour she shall give the day,

And kiss him with a glorious victory.

How like you this wild counsel, mighty states?

Smacks it not something of the policy?

KING JOHN.

Now, by the sky that hangs above our heads,

I like it well.—France, shall we knit our powers,

And lay this Angiers even with the ground;

Then, after, fight who shall be king of it?

BASTARD.

An if thou hast the mettle of a king,—

Being wronged, as we are, by this peevish town,—

Turn thou the mouth of thy artillery,

As we will ours, against these saucy walls;

And when that we have dashed them to the ground,

Why then defy each other, and, pell-mell,

Make work upon ourselves, for heaven or hell!

KING PHILIP.

Let it be so.—Say, where will you assault?

KING JOHN.

We from the west will send destruction

Into this city's bosom.

AUSTRIA.

I from the north.

KING PHILIP.

Our thunder from the south

Shall rain their drift of bullets on this town.

BASTARD.

O prudent discipline! From north to south,—

Austria and France shoot in each other's mouth:

I'll stir them to it.[Aside.]—Come, away, away!

FIRST CITIZEN.

Hear us, great kings: vouchsafe awhile to stay,

And I shall show you peace and fair-faced league;

Win you this city without stroke or wound;

Rescue those breathing lives to die in beds

That here come sacrifices for the field:

Persever not, but hear me, mighty kings.

KING JOHN.

Speak on with favour; we are bent to hear.

FIRST CITIZEN.

That daughter there of Spain, the Lady Blanch,

Is niece to England:—look upon the years

Of Lewis the Dauphin and that lovely maid:

If lusty love should go in quest of beauty,

Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch?

If zealous love should go in search of virtue,

Where should he find it purer than in Blanch?

If love ambitious sought a match of birth,

Whose veins bound richer blood than Lady Blanch?

Such as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth,

Is the young Dauphin every way complete,—

If not complete of, say he is not she;

And she again wants nothing, to name want,

If want it be not, that she is not he:

He is the half part of a blessed man,

Left to be finished by such a she;

And she a fair divided excellence,

Whose fulness of perfection lies in him.

O, two such silver currents, when they join

Do glorify the banks that bound them in;

And two such shores to two such streams made one,

Two such controlling bounds, shall you be, kings,

To these two princes, if you marry them.

This union shall do more than battery can

To our fast-closed gates; for at this match,

With swifter spleen than powder can enforce,

The mouth of passage shall we fling wide ope,

And give you entrance; but without this match,

The sea enraged is not half so deaf,

Lions more confident, mountains and rocks

More free from motion; no, not Death himself

In mortal fury half so peremptory

As we to keep this city.

BASTARD.

Here's a stay

That shakes the rotten carcase of old Death

Out of his rags! Here's a large mouth, indeed,

That spits forth death and mountains, rocks and seas;

Talks as familiarly of roaring lions

As maids of thirteen do of puppy-dogs!

What cannoneer begot this lusty blood?

He speaks plain cannon,—fire and smoke and bounce;

He gives the bastinado with his tongue;

Our ears are cudgelled; not a word of his

But buffets better than a fist of France.

Zounds! I was never so bethumped with words

Since I first called my brother's father dad.

ELINOR.

Son, list to this conjunction, make this match;

Give with our niece a dowry large enough;

For by this knot thou shalt so surely tie

Thy now unsured assurance to the crown,

That yon green boy shall have no sun to ripe

The bloom that promiseth a mighty fruit.

I see a yielding in the looks of France;

Mark how they whisper: urge them while their souls

Are capable of this ambition,

Lest zeal, now melted by the windy breath

Of soft petitions, pity, and remorse,

Cool and congeal again to what it was.

FIRST CITIZEN.

Why answer not the double majesties

This friendly treaty of our threatened town?

KING PHILIP.

Speak England first, that hath been forward first

To speak unto this city: what say you?

KING JOHN.

If that the Dauphin there, thy princely son,

Can in this book of beauty read 'I love,'

Her dowry shall weigh equal with a queen;

For Anjou, and fair Touraine, Maine, Poictiers,

And all that we upon this side the sea,—

Except this city now by us besieged,—

Find liable to our crown and dignity,

Shall gild her bridal bed; and make her rich

In titles, honours, and promotions,

As she in beauty, education, blood,

Holds hand with any princess of the world.

KING PHILIP.

What say'st thou, boy? look in the lady's face.

LEWIS.

I do, my lord, and in her eye I find

A wonder, or a wondrous miracle,

The shadow of myself formed in her eye;

Which, being but the shadow of your son,

Becomes a sun, and makes your son a shadow:

I do protest I never loved myself

Till now infixed I beheld myself

Drawn in the flattering table of her eye.

[Whispers with BLANCH.]

BASTARD.

[Aside.]

Drawn in the flattering table of her eye!—

Hanged in the frowning wrinkle of her brow,

And quartered in her heart!—he doth espy

Himself love's traitor! This is pity now,

That, hanged, and drawn, and quartered, there should be

In such a love so vile a lout as he.

BLANCH.

My uncle's will in this respect is mine.

If he see aught in you that makes him like,

That anything he sees, which moves his liking

I can with ease translate it to my will;

Or if you will, to speak more properly,

I will enforce it easily to my love.

Further, I will not flatter you, my lord,

That all I see in you is worthy love,

Than this,—that nothing do I see in you,

Though churlish thoughts themselves should be your judge,—

That I can find should merit any hate.

KING JOHN.

What say these young ones?—What say you, my niece?

BLANCH.

That she is bound in honour still to do

What you in wisdom still vouchsafe to say.

KING JOHN.

Speak then, Prince Dauphin; can you love this lady?

LEWIS.

Nay, ask me if I can refrain from love;

For I do love her most unfeignedly.

KING JOHN.

Then do I give Volquessen, Touraine, Maine,

Poictiers, and Anjou, these five provinces,

With her to thee; and this addition more,

Full thirty thousand marks of English coin.—

Philip of France, if thou be pleased withal,

Command thy son and daughter to join hands.

KING PHILIP.

It likes us well.—Young princes, close your hands.

AUSTRIA.

And your lips too; for I am well assured

That I did so when I was first assured.

KING PHILIP.

Now, citizens of Angiers, ope your gates,

Let in that amity which you have made;

For at Saint Mary's chapel presently

The rites of marriage shall be solemnized.—

Is not the Lady Constance in this troop?

I know she is not; for this match made up

Her presence would have interrupted much:

Where is she and her son? tell me, who knows.

LEWIS.

She is sad and passionate at your highness' tent.

KING PHILIP.

And, by my faith, this league that we have made

Will give her sadness very little cure.—

Brother of England, how may we content

This widow lady? In her right we came;

Which we, God knows, have turned another way,

To our own vantage.

KING JOHN.

We will heal up all;

For we'll create young Arthur Duke of Bretagne,

And Earl of Richmond; and this rich fair town

We make him lord of.—Call the Lady Constance:

Some speedy messenger bid her repair

To our solemnity:—I trust we shall,

If not fill up the measure of her will,

Yet in some measure satisfy her so

That we shall stop her exclamation.

Go we, as well as haste will suffer us,

To this unlooked-for, unprepared pomp.

[Exeunt all but the BASTARD. The Citizens retire from the Walls.]

BASTARD.

Mad world! mad kings! mad composition!

John, to stop Arthur's title in the whole,

Hath willingly departed with a part;

And France,—whose armour conscience buckled on,

Whom zeal and charity brought to the field

As God's own soldier,—rounded in the ear

With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil;

That broker, that still breaks the pate of faith;

That daily break-vow, he that wins of all,

Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids,—

Who having no external thing to lose

But the word maid, cheats the poor maid of that;

That smooth-faced gentleman, tickling commodity,—

Commodity, the bias of the world;

The world, who of itself is peised well,

Made to run even upon even ground,

Till this advantage, this vile-drawing bias,

This sway of motion, this commodity,

Makes it take head from all indifferency,

From all direction, purpose, course, intent:

And this same bias, this commodity,

This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word,

Clapped on the outward eye of fickle France,

Hath drawn him from his own determined aid,

From a resolved and honourable war,

To a most base and vile-concluded peace.—

And why rail I on this commodity?

But for because he hath not wooed me yet:

Not that I have the power to clutch my hand

When his fair angels would salute my palm;

But for my hand, as unattempted yet,

Like a poor beggar, raileth on the rich.

Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail,

And say, There is no sin but to be rich;

And being rich, my virtue then shall be,

To say, There is no vice but beggary:

Since kings break faith upon commodity,

Gain, be my lord!—for I will worship thee.

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

France. The FRENCH KING'S tent.

[Enter CONSTANCE, ARTHUR, and SALISBURY.]

CONSTANCE.

Gone to be married! gone to swear a peace!

False blood to false blood joined! gone to be friends!

Shall Lewis have Blanch? and Blanch those provinces?

It is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard;

Be well advised, tell o'er thy tale again:

It cannot be; thou dost but say 'tis so;

I trust I may not trust thee; for thy word

Is but the vain breath of a common man:

Believe me, I do not believe thee, man;

I have a king's oath to the contrary.

Thou shalt be punished for thus frighting me,

For I am sick and capable of fears;

Oppressed with wrongs, and therefore full of fears;

A widow, husbandless, subject to fears;

A woman, naturally born to fears;

And though thou now confess thou didst but jest,

With my vexed spirits I cannot take a truce,

But they will quake and tremble all this day.

What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head?

Why dost thou look so sadly on my son?

What means that hand upon that breast of thine?

Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum,

Like a proud river peering o'er his bounds?

Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words?

Then speak again,—not all thy former tale,

But this one word, whether thy tale be true.

SALISBURY.

As true as I believe you think them false

That give you cause to prove my saying true.

CONSTANCE.

O, if thou teach me to believe this sorrow,

Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die;

And let belief and life encounter so

As doth the fury of two desperate men,

Which in the very meeting fall and die!—

Lewis marry Blanch! O boy, then where art thou?

France friend with England! what becomes of me?—

Fellow, be gone: I cannot brook thy sight;

This news hath made thee a most ugly man.

SALISBURY.

What other harm have I, good lady, done,

But spoke the harm that is by others done?

CONSTANCE.

Which harm within itself so heinous is,

As it makes harmful all that speak of it.

ARTHUR.

I do beseech you, madam, be content.

CONSTANCE.

If thou, that bid'st me be content, wert grim,

Ugly, and slanderous to thy mother's womb,

Full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains,

Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious,

Patched with foul moles and eye-offending marks,

I would not care, I then would be content;

For then I should not love thee; no, nor thou

Become thy great birth, nor deserve a crown.

But thou art fair; and at thy birth, dear boy,

Nature and fortune joined to make thee great:

Of nature's gifts thou mayst with lilies boast,

And with the half-blown rose; but Fortune, O!

She is corrupted, changed, and won from thee;

She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John;

And with her golden hand hath plucked on France

To tread down fair respect of sovereignty,

And made his majesty the bawd to theirs.

France is a bawd to Fortune and king John—

That strumpet Fortune, that usurping John!—

Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn?

Envenom him with words; or get thee gone,

And leave those woes alone, which I alone

Am bound to under-bear.

SALISBURY.

Pardon me, madam,

I may not go without you to the kings.

CONSTANCE.

Thou mayst, thou shalt; I will not go with thee:

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud;

For grief is proud, and makes his owner stout.

To me, and to the state of my great grief,

Let kings assemble; for my grief's so great

That no supporter but the huge firm earth

Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit;

Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.

[Seats herself on the ground.]

[Enter KING JOHN, KING PHILIP, LEWIS, BLANCH, ELINOR, BASTARD, AUSTRIA, and attendants.]

KING PHILIP.

'Tis true, fair daughter; and this blessed day

Ever in France shall be kept festival:

To solemnize this day the glorious sun

Stays in his course and plays the alchemist,

Turning, with splendour of his precious eye,

The meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold:

The yearly course that brings this day about

Shall never see it but a holiday.

CONSTANCE.

[Rising.]

A wicked day, and not a holy day!

What hath this day deserved? what hath it done

That it in golden letters should be set

Among the high tides in the calendar?

Nay, rather turn this day out of the week,

This day of shame, oppression, perjury:

Or, if it must stand still, let wives with child

Pray that their burdens may not fall this day,

Lest that their hopes prodigiously be crossed:

But on this day let seamen fear no wreck;

No bargains break that are not this day made:

This day, all things begun come to ill end,—

Yea, faith itself to hollow falsehood change!

KING PHILIP.

By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause

To curse the fair proceedings of this day.

Have I not pawned to you my majesty?

CONSTANCE.

You have beguiled me with a counterfeit

Resembling majesty; which, being touched and tried,

Proves valueless; you are forsworn, forsworn:

You came in arms to spill mine enemies' blood,

But now in arms you strengthen it with yours:

The grappling vigour and rough frown of war

Is cold in amity and painted peace,

And our oppression hath made up this league.—

Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjured kings!

A widow cries: be husband to me, heavens!

Let not the hours of this ungodly day

Wear out the day in peace; but, ere sunset,

Set armed discord 'twixt these perjured kings!

Hear me, O, hear me!

AUSTRIA.

Lady Constance, peace!

CONSTANCE.

War! war! no peace! peace is to me a war.

O Lymoges! O Austria! thou dost shame

That bloody spoil: thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward!

Thou little valiant, great in villainy!

Thou ever strong upon the stronger side!

Thou Fortune's champion that dost never fight

But when her humorous ladyship is by

To teach thee safety!—thou art perjured too,

And sooth'st up greatness. What a fool art thou,

A ramping fool, to brag, and stamp. and swear

Upon my party! Thou cold-blooded slave,

Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side?

Been sworn my soldier? bidding me depend

Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength?

And dost thou now fall over to my foes?

Thou wear a lion's hide! doff it for shame,

And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs!

AUSTRIA.

O that a man should speak those words to me!

BASTARD.

And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs.

AUSTRIA.

Thou dar'st not say so, villain, for thy life.

BASTARD.

And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs.

KING JOHN.

We like not this: thou dost forget thyself.

KING PHILIP.

Here comes the holy legate of the Pope.

[Enter PANDULPH.]

PANDULPH.

Hail, you anointed deputies of heaven!—

To thee, King John, my holy errand is.

I Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal,

And from Pope Innocent the legate here,

Do in his name religiously demand

Why thou against the church, our holy mother,

So wilfully dost spurn; and, force perforce

Keep Stephen Langton, chosen Archbishop

Of Canterbury, from that holy see?

This, in our foresaid holy father's name,

Pope Innocent, I do demand of thee.

KING JOHN.

What earthly name to interrogatories

Can task the free breath of a sacred king?

Thou canst not, cardinal, devise a name

So slight, unworthy, and ridiculous,

To charge me to an answer, as the pope.

Tell him this tale; and from the mouth of England

Add thus much more,—that no Italian priest

Shall tithe or toll in our dominions:

But as we under heaven are supreme head,

So, under him, that great supremacy,

Where we do reign, we will alone uphold,

Without the assistance of a mortal hand:

So tell the pope, all reverence set apart

To him and his usurped authority.

KING PHILIP.

Brother of England, you blaspheme in this.

KING JOHN.

Though you and all the kings of Christendom

Are led so grossly by this meddling priest,

Dreading the curse that money may buy out;

And by the merit of vile gold, dross, dust,

Purchase corrupted pardon of a man,

Who in that sale sells pardon from himself;

Though you and all the rest, so grossly led,

This juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish;

Yet I, alone, alone do me oppose

Against the pope, and count his friends my foes.

PANDULPH.

Then by the lawful power that I have,

Thou shalt stand cursed and excommunicate:

And blessed shall he be that doth revolt

From his allegiance to an heretic;

And meritorious shall that hand be called,

Canonized, and worshipped as a saint,

That takes away by any secret course

Thy hateful life.

CONSTANCE.

O, lawful let it be

That I have room with Rome to curse awhile!

Good father Cardinal, cry thou amen

To my keen curses: for without my wrong

There is no tongue hath power to curse him right.

PANDULPH.

There's law and warrant, lady, for my curse.

CONSTANCE.

And for mine too: when law can do no right,

Let it be lawful that law bar no wrong:

Law cannot give my child his kingdom here;

For he that holds his kingdom holds the law:

Therefore, since law itself is perfect wrong,

How can the law forbid my tongue to curse?

PANDULPH.

Philip of France, on peril of a curse,

Let go the hand of that arch-heretic,

And raise the power of France upon his head,

Unless he do submit himself to Rome.

ELINOR.

Look'st thou pale, France; do not let go thy hand.

CONSTANCE

Look to that, devil; lest that France repent

And, by disjoining hands, hell lose a soul.

AUSTRIA.

King Philip, listen to the cardinal.

BASTARD.

And hang a calf's-skin on his recreant limbs.

AUSTRIA.

Well, ruffian, I must pocket up these wrongs,

Because—

BASTARD.

Your breeches best may carry them.

KING JOHN.

Philip, what say'st thou to the cardinal?

CONSTANCE.

What should he say, but as the cardinal?

LEWIS.

Bethink you, father; for the difference

Is, purchase of a heavy curse from Rome,

Or the light loss of England for a friend:

Forgo the easier.

BLANCH.

That's the curse of Rome.

CONSTANCE.

O Lewis, stand fast! The devil tempts thee here

In likeness of a new uptrimmed bride.

BLANCH.

The Lady Constance speaks not from her faith,

But from her need.

CONSTANCE.

O, if thou grant my need,

Which only lives but by the death of faith,

That need must needs infer this principle,—

That faith would live again by death of need!

O then, tread down my need, and faith mounts up;

Keep my need up, and faith is trodden down!

KING JOHN.

The king is moved, and answers not to this.

CONSTANCE.

O be removed from him, and answer well!

AUSTRIA.

Do so, King Philip; hang no more in doubt.

BASTARD.

Hang nothing but a calf's-skin, most sweet lout.

KING PHILIP.

I am perplexed, and know not what to say.

PANDULPH.

What canst thou say, but will perplex thee more,

If thou stand excommunicate and cursed?

KING PHILIP.

Good reverend father, make my person yours,

And tell me how you would bestow yourself.

This royal hand and mine are newly knit,

And the conjunction of our inward souls

Married in league, coupled and linked together

With all religious strength of sacred vows;

The latest breath that gave the sound of words

Was deep-sworn faith, peace, amity, true love,

Between our kingdoms and our royal selves;

And even before this truce, but new before,—

No longer than we well could wash our hands,

To clap this royal bargain up of peace,—

Heaven knows, they were besmeared and overstained

With slaughter's pencil, where revenge did paint

The fearful difference of incensed kings:

And shall these hands, so lately purged of blood,

So newly joined in love, so strong in both,

Unyoke this seizure and this kind regreet?

Play fast and loose with faith? so jest with heaven,

Make such unconstant children of ourselves,

As now again to snatch our palm from palm;

Unswear faith sworn; and on the marriage-bed

Of smiling peace to march a bloody host,

And make a riot on the gentle brow

Of true sincerity? O, holy sir.

My reverend father, let it not be so!

Out of your grace, devise, ordain, impose,

Some gentle order; and then we shall be blessed

To do your pleasure, and continue friends.

PANDULPH.

All form is formless, order orderless,

Save what is opposite to England's love.

Therefore, to arms! be champion of our church,

Or let the church, our mother, breathe her curse,—

A mother's curse,—on her revolting son.

France, thou mayst hold a serpent by the tongue,

A chafed lion by the mortal paw,

A fasting tiger safer by the tooth,

Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost hold.

KING PHILIP.

I may disjoin my hand, but not my faith.

PANDULPH.

So mak'st thou faith an enemy to faith;

And, like a civil war, sett'st oath to oath,

Thy tongue against thy tongue. O, let thy vow

First made to heaven, first be to heaven performed,—

That is, to be the champion of our church.

What since thou swor'st is sworn against thyself

And may not be performed by thyself:

For that which thou hast sworn to do amiss

Is not amiss when it is truly done;

And being not done, where doing tends to ill,

The truth is then most done not doing it:

The better act of purposes mistook

Is to mistake again; though indirect,

Yet indirection thereby grows direct,

And falsehood falsehood cures, as fire cools fire

Within the scorched veins of one new-burned.

It is religion that doth make vows kept;

But thou hast sworn against religion,

By what thou swear'st against the thing thou swear'st;

And mak'st an oath the surety for thy truth

Against an oath: the truth thou art unsure

To swear, swears only not to be forsworn;

Else what a mockery should it be to swear!

But thou dost swear only to be forsworn;

And most forsworn, to keep what thou dost swear.

Therefore thy latter vows against thy first

Is in thyself rebellion to thyself;

And better conquest never canst thou make

Than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts

Against these giddy loose suggestions:

Upon which better part our prayers come in,

If thou vouchsafe them; but if not, then know

The peril of our curses fight on thee,

So heavy as thou shalt not shake them off,

But in despair die under the black weight.

AUSTRIA.

Rebellion, flat rebellion!

BASTARD.

Will't not be?

Will not a calf's-skin stop that mouth of thine?

LEWIS.

Father, to arms!

BLANCH.

Upon thy wedding-day?

Against the blood that thou hast married?

What, shall our feast be kept with slaughtered men?

Shall braying trumpets and loud churlish drums,—

Clamours of hell,—be measures to our pomp?

O husband, hear me!—ay, alack, how new

Is husband in my mouth!—even for that name,

Which till this time my tongue did ne'er pronounce,

Upon my knee I beg, go not to arms

Against mine uncle.

CONSTANCE.

O, upon my knee,

Made hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee,

Thou virtuous Dauphin, alter not the doom

Forethought by heaven.

BLANCH.

Now shall I see thy love: what motive may

Be stronger with thee than the name of wife?

CONSTANCE.

That which upholdeth him that thee upholds,

His honour:—O, thine honour, Lewis, thine honour!

LEWIS.

I muse your majesty doth seem so cold,

When such profound respects do pull you on.

PANDULPH.

I will denounce a curse upon his head.

KING PHILIP.

Thou shalt not need.—England, I will fall from thee.

CONSTANCE.

O fair return of banished majesty!

ELINOR.

O foul revolt of French inconstancy!

KING JOHN.

France, thou shalt rue this hour within this hour.

BASTARD.

Old Time the clock-setter, that bald sexton Time,

Is it as he will? well, then, France shall rue.

BLANCH.

The sun's o'ercast with blood: fair day, adieu!

Which is the side that I must go withal?

I am with both: each army hath a hand;

And in their rage, I having hold of both,

They whirl asunder and dismember me.

Husband, I cannot pray that thou mayst win;

Uncle, I needs must pray that thou mayst lose;

Father, I may not wish the fortune thine;

Grandam, I will not wish thy wishes thrive:

Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose;

Assured loss before the match be played.

LEWIS.

Lady, with me: with me thy fortune lies.

BLANCH.

There where my fortune lives, there my life dies.

KING JOHN.

Cousin, go draw our puissance together.—

[Exit BASTARD.]

France, I am burned up with inflaming wrath;

A rage whose heat hath this condition,

That nothing can allay, nothing but blood,—

The blood, and dearest-valued blood of France.

KING PHILIP.

Thy rage shall burn thee up, and thou shalt turn

To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire:

Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy.

KING JOHN.

No more than he that threats.—To arms let's hie!

[Exeunt severally.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

The same. Plains near Angiers

[Alarums. Excursions. Enter the BASTARD with AUSTRIA'S head.]

BASTARD.

Now, by my life, this day grows wondrous hot;

Some airy devil hovers in the sky

And pours down mischief.—Austria's head lie there,

While Philip breathes.

[Enter KING JOHN, ARTHUR, and HUBERT.]

KING JOHN.

Hubert, keep this boy.—Philip, make up:

My mother is assailed in our tent,

And ta'en, I fear.

BASTARD.

My lord, I rescued her;

Her highness is in safety, fear you not:

But on, my liege; for very little pains

Will bring this labour to an happy end.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE III.

The same.

[Alarums, Excursions, Retreat. Enter KING JOHN, ELINOR, ARTHUR, the BASTARD, HUBERT, and LORDS.]

KING JOHN.

[To ELINOR]

So shall it be; your grace shall stay behind,

So strongly guarded.—

[To ARTHUR]

Cousin, look not sad;

Thy grandam loves thee, and thy uncle will

As dear be to thee as thy father was.

ARTHUR.

O, this will make my mother die with grief!

KING JOHN.

[To the BASTARD]

Cousin, away for England; haste before:

And, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags

Of hoarding abbots; imprisoned angels

Set at liberty: the fat ribs of peace

Must by the hungry now be fed upon:

Use our commission in his utmost force.

BASTARD.

Bell, book, and candle shall not drive me back,

When gold and silver becks me to come on.

I leave your highness.—Grandam, I will pray,—

If ever I remember to be holy,—

For your fair safety; so, I kiss your hand.

ELINOR.

Farewell, gentle cousin.

KING JOHN.

Coz, farewell.

[Exit BASTARD.]

ELINOR.

Come hither, little kinsman; hark, a word.

[She takes Arthur aside.]

KING JOHN.

Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert,

We owe thee much! within this wall of flesh

There is a soul counts thee her creditor,

And with advantage means to pay thy love:

And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath

Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished.

Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say,—

But I will fit it with some better time.

By heaven, Hubert, I am almost ashamed

To say what good respect I have of thee.

HUBERT.

I am much bounden to your majesty.

KING JOHN.

Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet:

But thou shalt have; and creep time ne'er so slow,

Yet it shall come for me to do thee good.

I had a thing to say,—but let it go:

The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day,

Attended with the pleasures of the world,

Is all too wanton and too full of gawds

To give me audience:—if the midnight bell

Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,

Sound on into the drowsy race of night;

If this same were a churchyard where we stand,

And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;

Or if that surly spirit, melancholy,

Had baked thy blood and made it heavy-thick,

Which else runs tickling up and down the veins,

Making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes,

And strain their cheeks to idle merriment—

A passion hateful to my purposes;—

Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes,

Hear me without thine ears, and make reply

Without a tongue, using conceit alone,

Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words,—

Then, in despite of brooded watchful day,

I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts:

But, ah, I will not!—yet I love thee well;

And, by my troth, I think thou lov'st me well.

HUBERT.

So well that what you bid me undertake,

Though that my death were adjunct to my act,

By heaven, I would do it.

KING JOHN.

Do not I know thou wouldst?

Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye

On yon young boy: I'll tell thee what, my friend,

He is a very serpent in my way;

And wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread,

He lies before me: dost thou understand me?

Thou art his keeper.

HUBERT.

And I'll keep him so

That he shall not offend your majesty.

KING JOHN.

Death.

HUBERT.

My lord?

KING JOHN.

A grave.

HUBERT.

He shall not live.

KING JOHN.

Enough!—

I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee;

Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee:

Remember.—Madam, fare you well:

I'll send those powers o'er to your majesty.

ELINOR.

My blessing go with thee!

KING JOHN. For England, cousin, go:

Hubert shall be your man, attend on you

With all true duty.—On toward Calais, ho!

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE IV.

The same. The FRENCH KING's tent.

[Enter KING PHILIP, LEWIS, PANDULPH, and Attendants.]

KING PHILIP.

So, by a roaring tempest on the flood

A whole armado of convicted sail

Is scattered and disjoined from fellowship.

PANDULPH.

Courage and comfort! all shall yet go well.

KING PHILIP.

What can go well, when we have run so ill.

Are we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost?

Arthur ta'en prisoner? divers dear friends slain?

And bloody England into England gone,

O'erbearing interruption, spite of France?

LEWIS.

What he hath won, that hath he fortified:

So hot a speed with such advice disposed,

Such temperate order in so fierce a cause,

Doth want example: who hath read or heard

Of any kindred action like to this?

KING PHILIP.

Well could I bear that England had this praise,

So we could find some pattern of our shame.—

Look who comes here! a grave unto a soul;

Holding the eternal spirit, against her will,

In the vile prison of afflicted breath.

[Enter CONSTANCE.]

I pr'ythee, lady, go away with me.

CONSTANCE.

Lo, now! now see the issue of your peace!

KING PHILIP.

Patience, good lady! comfort, gentle Constance!

CONSTANCE.

No, I defy all counsel, all redress,

But that which ends all counsel, true redress,

Death, death:—O amiable lovely death!

Thou odoriferous stench! sound rottenness!

Arise forth from the couch of lasting night,

Thou hate and terror to prosperity,

And I will kiss thy detestable bones;

And put my eyeballs in thy vaulty brows;

And ring these fingers with thy household worms;

And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust,

And be a carrion monster like thyself:

Come, grin on me; and I will think thou smil'st,

And buss thee as thy wife! Misery's love,

O, come to me!

KING PHILIP.

O fair affliction, peace!

CONSTANCE.

No, no, I will not, having breath to cry:—

O, that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth!

Then with a passion would I shake the world;

And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy

Which cannot hear a lady's feeble voice,

Which scorns a modern invocation.

PANDULPH.

Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.

CONSTANCE.

Thou art not holy to belie me so;

I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine;

My name is Constance; I was Geffrey's wife;

Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost:

I am not mad:—I would to heaven I were!

For then, 'tis like I should forget myself:

O, if I could, what grief should I forget!—

Preach some philosophy to make me mad,

And thou shalt be canonized, cardinal;

For, being not mad, but sensible of grief,

My reasonable part produces reason

How I may be delivered of these woes,

And teaches me to kill or hang myself:

If I were mad I should forget my son,

Or madly think a babe of clouts were he:

I am not mad; too well, too well I feel

The different plague of each calamity.

KING PHILIP.

Bind up those tresses.—O, what love I note

In the fair multitude of those her hairs!

Where but by a chance a silver drop hath fallen,

Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends

Do glue themselves in sociable grief;

Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,

Sticking together in calamity.

CONSTANCE.

To England, if you will.

KING PHILIP.

Bind up your hairs.

CONSTANCE.

Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it?

I tore them from their bonds, and cried aloud,

'O that these hands could so redeem my son,

As they have given these hairs their liberty!'

But now I envy at their liberty,

And will again commit them to their bonds,

Because my poor child is a prisoner.—

And, father cardinal, I have heard you say

That we shall see and know our friends in heaven:

If that be true, I shall see my boy again;

For since the birth of Cain, the first male child,

To him that did but yesterday suspire,

There was not such a gracious creature born.

But now will canker sorrow eat my bud,

And chase the native beauty from his cheek,

And he will look as hollow as a ghost,

As dim and meagre as an ague's fit;

And so he'll die; and, rising so again,

When I shall meet him in the court of heaven

I shall not know him: therefore never, never

Must I behold my pretty Arthur more!

PANDULPH.

You hold too heinous a respect of grief.

CONSTANCE.

He talks to me that never had a son.

KING PHILIP.

You are as fond of grief as of your child.

CONSTANCE.

Grief fills the room up of my absent child,

Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,

Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,

Remembers me of all his gracious parts,

Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;

Then have I reason to be fond of grief.

Fare you well: had you such a loss as I,

I could give better comfort than you do.—

I will not keep this form upon my head,

[Tearing off her head-dress.]

When there is such disorder in my wit.

O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!

My life, my joy, my food, my ail the world!

My widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure!

[Exit.]

KING PHILIP.

I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her.

[Exit.]

LEWIS.

There's nothing in this world can make me joy:

Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale

Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man;

And bitter shame hath spoiled the sweet world's taste,

That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.

PANDULPH.

Before the curing of a strong disease,

Even in the instant of repair and health,

The fit is strongest; evils that take leave

On their departure most of all show evil;

What have you lost by losing of this day?

LEWIS.

All days of glory, joy, and happiness.

PANDULPH.

If you had won it, certainly you had.

No, no; when Fortune means to men most good,

She looks upon them with a threatening eye.

'Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost

In this which he accounts so clearly won.

Are not you grieved that Arthur is his prisoner?

LouIS.

As heartily as he is glad he hath him.

PANDULPH.

Your mind is all as youthful as your blood.

Now hear me speak with a prophetic spirit;

For even the breath of what I mean to speak

Shall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub,

Out of the path which shall directly lead

Thy foot to England's throne; and therefore mark.

John hath seized Arthur; and it cannot be

That, whiles warm life plays in that infant's veins,

The misplaced John should entertain an hour,

One minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest:

A sceptre snatched with an unruly hand

Must be boisterously maintained as gained:

And he that stands upon a slippery place

Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up:

That John may stand then, Arthur needs must fall:

So be it, for it cannot be but so.

LEWIS.

But what shall I gain by young Arthur's fall?

PANDULPH.

You, in the right of Lady Blanch your wife,

May then make all the claim that Arthur did.

LEWIS.

And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did.

PANDULPH.

How green you are, and fresh in this old world!

John lays you plots; the times conspire with you;

For he that steeps his safety in true blood

Shall find but bloody safety and untrue.

This act, so evilly borne, shall cool the hearts

Of all his people, and freeze up their zeal,

That none so small advantage shall step forth

To check his reign, but they will cherish it;

No natural exhalation in the sky,

No scope of nature, no distempered day,

No common wind, no customed event,

But they will pluck away his natural cause

And call them meteors, prodigies, and signs,

Abortives, presages, and tongues of heaven,

Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John.

LEWIS.

May be he will not touch young Arthur's life,

But hold himself safe in his prisonment.

PANDULPH.

O, sir, when he shall hear of your approach,

If that young Arthur be not gone already,

Even at that news he dies; and then the hearts

Of all his people shall revolt from him,

And kiss the lips of unacquainted change;

And pick strong matter of revolt and wrath

Out of the bloody fingers' ends of john.

Methinks I see this hurly all on foot:

And, O, what better matter breeds for you

Than I have named!—The bastard Falconbridge

Is now in England, ransacking the church,

Offending charity: if but a dozen French

Were there in arms, they would be as a call

To train ten thousand English to their side:

Or as a little snow, tumbled about

Anon becomes a mountain. O noble Dauphin,

Go with me to the king:—'tis wonderful

What may be wrought out of their discontent,

Now that their souls are topful of offence:

For England go:—I will whet on the king.

LEWIS.

Strong reasons makes strong actions: let us go:

If you say ay, the king will not say no.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

Northampton. A Room in the Castle.

[Enter HUBERT and two Attendants.]

HUBERT.

Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand

Within the arras: when I strike my foot

Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth

And bind the boy which you shall find with me

Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.

FIRST ATTENDANT.

I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.

HUBERT.

Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you; look to't.—

[Exeunt ATTENDANTS.]

Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.

[Enter ARTHUR.]

ARTHUR.

Good morrow, Hubert.

HUBERT.

Good morrow, little prince.

ARTHUR.

As little prince, having so great a tide

To be more prince, as may be.—You are sad.

HUBERT.

Indeed I have been merrier.

ARTHUR.

Mercy on me!

Methinks no body should be sad but I:

Yet, I remember, when I was in France,

Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,

Only for wantonness. By my christendom,

So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,

I should be as merry as the day is long;

And so I would be here, but that I doubt

My uncle practises more harm to me:

He is afraid of me, and I of him:

Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son?

No, indeed, is't not; and I would to heaven

I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.

HUBERT.

[Aside.]

If I talk to him, with his innocent prate

He will awake my mercy, which lies dead:

Therefore I will be sudden and despatch.

ARTHUR.

Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day:

In sooth, I would you were a little sick,

That I might sit all night and watch with you:

I warrant I love you more than you do me.

HUBERT.

[Aside.]

His words do take possession of my bosom.—

Read here, young Arthur.

[Showing a paper.]

[Aside.] How now, foolish rheum!

Turning dispiteous torture out of door!

I must be brief, lest resolution drop

Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears.—

Can you not read it? is it not fair writ?

ARTHUR.

Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect.

Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?

HUBERT.

Young boy, I must.

ARTHUR.

And will you?

HUBERT.

And I will.

ARTHUR.

Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,

I knit my handkerchief about your brows,—

The best I had, a princess wrought it me,—

And I did never ask it you again;

And with my hand at midnight held your head;

And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,

Still and anon cheered up the heavy time,

Saying 'What lack you?' and 'Where lies your grief?'

Or 'What good love may I perform for you?'

Many a poor man's son would have lien still,

And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;

But you at your sick service had a prince.

Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,

And call it cunning.—do, an if you will:

If heaven be pleased that you must use me ill,

Why, then you must.—Will you put out mine eyes,

These eyes that never did nor never shall

So much as frown on you?

HUBERT.

I have sworn to do it!

And with hot irons must I burn them out.

ARTHUR.

Ah, none but in this iron age would do it!

The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,

Approaching near these eyes would drink my tears,

And quench his fiery indignation,

Even in the matter of mine innocence;

Nay, after that, consume away in rust,

But for containing fire to harm mine eye.

Are you more stubborn-hard than hammered iron?

An if an angel should have come to me

And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,

I would not have believed him,—no tongue but Hubert's.

HUBERT.

[Stamps.] Come forth.

[Re-enter Attendants, with cords, irons, &c.]

Do as I bid you do.

ARTHUR.

O, save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out

Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.

HUBERT.

Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.

ARTHUR.

Alas, what need you be so boist'rous rough?

I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.

For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!

Nay, hear me, Hubert!—drive these men away,

And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;

I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,

Nor look upon the iron angerly:

Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,

Whatever torment you do put me to.

HUBERT.

Go, stand within; let me alone with him.

FIRST ATTENDANT.

I am best pleased to be from such a deed.

[Exeunt Attendants.]

ARTHUR.

Alas, I then have chid away my friend!

He hath a stern look but a gentle heart:—

Let him come back, that his compassion may

Give life to yours.

HUBERT.

Come, boy, prepare yourself.

ARTHUR.

Is there no remedy?

HUBERT.

None, but to lose your eyes.

ARTHUR.

O heaven!—that there were but a mote in yours,

A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,

Any annoyance in that precious sense!

Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there,

Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.

HUBERT.

Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue.

ARTHUR.

Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues

Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes:

Let me not hold my tongue,—let me not, Hubert;

Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,

So I may keep mine eyes: O, spare mine eyes,

Though to no use but still to look on you!—

Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold

And would not harm me.

HUBERT.

I can heat it, boy.

ARTHUR.

No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief,

Being create for comfort, to be used

In undeserved extremes: see else yourself;

There is no malice in this burning coal;

The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out,

And strewed repentant ashes on his head.

HUBERT.

But with my breath I can revive it, boy.

ARTHUR.

An if you do, you will but make it blush,

And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert.

Nay, it, perchance will sparkle in your eyes;

And, like a dog that is compelled to fight,

Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on.

All things that you should use to do me wrong,

Deny their office: only you do lack

That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends,

Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.

HUBERT.

Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eye

For all the treasure that thine uncle owes:

Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy,

With this same very iron to burn them out.

ARTHUR.

O, now you look like Hubert! all this while

You were disguised.

HUBERT.

Peace; no more. Adieu!

Your uncle must not know but you are dead;

I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports:

And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure

That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,

Will not offend thee.

ARTHUR.

O heaven! I thank you, Hubert.

HUBERT.

Silence; no more: go closely in with me:

Much danger do I undergo for thee.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

The same. A Room of State in the Palace.

[Enter KING JOHN, crowned, PEMBROKE, SALISBURY, and other LORDS. The KING takes his State.]

KING JOHN.

Here once again we sit, once again crowned,

And looked upon, I hope, with cheerful eyes.

PEMBROKE.

This once again, but that your highness pleased,

Was once superfluous: you were crowned before,

And that high royalty was ne'er plucked off;

The faiths of men ne'er stained with revolt;

Fresh expectation troubled not the land

With any longed-for change or better state.

SALISBURY.

Therefore, to be possessed with double pomp,

To guard a title that was rich before,

To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,

To throw a perfume on the violet,

To smooth the ice, or add another hue

Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light

To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,

Is wasteful and ridiculous excess.

PEMBROKE.

But that your royal pleasure must be done,

This act is as an ancient tale new told;

And, in the last repeating troublesome,

Being urged at a time unseasonable.

SALISBURY.

In this, the antique and well-noted face

Of plain old form is much disfigured;

And, like a shifted wind unto a sail,

It makes the course of thoughts to fetch about;

Startles and frights consideration;

Makes sound opinion sick, and truth suspected,

For putting on so new a fashioned robe.

PEMBROKE.

When workmen strive to do better than well,

They do confound their skill in covetousness;

And oftentimes excusing of a fault

Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse,—

As patches set upon a little breach

Discredit more in hiding of the fault

Than did the fault before it was so patched.

SALISBURY.

To this effect, before you were new-crowned,

We breathed our counsel: but it pleased your highness

To overbear it; and we are all well pleased,

Since all and every part of what we would

Doth make a stand at what your highness will.

KING JOHN.

Some reasons of this double coronation

I have possessed you with, and think them strong;

And more, more strong, when lesser is my fear,

I shall indue you with: meantime but ask

What you would have reformed that is not well,

And well shall you perceive how willingly

I will both hear and grant you your requests.

PEMBROKE.

Then I,—as one that am the tongue of these,

To sound the purposes of all their hearts,—

Both for myself and them,—but, chief of all,

Your safety, for the which myself and them

Bend their best studies,—heartily request

The enfranchisement of Arthur, whose restraint

Doth move the murmuring lips of discontent

To break into this dangerous argument,—

If what in rest you have in right you hold,

Why then your fears,—which, as they say, attend

The steps of wrong,—should move you to mew up

Your tender kinsman, and to choke his days

With barbarous ignorance, and deny his youth

The rich advantage of good exercise?

That the time's enemies may not have this

To grace occasions, let it be our suit

That you have bid us ask his liberty;

Which for our goods we do no further ask

Than whereupon our weal, on you depending,

Counts it your weal he have his liberty.

KING JOHN.

Let it be so: I do commit his youth

To your direction.

[Enter HUBERT.]

Hubert, what news with you?

PEMBROKE.

This is the man should do the bloody deed;

He showed his warrant to a friend of mine:

The image of a wicked heinous fault

Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his

Doth show the mood of a much-troubled breast;

And I do fearfully believe 'tis done

What we so feared he had a charge to do.

SALISBURY.

The colour of the king doth come and go

Between his purpose and his conscience,

Like heralds 'twixt two dreadful battles set.

His passion is so ripe it needs must break.

PEMBROKE.

And when it breaks, I fear will issue thence

The foul corruption of a sweet child's death.

KING JOHN.

We cannot hold mortality's strong hand:—

Good lords, although my will to give is living,

The suit which you demand is gone and dead:

He tells us Arthur is deceased to-night.

SALISBURY.

Indeed, we feared his sickness was past cure.

PEMBROKE.

Indeed, we heard how near his death he was,

Before the child himself felt he was sick:

This must be answered either here or hence.

KING JOHN.

Why do you bend such solemn brows on me?

Think you I bear the shears of destiny?

Have I commandment on the pulse of life?

SALISBURY.

It is apparent foul-play; and 'tis shame

That greatness should so grossly offer it:

So thrive it in your game! and so, farewell.

PEMBROKE.

Stay yet, Lord Salisbury, I'll go with thee

And find th' inheritance of this poor child,

His little kingdom of a forced grave.

That blood which owed the breadth of all this isle

Three foot of it doth hold:—bad world the while!

This must not be thus borne: this will break out

To all our sorrows, and ere long, I doubt.

[Exeunt LORDS.]

KING JOHN.

They burn in indignation. I repent:

There is no sure foundation set on blood;

No certain life achieved by others' death.—

[Enter a MESSENGER.]

A fearful eye thou hast: where is that blood

That I have seen inhabit in those cheeks?

So foul a sky clears not without a storm:

Pour down thy weather:—how goes all in France?

MESSENGER.

From France to England.—Never such a power

For any foreign preparation

Was levied in the body of a land.

The copy of your speed is learned by them;

For when you should be told they do prepare,

The tidings comes that they are all arrived.

KING JOHN.

O, where hath our intelligence been drunk?

Where hath it slept? Where is my mother's care,

That such an army could be drawn in France,

And she not hear of it?

MESSENGER.

My liege, her ear

Is stopped with dust; the first of April died

Your noble mother; and as I hear, my lord,

The Lady Constance in a frenzy died

Three days before; but this from rumour's tongue

I idly heard,—if true or false I know not.

KING JOHN.

Withhold thy speed, dreadful occasion!

O, make a league with me, till I have pleased

My discontented peers!—What! mother dead!

How wildly, then, walks my estate in France!—

Under whose conduct came those powers of France

That thou for truth giv'st out are landed here?

MESSENGER.

Under the Dauphin.

KING JOHN.

Thou hast made me giddy

With these in tidings.

[Enter the BASTARD and PETER OF POMFRET.]

Now! What says the world

To your proceedings? do not seek to stuff

My head with more ill news, for it is full.

BASTARD.

But if you be afeared to hear the worst,

Then let the worst, unheard, fall on your head.

KING JOHN.

Bear with me, cousin, for I was amazed

Under the tide: but now I breathe again

Aloft the flood; and can give audience

To any tongue, speak it of what it will.

BASTARD.

How I have sped among the clergymen,

The sums I have collected shall express.

But as I travelled hither through the land,

I find the people strangely fantasied;

Possessed with rumours, full of idle dreams.

Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear;

And here's a prophet that I brought with me

From forth the streets of Pomfret, whom I found

With many hundreds treading on his heels;

To whom he sung, in rude harsh-sounding rhymes,

That, ere the next Ascension-day at noon,

Your highness should deliver up your crown.

KING JOHN.

Thou idle dreamer, wherefore didst thou so?

PETER.

Foreknowing that the truth will fall out so.

KING JOHN.

Hubert, away with him; imprison him;

And on that day at noon, whereon he says

I shall yield up my crown, let him be hanged.

Deliver him to safety; and return,

For I must use thee.

[Exit HUBERT with PETER.]

O my gentle cousin,

Hear'st thou the news abroad, who are arrived?

BASTARD.

The French, my lord; men's mouths are full of it;

Besides, I met Lord Bigot and Lord Salisbury,—

With eyes as red as new-enkindled fire,

And others more, going to seek the grave

Of Arthur, whom they say is killed to-night

On your suggestion.

KING JOHN.

Gentle kinsman, go

And thrust thyself into their companies:

I have a way to will their loves again:

Bring them before me.

BASTARD.

I will seek them out.

KING JOHN.

Nay, but make haste; the better foot before.

O, let me have no subject enemies

When adverse foreigners affright my towns

With dreadful pomp of stout invasion!

Be Mercury, set feathers to thy heels,

And fly like thought from them to me again.

BASTARD.

The spirit of the time shall teach me speed.

KING JOHN.

Spoke like a sprightful noble gentleman!

[Exit BASTARD.]

Go after him; for he perhaps shall need

Some messenger betwixt me and the peers;

And be thou he.

MESSENGER.

With all my heart, my liege.

[Exit.]

KING JOHN.

My mother dead!

[Re-enter HUBERT.]

HUBERT.

My lord, they say five moons were seen to-night;

Four fixed, and the fifth did whirl about

The other four in wondrous motion.

KING JOHN.

Five moons!

HUBERT.

Old men and beldams in the streets

Do prophesy upon it dangerously:

Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths:

And when they talk of him, they shake their heads,

And whisper one another in the ear;

And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer's wrist;

Whilst he that hears makes fearful action

With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes.

I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus,

The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool,

With open mouth swallowing a tailor's news;

Who, with his shears and measure in his hand,

Standing on slippers,—which his nimble haste

Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet,—

Told of a many thousand warlike French

That were embattailed and ranked in Kent.

Another lean unwashed artificer

Cuts off his tale, and talks of Arthur's death.

KING JOHN.

Why seek'st thou to possess me with these fears?

Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur's death?

Thy hand hath murdered him: I had a mighty cause

To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill him.

HUBERT.

No had, my lord! why, did you not provoke me?

KING JOHN.

It is the curse of kings to be attended

By slaves that take their humours for a warrant

To break within the bloody house of life;

And, on the winking of authority,

To understand a law; to know the meaning

Of dangerous majesty, when perchance it frowns

More upon humour than advised respect.

HUBERT.

Here is your hand and seal for what I did.

KING JOHN.

O, when the last account 'twixt heaven and earth

Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal

Witness against us to damnation!

How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds

Make deeds ill done! Hadst not thou been by,

A fellow by the hand of nature marked,

Quoted and signed to do a deed of shame,

This murder had not come into my mind:

But, taking note of thy abhorred aspect,

Finding thee fit for bloody villainy,

Apt, liable to be employed in danger,

I faintly broke with thee of Arthur's death;

And thou, to be endeared to a king,

Made it no conscience to destroy a prince.

HUBERT.

My lord,—

KING JOHN.

Hadst thou but shook thy head or made pause,

When I spake darkly what I purposed,

Or turned an eye of doubt upon my face,

As bid me tell my tale in express words,

Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off,

And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me:

But thou didst understand me by my signs,

And didst in signs again parley with sin;

Yea, without stop, didst let thy heart consent,

And consequently thy rude hand to act

The deed which both our tongues held vile to name.—

Out of my sight, and never see me more!

My nobles leave me; and my state is braved,

Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers;

Nay, in the body of the fleshly land,

This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath,

Hostility and civil tumult reigns

Between my conscience and my cousin's death.

HUBERT.

Arm you against your other enemies,

I'll make a peace between your soul and you.

Young Arthur is alive: this hand of mine

Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand,

Not painted with the crimson spots of blood.

Within this bosom never entered yet

The dreadful motion of a murderous thought;

And you have slandered nature in my form,—

Which, howsoever rude exteriorly,

Is yet the cover of a fairer mind

Than to be butcher of an innocent child.

KING JOHN.

Doth Arthur live? O, haste thee to the peers,

Throw this report on their incensed rage,

And make them tame to their obedience!

Forgive the comment that my passion made

Upon thy feature; for my rage was blind,

And foul imaginary eyes of blood

Presented thee more hideous than thou art.

O, answer not; but to my closet bring

The angry lords with all expedient haste:

I conjure thee but slowly; run more fast.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE III.

The same. Before the castle.

[Enter ARTHUR, on the Walls.]

ARTHUR.

The wall is high, and yet will I leap down:—

Good ground, be pitiful and hurt me not!—

There's few or none do know me: if they did,

This ship-boy's semblance hath disguised me quite.

I am afraid; and yet I'll venture it.

If I get down, and do not break my limbs,

I'll find a thousand shifts to get away:

As good to die and go, as die and stay.

[Leaps down.]

O me! my uncle's spirit is in these stones:—

Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!

[Dies.]

[Enter PEMBROKE, SALISBURY, and BIGOT.]

SALISBURY.

Lords, I will meet him at Saint Edmunds-Bury;

It is our safety, and we must embrace

This gentle offer of the perilous time.

PEMBROKE.

Who brought that letter from the cardinal?

SALISBURY.

The Count Melun, a noble lord of France,

Whose private with me of the Dauphin's love

Is much more general than these lines import.

BIGOT.

To-morrow morning let us meet him then.

SALISBURY.

Or rather then set forward; for 'twill be

Two long days' journey, lords, or e'er we meet.

[Enter the BASTARD.]

BASTARD.

Once more to-day well met, distempered lords!

The king by me requests your presence straight.

SALISBURY.

The King hath dispossessed himself of us.

We will not line his thin bestained cloak

With our pure honours, nor attend the foot

That leaves the print of blood where'er it walks.

Return and tell him so: we know the worst.

BASTARD.

Whate'er you think, good words, I think, were best.

SALISBURY.

Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now.

BASTARD.

But there is little reason in your grief;

Therefore 'twere reason you had manners now.

PEMBROKE.

Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege.

BASTARD.

'Tis true,—to hurt his master, no man else.

SALISBURY.

This is the prison:—what is he lies here?

[Seeing Arthur.]

PEMBROKE.

O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!

The earth had not a hole to hide this deed.

SALISBURY.

Murder, as hating what himself hath done,

Doth lay it open to urge on revenge.

BIGOT.

Or, when he doomed this beauty to a grave,

Found it too precious-princely for a grave.

SALISBURY.

Sir Richard, what think you? Have you beheld,

Or have you read or heard, or could you think?

Or do you almost think, although you see,

That you do see? could thought, without this object,

Form such another? This is the very top,

The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest,

Of murder's arms: this is the bloodiest shame,

The wildest savagery, the vilest stroke,

That ever wall-eyed wrath or staring rage

Presented to the tears of soft remorse.

PEMBROKE.

All murders past do stand excused in this;

And this, so sole and so unmatchable,

Shall give a holiness, a purity,

To the yet unbegotten sin of times;

And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest,

Exampled by this heinous spectacle.

BASTARD.

It is a damned and a bloody work;

The graceless action of a heavy hand,—

If that it be the work of any hand.

SALISBURY.

If that it be the work of any hand?—

We had a kind of light what would ensue.

It is the shameful work of Hubert's hand;

The practice and the purpose of the king:—

From whose obedience I forbid my soul,

Kneeling before this ruin of sweet life,

And breathing to his breathless excellence

The incense of a vow, a holy vow,

Never to taste the pleasures of the world,

Never to be infected with delight,

Nor conversant with ease and idleness,

Till I have set a glory to this hand,

By giving it the worship of revenge.

PEMBROKE. and BIGOT.

Our souls religiously confirm thy words.

[Enter HUBERT.]

HUBERT.

Lords, I am hot with haste in seeking you:

Arthur doth live; the king hath sent for you.

SALISBURY.

O, he is bold, and blushes not at death:—

Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone!

HUBERT.

I am no villain.

SALISBURY.

Must I rob the law?

[Drawing his sword.]

BASTARD.

Your sword is bright, sir; put it up again.

SALISBURY.

Not till I sheathe it in a murderer's skin.

HUBERT.

Stand back, Lord Salisbury,—stand back, I say;

By heaven, I think my sword's as sharp as yours:

I would not have you, lord, forget yourself,

Nor tempt the danger of my true defence;

Lest I, by marking of your rage, forget

Your worth, your greatness, and nobility.

BIGOT.

Out, dunghill! dar'st thou brave a nobleman?

HUBERT.

Not for my life: but yet I dare defend

My innocent life against an emperor.

SALISBURY.

Thou art a murderer.

HUBERT.

Do not prove me so;

Yet I am none: whose tongue soe'er speaks false,

Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lies.

PEMBROKE.

Cut him to pieces.

BASTARD.

Keep the peace, I say.

SALISBURY.

Stand by, or I shall gall you, Falconbridge.

BASTARD.

Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury:

If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot,

Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame,

I'll strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime:

Or I'll so maul you and your toasting-iron

That you shall think the devil is come from hell.

BIGOT.

What wilt thou do, renowned Falconbridge?

Second a villain and a murderer?

HUBERT.

Lord Bigot, I am none.

BIGOT.

Who killed this prince?

HUBERT.

'Tis not an hour since I left him well:

I honoured him, I loved him, and will weep

My date of life out for his sweet life's loss.

SALISBURY.

Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes,

For villainy is not without such rheum;

And he, long traded in it, makes it seem

Like rivers of remorse and innocency.

Away with me, all you whose souls abhor

Th' uncleanly savours of a slaughter-house;

For I am stifled with this smell of sin.

BIGOT.

Away toward Bury, to the Dauphin there!

PEMBROKE.

There tell the king he may inquire us out.

[Exeunt LORDS.]

BASTARD.

Here's a good world!—Knew you of this fair work?

Beyond the infinite and boundless reach

Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death,

Art thou damned, Hubert.

HUBERT.

Do but hear me, sir.

BASTARD.

Ha! I'll tell thee what;

Thou'rt damned as black—nay, nothing is so black;

Thou art more deep damned than Prince Lucifer:

There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell

As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child.

HUBERT.

Upon my soul,—

BASTARD.

If thou didst but consent

To this most cruel act, do but despair;

And if thou want'st a cord, the smallest thread

That ever spider twisted from her womb

Will serve to strangle thee; a rush will be a beam

To hang thee on; or wouldst thou drown thyself,

Put but a little water in a spoon

And it shall be as all the ocean,

Enough to stifle such a villain up.

I do suspect thee very grievously.

HUBERT.

If I in act, consent, or sin of thought,

Be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath

Which was embounded in this beauteous clay,

Let hell want pains enough to torture me!

I left him well.

BASTARD.

Go, bear him in thine arms.—

I am amazed, methinks, and lose my way

Among the thorns and dangers of this world.—

How easy dost thou take all England up!

From forth this morsel of dead royalty,

The life, the right, and truth of all this realm

Is fled to heaven; and England now is left

To tug and scamble, and to part by the teeth

The unowed interest of proud-swelling state.

Now for the bare-picked bone of majesty

Doth dogged war bristle his angry crest,

And snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace:

Now powers from home and discontents at home

Meet in one line; and vast confusion waits,

As doth a raven on a sick-fallen beast,

The imminent decay of wrested pomp.

Now happy he whose cloak and cincture can

Hold out this tempest.—Bear away that child,

And follow me with speed: I'll to the king;

A thousand businesses are brief in hand,

And heaven itself doth frown upon the land.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

Northampton. A Room in the Palace.

[Enter KING JOHN, PANDULPH with the crown, and Attendants.]

KING JOHN.

Thus have I yielded up into your hand

The circle of my glory.

PANDULPH.

[Gives KING JOHN the crown.]

Take again

From this my hand, as holding of the pope,

Your sovereign greatness and authority.

KING JOHN.

Now keep your holy word: go meet the French;

And from his holiness use all your power

To stop their marches 'fore we are inflamed.

Our discontented counties do revolt;

Our people quarrel with obedience;

Swearing allegiance and the love of soul

To stranger blood, to foreign royalty.

This inundation of mistempered humour

Rests by you only to be qualified.

Then pause not; for the present time's so sick

That present medicine must be ministred

Or overthrow incurable ensues.

PANDULPH.

It was my breath that blew this tempest up,

Upon your stubborn usage of the pope:

But since you are a gentle convertite,

My tongue shall hush again this storm of war

And make fair weather in your blustering land.

On this Ascension-day, remember well,

Upon your oath of service to the pope,

Go I to make the French lay down their arms.

[Exit.]

KING JOHN.

Is this Ascension-day? Did not the prophet

Say that before Ascension-day at noon

My crown I should give off? Even so I have:

I did suppose it should be on constraint;

But, heaven be thanked, it is but voluntary.

[Enter the BASTARD.]

BASTARD.

All Kent hath yielded; nothing there holds out

But Dover Castle: London hath received,

Like a kind host, the Dauphin and his powers:

Your nobles will not hear you, but are gone

To offer service to your enemy;

And wild amazement hurries up and down

The little number of your doubtful friends.

KING JOHN.

Would not my lords return to me again

After they heard young Arthur was alive?

BASTARD.

They found him dead, and cast into the streets;

An empty casket, where the jewel of life

By some damned hand was robbed and ta'en away.

KING JOHN.

That villain Hubert told me he did live.

BASTARD.

So, on my soul, he did, for aught he knew.

But wherefore do you droop? why look you sad?

Be great in act, as you have been in thought;

Let not the world see fear and sad distrust

Govern the motion of a kingly eye:

Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire;

Threaten the threatener, and outface the brow

Of bragging horror: so shall inferior eyes,

That borrow their behaviours from the great,

Grow great by your example, and put on

The dauntless spirit of resolution.

Away, and glister like the god of war

When he intendeth to become the field:

Show boldness and aspiring confidence.

What, shall they seek the lion in his den,

And fright him there? and make him tremble there?

O, let it not be said!—Forage, and run

To meet displeasure farther from the doors,

And grapple with him ere he come so nigh.

KING JOHN.

The legate of the pope hath been with me,

And I have made a happy peace with him;

And he hath promised to dismiss the powers

Led by the Dauphin.

BASTARD.

O inglorious league!

Shall we, upon the footing of our land,

Send fair-play orders, and make compromise,

Insinuation, parley, and base truce,

To arms invasive? shall a beardless boy,

A cockered silken wanton, brave our fields,

And flesh his spirit in a warlike soil,

Mocking the air with colours idly spread,

And find no check? Let us, my liege, to arms;

Perchance the cardinal cannot make your peace;

Or, if he do, let it at least be said

They saw we had a purpose of defence.

KING JOHN.

Have thou the ordering of this present time.

BASTARD.

Away, then, with good courage! yet, I know

Our party may well meet a prouder foe.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE II.

Near Saint Edmunds-bury. The French Camp.

[Enter, in arms, LEWIS, SALISBURY, MELUN, PEMBROKE, BIGOT, and soldiers.]

LEWIS.

My Lord Melun, let this be copied out

And keep it safe for our remembrance:

Return the precedent to these lords again;

That, having our fair order written down,

Both they and we, perusing o'er these notes,

May know wherefore we took the sacrament,

And keep our faiths firm and inviolable.

SALISBURY.

Upon our sides it never shall be broken.

And, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear

A voluntary zeal and an unurged faith

To your proceedings; yet, believe me, prince,

I am not glad that such a sore of time

Should seek a plaster by contemned revolt,

And heal the inveterate canker of one wound

By making many. O, it grieves my soul

That I must draw this metal from my side

To be a widow-maker! O, and there

Where honourable rescue and defence

Cries out upon the name of Salisbury!

But such is the infection of the time,

That, for the health and physic of our right,

We cannot deal but with the very hand

Of stern injustice and confused wrong.—

And is't not pity, O my grieved friends!

That we, the sons and children of this isle,

Were born to see so sad an hour as this;

Wherein we step after a stranger-march

Upon her gentle bosom, and fill up

Her enemies' ranks—I must withdraw and weep

Upon the spot of this enforced cause—

To grace the gentry of a land remote,

And follow unacquainted colours here?

What, here?—O nation, that thou couldst remove!

That Neptune's arms, who clippeth thee about,

Would bear thee from the knowledge of thyself,

And grapple thee unto a pagan shore,

Where these two Christian armies might combine

The blood of malice in a vein of league,

And not to spend it so unneighbourly!

LEWIS.

A noble temper dost thou show in this;

And great affections wrestling in thy bosom

Doth make an earthquake of nobility.

O, what a noble combat hast thou fought

Between compulsion and a brave respect!

Let me wipe off this honourable dew

That silverly doth progress on thy cheeks:

My heart hath melted at a lady's tears,

Being an ordinary inundation;

But this effusion of such manly drops,

This shower, blown up by tempest of the soul,

Startles mine eyes and makes me more amazed

Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven

Figured quite o'er with burning meteors.

Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury,

And with a great heart heave away this storm:

Commend these waters to those baby eyes

That never saw the giant world enraged,

Nor met with fortune other than at feasts,

Full of warm blood, of mirth, of gossiping.

Come, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as deep

Into the purse of rich prosperity

As Lewis himself:—so, nobles, shall you all,

That knit your sinews to the strength of mine.—

And even there, methinks, an angel spake:

Look, where the holy legate comes apace,

To give us warrant from the hand of heaven

And on our actions set the name of right

With holy breath.

[Enter PANDULPH, attended.]

PANDULPH.

Hail, noble prince of France!

The next is this,—King John hath reconciled

Himself to Rome; his spirit is come in,

That so stood out against the holy church,

The great metropolis and see of Rome:

Therefore thy threatening colours now wind up,

And tame the savage spirit of wild war,

That, like a lion fostered up at hand,

It may lie gently at the foot of peace

And be no further harmful than in show.

LEWIS.

Your grace shall pardon me, I will not back:

I am too high-born to be propertied,

To be a secondary at control,

Or useful serving-man and instrument

To any sovereign state throughout the world.

Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars

Between this chastised kingdom and myself,

And brought in matter that should feed this fire;

And now 'tis far too huge to be blown out

With that same weak wind which enkindled it.

You taught me how to know the face of right,

Acquainted me with interest to this land,

Yea, thrust this enterprise into my heart;

And come ye now to tell me John hath made

His peace with Rome? What is that peace to me?

I, by the honour of my marriage-bed,

After young Arthur, claim this land for mine;

And, now it is half-conquered, must I back

Because that John hath made his peace with Rome?

Am I Rome's slave? What penny hath Rome borne,

What men provided, what munition sent,

To underprop this action? Is't not I

That undergo this charge? Who else but I,

And such as to my claim are liable,

Sweat in this business and maintain this war?

Have I not heard these islanders shout out,

'Vive le roi!' as I have banked their towns?

Have I not here the best cards for the game,

To will this easy match, played for a crown?

And shall I now give o'er the yielded set?

No, no, on my soul, it never shall be said.

PANDULPH.

You look but on the outside of this work.

LEWIS.

Outside or inside, I will not return

Till my attempt so much be glorified

As to my ample hope was promised

Before I drew this gallant head of war,

And culled these fiery spirits from the world,

To outlook conquest, and to will renown

Even in the jaws of danger and of death.—

[Trumpet sounds.]

What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?

[Enter the BASTARD, attended.]

BASTARD.

According to the fair play of the world,

Let me have audience; I am sent to speak:—

My holy lord of Milan, from the king

I come, to learn how you have dealt for him;

And, as you answer, I do know the scope

And warrant limited unto my tongue.

PANDULPH.

The Dauphin is too wilful-opposite,

And will not temporize with my entreaties;

He flatly says he'll not lay down his arms.

BASTARD.

By all the blood that ever fury breathed,

The youth says well.—Now hear our English king;

For thus his royalty doth speak in me.

He is prepared; and reason too he should:

This apish and unmannerly approach,

This harnessed masque and unadvised revel

This unhaired sauciness and boyish troops,

The king doth smile at; and is well prepared

To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms,

From out the circle of his territories.

That hand which had the strength, even at your door,

To cudgel you, and make you take the hatch;

To dive, like buckets, in concealed wells;

To crouch in litter of your stable planks;

To lie, like pawns, locked up in chests and trunks;

To hug with swine; to seek sweet safety out

In vaults and prisons; and to thrill and shake

Even at the crying of your nation's crow,

Thinking this voice an armed Englishman;—

Shall that victorious hand be feebled here

That in your chambers gave you chastisement?

No: know the gallant monarch is in arms

And like an eagle o'er his aery towers

To souse annoyance that comes near his nest.—

And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts,

You bloody Neroes, ripping up the womb

Of your dear mother England, blush for shame;

For your own ladies and pale-visaged maids,

Like Amazons, come tripping after drums,—

Their thimbles into armed gauntlets changed,

Their needles to lances, and their gentle hearts

To fierce and bloody inclination.

LEWIS.

There end thy brave, and turn thy face in peace;

We grant thou canst outscold us: fare thee well;

We hold our time too precious to be spent

With such a brabbler.

PANDULPH.

Give me leave to speak.

BASTARD.

No, I will speak.

LEWIS.

We will attend to neither.—

Strike up the drums; and let the tongue of war,

Plead for our interest and our being here.

BASTARD.

Indeed, your drums, being beaten, will cry out;

And so shall you, being beaten: do but start

And echo with the clamour of thy drum,

And even at hand a drum is ready braced

That shall reverberate all as loud as thine:

Sound but another, and another shall,

As loud as thine, rattle the welkin's ear,

And mock the deep-mouthed thunder: for at hand,—

Not trusting to this halting legate here,

Whom he hath used rather for sport than need,—

Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits

A bare-ribbed death, whose office is this day

To feast upon whole thousands of the French.

LEWIS.

Strike up our drums, to find this danger out.

BASTARD.

And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE III.

The same. The Field of Battle.

[Alarums. Enter KING JOHN and HUBERT.]

KING JOHN.

How goes the day with us? O, tell me, Hubert.

HUBERT.

Badly, I fear. How fares your majesty?

KING JOHN.

This fever that hath troubled me so long

Lies heavy on me;—O, my heart is sick!

[Enter a MESSENGER.]

MESSENGER.

My lord, your valiant kinsman, Falconbridge,

Desires your majesty to leave the field

And send him word by me which way you go.

KING JOHN.

Tell him, toward Swinstead, to the abbey there.

MESSENGER.

Be of good comfort; for the great supply

That was expected by the Dauphin here

Are wrecked three nights ago on Goodwin Sands.

This news was brought to Richard but even now:

The French fight coldly, and retire themselves.

KING JOHN.

Ay me! this tyrant fever burns me up

And will not let me welcome this good news.—

Set on toward Swinstead: to my litter straight;

Weakness possesseth me, and I am faint.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE IV.

The same. Another part of the same.

[Enter SALISBURY, PEMBROKE, and others.]

SALISBURY.

I did not think the king so stored with friends.

PEMBROKE.

Up once again; put spirit in the French;

If they miscarry, we miscarry too.

SALISBURY.

That misbegotten devil, Falconbridge,

In spite of spite, alone upholds the day.

PEMBROKE.

They say King John, sore sick, hath left the field.

[Enter MELUN wounded, and led by Soldiers.]

MELUN.

Lead me to the revolts of England here.

SALISBURY.

When we were happy we had other names.

PEMBROKE.

It is the Count Melun.

SALISBURY.

Wounded to death.

MELUN.

Fly, noble English, you are bought and sold;

Unthread the rude eye of rebellion,

And welcome home again discarded faith.

Seek out King John, and fall before his feet;

For if the French be lords of this loud day,

He means to recompense the pains you take

By cutting off your heads: thus hath he sworn,

And I with him, and many more with me,

Upon the altar at Saint Edmunds-bury;

Even on that altar where we swore to you

Dear amity and everlasting love.

SALISBURY.

May this be possible? may this be true?

MELUN.

Have I not hideous death within my view,

Retaining but a quantity of life,

Which bleeds away even as a form of wax

Resolveth from his figure 'gainst the fire?

What in the world should make me now deceive,

Since I must lose the use of all deceit?

Why should I then be false, since it is true

That I must die here, and live hence by truth?

I say again, if Lewis do will the day,

He is forsworn if e'er those eyes of yours

Behold another day break in the east:

But even this night,—whose black contagious breath

Already smokes about the burning crest

Of the old, feeble, and day-wearied sun,—

Even this ill night, your breathing shall expire;

Paying the fine of rated treachery

Even with a treacherous fine of all your lives,

If Lewis by your assistance win the day.

Commend me to one Hubert, with your king;

The love of him,—and this respect besides,

For that my grandsire was an Englishman,—

Awakes my conscience to confess all this.

In lieu whereof, I pray you, bear me hence

From forth the noise and rumour of the field,

Where I may think the remnant of my thoughts

In peace, and part this body and my soul

With contemplation and devout desires.

SALISBURY.

We do believe thee:—and beshrew my soul

But I do love the favour and the form

Of this most fair occasion, by the which

We will untread the steps of damned flight;

And like a bated and retired flood,

Leaving our rankness and irregular course,

Stoop low within those bounds we have o'erlooked,

And calmly run on in obedience

Even to our ocean, to our great King John.—

My arm shall give thee help to bear thee hence;

For I do see the cruel pangs of death

Right in thine eye.—Away, my friends! New flight,

And happy newness, that intends old right.

[Exeunt, leading off MELUN.]

ACT V. SCENE V.

The same. The French camp.

[Enter LEWIS and his train.]

LEWIS.

The sun of heaven, methought, was loath to set,

But stayed, and made the western welkin blush,

When the English measured backward their own ground

In faint retire. O, bravely came we off,

When with a volley of our needless shot,

After such bloody toil, we bid good night;

And wound our tattrring colours clearly up,

Last in the field, and almost lords of it!

[Enter a MESSENGER.]

MESSENGER.

Where is my prince, the Dauphin?

LEWIS.

Here:—what news?

MESSENGER.

The Count Melun is slain; the English lords

By his persuasion are again falln off:

And your supply, which you have wished so long,

Are cast away and sunk on Goodwin Sands.

LEWIS.

Ah, foul shrewd news!—beshrew thy very heart!—

I did not think to be so sad to-night

As this hath made me.—Who was he that said

King John did fly an hour or two before

The stumbling night did part our weary powers?

MESSENGER.

Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord.

LEWIS.

Keep good quarter and good care to-night;

The day shall not be up so soon as I,

To try the fair adventure of to-morrow.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE VI.

An open place in the neighborhood of Swinstead Abbey.

[Enter the BASTARD and HUBERT, meeting.]

HUBERT.

Who's there? speak, ho! speak quickly, or I shoot.

BASTARD.

A friend.—What art thou?

HUBERT.

Of the part of England.

BASTARD.

Whither dost thou go?

HUBERT.

What's that to thee? Why may I not demand

Of thine affairs, as well as thou of mine?

BASTARD.

Hubert, I think.

HUBERT.

Thou hast a perfect thought:

I will, upon all hazards, well believe

Thou art my friend that know'st my tongue so well.

Who art thou?

BASTARD.

Who thou wilt: and if thou please,

Thou mayst befriend me so much as to think

I come one way of the Plantagenets.

HUBERT.

Unkind remembrance! thou and eyeless night

Have done me shame:—brave soldier, pardon me,

That any accent breaking from thy tongue

Should scape the true acquaintance of mine ear.

BASTARD.

Come, come; sans compliment, what news abroad?

HUBERT.

Why, here walk I, in the black brow of night,

To find you out.

BASTARD.

Brief, then; and what's the news?

HUBERT.

O, my sweet sir, news fitting to the night,

Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible.

BASTARD.

Show me the very wound of this ill news;

I am no woman, I'll not swoon at it.

HUBERT.

The king, I fear, is poisoned by a monk:

I left him almost speechless and broke out

To acquaint you with this evil, that you might

The better arm you to the sudden time,

Than if you had at leisure known of this.

BASTARD.

How did he take it; who did taste to him?

HUBERT.

A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain,

Whose bowels suddenly burst out: the king

Yet speaks, and peradventure may recover.

BASTARD.

Who didst thou leave to tend his majesty?

HUBERT.

Why, know you not? The lords are all come back,

And brought Prince Henry in their company;

At whose request the king hath pardoned them,

And they are all about his majesty.

BASTARD.

Withhold thine indignation, mighty heaven,

And tempt us not to bear above our power!—

I'll tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night,

Passing these flats, are taken by the tide,—

These Lincoln washes have devoured them;

Myself, well-mounted, hardly have escaped.

Away, before! conduct me to the king;

I doubt he will be dead or ere I come.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE VII.

The orchard of Swinstead Abbey.

[Enter PRINCE HENRY, SALISBURY, and BIGOT.]

PRINCE HENRY.

It is too late: the life of all his blood

Is touched corruptibly, and his pure brain,—

Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house,—

Doth, by the idle comments that it makes,

Foretell the ending of mortality.

[Enter PEMBROKE.]

PEMBROKE.

His Highness yet doth speak; and holds belief

That, being brought into the open air,

It would allay the burning quality

Of that fell poison which assaileth him.

PRINCE HENRY.

Let him be brought into the orchard here.—

Doth he still rage?

[Exit BIGOT.]

PEMBROKE.

He is more patient

Than when you left him; even now he sung.

PRINCE HENRY.

O vanity of sickness! fierce extremes

In their continuance will not feel themselves.

Death, having preyed upon the outward parts,

Leaves them invisible; and his siege is now

Against the mind, the which he pricks and wounds

With many legions of strange fantasies,

Which, in their throng and press to that last hold,

Confound themselves. 'Tis strange that death should sing.—

I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan,

Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death;

And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings

His soul and body to their lasting rest.

SALISBURY.

Be of good comfort, prince; for you are born

To set a form upon that indigest

Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude.

[Re-enter BIGOT and Attendants, who bring in KING JOHN in a chair.]

KING JOHN.

Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room;

It would not out at windows nor at doors.

There is so hot a summer in my bosom

That all my bowels crumble up to dust;

I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen,

Upon a parchment; and against this fire

Do I shrink up.

PRINCE HENRY.

How fares your majesty?

KING JOHN.

Poisoned,—ill-fare;—dead, forsook, cast off;

And none of you will bid the winter come,

To thrust his icy fingers in my maw;

Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course

Through my burned bosom; nor entreat the north

To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips,

And comfort me with cold:—I do not ask you much;

I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait,

And so ingrateful, you deny me that.

PRINCE HENRY.

O, that there were some virtue in my tears,

That might relieve you!

KING JOHN.

The salt in them is hot.—

Within me is a hell; and there the poison

Is, as a fiend, confined to tyrannize

On unreprievable condemned blood.

[Enter the BASTARD.]

BASTARD.

O, I am scalded with my violent motion

And spleen of speed to see your majesty!

KING JOHN.

O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye:

The tackle of my heart is cracked and burned;

And all the shrouds, wherewith my life should sail,

Are turned to one thread, one little hair:

My heart hath one poor string to stay it by,

Which holds but till thy news be uttered;

And then all this thou seest is but a clod,

And module of confounded royalty.

BASTARD.

The Dauphin is preparing hitherward,

Where heaven he knows how we shall answer him;

For in a night the best part of my power,

As I upon advantage did remove,

Were in the washes all unwarily

Devoured by the unexpected flood.

[The KING dies.]

SALISBURY.

You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear.

My liege! my lord!—But now a king,—now thus.

PRINCE HENRY.

Even so must I run on, and even so stop.

What surety of the world, what hope, what stay,

When this was now a king, and now is clay?

BASTARD.

Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind

To do the office for thee of revenge,

And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven,

As it on earth hath been thy servant still.—

Now, now, you stars that move in your right spheres,

Where be your powers? Show now your mended faiths;

And instantly return with me again,

To push destruction and perpetual shame

Out of the weak door of our fainting land.

Straight let us seek, or straight we shall be sought;

The Dauphin rages at our very heels.

SALISBURY.

It seems you know not, then, so much as we:

The Cardinal Pandulph is within at rest,

Who half an hour since came from the Dauphin,

And brings from him such offers of our peace

As we with honour and respect may take,

With purpose presently to leave this war.

BASTARD.

He will the rather do it when he sees

Ourselves well sinewed to our defence.

SALISBURY.

Nay, 'tis in a manner done already;

For many carriages he hath despatched

To the sea-side, and put his cause and quarrel

To the disposing of the cardinal:

With whom yourself, myself, and other lords,

If you think meet, this afternoon will post

To consummate this business happily.

BASTARD.

Let it be so:—And you, my noble prince,

With other princes that may best be spared,

Shall wait upon your father's funeral.

PRINCE HENRY.

At Worcester must his body be interred;

For so he willed it.

BASTARD.

Thither shall it, then:

And happily may your sweet self put on

The lineal state and glory of the land!

To whom, with all submission, on my knee,

I do bequeath my faithful services

And true subjection everlastingly.

SALISBURY.

And the like tender of our love we make,

To rest without a spot for evermore.

PRINCE HENRY.

I have a kind soul that would give you thanks,

And knows not how to do it but with tears.

BASTARD.

O, let us pay the time but needful woe,

Since it hath been beforehand with our griefs.—

This England never did, nor never shall,

Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,

But when it first did help to wound itself.

Now these her princes are come home again,

Come the three corners of the world in arms,

And we shall shock them: nought shall make us rue,

If England to itself do rest but true.

[Exeunt.]

THE END

KING RICHARD II

List of Characters

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act I, Scene III

Act I, Scene IV

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act II, Scene III

Act II, Scene IV

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act III, Scene III

Act III, Scene IV

Act IV, Scene I

Act V, Scene I

Act V, Scene II

Act V, Scene III

Act V, Scene IV

Act V, Scene V

Act V, Scene VI

List of Characters

KING RICHARD THE SECOND

JOHN OF GAUNT: Duke of Lancaster, uncle to the King

EDMUND LANGLEY: Duke of York, uncle to the King

HENRY, surnamed BOLINGBROKE: Duke of Hereford, son of John of Gaunt, afterwards King Henry IV

DUKE OF AUMERLE: son of the Duke of York

THOMAS MOWBRAY: Duke of Norfolk

DUKE OF SURREY

EARL OF SALISBURY

LORD BERKELEY

BUSHY: Servant to King Richard

BAGOT: Servant to King Richard

GREEN: Servant to King Richard

EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND

HENRY PERCY surnamed Hotspur: his son

LORD ROSS

LORD WILLOUGHBY

LORD FITZWATER

BISHOP OF CARLISLE

ABBOT OF WESTMINSTER

LORD MARSHAL

SIR PIERCE OF EXTON

SIR STEPHEN SCROOP

Captain of a band of Welshmen

QUEEN TO KING RICHARD

DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER

DUCHESS OF YORK

Lady attending on the Queen

Lords, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Gardeners, Keeper, Messenger, Groom, and other Attendants

SCENE: Dispersedly in England and Wales.

ACT I. SCENE I.

London. A Room in the palace.

[Enter KING RICHARD, attended; JOHN OF GAUNT, with other NOBLES.]

KING RICHARD.

Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster,

Hast thou, according to thy oath and band,

Brought hither Henry Hereford thy bold son,

Here to make good the boisterous late appeal,

Which then our leisure would not let us hear,

Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

GAUNT.

I have, my liege.

KING RICHARD.

Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded him

If he appeal the Duke on ancient malice,

Or worthily, as a good subject should,

On some known ground of treachery in him?

GAUNT.

As near as I could sift him on that argument,

On some apparent danger seen in him

Aimed at your Highness, no inveterate malice.

KING RICHARD.

Then call them to our presence: face to face

And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear

The accuser and the accused freely speak.

High-stomached are they both and full of ire,

In rage, deaf as the sea, hasty as fire.

[Re-enter Attendants, with BOLINGBROKE and MOWBRAY.]

BOLINGBROKE.

Many years of happy days befall

My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege!

MOWBRAY.

Each day still better other's happiness

Until the heavens, envying earth's good hap,

Add an immortal title to your crown!

KING RICHARD.

We thank you both; yet one but flatters us,

As well appeareth by the cause you come;

Namely, to appeal each other of high treason.

Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object

Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

BOLINGBROKE.

First,—heaven be the record to my speech!—

In the devotion of a subject's love,

Tendering the precious safety of my prince,

And free from other misbegotten hate,

Come I appellant to this princely presence.

Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee,

And mark my greeting well; for what I speak

My body shall make good upon this earth,

Or my divine soul answer it in heaven.

Thou art a traitor and a miscreant;

Too good to be so and too bad to live,

Since the more fair and crystal is the sky,

The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly.

Once more, the more to aggravate the note,

With a foul traitor's name stuff I thy throat;

And wish, so please my sovereign, ere I move,

What my tongue speaks, my right drawn sword may prove.

MOWBRAY.

Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal:

'Tis not the trial of a woman's war,

The bitter clamour of two eager tongues,

Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain;

The blood is hot that must be cooled for this.

Yet can I not of such tame patience boast

As to be hushed and nought at all to say.

First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs me

From giving reins and spurs to my free speech;

Which else would post until it had returned

These terms of treason doubled down his throat.

Setting aside his high blood's royalty,

And let him be no kinsman to my liege,

I do defy him, and I spit at him,

Call him a slanderous coward and a villain:

Which to maintain, I would allow him odds

And meet him, were I tied to run afoot

Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps,

Or any other ground inhabitable,

Wherever Englishman durst set his foot.

Meantime let this defend my loyalty:

By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie.

BOLINGBROKE.

Pale trembling coward, there I throw my gage,

Disclaiming here the kindred of the king;

And lay aside my high blood's royalty,

Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except:

If guilty dread have left thee so much strength

As to take up mine honour's pawn, then stoop:

By that, and all the rites of knighthood else,

Will I make good against thee, arm to arm,

What I have spoke or thou canst worst devise.

MOWBRAY.

I take it up; and by that sword I swear

Which gently laid my knighthood on my shoulder,

I'll answer thee in any fair degree,

Or chivalrous design of knightly trial:

And when I mount, alive may I not light

If I be traitor or unjustly fight!

KING RICHARD.

What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray's charge?

It must be great that can inherit us

So much as of a thought of ill in him.

BOLINGBROKE.

Look, what I speak, my life shall prove it true;

That Mowbray hath received eight thousand nobles

In name of lendings for your highness' soldiers,

The which he hath detained for lewd employments,

Like a false traitor and injurious villain.

Besides, I say and will in battle prove,

Or here, or elsewhere to the furthest verge

That ever was surveyed by English eye,

That all the treasons for these eighteen years

Complotted and contrived in this land,

Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring.

Further I say, and further will maintain

Upon his bad life to make all this good,

That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester's death,

Suggest his soon-believing adversaries,

And consequently, like a traitor coward,

Sluiced out his innocent soul through streams of blood:

Which blood, like sacrificing Abel's, cries,

Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth,

To me for justice and rough chastisement;

And, by the glorious worth of my descent,

This arm shall do it, or this life be spent.

KING RICHARD.

How high a pitch his resolution soars!

Thomas of Norfolk, what say'st thou to this?

MOWBRAY.

O! let my sovereign turn away his face

And bid his ears a little while be deaf,

Till I have told this slander of his blood

How God and good men hate so foul a liar.

KING RICHARD.

Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears:

Were he my brother, nay, my kingdom's heir,—

As he is but my father's brother's son,—

Now, by my sceptre's awe I make a vow,

Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood

Should nothing privilege him nor partialize

The unstooping firmness of my upright soul.

He is our subject, Mowbray; so art thou:

Free speech and fearless I to thee allow.

MOWBRAY.

Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart,

Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest.

Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais

Disbursed I duly to his highness' soldiers;

The other part reserved I by consent,

For that my sovereign liege was in my debt

Upon remainder of a dear account,

Since last I went to France to fetch his queen.

Now swallow down that lie. For Gloucester's death,

I slew him not; but to my own disgrace

Neglected my sworn duty in that case.

For you, my noble Lord of Lancaster,

The honourable father to my foe,

Once did I lay an ambush for your life,

A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul;

But ere I last received the sacrament

I did confess it, and exactly begged

Your Grace's pardon; and I hope I had it.

This is my fault: as for the rest appealed,

It issues from the rancour of a villain,

A recreant and most degenerate traitor;

Which in myself I boldly will defend,

And interchangeably hurl down my gage

Upon this overweening traitor's foot,

To prove myself a loyal gentleman

Even in the best blood chambered in his bosom.

In haste whereof, most heartily I pray

Your highness to assign our trial day.

KING RICHARD.

Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be ruled by me;

Let's purge this choler without letting blood:

This we prescribe, though no physician;

Deep malice makes too deep incision:

Forget, forgive; conclude and be agreed,

Our doctors say this is no month to bleed.

Good uncle, let this end where it begun;

We'll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your son.

GAUNT.

To be a make-peace shall become my age:

Throw down, my son, the Duke of Norfolk's gage.

KING RICHARD.

And, Norfolk, throw down his.

GAUNT.

When, Harry, when?

Obedience bids I should not bid again.

KING RICHARD.

Norfolk, throw down; we bid; there is no boot.

MOWBRAY.

Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot.

My life thou shalt command, but not my shame:

The one my duty owes; but my fair name,—

Despite of death, that lives upon my grave,—

To dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have.

I am disgraced, impeached, and baffled here;

Pierced to the soul with slander's venomed spear,

The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood

Which breathed this poison.

KING RICHARD.

Rage must be withstood:

Give me his gage: lions make leopards tame.

MOWBRAY.

Yea, but not change his spots: take but my shame,

And I resign my gage. My dear dear lord,

The purest treasure mortal times afford

Is spotless reputation; that away,

Men are but gilded loam or painted clay.

A jewel in a ten-times barred-up chest

Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast.

Mine honour is my life; both grow in one;

Take honour from me, and my life is done:

Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try;

In that I live, and for that will I die.

KING RICHARD.

Cousin, throw down your gage: do you begin.

BOLINGBROKE.

O! God defend my soul from such deep sin.

Shall I seem crest-fall'n in my father's sight,

Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height

Before this outdared dastard? Ere my tongue

Shall wound my honour with such feeble wrong

Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear

The slavish motive of recanting fear,

And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace,

Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray's face.

[Exit GAUNT.]

KING RICHARD.

We were not born to sue, but to command:

Which since we cannot do to make you friends,

Be ready, as your lives shall answer it,

At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert's day:

There shall your swords and lances arbitrate

The swelling difference of your settled hate:

Since we can not atone you, we shall see

Justice design the victor's chivalry.

Lord Marshal, command our officers-at-arms

Be ready to direct these home alarms.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

The same. A room in the DUKE OF LANCASTER'S palace.

[Enter GAUNT and DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER.]

GAUNT.

Alas, the part I had in Woodstock's blood

Doth more solicit me than your exclaims,

To stir against the butchers of his life.

But since correction lieth in those hands

Which made the fault that we cannot correct,

Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven;

Who, when they see the hours ripe on earth,

Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.

DUCHESS.

Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?

Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?

Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one,

Were as seven vials of his sacred blood,

Or seven fair branches springing from one root:

Some of those seven are dried by nature's course,

Some of those branches by the Destinies cut;

But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloucester,

One vial full of Edward's sacred blood,

One flourishing branch of his most royal root,

Is cracked, and all the precious liquor spilt;

Is hacked down, and his summer leaves all vaded,

By envy's hand and murder's bloody axe.

Ah, Gaunt! his blood was thine: that bed, that womb,

That metal, that self-mould, that fashioned thee,

Made him a man; and though thou liv'st and breath'st,

Yet art thou slain in him: thou dost consent

In some large measure to thy father's death

In that thou seest thy wretched brother die,

Who was the model of thy father's life.

Call it not patience, Gaunt; it is despair:

In suffering thus thy brother to be slaughtered,

Thou showest the naked pathway to thy life,

Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee:

That which in mean men we entitle patience

Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.

What shall I say? To safeguard thine own life,

The best way is to venge my Gloucester's death.

GAUNT.

God's is the quarrel; for God's substitute,

His deputy anointed in his sight,

Hath caused his death; the which if wrongfully,

Let heaven revenge, for I may never lift

An angry arm against his minister.

DUCHESS.

Where then, alas! may I complain myself?

GAUNT.

To God, the widow's champion and defence.

DUCHESS.

Why then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt.

Thou go'st to Coventry, there to behold

Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight:

O! sit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's spear,

That it may enter butcher Mowbray's breast.

Or, if misfortune miss the first career,

Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom

That they may break his foaming courser's back,

And throw the rider headlong in the lists,

A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford!

Farewell, old Gaunt: thy sometimes brother's wife

With her companion, Grief, must end her life.

GAUNT.

Sister, farewell; I must to Coventry.

As much good stay with thee as go with me!

DUCHESS.

Yet one word more. Grief boundeth where it falls,

Not with the empty hollowness, but weight:

I take my leave before I have begun,

For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done.

Commend me to thy brother, Edmund York.

Lo! this is all: nay, yet depart not so;

Though this be all, do not so quickly go;

I shall remember more. Bid him—ah, what?—

With all good speed at Plashy visit me.

Alack! and what shall good old York there see

But empty lodgings and unfurnished walls,

Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones?

And what hear there for welcome but my groans?

Therefore commend me; let him not come there,

To seek out sorrow that dwells every where.

Desolate, desolate, will I hence and die:

The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE III.

Open Space, near Coventry. Lists set out, and a Throne. Heralds, &c., attending.

[Enter the Lord Marshal and AUMERLE.]

MARSHAL.

My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford armed?

AUMERLE.

Yea, at all points; and longs to enter in.

MARSHAL.

The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold,

Stays but the summons of the appelant's trumpet.

AUMERLE.

Why then, the champions are prepared, and stay

For nothing but his Majesty's approach.

[Enter KING RICHARD, who takes his seat on his Throne; GAUNT, BUSHY, BAGOT, GREEN, and Others, who take their places. A trumpet is sounded, and answered by another trumpet within. Then enter MOWBRAY, in armour, defendant, preceeded by a Herald.]

KING RICHARD.

Marshal, demand of yonder champion

The cause of his arrival here in arms:

Ask him his name, and orderly proceed

To swear him in the justice of his cause.

MARSHAL.

In God's name and the king's, say who thou art,

And why thou comest thus knightly clad in arms,

Against what man thou comest, and what thy quarrel.

Speak truly, on thy knighthood and thy oath;

As so defend thee heaven and thy valour!

MOWBRAY.

My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,

Who hither come engaged by my oath,—

Which God defend a knight should violate!—

Both to defend my loyalty and truth

To God, my King, and my succeeding issue,

Against the Duke of Hereford that appeals me;

And, by the grace of God and this mine arm,

To prove him, in defending of myself,

A traitor to my God, my King, and me:

And as I truly fight, defend me heaven!

[He takes his seat.]

[Trumpet sounds. Enter BOLINGBROKE, appellant, in armour, preceeded by a Herald.]

KING RICHARD.

Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms,

Both who he is and why he cometh hither

Thus plated in habiliments of war;

And formally, according to our law,

Depose him in the justice of his cause.

MARSHAL.

What is thy name? and wherefore com'st thou hither

Before King Richard in his royal lists?

Against whom comest thou? and what's thy quarrel?

Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven!

BOLINGBROKE.

Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,

Am I; who ready here do stand in arms,

To prove by God's grace and my body's valour,

In lists, on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,

That he's a traitor foul and dangerous,

To God of heaven, King Richard, and to me:

And as I truly fight, defend me heaven!

MARSHAL.

On pain of death, no person be so bold

Or daring-hardy as to touch the lists,

Except the Marshal and such officers

Appointed to direct these fair designs.

BOLINGBROKE.

Lord Marshal, let me kiss my sovereign's hand,

And bow my knee before his Majesty:

For Mowbray and myself are like two men

That vow a long and weary pilgrimage;

Then let us take a ceremonious leave

And loving farewell of our several friends.

MARSHAL.

The appellant in all duty greets your highness,

And craves to kiss your hand and take his leave.

KING RICHARD.

[Descends from his throne.]

We will descend and fold him in our arms.

Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right,

So be thy fortune in this royal fight!

Farewell, my blood; which if to-day thou shed,

Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.

BOLINGBROKE.

O! let no noble eye profane a tear

For me, if I be gored with Mowbray's spear.

As confident as is the falcon's flight

Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.

My loving lord, I take my leave of you;

Of you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle;

Not sick, although I have to do with death,

But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath.

Lo! as at English feasts, so I regreet

The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet:

O thou, the earthly author of my blood,

Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate,

Doth with a twofold vigour lift me up

To reach at victory above my head,

Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers,

And with thy blessings steel my lance's point,

That it may enter Mowbray's waxen coat,

And furbish new the name of John a Gaunt,

Even in the lusty haviour of his son.

GAUNT.

God in thy good cause make thee prosperous!

Be swift like lightning in the execution;

And let thy blows, doubly redoubled,

Fall like amazing thunder on the casque

Of thy adverse pernicious enemy:

Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant, and live.

BOLINGBROKE.

Mine innocency and Saint George to thrive!

[He takes his seat.]

MOWBRAY.

[Rising.]

However God or fortune cast my lot,

There lives or dies, true to King Richard's throne,

A loyal, just, and upright gentleman.

Never did captive with a freer heart

Cast off his chains of bondage and embrace

His golden uncontrolled enfranchisement,

More than my dancing soul doth celebrate

This feast of battle with mine adversary.

Most mighty liege, and my companion peers,

Take from my mouth the wish of happy years.

As gentle and as jocund as to jest

Go I to fight: truth hath a quiet breast.

KING RICHARD.

Farewell, my lord: securely I espy

Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.

Order the trial, Marshal, and begin.

[The KING and the Lords return to their seats.]

MARSHAL.

Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,

Receive thy lance; and God defend the right!

BOLINGBROKE.

[Rising.]

Strong as a tower in hope, I cry 'amen'.

MARSHAL.

[To an officer.]

Go bear this lance to Thomas, Duke of Norfolk.

FIRST HERALD.

Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,

Stands here for God, his sovereign, and himself,

On pain to be found false and recreant,

To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray,

A traitor to his God, his King, and him;

And dares him to set forward to the fight.

SECOND HERALD.

Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,

On pain to be found false and recreant,

Both to defend himself, and to approve

Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,

To God, his sovereign, and to him disloyal;

Courageously and with a free desire,

Attending but the signal to begin.

MARSHAL.

Sound trumpets; and set forward, combatants.

[A charge sounded.]

Stay, the King hath thrown his warder down.

KING RICHARD.

Let them lay by their helmets and their spears,

And both return back to their chairs again:

Withdraw with us; and let the trumpets sound

While we return these dukes what we decree.

[A long flourish.]

[To the Combatants.]

Draw near,

And list what with our council we have done.

For that our kingdom's earth should not be soiled

With that dear blood which it hath fostered;

And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect

Of civil wounds ploughed up with neighbours' swords;

And for we think the eagle-winged pride

Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts,

With rival-hating envy, set on you

To wake our peace, which in our country's cradle

Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep;

Which so roused up with boist'rous untuned drums,

With harsh-resounding trumpets' dreadful bray,

And grating shock of wrathful iron arms,

Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace

And make us wade even in our kindred's blood:

Therefore we banish you our territories:

You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life,

Till twice five summers have enriched our fields

Shall not regreet our fair dominions,

But tread the stranger paths of banishment.

BOLINGBROKE.

Your will be done. This must my comfort be,

That sun that warms you here shall shine on me;

And those his golden beams to you here lent

Shall point on me and gild my banishment.

KING RICHARD.

Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom,

Which I with some unwillingness pronounce:

The sly slow hours shall not determinate

The dateless limit of thy dear exile;

The hopeless word of 'never to return'

Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.

MOWBRAY.

A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege,

And all unlooked for from your highness' mouth:

A dearer merit, not so deep a maim

As to be cast forth in the common air,

Have I deserved at your highness' hands.

The language I have learned these forty years,

My native English, now I must forgo;

And now my tongue's use is to me no more

Than an unstringed viol or a harp,

Or like a cunning instrument cased up

Or, being open, put into his hands

That knows no touch to tune the harmony:

Within my mouth you have engaoled my tongue,

Doubly portcullised with my teeth and lips;

And dull, unfeeling, barren ignorance

Is made my gaoler to attend on me.

I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,

Too far in years to be a pupil now:

What is thy sentence, then, but speechless death,

Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?

KING RICHARD.

It boots thee not to be compassionate:

After our sentence plaining comes too late.

MOWBRAY.

Then thus I turn me from my country's light,

To dwell in solemn shades of endless night.

[Retiring.]

KING RICHARD.

Return again, and take an oath with thee.

Lay on our royal sword your banished hands;

Swear by the duty that you owe to God,—

Our part therein we banish with yourselves—

To keep the oath that we administer:

You never shall, so help you truth and God!—

Embrace each other's love in banishment;

Nor never look upon each other's face;

Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile

This louring tempest of your home-bred hate;

Nor never by advised purpose meet

To plot, contrive, or complot any ill

'Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land.

BOLINGBROKE.

I swear.

MOWBRAY.

And I, to keep all this.

BOLINGBROKE.

Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy:—

By this time, had the king permitted us,

One of our souls had wand'red in the air,

Banished this frail sepulchre of our flesh,

As now our flesh is banished from this land:

Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm;

Since thou hast far to go, bear not along

The clogging burden of a guilty soul.

MOWBRAY.

No, Bolingbroke: if ever I were traitor,

My name be blotted from the book of life,

And I from heaven banished as from hence!

But what thou art, God, thou, and I, do know;

And all too soon, I fear, the king shall rue.

Farewell, my liege. Now no way can I stray;

Save back to England, all the world's my way.

[Exit.]

KING RICHARD.

Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes

I see thy grieved heart: thy sad aspect

Hath from the number of his banished years

Plucked four away.—[To BOLINGBROKE.] Six frozen winters spent,

Return with welcome home from banishment.

BOLINGBROKE.

How long a time lies in one little word!

Four lagging winters and four wanton springs

End in a word: such is the breath of kings.

GAUNT.

I thank my liege that in regard of me

He shortens four years of my son's exile;

But little vantage shall I reap thereby:

For, ere the six years that he hath to spend

Can change their moons and bring their times about,

My oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light

Shall be extinct with age and endless night;

My inch of taper will be burnt and done,

And blindfold death not let me see my son.

KING RICHARD.

Why, uncle, thou hast many years to live.

GAUNT.

But not a minute, king, that thou canst give:

Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow,

And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow;

Thou can'st help time to furrow me with age,

But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage;

Thy word is current with him for my death,

But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath.

KING RICHARD.

Thy son is banished upon good advice,

Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave.

Why at our justice seem'st thou then to lower?

GAUNT.

Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour.

You urged me as a judge; but I had rather

You would have bid me argue like a father.

O! had it been a stranger, not my child,

To smooth his fault I should have been more mild.:

A partial slander sought I to avoid,

And in the sentence my own life destroyed.

Alas! I looked when some of you should say

I was too strict to make mine own away;

But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue

Against my will to do myself this wrong.

KING RICHARD.

Cousin, farewell; and, uncle, bid him so:

Six years we banish him, and he shall go.

[Flourish. Exit KING RICHARD and Train.]

AUMERLE.

Cousin, farewell: what presence must not know,

From where you do remain let paper show.

MARSHAL.

My lord, no leave take I; for I will ride,

As far as land will let me, by your side.

GAUNT.

O! to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,

That thou return'st no greeting to thy friends?

BOLINGBROKE.

I have too few to take my leave of you,

When the tongue's office should be prodigal

To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart.

GAUNT.

Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.

BOLINGBROKE.

Joy absent, grief is present for that time.

GAUNT.

What is six winters? They are quickly gone.

BOLINGBROKE.

To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten.

GAUNT.

Call it a travel that thou tak'st for pleasure.

BOLINGBROKE.

My heart will sigh when I miscall it so,

Which finds it an enforced pilgrimage.

GAUNT.

The sullen passage of thy weary steps

Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set

The precious jewel of thy home return.

BOLINGBROKE.

Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make

Will but remember me what a deal of world

I wander from the jewels that I love.

Must I not serve a long apprenticehood

To foreign passages, and in the end,

Having my freedom, boast of nothing else

But that I was a journeyman to grief?

GAUNT.

All places that the eye of heaven visits

Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.

Teach thy necessity to reason thus;

There is no virtue like necessity.

Think not the king did banish thee,

But thou the king. Woe doth the heavier sit,

Where it perceives it is but faintly borne.

Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour,

And not the King exiled thee; or suppose

Devouring pestilence hangs in our air,

And thou art flying to a fresher clime.

Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it

To lie that way thou go'st, not whence thou com'st.

Suppose the singing birds musicians,

The grass whereon thou tread'st the presence strewed,

The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more

Than a delightful measure or a dance;

For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite

The man that mocks at it and sets it light.

BOLINGBROKE.

O! who can hold a fire in his hand

By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?

Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite

By bare imagination of a feast?

Or wallow naked in December snow

By thinking on fantastic summer's heat?

O, no! the apprehension of the good

Gives but the greater feeling to the worse:

Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more

Than when it bites, but lanceth not the sore.

GAUNT.

Come, come, my son, I'll bring thee on thy way.

Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stay.

BOLINGBROKE.

Then, England's ground, farewell; sweet soil, adieu;

My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet!

Where'er I wander, boast of this I can,

Though banished, yet a true-born Englishman.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE IV.

London. A Room in the King's Castle

[Enter KING RICHARD, BAGOT, and GREEN, at one door; AUMERLE at another.]

KING RICHARD.

We did observe. Cousin Aumerle,

How far brought you high Hereford on his way?

AUMERLE.

I brought high Hereford, if you call him so,

But to the next highway, and there I left him.

KING RICHARD.

And say, what store of parting tears were shed?

AUMERLE.

Faith, none for me; except the north-east wind,

Which then blew bitterly against our faces,

Awaked the sleeping rheum, and so by chance

Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.

KING RICHARD.

What said our cousin when you parted with him?

AUMERLE.

'Farewell:'

And, for my heart disdained that my tongue

Should so profane the word, that taught me craft

To counterfeit oppression of such grief

That words seemed buried in my sorrow's grave.

Marry, would the word 'farewell' have lengthened hours

And added years to his short banishment,

He should have had a volume of farewells;

But since it would not, he had none of me.

KING RICHARD.

He is our cousin, cousin; but 'tis doubt,

When time shall call him home from banishment,

Whether our kinsman come to see his friends.

Ourself, and Bushy, Bagot here and Green,

Observed his courtship to the common people,

How he did seem to dive into their hearts

With humble and familiar courtesy,

What reverence he did throw away on slaves,

Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles

And patient underbearing of his fortune,

As 'twere to banish their affects with him.

Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench;

A brace of draymen bid God speed him well,

And had the tribute of his supple knee,

With 'Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends';

As were our England in reversion his,

And he our subjects' next degree in hope.

GREEN.

Well, he is gone; and with him go these thoughts.

Now for the rebels which stand out in Ireland;

Expedient manage must be made, my liege,

Ere further leisure yield them further means

For their advantage and your highness' loss.

KING RICHARD.

We will ourself in person to this war.

And, for our coffers, with too great a court

And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light,

We are enforced to farm our royal realm;

The revenue whereof shall furnish us

For our affairs in hand. If that come short,

Our substitutes at home shall have blank charters;

Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich,

They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold,

And send them after to supply our wants;

For we will make for Ireland presently.

[Enter BUSHY.]

Bushy, what news?

BUSHY.

Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my lord,

Suddenly taken, and hath sent poste-haste

To entreat your Majesty to visit him.

KING RICHARD.

Where lies he?

BUSHY.

At Ely House.

KING RICHARD.

Now put it, God, in his physician's mind

To help him to his grave immediately!

The lining of his coffers shall make coats

To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars.

Come, gentlemen, let's all go visit him:

Pray God we may make haste, and come too late!

ALL.

Amen.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

London. An Apartment in Ely House.

[GAUNT on a couch; the DUKE OF YORK and Others standing by him.]

GAUNT.

Will the King come, that I may breathe my last

In wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth?

YORK.

Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath;

For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.

GAUNT.

O! but they say the tongues of dying men

Enforce attention like deep harmony:

Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain,

For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.

He that no more must say is listened more

Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose;

More are men's ends marked than their lives before:

The setting sun, and music at the close,

As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,

Writ in remembrance more than things long past:

Though Richard my life's counsel would not hear,

My death's sad tale may yet undeaf his ear.

YORK.

No; it is stopped with other flattering sounds,

As praises of his state: then there are fond,

Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound

The open ear of youth doth always listen:

Report of fashions in proud Italy,

Whose manners still our tardy apish nation

Limps after in base imitation.

Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity,—

So it be new there's no respect how vile,—

That is not quickly buzzed into his ears?

Then all too late comes counsel to be heard,

Where will doth mutiny with wit's regard.

Direct not him whose way himself will choose:

'Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.

GAUNT.

Methinks I am a prophet new inspired,

And thus expiring do foretell of him:

His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last,

For violent fires soon burn out themselves;

Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short;

He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes;

With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder:

Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,

Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.

This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle,

This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,

This other Eden, demi-paradise,

This fortress built by Nature for herself

Against infection and the hand of war,

This happy breed of men, this little world,

This precious stone set in the silver sea,

Which serves it in the office of a wall,

Or as a moat defensive to a house,

Against the envy of less happier lands;

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,

This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,

Feared by their breed, and famous by their birth,

Renowned for their deeds as far from home,—

For Christian service and true chivalry,—

As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry

Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's Son:

This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land,

Dear for her reputation through the world,

Is now leased out,—I die pronouncing it,—

Like to a tenement or pelting farm:

England, bound in with the triumphant sea,

Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege

Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,

With inky blots, and rotten parchment bonds:

That England, that was wont to conquer others,

Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.

Ah! would the scandal vanish with my life,

How happy then were my ensuing death.

[Enter KING RICHARD and QUEEN; AUMERLE, BUSHY, GREEN, BAGOT, ROSS, and WILLOUGHBY.]

YORK.

The King is come: deal mildly with his youth;

For young hot colts, being raged, do rage the more.

QUEEN.

How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster?

KING RICHARD.

What comfort, man? How is't with aged Gaunt?

GAUNT.

O! how that name befits my composition;

Old Gaunt, indeed; and gaunt in being old:

Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast;

And who abstains from meat that is not gaunt?

For sleeping England long time have I watched;

Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt.

The pleasure that some fathers feed upon

Is my strict fast, I mean my children's looks;

And therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt.

Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave,

Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones.

KING RICHARD.

Can sick men play so nicely with their names?

GAUNT.

No, misery makes sport to mock itself:

Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me,

I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee.

KING RICHARD.

Should dying men flatter with those that live?

GAUNT.

No, no; men living flatter those that die.

KING RICHARD.

Thou, now a-dying, sayest thou flatterest me.

GAUNT.

O, no! thou diest, though I the sicker be.

KING RICHARD.

I am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill.

GAUNT.

Now, He that made me knows I see thee ill;

Ill in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill.

Thy death-bed is no lesser than thy land

Wherein thou liest in reputation sick:

And thou, too careless patient as thou art,

Committ'st thy anointed body to the cure

Of those physicians that first wounded thee:

A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown,

Whose compass is no bigger than thy head;

And yet, incaged in so small a verge,

The waste is no whit lesser than thy land.

O! had thy grandsire, with a prophet's eye,

Seen how his son's son should destroy his sons,

From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame,

Deposing thee before thou wert possessed,

Which art possessed now to depose thyself.

Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world,

It were a shame to let this land by lease;

But for thy world enjoying but this land,

Is it not more than shame to shame it so?

Landlord of England art thou now, not king:

Thy state of law is bondslave to the law,

And—

KING RICHARD.

And thou a lunatic lean-witted fool,

Presuming on an ague's privilege,

Dar'st with thy frozen admonition

Make pale our cheek, chasing the royal blood

With fury from his native residence.

Now by my seat's right royal majesty,

Wert thou not brother to great Edward's son,—

This tongue that runs so roundly in thy head

Should run thy head from thy unreverent shoulders.

GAUNT.

O! spare me not, my brother Edward's son,

For that I was his father Edward's son.

That blood already, like the pelican,

Hast thou tapped out, and drunkenly caroused:

My brother Gloucester, plain well-meaning soul,—

Whom fair befall in heaven 'mongst happy souls!—

May be a precedent and witness good

That thou respect'st not spilling Edward's blood:

Join with the present sickness that I have;

And thy unkindness be like crooked age,

To crop at once a too-long withered flower.

Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee!

These words hereafter thy tormentors be!

Convey me to my bed, then to my grave:

Love they to live that love and honour have.

[Exit, bourne out by his Attendants.]

KING RICHARD.

And let them die that age and sullens have;

For both hast thou, and both become the grave.

YORK.

I do beseech your Majesty, impute his words

To wayward sickliness and age in him:

He loves you, on my life, and holds you dear

As Harry Duke of Hereford, were he here.

KING RICHARD.

Right, you say true: as Hereford's love, so his;

As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is.

[Enter NORTHUMBERLAND.]

NORTHUMBERLAND.

My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your Majesty.

KING RICHARD.

What says he?

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Nay, nothing; all is said:

His tongue is now a stringless instrument;

Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent.

YORK.

Be York the next that must be bankrupt so!

Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

KING RICHARD.

The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth he:

His time is spent; our pilgrimage must be.

So much for that. Now for our Irish wars.

We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns,

Which live like venom where no venom else

But only they have privilege to live.

And for these great affairs do ask some charge,

Towards our assistance we do seize to us

The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables,

Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possessed.

YORK.

How long shall I be patient? Ah! how long

Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong?

Not Gloucester's death, nor Hereford's banishment,

Nor Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private wrongs,

Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke

About his marriage, nor my own disgrace,

Have ever made me sour my patient cheek,

Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign's face.

I am the last of noble Edward's sons,

Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first;

In war was never lion raged more fierce,

In peace was never gentle lamb more mild,

Than was that young and princely gentleman.

His face thou hast, for even so looked he,

Accomplished with the number of thy hours;

But when he frowned, it was against the French,

And not against his friends; his noble hand

Did win what he did spend, and spent not that

Which his triumphant father's hand had won:

His hands were guilty of no kindred's blood,

But bloody with the enemies of his kin.

O Richard! York is too far gone with grief,

Or else he never would compare between.

KING RICHARD.

Why, uncle, what's the matter?

YORK.

O! my liege.

Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleased

Not to be pardoned, am content withal.

Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands

The royalties and rights of banished Hereford?

Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford live?

Was not Gaunt just, and is not Harry true?

Did not the one deserve to have an heir?

Is not his heir a well-deserving son?

Take Hereford's rights away, and take from Time

His charters and his customary rights;

Let not to-morrow then ensue to-day;

Be not thyself; for how art thou a king

But by fair sequence and succession?

Now, afore God,—God forbid I say true!—

If you do wrongfully seize Hereford's rights,

Call in the letters-patents that he hath

By his attorneys-general to sue

His livery, and deny his offered homage,

You pluck a thousand dangers on your head,

You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts,

And prick my tender patience to those thoughts

Which honour and allegiance cannot think.

KING RICHARD.

Think what you will: we seize into our hands

His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands.

YORK.

I'll not be by the while: my liege, farewell:

What will ensue hereof there's none can tell;

But by bad courses may be understood

That their events can never fall out good.

[Exit.]

KING RICHARD.

Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire straight:

Bid him repair to us to Ely House

To see this business. To-morrow next

We will for Ireland; and 'tis time, I trow:

And we create, in absence of ourself,

Our Uncle York lord governor of England;

For he is just, and always loved us well.

Come on, our queen: to-morrow must we part;

Be merry, for our time of stay is short.

[Exeunt KING, QUEEN, BUSHY, AUMERLE, GREEN, and BAGOT.]

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.

ROSS.

And living too; for now his son is Duke.

WILLOUGHBY.

Barely in title, not in revenues.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Richly in both, if justice had her right.

ROSS.

My heart is great; but it must break with silence,

Ere't be disburdened with a liberal tongue.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne'er speak more

That speaks thy words again to do thee harm!

WILLOUGHBY.

Tends that thou wouldst speak to the Duke of Hereford?

If it be so, out with it boldly, man;

Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him.

ROSS.

No good at all that I can do for him,

Unless you call it good to pity him,

Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Now, afore God, 'tis shame such wrongs are borne

In him, a royal prince, and many moe

Of noble blood in this declining land.

The king is not himself, but basely led

By flatterers; and what they will inform,

Merely in hate, 'gainst any of us all,

That will the king severely prosecute

'Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.

ROSS.

The commons hath he pilled with grievous taxes,

And quite lost their hearts: the nobles hath he fined

For ancient quarrels and quite lost their hearts.

WILLOUGHBY.

And daily new exactions are devised;

As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what:

But what, o' God's name, doth become of this?

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Wars hath not wasted it, for warred he hath not,

But basely yielded upon compromise

That which his ancestors achieved with blows.

More hath he spent in peace than they in wars.

ROSS.

The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm.

WILLOUGHBY.

The King's grown bankrupt like a broken man.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Reproach and dissolution hangeth over him.

ROSS.

He hath not money for these Irish wars,

His burdenous taxations notwithstanding,

But by the robbing of the banished Duke.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

His noble kinsman: most degenerate king!

But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing,

Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm;

We see the wind sit sore upon our sails,

And yet we strike not, but securely perish.

ROSS.

We see the very wrack that we must suffer;

And unavoided is the danger now,

For suffering so the causes of our wrack.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Not so: even through the hollow eyes of death

I spy life peering; but I dare not say

How near the tidings of our comfort is.

WILLOUGHBY.

Nay, let us share thy thoughts as thou dost ours.

ROSS.

Be confident to speak, Northumberland:

We three are but thyself: and, speaking so,

Thy words are but as thoughts; therefore be bold.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Then thus: I have from Le Port Blanc, a bay

In Brittany, received intelligence

That Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainold Lord Cobham,

That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,

His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury,

Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston,

Sir John Norbery, Sir Robert Waterton, and Francis Quoint,

All these well furnished by the Duke of Britaine,

With eight tall ships, three thousand men of war,

Are making hither with all due expedience,

And shortly mean to touch our northern shore.

Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stay

The first departing of the king for Ireland.

If then we shall shake off our slavish yoke,

Imp out our drooping country's broken wing,

Redeem from broking pawn the blemished crown,

Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre's gilt,

And make high majesty look like itself,

Away with me in post to Ravenspurgh;

But if you faint, as fearing to do so,

Stay and be secret, and myself will go.

ROSS.

To horse, to horse! Urge doubts to them that fear.

WILLOUGHBY.

Hold out my horse, and I will first be there.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

The Same. A Room in the Castle.

[Enter QUEEN, BUSHY, and BAGOT.]

BUSHY.

Madam, your Majesty is too much sad.

You promised, when you parted with the king,

To lay aside life-harming heaviness,

And entertain a cheerful disposition.

QUEEN.

To please the King, I did; to please myself

I cannot do it; yet I know no cause

Why I should welcome such a guest as grief,

Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest

As my sweet Richard: yet again methinks,

Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune's womb,

Is coming towards me, and my inward soul

With nothing trembles; at some thing it grieves

More than with parting from my lord the king.

BUSHY.

Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows,

Which shows like grief itself, but is not so;

For sorrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears,

Divides one thing entire to many objects;

Like perspectives which, rightly gazed upon,

Show nothing but confusion; eyed awry,

Distinguish form: so your sweet Majesty,

Looking awry upon your lord's departure,

Find shapes of grief more than himself to wail;

Which, looked on as it is, is nought but shadows

Of what it is not. Then, thrice-gracious Queen,

More than your lord's departure weep not: more's not seen;

Or if it be, 'tis with false sorrow's eye,

Which for things true weeps things imaginary.

QUEEN.

It may be so; but yet my inward soul

Persuades me it is otherwise: howe'er it be,

I cannot but be sad, so heavy s,ad

As, though in thinking, on no thought I think,

Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.

BUSHY.

'Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady.

QUEEN.

'Tis nothing less: conceit is still derived

From some forefather grief; mine is not so,

For nothing hath begot my something grief,

Or something hath the nothing that I grieve:

'Tis in reversion that I do possess;

But what it is, that is not yet known; what

I cannot name; 'tis nameless woe, I wot.

[Enter GREEN.]

GREEN.

God save your majesty! and well met, gentlemen:

I hope the King is not yet shipped for Ireland.

QUEEN.

Why hop'st thou so? 'Tis better hope he is,

For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope:

Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipped?

GREEN.

That he, our hope, might have retired his power,

And driven into despair an enemy's hope

Who strongly hath set footing in this land:

The banished Bolingbroke repeals himself,

And with uplifted arms is safe arrived

At Ravenspurgh.

QUEEN.

Now God in heaven forbid!

GREEN.

Ah! madam, 'tis too true; and that is worse,

The Lord Northumberland, his son young Henry Percy,

The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby,

With all their powerful friends, are fled to him.

BUSHY.

Why have you not proclaimed Northumberland

And all the rest revolted faction traitors?

GREEN.

We have: whereupon the Earl of Worcester

Hath broken his staff, resigned his stewardship,

And all the household servants fled with him

To Bolingbroke.

QUEEN.

So, Green, thou art the midwife to my woe,

And Bolingbroke my sorrow's dismal heir:

Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy,

And I, a gasping new-delivered mother,

Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow joined.

BUSHY.

Despair not, madam.

QUEEN.

Who shall hinder me?

I will despair, and be at enmity

With cozening hope: he is a flatterer,

A parasite, a keeper-back of death,

Who gently would dissolve the bands of life,

Which false hope lingers in extremity.

[Enter YORK.]

GREEN.

Here comes the Duke of York.

QUEEN.

With signs of war about his aged neck:

O! full of careful business are his looks.

Uncle, for God's sake, speak comfortable words.

YORK.

Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts:

Comfort's in heaven; and we are on the earth,

Where nothing lives but crosses, cares, and grief.

Your husband, he is gone to save far off,

Whilst others come to make him lose at home.

Here am I left to underprop his land,

Who, weak with age, cannot support myself.

Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made;

Now shall he try his friends that flattered him.

[Enter a Servant.]

SERVANT.

My lord, your son was gone before I came.

YORK.

He was? Why, so! go all which way it will!

The nobles they are fled, the commons they are cold,

And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's side.

Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloucester;

Bid her send me presently a thousand pound.

Hold, take my ring.

SERVANT.

My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship:

To-day, as I came by, I called there;

But I shall grieve you to report the rest.

YORK.

What is't, knave?

SERVANT.

An hour before I came the duchess died.

YORK.

God for his mercy! what a tide of woes

Comes rushing on this woeful land at once!

I know not what to do: I would to God,—

So my untruth had not provoked him to it,—

The king had cut off my head with my brother's.

What! are there no posts dispatched for Ireland?

How shall we do for money for these wars?

Come, sister,—cousin, I would say,—pray, pardon me.—

Go, fellow, get thee home; provide some carts,

And bring away the armour that is there.

[Exit Servant.]

Gentlemen, will you go muster men?

If I know how or which way to order these affairs

Thus disorderly thrust into my hands,

Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen:

T'one is my sovereign, whom both my oath

And duty bids defend; the other again

Is my kinsman, whom the king hath wronged,

Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right.

Well, somewhat we must do. Come, cousin,

I'll dispose of you. Gentlemen, go muster up your men,

And meet me presently at Berkeley Castle.

I should to Plashy too:

But time will not permit. All is uneven,

And everything is left at six and seven.

[Exeunt YORK and QUEEN.]

BUSHY.

The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland,

But none returns. For us to levy power

Proportionable to the enemy

Is all unpossible.

GREEN.

Besides, our nearness to the king in love

Is near the hate of those love not the king.

BAGOT.

And that is the wavering commons; for their love

Lies in their purses; and whoso empties them,

By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.

BUSHY.

Wherein the king stands generally condemned.

BAGOT.

If judgment lie in them, then so do we,

Because we ever have been near the king.

GREEN.

Well, I will for refuge straight to Bristol Castle.

The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.

BUSHY.

Thither will I with you; for little office

Will the hateful commons perform for us,

Except like curs to tear us all to pieces.

Will you go along with us?

BAGOT.

No; I will to Ireland to his Majesty.

Farewell: If heart's presages be not vain,

We three here part that ne'er shall meet again.

BUSHY.

That's as York thrives to beat back Bolingbroke.

GREEN.

Alas, poor Duke! the task he undertakes

Is numb'ring sands and drinking oceans dry:

Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly.

Farewell at once; for once, for all, and ever.

BUSHY.

Well, we may meet again.

BAGOT.

I fear me, never.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE III.

The Wolds in Gloucestershire.

[Enter BOLINGBROKE and NORTHUMBERLAND, with Forces.]

BOLINGBROKE.

How far is it, my lord, to Berkeley now?

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Believe me, noble lord,

I am a stranger here in Gloucestershire.

These high wild hills and rough uneven ways

Draws out our miles, and makes them wearisome;

And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar,

Making the hard way sweet and delectable.

But I bethink me what a weary way

From Ravenspurgh to Cotswold will be found

In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company,

Which, I protest, hath very much beguiled

The tediousness and process of my travel.

But theirs is sweetened with the hope to have

The present benefit which I possess;

And hope to joy is little less in joy

Than hope enjoyed: by this the weary lords

Shall make their way seem short, as mine hath done

By sight of what I have, your noble company.

BOLINGBROKE.

Of much less value is my company

Than your good words. But who comes here?

[Enter HARRY PERCY.]

NORTHUMBERLAND.

It is my son, young Harry Percy,

Sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever.

Harry, how fares your uncle?

PERCY.

I had thought, my lord, to have learned his health of you.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Why, is he not with the Queen?

PERCY.

No, my good lord; he hath forsook the court,

Broken his staff of office, and dispersed

The household of the King.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

What was his reason?

He was not so resolved when last we spake together.

PERCY.

Because your lordship was proclaimed traitor.

But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurgh,

To offer service to the Duke of Hereford;

And sent me over by Berkeley, to discover

What power the Duke of York had levied there;

Then with directions to repair to Ravenspurgh.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Have you forgot the Duke of Hereford, boy?

PERCY.

No, my good lord; for that is not forgot

Which ne'er I did remember; to my knowledge,

I never in my life did look on him.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Then learn to know him now; this is the duke.

PERCY.

My gracious lord, I tender you my service,

Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young;,

Which elder days shall ripen, and confirm

To more approved service and desert.

BOLINGBROKE.

I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sure

I count myself in nothing else so happy

As in a soul remembering my good friends;

And as my fortune ripens with thy love,

It shall be still thy true love's recompense.

My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

How far is it to Berkeley? And what stir

Keeps good old York there with his men of war?

PERCY.

There stands the castle, by yon tuft of trees,

Manned with three hundred men, as I have heard;

And in it are the Lords of York, Berkeley, and Seymour;

None else of name and noble estimate.

[Enter Ross and WILLOUGHBY.]

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Here come the Lords of Ross and Willoughby,

Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste.

BOLINGBROKE.

Welcome, my lords. I wot your love pursues

A banished traitor; all my treasury

Is yet but unfelt thanks, which, more enriched,

Shall be your love and labour's recompense.

ROSS.

Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord.

WILLOUGHBY.

And far surmounts our labour to attain it.

BOLINGBROKE.

Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor;

Which, till my infant fortune comes to years,

Stands for my bounty. But who comes here?

[Enter BERKELEY.]

NORTHUMBERLAND.

It is my Lord of Berkeley, as I guess.

BERKELEY.

My Lord of Hereford, my message is to you.

BOLINGBROKE.

My lord, my answer is—to Lancaster;

And I am come to seek that name in England;

And I must find that title in your tongue

Before I make reply to aught you say.

BERKELEY.

Mistake me not, my lord; 'tis not my meaning

To raze one title of your honour out:

To you, my lord, I come, what lord you will,

From the most gracious regent of this land,

The Duke of York, to know what pricks you on

To take advantage of the absent time,

And fright our native peace with self-borne arms.

[Enter YORK, attended.]

BOLINGBROKE.

I shall not need transport my words by you;

Here comes his Grace in person. My noble uncle!

[Kneels.]

YORK.

Show me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,

Whose duty is deceivable and false.

BOLINGBROKE.

My gracious uncle—

YORK.

Tut, tut!

Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle:

I am no traitor's uncle; and that word 'grace'

In an ungracious mouth is but profane.

Why have those banished and forbidden legs

Dared once to touch a dust of England's ground?

But then more 'why?' why have they dared to march

So many miles upon her peaceful bosom,

Frighting her pale-faced villages with war

And ostentation of despised arms?

Com'st thou because the anointed king is hence?

Why, foolish boy, the king is left behind,

And in my loyal bosom lies his power.

Were I but now lord of such hot youth

As when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myself

Rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of men,

From forth the ranks of many thousand French,

O! then how quickly should this arm of mine,

Now prisoner to the palsy, chastise the

And minister correction to thy fault!

BOLINGBROKE.

My gracious uncle, let me know my fault:

On what condition stands it and wherein?

YORK.

Even in condition of the worst degree,

In gross rebellion and detested treason:

Thou art a banished man, and here art come

Before the expiration of thy time,

In braving arms against thy sovereign.

BOLINGBROKE.

As I was banished, I was banished Hereford;

But as I come, I come for Lancaster.

And, noble uncle, I beseech your Grace

Look on my wrongs with an indifferent eye:

You are my father, for methinks in you

I see old Gaunt alive: O! then, my father,

Will you permit that I shall stand condemned

A wandering vagabond; my rights and royalties

Plucked from my arms perforce, and given away

To upstart unthrifts? Wherefore was I born?

If that my cousin king be King in England,

It must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster.

You have a son, Aumerle, my noble cousin;

Had you first died, and he been thus trod down,

He should have found his uncle Gaunt a father

To rouse his wrongs and chase them to the bay.

I am denied to sue my livery here,

And yet my letters-patents give me leave.

My father's goods are all distrained and sold;

And these and all are all amiss employed.

What would you have me do? I am a subject,

And challenge law: attorneys are denied me;

And therefore personally I lay my claim

To my inheritance of free descent.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

The noble Duke hath been too much abused.

ROSS.

It stands your Grace upon to do him right.

WILLOUGHBY.

Base men by his endowments are made great.

YORK.

My lords of England, let me tell you this:

I have had feeling of my cousin's wrongs,

And laboured all I could to do him right;

But in this kind to come, in braving arms,

Be his own carver and cut out his way,

To find out right with wrong, it may not be;

And you that do abet him in this kind

Cherish rebellion, and are rebels all.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

The noble Duke hath sworn his coming is

But for his own; and for the right of that

We all have strongly sworn to give him aid;

And let him never see joy that breaks that oath!

YORK.

Well, well, I see the issue of these arms:

I cannot mend it, I must needs confess,

Because my power is weak and all ill left;

But if I could, by him that gave me life,

I would attach you all and make you stoop

Unto the sovereign mercy of the king;

But since I cannot, be it known unto you

I do remain as neuter. So, fare you well;

Unless you please to enter in the castle,

And there repose you for this night.

BOLINGBROKE.

An offer, uncle, that we will accept:

But we must win your Grace to go with us

To Bristol Castle, which they say is held

By Bushy, Bagot, and their complices,

The caterpillars of the commonwealth,

Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away.

YORK.

It may be I will go with you; but yet I'll pause,

For I am loath to break our country's laws.

Nor friends nor foes, to me welcome you are.

Things past redress are now with me past care.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE IV.

A camp in Wales.

[Enter EARL OF SALISBURY and a CAPTAIN.]

CAPTAIN.

My Lord of Salisbury, we have stayed ten days

And hardly kept our countrymen together,

And yet we hear no tidings from the King;

Therefore we will disperse ourselves: farewell.

SALISBURY.

Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman;

The King reposeth all his confidence in thee.

CAPTAIN.

'Tis thought the king is dead; we will not stay.

The bay trees in our country are all withered,

And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven;

The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth

And lean-looked prophets whisper fearful change;

Rich men look sad, and ruffians dance and leap,

The one in fear to lose what they enjoy,

The other to enjoy by rage and war.

These signs forerun the death or fall of kings.

Farewell: our countrymen are gone and fled,

As well assured Richard their king is dead.

[Exit.]

SALISBURY.

Ah, Richard! with the eyes of heavy mind,

I see thy glory like a shooting star

Fall to the base earth from the firmament.

The sun sets weeping in the lowly west,

Witnessing storms to come, woe, and unrest.

Thy friends are fled, to wait upon thy foes,

And crossly to thy good all fortune goes.

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

Bristol. BOLINGBROKE'S camp.

[Enter BOLINGBROKE, YORK, NORTHUMBERLAND, HENRY PERCY, WILLOUGHBY, ROSS; Officers behind, with BUSHY and GREEN, prisoners.]

BOLINGBROKE.

Bring forth these men.

Bushy and Green, I will not vex your souls—

Since presently your souls must part your bodies—

With too much urging your pernicious lives,

For 'twere no charity; yet, to wash your blood

From off my hands, here in the view of men

I will unfold some causes of your deaths.

You have misled a prince, a royal king,

A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments,

By you unhappied and disfigured clean;

You have in manner with your sinful hours

Made a divorce betwixt his queen and him,

Broke the possession of a royal bed,

And stained the beauty of a fair queen's cheeks

With tears drawn from her eyes by your foul wrongs.

Myself, a prince by fortune of my birth,

Near to the King in blood, and near in love

Till you did make him misinterpret me,

Have stooped my neck under your injuries,

And sighed my English breath in foreign clouds,

Eating the bitter bread of banishment;

Whilst you have fed upon my signories,

Disparked my parks and felled my forest woods,

From my own windows torn my household coat,

Razed out my impress, leaving me no sign

Save men's opinions and my living blood

To show the world I am a gentleman.

This and much more, much more than twice all this,

Condemns you to the death. See them delivered over

To execution and the hand of death.

BUSHY.

More welcome is the stroke of death to me

Than Bolingbroke to England. Lords, farewell.

GREEN.

My comfort is that heaven will take our souls,

And plague injustice with the pains of hell.

BOLINGBROKE.

My Lord Northumberland, see them dispatched.

[Exeunt NORTHUMBERLAND, and Others, with BUSHY and GREEN.]

Uncle, you say the Queen is at your house;

For God's sake, fairly let her be entreated:

Tell her I send to her my kind commends;

Take special care my greetings be delivered.

YORK.

A gentleman of mine I have dispatched

With letters of your love to her at large.

BOLINGBROKE.

Thanks, gentle uncle. Come, lords, away,

To fight with Glendower and his complices.

Awhile to work, and after holiday.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

The coast of Wales. A castle in view.

[Flourish: drums and trumpets. Enter KING RICHARD, the BISHOP OF CARLISLE, AUMERLE, and soldiers.]

KING RICHARD.

Barkloughly Castle call they this at hand?

AUMERLE.

Yea, my lord. How brooks your Grace the air

After your late tossing on the breaking seas?

KING RICHARD.

Needs must I like it well: I weep for joy

To stand upon my kingdom once again.

Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand,

Though rebels wound thee with their horses' hoofs:

As a long-parted mother with her child

Plays fondly with her tears and smiles in meeting,

So weeping-smiling greet I thee, my earth,

And do thee favours with my royal hands.

Feed not thy sovereign's foe, my gentle earth,

Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense;

But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom,

And heavy-gaited toads lie in their way,

Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet

Which with usurping steps do trample thee.

Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies;

And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower,

Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder

Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch

Throw death upon thy sovereign's enemies.

Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords.

This earth shall have a feeling, and these stones

Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king

Shall falter under foul rebellion's arms.

CARLISLE.

Fear not, my lord; that Power that made you king

Hath power to keep you king in spite of all.

The means that heaven yields must be embraced

And not neglected; else, if heaven would,

And we will not, heaven's offer we refuse,

The proffered means of succour and redress.

AUMERLE.

He means, my lord, that we are too remiss;

Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security,

Grows strong and great in substance and in friends.

KING RICHARD.

Discomfortable cousin! know'st thou not

That when the searching eye of heaven is hid,

Behind the globe, that lights the lower world,

Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen

In murders and in outrage boldly here;

But when from under this terrestrial ball

He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines

And darts his light through every guilty hole,

Then murders, treasons, and detested sins,

The cloak of night being plucked from off their backs,

Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves?

So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke,

Who all this while hath revelled in the night,

Whilst we were wandering with the Antipodes,

Shall see us rising in our throne, the east,

His treasons will sit blushing in his face,

Not able to endure the sight of day,

But self-affrighted tremble at his sin.

Not all the water in the rough rude sea

Can wash the balm off from an anointed king;

The breath of worldly men cannot depose

The deputy elected by the Lord.

For every man that Bolingbroke hath pressed

To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown,

God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay

A glorious angel: then, if angels fight,

Weak men must fall, for heaven still guards the right.

[Enter SALISBURY.]

Welcome, my lord. How far off lies your power?

SALISBURY.

Nor near nor farther off, my gracious lord,

Than this weak arm: discomfort guides my tongue

And bids me speak of nothing but despair.

One day too late, I fear me, noble lord,

Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth.

O! call back yesterday, bid time return,

And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men!

To-day, to-day, unhappy day, too late,

O'erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state;

For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead,

Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispersed, and fled.

AUMERLE.

Comfort, my liege! why looks your Grace so pale?

KING RICHARD.

But now, the blood of twenty thousand men

Did triumph in my face, and they are fled;

And till so much blood thither come again

Have I not reason to look pale and dead?

All souls that will be safe, fly from my side;

For time hath set a blot upon my pride.

AUMERLE.

Comfort, my liege! remember who you are.

KING RICHARD.

I had forgot myself. Am I not king?

Awake, thou coward majesty! thou sleepest.

Is not the king's name twenty thousand names?

Arm, arm, my name! a puny subject strikes

At thy great glory. Look not to the ground,

Ye favourites of a king; are we not high?

High be our thoughts. I know my uncle York

Hath power enough to serve our turn. But who comes here?

[Enter SIR STEPHEN SCROOP.]

SCROOP.

More health and happiness betide my liege

Than can my care-tuned tongue deliver him!

KING RICHARD.

Mine ear is open and my heart prepared:

The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold.

Say, is my kingdom lost? Why, 'twas my care,

And what loss is it to be rid of care?

Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we?

Greater he shall not be: if he serve God

We'll serve him too, and be his fellow so:

Revolt our subjects? That we cannot mend;

They break their faith to God as well as us:

Cry woe, destruction, ruin, loss, decay;

The worst is death, and death will have his day.

SCROOP.

Glad am I that your highness is so armed

To bear the tidings of calamity.

Like an unseasonable stormy day

Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores,

As if the world were all dissolved to tears,

So high above his limits swells the rage

Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land

With hard bright steel and hearts harder than steel.

White-beards have armed their thin and hairless scalps

Against thy majesty; and boys, with women's voices,

Strive to speak big, and clap their female joints

In stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown;

Thy very beadsmen learn to bend their bows

Of double-fatal yew against thy state;

Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills

Against thy seat: both young and old rebel,

And all goes worse than I have power to tell.

KING RICHARD.

Too well, too well thou tell'st a tale so ill.

Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? Where is Bagot?

What is become of Bushy? Where is Green?

That they have let the dangerous enemy

Measure our confines with such peaceful steps?

If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it.

I warrant they have made peace with Bolingbroke.

SCROOP.

Peace have they made with him indeed, my lord.

KING RICHARD.

O villains, vipers, damned without redemption!

Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!

Snakes, in my heart-blood warmed, that sting my heart!

Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas!

Would they make peace? Terrible hell make war

Upon their spotted souls for this offence!

SCROOP.

Sweet love, I see, changing his property,

Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate.

Again uncurse their souls; their peace is made

With heads, and not with hands: those whom you curse

Have felt the worst of death's destroying wound

And lie full low, graved in the hollow ground.

AUMERLE.

Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead?

SCROOP.

Ay, all of them at Bristol lost their heads.

AUMERLE.

Where is the Duke my father with his power?

KING RICHARD.

No matter where. Of comfort no man speak:

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;

Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes

Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.

Let's choose executors and talk of wills;

And yet not so—for what can we bequeath

Save our deposed bodies to the ground?

Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's.

And nothing can we can our own but death,

And that small model of the barren earth

Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.

For God's sake let us sit upon the ground

And tell sad stories of the death of kings:

How some have been deposed, some slain in war,

Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed,

Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed;

All murdered: for within the hollow crown

That rounds the mortal temples of a king

Keeps Death his court; and there the antick sits,

Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp;

Allowing him a breath, a little scene,

To monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks,

Infusing him with self and vain conceit

As if this flesh which walls about our life

Were brass impregnable; and, humoured thus,

Comes at the last, and with a little pin

Bores through his castle wall, and farewell, king!

Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood

With solemn reverence: throw away respect,

Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty;

For you have but mistook me all this while:

I live with bread like you, feel want,

Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus,

How can you say to me I am a king?

CARLISLE.

My lord, wise men ne'er sit and wail their woes,

But presently prevent the ways to wail.

To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength,

Gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe,

And so your follies fight against yourself.

Fear and be slain; no worse can come to fight;

And fight and die is death destroying death;

Where fearing dying pays death servile breath.

AUMERLE.

My father hath a power; inquire of him,

And learn to make a body of a limb.

KING RICHARD.

Thou chid'st me well. Proud Bolingbroke, I come

To change blows with thee for our day of doom.

This ague fit of fear is over-blown;

An easy task it is to win our own.—

Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power?

Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sour.

SCROOP.

Men judge by the complexion of the sky

The state in inclination of the day;

So may you by my dull and heavy eye,

My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say.

I play the torturer, by small and small

To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken:

Your uncle York is joined with Bolingbroke;

And all your northern castles yielded up,

And all your southern gentlemen in arms

Upon his party.

KING RICHARD.

Thou hast said enough.

[To AUMERLE.]

Beshrew thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth

Of that sweet way I was in to despair!

What say you now? What comfort have we now?

By heaven, I'll hate him everlastingly

That bids me be of comfort any more.

Go to Flint Castle; there I'll pine away;

A king, woe's slave, shall kingly woe obey.

That power I have, discharge; and let them go

To ear the land that hath some hope to grow,

For I have none. Let no man speak again

To alter this, for counsel is but vain.

AUMERLE.

My liege, one word.

KING RICHARD.

He does me double wrong

That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue.

Discharge my followers; let them hence away,

From Richard's night to Bolingbroke's fair day.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE III.

Wales. Before Flint Castle.

[Enter, with drum and colours, BOLINGBROKE and Forces; YORK, NORTHUMBERLAND, and Others.]

BOLINGBROKE.

So that by this intelligence we learn

The Welshmen are dispersed; and Salisbury

Is gone to meet the king, who lately landed

With some few private friends upon this coast.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

The news is very fair and good, my lord.

Richard not far from hence hath hid his head.

YORK.

It would beseem the Lord Northumberland

To say 'King Richard': alack the heavy day

When such a sacred king should hide his head!

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Your Grace mistakes; only to be brief,

Left I his title out.

YORK.

The time hath been,

Would you have been so brief with him, he would

Have been so brief with you to shorten you,

For taking so the head, your whole head's length.

BOLINGBROKE.

Mistake not, uncle, further than you should.

YORK.

Take not, good cousin, further than you should,

Lest you mistake. The heavens are o'er our heads.

BOLINGBROKE.

I know it, uncle; and oppose not myself

Against their will. But who comes here?

[Enter HENRY PERCY.]

Welcome, Harry: what, will not this castle yield?

PERCY.

The castle royally is manned, my lord,

Against thy entrance.

BOLINGBROKE.

Royally!

Why, it contains no king?

PERCY.

Yes, my good lord,

It doth contain a king; King Richard lies

Within the limits of yon lime and stone;

And with him are the Lord Aumerle, Lord Salisbury,

Sir Stephen Scroop, besides a clergyman

Of holy reverence; who, I cannot learn.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

O! belike it is the Bishop of Carlisle.

BOLINGBROKE.

[To NORTHUMBERLAND.]

Noble lord,

Go to the rude ribs of that ancient castle;

Through brazen trumpet send the breath of parley

Into his ruined ears, and thus deliver:

Henry Bolingbroke

On both his knees doth kiss King Richard's hand,

And sends allegiance and true faith of heart

To his most royal person; hither come

Even at his feet to lay my arms and power,

Provided that my banishment repealed

And lands restored again be freely granted;

If not, I'll use the advantage of my power

And lay the summer's dust with showers of blood

Rained from the wounds of slaughtered Englishmen;

The which, how far off from the mind of Bolingbroke

It is, such crimson tempest should bedrench

The fresh green lap of fair King Richard's land,

My stooping duty tenderly shall show.

Go, signify as much, while here we march

Upon the grassy carpet of this plain.

Let's march without the noise of threat'ning drum,

That from this castle's tottered battlements

Our fair appointments may be well perused.

Methinks King Richard and myself should meet

With no less terror than the elements

Of fire and water, when their thund'ring shock

At meeting tears the cloudy cheeks of heaven.

Be he the fire, I'll be the yielding water;

The rage be his, whilst on the earth I rain

My waters; on the earth, and not on him.

March on, and mark King Richard how he looks.

[A Parley sounded, and answered by a Trumpet within. Flourish. Enter on the Walls, the KING, the BISHOP OF CARLISLE, AUMERLE, SCROOP, and SALISBURY.]

See, see, King Richard doth himself appear,

As doth the blushing discontented sun

From out the fiery portal of the east,

When he perceives the envious clouds are bent

To dim his glory and to stain the track

Of his bright passage to the occident.

YORK.

Yet he looks like a king: behold, his eye,

As bright as is the eagle's, lightens forth

Controlling majesty: alack, alack, for woe,

That any harm should stain so fair a show!

KING RICHARD.

[To NORTHUMBERLAND.]

We are amazed; and thus long have we stood

To watch the fearful bending of thy knee,

Because we thought ourself thy lawful king;

And if we be, how dare thy joints forget

To pay their awful duty to our presence?

If we be not, show us the hand of God

That hath dismissed us from our stewardship;

For well we know no hand of blood and bone

Can gripe the sacred handle of our sceptre,

Unless he do profane, steal, or usurp.

And though you think that all, as you have done,

Have torn their souls by turning them from us,

And we are barren and bereft of friends,

Yet know-my master, God omnipotent,

Is mustering in his clouds on our behalf

Armies of pestilence; and they shall strike

Your children yet unborn and unbegot,

That lift your vassal hands against my head

And threat the glory of my precious crown.

Tell Bolingbroke,—for yond methinks he stands,—

That every stride he makes upon my land

Is dangerous treason; he is come to open

The purple testament of bleeding war;

But ere the crown he looks for live in peace,

Ten thousand bloody crowns of mothers' sons

Shall ill become the flower of England's face,

Change the complexion of her maid-pale peace

To scarlet indignation, and bedew

Her pastures' grass with faithful English blood.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

The King of Heaven forbid our lord the King

Should so with civil and uncivil arms

Be rushed upon! Thy thrice noble cousin,

Harry Bolingbroke, doth humbly kiss thy hand;

And by the honourable tomb he swears

That stands upon your royal grandsire's bones,

And by the royalties of both your bloods,

Currents that spring from one most gracious head,

And by the buried hand of warlike Gaunt,

And by the worth and honour of himself,

Comprising all that may be sworn or said,

His coming hither hath no further scope

Than for his lineal royalties, and to beg

Enfranchisement immediate on his knees;

Which on thy royal party granted once,

His glittering arms he will commend to rust,

His barbed steeds to stables, and his heart

To faithful service of your Majesty.

This swears he, as he is a prince, is just;

And as I am a gentleman I credit him.

KING RICHARD.

Northumberland, say, thus the king returns:

His noble cousin is right welcome hither;

And all the number of his fair demands

Shall be accomplished without contradiction.

With all the gracious utterance thou hast

Speak to his gentle hearing kind commends.

[NORTHUMBERLAND retires to BOLINGBROKE.]

[To AUMERLE.]

We do debase ourselves, cousin, do we not,

To look so poorly and to speak so fair?

Shall we call back Northumberland, and send

Defiance to the traitor, and so die?

AUMERLE.

No, good my lord; let's fight with gentle words

Till time lend friends, and friends their helpful swords.

KING RICHARD.

O God, O God! that e'er this tongue of mine

That laid the sentence of dread banishment

On yond proud man should take it off again

With words of sooth! O! that I were as great

As is my grief, or lesser than my name,

Or that I could forget what I have been,

Or not remember what I must be now.

Swell'st thou, proud heart? I'll give thee scope to beat,

Since foes have scope to beat both thee and me.

AUMERLE.

Northumberland comes back from Bolingbroke.

KING RICHARD.

What must the King do now? Must he submit?

The king shall do it: must he be deposed?

The king shall be contented: must he lose

The name of king? A God's name, let it go:

I'll give my jewels for a set of beads,

My gorgeous palace for a hermitage,

My gay apparel for an almsman's gown,

My figured goblets for a dish of wood,

My sceptre for a palmer's walking-staff,

My subjects for a pair of carved saints,

And my large kingdom for a little grave,

A little little grave, an obscure grave;

Or I'll be buried in the king's highway,

Some way of common trade, where subjects' feet

May hourly trample on their sovereign's head;

For on my heart they tread now whilst I live;

And buried once, why not upon my head?

Aumerle, thou weep'st, my tender-hearted cousin!

We'll make foul weather with despised tears;

Our sighs and they shall lodge the summer corn

And make a dearth in this revolting land.

Or shall we play the wantons with our woes

And make some pretty match with shedding tears?

As thus: to drop them still upon one place

Till they have fretted us a pair of graves

Within the earth; and, there inlaid: 'There lies

Two kinsmen digged their graves with weeping eyes.'

Would not this ill do well? Well, well, I see

I talk but idly, and you laugh at me.

Most mighty prince, my Lord Northumberland,

What says King Bolingbroke? will his Majesty

Give Richard leave to live till Richard die?

You make a leg, and Bolingbroke says ay.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

My lord, in the base court he doth attend

To speak with you; may it please you to come down?

KING RICHARD.

Down, down I come; like glist'ring Phaethon,

Wanting the manage of unruly jades.

In the base court? Base court, where kings grow base,

To come at traitors' calls, and do them grace.

In the base court? Come down? Down, court! down, king!

For night-owls shriek where mounting larks should sing.

[Exeunt from above.]

BOLINGBROKE.

What says his Majesty?

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Sorrow and grief of heart

Makes him speak fondly, like a frantic man;

Yet he is come.

[Enter KING RICHARD, and his attendants.]

BOLINGBROKE.

Stand all apart,

And show fair duty to his Majesty.[Kneeling.]

My gracious lord,—

KING RICHARD.

Fair cousin, you debase your princely knee

To make the base earth proud with kissing it:

Me rather had my heart might feel your love

Than my unpleased eye see your courtesy.

Up, cousin, up; your heart is up, I know,

Thus high at least, although your knee be low.

BOLINGBROKE.

My gracious lord, I come but for mine own.

KING RICHARD.

Your own is yours, and I am yours, and all.

BOLINGBROKE.

So far be mine, my most redoubted lord,

As my true service shall deserve your love.

KING RICHARD.

Well you deserve: they well deserve to have

That know the strong'st and surest way to get.

Uncle, give me your hand: nay, dry your eyes:

Tears show their love, but want their remedies.

Cousin, I am too young to be your father,

Though you are old enough to be my heir.

What you will have, I'll give, and willing too;

For do we must what force will have us do.

Set on towards London. Cousin, is it so?

BOLINGBROKE.

Yea, my good lord.

KING RICHARD.

Then I must not say no.

[Flourish. Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE IV.

Langley. The DUKE OF YORK's garden.

[Enter the QUEEN and two Ladies.]

QUEEN.

What sport shall we devise here in this garden

To drive away the heavy thought of care?

1 LADY.

Madam, we'll play at bowls.

QUEEN.

'Twill make me think the world is full of rubs

And that my fortune runs against the bias.

2 LADY.

Madam, we'll dance.

QUEEN.

My legs can keep no measure in delight,

When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief:

Therefore no dancing, girl; some other sport.

1 LADY.

Madam, we'll tell tales.

QUEEN.

Of sorrow or of joy?

1 LADY.

Of either, madam.

QUEEN.

Of neither, girl:

For if of joy, being altogether wanting,

It doth remember me the more of sorrow;

Or if of grief, being altogether had,

It adds more sorrow to my want of joy;

For what I have I need not to repeat,

And what I want it boots not to complain.

2 LADY.

Madam, I'll sing.

QUEEN.

'Tis well' that thou hast cause;

But thou shouldst please me better wouldst thou weep.

2 LADY.

I could weep, madam, would it do you good.

QUEEN.

And I could sing, would weeping do me good,

And never borrow any tear of thee.

But stay, here come the gardeners.

Let's step into the shadow of these trees.

My wretchedness unto a row of pins,

They will talk of state, for every one doth so

Against a change: woe is forerun with woe.

[QUEEN and Ladies retire.]

[Enter a Gardener and two Servants.]

GARDENER.

Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricocks,

Which, like unruly children, make their sire

Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight:

Give some supportance to the bending twigs.

Go thou, and like an executioner

Cut off the heads of too fast growing sprays

That look too lofty in our commonwealth:

All must be even in our government.

You thus employed, I will go root away

The noisome weeds which without profit suck

The soil's fertility from wholesome flowers.

1 SERVANT.

Why should we in the compass of a pale

Keep law and form and due proportion,

Showing, as in a model, our firm estate,

When our sea-walled garden, the whole land,

Is full of weeds; her fairest flowers choked up,

Her fruit trees all unpruned, her hedges ruined,

Her knots disordered, and her wholesome herbs

Swarming with caterpillars?

GARDENER.

Hold thy peace.

He that hath suffered this disordered spring

Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf;

The weeds which his broad-spreading leaves did shelter,

That seemed in eating him to hold him up,

Are plucked up root and all by Bolingbroke;

I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.

2 SERVANT.

What! are they dead?

GARDENER.

They are; and Bolingbroke

Hath seized the wasteful King. O! what pity is it

That he had not so trimmed and dressed his land

As we this garden! We at time of year

Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit trees,

Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood,

With too much riches it confound itself:

Had he done so to great and growing men,

They might have lived to bear, and he to taste

Their fruits of duty: superfluous branches

We lop away, that bearing boughs may live:

Had he done so, himself had home the crown,

Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down.

1 SERVANT.

What! think you the king shall be deposed?

GARDENER.

Depressed he is already, and deposed

'Tis doubt he will be: letters came last night

To a dear friend of the good Duke of York's

That tell black tidings.

QUEEN.

O! I am pressed to death through want of speaking!

[Coming forward.]

Thou, old Adam's likeness, set to dress this garden,

How dares thy harsh rude tongue sound this unpleasing news?

What Eve, what serpent, hath suggested thee

To make a second fall of cursed man?

Why dost thou say King Richard is deposed?

Dar'st thou, thou little better thing than earth,

Divine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how,

Cam'st thou by this ill tidings? Speak, thou wretch.

GARDENER.

Pardon me, madam: little joy have I

To breathe this news; yet what I say is true.

King Richard, he is in the mighty hold

Of Bolingbroke: their fortunes both are weighed.

In your lord's scale is nothing but himself,

And some few vanities that make him light;

But in the balance of great Bolingbroke,

Besides himself, are all the English peers,

And with that odds he weighs King Richard down.

Post you to London, and you will find it so;

I speak no more than every one doth know.

QUEEN.

Nimble mischance, that art so light of foot,

Doth not thy embassage belong to me,

And am I last that knows it? O! thou thinkest

To serve me last, that I may longest keep

Thy sorrow in my breast. Come, ladies, go,

To meet at London London's king in woe.

What was I born to this, that my sad look

Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke?

Gardener, for telling me these news of woe,

Pray God the plants thou graft'st may never grow!

[Exeunt QUEEN and Ladies.]

GARDENER.

Poor Queen, so that thy state might be no worse,

I would my skill were subject to thy curse.

Here did she fall a tear; here in this place

I'll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace.

Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen,

In the remembrance of a weeping queen.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

Westminster Hall.

[The Lords spiritual on the right side of the throne; the Lords temporal on the left; the Commons below. Enter BOLINGBROKE, AUMERLE, SURREY, NORTHUMBERLAND, HENRY PERCY, FITZWATER, another Lord, the BISHOP OF CARLISLE, the ABBOT OF WESTMINSTER, and attendants. OFFICERS behind, with BAGOT.]

BOLINGBROKE.

Call forth Bagot.

Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind;

What thou dost know of noble Gloucester's death;

Who wrought it with the King, and who performed

The bloody office of his timeless end.

BAGOT.

Then set before my face the Lord Aumerle.

BOLINGBROKE.

Cousin, stand forth, and look upon that man.

BAGOT.

My Lord Aumerle, I know your daring tongue

Scorns to unsay what once it hath delivered.

In that dead time when Gloucester's death was plotted

I heard you say 'Is not my arm of length,

That reacheth from the restful English Court

As far as Calais, to mine uncle's head?'

Amongst much other talk that very time

I heard you say that you had rather refuse

The offer of an hundred thousand crowns

Than Bolingbroke's return to England;

Adding withal, how blest this land would be

In this your cousin's death.

AUMERLE.

Princes, and noble lords,

What answer shall I make to this base man?

Shall I so much dishonour my fair stars

On equal terms to give him chastisement?

Either I must, or have mine honour soiled

With the attainder of his slanderous lips.

There is my gage, the manual seal of death

That marks thee out for hell: I say thou liest,

And will maintain what thou hast said is false

In thy heart-blood, through being all too base

To stain the temper of my knightly sword.

BOLINGBROKE.

Bagot, forbear; thou shalt not take it up.

AUMERLE.

Excepting one, I would he were the best

In all this presence that hath moved me so.

FITZWATER.

If that thy valour stand on sympathies,

There is my gage, Aumerle, in gage to thine:

By that fair sun which shows me where thou stand'st,

I heard thee say, and vauntingly thou spak'st it,

That thou wert cause of noble Gloucester's death.

If thou deny'st it twenty times, thou liest;

And I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart,

Where it was forged, with my rapier's point.

AUMERLE.

Thou darest not, coward, live to see that day.

FITZWATER.

Now, by my soul, I would it were this hour.

AUMERLE.

Fitzwater, thou art damned to hell for this.

HENRY PERCY.

Aumerle, thou liest; his honour is as true

In this appeal as thou art an unjust;

And that thou art so, there I throw my gage,

To prove it on thee to the extremest point

Of mortal breathing: seize it if thou dar'st.

AUMERLE.

And if I do not, may my hands rot off

And never brandish more revengeful steel

Over the glittering helmet of my foe!

ANOTHER LORD.

I task the earth to the like, forsworn Aumerle;

And spur thee on with full as many lies

As may be halloaed in thy treacherous ear

From sun to sun: there is my honour's pawn;

Engage it to the trial if thou dar'st.

AUMERLE.

Who sets me else? By heaven, I'll throw at all:

I have a thousand spirits in one breast

To answer twenty thousand such as you.

SURREY.

My Lord Fitzwater, I do remember well

The very time Aumerle and you did talk.

FITZWATER.

'Tis very true: you were in presence then,

And you can witness with me this is true.

SURREY.

As false, by heaven, as heaven itself is true.

FITZWATER.

Surrey, thou liest.

SURREY.

Dishonourable boy!

That lie shall lie so heavy on my sword

That it shall render vengeance and revenge

Till thou the lie-giver and that lie do lie

In earth as quiet as thy father's skull.

In proof whereof, there is my honour's pawn;

Engage it to the trial if thou dar'st.

FITZWATER.

How fondly dost thou spur a forward horse!

If I dare eat, or drink, or breathe, or live,

I dare meet Surrey in a wilderness,

And spit upon him, whilst I say he lies,

And lies, and lies: there is my bond of faith

To tie thee to my strong correction.

As I intend to thrive in this new world,

Aumerle is guilty of my true appeal:

Besides, I heard the banished Norfolk say

That thou, Aumerle, didst send two of thy men

To execute the noble duke at Calais.

AUMERLE.

Some honest Christian trust me with a gage.

That Norfolk lies, here do I throw down this,

If he may be repealed to try his honour.

BOLINGBROKE.

These differences shall all rest under gage

Till Norfolk be repealed: repealed he shall be

And, though mine enemy, restored again

To all his lands and signories; when he is returned,

Against Aumerle we will enforce his trial.

CARLISLE.

That honourable day shall ne'er be seen.

Many a time hath banished Norfolk fought

For Jesu Christ in glorious Christian field,

Streaming the ensign of the Christian cross

Against black pagans, Turks, and Saracens;

And, toiled with works of war, retired himself

To Italy; and there, at Venice, gave

His body to that pleasant country's earth,

And his pure soul unto his captain, Christ,

Under whose colours he had fought so long.

BOLINGBROKE.

Why, Bishop, is Norfolk dead?

CARLISLE.

As surely as I live, my lord.

BOLINGBROKE.

Sweet peace conduct his sweet soul to the bosom

Of good old Abraham! Lords appellants,

Your differences shall all rest under gage

Till we assign you to your days of trial

[Enter YORK, attended.]

YORK.

Great Duke of Lancaster, I come to the

From plume-plucked Richard; who with willing soul

Adopts thee heir, and his high sceptre yields

To the possession of thy royal hand.

Ascend his throne, descending now from him;

And long live Henry, of that name the fourth!

BOLINGBROKE.

In God's name, I'll ascend the regal throne.

CARLISLE.

Marry, God forbid!

Worst in this royal presence may I speak,

Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth.

Would God that any in this noble presence

Were enough noble to be upright judge

Of noble Richard! Then true noblesse would

Learn him forbearance from so foul a wrong.

What subject can give sentence on his king?

And who sits here that is not Richard's subject?

Thieves are not judged but they are by to hear,

Although apparent guilt be seen in them;

And shall the figure of God's majesty,

His captain, steward, deputy elect,

Anointed, crowned, planted many years,

Be judged by subject and inferior breath,

And he himself not present? O! forfend it, God,

That in a Christian climate souls refined

Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed!

I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks,

Stirred up by God, thus boldly for his king.

My Lord of Hereford here, whom you call king,

Is a foul traitor to proud Hereford's king;

And if you crown him, let me prophesy,

The blood of English shall manure the ground

And future ages groan for this foul act;

Peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels,

And in this seat of peace tumultuous wars

Shall kin with kin and kind with kind confound;

Disorder, horror, fear, and mutiny,

Shall here inhabit, and this land be called

The field of Golgotha and dead men's skulls.

O! if you raise this house against this house,

It will the woefullest division prove

That ever fell upon this cursed earth.

Prevent it, resist it, let it not be so,

Lest child, child's children, cry against you 'woe!'

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Well have you argued, sir; and, for your pains,

Of capital treason we arrest you here.

My Lord of Westminster, be it your charge

To keep him safely till his day of trial.

May it please you, lords, to grant the commons' suit?

BOLINGBROKE.

Fetch hither Richard, that in common view

He may surrender; so we shall proceed

Without suspicion.

YORK.

I will be his conduct.

[Exit.]

BOLINGBROKE.

Lords, you that here are under our arrest,

Procure your sureties for your days of answer.

Little are we beholding to your love,

And little looked for at your helping hands.

[Re-enter YORK, with KING RICHARD, and OFFICERS bearing the Crown, &c.]

KING RICHARD.

Alack! why am I sent for to a king

Before I have shook off the regal thoughts

Wherewith I reigned? I hardly yet have learned

To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my knee.

Give sorrow leave awhile to tutor me

To this submission. Yet I well remember

The favours of these men: were they not mine?

Did they not sometime cry 'All hail!' to me?

So Judas did to Christ: but he, in twelve,

Found truth in all but one; I, in twelve thousand, none.

God save the King! Will no man say, amen?

Am I both priest and clerk? Well then, amen.

God save the King! although I be not he;

And yet, amen, if heaven do think him me.

To do what service am I sent for hither?

YORK.

To do that office of thine own good will

Which tired majesty did make thee offer,

The resignation of thy state and crown

To Henry Bolingbroke.

KING RICHARD.

Give me the crown.

Here, cousin, seize the crown. Here, cousin,

On this side my hand, and on that side thine.

Now is this golden crown like a deep well

That owes two buckets, filling one another;

The emptier ever dancing in the air,

The other down, unseen, and full of water.

That bucket down and full of tears am I,

Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.

BOLINGBROKE.

I thought you had been willing to resign.

KING RICHARD.

My crown I am; but still my griefs are mine.

You may my glories and my state depose,

But not my griefs; still am I king of those.

BOLINGBROKE.

Part of your cares you give me with your crown.

KING RICHARD.

Your cares set up do not pluck my cares down.

My care is loss of care, by old care done;

Your care is gain of care, by new care won.

The cares I give I have, though given away;

They tend the crown, yet still with me they stay.

BOLINGBROKE.

Are you contented to resign the crown?

KING RICHARD.

Ay, no; no, ay; for I must nothing be;

Therefore no no, for I resign to thee.

Now mark me how I will undo myself:

I give this heavy weight from off my head,

And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand,

The pride of kingly sway from out my heart;

With mine own tears I wash away my balm,

With mine own hands I give away my crown,

With mine own tongue deny my sacred state,

With mine own breath release all duteous rites:

All pomp and majesty I do forswear;

My manors, rents, revenues, I forgo;

My acts, decrees, and statutes, I deny:

God pardon all oaths that are broke to me!

God keep all vows unbroke are made to thee!

Make me, that nothing have, with nothing grieved,

And thou with all pleased, that hast an achieved!

Long mayst thou live in Richard's seat to sit,

And soon lie Richard in an earthly pit!

God save King Henry, unkinged Richard says,

And send him many years of sunshine days!

What more remains?

NORTHUMBERLAND.

[Offering a paper.]

No more, but that you read

These accusations, and these grievous crimes

Committed by your person and your followers

Against the state and profit of this land;

That, by confessing them, the souls of men

May deem that you are worthily deposed.

KING RICHARD.

Must I do so? And must I ravel out

My weaved-up follies? Gentle Northumberland,

If thy offences were upon record,

Would it not shame thee in so fair a troop

To read a lecture of them? If thou wouldst,

There shouldst thou find one heinous article,

Containing the deposing of a king

And cracking the strong warrant of an oath,

Marked with a blot, damned in the book of heaven.

Nay, all of you that stand and look upon me

Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself,

Though some of you, with Pilate, wash your hands,

Showing an outward pity; yet you Pilates

Have here delivered me to my sour cross,

And water cannot wash away your sin.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

My lord, dispatch; read o'er these articles.

KING RICHARD.

Mine eyes are full of tears; I cannot see:

And yet salt water blinds them not so much

But they can see a sort of traitors here.

Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself,

I find myself a traitor with the rest;

For I have given here my soul's consent

T'undeck the pompous body of a king;

Made glory base, and sovereignty a slave,

Proud majesty a subject, state a peasant.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

My lord,—

KING RICHARD.

No lord of thine, thou haught insulting man,

Nor no man's lord; I have no name, no title,

No, not that name was given me at the font,

But 'tis usurped: alack the heavy day!

That I have worn so many winters out,

And know not now what name to call myself!

O! that I were a mockery king of snow,

Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke

To melt myself away in water-drops!

Good king, great king,—and yet not greatly good,

An if my word be sterling yet in England,

Let it command a mirror hither straight,

That it may show me what a face I have,

Since it is bankrupt of his majesty.

BOLINGBROKE.

Go some of you and fetch a looking-glass.

[Exit an Attendant.]

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Read o'er this paper while the glass doth come.

KING RICHARD.

Fiend! thou torments me ere I come to hell.

BOLINGBROKE.

Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

The Commons will not then be satisfied.

KING RICHARD.

They shall be satisfied; I'll read enough,

When I do see the very book indeed

Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself.

[Re-enter Attendant, with glass.]

Give me that glass, and therein will I read.

No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck

So many blows upon this face of mine

And made no deeper wounds? O flatt'ring glass!

Like to my followers in prosperity,

Thou dost beguile me. Was this face the face

That every day under his household roof

Did keep ten thousand men? Was this the face

That like the sun did make beholders wink?

Is this the face which faced so many follies

That was at last out-faced by Bolingbroke?

A brittle glory shineth in this face:

As brittle as the glory is the face;

[Dashes the glass against the ground.]

For there it is, cracked in a hundred shivers.

Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport,

How soon my sorrow hath destroyed my face.

BOLINGBROKE.

The shadow of your sorrow hath destroyed

The shadow of your face.

KING RICHARD.

Say that again.

The shadow of my sorrow! Ha! let's see:

'Tis very true: my grief lies all within;

And these external manner of laments

Are merely shadows to the unseen grief

That swells with silence in the tortured soul.

There lies the substance: and I thank thee, king,

For thy great bounty, that not only givest

Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way

How to lament the cause. I'll beg one boon,

And then be gone and trouble you no more.

Shall I obtain it?

BOLINGBROKE.

Name it, fair cousin.

KING RICHARD.

'Fair cousin'! I am greater than a king;

For when I was a king, my flatterers

Were then but subjects; being now a subject,

I have a king here to my flatterer.

Being so great, I have no need to beg.

BOLINGBROKE.

Yet ask.

KING RICHARD.

And shall I have?

BOLINGBROKE.

You shall.

KING RICHARD.

Then give me leave to go.

BOLINGBROKE.

Whither?

KING RICHARD.

Whither you will, so I were from your sights.

BOLINGBROKE.

Go, some of you convey him to the Tower.

KING RICHARD.

O, good! convey? conveyers are you all,

That rise thus nimbly by a true king's fall.

[Exeunt KING RICHARD and Guard.]

BOLINGBROKE.

On Wednesday next we solemnly set down

Our coronation: lords, prepare yourselves.

[Exeunt all but the BISHOP OF CARLISLE, the ABBOT OF WESTMINSTER, and AUMERLE.]

ABBOT.

A woeful pageant have we here beheld.

CARLISLE.

The woe's to come; the children yet unborn

Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn.

AUMERLE.

You holy clergymen, is there no plot

To rid the realm of this pernicious blot?

ABBOT.

My lord,

Before I freely speak my mind herein,

You shall not only take the sacrament

To bury mine intents, but also to effect

Whatever I shall happen to devise.

I see your brows are full of discontent,

Your hearts of sorrow, and your eyes of tears:

Come home with me to supper; I will lay

A plot shall show us all a merry day.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

London. A street leading to the Tower.

[Enter the QUEEN and ladies.]

QUEEN.

This way the King will come; this is the way

To Julius Caesar's ill-erected tower,

To whose flint bosom my condemned lord

Is doomed a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke.

Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth

Have any resting for her true King's queen.

[Enter KING RICHARD and Guard.]

But soft, but see, or rather do not see,

My fair rose wither; yet look up, behold,

That you in pity may dissolve to dew,

And wash him fresh again with true-love tears.

Ah! thou, the model where old Troy did stand;

Thou map of honour, thou King Richard's tomb,

And not King Richard; thou most beauteous inn,

Why should hard-favoured grief be lodged in thee,

When triumph is become an alehouse guest?

KING RICHARD.

Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so,

To make my end too sudden: learn, good soul,

To think our former state a happy dream;

From which awaked, the truth of what we are

Shows us but this. I am sworn brother, sweet,

To grim Necessity; and he and

Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to France,

And cloister thee in some religious house:

Our holy lives must win a new world's crown,

Which our profane hours here have thrown down.

QUEEN.

What! is my Richard both in shape and mind

Transformed and weakened! Hath Bolingbroke deposed

Thine intellect? Hath he been in thy heart?

The lion dying thrusteth forth his paw

And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage

To be o'erpowered; and wilt thou, pupil-like,

Take the correction mildly, kiss the rod,

And fawn on rage with base humility,

Which art a lion and the king of beasts?

KING RICHARD.

A king of beasts, indeed; if aught but beasts,

I had been still a happy king of men.

Good sometimes queen, prepare thee hence for France.

Think I am dead, and that even here thou tak'st,

As from my death-bed, thy last living leave.

In winter's tedious nights sit by the fire

With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales

Of woeful ages long ago betid;

And ere thou bid good night, to quit their griefs

Tell thou the lamentable tale of me,

And send the hearers weeping to their beds;

For why, the senseless brands will sympathize

The heavy accent of thy moving tongue,

And in compassion weep the fire out;

And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black,

For the deposing of a rightful king.

[Enter NORTHUMBERLAND, attended.]

NORTHUMBERLAND.

My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is changed;

You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower.

And, madam, there is order ta'en for you:

With all swift speed you must away to France.

KING RICHARD.

Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal

The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne,

The time shall not be many hours of age

More than it is, ere foul sin gathering head

Shall break into corruption. Thou shalt think,

Though he divide the realm and give thee half

It is too little, helping him to all;

And he shall think that thou, which know'st the way

To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again,

Being ne'er so little urged, another way

To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne.

The love of wicked men converts to fear;

That fear to hate; and hate turns one or both

To worthy danger and deserved death.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

My guilt be on my head, and there an end.

Take leave, and part; for you must part forthwith.

KING RICHARD.

Doubly divorced! Bad men, ye violate

A twofold marriage; 'twixt my crown and me,

And then betwixt me and my married wife.

Let me unkiss the oath 'twixt thee and me;

And yet not so, for with a kiss 'twas made.

Part us, Northumberland: I towards the north,

Where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime;

My wife to France, from whence set forth in pomp,

She came adorned hither like sweet May,

Sent back like Hallowmas or short'st of day.

QUEEN.

And must we be divided? Must we part?

KING RICHARD.

Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart from heart.

QUEEN.

Banish us both, and send the king with me.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

That were some love, but little policy.

QUEEN.

Then whither he goes, thither let me go.

KING RICHARD.

So two, together weeping, make one woe.

Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here;

Better far off than near, be ne'er the near.

Go, count thy way with sighs; I mine with groans.

QUEEN.

So longest way shall have the longest moans.

KING RICHARD.

Twice for one step I'll groan, the way being short,

And piece the way out with a heavy heart.

Come, come, in wooing sorrow let's be brief,

Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief.

One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part;

Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart.

[They kiss.]

QUEEN.

Give me mine own again; 'twere no good part

To take on me to keep and kill thy heart.

[They kiss again.]

So, now I have mine own again, be gone.

That I may strive to kill it with a groan.

KING RICHARD.

We make woe wanton with this fond delay:

Once more, adieu; the rest let sorrow say.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

The same. A room in the DUKE OF YORK's palace.

[Enter YORK and his DUCHESS.]

DUCHESS.

My Lord, you told me you would tell the rest,

When weeping made you break the story off,

Of our two cousins' coming into London.

YORK.

Where did I leave?

DUCHESS.

At that sad stop, my lord,

Where rude misgoverned hands from windows' tops

Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head.

YORK.

Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bolingbroke,

Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed

Which his aspiring rider seemed to know,

With slow but stately pace kept on his course,

Whilst all tongues cried 'God save thee, Bolingbroke!'

You would have thought the very windows spake,

So many greedy looks of young and old

Through casements darted their desiring eyes

Upon his visage; and that all the walls

With painted imagery had said at once

'Jesu preserve thee! Welcome, Bolingbroke!'

Whilst he, from the one side to the other turning,

Bareheaded, lower than his proud steed's neck,

Bespake them thus, 'I thank you, countrymen:'

And thus still doing, thus he passed along.

DUCHESS.

Alack, poor Richard! where rode he the whilst?

YORK.

As in a theatre, the eyes of men

After a well-graced actor leaves the stage

Are idly bent on him that enters next,

Thinking his prattle to be tedious;

Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes

Did scowl on Richard: no man cried 'God save him;'

No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home;

But dust was thrown upon his sacred head,

Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,

His face still combating with tears and smiles,

The badges of his grief and patience,

That had not God, for some strong purpose, steeled

The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,

And barbarism itself have pitied him.

But heaven hath a hand in these events,

To whose high will we bound our calm contents.

To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,

Whose state and honour I for aye allow.

DUCHESS.

Here comes my son Aumerle.

YORK.

Aumerle that was;

But that is lost for being Richard's friend,

And madam, you must call him Rutland now.

I am in Parliament pledge for his truth

And lasting fealty to the new-made king.

[Enter AUMERLE.]

DUCHESS.

Welcome, my son: who are the violets now

That strew the green lap of the new come spring?

AUMERLE.

Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not.

God knows I had as lief be none as one.

YORK.

Well, bear you well in this new spring of time,

Lest you be cropped before you come to prime.

What news from Oxford? hold those justs and triumphs?

AUMERLE.

For aught I know, my lord, they do.

YORK.

You will be there, I know.

AUMERLE.

If God prevent not, I purpose so.

YORK.

What seal is that that without thy bosom?

Yea, look'st thou pale? Let me see the writing.

AUMERLE.

My lord, 'tis nothing.

YORK.

No matter, then, who see it.

I will be satisfied; let me see the writing.

AUMERLE.

I do beseech your Grace to pardon me;

It is a matter of small consequence

Which for some reasons I would not have seen.

YORK.

Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.

I fear, I fear—

DUCHESS.

What should you fear?

'Tis nothing but some bond that he is ent'red into

For gay apparel 'gainst the triumph day.

YORK.

Bound to himself! What doth he with a bond

That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.

Boy, let me see the writing.

AUMERLE.

I do beseech you, pardon me; I may not show it.

YORK.

I will be satisfied; let me see it, I say.

[Snatches it and reads.]

Treason, foul treason! Villain! traitor! slave!

DUCHESS.

What is the matter, my lord?

YORK.

Ho! who is within there?

[Enter a Servant.]

Saddle my horse.

God for his mercy! what treachery is here!

DUCHESS.

Why, what is it, my lord?

YORK.

Give me my boots, I say; saddle my horse.

Now, by mine honour, by my life, my troth,

I will appeach the villain.

[Exit Servant.]

DUCHESS.

What is the matter?

YORK.

Peace, foolish woman.

DUCHESS.

I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle?

AUMERLE.

Good mother, be content; it is no more

Than my poor life must answer.

DUCHESS.

Thy life answer!

YORK.

Bring me my boots. I will unto the King.

[Re-enter Servant with boots.]

DUCHESS.

Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art amazed.

[To Servant.]

Hence, villain! never more come in my sight.

[Exit Servant.]

YORK.

Give me my boots, I say.

DUCHESS.

Why, York, what wilt thou do?

Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?

Have we more sons? or are we like to have?

Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?

And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age

And rob me of a happy mother's name?

Is he not like thee? Is he not thine own?

YORK.

Thou fond mad woman,

Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?

A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament,

And interchangeably set down their hands

To kill the King at Oxford.

DUCHESS.

He shall be none;

We'll keep him here: then what is that to him?

YORK.

Away, fond woman! were he twenty times my son

I would appeach him.

DUCHESS.

Hadst thou groaned for him

As I have done, thouedst be more pitiful.

But now I know thy mind: thou dost suspect

That I have been disloyal to thy bed

And that he is a bastard, not thy son:

Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind.

He is as like thee as a man may be

Not like to me, or any of my kin,

And yet I love him.

YORK.

Make way, unruly woman!

[Exit.]

DUCHESS.

After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his horse;

Spur post, and get before him to the king,

And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee.

I'll not be long behind; though I be old,

I doubt not but to ride as fast as York:

And never will I rise up from the ground

Till Bolingbroke have pardoned thee. Away! be gone.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE III.

Windsor. A room in the Castle.

[Enter BOLINGBROKE as King, HENRY PERCY, and other LORDS.]

KING HENRY.

Can no man tell me of my unthrifty son?

'Tis full three months since I did see him last.

If any plague hang over us, 'tis he.

I would to God, my lords, he might be found.

Inquire at London, 'mongst the taverns there,

For there, they say, he daily doth frequent

With unrestrained loose companions,

Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes

And beat our watch and rob our passengers;

Which he, young wanton and effeminate boy,

Takes on the point of honour to support

So dissolute a crew.

PERCY.

My lord, some two days since I saw the prince,

And told him of those triumphs held at Oxford.

KING HENRY.

And what said the gallant?

PERCY.

His answer was: he would unto the stews,

And from the common'st creature pluck a glove

And wear it as a favour; and with that

He would unhorse the lustiest challenger.

KING HENRY.

As dissolute as desperate; yet through both

I see some sparks of better hope, which elder years

May happily bring forth. But who comes here?

[Enter AUMERLE.]

AUMERLE.

Where is the King?

KING HENRY.

What means our cousin that he stares and looks

So wildly?

AUMERLE.

God save your Grace! I do beseech your majesty,

To have some conference with your Grace alone.

KING HENRY.

Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here alone.

[Exeunt HENRY PERCY and LORDS.]

What is the matter with our cousin now?

AUMERLE.

[Kneels.]

For ever may my knees grow to the earth,

My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth,

Unless a pardon ere I rise or speak.

KING HENRY.

Intended or committed was this fault?

If on the first, how heinous e'er it be,

To win thy after-love I pardon thee.

AUMERLE.

Then give me leave that I may turn the key,

That no man enter till my tale be done.

KING HENRY.

Have thy desire.

[AUMERLE locks the door.]

YORK.

[Within.]

My liege, beware! look to thyself;

Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there.

KING HENRY.

[Drawing.]

Villain, I'll make thee safe.

AUMERLE.

Stay thy revengeful hand; thou hast no cause to fear.

YORK.

[Within.]

Open the door, secure, foolhardy king:

Shall I, for love, speak treason to thy face?

Open the door, or I will break it open.

[KING HENRY unlocks the door; and afterwards, relocks it.]

[Enter YORK.]

KING HENRY.

What is the matter, uncle? speak;

Recover breath; tell us how near is danger,

That we may arm us to encounter it.

YORK.

Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt know

The treason that my haste forbids me show.

AUMERLE.

Remember, as thou read'st, thy promise passed:

I do repent me; read not my name there;

My heart is not confederate with my hand.

YORK.

It was, villain, ere thy hand did set it down.

I tore it from the traitor's bosom, king;

Fear, and not love, begets his penitence.

Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove

A serpent that will sting thee to the heart.

KING HENRY.

O heinous, strong, and bold conspiracy!

O loyal father of a treacherous son!

Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain,

From whence this stream through muddy passages

Hath held his current and defiled himself!

Thy overflow of good converts to bad;

And thy abundant goodness shall excuse

This deadly blot in thy digressing son.

YORK.

So shall my virtue be his vice's bawd,

And he shall spend mine honour with his shame,

As thriftless sons their scraping fathers' gold.

Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies,

Or my shamed life in his dishonour lies:

Thou kill'st me in his life; giving him breath,

The traitor lives, the true man's put to death.

DUCHESS.

[Within.] What ho! my liege, for God's sake, let me in.

KING HENRY.

What shrill-voiced suppliant makes this eager cry?

DUCHESS.

[Within.]

A woman, and thine aunt, great king; 'tis I.

Speak with me, pity me, open the door:

A beggar begs that never begged before.

KING HENRY.

Our scene is altered from a serious thing,

And now changed to 'The Beggar and the King.'

My dangerous cousin, let your mother in:

I know she's come to pray for your foul sin.

YORK.

If thou do pardon, whosoever pray,

More sins for this forgiveness prosper may.

This festered joint cut off, the rest rest sound;

This let alone will all the rest confound.

[Enter DUCHESS.]

DUCHESS.

O King, believe not this hard-hearted man:

Love, loving not itself, none other can.

YORK.

Thou frantic woman, what dost thou make here?

Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear?

DUCHESS.

Sweet York, be patient. [Kneels.] Hear me, gentle liege.

KING HENRY.

Rise up, good aunt.

DUCHESS.

Not yet, I thee beseech.

For ever will I walk upon my knees,

And never see day that the happy sees,

Till thou give joy: until thou bid me joy

By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy.

AUMERLE.

Unto my mother's prayers I bend my knee.

[Kneels.]

YORK.

Against them both, my true joints bended be.

[Kneels.]

Ill mayst thou thrive, if thou grant any grace!

DUCHESS.

Pleads he in earnest? Look upon his face;

His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in jest;

His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast;

He prays but faintly and would be denied;

We pray with heart and soul, and all beside:

His weary joints would gladly rise, I know;

Our knees still kneel till to the ground they grow:

His prayers are full of false hypocrisy;

Ours of true zeal and deep integrity.

Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them have

That mercy which true prayer ought to have.

KING HENRY.

Good aunt, stand up.

DUCHESS.

Nay, do not say 'stand up';

Say 'pardon' first, and afterwards 'stand up'.

An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach,

'Pardon' should be the first word of thy speech.

I never longed to hear a word till now;

Say 'pardon,' king; let pity teach thee how:

The word is short, but not so short as sweet;

No word like 'pardon' for kings' mouths so meet.

YORK.

Speak it in French, King, say 'pardonne moy.'

DUCHESS.

Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy?

Ah! my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord,,

That sett'st the word itself against the word.

Speak 'pardon' as 'tis current in our land;

The chopping French we do not understand.

Thine eye begins to speak, set thy tongue there,

Or in thy piteous heart plant thou thine ear,

That hearing how our plaints and prayers do pierce,

Pity may move thee pardon to rehearse.

KING HENRY.

Good aunt, stand up.

DUCHESS.

I do not sue to stand;

Pardon is all the suit I have in hand.

KING HENRY.

I pardon him, as God shall pardon me.

DUCHESS.

O happy vantage of a kneeling knee!

Yet am I sick for fear: speak it again;

Twice saying 'pardon' doth not pardon twain,

But makes one pardon strong.

KING HENRY.

With all my heart

I pardon him.

DUCHESS.

A god on earth thou art.

KING HENRY.

But for our trusty brother-in-law and the abbot,

With all the rest of that consorted crew,

Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels.

Good uncle, help to order several powers

To Oxford, or where'er these traitors are:

They shall not live within this world, I swear,

But I will have them, if I once know where.

Uncle, farewell: and, cousin, adieu:

Your mother well hath prayed, and prove you true.

DUCHESS.

Come, my old son: I pray God make thee new.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE IV.

Another room in the Castle.

[Enter EXTON and two Servant.]

EXTON.

Didst thou not mark the king, what words he spake?

'Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear?'

Was it not so?

1 SERVANT.

These were his very words.

EXTON.

'Have I no friend?' quoth he: he spake it twice

And urged it twice together, did he not?

2 SERVANT.

He did.

EXTON.

And, speaking it, he wistly looked on me,

As who should say 'I would thou wert the man

That would divorce this terror from my heart';

Meaning the king at Pomfret. Come, let's go.

I am the king's friend, and will rid his foe.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE V.

Pomfret. The dungeon of the Castle.

[Enter KING RICHARD.]

KING RICHARD.

I have been studying how I may compare

This prison where I live unto the world

And for because the world is populous,

And here is not a creature but myself,

I cannot do it; yet I'll hammer it out.

My brain I'll prove the female to my soul;

My soul the father: and these two beget

A generation of still-breeding thoughts,

And these same thoughts people this little world,

In humours like the people of this world,

For no thought is contented. The better sort,

As thoughts of things divine, are intermixed

With scruples, and do set the word itself

Against the word:

As thus: 'Come, little ones'; and then again,

'It is as hard to come as for a camel

To thread the postern of a needle's eye.'

Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot

Unlikely wonders; how these vain weak nails

May tear a passage through the flinty ribs

Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls;

And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.

Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves

That they are not the first of fortune's slaves,

Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars

Who sitting in the stocks refuge their shame,

That many have and others must sit there:

And in this thought they find a kind of ease,

Bearing their own misfortunes on the back

Of such as have before endured the like.

Thus play I in one person many people,

And none contented: sometimes am I king;

Then treasons make me wish myself a beggar,

And so I am: then crushing penury

Persuades me I was better when a king;

Then am I kinged again; and by and by

Think that I am unkinged by Bolingbroke,

And straight am nothing: but whate'er I be,

Nor I, nor any man that but man is

With nothing shall be pleased till he be eased

With being nothing.

Music do I hear? [Music.]

Ha, ha! keep time. How sour sweet music is

When time is broke and no proportion kept!

So is it in the music of men's lives.

And here have I the daintiness of ear

To check time broke in a disordered string;

But, for the concord of my state and time,

Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.

I wasted time, and now doth time waste me;

For now hath time made me his numbering clock:

My thoughts are minutes; and with sighs they jar

Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch,

Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,

Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears.

Now sir, the sound that tells what hour it is

Are clamorous groans, which strike upon my heart,

Which is the bell: so sighs and tears and groans

Show minutes, times, and hours; but my time

Runs posting on in Bolingbroke's proud joy,

While I stand fooling here, his Jack o' the clock.

This music mads me; let it sound no more;

For though it have holp madmen to their wits,

In me it seems it will make wise men mad.

Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me!

For 'tis a sign of love; and love to Richard

Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.

[Enter a Groom of the stable.]

GROOM.

Hail, royal Prince!

KING RICHARD.

Thanks, noble peer;

The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear.

What art thou? and how comest thou hither, man,

Where no man never comes but that sad dog

That brings me food to make misfortune live?

GROOM.

I was a poor groom of thy stable, king,

When thou wert king; who, travelling towards York,

With much ado at length have gotten leave

To look upon my sometimes royal master's face.

O! how it yearned my heart when I beheld,

In London streets, that coronation day,

When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary,

That horse that thou so often hast bestrid,

That horse that I so carefully have dressed.

KING RICHARD.

Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend,

How went he under him?

GROOM.

So proudly as if he disdained the ground.

KING RICHARD.

So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back!

That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand;

This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.

Would he not stumble? would he not fall down,—

Since pride must have a fall,—and break the neck

Of that proud man that did usurp his back?

Forgiveness, horse! Why do I rail on thee,

Since thou, created to be awed by man,

Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse;

And yet I bear a burden like an ass,

Spur-galled and tired by jauncing Bolingbroke.

[Enter Keeper, with a dish.]

KEEPER.

[To the Groom.]

Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay.

KING RICHARD.

If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert away.

GROOM.

My tongue dares not, that my heart shall say.

[Exit.]

KEEPER.

My lord, will't please you to fall to?

KING RICHARD.

Taste of it first as thou art wont to do.

KEEPER.

My lord, I dare not: Sir Pierce of Exton,

Who lately came from the king, commands the contrary.

KING RICHARD.

The devil take Henry of Lancaster and thee!

Patience is stale, and I am weary of it.

[Strikes the Keeper.]

KEEPER.

Help, help, help!

[Enter EXTON and Servants, armed.]

KING RICHARD.

How now! What means death in this rude assault?

Villain, thy own hand yields thy death's instrument.

[Snatching a weapon and killing one.]

Go thou and fill another room in hell.

[He kills another, then EXTON strikes him down.]

That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire

That staggers thus my person. Exton, thy fierce hand

Hath with the king's blood stained the king's own land.

Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high;

Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die.

[Dies.]

EXTON.

As full of valour as of royal blood:

Both have I spilt; O! would the deed were good;

For now the devil, that told me I did well,

Says that this deed is chronicled in hell.

This dead king to the living king I'll bear.

Take hence the rest, and give them burial here.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE VI.

Windsor. An Apartment in the Castle.

[Flourish. Enter KING HENRY and YORK, with Lords and Attendants.]

KING HENRY.

Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear

Is that the rebels have consumed with fire

Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire;

But whether they be ta'en or slain we hear not.

[Enter NORTHUMBERLAND.]

Welcome, my lord. What is the news?

NORTHUMBERLAND.

First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness.

The next news is: I have to London sent

The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent.

The manner of their taking may appear

At large discoursed in this paper here.

KING HENRY.

We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains;

And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.

[Enter FITZWATER.]

FITZWATER.

My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London

The heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely,

Two of the dangerous consorted traitors

That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.

KING HENRY.

Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot;

Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.

[Enter HENRY PERCY, With the BISHOP OF CARLISLE.]

PERCY.

The grand conspirator, Abbot of Westminster,

With clog of conscience and sour melancholy,

Hath yielded up his body to the grave;

But here is Carlisle living, to abide

Thy kingly doom, and sentence of his pride.

KING HENRY.

Carlisle, this is your doom:

Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,

More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life;

So as thou livest in peace, die free from strife;

For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,

High sparks of honour in thee have I seen.

[Enter EXTON, with attendants, hearing a coffin.]

EXTON.

Great king, within this coffin I present

Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies

The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,

Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought.

KING HENRY.

Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast wrought

A deed of slander with thy fatal hand

Upon my head and all this famous land.

EXTON.

From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed.

KING HENRY.

They love not poison that do poison need,

Nor do I thee: though I did wish him dead,

I hate the murderer, love him murdered.

The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,

But neither my good word nor princely favour:

With Cain go wander thorough shade of night,

And never show thy head by day nor light.

Lords, I protest my soul is full of woe,

That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow:

Come, mourn with me for what I do lament,

And put on sullen black incontinent.

I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land,

To wash this blood off from my guilty hand.

March sadly after; grace my mournings here,

In weeping after this untimely bier.

[Exeunt]

THE END

KING RICHARD III

List of Characters

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act I, Scene III

Act I, Scene IV

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act II, Scene III

Act II, Scene IV

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act III, Scene III

Act III, Scene IV

Act III, Scene V

Act III, Scene VI

Act III, Scene VII

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act IV, Scene III

Act IV, Scene IV

Act IV, Scene V

Act V, Scene I

Act V, Scene II

Act V, Scene III

Act V, Scene IV

Act V, Scene V

List of Characters

KING EDWARD THE FOURTH

Sons to the king

EDWARD, PRINCE OF WALES: afterwards KING EDWARD V

RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK

Brothers to the king

GEORGE, DUKE OF CLARENCE

RICHARD, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER: afterwards KING RICHARD III

A YOUNG SON OF CLARENCE

HENRY, EARL OF RICHMOND: afterwards KING HENRY VII

CARDINAL BOURCHIER, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY

THOMAS ROTHERHAM, ARCHBISHOP OF YORK

JOHN MORTON, BISHOP OF ELY

DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM

DUKE OF NORFOLK

EARL OF SURREY: his son

EARL RIVERS: brother to King Edward's Queen

MARQUIS OF DORSET and LORD GREY, her sons

EARL OF OXFORD

LORD HASTINGS

LORD STANLEY

LORD LOVEL

SIR THOMAS VAUGHAN

SIR RICHARD RATCLIFFE

SIR WILLIAM CATESBY

SIR JAMES TYRREL

SIR JAMES BLOUNT

SIR WALTER HERBERT

SIR ROBERT BRAKENBURY: Lieutenant of the Tower

CHRISTOPHER URSWICK: a priest

Another Priest

LORD MAYOR OF LONDON

SHERIFF OF WILTSHIRE

ELIZABETH: Queen to King Edward IV

MARGARET: widow to King Henry VI

DUCHESS OF YORK: mother to King Edward IV, Clarence, and Gloucester

LADY ANNE: widow to Edward, Prince of Wales, son to King Henry VI; afterwards married to the Duke of Gloucester

A YOUNG DAUGHTER OF CLARENCE

Lords, and other Attendants; two Gentlemen, a Pursuivant, Scrivener, Citizens, Murderers, Messengers, Ghosts, Soldiers, &c.

SCENE: England

ACT I. SCENE I.

London. A street

[Enter GLOUCESTER.]

GLOUCESTER

Now is the winter of our discontent

Made glorious summer by this sun of York;

And all the clouds that loured upon our house

In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;

Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;

Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,

Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.

Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front;

And now,—instead of mounting barbed steeds

To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,—

He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber

To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

But I,—that am not shaped for sportive tricks,

Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;

I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty

To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;

I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion,

Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,

Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time

Into this breathing world scarce half made up,

And that so lamely and unfashionable

That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;—

Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,

Have no delight to pass away the time,

Unless to spy my shadow in the sun,

And descant on mine own deformity:

And therefore,—since I cannot prove a lover,

To entertain these fair well-spoken days,—

I am determined to prove a villain,

And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,

By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams,

To set my brother Clarence and the king

In deadly hate the one against the other:

And if King Edward be as true and just

As I am subtle, false, and treacherous,

This day should Clarence closely be mewed up,—

About a prophecy which says that G

Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be.

Dive, thoughts, down to my soul:—here Clarence comes.

[Enter CLARENCE, guarded, and BRAKENBURY.]

Brother, good day: what means this armed guard

That waits upon your grace?

CLARENCE.

His majesty,

Tendering my person's safety, hath appointed

This conduct to convey me to the Tower.

GLOUCESTER.

Upon what cause?

CLARENCE.

Because my name is George.

GLOUCESTER.

Alack, my lord, that fault is none of yours;

He should, for that, commit your godfathers:—

O, belike his majesty hath some intent

That you should be new-christened in the Tower.

But what's the matter, Clarence? may I know?

CLARENCE.

Yea, Richard, when I know; for I protest

As yet I do not: but, as I can learn,

He hearkens after prophecies and dreams;

And from the cross-row plucks the letter G,

And says a wizard told him that by G

His issue disinherited should be;

And, for my name of George begins with G,

It follows in his thought that I am he.

These, as I learn, and such like toys as these,

Hath moved his highness to commit me now.

GLOUCESTER.

Why, this it is when men are ruled by women:—

'Tis not the king that sends you to the Tower;

My Lady Grey his wife, Clarence, 'tis she

That tempers him to this extremity.

Was it not she and that good man of worship,

Antony Woodville, her brother there,

That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower,

From whence this present day he is delivered?

We are not safe, Clarence; we are not safe.

CLARENCE.

By heaven, I think there is no man is secure

But the queen's kindred, and night-walking heralds

That trudge betwixt the king and Mistress Shore.

Heard you not what an humble suppliant

Lord Hastings was to her for his delivery?

GLOUCESTER.

Humbly complaining to her deity

Got my Lord Chamberlain his liberty.

I'll tell you what,—I think it is our way,

If we will keep in favour with the king,

To be her men and wear her livery:

The jealous o'er-worn widow, and herself,

Since that our brother dubbed them gentlewomen,

Are mighty gossips in our monarchy.

BRAKENBURY.

I beseech your graces both to pardon me;

His majesty hath straitly given in charge

That no man shall have private conference,

Of what degree soever, with your brother.

GLOUCESTER.

Even so; an't please your worship, Brakenbury,

You may partake of any thing we say:

We speak no treason, man;—we say the king

Is wise and virtuous; and his noble queen

Well struck in years, fair, and not jealous;—

We say that Shore's wife hath a pretty foot,

A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue;

And that the queen's kindred are made gentlefolks:

How say you, sir? can you deny all this?

BRAKENBURY.

With this, my lord, myself have naught to do.

GLOUCESTER.

Naught to do with Mistress Shore! I tell thee, fellow,

He that doth naught with her, excepting one,

Were best to do it secretly alone.

BRAKENBURY.

What one, my lord?

GLOUCESTER.

Her husband, knave:—wouldst thou betray me?

BRAKENBURY.

I do beseech your grace to pardon me; and, withal,

Forbear your conference with the noble duke.

CLARENCE.

We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will obey.

GLOUCESTER.

We are the queen's abjects and must obey.—

Brother, farewell: I will unto the king;

And whatsoe'er you will employ me in,—

Were it to call King Edward's widow sister,—

I will perform it to enfranchise you.

Meantime, this deep disgrace in brotherhood

Touches me deeper than you can imagine.

CLARENCE.

I know it pleaseth neither of us well.

GLOUCESTER.

Well, your imprisonment shall not be long;

I will deliver or else lie for you:

Meantime, have patience.

CLARENCE.

I must perforce: farewell.

[Exeunt CLARENCE, BRAKENBURY, and guard.]

GLOUCESTER.

Go tread the path that thou shalt ne'er return.

Simple, plain Clarence!—I do love thee so

That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven,

If heaven will take the present at our hands.—

But who comes here? The new-delivered Hastings?

[Enter HASTINGS.]

HASTINGS.

Good time of day unto my gracious lord!

GLOUCESTER.

As much unto my good Lord Chamberlain!

Well are you welcome to the open air.

How hath your lordship brooked imprisonment?

HASTINGS.

With patience, noble lord, as prisoners must;

But I shall live, my lord, to give them thanks

That were the cause of my imprisonment.

GLOUCESTER.

No doubt, no doubt; and so shall Clarence too;

For they that were your enemies are his,

And have prevailed as much on him as you.

HASTINGS.

More pity that the eagles should be mewed

Whiles kites and buzzards prey at liberty.

GLOUCESTER.

What news abroad?

HASTINGS.

No news so bad abroad as this at home,—

The king is sickly, weak, and melancholy,

And his physicians fear him mightily.

GLOUCESTER.

Now, by Saint Paul, that news is bad indeed.

O, he hath kept an evil diet long,

And overmuch consumed his royal person:

'Tis very grievous to be thought upon.

What, is he in his bed?

HASTINGS.

He is.

GLOUCESTER.

Go you before, and I will follow you.

[Exit HASTINGS.]

He cannot live, I hope; and must not die

Till George be packed with posthorse up to heaven.

I'll in, to urge his hatred more to Clarence

With lies well steeled with weighty arguments;

And, if I fail not in my deep intent,

Clarence hath not another day to live;

Which done, God take King Edward to his mercy,

And leave the world for me to bustle in!

For then I'll marry Warwick's youngest daughter:

What though I killed her husband and her father?

The readiest way to make the wench amends

Is to become her husband and her father:

The which will I; not all so much for love

As for another secret close intent,

By marrying her, which I must reach unto.

But yet I run before my horse to market:

Clarence still breathes; Edward still lives and reigns:

When they are gone, then must I count my gains.

[Exit.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

London. Another street.

[Enter the corpse of King Henry the Sixth, borne in an open coffin, Gentlemen bearing halberds to guard it; and Lady Anne as mourner.]

ANNE.

Set down, set down your honourable load,—

If honour may be shrouded in a hearse,—

Whilst I awhile obsequiously lament

Th' untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster.—

Poor key-cold figure of a holy king!

Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster!

Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood!

Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost,

To hear the lamentations of poor Anne,

Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughtered son,

Stabbed by the self-same hand that made these wounds!

Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life,

I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes:—

O, cursed be the hand that made these holes!

Cursed the heart that had the heart to do it!

Cursed the blood that let this blood from hence!

More direful hap betide that hated wretch

That makes us wretched by the death of thee,

Than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads,

Or any creeping venomed thing that lives!

If ever he have child, abortive be it,

Prodigious, and untimely brought to light,

Whose ugly and unnatural aspect

May fright the hopeful mother at the view;

And that be heir to his unhappiness!

If ever he have wife, let her be made

More miserable by the death of him

Than I am made by my young lord and thee!—

Come, now towards Chertsey with your holy load,

Taken from Paul's to be interred there;

And still, as you are weary of this weight,

Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry's corse.

[The Bearers take up the Corpse and advance.]

[Enter GLOUCESTER.]

GLOUCESTER.

Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it down.

ANNE.

What black magician conjures up this fiend,

To stop devoted charitable deeds?

GLOUCESTER.

Villains, set down the corse; or, by Saint Paul,

I'll make a corse of him that disobeys!

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass.

GLOUCESTER.

Unmannered dog! stand thou, when I command:

Advance thy halberd higher than my breast,

Or, by Saint Paul, I'll strike thee to my foot

And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness.

[The Bearers set down the coffin.]

ANNE.

What, do you tremble? are you all afraid?

Alas, I blame you not; for you are mortal,

And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil.—

Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell!

Thou hadst but power over his mortal body,

His soul thou canst not have; therefore, be gone.

GLOUCESTER.

Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst.

ANNE.

Foul devil, for God's sake, hence and trouble us not;

For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell,

Filled it with cursing cries and deep exclaims.

If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds,

Behold this pattern of thy butcheries.—

O, gentlemen, see, see! dead Henry's wounds

Open their congealed mouths and bleed afresh!

Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity;

For 'tis thy presence that exhales this blood

From cold and empty veins, where no blood dwells;

Thy deeds, inhuman and unnatural,

Provokes this deluge most unnatural.—

O God, which this blood mad'st, revenge his death!

O earth, which this blood drink'st, revenge his death!

Either, heaven, with lightning strike the murderer dead;

Or, earth, gape open wide and eat him quick,

As thou dost swallow up this good king's blood,

Which his hell-governed arm hath butchered!

GLOUCESTER.

Lady, you know no rules of charity,

Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.

ANNE.

Villain, thou knowest nor law of God nor man:

No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.

GLOUCESTER.

But I know none, and therefore am no beast.

ANNE.

O wonderful, when devils tell the truth!

GLOUCESTER.

More wonderful when angels are so angry.—

Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman,

Of these supposed crimes to give me leave,

By circumstance, but to acquit myself.

ANNE.

Vouchsafe, diffused infection of a man,

Of these known evils but to give me leave,

By circumstance, to accuse thy cursed self.

GLOUCESTER.

Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me have

Some patient leisure to excuse myself.

ANNE.

Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst make

No excuse current but to hang thyself.

GLOUCESTER.

By such despair I should accuse myself.

ANNE.

And by despairing shalt thou stand excused;

For doing worthy vengeance on thyself,

That didst unworthy slaughter upon others.

GLOUCESTER.

Say that I slew them not?

ANNE.

Then say they were not slain:

But dead they are, and, devilish slave, by thee.

GLOUCESTER.

I did not kill your husband.

ANNE.

Why, then he is alive.

GLOUCESTER.

Nay, he is dead; and slain by Edward's hand.

ANNE.

In thy foul throat thou liest: Queen Margaret saw

Thy murderous falchion smoking in his blood;

The which thou once didst bend against her breast,

But that thy brothers beat aside the point.

GLOUCESTER.

I was provoked by her slanderous tongue

That laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoulders.

ANNE.

Thou wast provoked by thy bloody mind,

That never dreamt on aught but butcheries:

Didst thou not kill this king?

GLOUCESTER.

I grant ye.

ANNE.

Dost grant me, hedgehog? then, God grant me too

Thou mayst be damned for that wicked deed!

O, he was gentle, mild, and virtuous.

GLOUCESTER.

The better for the king of Heaven, that hath him.

ANNE.

He is in heaven, where thou shalt never come.

GLOUCESTER.

Let him thank me that holp to send him thither,

For he was fitter for that place than earth.

ANNE.

And thou unfit for any place but hell.

GLOUCESTER.

Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it.

ANNE.

Some dungeon.

GLOUCESTER.

Your bed-chamber.

ANNE.

Ill rest betide the chamber where thou liest!

GLOUCESTER.

So will it, madam, till I lie with you.

ANNE.

I hope so.

GLOUCESTER.

I know so.—But, gentle Lady Anne,—

To leave this keen encounter of our wits,

And fall something into a slower method,—

Is not the causer of the timeless deaths

Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward,

As blameful as the executioner?

ANNE.

Thou wast the cause and most accursed effect.

GLOUCESTER.

Your beauty was the cause of that effect;

Your beauty, that did haunt me in my sleep

To undertake the death of all the world,

So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom.

ANNE.

If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide,

These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks.

GLOUCESTER.

These eyes could not endure that beauty's wreck;

You should not blemish it if I stood by:

As all the world is cheered by the sun,

So I by that; it is my day, my life.

ANNE.

Black night o'ershade thy day, and death thy life!

GLOUCESTER.

Curse not thyself, fair creature; thou art both.

ANNE.

I would I were, to be revenged on thee.

GLOUCESTER.

It is a quarrel most unnatural,

To be revenged on him that loveth thee.

ANNE.

It is a quarrel just and reasonable,

To be revenged on him that killed my husband.

GLOUCESTER.

He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband,

Did it to help thee to a better husband.

ANNE.

His better doth not breathe upon the earth.

GLOUCESTER.

He lives that loves thee better than he could.

ANNE.

Name him.

GLOUCESTER.

Plantagenet.

ANNE.

Why, that was he.

GLOUCESTER.

The self-same name, but one of better nature.

ANNE.

Where is he?

GLOUCESTER.

Here.

[She spits at him.]

Why dost thou spit at me?

ANNE.

Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake!

GLOUCESTER.

Never came poison from so sweet a place.

ANNE.

Never hung poison on a fouler toad.

Out of my sight! thou dost infect mine eyes.

GLOUCESTER.

Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine.

ANNE.

Would they were basilisks to strike thee dead!

GLOUCESTER.

I would they were, that I might die at once;

For now they kill me with a living death.

Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears,

Shamed their aspects with store of childish drops:

These eyes, which never shed remorseful tear,

No, when my father York and Edward wept,

To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made

When black-faced Clifford shook his sword at him;

Nor when thy warlike father, like a child,

Told the sad story of my father's death,

And twenty times made pause, to sob and weep,

That all the standers-by had wet their cheeks,

Like trees bedashed with rain; in that sad time

My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear;

And what these sorrows could not thence exhale,

Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping.

I never sued to friend nor enemy;

My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing word;

But, now thy beauty is proposed my fee,

My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak.

[She looks scornfully at him.]

Teach not thy lip such scorn; for it was made

For kissing, lady, not for such contempt.

If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive,

Lo, here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword;

Which if thou please to hide in this true breast

And let the soul forth that adoreth thee,

I lay it naked to the deadly stroke,

And humbly beg the death upon my knee,

Nay, do not pause; for I did kill King Henry,—

[He lays his breast open; she offers at it with his sword.]

But 'twas thy beauty that provoked me.

Nay, now dispatch; 'twas I that stabbed young Edward,—

[She again offers at his breast.]

But 'twas thy heavenly face that set me on.

[She lets fall the sword.]

Take up the sword again, or take up me.

ANNE.

Arise, dissembler: though I wish thy death,

I will not be thy executioner.

GLOUCESTER.

Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it.

ANNE.

I have already.

GLOUCESTER.

That was in thy rage:

Speak it again, and even with the word,

This hand, which for thy love did kill thy love;

Shall, for thy love, kill a far truer love;

To both their deaths shalt thou be accessary.

ANNE.

I would I knew thy heart.

GLOUCESTER.

'Tis figured in my tongue.

ANNE.

I fear me both are false.

GLOUCESTER.

Then never was man true.

ANNE.

Well, well, put up your sword.

GLOUCESTER.

Say, then, my peace is made.

ANNE.

That shalt thou know hereafter.

GLOUCESTER.

But shall I live in hope?

ANNE.

All men, I hope, live so.

GLOUCESTER.

Vouchsafe to wear this ring.

ANNE.

To take is not to give.

[She puts on the ring.]

GLOUCESTER.

Look, how this ring encompasseth thy finger,

Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart;

Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.

And if thy poor devoted servant may

But beg one favour at thy gracious hand,

Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever.

ANNE.

What is it?

GLOUCESTER.

That it may please you leave these sad designs

To him that hath most cause to be a mourner,

And presently repair to Crosby Place;

Where,—after I have solemnly interred

At Chertsey monastery, this noble king,

And wet his grave with my repentant tears,—

I will with all expedient duty see you:

For divers unknown reasons, I beseech you,

Grant me this boon.

ANNE.

With all my heart; and much it joys me too

To see you are become so penitent.—

Tressel and Berkeley, go along with me.

GLOUCESTER.

Bid me farewell.

ANNE.

'Tis more than you deserve;

But since you teach me how to flatter you,

Imagine I have said farewell already.

[Exeunt Lady Anne, Tress, and Berk.]

GLOUCESTER.

Sirs, take up the corse.

GENTLEMEN.

Towards Chertsey, noble lord?

GLOUCESTER.

No, to White Friars; there attend my coming.

[Exeunt the rest, with the Corpse.]

Was ever woman in this humour wooed?

Was ever woman in this humour won?

I'll have her; but I will not keep her long.

What! I that killed her husband and his father,

To take her in her heart's extremest hate;

With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes,

The bleeding witness of her hatred by;

Having God, her conscience, and these bars against me,

And I no friends to back my suit withal,

But the plain devil and dissembling looks,

And yet to win her,—all the world to nothing!

Ha!

Hath she forgot already that brave prince,

Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months since,

Stabbed in my angry mood at Tewksbury?

A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman,—

Framed in the prodigality of nature,

Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right royal,—

The spacious world cannot again afford:

And will she yet abase her eyes on me,

That cropped the golden prime of this sweet prince,

And made her widow to a woeful bed?

On me, whose all not equals Edward's moiety?

On me, that halt and am misshapen thus?

My dukedom to a beggarly denier,

I do mistake my person all this while:

Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot,

Myself to be a marvellous proper man.

I'll be at charges for a looking-glass;

And entertain a score or two of tailors,

To study fashions to adorn my body:

Since I am crept in favour with myself,

I will maintain it with some little cost.

But first I'll turn yon fellow in his grave;

And then return lamenting to my love.—

Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass,

That I may see my shadow as I pass.

[Exit.]

ACT I. SCENE III.

London. A Room in the Palace.

[Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH, LORD RIVERS, and LORD GREY.]

RIVERS.

Have patience, madam: there's no doubt his majesty

Will soon recover his accustomed health.

GREY.

In that you brook it ill, it makes him worse:

Therefore, for God's sake, entertain good comfort,

And cheer his grace with quick and merry eyes.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

If he were dead, what would betide on me?

GREY.

No other harm but loss of such a lord.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

The loss of such a lord includes all harms.

GREY.

The heavens have blessed you with a goodly son

To be your comforter when he is gone.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Ah, he is young; and his minority

Is put unto the trust of Richard Gloucester,

A man that loves not me, nor none of you.

RIVERS.

Is it concluded he shall be protector?

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

It is determined, not concluded yet:

But so it must be, if the king miscarry.

[Enter BUCKINGHAM and STANLEY.]

GREY.

Here come the Lords of Buckingham and Stanley.

BUCKINGHAM.

Good time of day unto your royal grace!

STANLEY.

God make your majesty joyful as you have been!

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

The Countess Richmond, good my Lord of Stanley,

To your good prayer will scarcely say amen.

Yet, Stanley, notwithstanding she's your wife,

And loves not me, be you, good lord, assured

I hate not you for her proud arrogance.

STANLEY.

I do beseech you, either not believe

The envious slanders of her false accusers;

Or, if she be accused on true report,

Bear with her weakness, which I think proceeds

From wayward sickness, and no grounded malice.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Saw you the king to-day, my Lord of Stanley?

STANLEY.

But now the Duke of Buckingham and I

Are come from visiting his majesty.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

What likelihood of his amendment, lords?

BUCKINGHAM.

Madam, good hope; his grace speaks cheerfully.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

God grant him health! Did you confer with him?

BUCKINGHAM.

Ay, madam; he desires to make atonement

Between the Duke of Gloucester and your brothers,

And between them and my lord chamberlain;

And sent to warn them to his royal presence.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Would all were well!—but that will never be:

I fear our happiness is at the height.

[Enter GLOUCESTER, HASTINGS, and DORSET.]

GLOUCESTER.

They do me wrong, and I will not endure it:—

Who are they that complain unto the king

That I, forsooth, am stern and love them not?

By holy Paul, they love his grace but lightly

That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours.

Because I cannot flatter and look fair,

Smile in men's faces, smooth, deceive, and cog,

Duck with French nods and apish courtesy,

I must be held a rancorous enemy.

Cannot a plain man live, and think no harm,

But thus his simple truth must be abused

With silken, sly, insinuating Jacks?

GREY.

To who in all this presence speaks your grace?

GLOUCESTER.

To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace.

When have I injured thee? when done thee wrong?—

Or thee?—or thee?—or any of your faction?

A plague upon you all! His royal grace,—

Whom God preserve better than you would wish!—

Cannot be quiet scarce a breathing while,

But you must trouble him with lewd complaints.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Brother of Gloucester, you mistake the matter.

The king, on his own royal disposition,

And not provoked by any suitor else—

Aiming, belike, at your interior hatred

That in your outward action shows itself

Against my children, brothers, and myself—

Makes him to send; that thereby he may gather

The ground of your ill-will, and so remove it.

GLOUCESTER.

I cannot tell: the world is grown so bad

That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch:

Since every Jack became a gentleman,

There's many a gentle person made a Jack.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Come, come, we know your meaning, brother Gloucester;

You envy my advancement, and my friends';

God grant we never may have need of you!

GLOUCESTER.

Meantime, God grants that we have need of you:

Our brother is imprisoned by your means,

Myself disgraced, and the nobility

Held in contempt; while great promotions

Are daily given to ennoble those

That scarce, some two days since, were worth a noble.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

By Him that raised me to this careful height

From that contented hap which I enjoyed,

I never did incense his majesty

Against the Duke of Clarence, but have been

An earnest advocate to plead for him.

My lord, you do me shameful injury

Falsely to draw me in these vile suspects.

GLOUCESTER.

You may deny that you were not the mean

Of my Lord Hastings' late imprisonment.

RIVERS.

She may, my lord; for,—

GLOUCESTER.

She may, Lord Rivers?—why, who knows not so?

She may do more, sir, than denying that:

She may help you to many fair preferments;

And then deny her aiding hand therein,

And lay those honours on your high desert.

What may she not? She may,—ay, marry, may she,—

RIVERS.

What, marry, may she?

GLOUCESTER.

What, marry, may she! marry with a king,

A bachelor, and a handsome stripling too:

I wis your grandam had a worser match.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

My Lord of Gloucester, I have too long borne

Your blunt upbraidings and your bitter scoffs:

By heaven, I will acquaint his majesty

Of those gross taunts that oft I have endured.

I had rather be a country servant-maid

Than a great queen with this condition,—

To be so baited, scorned, and stormed at.

[Enter old QUEEN MARGARET, behind.]

Small joy have I in being England's queen.

QUEEN MARGARET.

And lessened be that small, God, I beseech Him!

Thy honour, state, and seat, is due to me.

GLOUCESTER.

What! Threat you me with telling of the king?

Tell him, and spare not: look what I have said

I will avouch in presence of the king:

I dare adventure to be sent to the Tower.

'Tis time to speak,—my pains are quite forgot.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Out, devil! I do remember them too well:

Thou killedst my husband Henry in the Tower,

And Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury.

GLOUCESTER.

Ere you were queen, ay, or your husband king,

I was a pack-horse in his great affairs;

A weeder-out of his proud adversaries,

A liberal rewarder of his friends;

To royalize his blood I spilt mine own.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Ay, and much better blood than his or thine.

GLOUCESTER.

In all which time you and your husband Grey

Were factious for the house of Lancaster;—

And, Rivers, so were you: was not your husband

In Margaret's battle at Saint Albans slain?

Let me put in your minds, if you forget,

What you have been ere this, and what you are;

Withal, what I have been, and what I am.

QUEEN MARGARET.

A murderous villain, and so still thou art.

GLOUCESTER.

Poor Clarence did forsake his father, Warwick;

Ay, and forswore himself,—which Jesu pardon!—

QUEEN MARGARET.

Which God revenge!

GLOUCESTER.

To fight on Edward's party for the crown;

And for his meed, poor lord, he is mewed up.

I would to God my heart were flint, like Edward's,

Or Edward's soft and pitiful, like mine:

I am too childish-foolish for this world.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Hie thee to hell for shame and leave this world,

Thou cacodemon! there thy kingdom is.

RIVERS.

My Lord of Gloucester, in those busy days

Which here you urge to prove us enemies,

We followed then our lord, our sovereign king:

So should we you, if you should be our king.

GLOUCESTER.

If I should be!—I had rather be a pedler:

Far be it from my heart, the thought thereof!

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

As little joy, my lord, as you suppose

You should enjoy, were you this country's king,—

As little joy you may suppose in me,

That I enjoy, being the queen thereof.

QUEEN MARGARET.

As little joy enjoys the queen thereof;

For I am she, and altogether joyless.

I can no longer hold me patient.—

[Advancing.]

Hear me, you wrangling pirates, that fall out

In sharing that which you have pilled from me!

Which of you trembles not that looks on me?

If not that, I am queen, you bow like subjects,

Yet that, by you deposed, you quake like rebels?

Ah, gentle villain, do not turn away!

GLOUCESTER.

Foul wrinkled witch, what mak'st thou in my sight?

QUEEN MARGARET.

But repetition of what thou hast marred,

That will I make before I let thee go.

GLOUCESTER.

Wert thou not banished on pain of death?

QUEEN MARGARET.

I was; but I do find more pain in banishment

Than death can yield me here by my abode.

A husband and a son thou ow'st to me,—

And thou a kingdom,—all of you allegiance:

This sorrow that I have, by right is yours;

And all the pleasures you usurp are mine.

GLOUCESTER.

The curse my noble father laid on thee,

When thou didst crown his warlike brows with paper,

And with thy scorns drew'st rivers from his eyes;

And then to dry them gav'st the Duke a clout

Steeped in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland;—

His curses, then from bitterness of soul

Denounced against thee, are all fallen upon thee;

And God, not we, hath plagued thy bloody deed.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

So just is God, to right the innocent.

HASTINGS.

O, 'twas the foulest deed to slay that babe,

And the most merciless that e'er was heard of.

RIVERS.

Tyrants themselves wept when it was reported.

DORSET.

No man but prophesied revenge for it.

BUCKINGHAM.

Northumberland, then present, wept to see it.

QUEEN MARGARET.

What, were you snarling all before I came,

Ready to catch each other by the throat,

And turn you all your hatred now on me?

Did York's dread curse prevail so much with heaven

That Henry's death, my lovely Edward's death,

Their kingdom's loss, my woeful banishment,

Should all but answer for that peevish brat?

Can curses pierce the clouds and enter heaven?—

Why, then, give way, dull clouds, to my quick curses!—

Though not by war, by surfeit die your king,

As ours by murder, to make him a king!

Edward thy son, that now is Prince of Wales,

For Edward our son, that was Prince of Wales,

Die in his youth by like untimely violence!

Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen,

Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self!

Long mayest thou live to wail thy children's death;

And see another, as I see thee now,

Decked in thy rights, as thou art stalled in mine!

Long die thy happy days before thy death;

And, after many lengthened hours of grief,

Die neither mother, wife, nor England's queen!—

Rivers and Dorset, you were standers by,—

And so wast thou, Lord Hastings,—when my son

Was stabbed with bloody daggers: God, I pray Him,

That none of you may live his natural age,

But by some unlooked accident cut off!

GLOUCESTER.

Have done thy charm, thou hateful withered hag.

QUEEN MARGARET.

And leave out thee? stay, dog, for thou shalt hear me.

If heaven have any grievous plague in store

Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee,

O, let them keep it till thy sins be ripe,

And then hurl down their indignation

On thee, the troubler of the poor world's peace!

The worm of conscience still be-gnaw thy soul!

Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou liv'st,

And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends!

No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine,

Unless it be while some tormenting dream

Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils!

Thou elvish-marked, abortive, rooting hog!

Thou that wast sealed in thy nativity

The slave of nature and the son of hell!

Thou slander of thy heavy mother's womb!

Thou loathed issue of thy father's loins!

Thou rag of honour! thou detested—

GLOUCESTER.

Margaret!

QUEEN MARGARET.

Richard!

GLOUCESTER.

Ha!

QUEEN MARGARET.

I call thee not.

GLOUCESTER.

I cry thee mercy then; for I did think

That thou hadst called me all these bitter names.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Why, so I did; but looked for no reply.

O, let me make the period to my curse!

GLOUCESTER.

'Tis done by me, and ends in—Margaret.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Thus have you breathed your curse against yourself.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Poor painted queen, vain flourish of my fortune!

Why strew'st thou sugar on that bottled spider,

Whose deadly web ensnareth thee about?

Fool, fool! thou whett'st a knife to kill thyself.

The day will come that thou shalt wish for me

To help thee curse this poisonous bunch-backed toad.

HASTINGS.

False-boding woman, end thy frantic curse,

Lest to thy harm thou move our patience.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Foul shame upon you! you have all moved mine.

RIVERS.

Were you well served, you would be taught your duty.

QUEEN MARGARET.

To serve me well, you all should do me duty,

Teach me to be your queen, and you my subjects:

O, serve me well, and teach yourselves that duty!

DORSET.

Dispute not with her,—she is lunatic.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Peace, master marquis, you are malapert:

Your fire-new stamp of honour is scarce current:

O, that your young nobility could judge

What 'twere to lose it, and be miserable!

They that stand high have many blasts to shake them;

And if they fall they dash themselves to pieces.

GLOUCESTER.

Good counsel, marry:—learn it, learn it, marquis.

DORSET.

It touches you, my lord, as much as me.

GLOUCESTER.

Ay, and much more: but I was born so high,

Our aery buildeth in the cedar's top,

And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun.

QUEEN MARGARET.

And turns the sun to shade;—alas! alas!—

Witness my son, now in the shade of death;

Whose bright out-shining beams thy cloudy wrath,

Hath in eternal darkness folded up.

Your aery buildeth in our aery's nest:—

O God that seest it, do not suffer it;

As it is won with blood, lost be it so!

BUCKINGHAM.

Peace, peace, for shame, if not for charity.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Urge neither charity nor shame to me:

Uncharitably with me have you dealt,

And shamefully my hopes by you are butchered.

My charity is outrage, life my shame,—

And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!

BUCKINGHAM.

Have done, have done.

QUEEN MARGARET.

O princely Buckingham, I'll kiss thy hand,

In sign of league and amity with thee:

Now fair befall thee and thy noble house!

Thy garments are not spotted with our blood,

Nor thou within the compass of my curse.

BUCKINGHAM.

Nor no one here; for curses never pass

The lips of those that breathe them in the air.

QUEEN MARGARET.

I will not think but they ascend the sky,

And there awake God's gentle-sleeping peace.

O Buckingham, take heed of yonder dog!

Look, when he fawns he bites; and when he bites,

His venom tooth will rankle to the death:

Have not to do with him, beware of him;

Sin, death, and hell have set their marks on him,

And all their ministers attend on him.

GLOUCESTER.

What doth she say, my Lord of Buckingham?

BUCKINGHAM.

Nothing that I respect, my gracious lord.

QUEEN MARGARET.

What, dost thou scorn me for my gentle counsel?

And soothe the devil that I warn thee from?

O, but remember this another day,

When he shall split thy very heart with sorrow,

And say, poor Margaret was a prophetess!—

Live each of you the subjects to his hate,

And he to yours, and all of you to God's!

[Exit.]

BUCKINGHAM.

My hair doth stand an end to hear her curses.

RIVERS.

And so doth mine: I muse why she's at liberty.

GLOUCESTER.

I cannot blame her: by God's holy mother,

She hath had too much wrong; and I repent

My part thereof that I have done to her.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

I never did her any, to my knowledge.

GLOUCESTER.

Yet you have all the vantage of her wrong.

I was too hot to do somebody good,

That is too cold in thinking of it now.

Marry, as for Clarence, he is well repaid;

He is franked up to fatting for his pains;

God pardon them that are the cause thereof!

RIVERS.

A virtuous and a Christian-like conclusion,

To pray for them that have done scathe to us!

GLOUCESTER.

So do I ever being well advised;

[Aside.] For had I cursed now, I had cursed myself.

[Enter CATESBY.]

CATESBY.

Madam, his majesty doth can for you,—

And for your grace,—and you, my noble lords.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Catesby, I come.—Lords, will you go with me?

RIVERS.

We wait upon your grace.

[Exeunt all but GLOUCESTER.]

GLOUCESTER.

I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl.

The secret mischiefs that I set abroach

I lay unto the grievous charge of others.

Clarence,—whom I indeed have cast in darkness,—

I do beweep to many simple gulls;

Namely, to Stanley, Hastings, Buckingham;

And tell them 'tis the queen and her allies

That stir the king against the duke my brother.

Now they believe it; and withal whet me

To be revenged on Rivers, Vaughn, Grey:

But then I sigh; and, with a piece of Scripture,

Tell them that God bids us do good for evil:

And thus I clothe my naked villany

With odd old ends stol'n forth of Holy Writ;

And seem a saint when most I play the devil.—

But, soft, here come my executioners.

[Enter two MURDERERS.]

How now, my hardy stout resolved mates!

Are you now going to dispatch this thing?

FIRST MURDERER.

We are, my lord, and come to have the warrant,

That we may be admitted where he is.

GLOUCESTER.

Well thought upon;—I have it here about me:

[Gives the warrant.]

When you have done, repair to Crosby Place.

But, sirs, be sudden in the execution,

Withal obdurate, do not hear him plead;

For Clarence is well-spoken, and perhaps

May move your hearts to pity, if you mark him.

FIRST MURDERER.

Tut, tut, my lord, we will not stand to prate;

Talkers are no good doers: be assured

We go to use our hands, and not our tongues.

GLOUCESTER.

Your eyes drop millstones when fools' eyes fall tears:

I like you, lads;—about your business straight;

Go, go, despatch.

FIRST MURDERER.

We will, my noble lord.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE IV.

London. A Room in the Tower.

[Enter CLARENCE and BRAKENBURY.]

BRAKENBURY.

Why looks your grace so heavily to-day?

CLARENCE.

O, I have passed a miserable night,

So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights,

That, as I am a Christian faithful man,

I would not spend another such a night

Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days,—

So full of dismal terror was the time!

BRAKENBURY.

What was your dream, my lord? I pray you tell me.

CLARENCE.

Methoughts that I had broken from the Tower,

And was embarked to cross to Burgundy;

And, in my company, my brother Gloucester;

Who from my cabin tempted me to walk

Upon the hatches: thence we looked toward England,

And cited up a thousand heavy times,

During the wars of York and Lancaster,

That had befall'n us. As we paced along

Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,

Methought that Gloucester stumbled; and, in falling,

Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard

Into the tumbling billows of the main.

O Lord, methought what pain it was to drown!

What dreadful noise of waters in my ears!

What sights of ugly death within my eyes!

Methoughts I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;

A thousand men that fishes gnawed upon;

Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,

Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,

All scatt'red in the bottom of the sea:

Some lay in dead men's skulls; and in the holes

Where eyes did once inhabit there were crept,—

As 'twere in scorn of eyes,—reflecting gems,

That wooed the slimy bottom of the deep,

And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by.

BRAKENBURY.

Had you such leisure in the time of death

To gaze upon these secrets of the deep?

CLARENCE.

Methought I had; and often did I strive

To yield the ghost: but still the envious flood

Stopped in my soul, and would not let it forth

To find the empty, vast, and wandering air;

But smothered it within my panting bulk,

Who almost burst to belch it in the sea.

BRAKENBURY.

Awaked you not in this sore agony?

CLARENCE.

No, no, my dream was lengthened after life;

O, then began the tempest to my soul!

I passed, methought, the melancholy flood

With that grim ferryman which poets write of,

Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.

The first that there did greet my stranger soul

Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick;

Who spake aloud, "What scourge for perjury

Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?"

And so he vanished: then came wandering by

A shadow like an Angel, with bright hair

Dabbled in blood; and he shrieked out aloud

"Clarence is come,—false, fleeting, perjured Clarence,—

That stabbed me in the field by Tewksbury;—

Seize on him, Furies, take him to your torments!"

With that, methoughts, a legion of foul fiends

Environed me, and howled in mine ears

Such hideous cries that, with the very noise,

I trembling waked, and for a season after

Could not believe but that I was in hell,—

Such terrible impression made my dream.

BRAKENBURY.

No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you;

I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.

CLARENCE.

Ah, Brakenbury, I have done these things

That now give evidence against my soul,

For Edward's sake; and see how he requites me!—

O God! If my deep prayers cannot appease Thee,

But Thou wilt be avenged on my misdeeds,

Yet execute Thy wrath in me alone,—

O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children!—

Keeper, I prithee sit by me awhile;

My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

BRAKENBURY.

I will, my lord; God give your grace good rest!—

[CLARENCE reposes himself on a chair.]

Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours,

Makes the night morning and the noontide night.

Princes have but their titles for their glories,

An outward honour for an inward toil;

And, for unfelt imaginations,

They often feel a world of restless cares:

So that, between their tides and low name,

There's nothing differs but the outward fame.

[Enter the two MURDERERS.]

FIRST MURDERER.

Ho! who's here?

BRAKENBURY.

What wouldst thou, fellow, and how cam'st thou hither?

FIRST MURDERER.

I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs.

BRAKENBURY.

What, so brief?

SECOND MURDERER.

'Tis better, sir, than to be tedious.—Let him see our commission and talk no more.

[A paper is delivered to BRAKENBURY, who reads it.]

BRAKENBURY.

I am, in this, commanded to deliver

The noble Duke of Clarence to your hands:—

I will not reason what is meant hereby,

Because I will be guiltless of the meaning.

There lies the Duke asleep,—and there the keys;

I'll to the king and signify to him

That thus I have resigned to you my charge.

FIRST MURDERER.

You may, sir; 'tis a point of wisdom: fare you well.

[Exit BRAKENBURY.]

SECOND MURDERER.

What, shall we stab him as he sleeps?

FIRST MURDERER.

No; he'll say 'twas done cowardly, when he wakes.

SECOND MURDERER.

When he wakes! why, fool, he shall never wake until the great judgment-day.

FIRST MURDERER.

Why, then he'll say we stabbed him sleeping.

SECOND MURDERER.

The urging of that word "judgment" hath bred a kind of remorse in me.

FIRST MURDERER.

What, art thou afraid?

SECOND MURDERER.

Not to kill him, having a warrant for it; but to be damned for killing him, from the which no warrant can defend me.

FIRST MURDERER.

I thought thou hadst been resolute.

SECOND MURDERER.

So I am, to let him live.

FIRST MURDERER.

I'll back to the Duke of Gloucester and tell him so.

SECOND MURDERER.

Nay, I pr'ythee, stay a little: I hope my holy humour will change; it was wont to hold me but while one tells twenty.

FIRST MURDERER.

How dost thou feel thyself now?

SECOND MURDERER.

Faith, some certain dregs of conscience are yet within me.

FIRST MURDERER.

Remember our reward, when the deed's done.

SECOND MURDERER.

Zounds, he dies: I had forgot the reward.

FIRST MURDERER.

Where's thy conscience now?

SECOND MURDERER.

O, in the Duke of Gloster's purse.

FIRST MURDERER.

So, when he opens his purse to give us our reward, thy conscience flies out.

SECOND MURDERER.

'Tis no matter; let it go; there's few or none will entertain it.

FIRST MURDERER.

What if it come to thee again?

SECOND MURDERER.

I'll not meddle with it,—it makes a man coward; a man cannot steal, but it accuseth him; a man cannot swear, but it checks him; a man cannot lie with his neighbour's wife, but it detects him: 'tis a blushing shamefaced spirit that mutinies in a man's bosom; it fills a man full of obstacles: it made me once restore a purse of gold that by chance I found; it beggars any man that keeps it: it is turned out of towns and cities for a dangerous thing; and every man that means to live well endeavours to trust to himself and live without it.

FIRST MURDERER.

Zounds,'tis even now at my elbow, persuading me not to kill the duke.

SECOND MURDERER.

Take the devil in thy mind, and believe him not; he would insinuate with thee but to make thee sigh.

FIRST MURDERER.

I am strong-framed; he cannot prevail with me.

SECOND MURDERER.

Spoke like a tall man that respects thy reputation. Come, shall we fall to work?

FIRST MURDERER.

Take him on the costard with the hilts of thy sword, and then throw him in the malmsey-butt in the next room.

SECOND MURDERER.

O excellent device! and make a sop of him.

FIRST MURDERER.

Soft! he wakes.

SECOND MURDERER.

Strike!

FIRST MURDERER.

No, we'll reason with him.

CLARENCE.

Where art thou, keeper? give me a cup of wine.

SECOND MURDERER.

You shall have wine enough, my lord, anon.

CLARENCE.

In God's name, what art thou?

FIRST MURDERER.

A man, as you are.

CLARENCE.

But not as I am, royal.

SECOND MURDERER.

Nor you as we are, loyal.

CLARENCE.

Thy voice is thunder, but thy looks are humble.

FIRST MURDERER.

My voice is now the king's, my looks mine own.

CLARENCE.

How darkly and how deadly dost thou speak!

Your eyes do menace me; why look you pale?

Who sent you hither? Wherefore do you come?

SECOND MURDERER.

To, to, to—

CLARENCE.

To murder me?

BOTH MURDERERS.

Ay, ay.

CLARENCE.

You scarcely have the hearts to tell me so,

And therefore cannot have the hearts to do it.

Wherein, my friends, have I offended you?

FIRST MURDERER.

Offended us you have not, but the king.

CLARENCE.

I shall be reconciled to him again.

SECOND MURDERER.

Never, my lord; therefore prepare to die.

CLARENCE.

Are you drawn forth among a world of men

To slay the innocent? What is my offence?

Where is the evidence that doth accuse me?

What lawful quest have given their verdict up

Unto the frowning judge? or who pronounced

The bitter sentence of poor Clarence' death?

Before I be convict by course of law,

To threaten me with death is most unlawful.

I charge you, as you hope to have redemption

By Christ's dear blood shed for our grievous sins,

That you depart, and lay no hands on me:

The deed you undertake is damnable.

FIRST MURDERER.

What we will do, we do upon command.

SECOND MURDERER.

And he that hath commanded is our king.

CLARENCE.

Erroneous vassals! the great King of kings

Hath in the table of his law commanded

That thou shalt do no murder: will you then

Spurn at His edict and fulfil a man's?

Take heed; for He holds vengeance in His hand

To hurl upon their heads that break His law.

SECOND MURDERER.

And that same vengeance doth He hurl on thee

For false forswearing, and for murder too:

Thou didst receive the sacrament to fight

In quarrel of the house of Lancaster.

FIRST MURDERER.

And like a traitor to the name of God

Didst break that vow; and with thy treacherous blade

Unrippedst the bowels of thy sovereign's son.

SECOND MURDERER.

Whom thou wast sworn to cherish and defend.

FIRST MURDERER.

How canst thou urge God's dreadful law to us,

When thou hast broke it in such dear degree?

CLARENCE.

Alas! for whose sake did I that ill deed?

For Edward, for my brother, for his sake:

He sends you not to murder me for this;

For in that sin he is as deep as I.

If God will be avenged for the deed,

O, know you yet He doth it publicly.

Take not the quarrel from His powerful arm;

He needs no indirect or lawless course

To cut off those that have offended Him.

FIRST MURDERER.

Who made thee, then, a bloody minister

When gallant-springing brave Plantagenet,

That princely novice, was struck dead by thee?

CLARENCE.

My brother's love, the devil, and my rage.

FIRST MURDERER.

Thy brother's love, our duty, and thy faults,

Provoke us hither now to slaughter thee.

CLARENCE.

If you do love my brother, hate not me;

I am his brother, and I love him well.

If you are hired for meed, go back again,

And I will send you to my brother Gloucester,

Who shall reward you better for my life

Than Edward will for tidings of my death.

SECOND MURDERER.

You are deceived, your brother Gloucester hates you.

CLARENCE.

O, no, he loves me, and he holds me dear:

Go you to him from me.

FIRST MURDERER.

Ay, so we will.

CLARENCE.

Tell him when that our princely father York

Blessed his three sons with his victorious arm

And charged us from his soul to love each other,

He little thought of this divided friendship:

Bid Gloucester think of this, and he will weep.

FIRST MURDERER.

Ay, millstones; as he lessoned us to weep.

CLARENCE.

O, do not slander him, for he is kind.

FIRST MURDERER.

Right, as snow in harvest.—Come, you deceive yourself:

'Tis he that sends us to destroy you here.

CLARENCE.

It cannot be; for he bewept my fortune,

And hugged me in his arms, and swore, with sobs,

That he would labour my delivery.

FIRST MURDERER.

Why, so he doth, when he delivers you

From this earth's thraldom to the joys of heaven.

SECOND MURDERER.

Make peace with God, for you must die, my lord.

CLARENCE.

Have you that holy feeling in your souls,

To counsel me to make my peace with God,

And are you yet to your own souls so blind

That you will war with God by murdering me?—

O, sirs, consider, they that set you on

To do this deed will hate you for the deed.

SECOND MURDERER.

What shall we do?

CLARENCE.

Relent, and save your souls.

FIRST MURDERER.

Relent! 'tis cowardly and womanish.

CLARENCE.

Not to relent is beastly, savage, devilish.

Which of you, if you were a prince's son,

Being pent from liberty, as I am now,—

If two such murderers as yourselves came to you,—

Would not entreat for life?—

My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks;

O, if thine eye be not a flatterer,

Come thou on my side, and entreat for me,

As you would beg, were you in my distress:

A begging prince what beggar pities not?

SECOND MURDERER.

Look behind you, my lord.

FIRST MURDERER.

[Stabs him.]

Take that, and that: if all this will not do,

I'll drown you in the malmsey-butt within.

[Exit with the body.]

SECOND MURDERER.

A bloody deed, and desperately dispatched!

How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands

Of this most grievous murder!

[Re-enter FIRST MURDERER.]

FIRST MURDERER.

How now, what mean'st thou that thou help'st me not?

By heavens, the duke shall know how slack you have

been!

SECOND MURDERER.

I would he knew that I had saved his brother!

Take thou the fee, and tell him what I say;

For I repent me that the duke is slain.

[Exit.]

FIRST MURDERER.

So do not I: go, coward as thou art.—

Well, I'll go hide the body in some hole,

Till that the duke give order for his burial:

And when I have my meed, I will away;

For this will out, and then I must not stay.

[Exit.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

London. A Room in the palace.

[Enter KING EDWARD, led in sick, QUEEN ELIZABETH, DORSET, RIVERS, HASTINGS, BUCKINGHAM, GREY, and others.]

KING EDWARD.

Why, so. Now have I done a good day's work:—

You peers, continue this united league:

I every day expect an embassage

From my Redeemer, to redeem me hence;

And more at peace my soul shall part to heaven,

Since I have made my friends at peace on earth.

Rivers and Hastings, take each other's hand;

Dissemble not your hatred, swear your love.

RIVERS.

By heaven, my soul is purged from grudging hate;

And with my hand I seal my true heart's love.

HASTINGS.

So thrive I, as I truly swear the like!

KING EDWARD.

Take heed you dally not before your king;

Lest He that is the supreme King of kings

Confound your hidden falsehood, and award

Either of you to be the other's end.

HASTINGS.

So prosper I, as I swear perfect love!

RIVERS.

And I, as I love Hastings with my heart!

KING EDWARD.

Madam, yourself is not exempt from this;—

Nor you, son Dorset;—Buckingham, nor you;—

You have been factious one against the other.

Wife, love Lord Hastings, let him kiss your hand;

And what you do, do it unfeignedly.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

There, Hastings; I will never more remember

Our former hatred, so thrive I and mine!

KING EDWARD.

Dorset, embrace him;—Hastings, love lord marquis.

DORSET.

This interchange of love, I here protest,

Upon my part shall be inviolable.

HASTINGS.

And so swear I.

[Embraces Dorset.]

KING EDWARD.

Now, princely Buckingham, seal thou this league

With thy embracements to my wife's allies,

And make me happy in your unity.

BUCKINGHAM.

Whenever Buckingham doth turn his hate

Upon your grace [to the queen], but with all duteous love

Doth cherish you and yours, God punish me

With hate in those where I expect most love!

When I have most need to employ a friend,

And most assured that he is a friend,

Deep, hollow, treacherous, and full of guile,

Be he unto me!—this do I beg of heaven

When I am cold in love to you or yours.

[Embracing Rivers &c.]

KING EDWARD.

A pleasing cordial, princely Buckingham,

Is this thy vow unto my sickly heart.

There wanteth now our brother Gloucester here,

To make the blessed period of this peace.

BUCKINGHAM.

And, in good time, here comes Sir Richard Ratcliffe and the Duke.

[Enter RATCLIFFE and GLOUCESTER.]

GLOUCESTER.

Good morrow to my sovereign king and queen;

And, princely peers, a happy time of day!

KING EDWARD.

Happy, indeed, as we have spent the day.

Gloucester, we have done deeds of charity;

Made peace of enmity, fair love of hate,

Between these swelling wrong-incensed peers.

GLOUCESTER.

A blessed labour, my most sovereign lord,—

Among this princely heap, if any here,

By false intelligence or wrong surmise,

Hold me a foe;

If I unwittingly, or in my rage,

Have aught committed that is hardly borne

To any in this presence, I desire

To reconcile me to his friendly peace:

'Tis death to me to be at enmity;

I hate it, and desire all good men's love.—

First, madam, I entreat true peace of you,

Which I will purchase with my duteous service;—

Of you, my noble cousin Buckingham,

If ever any grudge were lodged between us;—

Of you, and you, Lord Rivers, and of Dorset,

That all without desert have frowned on me;

Of you, Lord Woodville, and, Lord Scales, of you;—

Dukes, earls, lords, gentlemen;—indeed, of all.

I do not know that Englishman alive

With whom my soul is any jot at odds

More than the infant that is born to-night:

I thank my God for my humility.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

A holy day shall this be kept hereafter:—

I would to God all strifes were well compounded.—

My sovereign lord, I do beseech your highness

To take our brother Clarence to your grace.

GLOUCESTER.

Why, madam, have I off'red love for this,

To be so flouted in this royal presence?

Who knows not that the gentle duke is dead?

[They all start.]

You do him injury to scorn his corse.

KING EDWARD.

Who knows not he is dead! Who knows he is?

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

All-seeing heaven, what a world is this!

BUCKINGHAM.

Look I so pale, Lord Dorset, as the rest?

DORSET.

Ay, my good lord; and no man in the presence

But his red colour hath forsook his cheeks.

KING EDWARD.

Is Clarence dead? the order was reversed.

GLOUCESTER.

But he, poor man, by your first order died,

And that a winged Mercury did bear;

Some tardy cripple bore the countermand

That came too lag to see him buried.

God grant that some, less noble and less loyal,

Nearer in bloody thoughts, an not in blood,

Deserve not worse than wretched Clarence did,

And yet go current from suspicion!

[Enter Stanley.]

STANLEY.

A boon, my sovereign, for my service done!

KING EDWARD.

I pr'ythee, peace: my soul is full of sorrow.

STANLEY.

I will not rise unless your highness hear me.

KING EDWARD.

Then say at once what is it thou request'st.

STANLEY.

The forfeit, sovereign, of my servant's life;

Who slew to-day a riotous gentleman

Lately attendant on the Duke of Norfolk.

KING EDWARD.

Have I a tongue to doom my brother's death,

And shall that tongue give pardon to a slave?

My brother killed no man,—his fault was thought,

And yet his punishment was bitter death.

Who sued to me for him? who, in my wrath,

Kneeled at my feet, and bid me be advised?

Who spoke of brotherhood? who spoke of love?

Who told me how the poor soul did forsake

The mighty Warwick, and did fight for me?

Who told me, in the field at Tewksbury,

When Oxford had me down, he rescued me,

And said "Dear brother, live, and be a king"?

Who told me, when we both lay in the field

Frozen almost to death, how he did lap me

Even in his garments, and did give himself,

All thin and naked, to the numb-cold night?

All this from my remembrance brutish wrath

Sinfully plucked, and not a man of you

Had so much grace to put it in my mind.

But when your carters or your waiting-vassals

Have done a drunken slaughter, and defaced

The precious image of our dear Redeemer,

You straight are on your knees for pardon, pardon;

And I, unjustly too, must grant it you:—

But for my brother not a man would speak,—

Nor I, ungracious, speak unto myself

For him, poor soul. The proudest of you all

Have been beholding to him in his life;

Yet none of you would once beg for his life.—

O God, I fear Thy justice will take hold

On me, and you, and mine, and yours, for this!

Come, Hastings, help me to my closet.

Ah, poor Clarence!

[Exeunt KING, QUEEN, HASTINGS, RIVERS, DORSET, and GREY.]

GLOUCESTER.

This is the fruit of rashness! Marked you not

How that the guilty kindred of the queen

Looked pale when they did hear of Clarence' death?

O, they did urge it still unto the king!

God will revenge it.—Come, lords, will you go

To comfort Edward with our company?

BUCKINGHAM.

We wait upon your grace.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

Another Room in the palace.

[Enter the DUCHESS OF YORK, with A SON and DAUGHTER of CLARENCE.]

SON.

Good grandam, tell us, is our father dead?

DUCHESS.

No, boy.

DAUGHTER.

Why do you weep so oft, and beat your breast,

And cry "O Clarence, my unhappy son!"

SON.

Why do you look on us, and shake your head,

And call us orphans, wretches, castaways,

If that our noble father were alive?

DUCHESS.

My pretty cousins, you mistake me both;

I do lament the sickness of the king,

As loath to lose him, not your father's death;

It were lost sorrow to wail one that's lost.

SON.

Then you conclude, my grandam, he is dead.

The king mine uncle is to blame for this:

God will revenge it; whom I will importune

With earnest prayers all to that effect.

DAUGHTER.

And so will I.

DUCHESS.

Peace, children, peace! the king doth love you well:

Incapable and shallow innocents,

You cannot guess who caused your father's death.

SON.

Grandam, we can; for my good uncle Gloucester

Told me, the king, provoked to it by the queen,

Devised impeachments to imprison him:

And when my uncle told me so, he wept,

And pitied me, and kindly kissed my cheek;

Bade me rely on him as on my father,

And he would love me dearly as his child.

DUCHESS.

Ah, that deceit should steal such gentle shape,

And with a virtuous visard hide deep vice!

He is my son; ay, and therein my shame;

Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit.

SON.

Think you my uncle did dissemble, grandam?

DUCHESS.

Ay, boy.

SON.

I cannot think it.—Hark! what noise is this?

[Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH, distractedly; RIVERS and DORSET following her.]

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Ah, who shall hinder me to wail and weep,

To chide my fortune, and torment myself?

I'll join with black despair against my soul,

And to myself become an enemy.

DUCHESS.

What means this scene of rude impatience?

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

To make an act of tragic violence:—

Edward, my lord, thy son, our king, is dead.—

Why grow the branches when the root is gone?

Why wither not the leaves that want their sap?—

If you will live, lament; if die, be brief,

That our swift-winged souls may catch the king's;

Or, like obedient subjects, follow him

To his new kingdom of perpetual rest.

DUCHESS.

Ah, so much interest have I in thy sorrow

As I had title in thy noble husband!

I have bewept a worthy husband's death,

And lived by looking on his images:

But now two mirrors of his princely semblance

Are cracked in pieces by malignant death,

And I for comfort have but one false glass,

That grieves me when I see my shame in him.

Thou art a widow, yet thou art a mother,

And hast the comfort of thy children left;

But death hath snatched my husband from mine arms,

And plucked two crutches from my feeble hands,—

Clarence and Edward. O, what cause have I,—

Thine being but a moiety of my moan,—

To overgo thy woes and drown thy cries?

SON.

Ah, aunt, you wept not for our father's death!

How can we aid you with our kindred tears?

DAUGHTER.

Our fatherless distress was left unmoaned,

Your widow-dolour likewise be unwept!

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Give me no help in lamentation;

I am not barren to bring forth complaints:

All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes,

That I, being governed by the watery moon,

May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world!

Ah for my husband, for my dear Lord Edward!

CHILDREN.

Ah for our father, for our dear Lord Clarence!

DUCHESS.

Alas for both, both mine, Edward and Clarence!

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

What stay had I but Edward? and he's gone.

CHILDREN.

What stay had we but Clarence? and he's gone.

DUCHESS.

What stays had I but they? and they are gone.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Was never widow had so dear a loss!

CHILDREN.

Were never orphans had so dear a loss!

DUCHESS.

Was never mother had so dear a loss!

Alas, I am the mother of these griefs!

Their woes are parcelled, mine is general.

She for an Edward weeps, and so do I:

I for a Clarence weep, so doth not she:

These babes for Clarence weep, and so do I;

I for an Edward weep, so do not they:—

Alas, you three, on me, threefold distressed,

Pour all your tears! I am your sorrow's nurse,

And I will pamper it with lamentation.

DORSET.

Comfort, dear mother: God is much displeased

That you take with unthankfulness His doing:

In common worldly things 'tis called ungrateful,

With dull unwillingness to repay a debt

Which with a bounteous hand was kindly lent;

Much more to be thus opposite with heaven,

For it requires the royal debt it lent you.

RIVERS.

Madam, bethink you, like a careful mother,

Of the young prince your son: send straight for him;

Let him be crowned; in him your comfort lives.

Drown desperate sorrow in dead Edward's grave,

And plant your joys in living Edward's throne.

[Enter GLOUCESTER, BUCKINGHAM, STANLEY, HASTINGS, RATCLIFFE and others.]

GLOUCESTER.

Sister, have comfort: all of us have cause

To wail the dimming of our shining star;

But none can help our harms by wailing them.—

Madam, my mother, I do cry you mercy;

I did not see your grace:—humbly on my knee

I crave your blessing.

DUCHESS.

God bless thee; and put meekness in thy breast,

Love, charity, obedience, and true duty!

GLOUCESTER.

Amen! [Aside.]

And make me die a good old man!—

That is the butt end of a mother's blessing;

I marvel that her grace did leave it out.

BUCKINGHAM.

You cloudy princes and heart-sorrowing peers,

That bear this heavy mutual load of moan,

Now cheer each other in each other's love:

Though we have spent our harvest of this king,

We are to reap the harvest of his son.

The broken rancour of your high-swoln hearts,

But lately splintered, knit, and joined together,

Must gently be preserved, cherished, and kept;

Me seemeth good that, with some little train,

Forthwith from Ludlow the young prince be fetched

Hither to London, to be crowned our king.

RIVERS.

Why with some little train, my Lord of Buckingham?

BUCKINGHAM.

Marry, my lord, lest by a multitude,

The new-healed wound of malice should break out;

Which would be so much the more dangerous

By how much the estate is green and yet ungoverned:

Where every horse bears his commanding rein

And may direct his course as please himself,

As well the fear of harm as harm apparent,

In my opinion, ought to be prevented.

GLOUCESTER.

I hope the king made peace with all of us;

And the compact is firm and true in me.

RIVERS.

And so in me; and so, I think, in all:

Yet, since it is but green, it should be put

To no apparent likelihood of breach,

Which haply by much company might be urged:

Therefore I say with noble Buckingham,

That it is meet so few should fetch the prince.

HASTINGS.

And so say I.

GLOUCESTER.

Then be it so; and go we to determine

Who they shall be that straight shall post to Ludlow.

Madam,—and you, my mother,—will you go

To give your censures in this business?

[Exeunt all but BUCKINGHAM and GLOUCESTER.]

BUCKINGHAM.

My lord, whoever journeys to the prince,

For Goded sake, let not us two stay at home;

For by the way I'll sort occasion,

As index to the story we late talked of,

To part the queen's proud kindred from the Prince.

GLOUCESTER.

My other self, my counsel's consistory,

My oracle, my prophet!—my dear cousin,

I, as a child, will go by thy direction.

Toward Ludlow then, for we'll not stay behind.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE III.

London. A street.

[Enter two CITIZENS, meeting.]

FIRST CITIZEN.

Good morrow, neighbour: whither away so fast?

SECOND CITIZEN.

I promise you, I scarcely know myself: Hear you the news abroad?

FIRST CITIZEN.

Yes,—that the king is dead.

SECOND CITIZEN.

Ill news, by'r lady; seldom comes the better:

I fear, I fear 'twill prove a giddy world.

[Enter third CITIZEN.]

THIRD CITIZEN.

Neighbours, God speed!

FIRST CITIZEN.

Give you good morrow, sir.

THIRD CITIZEN.

Doth the news hold of good King Edward's death?

SECOND CITIZEN.

Ay, sir, it is too true; God help the while!

THIRD CITIZEN.

Then, masters, look to see a troublous world.

FIRST CITIZEN.

No, no; by God's good grace, his son shall reign.

THIRD CITIZEN.

Woe to that land that's governed by a child!

SECOND CITIZEN.

In him there is a hope of government,

Which, in his nonage, council under him,

And, in his full and ripened years, himself,

No doubt, shall then, and till then, govern well.

FIRST CITIZEN.

So stood the state when Henry the Sixth

Was crowned in Paris but at nine months old.

THIRD CITIZEN.

Stood the state so? No, no, good friends, God wot;

For then this land was famously enriched

With politic grave counsel; then the king

Had virtuous uncles to protect his grace.

FIRST CITIZEN.

Why, so hath this, both by his father and mother.

THIRD CITIZEN.

Better it were they all came by his father,

Or by his father there were none at all;

For emulation who shall now be nearest

Will touch us all too near, if God prevent not.

O, full of danger is the Duke of Gloucester!

And the queen's sons and brothers haught and proud:

And were they to be ruled, and not to rule,

This sickly land might solace as before.

FIRST CITIZEN.

Come, come, we fear the worst; all will be well.

THIRD CITIZEN.

When clouds are seen, wise men put on their cloaks;

When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand;

When the sun sets, who doth not look for night?

Untimely storms make men expect a dearth.

All may be well; but, if God sort it so,

'Tis more than we deserve or I expect.

SECOND CITIZEN.

Truly, the hearts of men are fun of fear:

You cannot reason almost with a man

That looks not heavily and fun of dread.

THIRD CITIZEN.

Before the days of change, still is it so:

By a divine instinct men's minds mistrust

Ensuing danger; as, by proof, we see

The water swell before a boisterous storm.

But leave it all to God.—Whither away?

SECOND CITIZEN.

Marry, we were sent for to the justices.

THIRD CITIZEN.

And so was I; I'll bear you company.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE IV.

London. A Room in the Palace.

[Enter the ARCHBISHOP OF YORK, the young DUKE OF YORK, QUEEN ELIZABETH, and the DUCHESS OF YORK.]

ARCHBISHOP.

Last night, I hear, they at Northampton lay;

And at Stony-Stratford they do rest to-night:

To-morrow or next day they will be here.

DUCHESS.

I long with all my heart to see the prince:

I hope he is much grown since last I saw him.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

But I hear no; they say my son of York

Has almost overta'en him in his growth.

YORK.

Ay, mother; but I would not have it so.

DUCHESS.

Why, my good cousin? it is good to grow.

YORK.

Grandam, one night as we did sit at supper,

My uncle Rivers talked how I did grow

More than my brother. "Ay," quoth my uncle Gloucester,

"Small herbs have grace: great weeds do grow apace."

And since, methinks, I would not grow so fast,

Because sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste.

DUCHESS.

Good faith, good faith, the saying did not hold

In him that did object the same to thee:

He was the wretched'st thing when he was young,

So long a growing and so leisurely,

That, if his rule were true, he should be gracious.

ARCHBISHOP.

And so no doubt he is, my gracious madam.

DUCHESS.

I hope he is; but yet let mothers doubt.

YORK.

Now, by my troth, if I had been remembered,

I could have given my uncle's grace a flout

To touch his growth nearer than he touched mine.

DUCHESS.

How, my young York? I pr'ythee let me hear it.

YORK.

Marry, they say my uncle grew so fast

That he could gnaw a crust at two hours old:

'Twas full two years ere I could get a tooth.

Grandam, this would have been a biting jest.

DUCHESS.

I pr'ythee, pretty York, who told thee this?

YORK.

Grandam, his nurse.

DUCHESS.

His nurse! why she was dead ere thou wast born.

YORK.

If 'twere not she, I cannot tell who told me.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

A parlous boy!—go to, you are too shrewd.

ARCHBISHOP.

Good madam, be not angry with the child.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Pitchers have ears.

ARCHBISHOP.

Here comes a messenger.

[Enter a MESSENGER.]

What news?

MESSENGER.

Such news, my lord, as grieves me to report.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

How doth the prince?

MESSENGER.

Well, madam, and in health.

DUCHESS.

What is thy news?

MESSENGER.

Lord Rivers and Lord Grey

Are sent to Pomfret,

With them Sir Thomas Vaughan, prisoners.

DUCHESS.

Who hath committed them?

MESSENGER.

The mighty dukes,

Gloucester and Buckingham.

ARCHBISHOP.

For what offence?

MESSENGER.

The sum of all I can, I have disclosed;

Why or for what the nobles were committed

Is all unknown to me, my gracious lady.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Ah me, I see the ruin of my house!

The tiger now hath seized the gentle hind;

Insulting tyranny begins to jet

Upon the innocent and aweless throne:—

Welcome, destruction, blood, and massacre!

I see, as in a map, the end of all.

DUCHESS.

Accursed and unquiet wrangling days

How many of you have mine eyes beheld?

My husband lost his life to get the crown;

And often up and down my sons were tossed

For me to joy and weep their gain and loss:

And being seated, and domestic broils

Clean over-blown, themselves, the conquerors

Make war upon themselves; brother to brother,

Blood to blood, self against self: O, preposterous

And frantic outrage, end thy damned spleen;

Or let me die, to look on death no more!

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Come, come, my boy; we will to sanctuary.—

Madam, farewell.

DUCHESS.

Stay, I will go with you.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

You have no cause.

ARCHBISHOP.

[To the queen.]

My gracious lady, go.

And thither bear your treasure and your goods.

For my part, I'll resign unto your grace

The seal I keep; and so betide to me

As well I tender you and all of yours!

Go, I'll conduct you to the sanctuary.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

London. A street.

[The trumpets sound. Enter the PRINCE OF WALES, GLOUCESTER, BUCKINGHAM, CATESBY, CARDINAL BOURCHIER, and others.]

BUCKINGHAM.

Welcome, sweet prince, to London, to your chamber.

GLOUCESTER.

Welcome, dear cousin, my thoughts' sovereign:

The weary way hath made you melancholy.

PRINCE.

No, uncle; but our crosses on the way

Have made it tedious, wearisome, and heavy:

I want more uncles here to welcome me.

GLOUCESTER.

Sweet prince, the untainted virtue of your years

Hath not yet dived into the world's deceit:

Nor more can you distinguish of a man

Than of his outward show; which, God He knows,

Seldom or never jumpeth with the heart.

Those uncles which you want were dangerous;

Your grace attended to their sugared words

But looked not on the poison of their hearts:

God keep you from them and from such false friends!

PRINCE.

God keep me from false friends! but they were none.

GLOUCESTER.

My lord, the mayor of London comes to greet you.

[Enter the LORD MAYOR and his train.]

MAYOR.

God bless your grace with health and happy days!

PRINCE.

I thank you, good my lord;—and thank you all.

[Exeunt MAYOR, &c.]

I thought my mother and my brother York

Would long ere this have met us on the way:

Fie, what a slug is Hastings, that he comes not

To tell us whether they will come or no!

BUCKINGHAM.

And, in good time, here comes the sweating lord.

[Enter HASTINGS.]

PRINCE.

Welcome, my lord: what, will our mother come?

HASTINGS.

On what occasion, God He knows, not I,

The queen your mother and your brother York

Have taken sanctuary: the tender prince

Would fain have come with me to meet your grace,

But by his mother was perforce withheld.

BUCKINGHAM.

Fie, what an indirect and peevish course

Is this of hers?—Lord cardinal, will your grace

Persuade the queen to send the Duke of York

Unto his princely brother presently?

If she deny, Lord Hastings, go with him,

And from her jealous arms pluck him perforce.

CARDINAL.

My Lord of Buckingham, if my weak oratory

Can from his mother win the Duke of York,

Anon expect him here; but if she be obdurate

To mild entreaties, God in heaven forbid

We should infringe the holy privilege

Of blessed sanctuary! not for all this land

Would I be guilty of so deep a sin.

BUCKINGHAM.

You are too senseless-obstinate, my lord,

Too ceremonious and traditional:

Weigh it but with the grossness of this age,

You break not sanctuary in seizing him.

The benefit thereof is always granted

To those whose dealings have deserved the place

And those who have the wit to claim the place:

This prince hath neither claimed it nor deserved it;

And therefore, in mine opinion, cannot have it:

Then, taking him from thence that is not there,

You break no privilege nor charter there.

Oft have I heard of sanctuary-men;

But sanctuary-children ne'er till now.

CARDINAL.

My lord, you shall o'errule my mind for once.—

Come on, Lord Hastings, will you go with me?

HASTINGS.

I go, my lord.

PRINCE.

Good lords, make all the speedy haste you may.

[Exeunt CARDINAL and HASTINGS.]

Say, uncle Gloucester, if our brother come,

Where shall we sojourn till our coronation?

GLOUCESTER.

Where it seems best unto your royal self.

If I may counsel you, some day or two

Your highness shall repose you at the Tower:

Then where you please and shall be thought most fit

For your best health and recreation.

PRINCE.

I do not like the Tower, of any place.—

Did Julius Caesar build that place, my lord?

BUCKINGHAM.

He did, my gracious lord, begin that place;

Which, since, succeeding ages have re-edified.

PRINCE.

Is it upon record, or else reported

Successively from age to age, he built it?

BUCKINGHAM.

Upon record, my gracious lord.

PRINCE.

But say, my lord, it were not registered,

Methinks the truth should live from age to age,

As 'twere retailed to all posterity,

Even to the general all-ending day.

GLOUCESTER.

[Aside.]

So wise so young, they say, do never live long.

PRINCE.

What say you, uncle?

GLOUCESTER.

I say, without characters, fame lives long.—

[Aside.]

Thus, like the formal vice, Iniquity,

I moralize two meanings in one word.

PRINCE.

That Julius Caesar was a famous man;

With what his valour did enrich his wit,

His wit set down to make his valour live;

Death makes no conquest of this conqueror;

For now he lives in fame, though not in life.—

I'll tell you what, my cousin Buckingham,—

BUCKINGHAM.

What, my gracious lord?

PRINCE.

An if I live until I be a man,

I'll win our ancient right in France again,

Or die a soldier as I lived a king.

GLOUCESTER.

[Aside.]

Short summers lightly have a forward spring.

BUCKINGHAM.

Now, in good time, here comes the Duke of York.

[Enter YORK, HASTINGS, and the CARDINAL.]

PRINCE.

Richard of York! how fares our loving brother?

YORK.

Well, my dread lord; so must I call you now.

PRINCE.

Ay brother,—to our grief, as it is yours:

Too late he died that might have kept that title,

Which by his death hath lost much majesty.

GLOUCESTER.

How fares our cousin, noble Lord of York?

YORK.

I thank you, gentle uncle. O, my lord,

You said that idle weeds are fast in growth:

The prince my brother hath outgrown me far.

GLOUCESTER.

He hath, my lord.

YORK.

And therefore is he idle?

GLOUCESTER.

O, my fair cousin, I must not say so.

YORK.

Then he is more beholding to you than I.

GLOUCESTER.

He may command me as my sovereign;

But you have power in me as in a kinsman.

YORK.

I pray you, uncle, give me this dagger.

GLOUCESTER.

My dagger, little cousin? with all my heart!

PRINCE.

A beggar, brother?

YORK.

Of my kind uncle, that I know will give,

And being but a toy, which is no grief to give.

GLOUCESTER.

A greater gift than that I'll give my cousin.

YORK.

A greater gift! O, that's the sword to it!

GLOUCESTER.

Ay, gentle cousin, were it light enough.

YORK.

O, then, I see you will part but with light gifts;

In weightier things you'll say a beggar nay.

GLOUCESTER.

It is too heavy for your grace to wear.

YORK.

I weigh it lightly, were it heavier.

GLOUCESTER.

What, would you have my weapon, little lord?

YORK.

I would, that I might thank you as you call me.

GLOUCESTER.

How?

YORK.

Little.

PRINCE.

My Lord of York will still be cross in talk:—

Uncle, your grace knows how to bear with him.

YORK.

You mean, to bear me, not to bear with me:—

Uncle, my brother mocks both you and me;

Because that I am little, like an ape,

He thinks that you should bear me on your shoulders.

BUCKINGHAM.

With what a sharp-provided wit he reasons!

To mitigate the scorn he gives his uncle,

He prettily and aptly taunts himself:

So cunning and so young is wonderful.

GLOUCESTER.

My lord, wil't please you pass along?

Myself and my good cousin Buckingham

Will to your mother, to entreat of her

To meet you at the Tower and welcome you.

YORK.

What, will you go unto the Tower, my lord?

PRINCE.

My lord protector needs will have it so.

YORK.

I shall not sleep in quiet at the Tower.

GLOUCESTER.

Why, what should you fear?

YORK.

Marry, my uncle Clarence' angry ghost:

My grandam told me he was murdered there.

PRINCE.

I fear no uncles dead.

GLOUCESTER.

Nor none that live, I hope.

PRINCE.

An if they live, I hope I need not fear.

But come, my lord; and with a heavy heart,

Thinking on them, go I unto the Tower.

[Sennet. Exeunt PRINCE, YORK, HASTINGS, CARDINAL, and Attendants.]

BUCKINGHAM.

Think you, my lord, this little prating York

Was not incensed by his subtle mother

To taunt and scorn you thus opprobriously?

GLOUCESTER.

No doubt, no doubt: O, 'tis a parlous boy;

Bold, quick, ingenious, forward, capable:

He is all the mother's, from the top to toe.

BUCKINGHAM.

Well, let them rest.—Come hither, Catesby.

Thou art sworn as deeply to effect what we intend

As closely to conceal what we impart:

Thou know'st our reasons urged upon the way;—

What think'st thou? is it not an easy matter

To make William Lord Hastings of our mind,

For the instalment of this noble duke

In the seat royal of this famous isle?

CATESBY.

He for his father's sake so loves the prince

That he will not be won to aught against him.

BUCKINGHAM.

What think'st thou then of Stanley? will not he?

CATESBY.

He will do all in all as Hastings doth.

BUCKINGHAM.

Well then, no more but this: go, gentle Catesby,

And, as it were far off, sound thou Lord Hastings

How he doth stand affected to our purpose;

And summon him to-morrow to the Tower,

To sit about the coronation.

If thou dost find him tractable to us,

Encourage him, and tell him all our reasons:

If he be leaden, icy, cold, unwilling,

Be thou so too; and so break off the talk,

And give us notice of his inclination:

For we to-morrow hold divided councils,

Wherein thyself shalt highly be employed.

GLOUCESTER.

Commend me to Lord William: tell him, Catesby,

His ancient knot of dangerous adversaries

To-morrow are let blood at Pomfret Castle;

And bid my lord, for joy of this good news,

Give Mistress Shore one gentle kiss the more.

BUCKINGHAM.

Good Catesby, go, effect this business soundly.

CATESBY.

My good lords both, with all the heed I can.

GLOUCESTER.

Shall we hear from you, Catesby, ere we sleep?

CATESBY.

You shall, my lord.

GLOUCESTER.

At Crosby Place, there shall you find us both.

[Exit CATESBY.]

BUCKINGHAM.

Now, my lord, what shall we do if we perceive

Lord Hastings will not yield to our complots?

GLOUCESTER.

Chop off his head. man;—somewhat we will do:—

And, look when I am king, claim thou of me

The earldom of Hereford, and all the movables

Whereof the king my brother was possessed.

BUCKINGHAM.

I'll claim that promise at your grace's hand.

GLOUCESTER.

And look to have it yielded with all kindness.

Come, let us sup betimes, that afterwards

We may digest our complots in some form.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

Before LORD HASTING'S house.

[Enter a MESSENGER.]

MESSENGER.

My lord, my lord!—

[Knocking.]

HASTINGS.

[Within.] Who knocks?

MESSENGER.

One from the Lord Stanley.

HASTINGS.

[Within.] What is't o'clock?

MESSENGER.

Upon the stroke of four.

[Enter HASTINGS.]

HASTINGS.

Cannot my Lord Stanley sleep these tedious nights?

MESSENGER.

So it appears by that I have to say.

First, he commends him to your noble self.

HASTINGS.

What then?

MESSENGER.

Then certifies your lordship that this night

He dreamt the boar had razed off his helm:

Besides, he says there are two councils held;

And that may be determined at the one

Which may make you and him to rue at the other.

Therefore he sends to know your lordship's pleasure,—

If you will presently take horse with him,

And with all speed post with him toward the north,

To shun the danger that his soul divines.

HASTINGS.

Go, fellow, go, return unto thy lord;

Bid him not fear the separated councils:

His honour and myself are at the one,

And at the other is my good friend Catesby;

Where nothing can proceed that toucheth us

Whereof I shall not have intelligence.

Tell him his fears are shallow, without instance:

And for his dreams, I wonder he's so simple

To trust the mockery of unquiet slumbers:

To fly the boar before the boar pursues

Were to incense the boar to follow us,

And make pursuit where he did mean no chase.

Go, bid thy master rise and come to me;

And we will both together to the Tower,

Where, he shall see, the boar will use us kindly.

MESSENGER.

I'll go, my lord, and tell him what you say.

[Exit.]

[Enter CATESBY.]

CATESBY.

Many good morrows to my noble lord!

HASTINGS.

Good morrow, Catesby; you are early stirring:

What news, what news, in this our tottering state?

CATESBY.

It is a reeling world indeed, my lord;

And I believe will never stand upright

Till Richard wear the garland of the realm.

HASTINGS.

How! wear the garland! dost thou mean the crown?

CATESBY.

Ay, my good lord.

HASTINGS.

I'll have this crown of mine cut from my shoulders

Before I'll see the crown so foul misplaced.

But canst thou guess that he doth aim at it?

CATESBY.

Ay, on my life; and hopes to find you forward

Upon his party for the gain thereof:

And thereupon he sends you this good news,—

That this same very day your enemies,

The kindred of the queen, must die at Pomfret.

HASTINGS.

Indeed, I am no mourner for that news,

Because they have been still my adversaries:

But that I'll give my voice on Richard's side

To bar my master's heirs in true descent,

God knows I will not do it to the death.

CATESBY.

God keep your lordship in that gracious mind!

HASTINGS.

But I shall laugh at this a twelve month hence,—

That they which brought me in my master's hate,

I live to look upon their tragedy.

Well, Catesby, ere a fortnight make me older,

I'll send some packing that yet think not on't.

CATESBY.

'Tis a vile thing to die, my gracious lord,

When men are unprepared and look not for it.

HASTINGS.

O monstrous, monstrous! and so falls it out

With Rivers, Vaughan, Grey: and so 'twill do

With some men else that think themselves as safe

As thou and I; who, as thou knowest, are dear

To princely Richard and to Buckingham.

CATESBY.

The princes both make high account of you,—

[Aside.]

For they account his head upon the bridge.

HASTINGS.

I know they do, and I have well deserved it.

[Enter STANLEY.]

Come on, come on; where is your boar-spear, man?

Fear you the boar, and go so unprovided?

STANLEY.

My lord, good morrow; and good morrow, Catesby:—

You may jest on, but, by the holy rood,

I do not like these several councils, I.

HASTINGS.

My lord, I hold my life as dear as you do yours;

And never in my days, I do protest,

Was it so precious to me as 'tis now;

Think you, but that I know our state secure,

I would be so triumphant as I am?

STANLEY.

The lords at Pomfret, when they rode from London,

Were jocund and supposed their states were sure,—

And they, indeed, had no cause to mistrust;

But yet, you see, how soon the day o'ercast!

This sudden stab of rancour I misdoubt;

Pray God, I say, I prove a needless coward.

What, shall we toward the Tower? the day is spent.

HASTINGS.

Come, come, have with you.—Wot you what, my lord?

To-day the lords you talked of are beheaded.

STANLEY.

They, for their truth, might better wear their heads

Than some that have accused them wear their hats.—

But come, my lord, let's away.

[Enter a Pursuivant.]

HASTINGS.

Go on before; I'll talk with this good fellow.

[Exeunt STANLEY and CATESBY.]

How now, sirrah! how goes the world with thee?

PURSUIVANT.

The better that your lordship please to ask.

HASTINGS.

I tell thee, man, 'tis better with me now

Than when thou mett'st me last where now we meet:

Then was I going prisoner to the Tower,

By the suggestion of the queen's allies;

But now, I tell thee,—keep it to thyself,—

This day those enemies are put to death,

And I in better state than e'er I was.

PURSUIVANT.

God hold it, to your honour's good content!

HASTINGS.

Gramercy, fellow: there, drink that for me.

[Throwing him his purse.]

PURSUIVANT.

I thank your honour.

[Exit.]

[Enter a PRIEST.]

PRIEST.

Well met, my lord; I am glad to see your honour.

HASTINGS.

I thank thee, good Sir John, with all my heart.

I am in your debt for your last exercise;

Come the next Sabbath, and I will content you.

[Enter BUCKINGHAM.]

PRIEST.

I'll wait upon your lordship

[Exit Priest.]

BUCKINGHAM.

What, talking with a priest, lord chamberlain!

Your friends at Pomfret, they do need the priest;

Your honour hath no shriving work in hand.

HASTINGS.

Good faith, and when I met this holy man,

The men you talk of came into my mind.—

What, go you toward the Tower?

BUCKINGHAM.

I do, my lord, but long I cannot stay there;

I shall return before your lordship thence.

HASTINGS.

Nay, like enough, for I stay dinner there.

BUCKINGHAM.

[Aside.]

And supper too, although thou knowest it not.—

Come, will you go?

HASTINGS.

I'll wait upon your lordship.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE III.

Pomfret. Before the Castle.

[Enter RATCLIFFE, with Guard, conducting RIVERS, GREY, and VAUGHAN to execution.]

RATCLIFFE.

Come, bring forth the prisoners.

RIVERS.

Sir Richard Ratcliffe, let me tell thee this,—

To-day shalt thou behold a subject die

For truth, for duty, and for loyalty.

GREY.

God bless the prince from all the pack of you!

A knot you are of damned blood-suckers.

VAUGHAN.

You live that shall cry woe for this hereafter.

RATCLIFFE.

Despatch; the limit of your lives is out.

RIVERS.

O Pomfret, Pomfret! O thou bloody prison,

Fatal and ominous to noble peers!

Within the guilty closure of thy walls

Richard the Second here was hacked to death:

And, for more slander to thy dismal seat,

We give to thee our guiltless blood to drink.

GREY.

Now Margaret's curse is fallen upon our heads,

When she exclaimed on Hastings, you, and I,

For standing by when Richard stabbed her son.

RIVERS.

Then cursed she Richard, then cursed she Buckingham,

Then cursed she Hastings:—O, remember, God,

To hear her prayer for them, as now for us!

And for my sister, and her princely sons,

Be satisfied, dear God, with our true blood,

Which, as Thou know'st, unjustly must be spilt.

RATCLIFFE.

Make haste; the hour of death is expiate.

RIVERS.

Come, Grey;—come, Vaughan;—let us here embrace.

Farewell, until we meet again in heaven.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE IV.

London. A Room in the Tower.

[BUCKINGHAM, STANLEY, HASTINGS, the BISHOP of ELY, RATCLIFFE, LOVEL, and others sitting at a table: Officers of the Council attending.]

HASTINGS.

Now, noble peers, the cause why we are met

Is to determine of the coronation.

In God's name speak,—when is the royal day?

BUCKINGHAM.

Are all things ready for that royal time?

STANLEY.

Thery are, and wants but nomination.

ELY.

To-morrow, then, I judge a happy day.

BUCKINGHAM.

Who knows the lord protector's mind herein?

Who is most inward with the noble duke?

ELY.

Your grace, we think, should soonest know his mind.

BUCKINGHAM.

We know each other's faces: for our hearts,

He knows no more of mine than I of yours;

Or I of his, my lord, than you of mine.—

Lord Hastings, you and he are near in love.

HASTINGS.

I thank his grace, I know he loves me well;

But for his purpose in the coronation

I have not sounded him, nor he delivered

His gracious pleasure any way therein:

But you, my honourable lords, may name the time;

And in the duke's behalf I'll give my voice,

Which, I presume, he'll take in gentle part.

ELY.

In happy time, here comes the duke himself.

[Enter GLOUCESTER.]

GLOUCESTER.

My noble lords and cousins all, good morrow.

I have been long a sleeper; but I trust

My absence doth neglect no great design

Which by my presence might have been concluded.

BUCKINGHAM.

Had you not come upon your cue, my lord,

William Lord Hastings had pronounced your part,—

I mean, your voice,—for crowning of the king.

GLOUCESTER.

Than my Lord Hastings no man might be bolder;

His lordship knows me well and loves me well.—

My lord of Ely, when I was last in Holborn

I saw good strawberries in your garden there:

I do beseech you send for some of them.

ELY.

Marry, and will, my lord, with all my heart.

[Exit.]

GLOUCESTER.

Cousin of Buckingham, a word with you.

[Takes him aside.]

Catesby hath sounded Hastings in our business,

And finds the testy gentleman so hot

That he will lose his head ere give consent

His master's child, as worshipfully he terms it,

Shall lose the royalty of England's throne.

BUCKINGHAM.

Withdraw yourself awhile; I'll go with you.

[Exeunt GLOUCESTER and BUCKINGHAM.]

STANLEY.

We have not yet set down this day of triumph.

To-morrow, in my judgment, is too sudden;

For I myself am not so well provided

As else I would be, were the day prolonged.

[Re-enter BISHOP OF ELY.]

ELY.

Where is my lord the Duke of Gloucester?

I have sent for these strawberries.

HASTINGS.

His grace looks cheerfully and smooth this morning;

There's some conceit or other likes him well

When that he bids good morrow with such spirit.

I think there's ne'er a man in Christendom

Can lesser hide his love or hate than he;

For by his face straight shall you know his heart.

STANLEY.

What of his heart perceive you in his face

By any livelihood he showed to-day?

HASTINGS.

Marry, that with no man here he is offended;

For, were he, he had shown it in his looks.

[Re-enter GLOUCESTER and BUCKINGHAM.]

GLOUCESTER.

I pray you all, tell me what they deserve

That do conspire my death with devilish plots

Of damned witchcraft, and that have prevailed

Upon my body with their hellish charms?

HASTINGS.

The tender love I bear your grace, my lord,

Makes me most forward in this princely presence

To doom the offenders: whosoe'er they be.

I say, my lord, they have deserved death.

GLOUCESTER.

Then be your eyes the witness of their evil:

Look how I am bewitched; behold, mine arm

Is, like a blasted sapling, withered up:

And this is Edward's wife, that monstrous witch,

Consorted with that harlot-strumpet Shore,

That by their witchcraft thus have marked me.

HASTINGS.

If they have done this deed, my noble lord,—

GLOUCESTER.

If!—thou protector of this damned strumpet,

Talk'st thou to me of "ifs"?—Thou art a traitor:—

Off with his head!—now, by Saint Paul I swear,

I will not dine until I see the same.—

Lovel and Ratcliffe:—look that it be done:—

The rest, that love me, rise and follow me.

[Exeunt all except HASTINGS, LOVEL, and RATCLIFFE.]

HASTINGS.

Woe, woe, for England! not a whit for me;

For I, too fond, might have prevented this.

Stanley did dream the boar did raze his helm;

And I did scorn it, and disdain to fly.

Three times to-day my foot-cloth horse did stumble,

And started, when he looked upon the Tower,

As loth to bear me to the slaughter-house.

O, now I need the priest that spake to me:

I now repent I told the pursuivant,

As too triumphing, how mine enemies

To-day at Pomfret bloodily were butchered,

And I myself secure in grace and favour.

O Margaret, Margaret, now thy heavy curse

Is lighted on poor Hastings' wretched head!

RATCLIFFE.

Come, come, despatch; the duke would be at dinner:

Make a short shrift; he longs to see your head.

HASTINGS.

O momentary grace of mortal men,

Which we more hunt for than the grace of God!

Who builds his hope in air of your good looks

Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast,

Ready, with every nod, to tumble down

Into the fatal bowels of the deep.

LOVEL.

Come, come, despatch; 'tis bootless to exclaim.

HASTINGS.

O bloody Richard!—miserable England!

I prophesy the fearfull'st time to thee

That ever wretched age hath looked upon.—

Come, lead me to the block; bear him my head:

They smile at me who shortly shall be dead.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE V.

London. The Tower Walls.

[Enter GLOUCESTER and BUCKINGHAM in rusty armour, marvellous ill-favoured.]

GLOUCESTER.

Come, cousin, canst thou quake and change thy colour,

Murder thy breath in middle of a word,

And then again begin, and stop again,

As if thou were distraught and mad with terror?

BUCKINGHAM.

Tut, I can counterfeit the deep tragedian;

Speak and look back, and pry on every side,

Tremble and start at wagging of a straw,

Intending deep suspicion: ghastly looks

Are at my service, like enforced smiles;

And both are ready in their offices,

At any time to grace my stratagems.

But what, is Catesby gone?

GLOUCESTER.

He is; and, see, he brings the mayor along.

[Enter the LORD MAYOR and CATESBY.]

BUCKINGHAM.

Lord mayor,—

GLOUCESTER.

Look to the drawbridge there!

BUCKINGHAM.

Hark! a drum.

GLOUCESTER.

Catesby, o'erlook the walls.

BUCKINGHAM.

Lord Mayor, the reason we have sent,—

GLOUCESTER.

Look back, defend thee,—here are enemies.

BUCKINGHAM.

God and our innocency defend and guard us!

GLOUCESTER.

Be patient; they are friends,—Ratcliffe and Lovel.

[Enter LOVEL and RATCLIFFE, with HASTINGS' head.]

LOVEL.

Here is the head of that ignoble traitor,

The dangerous and unsuspected Hastings.

GLOUCESTER.

So dear I loved the man that I must weep.

I took him for the plainest harmless creature

That breathed upon the earth a Christian;

Made him my book, wherein my soul recorded

The history of all her secret thoughts:

So smooth he daubed his vice with show of virtue

That, his apparent open guilt omitted,—

I mean, his conversation with Shore's wife,—

He lived from all attainder of suspects.

BUCKINGHAM.

Well, well, he was the covert'st sheltered traitor

That ever lived.—

Would you imagine, or almost believe,—

Were't not that by great preservation

We live to tell it you,—that the subtle traitor

This day had plotted, in the council-house,

To murder me and my good Lord of Gloucester!

MAYOR.

Had he done so?

GLOUCESTER.

What! think you we are Turks or Infidels?

Or that we would, against the form of law,

Proceed thus rashly in the villain's death,

But that the extreme peril of the case,

The peace of England and our persons' safety,

Enforced us to this execution?

MAYOR.

Now, fair befall you! he deserved his death;

And your good graces both have well proceeded,

To warn false traitors from the like attempts.

I never looked for better at his hands

After he once fell in with Mistress Shore.

BUCKINGHAM.

Yet had we not determined he should die

Until your lordship came to see his end;

Which now the loving haste of these our friends,

Something against our meanings, have prevented:

Because, my lord, we would have had you heard

The traitor speak, and timorously confess

The manner and the purpose of his treasons;

That you might well have signified the same

Unto the citizens, who haply may

Misconster us in him, and wail his death.

MAYOR.

But, my good lord, your grace's word shall serve

As well as I had seen and heard him speak:

And do not doubt, right noble princes both,

But I'll acquaint our duteous citizens

With all your just proceedings in this case.

GLOUCESTER.

And to that end we wished your lordship here,

To avoid the the the censures of the carping world.

BUCKINGHAM.

Which, since you come too late of our intent,

Yet witness what you hear we did intend:

And so, my good lord mayor, we bid farewell.

[Exit LORD MAYOR.]

GLOUCESTER.

Go, after, after, cousin Buckingham.

The Mayor towards Guildhall hies him in all post:—

There, at your meet'st advantage of the time,

Infer the bastardy of Edward's children:

Tell them how Edward put to death a citizen,

Only for saying he would make his son

Heir to the crown;—meaning, indeed, his house,

Which, by the sign thereof, was termed so.

Moreover, urge his hateful luxury,

And bestial appetite in change of lust;

Which stretched unto their servants, daughters, wives,

Even where his raging eye or savage heart,

Without control, listed to make a prey.

Nay, for a need, thus far come near my person:—

Tell them, when that my mother went with child

Of that insatiate Edward, noble York,

My princely father, then had wars in France

And, by true computation of the time,

Found that the issue was not his begot;

Which well appeared in his lineaments,

Being nothing like the noble duke my father.

Yet touch this sparingly, as 'twere far off;

Because, my lord, you know my mother lives.

BUCKINGHAM.

Doubt not, my lord, I'll play the orator

As if the golden fee for which I plead

Were for myself: and so, my lord, adieu.

GLOUCESTER.

If you thrive well, bring them to Baynard's Castle;

Where you shall find me well accompanied

With reverend fathers and well learned bishops.

BUCKINGHAM.

I go; and towards three or four o'clock

Look for the news that the Guildhall affords.

[Exit.]

GLOUCESTER.

Go, Lovel, with all speed to Doctor Shaw.—

Go thou [to CATESBY] to Friar Penker;—bid them both

Meet me within this hour at Baynard's Castle.

[Exeunt LOVEL and CATESBY.]

Now will I in, to take some privy order

To draw the brats of Clarence out of sight;

And to give order that no manner person

Have any time recourse unto the princes.

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE VI.

London. A street.

[Enter a SCRIVENER.]

SCRIVENER.

Here is the indictment of the good Lord Hastings;

Which in a set hand fairly is engrossed,

That it may be to-day read o'er in Paul's.

And mark how well the sequel hangs together:—

Eleven hours I have spent to write it over,

For yesternight by Catesby was it sent me;

The precedent was full as long a-doing:

And yet within these five hours Hastings lived,

Untainted, unexamined, free, at liberty.

Here's a good world the while! Who is so gross

That cannot see this palpable device!

Yet who so bold but says he sees it not!

Bad is the world; and all will come to naught,

When such ill dealing must be seen in thought.

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE VII.

London. Court of Baynard's Castle.

[Enter GLOUCESTER and BUCKINGHAM, meeting.]

GLOUCESTER.

How now, how now! what say the citizens?

BUCKINGHAM.

Now, by the holy mother of our Lord,

The citizens are mum, say not a word.

GLOUCESTER.

Touched you the bastardy of Edward's children?

BUCKINGHAM.

I did; with his contract with Lady Lucy,

And his contract by deputy in France;

The insatiate greediness of his desires,

And his enforcement of the city wives;

His tyranny for trifles; his own bastardy,—

As being got, your father then in France,

And his resemblance, being not like the duke:

Withal I did infer your lineaments,—

Being the right idea of your father,

Both in your form and nobleness of mind;

Laid open all your victories in Scotland,

Your discipline in war, wisdom in peace,

Your bounty, virtue, fair humility;

Indeed, left nothing fitting for your purpose

Untouched or slightly handled in discourse:

And when mine oratory drew toward end

I bid them that did love their country's good

Cry "God save Richard, England's royal king!"

GLOUCESTER.

And did they so?

BUCKINGHAM.

No, so God help me, they spake not a word;

But, like dumb statues or breathing stones,

Stared each on other, and looked deadly pale.

Which when I saw, I reprehended them;

And asked the mayor what meant this wilful silence:

His answer was—the people were not used

To be spoke to but by the recorder.

Then he was urged to tell my tale again,—

"Thus saith the duke, thus hath the duke inferred;"

But nothing spoke in warrant from himself.

When he had done, some followers of mine own,

At lower end of the hall hurled up their caps,

And some ten voices cried, "God save King Richard!"

And thus I took the vantage of those few,—

"Thanks, gentle citizens and friends," quoth I;

"This general applause and cheerful shout

Argues your wisdoms and your love to Richard:"

And even here brake off and came away.

GLOUCESTER.

What, tongueless blocks were they! would they not speak?

Will not the mayor, then, and his brethren, come?

BUCKINGHAM.

The mayor is here at hand. Intend some fear;

Be not you spoke with but by mighty suit:

And look you get a prayer-book in your hand,

And stand between two churchmen, good my lord;

For on that ground I'll make a holy descant:

And be not easily won to our requests;

Play the maid's part,—still answer nay, and take it.

GLOUCESTER.

I go; and if you plead as well for them

As I can say nay to thee for myself,

No doubt we bring it to a happy issue.

BUCKINGHAM.

Go, go, up to the leads; the lord mayor knocks.

[Exit GLOUCESTER.]

[Enter the LORD MAYOR, ALDERMEN, and Citizens.]

Welcome, my lord. I dance attendance here;

I think the duke will not be spoke withal.

[Enter, from the Castle, CATESBY.]

Now, Catesby,—what says your lord to my request?

CATESBY.

He doth entreat your grace, my noble lord,

To visit him to-morrow or next day:

He is within, with two right reverend fathers,

Divinely bent to meditation:

And in no worldly suit would he be moved,

To draw him from his holy exercise.

BUCKINGHAM.

Return, good Catesby, to the gracious duke;

Tell him, myself, the mayor and aldermen,

In deep designs, in matter of great moment,

No less importing than our general good,

Are come to have some conference with his grace.

CATESBY.

I'll signify so much unto him straight.

[Exit.]

BUCKINGHAM.

Ah, ha, my lord, this prince is not an Edward!

He is not lolling on a lewd day-bed,

But on his knees at meditation;

Not dallying with a brace of courtezans,

But meditating with two deep divines;

Not sleeping, to engross his idle body,

But praying, to enrich his watchful soul:

Happy were England would this virtuous prince

Take on his grace the sovereignty thereof:

But, sure, I fear, we shall not win him to it.

MAYOR.

Marry, God defend his grace should say us nay!

BUCKINGHAM.

I fear he will. Here Catesby comes again.

[Re-enter CATESBY.]

Now, Catesby, what says his grace?

CATESBY.

He wonders to what end you have assembled

Such troops of citizens to come to him:

His grace not being warned thereof before,

He fears, my lord, you mean no good to him.

BUCKINGHAM.

Sorry I am my noble cousin should

Suspect me, that I mean no good to him:

By heaven, we come to him in perfect love;

And so once more return and tell his grace.

[Exit CATESBY.]

When holy and devout religious men

Are at their beads, 'tis much to draw them thence,—

So sweet is zealous contemplation.

[Enter GLOUCESTER in a Galery above, between two BISHOPS. CATESBY returns.]

MAYOR.

See where his grace stands 'tween two clergymen!

BUCKINGHAM.

Two props of virtue for a Christian prince,

To stay him from the fall of vanity:

And, see, a book of prayer in his hand,—

True ornaments to know a holy man.—

Famous Plantagenet, most gracious prince,

Lend favourable ear to our requests;

And pardon us the interruption

Of thy devotion and right Christian zeal.

GLOUCESTER.

My lord, there needs no such apology:

I rather do beseech you pardon me,

Who, earnest in the service of my God,

Deferred the visitation of my friends.

But, leaving this, what is your grace's pleasure?

BUCKINGHAM.

Even that, I hope, which pleaseth God above,

And all good men of this ungoverned isle.

GLOUCESTER.

I do suspect I have done some offence

That seems disgracious in the city's eye;

And that you come to reprehend my ignorance.

BUCKINGHAM.

You have, my lord: would it might please your grace,

On our entreaties, to amend your fault!

GLOUCESTER.

Else wherefore breathe I in a Christian land?

BUCKINGHAM.

Know then, it is your fault that you resign

The supreme seat, the throne majestical,

The sceptered office of your ancestors,

Your state of fortune and your due of birth,

The lineal glory of your royal house,

To the corruption of a blemished stock:

Whilst, in the mildness of your sleepy thoughts,—

Which here we waken to our country's good,—

The noble isle doth want her proper limbs;

Her face defaced with scars of infamy,

Her royal stock graft with ignoble plants,

And almost shouldered in the swallowing gulf

Of dark forgetfulness and deep oblivion.

Which to recure, we heartily solicit

Your gracious self to take on you the charge

And kingly government of this your land;—

Not as protector, steward, substitute,

Or lowly factor for another's gain;

But as successively, from blood to blood,

Your right of birth, your empery, your own.

For this, consorted with the citizens,

Your very worshipful and loving friends,

And, by their vehement instigation,

In this just cause come I to move your grace.

GLOUCESTER.

I cannot tell if to depart in silence

Or bitterly to speak in your reproof

Best fitteth my degree or your condition:

If not to answer, you might haply think

Tongue-tied ambition, not replying, yielded

To bear the golden yoke of sovereignty,

Which fondly you would here impose on me;

If to reprove you for this suit of yours,

So seasoned with your faithful love to me,

Then, on the other side, I checked my friends.

Therefore,—to speak, and to avoid the first,

And then, in speaking, not to incur the last,—

Definitively thus I answer you.

Your love deserves my thanks; but my desert

Unmeritable shuns your high request.

First, if all obstacles were cut away,

And that my path were even to the crown,

As the ripe revenue and due of birth,

Yet so much is my poverty of spirit,

So mighty and so many my defects,

That I would rather hide me from my greatness,—

Being a bark to brook no mighty sea,—

Than in my greatness covet to be hid,

And in the vapour of my glory smothered.

But, God be thanked, there is no need of me,—

And much I need to help you, were there need;—

The royal tree hath left us royal fruit,

Which, mellowed by the stealing hours of time,

Will well become the seat of majesty,

And make, no doubt, us happy by his reign.

On him I lay that you would lay on me,—

The right and fortune of his happy stars;

Which God defend that I should wring from him!

BUCKINGHAM.

My lord, this argues conscience in your grace;

But the respects thereof are nice and trivial,

All circumstances well considered.

You say that Edward is your brother's son:

So say we too, but not by Edward's wife;

For first was he contract to Lady Lucy,—

Your mother lives a witness to his vow,—

And afterward by substitute betrothed

To Bona, sister to the King of France.

These both put off, a poor petitioner,

A care-crazed mother to a many sons,

A beauty-waning and distressed widow,

Even in the afternoon of her best days,

Made prize and purchase of his wanton eye,

Seduced the pitch and height of his degree

To base declension and loathed bigamy:

By her, in his unlawful bed, he got

This Edward, whom our manners call the prince.

More bitterly could I expostulate,

Save that, for reverence to some alive,

I give a sparing limit to my tongue.

Then, good my lord, take to your royal self

This proffered benefit of dignity;

If not to bless us and the land withal,

Yet to draw forth your noble ancestry

From the corruption of abusing time

Unto a lineal true-derived course.

MAYOR.

Do, good my lord; your citizens entreat you.

BUCKINGHAM.

Refuse not, mighty lord, this proffered love.

CATESBY.

O, make them joyful, grant their lawful suit!

GLOUCESTER.

Alas, why would you heap those cares on me?

I am unfit for state and majesty:—

I do beseech you, take it not amiss:

I cannot nor I will not yield to you.

BUCKINGHAM.

If you refuse it,—as, in love and zeal,

Loath to depose the child, your brother's son—

As well we know your tenderness of heart

And gentle, kind, effeminate remorse,

Which we have noted in you to your kindred,

And equally, indeed, to all estates,—

Yet know, whe'er you accept our suit or no,

Your brother's son shall never reign our king;

But we will plant some other in the throne,

To the disgrace and downfall of your house:

And in this resolution here we leave you.—

Come, citizens, zounds, I'll entreat no more.

GLOUCESTER.

O, do not swear, my lord of Buckingham!

[Exeunt BUCKINGHAM, the MAYOR and citizens retiring.]

CATESBY.

Call them again, sweet prince, accept their suit:

If you deny them, all the land will rue it.

GLOUCESTER.

Will you enforce me to a world of cares?

Call them again. I am not made of stones,

But penetrable to your kind entreaties,

Albeit against my conscience and my soul.

[Re-enter BUCKINGHAM and CATESBY, MAYOR, &c., coming forward.]

Cousin of Buckingham,—and sage grave men,

Since you will buckle fortune on my back,

To bear her burden, whe'er I will or no,

I must have patience to endure the load:

But if black scandal or foul-faced reproach

Attend the sequel of your imposition,

Your mere enforcement shall acquittance me

From all the impure blots and stains thereof;

For God doth know, and you may partly see,

How far I am from the desire of this.

MAYOR.

God bless your grace! we see it, and will say it.

GLOUCESTER.

In saying so, you shall but say the truth.

BUCKINGHAM.

Then I salute you with this royal title,—

Long live King Richard, England's worthy king!

ALL.

Amen.

BUCKINGHAM.

To-morrow may it please you to be crowned?

GLOUCESTER.

Even when you please, for you will have it so.

BUCKINGHAM.

To-morrow, then, we will attend your grace:

And so, most joyfully, we take our leave.

GLOUCESTER.

[To the BISHOPS.]

Come, let us to our holy work again.—

Farewell, my cousin;—farewell, gentle friends.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

London. Before the Tower

[Enter, on one side, QUEEN ELIZABETH, DUCHESS of YORK, and MARQUIS of DORSET; on the other, ANNE DUCHESS of GLOUCESTER, leading LADY MARGARET PLANTAGENET, CLARENCE's young daughter.]

DUCHESS.

Who meets us here?—my niece Plantagenet,

Led in the hand of her kind aunt of Gloucester?

Now, for my life, she's wandering to the Tower,

On pure heart's love, to greet the tender princes.—

Daughter, well met.

ANNE.

God give your graces both

A happy and a joyful time of day!

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

As much to you, good sister! Whither away?

ANNE.

No farther than the Tower; and, as I guess,

Upon the like devotion as yourselves,

To gratulate the gentle princes there.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Kind sister, thanks; we'll enter all together:—

And in good time, here the lieutenant comes.

[Enter BRAKENBURY.]

Master Lieutenant, pray you, by your leave,

How doth the prince, and my young son of York?

BRAKENBURY.

Right well, dear madam. By your patience,

I may not suffer you to visit them.

The king hath strictly charged the contrary.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

The king! who's that?

BRAKENBURY.

I mean the lord protector.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

The Lord protect him from that kingly title!

Hath he set bounds between their love and me?

I am their mother; who shall bar me from them?

DUCHESS.

I am their father's mother; I will see them.

ANNE.

Their aunt I am in law, in love their mother:

Then bring me to their sights; I'll bear thy blame,

And take thy office from thee on my peril.

BRAKENBURY.

No, madam, no,—I may not leave it so:

I am bound by oath, and therefore pardon me.

[Exit.]

[Enter STANLEY.]

STANLEY.

Let me but meet you, ladies, one hour hence,

And I'll salute your grace of York as mother

And reverend looker-on of two fair queens.—

[To the DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER.]

Come, madam, you must straight to Westminster,

There to be crowned Richard's royal queen.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Ah, cut my lace asunder,

That my pent heart may have some scope to beat,

Or else I swoon with this dead-killing news!

ANNE.

Despiteful tidings! O unpleasing news!

DORSET.

Be of good cheer: mother, how fares your grace?

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

O Dorset, speak not to me, get thee gone!

Death and destruction dog thee at thy heels;

Thy mother's name is ominous to children.

If thou wilt outstrip death, go cross the seas,

And live with Richmond, from the reach of hell:

Go, hie thee, hie thee from this slaughter-house,

Lest thou increase the number of the dead;

And make me die the thrall of Margaret's curse,

Nor mother, wife, nor England's counted queen.

STANLEY.

Full of wise care is this your counsel, madam.—

Take all the swift advantage of the hours;

You shall have letters from me to my son

In your behalf, to meet you on the way:

Be not ta'en tardy by unwise delay.

DUCHESS.

O ill-dispersing wind of misery!—

O my accursed womb, the bed of death!

A cockatrice hast thou hatched to the world,

Whose unavoided eye is murderous.

STANLEY.

Come, madam, come; I in all haste was sent.

ANNE.

And I with all unwillingness will go.—

O, would to God that the inclusive verge

Of golden metal that must round my brow

Were red-hot steel, to sear me to the brain !

Anointed let me be with deadly venom,

And die ere men can say God save the queen!

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Go, go, poor soul; I envy not thy glory;

To feed my humour, wish thyself no harm.

ANNE.

No, why?—When he that is my husband now

Came to me, as I followed Henry's corse;

When scarce the blood was well washed from his hands

Which issued from my other angel husband,

And that dear saint which then I weeping followed;

O, when, I say, I looked on Richard's face,

This was my wish,—"Be thou," quoth I, "accursed

For making me, so young, so old a widow!

And when thou wedd'st, let sorrow haunt thy bed;

And be thy wife,—if any be so mad,—

More miserable by the life of thee

Than thou hast made me by my dear lord's death!"

Lo, ere I can repeat this curse again,

Within so small a time, my woman's heart

Grossly grew captive to his honey words,

And proved the subject of mine own soul's curse,—

Which hitherto hath held my eyes from rest;

For never yet one hour in his bed

Did I enjoy the golden dew of sleep,

But with his timorous dreams was still awaked.

Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick;

And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Poor heart, adieu! I pity thy complaining.

ANNE.

No more than with my soul I mourn for yours.

DORSET.

Farewell, thou woeful welcomer of glory!

ANNE.

Adieu, poor soul, that tak'st thy leave of it!

DUCHESS.

[To DORSET.]

Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune guide thee!—

[To ANNE.]

Go thou to Richard, and good angels tend thee!—

[To QUEEN ELIZABETH.]

Go thou to sanctuary, and good thoughts possess thee!

I to my grave, where peace and rest lie with me!

Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen,

And each hour's joy wrecked with a week of teen.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Stay yet, look back with me unto the Tower.—

Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes

Whom envy hath immured within your walls!

Rough cradle for such little pretty ones!

Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow

For tender princes, use my babies well!

So foolish sorrows bids your stones farewell.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

London. A Room of State in the Palace.

[Flourish of trumpets. RICHARD, as King, upon his throne; BUCKINGHAM, CATESBY, RATCLIFFE, LOVEL, a Page, and others.]

KING RICHARD.

Stand all apart—Cousin of Buckingham,—

BUCKINGHAM.

My gracious sovereign?

KING RICHARD.

Give me thy hand. Thus high, by thy advice

And thy assistance, is King Richard seated:—

But shall we wear these glories for a day?

Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them?

BUCKINGHAM.

Still live they, and for ever let them last!

KING RICHARD.

Ah, Buckingham, now do I play the touch,

To try if thou be current gold indeed:—

Young Edward lives;—think now what I would speak.

BUCKINGHAM.

Say on, my loving lord.

KING RICHARD.

Why, Buckingham, I say I would be king.

BUCKINGHAM.

Why, so you are, my thrice-renowned lord.

KING RICHARD.

Ha! am I king? 'tis so: but Edward lives.

BUCKINGHAM.

True, noble prince.

KING RICHARD.

O bitter consequence,

That Edward still should live,—true, noble Prince!—

Cousin, thou wast not wont to be so dull:—

Shall I be plain?—I wish the bastards dead;

And I would have it suddenly performed.

What say'st thou now? speak suddenly, be brief.

BUCKINGHAM.

Your grace may do your pleasure.

KING RICHARD.

Tut, tut, thou art all ice, thy kindness freezes:

Say, have I thy consent that they shall die?

BUCKINGHAM.

Give me some little breath, some pause, dear lord,

Before I positively speak in this:

I will resolve your grace immediately.

[Exit.]

CATESBY.

[Aside.] The king is angry: see, he gnaws his lip.

KING RICHARD.

I will converse with iron-witted fools.

[Descends from his throne.]

And unrespective boys; none are for me

That look into me with considerate eyes:

High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect.

Boy!—

PAGE.

My lord?

KING RICHARD.

Know'st thou not any whom corrupting gold

Will tempt unto a close exploit of death?

PAGE.

I know a discontented gentleman

Whose humble means match not his haughty spirit:

Gold were as good as twenty orators,

And will, no doubt, tempt him to anything.

KING RICHARD.

What is his name?

PAGE.

His name, my lord, is Tyrrel.

KING RICHARD.

I partly know the man: go, call him hither, boy.

[Exit PAGE.]

The deep-revolving witty Buckingham

No more shall be the neighbour to my counsels:

Hath he so long held out with me untired,

And stops he now for breath?—well, be it so.

[Enter STANLEY.]

How now, Lord Stanley! what's the news?

STANLEY.

Know, my loving lord,

The Marquis Dorset, as I hear, is fled

To Richmond, in the parts where he abides.

KING RICHARD.

Come hither, Catesby: rumour it abroad

That Anne, my wife, is very grievous sick;

I will take order for her keeping close:

Inquire me out some mean poor gentleman,

Whom I will marry straight to Clarence' daughter;—

The boy is foolish, and I fear not him.—

Look how thou dream'st!—I say again, give out

That Anne, my queen, is sick and like to die:

About it; for it stands me much upon,

To stop all hopes whose growth may damage me.

[Exit CATESBY.]

I must be married to my brother's daughter,

Or else my kingdom stands on brittle glass:—

Murder her brothers, and then marry her!

Uncertain way of gain! But I am in

So far in blood that sin will pluck on sin:

Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.

[Re-enter PAGE, with TYRREL.]

Is thy name Tyrrel?

TYRREL.

James Tyrrel, and your most obedient subject.

KING RICHARD.

Art thou, indeed?

TYRREL.

Prove me, my gracious lord.

KING RICHARD.

Dar'st thou resolve to kill a friend of mine?

TYRREL.

Please you. But I had rather kill two enemies.

KING RICHARD.

Why, then thou hast it: two deep enemies,

Foes to my rest, and my sweet sleep's disturbers,

Are they that I would have thee deal upon:—

Tyrell, I mean those bastards in the Tower.

TYRREL.

Let me have open means to come to them,

And soon I'll rid you from the fear of them.

KING RICHARD.

Thou sing'st sweet music. Hark, come hither, Tyrrel:

Go, by this token:—rise, and lend thine ear:

[Whispers.] There is no more but so:—say it is done,

And I will love thee, and prefer thee for it.

TYRREL.

I will despatch it straight.

[Exit.]

[Re-enter BUCKINGHAM.]

BUCKINGHAM.

My lord, I have considered in my mind

The late request that you did sound me in.

KING RICHARD.

Well, let that rest. Dorset is fled to Richmond.

BUCKINGHAM.

I hear the news, my lord.

KING RICHARD.

Stanley, he is your wife's son:—well, look to it.

BUCKINGHAM.

My lord, I claim the gift, my due by promise,

For which your honour and your faith is pawned:

The earldom of Hereford, and the movables

Which you have promised I shall possess.

KING RICHARD.

Stanley, look to your wife: if she convey

Letters to Richmond, you shall answer it.

BUCKINGHAM.

What says your highness to my just request?

KING RICHARD.

I do remember me:—Henry the Sixth

Did prophesy that Richmond should be king,

When Richmond was a little peevish boy.

A king!—perhaps,—

BUCKINGHAM.

My lord,—

KING RICHARD.

How chance the prophet could not at that time

Have told me, I being by, that I should kill him?

BUCKINGHAM.

My lord, your promise for the earldom,—

KING RICHARD.

Richmond!—When last I was at Exeter,

The mayor in courtesy showed me the castle

And called it Rougemount; at which name I started,

Because a bard of Ireland told me once

I should not live long after I saw Richmond.

BUCKINGHAM.

My lord—

KING RICHARD.

Ay, what's o'clock?

BUCKINGHAM.

I am thus bold to put your grace in mind

Of what you promised me.

KING RICHARD.

Well, but what's o'clock?

BUCKINGHAM.

Upon the stroke of ten.

KING RICHARD.

Well, let it strike.

BUCKINGHAM.

Why let it strike?

KING RICHARD.

Because that, like a Jack, thou keep'st the stroke

Betwixt thy begging and my meditation.

I am not in the giving vein to-day.

BUCKINGHAM.

May it please you to resolve me in my suit?

KING RICHARD.

Thou troublest me; I am not in the vein.

[Exeunt KING RICHARD and Train.]

BUCKINGHAM.

And is it thus? repays he my deep service

With such contempt? made I him king for this?

O, let me think on Hastings, and be gone

To Brecknock while my fearful head is on!

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE III.

London. Another Room in the Palace.

[Enter TYRREL.]

TYRREL.

The tyrannous and bloody act is done,—

The most arch deed of piteous massacre

That ever yet this land was guilty of.

Dighton and Forrest, who I did suborn

To do this piece of ruthless butchery,

Albeit they were fleshed villains, bloody dogs,

Melted with tenderness and mild compassion,

Wept like two children in their deaths' sad story.

"O, thus," quoth Dighton, "lay the gentle babes,"—

"Thus, thus," quoth Forrest, "girdling one another

Within their alabaster innocent arms:

Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,

And in their summer beauty kissed each other.

A book of prayers on their pillow lay;

Which once," quoth Forrest, "almost changed my mind;

But, O, the devil,"—there the villain stopped;

When Dighton thus told on:—"We smothered

The most replenished sweet work of nature

That from the prime creation e'er she framed."—

Hence both are gone; with conscience and remorse

They could not speak; and so I left them both,

To bear this tidings to the bloody king:—

And here he comes:—

[Enter KING RICHARD.]

All health, my sovereign lord!

KING RICHARD.

Kind Tyrrel, am I happy in thy news?

TYRREL.

If to have done the thing you gave in charge

Beget your happiness, be happy then,

For it is done.

KING RICHARD.

But didst thou see them dead?

TYRREL.

I did, my lord.

KING RICHARD.

And buried, gentle Tyrrel?

TYRREL.

The chaplain of the Tower hath buried them;

But where, to say the truth, I do not know.

KING RICHARD.

Come to me, Tyrrel, soon, at after supper,

When thou shalt tell the process of their death.

Meantime, but think how I may do thee good,

And be inheritor of thy desire.

Farewell till then.

TYRREL.

I humbly take my leave.

[Exit.]

KING RICHARD.

The son of Clarence have I pent up close;

His daughter meanly have I matched in marriage;

The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham's bosom,

And Anne my wife hath bid the world good-night.

Now, for I know the Britagne Richmond aims

At young Elizabeth, my brother's daughter,

And by that knot looks proudly on the crown,

To her go I, a jolly thriving wooer.

[Enter RATCLIFFE.]

RATCLIFFE.

My lord,—

KING RICHARD.

Good or bad news, that thou com'st in so bluntly?

RATCLIFFE.

Bad news, my lord: Morton is fled to Richmond;

And Buckingham, backed with the hardy Welshmen,

Is in the field, and still his power increaseth.

KING RICHARD.

Ely with Richmond troubles me more near

Than Buckingham and his rash-levied strength.

Come,—I have learned that fearful commenting

Is leaden servitor to dull delay;

Delay leads impotent and snail-paced beggary:

Then fiery expedition be my wing,

Jove's Mercury, and herald for a king!

Go, muster men: my counsel is my shield;

We must be brief when traitors brave the field.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE IV.

London. Before the Palace.

[Enter QUEEN MARGARET.]

QUEEN MARGARET.

So, now prosperity begins to mellow,

And drop into the rotten mouth of death.

Here in these confines slily have I lurked

To watch the waning of mine enemies.

A dire induction am I witness to,

And will to France; hoping the consequence

Will prove as bitter, black, and tragical.—

Withdraw thee, wretched Margaret: who comes here?

[Retires.]

[Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH and the DUCHESS OF YORK.]

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Ah, my poor princes! ah, my tender babes!

My unblown flowers, new-appearing sweets!

If yet your gentle souls fly in the air

And be not fixed in doom perpetual,

Hover about me with your airy wings

And hear your mother's lamentation!

QUEEN MARGARET.

Hover about her; say that right for right

Hath dimmed your infant morn to aged night.

DUCHESS.

So many miseries have crazed my voice

That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute.—

Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead?

QUEEN MARGARET.

Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet,

Edward for Edward pays a dying debt.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Wilt thou, O God, fly from such gentle lambs,

And throw them in the entrails of the wolf?

When didst Thou sleep when such a deed was done?

QUEEN MARGARET.

When holy Harry died, and my sweet son.

DUCHESS.

Dead life, blind sight, poor mortal living ghost,

Woe's scene, world's shame, grave's due by life usurped,

Brief abstract and record of tedious days,

Rest thy unrest on England's lawful earth,

[Sitting down.]

Unlawfully made drunk with innocent blood.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Ah, that thou wouldst as soon afford a grave

As thou canst yield a melancholy seat!

Then would I hide my bones, not rest them here.

Ah, who hath any cause to mourn but we?

[Sitting down by her.]

QUEEN MARGARET.

[Coming forward.]

If ancient sorrow be most reverent,

Give mine the benefit of seniory,

And let my griefs frown on the upper hand.

If sorrow can admit society,

[Sitting down with them.]

Tell o'er your woes again by viewing mine:—

I had an Edward, till a Richard killed him;

I had a Henry, till a Richard killed him:

Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard killed him;

Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard killed him.

DUCHESS.

I had a Richard too, and thou didst kill him;

I had a Rutland too, thou holp'st to kill him.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Thou hadst a Clarence too, and Richard killed him.

From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept

A hell-hound that doth hunt us all to death:

That dog, that had his teeth before his eyes,

To worry lambs and lap their gentle blood;

That foul defacer of God's handiwork;

That excellent grand tyrant of the earth,

That reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls,—

Thy womb let loose to chase us to our graves.—

O upright, just, and true-disposing God,

How do I thank Thee that this carnal cur

Preys on the issue of his mother's body,

And makes her pew-fellow with others' moan!

DUCHESS.

O Harry's wife, triumph not in my woes!

God witness with me, I have wept for thine.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Bear with me; I am hungry for revenge,

And now I cloy me with beholding it.

Thy Edward he is dead, that killed my Edward;

The other Edward dead to quit my Edward;

Young York he is but boot, because both they

Match not the high perfection of my loss:

Thy Clarence he is dead that stabbed my Edward;

And the beholders of this frantic play,

The adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey,

Untimely smothered in their dusky graves.

Richard yet lives, hell's black intelligencer;

Only reserved their factor to buy souls,

And send them thither: but at hand, at hand,

Ensues his piteous and unpitied end:

Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends roar, saints pray,

To have him suddenly conveyed from hence.—

Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I pray,

That I may live to say "The dog is dead."

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

O, thou didst prophesy the time would come

That I should wish for thee to help me curse

That bottled spider, that foul bunch-backed toad!

QUEEN MARGARET.

I called thee then, vain flourish of my fortune;

I called thee then, poor shadow, painted queen;

The presentation of but what I was,

The flattering index of a direful pageant;

One heaved a-high to be hurled down below,

A mother only mocked with two fair babes;

A dream of what thou wast; a garish flag,

To be the aim of every dangerous shot;

A sign of dignity, a breath, a bubble;

A queen in jest, only to fill the scene.

Where is thy husband now? where be thy brothers?

Where be thy two sons? wherein dost thou joy?

Who sues, and kneels, and says, "God save the queen?"

Where be the bending peers that flattered thee?

Where be the thronging troops that followed thee?

Decline all this, and see what now thou art:

For happy wife, a most distressed widow;

For joyful mother, one that wails the name;

For one being sued to, one that humbly sues;

For queen, a very caitiff crowned with care;

For she that scorned at me, now scorned of me;

For she being feared of all, now fearing one;

For she commanding all, obeyed of none.

Thus hath the course of justice wheeled about

And left thee but a very prey to time;

Having no more but thought of what thou wast,

To torture thee the more, being what thou art.

Thou didst usurp my place, and dost thou not

Usurp the just proportion of my sorrow?

Now thy proud neck bears half my burdened yoke;

From which even here I slip my weary head,

And leave the burden of it all on thee.

Farewell, York's wife, and queen of sad mischance:—

These English woes shall make me smile in France.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

O thou well skilled in curses, stay awhile,

And teach me how to curse mine enemies!

QUEEN MARGARET.

Forbear to sleep the night, and fast the day;

Compare dead happiness with living woe;

Think that thy babes were sweeter than they were,

And he that slew them fouler than he is;

Bettering thy loss makes the bad-causer worse;

Revolving this will teach thee how to curse.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

My words are dull; O, quicken them with thine!

QUEEN MARGARET.

Thy woes will make them sharp, and pierce like mine.

[Exit.]

DUCHESS.

Why should calamity be full of words?

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Windy attorneys to their client woes,

Airy succeeders of intestate joys,

Poor breathing orators of miseries!

Let them have scope: though what they do impart

Help nothing else, yet do they ease the heart.

DUCHESS.

If so, then be not tongue-tied: go with me,

And in the breath of bitter words let's smother

My damned son, that thy two sweet sons smothered.

The trumpet sounds; be copious in exclaims.

[Enter KING RICHARD and his Train, marching.]

KING RICHARD.

Who intercepts me in my expedition?

DUCHESS.

O, she that might have intercepted thee,

By strangling thee in her accursed womb,

From all the slaughters, wretch, that thou hast done!

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Hidest thou that forehead with a golden crown,

Where should be branded, if that right were right,

The slaughter of the prince that owed that crown,

And the dire death of my poor sons and brothers?

Tell me, thou villain-slave, where are my children?

DUCHESS.

Thou toad, thou toad, where is thy brother Clarence?

And little Ned Plantagenet, his son?

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Where is the gentle Rivers, Vaughan, Grey?

DUCHESS.

Where is kind Hastings?

KING RICHARD.

A flourish, trumpets! strike alarum, drums!

Let not the heavens hear these tell-tale women

Rail on the Lord's anointed: strike, I say!

[Flourish. Alarums.]

Either be patient and entreat me fair,

Or with the clamorous report of war

Thus will I drown your exclamations.

DUCHESS.

Art thou my son?

KING RICHARD.

Ay, I thank God, my father, and yourself.

DUCHESS.

Then patiently hear my impatience.

KING RICHARD.

Madam, I have a touch of your condition

That cannot brook the accent of reproof.

DUCHESS.

O, let me speak!

KING RICHARD.

Do, then; but I'll not hear.

DUCHESS.

I will be mild and gentle in my words.

KING RICHARD.

And brief, good mother; for I am in haste.

DUCHESS.

Art thou so hasty? I have stayed for thee,

God knows, in torment and in agony.

KING RICHARD.

And came I not at last to comfort you?

DUCHESS.

No, by the holy rood, thou know'st it well

Thou cam'st on earth to make the earth my hell.

A grievous burden was thy birth to me;

Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy;

Thy school-days frightful, desperate, wild, and furious;

Thy prime of manhood daring, bold, and venturous;

Thy age confirmed, proud, subtle, sly, and bloody,

More mild, but yet more harmful, kind in hatred:

What comfortable hour canst thou name

That ever graced me with thy company?

KING RICHARD.

Faith, none but Humphrey Hour, that called your grace

To breakfast once forth of my company.

If I be so disgracious in your eye,

Let me march on and not offend you, madam.—

Strike up the drum.

DUCHESS.

I pr'ythee hear me speak.

KING RICHARD.

You speak too bitterly.

DUCHESS.

Hear me a word;

For I shall never speak to thee again.

KING RICHARD.

So.

DUCHESS.

Either thou wilt die by God's just ordinance

Ere from this war thou turn a conqueror;

Or I with grief and extreme age shall perish

And never more behold thy face again.

Therefore take with thee my most grievous curse;

Which in the day of battle tire thee more

Than all the complete armour that thou wear'st!

My prayers on the adverse party fight;

And there the little souls of Edward's children

Whisper the spirits of thine enemies,

And promise them success and victory.

Bloody thou art; bloody will be thy end:

Shame serves thy life and doth thy death attend.

[Exit.]

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Though far more cause, yet much less spirit to curse

Abides in me; I say amen to her.

[Going.]

KING RICHARD.

Stay, madam, I must talk a word with you.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

I have no more sons of the royal blood

For thee to slaughter: for my daughters, Richard,—

They shall be praying nuns, not weeping queens;

And therefore level not to hit their lives.

KING RICHARD.

You have a daughter called Elizabeth.

Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

And must she die for this? O, let her live,

And I'll corrupt her manners, stain her beauty:

Slander myself as false to Edward's bed;

Throw over her the veil of infamy:

So she may live unscarred of bleeding slaughter,

I will confess she was not Edward's daughter.

KING RICHARD.

Wrong not her birth; she is of royal blood.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

To save her life I'll say she is not so.

KING RICHARD.

Her life is safest only in her birth.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

And only in that safety died her brothers.

KING RICHARD.

Lo, at their births good stars were opposite.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

No, to their lives bad friends were contrary.

KING RICHARD.

All unavoided is the doom of destiny.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

True, when avoided grace makes destiny:

My babes were destined to a fairer death,

If grace had blessed thee with a fairer life.

KING RICHARD.

You speak as if that I had slain my cousins.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Cousins, indeed; and by their uncle cozened

Of comfort, kingdom, kindred, freedom, life.

Whose hand soever lanced their tender hearts,

Thy head, all indirectly, gave direction:

No doubt the murderous knife was dull and blunt

Till it was whetted on thy stone-hard heart,

To revel in the entrails of my lambs.

But that still use of grief makes wild grief tame,

My tongue should to thy ears not name my boys

Till that my nails were anchored in thine eyes;

And I, in such a desperate bay of death,

Like a poor bark, of sails and tackling reft,

Rush all to pieces on thy rocky bosom.

KING RICHARD.

Madam, so thrive I in my enterprise

And dangerous success of bloody wars,

As I intend more good to you and yours

Than ever you or yours by me were harmed!

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

What good is covered with the face of heaven,

To be discovered, that can do me good?

KING RICHARD.

Th'advancement of your children, gentle lady.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Up to some scaffold, there to lose their heads?

KING RICHARD.

Unto the dignity and height of honour,

The high imperial type of this earth's glory.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Flatter my sorrows with report of it;

Tell me what state, what dignity, what honour,

Canst thou demise to any child of mine?

KING RICHARD.

Even all I have; ay, and myself and all

Will I withal endow a child of thine;

So in the Lethe of thy angry soul

Thou drown the sad remembrance of those wrongs

Which thou supposest I have done to thee.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Be brief, lest that the process of thy kindness

Last longer telling than thy kindness' date.

KING RICHARD.

Then know, that from my soul I love thy daughter.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

My daughter's mother thinks it with her soul.

KING RICHARD.

What do you think?

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

That thou dost love my daughter from thy soul:

So from thy soul's love didst thou love her brothers;

And from my heart's love I do thank thee for it.

KING RICHARD.

Be not so hasty to confound my meaning:

I mean that with my soul I love thy daughter,

And do intend to make her Queen of England.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Well, then, who dost thou mean shall be her king?

KING RICHARD.

Even he that makes her queen: who else should be?

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

What, thou?

KING RICHARD.

Even so. How think you of it?

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

How canst thou woo her?

KING RICHARD.

That would I learn of you,

As one being best acquainted with her humour.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

And wilt thou learn of me?

KING RICHARD.

Madam, with all my heart.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Send to her, by the man that slew her brothers,

A pair of bleeding hearts; thereon engrave

"Edward" and "York." Then haply will she weep:

Therefore present to her,—as sometimes Margaret

Did to thy father, steeped in Rutland's blood,—

A handkerchief; which, say to her, did drain

The purple sap from her sweet brothers' bodies,

And bid her wipe her weeping eyes withal.

If this inducement move her not to love,

Send her a letter of thy noble deeds;

Tell her thou mad'st away her uncle Clarence,

Her uncle Rivers; ay, and for her sake

Mad'st quick conveyance with her good aunt Anne.

KING RICHARD.

You mock me, madam; this is not the way

To win your daughter.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

There is no other way;

Unless thou couldst put on some other shape,

And not be Richard that hath done all this.

KING RICHARD.

Say that I did all this for love of her?

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Nay, then indeed she cannot choose but hate thee,

Having bought love with such a bloody spoil.

KING RICHARD.

Look, what is done cannot be now amended:

Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes,

Which after-hours gives leisure to repent.

If I did take the kingdom from your sons,

To make amends I'll give it to your daughter.

If I have killed the issue of your womb,

To quicken your increase I will beget

Mine issue of your blood upon your daughter.

A grandam's name is little less in love

Than is the doating title of a mother;

They are as children but one step below,

Even of your mettle, of your very blood;

Of all one pain,—save for a night of groans

Endured of her, for whom you bid like sorrow.

Your children were vexation to your youth;

But mine shall be a comfort to your age.

The loss you have is but a son being king,

And by that loss your daughter is made queen.

I cannot make you what amends I would,

Therefore accept such kindness as I can.

Dorset your son, that with a fearful soul

Leads discontented steps in foreign soil,

This fair alliance quickly shall call home

To high promotions and great dignity:

The king, that calls your beauteous daughter wife,

Familiarly shall call thy Dorset brother;

Again shall you be mother to a king,

And all the ruins of distressful times

Repaired with double riches of content.

What! we have many goodly days to see:

The liquid drops of tears that you have shed

Shall come again, transformed to orient pearl,

Advantaging their loan with interest

Of ten times double gain of happiness.

Go, then, my mother, to thy daughter go;

Make bold her bashful years with your experience;

Prepare her ears to hear a wooer's tale:

Put in her tender heart the aspiring flame

Of golden sovereignty; acquaint the princess

With the sweet silent hours of marriage joys:

And when this arm of mine hath chastised

The petty rebel, dull-brained Buckingham,

Bound with triumphant garlands will I come,

And lead thy daughter to a conqueror's bed;

To whom I will retail my conquest won,

And she shall be sole victoress, Caesar's Caesar.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

What were I best to say? her father's brother

Would be her lord? or shall I say her uncle?

Or he that slew her brothers and her uncles?

Under what title shall I woo for thee,

That God, the law, my honour, and her love

Can make seem pleasing to her tender years?

KING RICHARD.

Infer fair England's peace by this alliance.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Which she shall purchase with still-lasting war.

KING RICHARD.

Tell her the king, that may command, entreats.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

That at her hands which the king's King forbids.

KING RICHARD.

Say she shall be a high and mighty queen.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

To wail the title, as her mother doth.

KING RICHARD.

Say I will love her everlastingly.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

But how long shall that title, "ever," last?

KING RICHARD.

Sweetly in force unto her fair life's end.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

But how long fairly shall her sweet life last?

KING RICHARD.

As long as heaven and nature lengthens it.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

As long as hell and Richard likes of it.

KING RICHARD.

Say I, her sovereign, am her subject low.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

But she, your subject, loathes such sovereignty.

KING RICHARD.

Be eloquent in my behalf to her.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

An honest tale speeds best being plainly told.

KING RICHARD.

Then plainly to her tell my loving tale.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Plain and not honest is too harsh a style.

KING RICHARD.

Your reasons are too shallow and too quick.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

O, no, my reasons are too deep and dead;—

Too deep and dead, poor infants, in their graves.

KING RICHARD.

Harp not on that string, madam; that is past.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Harp on it still shall I till heartstrings break.

KING RICHARD.

Now, by my George, my garter, and my crown,—

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Profaned, dishonoured, and the third usurped.

KING RICHARD.

I swear,—

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

By nothing; for this is no oath:

Thy George, profaned, hath lost his lordly honour;

Thy garter, blemished, pawned his knightly virtue;

Thy crown, usurped, disgraced his kingly glory.

If something thou wouldst swear to be believed,

Swear then by something that thou hast not wronged.

KING RICHARD.

Now, by the world,—

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

'Tis full of thy foul wrongs.

KING RICHARD.

My father's death,—

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Thy life hath that dishonoured.

KING RICHARD.

Then, by myself,—

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Thy self is self-misused.

KING RICHARD.

Why, then, by God,—

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

God's wrong is most of all.

If thou hadst feared to break an oath by Him,

The unity the king thy brother made

Had not been broken, nor my brother slain:

If thou hadst feared to break an oath by Him,

The imperial metal, circling now thy head,

Had graced the tender temples of my child;

And both the princes had been breathing here,

Which now, two tender bedfellows for dust,

Thy broken faith hath made a prey for worms.

What canst thou swear by now?

KING RICHARD.

The time to come.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

That thou hast wronged in the time o'erpast;

For I myself have many tears to wash

Hereafter time, for time past wronged by thee.

The children live whose fathers thou hast slaughtered,

Ungoverned youth, to wail it in their age;

The parents live whose children thou hast butchered,

Old barren plants, to wail it with their age.

Swear not by time to come: for that thou hast

Misused ere used, by times ill-used o'erpast.

KING RICHARD.

As I intend to prosper and repent!

So thrive I in my dangerous attempt

Of hostile arms! myself myself confound!

Heaven and fortune bar me happy hours!

Day, yield me not thy light; nor, night, thy rest!

Be opposite all planets of good luck

To my proceeding!—if, with pure heart's love,

Immaculate devotion, holy thoughts,

I tender not thy beauteous princely daughter!

In her consists my happiness and thine;

Without her, follows to myself and thee,

Herself, the land, and many a Christian soul,

Death, desolation, ruin, and decay:

It cannot be avoided but by this;

It will not be avoided but by this.

Therefore, dear mother,—I must call you so,—

Be the attorney of my love to her:

Plead what I will be, not what I have been;

Not my deserts, but what I will deserve:

Urge the necessity and state of times,

And be not peevish found in great designs.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Shall I be tempted of the devil thus?

KING RICHARD.

Ay, if the devil tempt you to do good.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Shall I forget myself to be myself?

KING RICHARD.

Ay, if your self's remembrance wrong yourself.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Yet thou didst kill my children.

KING RICHARD.

But in your daughter's womb I bury them:

Where, in that nest of spicery, they shall breed

Selves of themselves, to your recomforture.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Shall I go win my daughter to thy will?

KING RICHARD.

And be a happy mother by the deed.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

I go.—Write to me very shortly,

And you shall understand from me her mind.

KING RICHARD.

Bear her my true love's kiss; and so, farewell.

[Kissing her. Exit QUEEN ELIZABETH.]

Relenting fool, and shallow, changing woman!

[Enter RATCLIFFE; CATESBY following.]

How now! what news?

RATCLIFFE.

Most mighty sovereign, on the western coast

Rideth a puissant navy; to the shore

Throng many doubtful hollow-hearted friends,

Unarmed, and unresolved to beat them back:

'Tis thought that Richmond is their admiral;

And there they hull, expecting but the aid

Of Buckingham to welcome them ashore.

KING RICHARD.

Some light-foot friend post to the Duke of Norfolk:—

Ratcliffe, thyself,—or Catesby; where is he?

CATESBY.

Here, my good lord.

KING RICHARD.

Catesby, fly to the duke.

CATESBY.

I will my lord, with all convenient haste.

KING RICHARD.

Ratcliffe, come hither: post to Salisbury:

When thou com'st thither,—

[To CATESBY.] Dull, unmindful villain,

Why stay'st thou here, and go'st not to the duke?

CATESBY.

First, mighty liege, tell me your highness' pleasure,

What from your grace I shall deliver to him.

KING RICHARD.

O, true, good Catesby:—bid him levy straight

The greatest strength and power that he can make,

And meet me suddenly at Salisbury.

CATESBY.

I go.

[Exit.]

RATCLIFFE.

What, may it please you, shall I do at Salisbury?

KING RICHARD.

Why, what wouldst thou do there before I go?

RATCLIFFE.

Your highness told me I should post before.

[Enter STANLEY.]

KING RICHARD.

My mind is changed.—Stanley, what news with you?

STANLEY.

None good, my liege, to please you with the hearing;

Nor none so bad but well may be reported.

KING RICHARD.

Hoyday, a riddle! neither good nor bad!

What need'st thou run so many miles about,

When thou mayest tell thy tale the nearest way?

Once more, what news?

STANLEY.

Richmond is on the seas.

KING RICHARD.

There let him sink, and be the seas on him!

White-livered runagate, what doth he there?

STANLEY.

I know not, mighty sovereign, but by guess.

KING RICHARD.

Well, as you guess?

STANLEY.

Stirred up by Dorset, Buckingham, and Morton,

He makes for England here, to claim the crown.

KING RICHARD.

Is the chair empty? is the sword unswayed?

Is the king dead? the empire unpossessed?

What heir of York is there alive but we?

And who is England's king but great York's heir?

Then tell me, what makes he upon the seas?

STANLEY.

Unless for that, my liege, I cannot guess.

KING RICHARD.

Unless for that he comes to be your liege,

You cannot guess wherefore the Welshman comes.

Thou wilt revolt and fly to him, I fear.

STANLEY.

No, mighty leige; therefore mistrust me not.

KING RICHARD.

Where is thy power, then, to beat him back?

Where be thy tenants and thy followers?

Are they not now upon the western shore,

Safe-conducting the rebels from their ships?

STANLEY.

No, my good lord, my friends are in the north.

KING RICHARD.

Cold friends to me: what do they in the north,

When they should serve their sovereign in the west?

STANLEY.

They have not been commanded, mighty king:

Pleaseth your majesty to give me leave,

I'll muster up my friends, and meet your grace

Where and what time your majesty shall please.

KING RICHARD.

Ay, ay, thou wouldst be gone to join with Richmond;

But I'll not trust thee.

STANLEY.

Most mighty sovereign,

You have no cause to hold my friendship doubtful:

I never was nor never will be false.

KING RICHARD.

Go, then, and muster men. But leave behind

Your son, George Stanley: look your heart be firm,

Or else his head's assurance is but frail.

STANLEY.

So deal with him as I prove true to you.

[Exit.]

[Enter a MESSENGER.]

MESSENGER.

My gracious sovereign, now in Devonshire,

As I by friends am well advertised,

Sir Edward Courtney, and the haughty prelate,

Bishop of Exeter, his elder brother,

With many more confederates, are in arms.

[Enter a second MESSENGER.]

SECOND MESSENGER.

In Kent, my liege, the Guilfords are in arms;

And every hour more competitors

Flock to the rebels, and their power grows strong.

[Enter a third MESSENGER.]

THIRD MESSENGER.

My lord, the army of great Buckingham,—

KING RICHARD.

Out on you, owls! Nothing but songs of death?

[He strikes him.]

There, take thou that till thou bring better news.

THIRD MESSENGER.

The news I have to tell your majesty

Is, that by sudden floods and fall of waters,

Buckingham's army is dispersed and scattered;

And he himself wandered away alone,

No man knows whither.

KING RICHARD.

I cry you mercy:

There is my purse to cure that blow of thine.

Hath any well-advised friend proclaimed

Reward to him that brings the traitor in?

THIRD MESSENGER.

Such proclamation hath been made, my liege.

[Enter a fourth MESSENGER.]

FOURTH MESSENGER.

Sir Thomas Lovel and Lord Marquis Dorset,

'Tis said, my liege, in Yorkshire are in arms.

But this good comfort bring I to your highness,—

The Britagne navy is dispersed by tempest:

Richmond, in Dorsetshire, sent out a boat

Unto the shore, to ask those on the banks

If they were his assistants, yea or no;

Who answered him they came from Buckingham

Upon his party. He, mistrusting them,

Hoised sail, and made his course again for Britagne.

KING RICHARD.

March on, march on, since we are up in arms;

If not to fight with foreign enemies,

Yet to beat down these rebels here at home.

[Re-enter CATESBY.]

CATESBY.

My liege, the Duke of Buckingham is taken,—

That is the best news: that the Earl of Richmond

Is with a mighty power landed at Milford

Is colder tidings, yet they must be told.

KING RICHARD.

Away towards Salisbury! while we reason here

A royal battle might be won and lost:—

Some one take order Buckingham be brought

To Salisbury; the rest march on with me.

[Flourish. Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE V.

A Room in LORD STANLEY'S house.

[Enter STANLEY and SIR CHRISTOPHER URSWICK.]

STANLEY.

Sir Christopher, tell Richmond this from me:—

That in the sty of the most deadly boar

My son George Stanley is franked up in hold:

If I revolt, off goes young George's head;

The fear of that holds off my present aid.

So, get thee gone: commend me to thy lord;

Withal say that the queen hath heartily consented

He should espouse Elizabeth her daughter.

But tell me, where is princely Richmond now?

CHRISTOPHER.

At Pembroke, or at Ha'rford-west in Wales.

STANLEY.

What men of name resort to him?

CHRISTOPHER.

Sir Walter Herbert, a renowned soldier;

Sir Gilbert Talbot, Sir William Stanley;

Oxford, redoubted Pembroke, Sir James Blunt,

And Rice ap Thomas, with a valiant crew;

And many other of great name and worth:

And towards London do they bend their power,

If by the way they be not fought withal.

STANLEY.

Well, hie thee to thy lord; I kiss his hand;

My letter will resolve him of my mind.

Farewell.

[Gives papers to SIR CHRISTOPHER. Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

Salisbury. An open place.

[Enter the Sheriff and Guard, with BUCKINGHAM, led to execution.]

BUCKINGHAM.

Will not King Richard let me speak with him?

SHERIFF.

No, my good lord; therefore be patient.

BUCKINGHAM.

Hastings, and Edward's children, Grey, and Rivers,

Holy King Henry, and thy fair son Edward,

Vaughan, and all that have miscarried

By underhand corrupted foul injustice,—

If that your moody discontented souls

Do through the clouds behold this present hour,

Even for revenge mock my destruction!—

This is All-Souls' day, fellow, is it not?

SHERIFF.

It is, my lord.

BUCKINGHAM.

Why, then All-Souls' day is my body's doomsday.

This is the day which in King Edward's time

I wished might fall on me, when I was found

False to his children and his wife's allies;

This is the day wherein I wished to fall

By the false faith of him whom most I trusted;

This, this All-Souls' day to my fearful soul

Is the determined respite of my wrongs:

That high All-Seer which I dallied with

Hath turned my feigned prayer on my head

And given in earnest what I begged in jest.

Thus doth He force the swords of wicked men

To turn their own points in their masters' bosoms:

Thus Margaret's curse falls heavy on my neck,—

"When he," quoth she, "shall split thy heart with sorrow,

Remember Margaret was a prophetess."—

Come lead me, officers, to the block of shame;

Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE II.

Plain near Tamworth.

[Enter with drum and colours, RICHMOND, OXFORD, SIR JAMES BLUNT, SIR WALTER HERBERT, and others, with Forces, marching.]

RICHMOND.

Fellows in arms, and my most loving friends,

Bruised underneath the yoke of tyranny,

Thus far into the bowels of the land

Have we marched on without impediment;

And here receive we from our father Stanley

Lines of fair comfort and encouragement.

The wretched, bloody, and usurping boar

That spoiled your summer fields and fruitful vines,

Swills your warm blood like wash, and makes his trough

In your embowelled bosoms,—this foul swine

Lies now even in the centre of this isle,

Near to the town of Leicester, as we learn:

From Tamworth thither is but one day's march.

In God's name cheerly on, courageous friends,

To reap the harvest of perpetual peace

By this one bloody trial of sharp war.

OXFORD.

Every man's conscience is a thousand swords,

To fight against that bloody homicide.

HERBERT.

I doubt not but his friends will turn to us.

BLUNT.

He hath no friends but what are friends for fear,

Which in his dearest need will fly from him.

RICHMOND.

All for our vantage. Then in God's name, march:

True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings;

Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE III.

Bosworth Field.

[Enter KING RICHARD and Forces; the DUKE OF NORFOLK, the EARL of SURREY, and others.]

KING RICHARD.

Here pitch our tents, even here in Bosworth field.—

My Lord of Surrey, why look you so sad?

SURREY.

My heart is ten times lighter than my looks.

KING RICHARD.

My Lord of Norfolk,—

NORFOLK.

Here, most gracious liege.

KING RICHARD.

Norfolk, we must have knocks; ha! must we not?

NORFOLK.

We must both give and take, my loving lord.

KING RICHARD.

Up With my tent! Here will I lie to-night;

[Soldiers begin to set up the King's tent.]

But where to-morrow? Well, all's one for that.—

Who hath descried the number of the traitors?

NORFOLK.

Six or seven thousand is their utmost power.

KING RICHARD.

Why, our battalia trebles that account:

Besides, the king's name is a tower of strength,

Which they upon the adverse faction want.—

Up with the tent!—Come, noble gentlemen,

Let us survey the vantage of the ground;—

Call for some men of sound direction:—

Let's lack no discipline, make no delay;

For, lords, to-morrow is a busy day.

[Exeunt.]

[Enter, on the other side of the field, RICHMOND, SIR WILLIAM BRANDON, OXFORD, and other Lords. Some of the Soldiers pitch RICHMOND'S tent.]

RICHMOND.

The weary sun hath made a golden set,

And by the bright tract of his fiery car

Gives token of a goodly day to-morrow.

Sir William Brandon, you shall bear my standard.—

Give me some ink and paper in my tent:

I'll draw the form and model of our battle,

Limit each leader to his several charge,

And part in just proportion our small power.—

My Lord of Oxford,—you, Sir William Brandon,—

And you, Sir Walter Herbert,—stay with me.—

The Earl of Pembroke keeps his regiment:—

Good Captain Blunt, bear my good night to him,

And by the second hour in the morning

Desire the earl to see me in my tent:

Yet one thing more, good captain, do for me,—

Where is Lord Stanley quartered, do you know?

BLUNT.

Unless I have mista'en his colours much,—

Which well I am assured I have not done,—

His regiment lies half a mile at least

South from the mighty power of the king.

RICHMOND.

If without peril it be possible,

Sweet Blunt, make some good means to speak with him

And give him from me this most needful note.

BLUNT.

Upon my life, my lord, I'll undertake it;

And so, God give you quiet rest to-night!

RICHMOND.

Good night, good Captain Blunt.

[Exit Blunt.]

Give me some ink and paper in my tent;

I'll draw the form and model of our battle;

Limit each leader to his several charge,

And part in just proportion our small power.

Come, gentlemen:

Let us consult upon to-morrow's business:

In to my tent; the air is raw and cold.

[They withdraw into the tent.]

[Enter, to his tent, KING RICHARD, NORFOLK, RATCLIFFE, and CATESBY.]

KING RICHARD.

What is't o'clock?

CATESBY.

It's supper-time, my lord; It's nine o'clock.

KING RICHARD.

I will not sup to-night.—

Give me some ink and paper.—

What, is my beaver easier than it was?

And all my armour laid into my tent?

CATESBY.

It is, my liege; and all things are in readiness.

KING RICHARD.

Good Norfolk, hie thee to thy charge;

Use careful watch, choose trusty sentinels.

NORFOLK.

I go, my lord.

KING RICHARD.

Stir with the lark to-morrow, gentle Norfolk.

NORFOLK.

I warrant you, my lord.

[Exit.]

KING RICHARD.

Catesby!

CATESBY.

My lord?

KING RICHARD.

Send out a pursuivant-at-arms

To Stanley's regiment; bid him bring his power

Before sunrising, lest his son George fall

Into the blind cave of eternal night.—

Fill me a bowl of wine.—Give me a watch.—

Saddle white Surrey for the field to-morrow.—

Look that my staves be sound, and not too heavy.

Ratcliffe!

RATCLIFFE.

My lord?

KING RICHARD.

Saw'st thou the melancholy Lord Northumberland?

RATCLIFFE.

Thomas the Earl of Surrey and himself,

Much about cock-shut time, from troop to troop

Went through the army, cheering up the soldiers.

KING RICHARD.

So, I am satisfied.—Give me a bowl of wine:

I have not that alacrity of spirit

Nor cheer of mind that I was wont to have.

Set it down.—Is ink and paper ready?

RATCLIFFE.

It is, my lord.

KING RICHARD.

Bid my guard watch; leave me.

Ratcliffe, about the mid of night come to my tent

And help to arm me. Leave me, I say.

[KING RICHARD retires into his tent. Exeunt RATCLIFFE and CATESBY.]

[RICHMOND's tent opens, and discovers him and his Officers, &c.]

STANLEY.

Fortune and victory sit on thy helm!

RICHMOND.

All comfort that the dark night can afford

Be to thy person, noble father-in-law!

Tell me, how fares our loving mother?

STANLEY.

I, by attorney, bless thee from thy mother,

Who prays continually for Richmond's good.

So much for that.—The silent hours steal on,

And flaky darkness breaks within the east.

In brief,—for so the season bids us be,—

Prepare thy battle early in the morning,

And put thy fortune to the arbitrement

Of bloody strokes and mortal-staring war.

I, as I may,—that which I would I cannot,—

With best advantage will deceive the time,

And aid thee in this doubtful stroke of arms:

But on thy side I may not be too forward,

Lest, being seen, thy brother, tender George,

Be executed in his father's sight.

Farewell: the leisure and the fearful time

Cuts off the ceremonious vows of love

And ample interchange of sweet discourse,

Which so-long-sundered friends should dwell upon:

God give us leisure for these rites of love!

Once more, adieu: be valiant, and speed well!

RICHMOND.

Good lords, conduct him to his regiment:

I'll strive with troubled thoughts to take a nap,

Lest leaden slumber peise me down to-morrow,

When I should mount with wings of victory:

Once more, good night, kind lords and gentlemen.

[Exeunt Lords, &c., with STANLEY.]

O Thou Whose captain I account myself,

Look on my forces with a gracious eye;

Put in their hands Thy bruising irons of wrath,

That they may crush down with a heavy fall

The usurping helmets of our adversaries!

Make us Thy ministers of chastisement,

That we may praise Thee in Thy victory!

To Thee I do commend my watchful soul

Ere I let fall the windows of mine eyes:

Sleeping and waking, O, defend me still!

[Sleeps.]

[The Ghost of PRINCE EDWARD, son to HENRY THE SIXTH, rises between the two tents.]

GHOST.

[To KING RICHARD.]

Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow!

Think how thou stabbedst me in my prime of youth

At Tewksbury: despair, therefore, and die!—

[To RICHMOND.]

Be cheerful, Richmond; for the wronged souls

Of butchered princes fight in thy behalf:

King Henry's issue, Richmond, comforts thee.

[The Ghost of HENRY THE SIXTH rises.]

GHOST.

[To KING RICHARD.]

When I was mortal, my anointed body

By thee was punched full of deadly holes:

Think on the Tower and me: despair, and die,—

Harry the Sixth bids thee despair and die.—

[To RICHMOND.]

Virtuous and holy, be thou conqueror!

Harry, that prophesied thou shouldst be king,

Doth comfort thee in thy sleep: live, and flourish!

[The Ghost of CLARENCE rises.]

GHOST.

[To KING RICHARD.]

Let me sit heavy in thy soul to-morrow!

I that was washed to death with fulsome wine,

Poor Clarence, by thy guile betrayed to death!

To-morrow in the battle think on me,

And fall thy edgeless sword: despair, and die!—

[To RICHMOND.]

Thou offspring of the house of Lancaster,

The wronged heirs of York do pray for thee:

Good angels guard thy battle! live, and flourish!

[The Ghosts of RIVERS, GREY, and VAUGHAN rise.]

GHOST OF RIVERS.

[To KING RICHARD.]

Let me sit heavy in thy soul to-morrow,

Rivers that died at Pomfret! despair and die!

GHOST OF GREY.

[To KING RICHARD.]

Think upon Grey, and let thy soul despair!

GHOST OF VAUGHAN.

[To KING RICHARD.]

Think upon Vaughan, and, with guilty fear,

Let fall thy lance: despair and die!—

ALL THREE.

[To RICHMOND.]

Awake, and think our wrongs in Richard's bosom

Will conquer him!—awake, and win the day!

[The GHOST of HASTINGS rises.]

GHOST.

[To KING RICHARD.]

Bloody and guilty, guiltily awake,

And in a bloody battle end thy days!

Think on Lord Hastings: despair and die!—

[To RICHMOND.]

Quiet untroubled soul, awake, awake!

Arm, fight, and conquer, for fair England's sake!

[The Ghosts of the two young PRINCES rise.]

GHOSTS.

[To KING RICHARD.]

Dream on thy cousins smothered in the Tower:

Let us be lead within thy bosom, Richard,

And weigh thee down to ruin, shame, and death!

Thy nephews' souls bid thee despair and die!—

[To RICHMOND.]

Sleep, Richmond, sleep in peace, and wake in joy;

Good angels guard thee from the boar's annoy!

Live, and beget a happy race of kings!

Edward's unhappy sons do bid thee flourish.

[The GHOST of QUEEN ANNE rises.]

GHOST.

[To KING RICHARD.]

Richard, thy wife, that wretched Anne thy wife,

That never slept a quiet hour with thee,

Now fills thy sleep with perturbations:

To-morrow in the battle think on me,

And fall thy edgeless sword: despair and die!—

[To RICHMOND.]

Thou quiet soul, sleep thou a quiet sleep;

Dream of success and happy victory:

Thy adversary's wife doth pray for thee.

[The Ghost of BUCKINGHAM rises.]

GHOST.

[To KING RICHARD.]

The first was I that helped thee to the crown;

The last was I that felt thy tyranny:

O, in the battle think on Buckingham,

And die in terror of thy guiltiness!

Dream on, dream on of bloody deeds and death:

Fainting, despair; despairing, yield thy breath!—

[To RICHMOND.]

I died for hope ere I could lend thee aid:

But cheer thy heart and be thou not dismayed:

God and good angels fight on Richmond's side;

And Richard falls in height of all his pride.

[The GHOSTS vanish. KING RICHARD starts out of his dream.]

KING RICHARD.

Give me another horse,—bind up my wounds,—

Have mercy, Jesu!—Soft! I did but dream.—

O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!—

The lights burn blue.—It is now dead midnight.

Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.

What, do I fear myself? there's none else by:

Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I.

Is there a murderer here? No;—yes, I am:

Then fly. What, from myself? Great reason why,—

Lest I revenge. What,—myself upon myself!

Alack, I love myself. Wherefore? for any good

That I myself have done unto myself?

O, no! alas, I rather hate myself

For hateful deeds committed by myself!

I am a villain: yet I lie, I am not.

Fool, of thyself speak well:—fool, do not flatter.

My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,

And every tongue brings in a several tale,

And every tale condemns me for a villain.

Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree;

Murder, stern murder, in the dir'st degree;

All several sins, all used in each degree,

Throng to the bar, crying all "Guilty! guilty!"

I shall despair. There is no creature loves me;

And if I die no soul will pity me:

And wherefore should they,—since that I myself

Find in myself no pity to myself?

Methought the souls of all that I had murdered

Came to my tent; and every one did threat

To-morrow's vengeance on the head of Richard.

[Enter RATCLIFFE.]

RATCLIFFE.

My lord,—

KING RICHARD.

Zounds! Who is there?

RATCLIFFE.

Ratcliffe, my lord; 'tis I. The early village-cock

Hath twice done salutation to the morn;

Your friends are up, and buckle on their armour.

KING RICHARD.

O Ratcliffe, I have dreamed a fearful dream!—

What think'st thou,—will our friends prove all true?

RATCLIFFE.

No doubt, my lord.

KING RICHARD.

O Ratcliffe, I fear, I fear!

RATCLIFFE.

Nay, good my lord, be not afraid of shadows.

KING RICHARD

By the apostle Paul, shadows to-night

Have stuck more terror to the soul of Richard

Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers

Armed in proof and led by shallow Richmond.

It is not yet near day. Come, go with me;

Under our tents I'll play the eaves-dropper,

To see if any mean to shrink from me.

[Exeunt KING RICHARD and RATCLIFFE.]

[RICHMOND wakes. Enter OXFORD and others.]

LORDS.

Good morrow, Richmond!

RICHMOND.

Cry mercy, lords and watchful gentlemen,

That you have ta'en a tardy sluggard here.

1 LORD.

How have you slept, my lord?

RICHMOND.

The sweetest sleep and fairest-boding dreams

That ever entered in a drowsy head

Have I since your departure had, my lords.

Methought their souls whose bodies Richard murdered

Came to my tent and cried on victory:

I promise you, my heart is very jocund

In the remembrance of so fair a dream.

How far into the morning is it, lords?

1 LORD.

Upon the stroke of four.

RICHMOND.

Why, then 'tis time to arm and give direction.—

[He advances to the Troops.]

More than I have said, loving countrymen,

The leisure and enforcement of the time

Forbids to dwell on: yet remember this,—

God and our good cause fight upon our side;

The prayers of holy saints and wronged souls,

Like high-reared bulwarks, stand before our faces;

Richard except, those whom we fight against

Had rather have us win than him they follow:

For what is he they follow? truly, gentlemen,

A bloody tyrant and a homicide;

One raised in blood, and one in blood established;

One that made means to come by what he hath,

And slaughtered those that were the means to help him;

A base foul stone, made precious by the foil

Of England's chair, where he is falsely set;

One that hath ever been God's enemy.

Then, if you fight against God's enemy,

God will, in justice, ward you as His soldiers;

If you do sweat to put a tyrant down,

You sleep in peace, the tyrant being slain;

If you do fight against your country's foes,

Your country's fat shall pay your pains the hire;

If you do fight in safeguard of your wives,

Your wives shall welcome home the conquerors;

If you do free your children from the sword,

Your children's children quit it in your age.

Then, in the name of God and all these rights,

Advance your standards, draw your willing swords.

For me, the ransom of my bold attempt

Shall be this cold corpse on the earth's cold face;

But if I thrive, the gain of my attempt

The least of you shall share his part thereof.

Sound drums and trumpets boldly and cheerfully;

God and Saint George! Richmond and victory!

[Exeunt.]

[Re-enter KING RICHARD, RATCLIFFE, Attendants, and Forces.]

KING RICHARD.

What said Northumberland as touching Richmond?

RATCLIFFE.

That he was never trained up in arms.

KING RICHARD.

He said the truth; and what said Surrey then?

RATCLIFFE.

He smiled, and said, "the better for our purpose."

KING RICHARD.

He was in the right; and so indeed it is.

[Clock strikes.]

Tell the clock there.—Give me a calendar.—

Who saw the sun to-day?

RATCLIFFE.

Not I, my lord.

KING RICHARD.

Then he disdains to shine; for by the book

He should have braved the east an hour ago:

A black day will it be to somebody.—

Ratcliffe,—

RATCLIFFE.

My lord?

KING RICHARD.

The sun will not be seen to-day;

The sky doth frown and lower upon our army.

I would these dewy tears were from the ground.

Not shine to-day! Why, what is that to me

More than to Richmond? for the selfsame heaven

That frowns on me looks sadly upon him.

[Enter NORFOLK.]

NORFOLK.

Arm, arm, my lord; the foe vaunts in the field.

KING RICHARD.

Come, bustle, bustle; caparison my horse;—

Call up Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power:

I will lead forth my soldiers to the plain,

And thus my battle shall be ordered:—

My foreward shall be drawn out all in length,

Consisting equally of horse and foot;

Our archers shall be placed in the midst:

John Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Earl of Surrey,

Shall have the leading of this foot and horse.

They thus directed, we will follow

In the main battle; whose puissance on either side

Shall be well winged with our chiefest horse.

This, and Saint George to boot!—What think'st thou, Norfolk?

NORFOLK.

A good direction, warlike sovereign.—

This found I on my tent this morning.

[Giving a scroll.]

KING RICHARD.

[Reads.] "Jockey of Norfolk, be not too bold,

For Dickon thy master is bought and sold."

A thing devised by the enemy.—

Go, gentlemen, every man unto his charge:

Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls;

Conscience is but a word that cowards use,

Devised at first to keep the strong in awe:

Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law.

March on, join bravely, let us to't pell-mell;

If not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell.—

What shall I say more than I have inferred?

Remember whom you are to cope withal;—

A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and runaways,

A scum of Britagnes, and base lackey peasants,

Whom their o'er-cloyed country vomits forth

To desperate adventures and assured destruction.

You sleeping safe, they bring to you unrest;

You having lands, and blessed with beauteous wives,

They would restrain the one, distain the other.

And who doth lead them but a paltry fellow,

Long kept in Britagne at our mother's cost?

A milk-sop, one that never in his life

Felt so much cold as over shoes in snow?

Let's whip these stragglers o'er the seas again;

Lash hence these over-weening rags of France,

These famished beggars, weary of their lives;

Who, but for dreaming on this fond exploit,

For want of means, poor rats, had hanged themselves:

If we be conquered, let men conquer us,

And not these bastard Britagnes, whom our fathers

Have in their own land beaten, bobbed, and thumped,

And, on record, left them the heirs of shame.

Shall these enjoy our lands? lie with our wives,

Ravish our daughters?—Hark! I hear their drum.

[Drum afar off.]

Fight, gentlemen of England! fight, bold yeomen!

Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head!

Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood;

Amaze the welkin with your broken staves!

[Enter a MESSENGER.]

What says Lord Stanley? will he bring his power?

MESSENGER.

My lord, he doth deny to come.

KING RICHARD.

Off with his son George's head!

NORFOLK.

My lord, the enemy is passed the marsh:

After the battle let George Stanley die.

KING RICHARD.

A thousand hearts are great within my bosom:

Advance our standards, set upon our foes;

Our ancient word of courage, fair Saint George,

Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons!

Upon them! Victory sits on our helms.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE IV.

Another part of the Field.

[Alarum; excursions. Enter NORFOLK and forces; to him CATESBY.]

CATESBY.

Rescue, my Lord of Norfolk, rescue, rescue!

The king enacts more wonders than a man,

Daring an opposite to every danger:

His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights,

Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death.

Rescue, fair lord, or else the day is lost!

[Alarum. Enter KING RICHARD.]

KING RICHARD.

A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!

CATESBY.

Withdraw, my lord! I'll help you to a horse.

KING RICHARD.

Slave, I have set my life upon a cast,

And I will stand the hazard of the die:

I think there be six Richmonds in the field:

Five have I slain to-day instead of him.—

A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE V.

Another part of the Field.

[Alarums. Enter, from opposite sides, KING RICHARD and RICHMOND; and exeunt fighting. Retreat and flourish. Then re-enter RICHMOND, with STANLEY bearing the crown, and divers other Lords and Forces.]

RICHMOND.

God and your arms be praised, victorious friends;

The day is ours, the bloody dog is dead.

STANLEY.

Courageous Richmond, well hast thou acquit thee!

Lo, here, this long-usurped royalty

From the dead temples of this bloody wretch

Have I plucked off, to grace thy brows withal.

Wear it, enjoy it, and make much of it.

RICHMOND.

Great God of heaven, say Amen to all!—

But, tell me is young George Stanley living?

STANLEY.

He is, my lord, and safe in Leicester town,

Whither, if it please you, we may now withdraw us.

RICHMOND.

What men of name are slain on either side?

STANLEY.

John Duke of Norfolk, Walter Lord Ferrers,

Sir Robert Brakenbury, and Sir William Brandon.

RICHMOND.

Inter their bodies as becomes their births:

Proclaim a pardon to the soldiers fled

That in submission will return to us:

And then, as we have ta'en the sacrament,

We will unite the white rose and the red:—

Smile heaven upon this fair conjunction,

That long have frowned upon their emnity!

What traitor hears me, and says not Amen?

England hath long been mad, and scarred herself;

The brother blindly shed the brother's blood,

The father rashly slaughtered his own son,

The son, compelled, been butcher to the sire:

All this divided York and Lancaster,

Divided in their dire division,—

O, now let Richmond and Elizabeth,

The true succeeders of each royal house,

By God's fair ordinance conjoin together!

And let their heirs,—God, if Thy will be so,—

Enrich the time to come with smoothed-faced peace,

With smiling plenty, and fair prosperous days!

Abate the edge of traitors, gracious Lord,

That would reduce these bloody days again,

And make poor England weep in streams of blood!

Let them not live to taste this land's increase

That would with treason wound this fair land's peace!

Now civil wounds are stopped, peace lives again:

That she may long live here, God say Amen!

[Exeunt.]

THE END

SIR THOMAS MORE

List of Characters

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act I, Scene III

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act II, Scene III

Act II, Scene IV

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act III, Scene III

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act IV, Scene III

Act IV, Scene IV

Act IV, Scene V

Act V, Scene I

Act V, Scene II

Act V, Scene III

Act V, Scene IV

List of Characters

Earl of SHREWSBURY.

Earl of SURREY.

Sir THOMAS PALMER.

Sir ROGER CHOMLEY.

Sir THOMAS MORE.

Lord Mayor.

Aldermen.

SURESBY: a Justice.

Other Justices.

Sheriffs.

Recorder.

Sergeant at Arms.

Clerk of the Council.

ERASMUS.

Bishop of Rochester.

ROPER: son-in-law to MORE.

JOHN LINCOLN: a broker.

GEORGE BETTS.

His brother (the 'Clown').

WILLIAMSON: a carpenter.

SHERWIN: a goldsmith.

FRANCIS DE BARDE: Lombard.

CAVELER: Lombard.

LIFTER: a cut-purse.

SMART: plaintiff against him.

HARRY, ROBIN, KIT, and others: Prentices.

MORRIS.

FAULKNER: his servant.

Players.

GOUGH.

CATESBY.

RANDALL.

Butler.

Brewer.

Porter.

Horsekeeper.

CROFTS.

DOWNES.

Lieutenant of the Tower.

Warders of the Tower.

Gentleman Porter of the Tower.

Hangman.

Lords, Gentlemen, Officers, Messengers, Guard, Attendants.

Lady MORE.

Lady Mayoress.

Mistress ROPER: daughter to MORE.

Another daughter to MORE.

DOLL: wife to WILLIAMSON.

A Poor Woman.

Ladies.

ACT I. SCENE I.

London. A Street.

[Enter, at one end, John Lincoln, with the two Bettses together; at the other end, enters Francis de Barde and Doll a lusty woman, he haling her by the arm.]

DOLL.

Whether wilt thou hale me?

BARDE.

Whether I please; thou art my prize, and I plead purchase of thee.

DOLL.

Purchase of me! away, ye rascal! I am an honest plain carpenters wife, and though I have no beauty to like a husband, yet whatsoever is mine scorns to stoop to a stranger: hand off, then, when I bid thee!

BARDE.

Go with me quietly, or I'll compel thee.

DOLL.

Compel me, ye dog's face! thou thinkst thou hast the goldsmith's wife in hand, whom thou enticedst from her husband with all his plate, and when thou turndst her home to him again, madst him, like an ass, pay for his wife's board.

BARDE.

So will I make thy husband too, if please me.

[Enter Caveler with a pair of doves; Williamson the carpenter, and Sherwin following him.]

DOLL.

Here he comes himself; tell him so, if thou darst.

CAVELER.

Follow me no further; I say thou shalt not have them.

WILLIAMSON.

I bought them in Cheapside, and paid my money for them.

SHERWIN.

He did, sir, indeed; and you offer him wrong, both to take them from him, and not restore him his money neither.

CAVELER.

If he paid for them, let it suffice that I possess them: beefs and brews may serve such hinds; are pigeons meat for a coarse carpenter?

LINCOLN.

It is hard when Englishmen's patience must be thus jetted on by strangers, and they not dare to revenge their own wrongs.

GEORGE.

Lincoln, let's beat them down, and bear no more of these abuses.

LINCOLN.

We may not, Betts: be patient, and hear more.

DOLL.

How now, husband! what, one stranger take they food from thee, and another thy wife! by our Lady, flesh and blood, I think, can hardly brook that.

LINCOLN.

Will this gear never be otherwise? must these wrongs be thus endured?

GEORGE.

Let us step in, and help to revenge their injury.

BARDE.

What art thou that talkest of revenge? my lord ambassador shall once more make your Major have a check, if he punish thee for this saucy presumption.

WILLIAMSON.

Indeed, my lord Mayor, on the ambassador's complaint, sent me to Newgate one day, because (against my will) I took the wall of a stranger: you may do any thing; the goldsmith's wife and mine now must be at your commandment.

GEORGE.

The more patient fools are ye both, to suffer it.

BARDE.

Suffer it! mend it thou or he, if ye can or dare. I tell thee, fellows, and she were the Mayor of London's wife, had I her once in my possession, I would keep her in spite of him that durst say nay.

GEORGE.

I tell thee, Lombard, these words should cost thy best cape, were I not curbed by duty and obedience: the Mayor of London's wife! Oh God, shall it be thus?

DOLL.

Why, Betts, am not I as dear t m husband as my lord Mayor's wife to him? and wilt thou so neglectly suffer thine own shame?—Hands off, proud stranger! or, by him that bought me, if men's milky hearts dare not strike a stranger, yet women beat them down, ere they bear these abuses.

BARDE.

Mistress, I say you shall along with me.

DOLL.

Touch not Doll Williamson, least she lay thee along on God's dear earth.—And you, sir [To Caveler], that allow such coarse cates to carpenters, whilst pigeons, which they pay for, must serve your dainty appetite, deliver them back to my husband again, or I'll call so many women to mine assistance as will not leave one inch untorn of thee: if our husbands must be bridled by law, and forced to bear your wrongs, their wives will be a little lawless, and soundly beat ye.

CAVELER.

Come away, De Barde, and let us go complain to my lord ambassador.

[Exeunt Ambo.]

DOLL.

Aye, go, and send him among us, and we'll give him his welcome too.—I am ashamed that freeborn Englishmen, having beaten strangers within their own homes, should thus be braved and abused by them at home.

SHERWIN.

It is not our lack of courage in the cause, but the strict obedience that we are bound to. I am the goldsmith whose wrongs you talked of; but how to redress yours or mine own is a matter beyond our abilities.

LINCOLN.

Not so, not so, my good friends: I, though a mean man, a broker by profession, and named John Lincoln, have long time winked at these wild enormities with mighty impatience, and, as these two brethren here (Betts by name) can witness, with loss of mine own life would gladly remedy them.

GEORGE.

And he is in a good forwardness, I tell ye, if all hit right.

DOLL.

As how, I prithee? tell it to Doll Williamson.

LINCOLN.

You know the Spittle sermons begin the next week: I have drawn a bill of our wrongs and the strangers' insolences.

GEORGE.

Which he means the preachers shall there openly publish in the pulpit.

WILLIAMSON.

Oh, but that they would! yfaith, it would tickle our strangers thoroughly.

DOLL.

Aye, and if you men durst not undertake it, before God, we women would. Take an honest woman from her husband! why, it is intolerable.

SHERWIN.

But how find ye the preachers affected to our proceeding?

LINCOLN.

Master Doctor Standish hath answered that it becomes not him to move any such thing in his sermon, and tells us we must move the Mayor and aldermen to reform it, and doubts not but happy success will ensue on statement of our wrongs. You shall perceive there's no hurt in the bill: here's a couple of it; I pray ye, hear it.

ALL.

With all our hearts; for God's sake, read it.

LINCOLN.

[Reads.] To you all, the worshipful lords and masters of this city, that will take compassion over the poor people your neighbors, and also of the great importable hurts, losses, and hinderances, whereof proceedeth extreme poverty to all the king's subjects that inhabit within this city and suburbs of the same: for so it is that aliens and strangers eat the bread from the fatherless children, and take the living from all the artificers and the intercourse from all the merchants, whereby poverty is so much increased, that every man bewaileth the misery of other; for craftsmen be brought to beggary, and merchants to neediness: wherefore, the premises considered, the redress must be of the common knit and united to one part: and as the hurt and damage grieveth all men, so must all men see to their willing power for remedy, and not suffer the said aliens in their wealth, and the natural born men of this region to come to confusion.

DOLL.

Before God, tis excellent; and I'll maintain the suit to be honest.

SHERWIN.

Well, say tis read, what is your further meaning in the matter?

GEORGE.

What! marry, list to me. No doubt but this will store us with friends enow, whose names we will closely keep in writing; and on May day next in the morning we'll go forth a Maying, but make it the worst May day for the strangers that ever they saw. How say ye? do ye subscribe, or are ye faint-hearted revolters?

DOLL.

Hold thee, George Betts, there's my hand and my heart: by the Lord, I'll make a captain among ye, and do somewhat to be talk of for ever after.

WILLIAMSON.

My masters, ere we part, let's friendly go and drink together, and swear true secrecy upon our lives.

GEORGE.

There spake an angel. Come, let us along, then.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

London. The Sessions House.

[An arras is drawn, and behind it as in sessions sit the Lord Mayor, Justice Suresby, and other Justices; Sheriff More and the other Sheriff sitting by. Smart is the plaintiff, Lifter the prisoner at the bar. Recorder, Officers.]

LORD MAYOR.

Having dispatched our weightier businesses,

We may give ear to petty felonies.

Master Sheriff More, what is this fellow?

MORE.

My lord, he stands indicted for a purse;

He hath been tried, the jury is together.

LORD MAYOR.

Who sent him in?

SURESBY.

That did I, my lord:

Had he had right, he had been hanged ere this;

The only captain of the cutpurse crew.

LORD MAYOR.

What is his name?

SURESBY.

As his profession is, Lifter, my lord,

One that can lift a purse right cunningly.

LORD MAYOR.

And is that he accuses him?

SURESBY.

The same, my lord, whom, by your honors leave,

I must say somewhat too, because I find

In some respects he is well worthy blame.

LORD MAYOR.

Good Master Justice Suresby, speak your mind;

We are well pleased to give you audience.

SURESBY.

Hear me, Smart; thou art a foolish fellow:

If Lifter be convicted by the law,

As I see not how the jury can acquit him,

I'll stand too 't thou art guilty of his death.

MORE.

My lord, that's worthy the hearing.

LORD MAYOR.

Listen, then, good Master More.

SURESBY.

I tell thee plain, it is a shame for thee,

With such a sum to tempt necessity;

No less than ten pounds, sir, will serve your turn,

To carry in your purse about with ye,

To crake and brag in taverns of your money:

I promise ye, a man that goes abroad

With an intent of truth, meeting such a booty,

May be provoked to that he never meant.

What makes so many pilferers and felons,

But such fond baits that foolish people lay

To tempt the needy miserable wretch?

Ten pounds, odd money; this is a pretty sum

To bear about, which were more safe at home.

Fore God, twere well to fine ye as much more

[Lord Mayor and More whisper.]

To the relief of the poor prisoners,

To teach ye be more careful of your own,

In sooth, I say ye were but rightly served,

If ye had lost as much as twice ten pounds.

MORE.

Good my lord, sooth a point or two for once,

Only to try conclusions in this case.

LORD MAYOR.

Content, good Master More: we'll rise awhile,

And, till the jury can return their verdict,

Walk in the garden.—How say ye, Justices?

ALL.

We like it well, my lord; we'll follow ye.

[Exeunt Lord Mayor and Justices.]

MORE.

Nay, plaintiff, go you too;—and officers,

[Exeunt Smart.]

Stand you aside, and leave the prisoner

To me awhile.—Lifter, come hither.

LIFTER.

What is your worship's pleasure?

MORE.

Sirrah, you know that you are known to me,

And I have often saved ye from this place,

Since first I came in office: thou seest beside,

That Justice Suresby is thy heavy friend,

By all the blame that he pretends to Smart,

For tempting thee with such a sum of money.

I tell thee what; devise me but a means

To pick or cut his purse, and, on my credit,

And as I am a Christian and a man,

I will procure they pardon for that jest.

LIFTER.

Good Master Shrieve, seek not my overthrow:

You know, sir, I have many heavy friends,

And more indictments like to come upon me.

You are too deep for me to deal withal;

You are known to be one of the wisest men

That is in England: I pray ye, Master Sheriff,

Go not about to undermine my life.

MORE.

Lifter, I am true subject to my king;

Thou much mistake me: and, for thou shall not think

I mean by this to hurt thy life at all,

I will maintain the act when thou hast done it.

Thou knowest there are such matters in my hands,

As if I pleased to give them to the jury,

I should not need this way to circumvent thee.

All that I aim at is a merry jest:

Perform it, Lifter, and expect my best.

LIFTER.

I thank your worship: God preserve your life!

But Master Justice Suresby is gone in;

I know not how to come near where he is.

MORE.

Let me alone for that; I'll be thy setter;

I'll send him hither to thee presently,

Under the colour of thine own request,

Of private matters to acquaint him with.

LIFTER.

If ye do so, sir, then let me alone;

Forty to one but then his purse is gone.

MORE.

Well said: but see that thou diminish not

One penny of the money, but give it me;

It is the cunning act that credits thee.

LIFTER.

I will, good Master Sheriff, I assure ye.

[Exeunt More.]

I see the purpose of this gentleman

Is but to check the folly of the Justice,

For blaming others in a desperate case,

Wherein himself may fall as soon as any.

To save my life, it is a good adventure:

Silence there, ho! now doth the Justice enter.

[Enter Justice Suresby.]

SURESBY.

Now, sirrah, now, what is your will with me?

Wilt thou discharge thy conscience like an honest man?

What sayest to me, sirrah? be brief, be brief.

LIFTER.

As brief, sir, as I can.—

[Aside.] If ye stand fair, I will be brief anon.

SURESBY.

Speak out, and mumble not; what sayest thou, sirrah?

LIFTER.

Sir, I am charged, as God shall be my comfort,

With more than's true.

SURESBY.

Sir, sir, ye are indeed, with more than's true,

For you are flatly charged with felony;

You're charged with more than truth, and that is theft;

More than a true man should be charged withal;

Thou art a varlet, that's no more than true.

Trifle not with me; do not, do not, sirrah;

Confess but what thou knowest, I ask no more.

LIFTER.

There be, sir, there be, if't shall please your worship—

SURESBY.

There be, varlet! what be there? tell me what there be.

Come off or on: there be! what be there, knave?

LIFTER.

There be, sir, diverse very cunning fellows,

That, while you stand and look them in the face,

Will have your purse.

SURESBY.

Th'art an honest knave:

Tell me what are they? where they may be caught?

Aye, those are they I look for.

LIFTER.

You talk of me, sir;

Alas, I am a puny! there's one indeed

Goes by my name, he puts down all for purses;

He'll steal your worship's purse under your nose.

SURESBY.

Ha, ha! Art thou so sure, varlet?

Well, well,

Be as familiar as thou wilt, my knave;

Tis this I long to know.

LIFTER.

And you shall have your longing ere ye go.—

This fellow, sir, perhaps will meet ye thus,

Or thus, or thus, and in kind complement

Pretend acquaintance, somewhat doubtfully;

And these embraces serve—

SURESBY.

Aye, marry, Lifter, wherefor serve they?

[Shrugging gladly.]

LIFTER.

Only to feel

Whether you go full under sail or no,

Or that your lading be aboard your bark.

SURESBY.

In plainer English, Lifter, if my purse

Be stored or no?

LIFTER.

Ye have it, sir.

SURESBY.

Excellent, excellent.

LIFTER.

Then, sir, you cannot but for manner's sake

Walk on with him; for he will walk your way,

Alleging either you have much forgot him,

Or he mistakes you.

SURESBY.

But in this time has he my purse or no?

LIFTER.

Not yet, sir, fie!—

[Aside.} No, nor I have not yours.—

[Enter Lord Mayor, &c.]

But now we must forbear; my lords return.

SURESBY.

A murren on't!—Lifter, we'll more anon:

Aye, thou sayest true, there are shrewd knaves indeed:

[He sits down.]

But let them gull me, widgen me, rook me, fop me!

Yfaith, yfaith, they are too short for me.

Knaves and fools meet when purses go:

Wise men look to their purses well enough.

MORE.

[Aside.] Lifter, is it done?

LIFTER.

[Aside.] Done, Master Shreeve; and there it is.

MORE.

[Aside.] Then build upon my word. I'll save thy life.

RECORDER.

Lifter, stand to the bar:

The jury have returned the guilty; thou must die,

According to the custom.—Look to it, Master Shreeve.

LORD MAYOR.

Then, gentlemen, as you are wont to do,

Because as yet we have no burial place,

What charity your meaning's to bestow

Toward burial of the prisoners now condemned,

Let it be given. There is first for me.

RECORDER.

And there for me.

ANOTHER.

And me.

SURESBY.

Body of me, my purse is gone!

MORE.

Gone, sir! what, here! how can that be?

LORD MAYOR.

Against all reason, sitting on the bench.

SURESBY.

Lifter, I talked with you; you have not lifted me? ha!

LIFTER.

Suspect ye me, sir? Oh, what a world is this!

MORE.

But hear ye, master Suresby; are ye sure

Ye had a purse about ye?

SURESBY.

Sure, Master Shrieve! as sure as you are there,

And in it seven pounds, odd money, on my faith.

MORE.

Seven pounds, odd money! what, were you so mad,

Being a wise man and a magistrate,

To trust your purse with such a liberal sum?

Seven pounds, odd money! fore God, it is a shame,

With such a sum to tempt necessity:

I promise ye, a man that goes abroad

With an intent of truth, meeting such a booty,

May be wrought to that he never thought.

What makes so many pilferers and felons,

But these fond baits that foolish people lay

To tempt the needy miserable wretch?

Should he be taken now that has your purse,

I'd stand to't, you are guilty of his death;

For, questionless, he would be cast by law.

Twere a good deed to fine ye as much more,

To the relief of the poor prisoners,

To teach ye lock your money up at home.

SURESBY.

Well, Master More, you are a merry man;

I find ye, sir, I find ye well enough.

MORE.

Nay, ye shall see, sir, trusting thus your money,

And Lifter here in trial for like case,

But that the poor man is a prisoner,

It would be now suspected that he had it.

Thus may ye see what mischief often comes

By the fond carriage of such needless sums.

LORD MAYOR.

Believe me, Master Suresby, this is strange,

You, being a man so settled in assurance,

Will fall in that which you condemned in other.

MORE.

Well, Master Suresby, there's your purse again,

And all your money: fear nothing of More;

Wisdom still keeps the mean and locks the door.

ACT I. SCENE III.

London. A state apartment.

[Enter the Earls of Shrewsbury and Surrey, Sir Thomas Palmer, and Sir Roger Cholmley.]

SHREWSBURY.

My lord of Surrey, and Sir Thomas Palmer

Might I with patience tempt your grave advise,

I tell ye true, that in these dangerous times

I do not like this frowning vulgar brow:

My searching eye did never entertain

A more distracted countenance of grief

Than I have late observed

In the displeased commons of the city.

SURREY.

Tis strange that from his princely clemency,

So well a tempered mercy and a grace,

To all the aliens in this fruitful land,

That this high-crested insolence should spring

From them that breathe from his majestic bounty,

That, fattened with the traffic of our country,

Already leaps into his subject's face.

PALMER.

Yet Sherwin, hindered to commence his suit

Against De Barde by the ambassador,

By supplication made unto the king,

Who having first enticed away his wife,

And got his plate, near worth four hundred pound,

To grieve some wronged citizens that found

This vile disgrace oft cast into their teeth,

Of late sues Sherwin, and arrested him

For money for the boarding of his wife.

SURREY.

The more knave Barde, that, using Sherwin's goods,

Doth ask him interest for the occupation.

I like not that, my lord of Shrewsbury:

He's ill bested that lends a well paced horse

Unto a man that will not find him meet.

CHOLMLEY.

My lord of Surrey will be pleasant still.

PALMER.

Aye, being then employed by your honors

To stay the broil that fell about the same,

Where by persuasion I enforced the wrongs,

And urged the grief of the displeased city,

He answered me, and with a solemn oath,

That, if he had the Mayor of London's wife,

He would keep her in despite of any English.

SURREY.

Tis good, Sir Thomas, then, for you and me;

Your wife is dead, and I a bachelor:

If no man can possess his wife alone,

I am glad, Sir Thomas Palmer, I have none.

CHOLMLEY.

If a take a wife, a shall find her meet.

SURREY.

And reason good, Sir Roger Cholmley, too.

If these hot Frenchmen needsly will have sport,

They should in kindness yet defray the charge:

Tis hard when men possess our wives in quiet,

And yet leave us in, to discharge their diet.

SHREWSBURY.

My lord, our catours shall not use the market

For our provision, but some stranger now

Will take the vittailes from him he hath bought:

A carpenter, as I was late informed,

Who having bought a pair of doves in Cheap,

Immediately a Frenchman took them from him,

And beat the poor man for resisting him;

And when the fellow did complain his wrongs,

He was severely punished for his labor.

SURREY.

But if the English blood be once but up,

As I perceive their hearts already full,

I fear me much, before their spleens be cold,

Some of these saucy aliens for their pride

Will pay for 't soundly, wheresoere it lights:

This tide of rage that with the eddy strives,

I fear me much, will drown too many lives.

CHOLMLEY.

Now, afore God, your honors, pardon me:

Men of your place and greatness are to blame.

I tell ye true, my lords, in that his majesty

Is not informed of this base abuse

And daily wrongs are offered to his subjects;

For, if he were, I know his gracious wisdom

Would soon redress it.

[Enter a Messenger.]

SHREWSBURY.

Sirrah, what news?

CHOLMLEY.

None good, I fear.

MESSENGER.

My lord, ill news; and worse, I fear, will follow,

If speedily it be not looked unto:

The city is in an uproar, and the Mayor

Is threatened, if he come out of his house.

A number poor artificers are up

In arms and threaten to avenge their wrongs.

CHOLMLEY.

We feared what this would come unto:

This follows on the doctors publishing

The bill of wrongs in public at the Spittle.

SHREWSBURY.

That Doctor Beale may chance beshrew himself

For reading of the bill.

PALMER.

Let us go gather forces to the Mayor,

For quick suppressing this rebellious route.

SURREY.

Now I bethink myself of Master More,

One of the sheriffs, a wise and learned gentleman,

And in especial favour with the people:

He, backed with other grave and sober men,

May by his gentle and persuasive speech

Perhaps prevail more than we can with power.

SHREWSBURY.

Believe me, but your honor well advises:

Let us make haste; for I do greatly fear

Some of their graves this morning's work will bear.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

Cheapside.

[Enter three or four Apprentices of trades, with a pair of cudgels.]

HARRY.

Come, lay down the cudgels. Ho, Robin, you met us well at Bunhill, to have you with us a Maying this morning.

ROBIN.

Faith, Harry, the head drawer at the Miter by the great Conduit called me up, and we went to breakfast into St. Anne lane. But come, who begins? in good faith, I am clean out of practise. When wast at Garrets school, Harry?

HARRY.

Not this great while, never since I brake his ushers head, when he played his scholars prize at the Star in Bread-street. I use all to George Philpots at Dowgate; he's the best backswordman in England.

KIT.

Bate me an ace of that, quoth Bolton.

HARRY.

I'll not bate ye a pin on 't, sir; for, by this cudgel, tis true.

KIT.

I will cudgel that opinion out of ye: did you break an ushers head, sir?

HARRY.

Aye, marry, did I, sir.

KIT.

I am very glad on 't: you shall break mine too, and ye can.

HARRY.

Sirrah, I prithee, what art thou?

KIT.

Why, I am a prentice as thou art; seest thou now? I'll play with thee at blunt here in Cheapside, and when thou hast done, if thou beest angry, I'll fight with thee at sharp in Moore fields. I have a sword to serve my turn in a favor. . . . come Julie, to serve . . . .

ACT II. SCENE II.

Saint Martins-le-Grand.

[Enter Lincoln, two Bettses, Williamson, Sherwin, and other, armed; Doll in a shirt of mail, a headpiece, sword, and buckler; a crew attending.]

CLOWN.

Come, come; we'll tickle their turnips, we'll butter their boxes. Shall strangers rule the roost? yes; but we'll baste the roost. Come, come; a flaunt, a flaunt!

GEORGE.

Brother, give place, and hear John Lincoln speak.

CLOWN.

Aye, Lincoln my leader,

And Doll my true breeder,

With the rest of our crew,

Shall ran tan tarra ran;

Do all they what they can.

Shall we be bobbed, braved? no:

Shall we be held under? no;

We are freeborne,

And do take scorn

To be used so.

DOLL.

Peace there, I say! hear Captain Lincoln speak; keep silence, till we know his mind at large.

CLOWN.

Then largely deliver; speak, bully: and he that presumes to interrupt thee in thy oration, this for him.

LINCOLN.

Then, gallant bloods, you whose free souls do scorn

To bear the inforced wrongs of aliens,

Add rage to resolution, fire the houses

Of these audacious strangers. This is St. Martins,

And yonder dwells Mutas, a wealthy Piccardy,

At the Green Gate,

De Barde, Peter Van Hollocke, Adrian Martine,

With many more outlandish fugitives.

Shall these enjoy more privilege than we

In our own country? let's, then, become their slaves.

Since justice keeps not them in greater awe,

We be ourselves rough ministers at law.

CLOWN.

Use no more swords, nor no more words, but fire the houses; brave captain courageous, fire me their houses.

DOLL.

Aye, for we may as well make bonfires on May day as at midsummer: we'll alter the day in the calendar, and set it down in flaming letters.

SHERWIN.

Stay!

No, that would much endanger the whole city,

Whereto I would not the least prejudice.

DOLL.

No, nor I neither; so may mine own house be burned for company. I'll tell ye what: we'll drag the strangers into More fields, and there bombast them till they stink again.

CLOWN.

And that's soon done; for they smell for fear already.

GEORGE.

Let some of us enter the strangers' houses,

And, if we find them there, then bring them forth.

DOLL.

But if ye bring them forth ere ye find them, I'll ne'er allow of that.

CLOWN.

Now, Mars, for thy honor,

Dutch or French,

So it be a wench,

I'll upon her.

[Exeunt some and Sherwin.]

WILLIAMSON.

Now, lads, sure shall we labor in our safety.

I hear the Mayor hath gathered men in arms,

And that Shreeve More an hour ago rised

Some of the Privy Counsel in at Ludgate:

Force now must make our peace, or else we fall;

'Twill soon be known we are the principal.

DOLL.

And what of that? if thou beest afraid, husband, go home again, and hide they head; for, by the Lord, I'll have a little sport, now we are at it.

GEORGE.

Let's stand upon our swords, and, if they come,

Receive them as they were our enemies.

[Enter Sherwin and the rest.]

CLOWN.

A purchase, a purchase! we have found, we ha found—

DOLL.

What?

CLOWN.

Nothing; not a French Fleming nor a Fleming French to be found; but all fled, in plain English.

LINCOLN.

How now! have you found any?

SHERWIN.

No, not one; they're all fled.

LINCOLN.

Then fire the houses, that, the Mayor being busy

About the quenching of them, we may escape;

Burn down their kennels: let us straight away,

Least this day prove to us an ill May day.

CLOWN.

Fire, fire! I'll be the first:

If hanging come, tis welcome; that's the worst.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE III.

The Guildhall.

[Enter at one door Sir Thomas More and Lord Mayor; at another door Sir John Munday hurt.]

LORD MAYOR.

What, Sir John Munday, are you hurt?

SIR JOHN.

A little knock, my lord. There was even now

A sort of prentices playing at cudgels;

I did command them to their masters' houses;

But now, I fear me, they are gone to join

With Lincoln, Sherwin, and their dangerous train.

MORE.

The captains of this insurrection

Have taken themselves to arms, and came but now

To both the Counters, where they have released

Sundry indebted prisoners, and from thence

I hear that they are gone into St. Martins,

Where they intend to offer violence

To the amazed Lombards: therefore, my lord,

If we expect the safety of the city,

Tis time that force or parley do encounter

With these displeased men.

[Enter a Messenger.]

LORD MAYOR.

How now! what news?

MESSENGER.

My lord, the rebels have broke open Newgate,

From whence they have delivered many prisoners,

Both felons and notorious murderers,

That desperately cleave to their lawless train.

LORD MAYOR.

Up with the drawbridge, gather some forces

To Cornhill and Cheapside:—and, gentlemen,

If diligence be weighed on every side,

A quiet ebb will follow this rough tide.

[Enter Shrewsbury, Surrey, Palmer, and Cholmley.]

SHREWSBURY.

Lord Mayor, his majesty, receiving notice

Of this most dangerous insurrection,

Hath sent my lord of Surrey and myself,

Sir Thomas Palmer and our followers,

To add unto your forces our best means

For pacifying of this mutiny.

In God's name, then, set on with happy speed!

The king laments, if one true subject bleed.

SURREY.

I hear they mean to fire the Lombards' houses:

Oh power, what art thou in a madman's eyes!

Thou makest the plodding idiot bloody-wise.

MORE.

My lords, I doubt not but we shall appease

With a calm breath this flux of discontent:

To call them to a parley, questionless—

PALMER.

May fall out good: tis well said, Master More.

MORE.

Let's to these simple men; for many sweat

Under this act, that knows not the law's debt

Which hangs upon their lives; for silly men

Plod on they know not how, like a fool's pen,

That, ending, shows not any sentence writ,

Linked but to common reason or slightest wit:

These follow for no harm; but yet incur

Self penalty with those that raised this stir.

A God's name, on, to calm our private foes

With breath of gravity, not dangerous blows!

ACT II. SCENE IV.

St. Martin's Gate.

[Enter Lincoln, Doll, Clown, George Betts, Williamson, others; and a Sergeant at Arms.]

LINCOLN.

Peace, hear me: he that will not see a red herring at a Harry groat, butter at elevenpence a pound, meal at nine shillings a bushel, and beef at four nobles a stone, list to me.

GEORGE.

It will come to that pass, if strangers be suffered. Mark him.

LINCOLN.

Our country is a great eating country; ergo, they eat more in our country than they do in their own.

CLOWN.

By a halfpenny loaf, a day, troy weight.

LINCOLN.

They bring in strange roots, which is merely to the undoing of poor prentices; for what's a sorry parsnip to a good heart?

WILLIAMSON.

Trash, trash; they breed sore eyes, and tis enough to infect the city with the palsey.

LINCOLN.

Nay, it has infected it with the palsey; for these bastards of dung, as you know they grow in dung, have infected us, and it is our infection will make the city shake, which partly comes through the eating of parsnips.

CLOWN.

True; and pumpkins together.

SERGEANT.

What say ye to the mercy of the king?

Do ye refuse it?

LINCOLN.

You would have us upon this, would you? no, marry, do we not; we accept of the king's mercy, but we will show no mercy upon the strangers.

SERGEANT.

You are the simplest things that ever stood

In such a question.

LINCOLN.

How say ye now, prentices? prentices simple! down with him!

ALL.

Prentices simple! prentices simple!

[Enter the Lord Mayor, Surrey, Shrewsbury, More.]

LORD MAYOR.

Hold! in the king's name, hold!

SURREY.

Friends, masters, countrymen—

LORD MAYOR.

Peace, how, peace! I charge you, keep the peace!

SHREWSBURY.

My masters, countrymen—

WILLIAMSON.

The noble earl of Shrewsbury, let's hear him.

GEORGE.

We'll hear the earl of Surrey.

LINCOLN.

The earl of Shrewsbury.

GEORGE.

We'll hear both.

ALL.

Both, both, both, both!

LINCOLN.

Peace, I say, peace! are you men of wisdom, or what are you?

SURREY.

What you will have them; but not men of wisdom.

ALL.

We'll not hear my lord of Surrey; no, no, no, no, no! Shrewsbury,

Shrewsbury!

MORE.

Whiles they are o'er the bank of their obedience,

Thus will they bear down all things.

LINCOLN.

Sheriff More speaks; shall we hear Sheriff More speak?

DOLL.

Let's hear him: a keeps a plentyful shrievaltry, and a made my brother Arthur Watchins Seriant Safes yeoman: let's hear Shrieve More.

ALL.

Shrieve More, More, More, Shrieve More!

MORE.

Even by the rule you have among yourselves,

Command still audience.

ALL.

Surrey, Surrey! More, More!

LINCOLN:

Peace, peace, silence, peace.

GEORGE.

Peace, peace, silence, peace.

MORE.

You that have voice and credit with the number

Command them to a stillness.

LINCOLN.

A plague on them, they will not hold their peace; the dual cannot rule them.

MORE.

Then what a rough and riotous charge have you,

To lead those that the dual cannot rule?—

Good masters, hear me speak.

DOLL.

Aye, by th' mass, will we, More: th' art a good housekeeper, and I thank thy good worship for my brother Arthur Watchins.

ALL.

Peace, peace.

MORE.

Look, what you do offend you cry upon,

That is, the peace: not one of you here present,

Had there such fellows lived when you were babes,

That could have topped the peace, as now you would,

The peace wherein you have till now grown up

Had been ta'en from you, and the bloody times

Could not have brought you to the state of men.

Alas, poor things, what is it you have got,

Although we grant you get the thing you seek?

GEORGE.

Marry, the removing of the strangers, which cannot choose but much advantage the poor handicrafts of the city.

MORE.

Grant them removed, and grant that this your noise

Hath chid down all the majesty of England;

Imagine that you see the wretched strangers,

Their babies at their backs and their poor luggage,

Plodding tooth ports and costs for transportation,

And that you sit as kings in your desires,

Authority quite silent by your brawl,

And you in ruff of your opinions clothed;

What had you got? I'll tell you: you had taught

How insolence and strong hand should prevail,

How order should be quelled; and by this pattern

Not one of you should live an aged man,

For other ruffians, as their fancies wrought,

With self same hand, self reasons, and self right,

Would shark on you, and men like ravenous fishes

Would feed on one another.

DOLL.

Before God, that's as true as the Gospel.

LINCOLN.

Nay, this is a sound fellow, I tell you: let's mark him.

MORE.

Let me set up before your thoughts, good friends,

On supposition; which if you will mark,

You shall perceive how horrible a shape

Your innovation bears: first, tis a sin

Which oft the apostle did forewarn us of,

Urging obedience to authority;

And twere no error, if I told you all,

You were in arms against your God himself.

ALL.

Marry, God forbid that!

MORE.

Nay, certainly you are;

For to the king God hath his office lent

Of dread, of justice, power and command,

Hath bid him rule, and willed you to obey;

And, to add ampler majesty to this,

He hath not only lent the king his figure,

His throne and sword, but given him his own name,

Calls him a god on earth. What do you, then,

Rising gainst him that God himself installs,

But rise against God? what do you to your souls

In doing this? O, desperate as you are,

Wash your foul minds with tears, and those same hands,

That you like rebels lift against the peace,

Lift up for peace, and your unreverent knees,

Make them your feet to kneel to be forgiven!

Tell me but this: what rebel captain,

As mutinies are incident, by his name

Can still the rout? who will obey a traitor?

Or how can well that proclamation sound,

When there is no addition but a rebel To qualify a rebel?

You'll put down strangers,

Kill them, cut their throats, possess their houses,

And lead the majesty of law in line,

To slip him like a hound. Say now the king

(As he is clement, if th' offender mourn)

Should so much come to short of your great trespass

As but to banish you, whether would you go?

What country, by the nature of your error,

Should give you harbor? go you to France or Flanders,

To any German province, to Spain or Portugal,

Nay, any where that not adheres to England,—

Why, you must needs be strangers: would you be pleased

To find a nation of such barbarous temper,

That, breaking out in hideous violence,

Would not afford you an abode on earth,

Whet their detested knives against your throats,

Spurn you like dogs, and like as if that God

Owed not nor made not you, nor that the claimants

Were not all appropriate to your comforts,

But chartered unto them, what would you think

To be thus used? this is the strangers case;

And this your mountanish inhumanity.

ALL.

Faith, a says true: let's do as we may be done to.

LINCOLN.

We'll be ruled by you, Master More, if you'll stand our friend to procure our pardon.

MORE.

Submit you to these noble gentlemen,

Entreat their mediation to the king,

Give up yourself to form, obey the magistrate,

And there's no doubt but mercy may be found,

If you so seek.

To persist in it is present death: but, if you

Yield yourselves, no doubt what punishment

You in simplicity have incurred, his highness

In mercy will most graciously pardon.

ALL.

We yield, and desire his highness' mercy.

[They lay by their weapons.]

MORE.

No doubt his majesty will grant it you:

But you must yield to go to several prisons,

Till that his highness' will be further known.

ALL.

Most willingly; whether you will have us.

SHREWSBURY.

Lord Mayor, let them be sent to several prisons,

And there, in any case, be well intreated.—

My lord of Surrey, please you to take horse,

And ride to Cheapside, where the aldermen

Are with their several companies in arms;

Will them to go unto their several wards,

Both for the stay of furth mutiny,

And for the apprehending of such persons

As shall contend.

SURREY.

I go, my noble lord.

[Exit Surrey.]

SHREWSBURY.

We'll straight go tell his highness these good news;

Withal, Shrieve More, I'll tell him how your breath

Hath ransomed many a subject from sad death.

[Exit Shrewsbury and Cholmley.]

LORD MAYOR.

Lincoln and Sherwin, you shall both to Newgate;

The rest unto the Counters.

PALMER.

Go guard them hence: a little breath well spent

Cheats expectation in his fairest event.

DOLL.

Well, Sheriff More, thou hast done more with thy good words than all they could with their weapons: give me thy hand, keep thy promise now for the king's pardon, or, by the Lord, I'll call thee a plain coney-catcher.

LINCOLN.

Farewell, Shrieve More; and as we yield by thee,

So make our peace; then thou dealst honestly.

CLOWN.

Aye, and save us from the gallows, else a devil's double honestly!

[They are led away.]

LORD MAYOR.

Master Shrieve More, you have preserved the city

From a most dangerous fierce commotion;

For, if this limb of riot here in St. Martins

Had joined with other branches of the city

That did begin to kindle, twould have bred

Great rage; that rage much murder would have fed.

Not steel, but eloquence hath wrought this good:

You have redeemed us from much threatened blood.

MORE.

My lord and brethren, what I here have spoke,

My country's love, and next the city's care,

Enjoined me to; which since it thus prevails,

Think, God hath made weak More his instrument

To thwart sedition's violent intent.

I think twere best, my lord, some two hours hence

We meet at the Guildhall, and there determine

That thorough every ward the watch be clad

In armor, but especially proud

That at the city gates selected men,

Substantial citizens, do ward tonight,

For fear of further mischief.

LORD MAYOR.

It shall be so:

But yond me thinks my lord of Shrewsbury.

[Enter Shrewsbury.]

SHREWSBURY.

My lord, his majesty sends loving thanks

To you, your brethren, and his faithful subjects,

Your careful citizens.—But, Master More, to you

A rougher, yet as kind, a salutation:

A knights creation is this knightly steel.

Rise up, Sir Thomas More.

MORE.

I thank his highness for thus honoring me.

SHREWSBURY.

This is but first taste of his princely favor:

For it hath pleased his high majesty

(Noting your wisdom and deserving merit)

To put this staff of honor in your hand,

For he hath chose you of his Privy Council.

MORE.

My lord, for to deny my sovereign's bounty

Were to drop precious stones into the heaps

Whence they first came;

To urge my imperfections in excuse,

Were all as stale as custom: no, my lord,

My service is my kings; good reason why,—

Since life or death hangs on our sovereign's eye.

LORD MAYOR.

His majesty hath honored much the city

In this his princely choice.

MORE.

My lord and brethren,

Though I depart for court my love shall rest

With you, as heretofore, a faithful guest.

I now must sleep in court, sound sleeps forbear;

The chamberlain to state is public care:

Yet, in this rising of my private blood,

My studious thoughts shall tend the city's good.

[Enter Crofts.]

SHREWSBURY.

How now, Crofts! what news?

CROFTS.

My lord, his highness sends express command

That a record be entered of this riot,

And that the chief and capital offenders

Be thereon straight arraigned, for himself intends

To sit in person on the rest tomorrow

At Westminster.

SHREWSBURY.

Lord Mayor, you hear your charge.—

Come, good Sir Thomas More, to court let's hie;

You are th' appeaser of this mutiny.

MORE.

My lord, farewell: new days begets new tides;

Life whirls bout fate, then to a grave it slides.

[Exeunt severally.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

Cheapside.

[Enter Master Sheriff, and meet a Messenger.]

SHERIFF.

Messenger, what news?

MESSENGER.

Is execution yet performed?

SHERIFF.

Not yet; the carts stand ready at the stairs,

And they shall presently away to Tibourne.

MESSENGER.

Stay, Master Shrieve; it is the council's pleasure,

For more example in so bad a case,

A gibbet be erected in Cheapside,

Hard by the Standard; whether you must bring

Lincoln and those that were the chief with him,

[Enter Officers.]

To suffer death, and that immediately.

SHERIFF.

It shall be done, sir.

[Exit Messenger.]

—Officers, be speedy;

Call for a gibbet, see it be erected;

Others make haste to Newgate, bid them bring

The prisoners hither, for they here must die:

Away, I say, and see no time be slacked.

OFFICERS.

We go, sir.

[Exit some severally; others set up the gibbet.]

SHERIFF.

That's well said, fellow; now you do your duty.—

God for his pity help these troublous times!

The streets stopped up with gazing multitudes:

Command our armed officers with halberds

Make way for entrance of the prisoners;

Let proclamation once again be made.

That every householder, on pain of death,

Keep in his prentices, and every man

Stand with a weapon ready at his door,

As he will answer to the contrary.

OFFICER.

I'll see it done, sir.

[Exit.]

[Enter another Officer.]

SHERIFF.

Bring them away to execution:

The writ is come above two hours since:

The city will be fined for this neglect.

OFFICER.

There's such a press and multitude at Newgate,

They cannot bring the carts onto the stairs,

To take the prisoners in.

SHERIFF.

Then let them come on foot;

We may not dally time with great command.

OFFICER.

Some of the bench, sir, think it very fit

That stay be made, and give it out abroad

The execution is deferred till morning,

And, when the streets shall be a little cleared,

To chain them up, and suddenly dispatch it.

SHERIFF.

Stay; in mean time me thinks they come along:

See, they are coming. So, tis very well:

[The prisoners are brought in, well guarded.]

Bring Lincoln there the first unto the tree.

CLOWN.

I, for I cry lug, sir.

LINCOLN.

I knew the first, sir, did belong to me:

This the old proverb now complete doth make,

That Lincoln should be hanged for London's sake.

[He goes up.]

A God's name, let us to work. Fellow, dispatch:

I was the foremost man in this rebellion,

And I the foremost that must die for it.

DOLL.

Bravely, John Lincoln, let thy death express,

That, as thou livedst a man, thou diest no less.

LINCOLN.

Doll Williamson, thine eyes shall witness it.—

Then to all you that come to view mine end

I must confess, I had no ill intent,

But against such as wronged us over much:

And now I can perceive it was not fit

That private men should carve out their redress,

Which way they list; no, learn it now by me,—

Obedience is the best in each degree:

And asking mercy meekly of my king,

I patiently submit me to the law;

But God forgive them that were cause of it!

And, as a Christian, truly from my heart

I likewise crave they would forgive me too

(As freely as I do forgive their wrong)

That others by example of the same

Henceforth be warned to attempt the like

Gainst any alien that repaireth hither.

Fare ye well, all: the next time that we meet,

I trust in heaven we shall each other greet.

[He leaps off.]

DOLL.

Farewell, John Lincoln: say all what they can,

Thou livedst a good fellow, and diedst an honest man.

CLOWN.

Would I wear so fair on my journey! the first stretch is the worst, me thinks.

SHERIFF.

Bring Williamson there forward.

DOLL.

Good Master Shrieve, I have an earnest suit,

And, as you are a man, deny't me not.

SHERIFF.

Woman, what is it? be it in my power,

Thou shalt obtain it.

DOLL.

Let me die next, sir; that is all I crave:

You know not what a comfort you shall bring

To my poor heart, to die before my husband.

SHERIFF.

Bring her to death; she shall have her desire.

CLOWN.

Sir, and I have a suit for you too.

SHERIFF.

What is it?

CLOWN.

That, as you have hanged Lincoln first, and will hang her next, so you will not hang me at all.

SHERIFF.

Nay, you set ope' the Counter gates, and you must hang for the folly.

CLOWN.

Well, then, so much for it!

DOLL.

Sir, your free bounty much contents my mind.

Commend me to that good shrieve Master More,

And tell him, had't not been for his persuasion,

John Lincoln had not hung here as he does:

We would first have locked us up in Leadenhall,

And there been burnt to ashes with the roof.

SHERIFF.

Woman, what Master More did was a subject's duty,

And hath so pleased our gracious lord the king,

That he is hence removed to higher place,

And made of council to his majesty.

DOLL.

Well is he worthy of it, by my troth,

An honest, wise, well spoken gentleman;

Yet would I praise his honesty much more,

If he had kept his word, and saved our lives:

But let that pass; men are but men, and so

Words are but words, and pays not what men owe.—

You, husband, since perhaps the world may say

That through my means thou comest thus to thy end,

Here I begin this cup of death to thee,

Because thou shalt be sure to taste no worse

Than I have taken that must go before thee.

What though I be a woman? that's no matter;

I do owe God a death, and I must pay him.

Husband, give me thy hand; be not dismayed;

This chair being chaired, then all our debt is paid.

Only two little babes we leave behind us,

And all I can bequeath them at this time

Is but the love of some good honest friend,

To bring them up in charitable sort:

What, masters! he goes upright that never halts,

And they may live to mend their parents' faults.

WILLIAMSON.

Why, well said, wife; yfaith, thou cheerest my heart:

Give me thy hand; let's kiss, and so let's part.

[He kisses her on the ladder.]

DOLL.

The next kiss, Williamson, shall be in heaven.—

Now cheerily, lads! George Betts, a hand with thee;

And thine too, Rafe, and thine, good honest Sherwin.

Now let me tell the women of this town,

No stranger yet brought Doll to lying down:

So long as I an Englishman can see,

Nor French nor Dutch shall get a kiss of me;

And when that I am dead, for me yet say,

I died in scorn to be a stranger's prey.

[A great shout and noise, cry within 'Pardon, pardon, pardon, pardon! Room for the Earl of Surrey, room there, room!'.]

[Enter Surrey.]

SURREY.

Save the man's life, if it be possible.

SHERIFF.

It is too late, my lord; he's dead already.

SURREY.

I tell ye, Master Sheriff, you are too forward,

To make such haste with men unto their death;

I think your pains will merit little thanks,

Since that his highness is so merciful

As not to spill the blood of any subject.

SHERIFF.

My noble lord, would we so much had known!

The Councils' warrant hastened our dispatch;

It had not else been done so suddenly.

SURREY.

Sir Thomas More humbly upon his knee

Did beg the lives of all, since on his word

They did so gently yield: the king hath granted it,

And made him Lord High Chancellor of England.

According as he worthily deserves.

Since Lincoln's life cannot be had again,

Then for the rest, from my dread sovereign's lips,

I here pronounce free pardon for them all.

ALL.

God save the king, God save the king!

My good Lord Chancellor, and the Earl of Surrey!

[Flinging up caps.]

DOLL.

And Doll desires it from her very heart,

More's name may live for this right noble part;

And whensoere we talk of ill May day,

Praise More....

SURREY.

In hope his highness' clemency and mercy,

Which in the arms of mild and meek compassion

Would rather clip you, as the loving nurse

Oft doth the wayward infant, then to leave you

To the sharp rod of justice, so to draw you

To shun such lewd assemblies as beget

Unlawful riots and such traitorous acts,

That, striking with the hand of private hate,

Maim your dear country with a public wound:—

Oh God, that Mercy, whose majestic brow

Should be unwrinkled, and that awful Justice,

Which looketh through a vail of sufferance

Upon the frailty of the multitude,

Should with the clamours of outrageous wrongs

Be stirred and wakened thus to punishment!—

But your deserved death he doth forgive:

Who gives you life, pray all he long may live.

ALL.

God save the king, God save the king!

My good Lord Chancellor, and the Earl of Surrey!

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

Chelsea. A Room in More's House.

[A table being covered with a green carpet, a state cushion on it, and the Purse and Mace lying thereon, enter Sir Thomas More.]

MORE.

it is in heaven that I am thus and thus;

And that which we profanely term our fortunes

Is the provision of the power above,

Fitted and shaped just to that strength of nature

Which we are borne withal. Good God, good Go,

That I from such an humble bench of birth

Should step as twere up to my country's head,

And give the law out there! I, in my father's life,

To take prerogative and tithe of knees

From elder kinsmen, and him bind by my place

To give the smooth and dexter way to me

That owe it him by nature! Sure, these things,

Not physicked by respect, might turn our blood

To much corruption: but, More, the more thou hast,

Either of honor, office, wealth, and calling,

Which might excite thee to embrace and hub them,

The more doe thou in serpents' natures think them;

Fear their gay skins with thought of their sharp state;

And let this be thy maxim, to be great

Is when the thread of hayday is once 'spon,

A bottom great wound up great undone.—

Come on, sir: are you ready?

[Enter Randall, attired like Sir Thomas More.]

RANDALL.

Yes, my lord, I stand but on a few points; I shall have done

presently. Before God, I have practised your lordship's shift so

well, that I think I shall grow proud, my lord.

MORE.

Tis fit thou shouldst wax proud, or else thou'lt ne'er

Be near allied to greatness. Observe me, sirrah.

The learned clark Erasmus is arrived

Within our English court: last night I hear

He feasted with our honored English poet,

The Earl of Surrey; and I learned today

The famous clark of Rotterdam will visit

Sir Thomas More. Therefore, sir, take my seat;

you are Lord Chancellor: dress your behavior

According to my carriage; but beware

You talk not over much, for twill betray thee:

Who prates not much seems wise; his wit few scan;

While the tongue blabs tales of the imperfect man.

I'll see if great Erasmus can distinguish

Merit and outward ceremony.

RANDALL.

If I do not serve a share for playing of your lordship well, let me be yeoman usher to your sumpter, and be banished from wearing of a gold chain forever.

MORE.

Well, sir, I'll hide our motion: act my part

With a firm boldness, and thou winst my heart.

[Enter the Shrieve, with Faulkner a ruffian, and Officers.]

How now! what's the matter?

FAULKNER.

Tug me not, I'm no bear. 'Sblood, if all the dogs in Paris Garden hung at my tail, I'd shake 'em off with this, that I'll appear before no king christened but my good Lord Chancellor.

SHRIEVE.

We'll christen you, sirrah.—Bring him forward.

MORE.

How now! what tumults make you?

FAULKNER.

The azured heavens protect my noble Lord Chancellor!

MORE.

What fellow's this?

SHRIEVE.

A ruffian, my lord, that hath set half the city in an uproar.

FAULKNER.

My lord—

SHRIEVE.

There was a fray in Paternoster-row, and because they would not be parted, the street was choked up with carts.

FAULKNER.

My noble lord, Paniar Allies throat was open.

MORE.

Sirrah, hold your peace.

FAULKNER.

I'll prove the street was not choked, but is as well as ever it was since it was a street.

SHRIEVE.

This fellow was a principal broacher of the broil.

FAULKNER.

'Sblood, I broached none; it was broached and half run out, before I had a lick at it.

SHRIEVE.

And would be brought before no justice but your honor.

FAULKNER.

I am hailed, my noble lord.

MORE.

No ear to choose for every trivial noise

but mine, and in so full a time? Away!

You wrong me, Master Shrieve: dispose of him

At your own pleasure; send the knave to Newgate.

FAULKNER.

To Newgate! 'sblood, Sir Thomas More, I appeal, I appeal from Newgate to any of the two worshipful Counters.

MORE.

Fellow, whose man are you, that are thus lusty?

FAULKNER.

My name's Jack Faulkner; I serve, next under God and my prince, Master Morris, secretary to my Lord of Winchester.

MORE.

A fellow of your hair is very fit

To be a secretary's follower!

FAULKNER.

I hope so, my lord. The fray was between the Bishops' men of Ely and Winchester; and I could not in honor but part them. I thought it stood not with my reputation and degree to come to my questions and answers before a city justice: I knew I should to the pot.

MORE.

Thou hast been there, it seems, too late already.

FAULKNER.

I know your honor is wise and so forth; and I desire to be only cathecized or examined by you, my noble Lord Chancellor.

MORE.

Sirrah, sirrah, you are a busy dangerous ruffian.

FAULKNER.

Ruffian!

MORE.

How long have you worn this hair?

FAULKNER.

I have worn this hair ever since I was born.

MORE.

You know that's not my question, but how long

Hath this shag fleece hung dangling on they head?

FAULKNER.

How long, my lord? why, sometimes thus long, sometimes lower, as the Fates and humors please.

MORE.

So quick, sir, with me, ha? I see, good fellow,

Thou lovest plain dealing. Sirrah, tell me now,

When were you last at barbers? how long time

Have you upon your head worn this shag hair?

FAULKNER.

My lord, Jack Faulkner tells no Aesops fables: troth, I was not at barbers this three years; I have not been cut not will not be cut, upon a foolish vow, which, as the Destinies shall direct, I am sworn to keep.

MORE.

When comes that vow out?

FAULKNER.

Why, when the humors are purged, not this three years.

MORE.

Vows are recorded in the court of Heaven,

For they are holy acts. Young man, I charge thee

And do advise thee, start not from that vow:

And, for I will be sure thou shalt not shrieve,

Besides, because it is an odious sight

To see a man thus hairy, thou shalt lie

In Newgate till thy vow and thy three years

Be full expired.—Away with him!

FAULKNER.

My lord—

MORE.

Cut off this fleece, and lie there but a month.

FAULKNER.

I'll not lose a hair to be Lord Chancellor of Europe.

MORE.

To Newgate, then. Sirrah, great sins are bred

In all that body where there's a foul head.

Away with him.

[Exeunt all except Randall.]

[Enter Surrey, Erasmus, and Attendants.]

SURREY.

Now, great Erasmus, you approach the presence

Of a most worthy learned gentleman:

This little isle holds not a truer friend

Unto the arts; nor doth his greatness add

A feigned flourish to his worthy parts;

He's great in study; that's the statist's grace,

That gains more reverence than the outward place.

ERASMUS.

Report, my lord, hath crossed the narrow seas,

And to the several parts of Christendom,

Hath borne the fame of your Lord Chancellor:

I long to see him, whom with loving thoughts

I in my study oft have visited.

Is that Sir Thomas More?

SURREY.

It is, Erasmus:

Now shall you view the honorablest scholar,

The most religious politician,

The worthiest counsellor that tends our state.

That study is the general watch of England;

In it the prince's safety, and the peace

That shines upon our commonwealth, are forged

By loyal industry.

ERASMUS.

I doubt him not

To be as near the life of excellence

As you proclaim him, when his meanest servants

Are of some weight: you saw, my lord, his porter

Give entertainment to us at the gate

In Latin good phrase; what's the master, then,

When such good parts shine in his meanest men?

SURREY.

His Lordship hath some weighty business;

For, see, yet he takes no notice of us.

ERASMUS.

I think twere best I did my duty to him

In a short Latin speech.—

Qui in celiberima patria natus est ett gloriosa, plus habet negotii ut in lucem veniat quam qui—

RANDALL.

I prithee, good Erasmus, be covered. I have forsworn speaking of Latin, else, as I am true counsellor, I'd tickle you with a speech. Nay, sit, Erasmus;—sit, good my Lord of Surrey. I'll make my lady come to you anon, if she will, and give you entertainment.

ERASMUS.

Is this Sir Thomas More?

SURREY.

Oh good Erasmus, you must conceive his vain:

He's ever furnished with these conceits.

RANDALL.

Yes, faith, my learned poet doth not lie for that matter: I am neither more nor less than merry Sir Thomas always. Wilt sup with me? by God, I love a parlous wise fellow that smells of a politician better than a long progress.

[Enter Sir Thomas More.]

SURREY.

We are deluded; this is not his lordship.

RANDALL.

I pray you, Erasmus, how long will the Holland cheese in your country keep without maggots?

MORE.

Fool, painted barbarism, retire thyself

Into thy first creation!

[Exit Randall.]

Thus you see,

My loving learned friends, how far respect

Waits often on the ceremonious train

Of base illiterate wealth, whilst men of schools,

Shrouded in poverty, are counted fools.

Pardon, thou reverent German, I have mixed

So slight a jest to the fair entertainment

Of thy most worthy self; for know, Erasmus,

Mirth wrinkles up my face, and I still crave,

When that forsakes me I may hug my grave.

ERASMUS.

Your honor's merry humor is best physic

Unto your able body; for we learn

Where melancholy chokes the passages

Of blood and breath, the erected spirit still

Lengthens our days with sportful exercise:

Study should be the saddest time of life.

The rest a sport exempt from thought of strife.

MORE.

Erasmus preacheth gospel against physic,

My noble poet.

SURREY.

Oh, my Lord, you tax me

In that word poet of much idleness:

It is a study that makes poor our fate;

Poets were ever thought unfit for state.

MORE.

O, give not up fair poesy, sweet lord,

To such contempt! That I may speak my heart,

It is the sweetest heraldry of art,

That sets a difference 'tween the tough sharp holly

And tender bay tree.

SURREY.

Yet, my lord,

It is become the very logic number

To all mechanic sciences.

MORE.

Why, I'll show the reason:

This is no age for poets; they should sing

To the loud canon heroica facta;

Qui faciunt reges heroica carmina laudant:

And, as great subjects of their pen decay,

Even so unphysicked they do melt away.

[Enter Master Morris.]

Come, will your lordship in?—My dear Erasmus—

I'll hear you, Master Morris, presently.—

My lord, I make you master of my house:

We'll banquet here with fresh and staid delights,

The Muses music here shall cheer our sprites;

The cates must be but mean where scholars sit,

For they're made all with courses of neat wit.

[Exeunt Surrey, Erasmus, and Attendants.]

How now, Master Morris?

MORRIS.

I am a suitor to your lordship in behalf of a servant of mine.

MORE.

The fellow with long hair? good Master Morris,

Come to me three years hence, and then I'll hear you.

MORRIS.

I understand your honor: but the foolish knave has submitted himself to the mercy of a barber, and is without, ready to make a new vow before your lordship, hereafter to leave cavil.

MORE.

Nay, then, let's talk with him; pray, call him in.

[Enter Faulkner and Officers.]

FAULKNER.

Bless your honor! a new man, my lord

MORE.

Why, sure, this is not he.

FAULKNER.

And your lordship will, the barber shall give you a sample of my head: I am he in faith, my lord; I am ipse.

MORE.

Why, now thy face is like an honest man's:

Thou hast played well at this new cut, and won.

FAULKNER.

No, my lord; lost all that ever God sent me.

MORE.

God sent thee into the world as thou art now,

With a short hair. How quickly are three years

Run out of Newgate!

FAULKNER.

I think so, my lord; for there was but a hair's length between my going thither and so long time.

MORE.

Because I see some grace in thee, go free.—

Discharge him, fellows.—Farewell, Master Morris.—

Thy head is for thy shoulders now more fit;

Thou hast less hair upon it, but more wit.

[Exit.]

MORRIS.

Did not I tell thee always of these locks?

FAULKNER.

And the locks were on again, all the goldsmiths in Cheapside should not pick them open. 'Sheart, if my hair stand not on end when I look for my face in a glass, I am a polecat. Here's a lousy jest! but, if I notch not that rogue Tom barber, that makes me look thus like a Brownist, hang me! I'll be worse to the nitticall knave than ten tooth drawings. Here's a head, with a pox!

MORRIS.

What ails thou? art thou mad now?

FAULKNER.

Mad now! nails, if loss of hair cannot mad a man, what can? I am deposed, my crown is taken from me. More had been better a scoured Moreditch than a notched me thus: does he begin sheepshearing with Jack Faulkner?

MORRIS.

Nay, and you feed this vein, sir, fare you well.

FAULKNER.

Why, farewell, frost. I'll go hang myself out for the Poll Head. Make a Saracen of Jack?

MORRIS.

Thou desperate knave! for that I see the devil

Wholly gets hold of thee—

FAULKNER.

The devil's a damned rascal.

MORRIS.

I charge thee, wait on me no more; no more

Call me thy master.

FAULKNER.

Why, then, a word, Master Morris.

MORRIS.

I'll hear no words, sir; fare you well.

FAULKNER.

'Sblood, farewell.

MORRIS.

Why dost thou follow me?

FAULKNER.

Because I'm an ass. Do you set your shavers upon me, and then cast me off? must I condole? have the Fates played the fools? am I their cut? now the poor sconce is taken, must Jack march with bag and baggage?

[Weeps.]

MORRIS.

You coxcomb!

FAULKNER.

Nay, you ha' poached me; you ha' given me a hair; it's here, hear.

MORRIS.

Away, you kind ass! come, sir, dry your eyes:

Keep you old place, and mend these fooleries.

FAULKNER.

I care not to be turned off, and 'twere a ladder, so it be in my humor, or the Fates beckon to me. Nay, pray, sir, if the Destinies spin me a fine thread, Faulkner flies another pitch; and to avoid the headache hereafter, before I'll be a hairmonger, I'll be a whoremonger.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE III.

Chelsea. Ante-chamber in More's House.

[Enter a Messenger to More.]

MESSENGER.

My honorable lord, the Mayor of London,

Accompanied with his lady and her train,

Are coming hither, and are hard at hand,

To feast with you: a servant's come before,

To tell your lordship of there near approach.

MORE.

Why, this is cheerful news: friends go and come:

Reverend Erasmus, who delicious words

Express the very soul and life of wit,

Newly took sad leave of me, and with tears

Troubled the silver channel of the Thames,

Which, glad of such a burden, proudly swelled

And on her bosom bore him toward the sea:

He's gone to Rotterdam; peace go with him!

He left me heavy when he went from hence;

But this recomforts me; the kind Lord Mayor,

His brethren aldermen, with their fair wives,

Will feast this night with us: why, so it should be;

More's merry heart lives by good company.—

Good gentlemen, be careful; give great charge

Our diet be made dainty for the taste;

For, of all people that the earth affords,

The Londoners fare richest at their boards.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

Chelsea. A Room in More's House.

[Enter Sir Thomas More, Master Roper, and Servingmen setting stools.]

MORE.

Come, my good fellows, stir, be diligent;

Sloth is an idle fellow, leave him now;

The time requires your expeditious service.

Place me here stools, to set the ladies on.—

Son Roper, you have given order for the banquet?

ROPER.

I have, my lord, and every thing is ready.

[Enter his Lady.]

MORE.

Oh, welcome, wife! give you direction

How women should be placed; you know it best.

For my Lord Mayor, his brethren, and the rest,

Let me alone; men best can order men.

LADY.

I warrant ye, my lord, all shall be well.

There's one without that stays to speak with ye,

And bade me tell ye that he is a player.

MORE.

A player, wife!—One of ye bid him come in.

[Exit one.]

Nay, stir there, fellows; fie, ye are too slow!

See that your lights be in a readiness:

The banquet shall be here.—Gods me, madame,

Leave my Lady Mayoress! both of us from the board!

And my son Roper too! what may our guests think?

LADY.

My lord, they are risen, and sitting by the fire.

MORE.

Why, yet go you and keep them company;

It is not meet we should be absent both.

[Exit Lady.]

[Enter Player.]

Welcome, good friend; what is you will with me?

PLAYER.

My lord, my fellows and myself

Are come to tender ye our willing service,

So please you to command us.

MORE.

What, for a play, you mean?

Whom do ye serve?

PLAYER.

My Lord Cardinal's grace.

MORE.

My Lord Cardinal's players! now, trust me, welcome;

You happen hither in a lucky time,

To pleasure me, and benefit yourselves.

The Mayor of London and some aldermen,

His lady and their wives, are my kind guests

This night at supper: now, to have a play

Before the banquet, will be excellent.—

How think you, son Roper?

ROPER.

'Twill do well, my lord,

And be right pleasing pastime to your guests.

MORE.

I prithee, tell me, what plays have ye?

PLAYER.

Diverse, my lord: The Cradle of Security,

His nail o' the head, Impatient Poverty,

The play of Four Peas, Dives and Lazarus,

Lusty Juventus, and The Marriage of Wit and Wisdom.

MORE.

The Marriage of Wit and Wisdom! that, my lads;

I'll none but that; the theme is very good,

And may maintain a liberal argument:

To marry wit to wisdom, asks some cunning;

Many have wit, that may come short of wisdom.

We'll see how Master poet plays his part,

And whether wit or wisdom grace his art.—

Go, make him drink, and all his fellows too.—

How many are ye?

PLAYER.

Four men and a boy, sir.

MORE.

But one boy? then I see,

There's but few women in the play.

PLAYER.

Three, my lord; Dame Science, Lady Vanity,

And Wisdom she herself.

MORE.

And one boy play them all? by our Lady, he's laden.

Well, my good fellow, get ye straight together,

And make ye ready with what haste ye may.—

Proud their supper gainst the play be done,

Else shall we stay our guests here over long.—

Make haste, I pray ye.

PLAYER.

We will, my lord.

[Exit Servant and Player.]

MORE.

Where are the waits? go, big them play,

To spend the time a while.

[Enter Lady.]

How now, madame?

LADY.

My lord, th' are coming hither.

MORE.

Th' are welcome. Wife, I'll tell ye one thing;

One sport is somewhat mended; we shall have

A play tonight, The Marriage of Wit and Wisdom,

And acted by my good Lord Cardinal's players;

How like ye that, wife?

LADY.

My lord, I like it well.

See, they are coming.

[The waits plays; enter Lord Mayor, so many Aldermen as may, the Lady Mayoress in scarlet, with other Ladies and Sir Thomas More's Daughters; Servants carrying lighted torches by them.]

MORE.

Once again, welcome, welcome, my good Lord Mayor,

And brethren all, for once I was your brother,

And so I am still in heart: it is not state

That can our love from London separate.

True, upstart fools, by sudden fortune tried,

Regard their former mates with naught but pride. But they that cast an eye still whence they came,

Know how they rose, and how to use the same.

LORD MAYOR.

My lord, you set a gloss on London's fame,

And make it happy ever by your name.

Needs must we say, when we remember More,

'Twas he that drove rebellion from our door

With grave discretions mild and gentle breath,

Oh, how our city is by you renowned,

And with your virtues our endeavors crowned!

MORE.

No more, my good Lord Mayor: but thanks to all,

That on so short a summons you would come

To visit him that holds your kindness dear.—

Madame, you are not merry with my Lady Mayoress

And these fair ladies; pray ye, seat them all:—

And here, my lord, let me appoint your place;—

The rest to seat themselves:—nay, I'll weary ye;

You will not long in haste to visit me.

LADY.

Good madame, sit; in sooth, you shall sit here.

LADY MAYORESS.

Good madame, pardon me; it may not be.

LADY.

In troth, I'll have it so: I'll sit here by ye.—

Good ladies, sit.—More stools here, ho!

LADY MAYORESS.

It is your favour, madame, makes me thus

Presume above my merit.

LADY.

When we come to you,

Then shall you rule us as we rule you here.

Now must I tell ye, madame, we have a play,

To welcome ye withal; how good so ere,

That know not I; my lord will have it so.

MORE.

Wife, hope the best; I am sure they'll do their best:

They that would better, comes not at their feast.

My good Lord Cardinal's players, I thank them for it,

Play us a play, to lengthen out your welcome:

They say it is The Marriage of Wit and Wisdom,

A theme of some import, how ere it prove;

But, if art fail, we'll inch it out with love.—

[Enter a Servant.]

What, are they ready?

SERVANT.

My lord, one of the players craves to speak with you.

MORE.

With me! where is he?

[Enter Inclination, the Vice, ready.]

INCLINATION.

Here, my lord.

MORE.

How now! what's the matter?

INCLINATION.

We would desire your honor but to stay a little; one of my fellows is but run to Oagles for a long beard for young Wit, and he'll be here presently.

MORE.

A long beard for young Wit! why, man, he may be without a beard till he come to marriage, for wit goes not all by the hair. When comes Wit in?

INCLINATION.

In the second scene, next to the Prologue, my lord.

MORE.

Why, play on till that scene come, and by that time Wit's beard will be grown, or else the fellow returned with it. And what part playest thou?

INCLINATION.

Inclination the Vice, my lord.

MORE.

Gramercies, now I may take the vice if I list: and wherefore hast thou that bridle in thy hand?

INCLINATION.

I must be bridled anon, my lord.

MORE.

And thou beest not saddled too, it makes no matter, for then Wit's inclination may gallop so fast, that he will outstrip Wisdom, and fall to folly.

INCLINATION.

Indeed, so he does to Lady Vanity; but we have no folly in our play.

MORE.

Then there's no wit in 't, I'll be sworn: folly waits on wit, as the shadow on the body, and where wit is ripest there folly still is readiest. But begin, I prithee: we'll rather allow a beardless Wit than Wit all beard to have no brain.

INCLINATION.

Nay, he has his apparel on too, my lord, and therefore he is the readier to enter.

MORE.

Then, good Inclination, begin at a venter.—

[Exit Inclination.]

My Lord Mayor,

Wit lacks a beard, or else they would begin:

I'd lend him mine, but that it is too thin.

Silence, they come.

[The trumpet sounds; enter the Prologue.]

PROLOGUE.

Now, for as much as in these latter days,

Throughout the whole world in every land,

Vice doth increase, and virtue decays,

Iniquity having the upper hand;

We therefore intend, good gentle audience,

A pretty short interlude to play at this present,

Desiring your leave and quiet silence,

To show the same, as is meet and expedient,

It is called The Marriage of Wit and Wisdom,

A matter right pithy and pleasing to hear,

Whereof in brief we will show the whole sum;

But I must be gone, for Wit doth appear.

[Exit. Enter Wit ruffling, and Inclination the Vice.]

WIT.

In an arbor green, asleep whereas I lay,

The birds sang sweetly in the midst of the day,

I dreamed fast of mirth and play,—

In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure,

Methought I walked still to and fro,

And from her company I could not go;

But when I waked, it was not so,—

In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.

Therefore my heart is surely plight,

Of her alone to have a sight,

Which is my joy and heart's delight,—

In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.

MORE.

Mark ye, my lord, this is Wit without a beard: what will he be by that time he comes to the commodity of a beard?

INCLINATION.

Oh, sir, the ground is the better on which she doth go;

For she will make better cheer with a little she can get,

Than many a one can with a great banquet of meat.

WIT.

And is her name Wisdom?

INCLINATION.

I, sir, a wife most fit

For you, my good master, my dainty sweet Wit.

WIT.

To be in her company my heart it is set:

Therefore I prithee to let us begone;

For unto Wisdom Wit hath inclination.

INCLINATION.

Oh, sir, she will come her self even anon;

For I told her before where we would stand.

And then she said she would beck us with her hand.—

Back with these boys and saucy great knaves!

[Flourishing a dagger.]

What, stand ye here so big in your braves?

My dagger about your coxcombs shall walk,

If I may but so much as hear ye chat or talk.

WIT.

But will she take pains to come for us hither?

INCLINATION.

I warrant ye; therefore you must be familiar with her;

When she commeth in place,

You must her embrace

Somewhat handsomely,

Least she think it danger,

Because you are a stranger,

To come in your company.

WIT.

I warrant thee, Inclination, I will be busy:

Oh, how Wit longs to be in Wisdom's company!

[Enter Lady Vanity singing, and beckoning with her hand.]

VANITY.

Come hither, come hither, come hither, come:

Such cheer as I have, thou shalt have some.

MORE.

This is Lady Vanity, I'll hold my life:—

Beware, good Wit, you take not her to wife.

INCLINATION.

What, unknown honesty? a word in your ear.

[She offers to depart.]

You shall not be gone as yet, I swear:

Here's none but friends, you need not to fray;

This young gentleman loves ye, therefore you must stay.

WIT.

I trust in me she will think no danger,

For I love well the company of fair women;

And though to you I am a stranger,

Yet Wit may pleasure you now and then.

VANITY.

Who, you? nay, you are such a holy man,

That to touch on you dare not be bold;

I think you would not kiss a young woman,

If one would give ye twenty pound in gold.

WIT.

Yes, in good sadness, lady, that I would:

I could find in my heart to kiss you in your smock.

VANITY.

My back is broad enough to bear that mock;

For it hath been told me many a time

That you would be seen in no such company as mine.

WIT.

Not Wit in the company of Lady Wisdom?

Oh Jove, for what do I hither come?

INCLINATION.

Sir, she did this nothing else but to prove

Whether a little thing would you move

To be angry and fret:

What, and if one said so?

Let such trifling matters go

And with a kind kiss come out of her debt.—

Is Luggins come yet with the beard?

[Enter another Player.]

PLAYER.

No, faith, he is not come: alas, what shall we do?

INCLINATION.

Forsooth, we can go no further till our fellow Luggins come; for he plays Good Council, and now he should enter, to admonish Wit that this is Lady Vanity, and not Lady Wisdom.

MORE.

Nay, and it be no more but so, ye shall not tarry at a stand for that; we'll not have our play marred for lack of a little good council: till your fellow come, I'll give him the best council that I can.—Pardon me, my Lord Mayor; I love to be merry.—

Oh...Wit, thou art now on the bow hand,

And blindly in thine own opinion dost stand.

I tell thee, this naughty lewd Inclination

Does lead thee amiss in a very strange fashion:

This is not Wisdom, but Lady Vanity;

Therefore list to Good Council, and be ruled by me.

INCLINATION.

In troth, my lord, it is as right to Lugginses part as can be.—Speak, Wit.

MORE.

Nay, we will not have our audience disappointed, if I can help it.

WIT.

Art thou Good Council, and will tell me so?

Wouldst thou have Wit from Lady Wisdom to go?

Thou art some deceiver, I tell thee verily,

In saying that this is Lady Vanity.

MORE.

Wit, judge not things by the outward show;

The eye oft mistakes, right well you do know:

Good Council assures thee upon his honesty,

That this is not Wisdom, but Lady Vanity.

[Enter Luggins with the beard.]

INCLINATION.

Oh, my lord, he is come; now we shall go forward.

MORE.

Art thou come? well, fellow, I have hoped to save thine honesty a little. Now, if thou canst give Wit any better council than I have done, spare not: there I leave him to they mercy.

But by this time, I am sure, our banquet's ready:

My lord and ladies, we will taste that first,

And then they shall begin the play again,

Which through the fellow's absence, and by me,

Instead of helping, hath been hindered.—

Prepare against we come.—Lights there, I say!—

Thus fools oft times do help to mar the play.

[Exeunt all but players.]

WIT.

Fie, fellow Luggins, you serve us handsomely; do ye not, think ye?

LUGGINS.

Why, Oagle was not within, and his wife would not let me have the beard; and, by my troth, I ran so fast that I sweat again.

INCLINATION.

Do ye hear, fellows? would not my lord make a rare player? oh, he would uphold a company beyond all hope, better than Mason among the king's players! Did ye mark how extemprically he fell to the matter, and spake Lugginses part almost as it is in the very book set down?

WIT.

Peace; do ye know what ye say? my lord a player! let us not meddle with any such matters: yet I may be a little proud that my lord hath answered me in my part. But come, let us go, and be ready to begin the play again.

LUGGINS.

I, that's the best, for now we lack nothing.

[Enter a Servingman.]

MAN.

Where be these players?

ALL.

Here, sir.

MAN.

My lord is sent for to the court,

And all the guests do after supper part;

And, for he will not trouble you again,

By me for your reward a sends 8 angels,

With many thanks. But sup before you go:

It is his will you should be fairly entreated:

Follow, I pray ye.

WIT.

This, Luggins, is your negligence;

Wanting Wit's beard brought things into dislike;

For otherwise the play had been all seen,

Where now some curious citizen disgraced it,

And discommending it, all is dismissed.

VICE.

Fore God, a says true. But hear ye, sirs: 8 angels, ha! my lord

would never give 8 angels more or less for 12d; other it should be

£3, £5, or £10; there's 20s wanting, sure.

WIT.

Twenty to one, tis so. I have a trick: my lord comes; stand aside.

[Enter More, with Attendants with Purse and Mace.]

MORE.

In haste to counsel! what's the business now,

That all so late his highness sends for me?—

What seekst thou, fellow?

WIT.

Nay, nothing: your lordship sent 8 angels by your man, and I have lost two of them in the rishes.

MORE.

Wit, look to that:—8 angels! I did send them ten.—Who gave it them?

MAN.

I, my lord; I had no more about me;

But by and by they shall rescue the rest.

MORE.

Well, Wit, twas wisely done; thou playest Wit well indeed,

Not to be thus deceived of thy right.—

Am I a man, by office truly ordained

Equally to decide true right his own,

And shall I have deceivers in my house?

Then what avails my bounty, when such servants

Deceive the poor of what the Master gives?

Go on, and pull his coat over his ears:

There are too many such.—Give them their right.—

Wit, let thy fellows thank thee: twas well done;

Thou now deservest to match with Lady Wisdom.

[Exit More with Attendants.]

VICE.

God a mercy, Wit!—Sir, you had a master Sir Thomas More more; but now we shall have more.

LUGGINS.

God bless him! I would there were more of his mind! a loves our quality; and yet he's a learned man, and knows what the world is.

CLOWN.

Well, a kind man, and more loving than many other: but I think we ha' met with the first....

LUGGINS.

First served his man that had our angels; and he may chance dine with Duke Humphrey tomorrow, being turned away today. Come, let's go.

CLOWN.

And many such rewards would make us all ride, and horse us with the best nags in Smithfield.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

Whitehall. The Council chamber

.

[Enter the Earls of Shrewsbury, Surrey, Bishop of Rochester, and other Lords; severally, doing courtesy to each other; Clerk of the Council waiting bareheaded.]

SURREY.

Good morrow to my Lord of Shrewsbury.

SHREWSBURY.

The like unto the honoured Earl of Surrey.

Yond comes my Lord of Rochester.

ROCHESTER.

Good morrow, my good lords.

SURREY.

Clerk of the Council, what time is't of day?

CLERK.

Past eight of clock, my lord.

SHREWSBURY.

I wonder that my good Lord Chancellor

Doth stay so long, considering there's matters

Of high importance to be scanned upon.

SURREY.

Clerk of the Council, certify his lordship

The lords expect him here.

ROCHESTER.

It shall not need;

Yond comes his lordship.

[Enter Sir Thomas More, with Purse and Mace borne before him.]

MORE.

Good morrow to this fair assembly.

Come, my good lords, let's sit. Oh serious square!

[They sit.]

Upon this little board is daily scanned

The health and preservation of the land;

We the physicians that effect this good,

Now by choice diet, anon by letting blood;

Our toil and careful watching brings the king

In league with slumbers, to which peace doth sing.—

Avoid the room there!—

What business, lords, today?

SHREWSBURY.

This, my good lord;

About the entertainment of the emperor

Gainst the perfidious French into our pay.

SURREY.

My lords, as tis the custom in this place

The youngest should speak first, so, if I chance

In this case to speak youngly, pardon me.

I will agree, France now hath her full strength,

As having new recovered the pale blood

Which war sluiced forth; and I consent to this,

That the conjunction of our English forces

With arms of Germany may soon bring

This prize of conquest in. But, then, my lords,

As in the moral hunting twixt the lion

And other beasts, force joined with greed

Frighted the weaker sharers from their parts;

So, if the empire's sovereign chance to put

His plea of partnership into war's court,

Swords should decide the difference, and our blood

In private tears lament his entertainment.

SHREWSBURY.

To doubt the worst is still the wise man's shield,

That arms him safely: but the world knows this,

The emperor is a man of royal faith;

His love unto our sovereign brings him down

From his imperial seat, to march in pay

Under our English flag, and wear the cross,

Like some high order, on his manly breast;

Thus serving, he's not master of himself,

But, like a colonel commanding other,

Is by the general over-awed himself.

ROCHESTER.

Yet, my good lord—

SHREWSBURY.

Let me conclude my speech.

As subjects share no portion in the conquest

Of their true sovereign, other than the merit

That from the sovereign guerdons the true subject;

So the good emperor, in a friendly league

Of amity with England, will not soil

His honor with the theft of English spoil.

MORE.

There is no question but this entertainment

Will be most honorable, most commodious.

I have oft heard good captains wish to have

Rich soldiers to attend them, such as would fight

Both for their lives and livings; such a one

Is the good emperor: I would to God,

We had ten thousand of such able men!

Hah, then there would appear no court, no city,

But, where the wars were, they would pay themselves.

Then, to prevent in French wars England's loss,

Let German flags wave with our English cross.

[Enter Sir Thomas Palmer.]

PALMER.

My lords, his majesty hath sent by me

These articles enclosed, first to be viewed,

And then to be subscribed to: I tender them

In that due reverence which befits this place.

[With great reverence.]

MORE.

Subscribe these articles! stay, let us pause;

Our conscience first shall parley with our laws.—

My Lord of Rochester, view you the paper.

ROCHESTER.

Subscribe to these! now, good Sir Thomas Palmer,

Beseech the king that he will pardon me:

My heart will check my hand whilst I do write;

Subscribing so, I were an hypocrite.

PALMER.

Do you refuse it, then, my lord?

ROCHESTER.

I do, Sir Thomas.

PALMER.

Then here I summon you forthwith t' appear

Before his majesty, to answer there

This capital contempt.

ROCHESTER.

I rise and part,

In lieu of this to tender him my heart.

[He riseth.]

PALMER.

Wilt please your honor to subscribe, my lord?

MORE.

Sir, tell his highness, I entreat

Some time for to bethink me of this task:

In the meanwhile I do resign mine office

Into my sovereign's hands.

PALMER.

Then, my lord,

Hear the prepared order from the king:

On your refusal, you shall straight depart

Unto your house at Chelsea, till you know

Our sovereign's further pleasure.

MORE.

Most willingly I go.—

My lords, if you will visit me at Chelsea,

We'll go a fishing, and with a cunning net,

Not like weak film, we'll catch none but the great:

Farewell, my noble lords. Why, this is right:

Good morrow to the sun, to state good night!

[Exit More.]

PALMER.

Will you subscribe, my lords?

SURREY.

Instantly, good Sir Thomas,

We'll bring the writing unto our sovereign.

[They write.]

PALMER.

My Lord of Rochester,

You must with me, to answer this contempt.

ROCHESTER.

This is the worst,

Who's freed from life is from all care exempt.

[Exit Rochester and Palmer.]

SURREY.

Now let us hasten to our sovereign.

Tis strange that my Lord Chancellor should refuse

The duty that the law of God bequeaths

Unto the king.

SHREWSBURY.

Come, let us in. No doubt

His mind will alter, and the bishop's too:

Error in learned heads hath much to do.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE III.

Chelsea.

[Enter the Lady More, her two Daughters, and Master Roper, as walking.]

ROPER.

Madame, what ails ye for to look so sad?

LADY MORE.

Troth, son, I know not what; I am not sick,

And yet I am not well. I would be merry;

But somewhat lies so heavy on heart,

I cannot choose but sigh. You are a scholar;

I pray ye, tell me, may one credit dreams?

ROPER.

Why ask you that, dear madame?

LADY MORE.

Because tonight I had the strangest dream

That ere my sleep was troubled with. Me thought twas night,

And that the king and queen went on the Thames

In barges to hear music: my lord and I

Were in a little boat me thought,—Lord, Lord,

What strange things live in slumbers!—and, being near,

We grappled to the barge that bare the king.

But after many pleasing voices spent

In that still moving music house, me though

The violence of the stream did sever us

Quite from the golden fleet, and hurried us

Unto the bridge, which with unused horror

We entered at full tide: thence some slight shoot

Being carried by the waves, our boat stood still

Just opposite the Tower, and there it turned

And turned about, as when a whirl-pool sucks

The circled waters: me thought that we both cried,

Till that we sunk: where arm in arm we died.

ROPER.

Give no respect, dear madame, to fond dreams:

They are but slight illusions of the blood.

LADY MORE.

Tell me not all are so; for often dreams

Are true diviners, either of good or ill:

I cannot be in quiet till I hear

How my lord fares.

ROPER.

[aside.] No it.—Come hither, wife:

I will not fright thy mother, to interpret

The nature of a dream; but trust me, sweet,

This night I have been troubled with thy father

Beyond all thought.

ROPER'S WIFE.

Truly, and so have I:

Methought I saw him here in Chelsea Church,

Standing upon the roodloft, now defaced;

And whilst he kneeled and prayed before the image,

It fell with him into the upper-choir,

Where my poor father lay all stained in blood.

ROPER.

Our dreams all meet in one conclusion,

Fatal, I fear.

LADY MORE.

What's that you talk? I pray ye, let me know it.

ROPER'S WIFE.

Nothing, good mother.

LADY MORE.

This is your fashion still; I must know nothing.

Call Master Catesby; he shall straight to court,

And see how my lord does: I shall not rest,

Until my heart leave panting on his breast.

[Enter Sir Thomas More merrily, Servants attending.]

DAUGHTER.

See where my father comes, joyful and merry.

MORE.

As seamen, having passed a troubled storm,

Dance on the pleasant shore; so I—oh, I could speak

Now like a poet! now, afore God, I am passing light!—

Wife, give me kind welcome: thou wast wont to blame

My kissing when my beard was in the stubble;

But I have been trimmed of late; I have had

A smooth court shaving, in good faith, I have.—

[Daughters kneel.]

God bless ye!—Son Roper, give me your hand.

ROPER.

Your honor's welcome home.

MORE.

Honor! ha ha!—And how dost, wife?

ROPER.

He bears himself most strangely.

LADY MORE.

Will your lordship in?

MORE.

Lordship! no, wife, that's gone:

The ground was slight that we did lean upon.

LADY MORE.

Lord, that your honor ne'er will leave these jests!

In faith, it ill becomes ye.

MORE.

Oh, good wife,

Honor and jests are both together fled;

The merriest councillor of England's dead.

LADY MORE.

Who's that, my lord?

MORE.

Still lord! the Lord Chancellor, wife.

LADY MORE.

That's you.

MORE.

Certain; but I have changed my life.

Am I not leaner than I was before?

The fat is gone; my title's only More.

Contented with one style, I'll live at rest:

They that have many names are not still best.

I have resigned mine office: count'st me not wise?

LADY MORE.

Oh God!

MORE.

Come, breed not female children in your eyes:

The king will have it so.

LADY MORE.

What's the offense?

MORE.

Tush, let that pass; we'll talk of that anon.

The king seems a physician to my fate;

His princely mind would train me back to state.

ROPER.

Then be his patient, my most honored father.

MORE.

Oh, son Roper,

Ubi turpis est medicine, sanari piget!—

No, wife, be merry;—and be merry, all:

You smiled at rising, weep not at my fall.

Let's in, and hear joy like to private friends,

Since days of pleasure have repentant ends:

The light of greatness is with triumph born;

It sets at midday oft with public scorn.

ACT IV. SCENE IV.

The Tower.

[Enter the Bishop of Rochester, Surrey, Shrewsbury, Lieutenant of the Tower, and Warders with weapons.]

ROCHESTER.

Your kind persuasions, honorable lords,

I can but thank ye for; but in this breast

There lives a soul that aims at higher things

Than temporary pleasing earthly kings.

God bless his highness even with all my heart!—

We shall meet one day, though that now we part.

SURREY.

We not misdoubt, your wisdom can discern

What best befits it; yet in love and zeal

We could entreat, it might be otherwise.

SHREWSBURY.

No doubt, your fatherhood will by yourself

Consider better of the present case,

And grow as great in favor as before.

ROCHESTER.

For that, as pleaseth God. In my restraint

From wordly causes, I shall better see

Into myself than at proud liberty:

The Tower and I will privately confer

Of things, wherein at freedom I may err.

But I am troublesome unto your honors,

And hold ye longer than becomes my duty.—

Master Lieutenant, I am now your charge;

And though you keep my body, yet my love

Waits on my king and you, while Fisher lives.

SURREY.

Farewell, my Lord of Rochester; we'll pray

For your release, and labour't as we may.

SHREWSBURY.

Thereof assure yourself; so do we leave ye,

And to your happy private thoughts bequeath ye.

[Exeunt Lords.]

ROCHESTER.

Now, Master Lieutenant, on; a God's name, go!

And with as glad a mind go I with you

As ever truant bade the school adieu.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE V.

Chelsea. A Room in More's House.

[Enter Sir Thomas More, his Lady, Daughters, Master Roper, Gentlemen, and Servants, as in his house at Chelsea.]

MORE.

Good morrow, good son Roper.—

Sit, good madame,

[Low stools.]

Upon an humble seat; the time so craves;

Rest your good heart on earth, the roof of graves:

You see the floor of greatness is uneven;

The cricket and high throne alike near heaven.—

Now, daughters, you that like to branches spread,

And give best shadow to a private house,

Be comforted, my girls; your hopes stand fair:

Virtue breeds gentry, she makes the best heir.

BOTH DAUGHTERS.

Good morrow to your honor.

MORE.

Nay, good night rather;

Your honor's crest-fain with your happy father.

ROPER.

Oh, what formality, what square observance,

Lives in a little room! here public care

Gags not the eyes of slumber; here fierce riot

Ruffles not proudly in a coat of trust,

Whilst, like a pawn at chess, he keeps in rank

With kings and mighty fellows; yet indeed

Those men that stand on tiptoe smile to see

Him pawn his fortunes.

MORE.

True, son,....

Nor does the wanton tongue here screw itself

Into the ear, that like a vise drinks up

The iron instrument.

LADY MORE.

We are here at peace.

MORE.

Then peace, good wife.

LADY MORE.

For, keeping still in compass, a strange point

In times new navigation we have sailed

Beyond our course.

MORE.

Have done.

LADY MORE.

We are exiled the court.

MORE.

Still thou harpest on that:

Tis sin for to deserve that banishment;

But he that ne'er knew court, courts sweet content.

LADY MORE.

Oh, but, dear husband—

MORE.

I will not hear thee, wife;

The winding labyrinth of thy strange discourse

Will ne'er have end. Sit still; and, my good wife,

Entreat thy tongue be still; or, credit me,

Thou shalt not understand a word we speak;

We'll talk in Latin.

Humida vallis raros patitur fulminis ictus,

More rest enjoys the subject meanly bred

Than he that bears the kingdom in his head.

Great men are still musicians, else the world lies;

They learn low strains after the notes that rise.

ROPER.

Good sir, be still yourself, and but remember

How in this general court of short-lived pleasure,

The world, creation is the ample food

That is digested in the maw of time:

If man himself be subject to such ruin,

How shall his garment, then, or the loose points

That tie respect unto his awful place,

Avoid destruction? Most honored father-in-law,

The blood you have bequeathed these several hearts

To nourish your posterity, stands firm;

And, as with joy you led us first to rise,

So with like hearts we'll lock preferment's eyes.

MORE.

Close them not, then, with tears: for that ostent

Gives a wet signal of your discontent.

If you will share my fortunes, comfort then;

An hundred smiles for one sigh: what! we are men:

Resign wet passion to these weaker eyes,

Which proves their sex, but grants it ne'er more wise.

Let's now survey our state. Here sits my wife,

And dear esteemed issue; yonder stand

My loving servants: now the difference

Twixt those and these. Now you shall hear my speak

Like More in melancholy. I conceive that nature

Hath sundry metals, out of which she frames

Us mortals, each in valuation

Outprizing other: of the finest stuff

The finest features come: the rest of earth,

Receive base fortune even before their birth;

Hence slaves have their creation; and I think

Nature provides content for the base mind;

Under the whip, the burden, and the toil,

Their low-wrought bodies drudge in patience;

As for the prince in all his sweet-gorged maw,

And his rank flesh, that sinfully renews

The noon's excess in the night's dangerous surfeits.

What means or misery from our birth doth flow

Nature entitles to us; that we owe:

But we, being subject to the rack of hate,

Falling from happy life to bondage state,

Having seen better days, now know the lack

Of glory that once reared each high-fed back.

But you, that in your age did ne'er view better,

Challenged not fortune for your thriftless debter.

CATESBY.

Sir, we have seen far better days than these.

MORE.

I was the patron of those days, and know

Those were but painted days, only for show.

Then grieve not you to fall with him that gave them:

Generosis servis gloriosum mori.

Dear Gough, thou art my learned secretary;

You, Master Catesby, steward of my house;

The rest like you have had fair time to grow

In sun-shine of my fortunes. But I must tell ye,

Corruption is fled hence with each man's office;

Bribes, that make open traffic twixt the soul

And netherland of hell, deliver up

Their guilty homage to the second lords.

Then, living thus untainted, you are well:

Truth is no pilot for the land of hell.

[Enter a Servant.]

SERVANT.

My lord, there are new lighted at the gate

The Earls of Surrey and of Shrewsbury,

And they expect you in the inner court.

MORE.

Entreat their lordships come into the hall.

[Exit Servant.]

LADY MORE.

Oh, God, what news with them?

MORE.

Why, how now, wife!

They are but come to visit their old friend.

LADY MORE.

Oh, God, I fear, I fear!

MORE.

What shouldst thou fear, fond woman?

Justum, si fractus illabatur orbis, inpavidum ferient ruinae.

Here let me live estranged from great men's looks;

They are like golden flies on leaden hooks.

[Enter the Earls, Downs with his mace, and Attendants.]

SHREWSBURY.

Good morrow, good Sir Thomas.

[Kind salutations.]

SURREY.

Good day, good madame.

MORE.

Welcome, my good lords.

What ails your lordships look so melancholy?

Oh, I know; you live in court, and the court diet

Is only friend to physic.

SURREY.

Oh, Sir Thomas,

Our words are now the kings, and our sad looks

The interest of your love! We are sent to you

From our mild sovereign, once more to demand

If you'll subscribe unto those articles

He sent ye th' other day: be well advised;

For, on mine honor, lord, grave Doctor Fisher

Bishop of Rochester, at the self same instant

Attached with you, is sent unto the Tower

For the like obstinacy: his majesty

Hath only sent you prisoner to your house;

But, if you now refuse for to subscribe,

A stricter course will follow.

LADY MORE.

Oh, dear husband!

[Kneeling and weeping.]

BOTH DAUGHTERS.

Dear father!

MORE.

See, my lords,

This partner and these subjects to my flesh

Prove rebels to my conscience! But, my good lords,

If I refuse, must I unto the Tower?

SHREWSBURY.

You must, my lord; here is an officer

Ready for to arrest you of high treason.

LADY MORE AND DAUGHTERS.

Oh, God, oh, God!

ROPER.

Be patient, good madam.

MORE.

Aye, Downs, ist thou? I once did save thy life,

When else by cruel riotous assault

Thou hadst been torn in pieces: thou art reserved

To be my summoner to yond spiritual court.

Give me thy hand; good fellow, smooth thy face:

The diet that thou drinkst is spiced with mace,

And I could ne'er abide it; 'twill not disgest,

Twill lie too heavily, man, on my weak breast.

SHREWSBURY.

Be brief, my lord, for we are limited

Unto an hour.

MORE.

Unto an hour! tis well:

The bell soon shall toll my knell.

LADY MORE.

Dear loving husband, if you respect not me,

Yet think upon your daughters.

[Kneeling.]

MORE.

Wife, stand up; I have bethought me,

And I'll now satisfy the king's good pleasure.

[Pointing to himself.]

BOTH DAUGHTERS.

Oh, happy alteration!

SHREWSBURY.

Come, then, subscribe, my lord.

SURREY.

I am right glad of this your fair conversion.

MORE.

Oh, pardon me!

I will subscribe to go unto the Tower

With all submissive willingness, and thereto add

My bones to strengthen the foundation

Of Julius Caesar's palace. Now, my lord,

I'll satisfy the king, even with my blood;

Now will I wrong your patience.—Friend, do thine office.

DOWNES.

Sir thomas More, Lord Chancellor of England, I arrest you in the king's name of high treason.

MORE.

Gramercies, friend.

To a great prison, to discharge the strife

Commenced twixt conscience and my frailer life,

More now must march. Chelsea, adieu, adieu!

Strange farewell! thou shalt ne'er more see More true,

For I shall ne'er see thee more.—Servants, farewell.—

Wife, mar not thine indifferent face; be wise:

More's widow's husband, he must make thee rise.—

Daughters....: —what's here, what's here?

Mine eye had almost parted with a tear.—

Dear son, possess my virtue, that I ne'er gave.—

Grave More thus lightly walks to a quick grave.

ROPER.

Curae leves loquuntur, ingentes stupent.

MORE.

You that way in; mind you my course in prayer:

By water I to prison, to heaven through air.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

The Tower Gate.

[Enter the Warders of the Tower, with halbards.]

FIRST WARDER.

Ho, make a guard there!

SECOND WARDER.

Master Lieutenant gives a straight command,

The people be avoided from the bridge.

THIRD WARDER.

From whence is he committed, who can tell?

FIRST WARDER.

From Durham House, I hear.

SECOND WARDER.

The guard were waiting there are hour ago.

THIRD WARDER.

If he stay long, he'll not get near the wharf,

There's such a crowd of boats upon the Thames.

SECOND WARDER.

Well, be it spoken without offence to any,

A wiser or more virtuous gentleman

Was never bred in England.

THIRD WARDER.

I think, the poor will bury him in tears:

I never heard a man, since I was born,

So generally bewailed of every one.

[Enter a Poor Woman.]

What means this woman?—Whether doost thou press?

FIRST WARDER.

This woman will be trod to death anon.

SECOND WARDER.

What makest thou here?

WOMAN.

To speak with that good man, Sir Thomas More.

SECOND WARDER.

To speak with him! he's not Lord Chancellor.

WOMAN.

The more's the pity, sir, if it pleased God.

SECOND WARDER.

Therefore, if thou hast a petition to deliver,

Thou mayst keep it now, for any thing I know.

WOMAN.

I am a poor woman, and have had (God knows)

A suit this two year in the Chancery;

And he hath all the evidence I have

Which should I lose, I am utterly undone.

SECOND WARDER.

Faith, and I fear thoult hardly come by am now;

I am sorry for thee, even with all my heart.

[Enter the Lords with Sir Thomas More, and Attendants, and enter Lieutenant and Gentleman Porter.]

Woman, stand back, you must avoid this place;

The lords must pass this way into the Tower.

MORE.

I thank your lordships for your pains thus far

To my strong house.

WOMAN.

Now, good Sir Thomas More, for Christ's dear sake,

Deliver me my writings back again

That do concern my title.

MORE.

What, my old client, are thou got hither too?

Poor silly wretch, I must confess indeed,

I had such writings as concern thee near;

But the king has ta'en the matter into his own hand;

He has all I had: then, woman, sue to him;

I cannot help thee; thou must bear with me.

WOMAN.

Ah, gentle heart, my soul for thee is sad!

Farewell the best friend that the poor e'er had.

[Exit Woman.]

GENTLEMAN PORTER.

Before you enter through the Towergate,

Your upper garment, sir, belongs to me.

MORE.

Sir, you shall have it; there it is.

[He gives him his cap.]

GENTLEMAN PORTER.

The upmost on your back, sir; you mistake me.

MORE.

Sir, now I understand ye very well:

But that you name my back,

Sure else my cap had been the uppermost.

SHREWSBURY.

Farewell, kind lord; God send us merry meeting!

MORE.

Amen, my lord.

SURREY.

Farewell, dear friend; I hope your safe return.

MORE.

My lord, and my dear fellow in the Muses,

Farewell; farewell, most noble poet.

LIEUTENANT.

Adieu, most honored lords.

[Exeunt Lords.]

MORE.

Fair prison, welcome; yet, methinks,

For thy fair building tis too foul a name.

Many a guilty soul, and many an innocent,

Have breathed their farewell to thy hollow rooms.

I oft have entered into thee this way;

Yet, I thank God, ne'er with a clear conscience

Than at this hour:

This is my comfort yet, how hard sore

My lodging prove, the cry of the poor suitor,

Fatherless orphan, or distressed widow,

Shall not disturb me in my quiet sleep.

On, then, a God's name, to our close abode!

God is as strong here as he is abroad.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE II.

More's House.

[Enter Butler, Porter, and Horsekeeper several ways.]

BUTLER.

Robin brewer, how now, man! what cheer, what cheer?

BREWER.

Faith, Ned butler, sick of thy disease; and these our other fellows here, Rafe horsekeeper and Giles porter, sad, sad; they say my lord goes to his trial today.

HORSEKEEPER.

To it, man! why, he is now at it, God send him well to speed!

PORTER.

Amen; even as I wish to mine own soul, so speed it with my honorable lord and master, Sir Thomas More.

BUTLER.

I cannot tell, I have nothing to do with matters above my capacity; but, as God judge me, if I might speak my mind, I think there lives not a more harmless gentleman in the universal world.

BREWER.

Nor a wiser, nor a merrier, nor an honester; go to, I'll put that in upon mine own knowledge.

PORTER.

Nay, and ye bait him his due of his housekeeping, hang ye all! ye have many Lord Chancellor's comes in debt at the year's end, and for very housekeeping.

HORSEKEEPER.

Well, he was too good a lord for us, and therefore, I fear, God himself will take him: but I'll be hanged, if ever I have such an other service.

BREWER.

Soft, man, we are not discharged yet: my lord may come home again, and all will be well.

BUTLER.

I much mistrust it; when they go to raining once, there's ever foul weather for a great while after. But soft; here comes Master Gough and Master Catesby: now we shall hear more.

[Enter Gough and Catesby with a paper.]

HORSEKEEPER.

Before God, they are very sad; I doubt my lord is condemned.

PORTER.

God bless his soul! and a fig then for all wordly condemnation.

GOUGH.

Well said, Giles porter, I commend thee for it;

Twas spoken like a well affected servant

Of him that was a kind lord to us all.

CATESBY.

Which now no more he shall be; for, dear fellows,

Now we are masterless, though he may live

So long as please the king: but law hath made him

A dead man to the world, and given the axe his head,

But his sweet soul to live among the saints.

GOUGH.

Let us entreat ye to go call together

The rest of your sad fellows (by the rule

Y'are just seven score), and tell them what we hear

A virtuous honorable lord hath done

Even for the meanest follower that he had.

This writing found my lady in his study,

This instant morning, wherein is set down

Each servant's name, according to his place

And office in the house: on every man

He frankly hath bestown twenty nobles,

The best and worst together, all alike,

Which Master Catesby here forth will pay ye.

CATESBY.

Take it as it is meant, a kind remembrance

Of a fair kinder lord, with whose sad fall

He gives up house and farewell to us all:

Thus the fair spreading oak falls not alone,

But all the neighbor plants and under-trees

Are crushed down with his weight. No more of this:

Come, and receive your due, and after go

Fellow-like hence, copartners of one woe.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE III.

The Tower.

[Enter Sir Thomas More, the Lieutenant, and a Servant attending, as in his chamber in the Tower.]

MORE.

Master Lieutenant, is the warrant come?

If it be so, a God's name, let us know it.

LIEUTENANT.

My lord, it is.

MORE.

Tis welcome, sir, to me with all my heart;

His blessed will be done!

LIEUTENANT.

Your wisdom, sir, hath been so well approved,

And your fair patience in imprisonment

Hath ever shewn such constancy of mind

And Christian resolution in all troubles,

As warrant us you are not unprepared.

MORE.

No, Master Lieutenant;

I thank my God, I have peace of conscience,

Though the world and I are at a little odds:

But we'll be even now, I hope, ere long.

When is the execution of your warrant?

LIEUTENANT.

Tomorrow morning.

MORE.

So, sir, I thank ye;

I have not lived so ill, I fear to die.

Master Lieutenant, I have had a sore fit of the stone tonight; but the king hath sent me such a rare receipt, I thank him, as I shall not need to fear it much.

LIEUTENANT.

In life and death still merry Sir Thomas More.

MORE.

Sirrah fellow, reach me the urinal:

[He gives it him.]

Ha! let me see (there's) gravel in the water;

(And yet I see no grave danger in that)

The man were likely to live long enough,

So pleased the king.—Here, fellow, take it.

SERVANT.

Shall I go with it to the doctor, sir?

MORE.

No, save thy labour; we'll cossen him of a fee:

Thou shalt see me take a dram tomorrow morning,

Shall cure the stone, I warrant; doubt it not.—

Master Lieutenant, what news of my Lord of Rochester?

LIEUTENANT.

Yesterday morning was he put to death.

MORE.

The peace of soul sleep with him!

He was a learned and a reverend prelate,

And a rich man, believe me.

LIEUTENANT.

If he were rich, what is Sir Thomas More,

That all this while hath been Lord Chancellor?

MORE.

Say ye so, Master Lieutenant? what do ye think

A man, that with my time had held my place,

Might purchase?

LIEUTENANT.

Perhaps, my lord, two thousand pound a year.

MORE.

Master Lieutenant, I protest to you,

I never had the means in all my life

To purchase one poor hundred pound a year:

I think I am the poorest Chancellor

That ever was in England, though I could wish,

For credit of the place, that my estate were better.

LIEUTENANT.

It's very strange.

MORE.

It will be found as true.

I think, sir, that with most part of my coin

I have purchased as strange commodities

As ever you heard tell of in your life.

LIEUTENANT.

Commodities, my lord!

Might I (without offence) enquire of them?

MORE.

Croutches, Master Lieutenant, and bare cloaks;

For halting soldiers and poor needy scholars

Have had my gettings in the Chancery:

To think but what a cheat the crown shall have

By my attainder! I prithee, if thou beest a gentleman,

Get but a copy of my inventory.

That part of poet that was given me

Made me a very unthrift;

For this is the disease attends us all,

Poets were never thrifty, never shall.

[Enter Lady More mourning, Daughters, Master Roper.]

LIEUTENANT.

Oh, noble More!—

My lord, your wife, your son-in-law, and daughters.

MORE.

Son Roper, welcome;—welcome, wife, and girls.

Why do you weep? because I live at ease?

Did you not see, when I was Chancellor,

I was so clogged with suitors every hour,

I could not sleep, nor dine, nor sup in quiet?

Here's none of this; here I can sit and talk

With my honest keeper half a day together,

Laugh and be merry: why, then, should you weep?

ROPER.

These tears, my lord, for this your long restraint

Hope had dried up, with comfort that we yet,

Although imprisoned, might have had your life.

MORE.

To live in prison, what a life were that!

The king (I thank him) loves me more then so.

Tomorrow I shall be at liberty

To go even whether I can,

After I have dispatched my business.

LADY MORE.

Ah, husband, husband, yet submit yourself!

Have care of your poor wife and children.

MORE.

Wife, so I have; and I do leave you all

To his protection hath the power to keep you

Safer than I can,—

The father of the widow and the orphans.

ROPER.

The world, my lord, hath ever held you wise;

And 't shall be no distaste unto your wisdom,

To yield to the opinion of the state.

MORE.

I have deceived myself, I must acknowledge;

And, as you say, son Roper, to confess the same,

It will be no disparagement at all.

LADY MORE.

His highness shall be certified thereof Immediately.

[Offering to depart.]

MORE.

Nay, hear me, wife; first let me tell ye how:

I thought to have had a barber for my beard;

Now, I remember, that were labour lost,

The headsman now shall cut off head and all.

ROPER'S WIFE.

Father, his majesty, upon your meek submission,

Will yet (they say) receive you to his grace

In as great credit as you were before.

MORE.

Has appointed me to do a little business.

If that were past, my girl, thou then shouldst see

What I would say to him about that matter;

But I shall be so busy until then,

I shall not tend it.

DAUGHTER.

Ah, my dear father!

LADY MORE.

Dear lord and husband!

MORE.

Be comforted, good wife, to live and love my children;

For with thee leave I all my care of them.—

Son Roper, for my sake that have loved thee well,

And for her virtue's sake, cherish my child.—

Girl, be not proud, but of thy husband's love;

Ever retain thy virtuous modesty;

That modesty is such a comely garment

As it is never out of fashion, sits as fair

upon the meaner woman as the empress;

No stuff that gold can buy is half so rich,

Nor ornament that so becomes a woman.

Live all and love together, and thereby

You give your father a rich obsequy.

BOTH DAUGHTERS.

Your blessing, dear father.

MORE.

I must be gone—God bless you!—

To talk with God, who now doth call.

LADY MORE.

Aye, my dear husband!

MORE.

Sweet wife, good night, good night:

God send us all his everlasting light!

ROPER.

I think, before this hour,

More heavy hearts ne'er parted in the Tower.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE IV.

Tower Hill.

[Enter the Sheriffs of London and their Officers at one door, the Warders with their halbards at another.]

SECOND SHERIFF.

Officers, what time of day ist?

OFFICER.

Almost eight o'clock.

SECOND SHERIFF.

We must make haste then, least we stay too long.

SECOND WARDER.

Good morrow, Master Shrieves of London; Master Lieutenant

Wills ye repair to the limits of the Tower,

There to receive your prisoner.

FIRST SHERIFF.

Go back, and tell his worship we are ready.

SECOND SHERIFF.

Go bid the officers make clear the way,

There may be passage for the prisoner.

[Enter Lieutenant and his Guard, with More.]

MORE.

Yet, God be thanked, here's a fair day toward,

To take our journey in. Master Lieutenant,

It were fair walking on the Tower leads.

LIEUTENANT.

And so it might have liked my sovereign lord,

I would to God you might have walked there still!

[He weeps.]

MORE.

Sir, we are walking to a better place.

Oh, sir, your kind and loving tears

Are like sweet odors to embalm your friend!

Thank your good lady; since I was your guest,

She has made me a very wanton, in good sooth.

LIEUTENANT.

Oh, I had hoped we should not yet have parted!

MORE.

But I must leave ye for a little while;

Within an hour or two you may look for me;

But there will be so many come to see me,

That I shall be so proud, I will not speak;

And, sure, my memory is grown so ill,

I fear I shall forget my head behind me.

LIEUTENANT.

God and his blessed angels be about ye!—

Here, Master Shrieves, receive your prisoner.

MORE.

Good morrow, Master Shrieves of London, to ye both:

I thank ye that ye will vouchsafe to meet me;

I see by this you have not quite forgot

That I was in times past, as you are now,

A sheriff of London.

SECOND SHERIFF.

Sir, then you know our duty doth require it.

MORE.

I know it well, sir, else I would have been glad

You might have saved a labour at this time.

Ah, Master Sheriff, you and I have been of old acquaintance! you were a patient auditor of mine, when I read the divinity lecture at St. Lawrence's.

SECOND SHERIFF.

Sir Thomas More, I have heard you oft,

As many other did, to our great comfort.

MORE.

Pray God, you may so now, with all my heart!

And, as I call to mind,

When I studied the law in Lincoln's Inn,

I was of council with ye in a cause.

SECOND SHERIFF.

I was about to say so, good Sir Thomas......

MORE.

Oh, is this the place?

I promise ye, it is a goodly scaffold:

In sooth, I am come about a headless errand,

For I have not much to say, now I am here.

Well, let's ascend, a God's name:

In troth, methinks, your stair is somewhat weak; I prithee, honest friend, lend me thy hand

To help me up; as for my coming down,

Let me alone, I'll look to that myself.

[As he is going up the stairs, enters the Earls of Surrey and

Shrewsbury.]

My Lords of Surrey and Shrewsbury, give me your hands. Yet before we....ye see, though it pleaseth the king to raise me thus high, yet I am not proud, for the higher I mount, the better I can see my friends about me. I am now on a far voyage, and this strange wooden horse must bear me thither; yet I perceive by your looks you like my bargain so ill, that there's not one of ye all dare enter with me. Truly, here's a most sweet gallery; [Walking.] I like the air of it better than my garden at Chelsea. By your patience, good people, that have pressed thus into my bedchamber, if you'll not trouble me, I'll take a sound sleep here.

SHREWSBURY.

My lord, twere good you'ld publish to the world

Your great offence unto his majesty.

MORE.

My lord, I'll bequeath this legacy to the hangman, [Gives him his gown.] and do it instantly. I confess, his majesty hath been ever good to me; and my offence to his highness makes me of a state pleader a stage player (though I am old, and have a bad voice), to act this last scene of my tragedy. I'll send him (for my trespass) a reverend head, somewhat bald; for it is not requisite any head should stand covered to so high majesty: if that content him not, because I think my body will then do me small pleasure, let him but bury it, and take it.

SURREY.

My lord, my lord, hold conference with your soul;

You see, my lord, the time of life is short.

MORE.

I see it, my good lord; I dispatched that business the last night. I come hither only to be let blood; my doctor here tells me it is good for the headache.

HANGMAN.

I beseech thee, my lord, forgive me!

MORE.

Forgive thee, honest fellow! why?

HANGMAN.

For your death, my lord.

MORE.

O, my death? I had rather it were in thy power to forgive me, for thou hast the sharpest action against me; the law, my honest friend, lies in thy hands now: here's thy fee [His purse.]; and, my good fellow, let my suit be dispatched presently; for tis all one pain, to die a lingering death, and to live in the continual mill of a lawsuit. But I can tell thee, my neck is so short, that, if thou shouldst behead an hundred noblemen like myself, thou wouldst ne'er get credit by it; therefore (look ye, sir), do it handsomely, or, of my word, thou shalt never deal with me hereafter.

HANGMAN.

I'll take an order for that, my lord.

MORE.

One thing more; take heed thou cutst not off my beard: oh, I forgot; execution passed upon that last night, and the body of it lies buried in the Tower.—Stay; ist not possible to make a scape from all this strong guard? it is.

There is a thing within me, that will raise

And elevate my better part bove sight

Of these same weaker eyes; and, Master Shrieves,

For all this troop of steel that tends my death,

I shall break from you, and fly up to heaven.

Let's seek the means for this.

HANGMAN.

My lord, I pray ye, put off your doublet.

MORE.

Speak not so coldly to me; I am hoarse already;

I would be loathe, good fellow, to take more.

Point me the block; I ne'er was here before.

HANGMAN.

To the east side, my lord.

MORE.

Then to the east

We go to sigh; that o'er, to sleep in rest.

Here More forsakes all mirth; good reason why;

The fool of flesh must with her frail life die.

No eye salute my trunk with a sad tear:

Our birth to heaven should be thus, void of fear.

[Exit with Hangman, etc.]

SURREY.

A very learned worthy gentleman

Seals error with his blood. Come, we'll to court.

Let's sadly hence to perfect unknown fates,

Whilst he tends prograce to the state of states.

THE END