William Shakespeare, The Histories (Oxford 1916)

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

King John.
Prince Henry,	Son to the King.
Arthur,	Duke of Britaine, Nephew to the King.
The Earl of Pembroke.
The Earl of Essex.
The Earl of Salisbury.
The Lord Bigot.
Hubert de Burgh.
Robert Faulconbridge,	Son to Sir Robert Faulconbridge.
Philip the Bastard,	his half-brother.
James Gurney,	Servant to Lady Faulconbridge.
Peter of Pomfret,	a Prophet.
Philip,	King of France.
Lewis,	the Dauphin.
Lymoges,	Duke of Austria.
Cardinal Pandulph,	the Pope’s Legate.
Melun,	a French Lord.
Chatillon,	Ambassador from France.
Queen Elinor,	Mother to King John.
Constance,	Mother to Arthur.
Blanch of Spain,	Niece to King John.
Lady Faulconbridge.
Lords, Ladies, Citizens of Angiers, Sheriff, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants.

Scene.—Sometimes in England, and sometimes in France.

Scene I.— A Room of State in the Palace.

Enter King John, Queen Elinor, Pembroke, Essex, Salisbury, and Others, with Chatillon.

K. John.

Now, say, Chatillon, what would France with us?

Chat.

Thus, after greeting, speaks the King of France,

In my behaviour, to the majesty,

The borrow’d majesty of England here. 4

Eli.

A strange beginning; ‘borrow’d majesty!’

K. John.

Silence, good mother; hear the embassy.

Chat.

Philip of France, in right and true behalf

Of thy deceased brother Geffrey’s son, 8

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 12

Which sways usurpingly these several titles,

And put the same into young Arthur’s hand,

Thy nephew and right royal sovereign.

K. John.

What follows if we disallow of this?

Chat.

The proud control of fierce and bloody war, 17

To enforce these rights so forcibly withheld.

K. John.

Here have we war for war, and blood for blood,

Controlment for controlment: so answer France.

Chat.

Then take my king’s defiance from my mouth, 21

The furthest limit of my embassy.

K. John.

Bear mine to him, and so depart in peace:

Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France; 24

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. 28

An honourable conduct let him have:

Pembroke, look to’t. Farewell, Chatillon.

[Exeunt Chatillon and Pembroke.

Eli.

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 33

Upon the right and party of her son?

This might have been prevented and made whole

With very easy arguments of love, 36

Which now the manage of two kingdoms must

With fearful bloody issue arbitrate.

K. John.

Our strong possession and our right for us.

Eli.

Your strong possession much more than your right, 40

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 a Sheriff, who whispers Essex.

Essex.

My liege, here is the strangest controversy, 44

Come from the country to be judg’d by you,

That e’er I heard: shall I produce the men?

K. John.

Let them approach.

[Exit Sheriff.

Our abbeys and our priories shall pay 48

This expedition’s charge.

Re-enter Sheriff, with Robert Faulconbridge and Philip, his Bastard Brother.

What men are you?

Bast.

Your faithful subject I, a gentleman

Born in Northamptonshire, and eldest son,

As I suppose, to Robert Faulconbridge, 52

A soldier, by the honour-giving hand

Of Cœur-de-Lion knighted in the field.

K. John.

What art thou?

Rob.

The son and heir to that same Faulconbridge. 56

K. John.

Is that the elder, and art thou the heir?

You came not of one mother then, it seems.

Bast.

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 61

I put you o’er to heaven and to my mother:

Of that I doubt, as all men’s children may.

Eli.

Out on thee, rude man! thou dost shame thy mother 64

And wound her honour with this diffidence.

Bast.

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 68

At least from fair five hundred pound a year:

Heaven guard my mother’s honour and my land!

K. John.

A good blunt fellow. Why, being younger born,

Doth he lay claim to thine inheritance? 72

Bast.

I know not why, except to get the land.

But once he slander’d me with bastardy:

But whe’r I be as true-begot or no,

That still I lay upon my mother’s head; 76

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, 80

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!

K. John.

Why, what a madcap hath heaven lent us here! 84

Eli.

He hath a trick of Cœur-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? 88

K. 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?

Bast.

Because he hath a half-face, like my father. 92

With half that face would he have all my land;

A half-fac’d groat five hundred pound a year!

Rob.

My gracious liege, when that my father liv’d,

Your brother did employ my father much,— 96

Bast.

Well, sir, by this you cannot get my land:

Your tale must be how he employ’d my mother.

Rob.

And once dispatch’d him in an embassy

To Germany, there with the emperor 100

To treat of high affairs touching that time.

The advantage of his absence took the king,

And in the mean time sojourn’d at my father’s;

Where how he did prevail I shame to speak, 104

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. 108

Upon his death-bed he by will bequeath’d

His lands to me, and took it on his death

That this my mother’s son was none of his;

An if he were, he came into the world 112

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.

K. 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, 121

Had of your father claim’d 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; 128

Your father’s heir must have your father’s land.

Rob.

Shall then my father’s will be of no force

To dispossess that child which is not his?

Bast.

Of no more force to dispossess me, sir,

Than was his will to get me, as I think. 133

Eli.

Whe’r hadst thou rather be a Faulconbridge

And like thy brother, to enjoy thy land,

Or the reputed son of Cœur-de-Lion, 136

Lord of thy presence and no land beside?

Bast.

Madam, an if my brother had my shape,

And I had his, Sir Robert his, like him;

And if my legs were two such riding-rods, 140

My arms such eel-skins stuff’d, my face so thin

That in mine ear I durst not stick a rose

Lest men should say, ‘Look, where three-far-things goes!’

And, to his shape, were heir to all this land, 144

Would I might never stir from off this place,

I’d give it every foot to have this face:

I would not be Sir Nob in any case.

Eli.

I like thee well: wilt thou forsake thy fortune, 148

Bequeath thy land to him, and follow me?

I am a soldier and now bound to France.

Bast.

Brother, take you my land, I’ll take my chance.

Your face hath got five hundred pounds a year,

Yet sell your face for five pence and ’tis dear.

Madam, I’ll follow you unto the death.

Eli.

Nay, I would have you go before me thither.

Bast.

Our country manners give our betters way. 156

K. John.

What is thy name?

Bast.

Philip, my liege, so is my name begun;

Philip, good old Sir Robert’s wife’s eldest son.

K. John.

From henceforth bear his name whose form thou bearest: 160

Kneel thou down Philip, but arise more great;

Arise Sir Richard, and Plantagenet.

Bast.

Brother by the mother’s side, give me your hand:

My father gave me honour, yours gave land. 164

Now blessed be the hour, by night or day,

When I was got, Sir Robert was away!

Eli.

The very spirit of Plantagenet!

I am thy grandam, Richard: call me so. 168

Bast.

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. 173

Near or far off, well won is still well shot,

And I am I, howe’er I was begot.

K. John.

Go, Faulconbridge: now hast thou thy desire; 176

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.

Bast.

Brother, adieu: good fortune come to thee! 180

For thou wast got i’ the 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. 184

‘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 188

For your conversion. Now your traveller,

He and his toothpick at my worship’s mess,

And when my knightly stomach is suffic’d,

Why then I suck my teeth, and catechize 192

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 absey-book: 196

‘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, 201

And talking of the Alps and Apennines,

The Pyrenean and the river Po,

It draws toward supper in conclusion so. 204

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; 208

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 212

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. 216

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 Faulconbridge and James Gurney.

O me! it is my mother. How now, good lady!

What brings you here to court so hastily? 221

Lady F.

Where is that slave, thy brother? where is he,

That holds in chase mine honour up and down?

Bast.

My brother Robert? old Sir Robert’s son? 224

Colbrand the giant, that same mighty man?

Is it Sir Robert’s son that you seek so?

Lady F.

Sir Robert’s son! Ay, thou unreverend boy,

Sir Robert’s son: why scorn’st thou at Sir Robert? 228

He is Sir Robert’s son, and so art thou.

Bast.

James Gurney, wilt thou give us leave awhile?

Gur.

Good leave, good Philip.

Bast.

Philip! sparrow! James,

There’s toys abroad: anon I’ll tell thee more.

[Exit Gurney.

Madam, I was not old Sir Robert’s son: 233

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, 236

Could he 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. 240

Lady F.

Hast thou conspired with thy brother too,

That for thine own gain shouldst defend mine honour?

What means this scorn, thou most untoward knave?

Bast.

Knight, knight, good mother, Basilisco-like. 244

What! I am dubb’d; I have it on my shoulder.

But, mother, I am not Sir Robert’s son;

I have disclaim’d Sir Robert and my land;

Legitimation, name, and all is gone. 248

Then, good my mother, let me know my father;

Some proper man, I hope; who was it, mother?

Lady F.

Hast thou denied thyself a Faulconbridge?

Bast.

As faithfully as I deny the devil. 252

Lady F.

King Richard Cœur-de-Lion was thy father:

By long and vehement suit I was seduc’d

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, 257

Which was so strongly urg’d past my defence.

Bast.

Now, by this light, were I to get again,

Madam, I would not wish a better father. 260

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, 264

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 268

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. 272

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. 276

[Exeunt.

Scene I.— France. Before the Walls of Angiers.

Enter, on one side, the Duke of Austria, and Forces; on the other, Philip, King of France, and Forces, Lewis, Constance, Arthur, and Attendants.

K. Phi.

Before Angiers well met, brave Austria.

Arthur, that great forerunner of thy blood,

Richard, that robb’d the lion of his heart

And fought the holy wars in Palestine, 4

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, 8

And to rebuke the usurpation

Of thy unnatural uncle, English John:

Embrace him, love him, give him welcome hither.

Arth.

God shall forgive you Cœur-de-Lion’s death 12

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: 16

Welcome before the gates of Angiers, duke.

K. Phi.

A noble boy! Who would not do thee right?

Aust.

Upon thy cheek lay I this zealous kiss,

As seal to this indenture of my love, 20

That to my home I will no more return

Till Angiers, and the right thou hast in France,

Together with that pale, that white-fac’d shore,

Whose foot spurns back the ocean’s roaring tides 24

And coops from other lands her islanders,

Even till that England, hedg’d in with the main,

That water-walled bulwark, still secure

And confident from foreign purposes, 28

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.

Const.

O! take his mother’s thanks, a widow’s thanks, 32

Till your strong hand shall help to give him strength

To make a more requital to your love.

Aust.

The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords

In such a just and charitable war. 36

K. Phi.

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: 40

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.

Const.

Stay for an answer to your embassy,

Lest unadvis’d 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 48

That hot rash haste so indirectly shed.

Enter Chatillon.

K. Phi.

A wonder, lady! lo, upon thy wish,

Our messenger, Chatillon, is arriv’d!

What England says, say briefly, gentle lord; 52

We coldly pause for thee; Chatillon, speak.

Chat.

Then turn your forces from this paltry siege

And stir them up against a mightier task.

England, impatient of your just demands, 56

Hath put himself in arms: the adverse winds,

Whose leisure I have stay’d, have given him time

To land his legions all as soon as I;

His marches are expedient to this town, 60

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 niece, the Lady Blanch of Spain;

With them a bastard of the king’s deceas’d; 65

And all the unsettled humours of the land,

Rash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries,

With ladies’ faces and fierce dragons’ spleens, 68

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 72

Than now the English bottoms have waft o’er

Did never float upon the swelling tide,

To do offence and scathe in Christendom.

[Drums heard within.

The interruption of their churlish drums 76

Cuts off more circumstance: they are at hand,

To parley or to fight; therefore prepare.

K. Phi.

How much unlook’d for is this expedition!

Aust.

By how much unexpected, by so much

We must awake endeavour for defence, 81

For courage mounteth with occasion:

Let them be welcome then, we are prepar’d.

Enter King John, Elinor, Blanch, the Bastard, Lords, and Forces.

K. John.

Peace be to France, if France in peace permit 84

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. 88

K. Phi.

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: 92

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, 96

Out-faced 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; 100

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, 104

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 call’d a king,

When living blood doth in these temples beat,

Which owe the crown that thou o’ermasterest?

K. John.

From whom hast thou this great commission, France,

To draw my answer from thy articles?

K. Phi.

From that supernal judge, that stirs good thoughts 112

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, 116

And by whose help I mean to chastise it.

K. John.

Alack! thou dost usurp authority.

K. Phi.

Excuse; it is to beat usurping down.

Eli.

Who is it thou dost call usurper, France? 120

Const.

Let me make answer; thy usurping son.

Eli.

Out, insolent! thy bastard shall be king,

That thou mayst be a queen, and check the world!

Const.

My bed was ever to thy son as true

As thine was to thy husband, and this boy 125

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. 128

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.

Eli.

There’s a good mother, boy, that blots thy father. 132

Const.

There’s a good grandam, boy, that would blot thee.

Aust.

Peace!

Bast.

Hear the crier.

Aust.

What the devil art thou?

Bast.

One that will play the devil, sir, with you,

An a’ may catch your hide and you alone. 136

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. 140

Blanch.

O! well did he become that lion’s robe,

That did disrobe the lion of that robe.

Bast.

It lies as sightly on the back of him

As great Alcides’ shows upon an ass: 144

But, ass, I’ll take that burden from your back,

Or lay on that shall make your shoulders crack.

Aust.

What cracker is this same that deafs our ears

With this abundance of superfluous breath? 148

King,—Lewis, determine what we shall do straight.

K. Phil.

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. 153

Wilt thou resign them and lay down thy arms?

K. John.

My life as soon: I do defy thee, France.

Arthur of Britaine, yield thee to my hand; 156

And out of my dear love I’ll give thee more

Than e’er the coward hand of France can win.

Submit thee, boy.

Eli.

Come to thy grandam, child.

Const.

Do, child, go to it grandam, child; 160

Give grandam kingdom, and it grandam will

Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig:

There’s a good grandam.

Arth.

Good my mother, peace!

I would that I were low laid in my grave: 164

I am not worth this coil that’s made for me.

Eli.

His mother shames him so, poor boy, he weeps.

Const.

Now shame upon you, whe’r she does or no!

His grandam’s wrongs, and not his mother’s shames, 168

Draw 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 brib’d

To do him justice and revenge on you. 172

Eli.

Thou monstrous slanderer of heaven and earth!

Const.

Thou monstrous injurer of heaven and earth!

Call not me slanderer; thou and thine usurp

The dominations, royalties, and rights 176

Of this oppressed boy: this is thy eld’st 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, 180

Being but the second generation

Removed from thy sin-conceiving womb.

K. John.

Bedlam, have done.

Const.

I have but this to say,

That he’s not only plagued for her sin, 184

But God hath made her sin and her the plague

On this removed issue, plagu’d for her,

And with her plague, her sin; his injury

Her injury, the beadle to her sin, 188

All punish’d in the person of this child,

And all for her. A plague upon her!

Eli.

Thou unadvised scold, I can produce

A will that bars the title of thy son. 192

Const.

Ay, who doubts that? a will! a wicked will;

A woman’s will; a canker’d grandam’s will!

K. Phi.

Peace, lady! pause, or be more temperate:

It ill beseems this presence to cry aim 196

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. 200

Trumpet sounds. Enter Citizens upon the Walls.

First Cit.

Who is it that hath warn’d us to the walls?

K. Phi.

’Tis France, for England.

K. John.

England for itself.

You men of Angiers, and my loving subjects,—

K. Phi.

You loving men of Angiers, Arthur’s subjects, 204

Our trumpet call’d you to this gentle parle,—

K. John.

For our advantage; therefore hear us first.

These flags of France, that are advanced here

Before the eye and prospect of your town, 208

Have hither march’d 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: 212

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 do girdle you about, 217

By the compulsion of their ordinance

By this time from their fixed beds of lime

Had been dishabited, and wide havoc made 220

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 unscratch’d your city’s threaten’d cheeks,— 225

Behold, the French amaz’d vouchsafe a parle;

And now, instead of bullets wrapp’d in fire,

To make a shaking fever in your walls, 228

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 labour’d spirits,

Forwearied in this action of swift speed, 233

Crave harbourage within your city walls.

K. Phi.

When I have said, make answer to us both.

Lo! in this right hand, whose protection 236

Is most divinely vow’d 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: 240

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, 244

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, 249

Save in aspect, have all offence seal’d up;

Our cannons’ malice vainly shall be spent

Against the invulnerable clouds of heaven; 252

And with a blessed and unvex’d retire,

With unhack’d swords and helmets all unbruis’d,

We will bear home that lusty blood again

Which here we came to spout against your town, 256

And leave your children, wives, and you, in peace.

But if you fondly pass our proffer’d offer,

’Tis not the roundure of your old-fac’d walls

Can hide you from our messengers of war, 260

Though all these English and their discipline

Were harbour’d in their rude circumference.

Then tell us, shall your city call us lord,

In that behalf which we have challeng’d it? 264

Or shall we give the signal to our rage

And stalk in blood to our possession?

First Cit.

In brief, we are the King of England’s subjects:

For him, and in his right, we hold this town. 268

K. John.

Acknowledge then the king, and let me in.

First Cit.

That can we not; but he that proves the king,

To him will we prove loyal: till that time

Have we ramm’d up our gates against the world.

K. John.

Doth not the crown of England prove the king? 273

And if not that, I bring you witnesses,

Twice fifteen thousand hearts of England’s breed,—

Bast.

Bastards, and else. 276

K. John.

To verify our title with their lives.

K. Phi.

As many and as well-born bloods as those,—

Bast.

Some bastards too.

K. Phi.

Stand in his face to contradict his claim. 280

First Cit.

Till thou compound whose right is worthiest,

We for the worthiest hold the right from both.

K. John.

Then God forgive the sins of all those souls

That to their everlasting residence, 284

Before the dew of evening fall, shall fleet,

In dreadful trial of our kingdom’s king!

K. Phi.

Amen, Amen! Mount, chevaliers! to arms!

Bast.

Saint George, that swing’d the dragon, and e’er since 288

Sits on his horse back at mine hostess’ door,

Teach us some fence! [To Austria.] Sirrah, were I at home,

At your den, sirrah, with your lioness,

I would set an ox-head to your lion’s hide, 292

And make a monster of you.

Aust.

Peace! no more.

Bast

O! tremble, for you hear the lion roar.

K. John.

Up higher to the plain; where we’ll set forth

In best appointment all our regiments. 296

Bast.

Speed then, to take advantage of the field.

K. Phi.

It shall be so; [To Lewis.] and at the other hill

Command the rest to stand. God, and our right!

[Exeunt.

Alarums and excursions; then a retreat. Enter a French Herald, with trumpets, to the gates.

F. Her.

You men of Angiers, open wide your gates, 300

And let young Arthur, Duke of Britaine, in,

Who, by the hand of France this day hath made

Much work for tears in many an English mother,

Whose sons he scatter’d on the bleeding ground;

Many a widow’s husband grovelling lies, 305

Coldly embracing the discolour’d earth;

And victory, with little loss, doth play

Upon the dancing banners of the French, 308

Who are at hand, triumphantly display’d,

To enter conquerors and to proclaim

Arthur of Britaine England’s king and yours.

Enter English Herald, with trumpets.

E. Her.

Rejoice, you men of Angiers, ring your bells; 312

King John, your king and England’s, doth approach,

Commander of this hot malicious day.

Their armours, that march’d hence so silver-bright,

Hither return all gilt with Frenchmen’s blood;

There stuck no plume in any English crest 317

That is removed by a staff of France;

Our colours do return in those same hands

That did display them when we first march’d forth; 320

And, like a jolly troop of huntsmen, come

Our lusty English, all with purpled hands

Dy’d in the dying slaughter of their foes.

Open your gates and give the victors way. 324

First Cit.

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: 328

Blood hath bought blood, and blows have answer’d blows;

Strength match’d with strength, and power confronted power:

Both are alike; and both alike we like.

One must prove greatest: while they weigh so even, 332

We hold our town for neither, yet for both.

Re-enter the two Kings, with their powers, severally.

K. John.

France, hast thou yet more blood to cast away?

Say, shall the current of our right run on?

Whose passage, vex’d with thy impediment, 336

Shall leave his native channel and o’erswell

With course disturb’d even thy conflning shores,

Unless thou let his silver water keep

A peaceful progress to the ocean. 340

K. Phi.

England, thou hast not sav’d 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, 344

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 348

With slaughter coupled to the name of kings.

Bast.

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; 352

The swords of soldiers are his teeth, his fangs;

And now he feasts, mousing the flesh of men,

In undetermin’d differences of kings.

Why stand these royal fronts amazed thus? 356

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! 360

K. John.

Whose party do the townsmen yet admit?

K. Phi.

Speak, citizens, for England; who’s your king?

First Cit.

The King of England, when we know the king.

K. Phi.

Know him in us, that here hold up his right. 364

K. 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 Cit.

A greater power than we denies all this; 368

And, till it be undoubted, we do lock

Our former scruple in our strong-barr’d gates,

Kings of ourselves; until our fears, resolv’d,

Be by some certain king purg’d and depos’d. 372

Bast.

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. 376

Your royal presences be rul’d by me:

Do like the mutines of Jerusalem,

Be friends awhile and both conjointly bend

Your sharpest deeds of malice on this town. 380

By east and west let France and England mount

Their battering cannon charged to the mouths,

Till their soul-fearing clamours have brawl’d down

The flinty ribs of this contemptuous city: 384

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, 388

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, 392

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? 396

K. 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? 400

Bast.

An if thou hast the mettle of a king,

Being wrong’d as we are by this peevish town,

Turn thou the mouth of thy artillery,

As we will ours, against these saucy walls; 404

And when that we have dash’d them to the ground,

Why then defy each other, and, pell-mell,

Make work upon ourselves, for heaven or hell.

K. Phi.

Let it be so. Say, where will you assault? 408

K. John.

We from the west will send destruction

Into this city’s bosom.

Aust.

I from the north.

K. Phi.

Our thunder from the south

Shall rain their drift of bullets on this town. 412

Bast.

O, prudent discipline! From north to south

Austria and France shoot in each other’s mouth:

I’ll stir them to it. Come, away, away!

First Cit.

Hear us, great kings: vouchsafe a while to stay, 416

And I shall show you peace and fair-fac’d league;

Win you this city without stroke or wound;

Rescue those breathing lives to die in beds,

That here come sacrifices for the field. 420

Persever not, but hear me, mighty kings.

K. John.

Speak on with favour: we are bent to hear.

First Cit.

That daughter there of Spain, the Lady Blanch,

Is near to England: look upon the years 424

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, 428

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, 432

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: 436

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. 440

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, 444

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, 448

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 452

More free from motion, no, not death himself

In mortal fury half so peremptory,

As we to keep this city.

Bast.

Here’s a stay,

That shakes the rotten carcase of old Death 456

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. 460

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 cudgell’d; not a word of his 464

But buffets better than a fist of France.

’Zounds! I was never so bethump’d with words

Since I first call’d my brother’s father dad.

Eli.

[Aside to King John.] Son, list to this conjunction, make this match; 468

Give with our niece a dowry large enough;

For by this knot thou shalt so surely tie

Thy now unsur’d assurance to the crown,

That yon green boy shall have no sun to ripe 472

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, 476

Lest zeal, now melted by the windy breath

Of soft petitions, pity and remorse,

Cool and congeal again to what it was.

First Cit.

Why answer not the double majesties 480

This friendly treaty of our threaten’d town?

K. Phi.

Speak England first, that hath been forward first

To speak unto this city: what say you?

K. John.

If that the Dauphin there, thy princely son, 484

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,— 488

Except this city now by us besieg’d,—

Find liable to our crown and dignity,

Shall gild her bridal bed and make her rich

In titles, honours, and promotions, 492

As she in beauty, education, blood,

Holds hand with any princess of the world.

K. Phi.

What sayst thou, boy? look in the lady’s face.

Lew.

I do, my lord; and in her eye I find 496

A wonder, or a wondrous miracle,

The shadow of myself form’d 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 lov’d myself 501

Till now infixed I beheld myself,

Drawn in the flattering table of her eye.

[Whispers with Blanch.

Bast.

Drawn in the flattering table of her eye!

Hang’d in the frowning wrinkle of her brow!

And quarter’d in her heart! he doth espy

Himself love’s traitor: this is pity now,

That hang’d and drawn and quarter’d, there should be 508

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; 513

Or if you will, to speak more properly,

I will enforce it easily to my love.

Further I will not flatter you, my lord, 516

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. 520

K. 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.

K. John.

Speak then, Prince Dauphin; can you love this lady? 524

Lew.

Nay, ask me if I can refrain from love;

For I do love her most unfeignedly.

K. John.

Then do I give Volquessen, Touraine, Maine,

Poictiers, and Anjou, these five provinces, 528

With her to thee; and this addition more,

Full thirty thousand marks of English coin.

Philip of France, if thou be pleas’d withal,

Command thy son and daughter to join hands.

K. Phi.

It likes us well. Young princes, close your hands. 533

Aust.

And your lips too; for I am well assur’d

That I did so when I was first assur’d.

K. Phi.

Now, citizens of Angiers, ope your gates, 536

Let in that amity which you have made;

For at Saint Mary’s chapel presently

The rites of marriage shall be solemniz’d.

Is not the Lady Constance in this troop? 540

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.

Lew.

She is sad and passionate at your highness’ tent. 544

K. Phi.

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; 548

Which we, God knows, have turn’d another way,

To our own vantage.

K. John.

We will heal up all;

For we’ll create young Arthur Duke of Britaine

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, 556

Yet in some measure satisfy her so,

That we shall stop her exclamation.

Go we, as well as haste will suffer us,

To this unlook’d-for unprepared pomp. 560

[Exeunt all except the Bastard. The Citizens retire from the walls.

Bast.

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, 564

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, 569

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, 572

That smooth-fac’d gentleman, tickling Commodity,

Commodity, the bias of the world;

The world, who of itself is peized well,

Made to run even upon even ground, 576

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: 580

And this same bias, this Commodity,

This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word,

Clapp’d on the outward eye of fickle France,

Hath drawn him from his own determin’d aid,

From a resolv’d and honourable war, 585

To a most base and vile-concluded peace.

And why rail I on this Commodity?

But for because he hath not woo’d me yet. 588

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. 592

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. 596

Since kings break faith upon Commodity,

Gain, be my lord, for I will worship thee!

[Exit.

Scene I.— France. The French King’s Tent.

Enter Constance, Arthur, and Salisbury.

Const.

Gone to be married! gone to swear a peace!

False blood to false blood join’d! gone to be friends!

Shall Lewis have Blanch, and Blanch those provinces?

It is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard; 4

Be well advis’d, 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: 8

Believe me, I do not believe thee, man;

I have a king’s oath to the contrary.

Thou shalt be punish’d for thus frighting me,

For I am sick and capable of fears; 12

Oppress’d 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, 16

With my vex’d 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? 20

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? 24

Then speak again; not all thy former tale,

But this one word, whether thy tale be true.

Sal.

As true as I believe you think them false

That give you cause to prove my saying true. 28

Const.

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 32

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: 36

This news hath made thee a most ugly man.

Sal.

What other harm have I, good lady, done,

But spoke the harm that is by others done?

Const.

Which harm within itself so heinous is

As it makes harmful all that speak of it. 41

Arth.

I do beseech you, madam, be content.

Const.

If thou, that bidd’st me be content, wert grim,

Ugly and slanderous to thy mother’s womb, 44

Full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains,

Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious,

Patch’d with foul moles and eye-offending marks,

I would not care, I then would be content; 48

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 join’d to make thee great:

Of Nature’s gifts thou mayst with lilies boast 53

And with the half-blown rose. But Fortune, O!

She is corrupted, chang’d, and won from thee:

She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John, 56

And with her golden hand hath pluck’d 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, 60

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 64

Am bound to underbear.

Sal.

Pardon me, madam,

I may not go without you to the kings.

Const.

Thou mayst, thou shalt: I will not go with thee.

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; 68

For grief is proud and makes his owner stoop.

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 72

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, the Bastard, Duke of Austria, and Attendants.

K. Phi.

’Tis true, fair daughter; and this blessed day

Ever in France shall be kept festival: 76

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: 80

The yearly course that brings this day about

Shall never see it but a holiday.

Const.

[Rising.] A wicked day, and not a holy day!

What hath this day deserv’d? what hath it done

That it in golden letters should be set 85

Among the high tides in the calendar?

Nay, rather turn this day out of the week,

This day of shame, oppression, perjury: 88

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 cross’d:

But on this day let seamen fear no wrack; 92

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!

K. Phi.

By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause 96

To curse the fair proceedings of this day:

Have I not pawn’d to you my majesty?

Const.

You have beguil’d me with a counterfeit

Resembling majesty, which, being touch’d and tried, 100

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, 105

And our oppression hath made up this league.

Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjur’d kings!

A widow cries; be husband to me, heavens! 108

Let not the hours of this ungodly day

Wear out the day in peace; but, ere sunset,

Set armed discord ’twixt these perjur’d kings!

Hear me! O, hear me!

Aust.

Lady Constance, peace!

Const.

War! war! no peace! peace is to me a war. 113

O, Lymoges! O, Austria! thou dost shame

That bloody spoil. thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward!

Thou little valiant, great in villany! 116

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 perjur’d too, 120

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 125

Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength?

And dost thou now fall over to my foes?

Thou wear a hon’s hide! doff it for shame, 128

And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs.

Aust.

O! that a man should speak those words to me.

Bast.

And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs.

Aust.

Thou dar’st not say so, villain, for thy life. 132

Bast.

And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs.

K. John.

We like not this; thou dost forget thyself.

Enter Pandulph.

K. Phi.

Here comes the holy legate of the pope.

Pand.

Hail, you anointed deputies of heaven!

To thee, King John, my holy errand is. 137

I Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal,

And from Pope Innocent the legate here,

Do in his name religiously demand 140

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? 144

This, in our foresaid holy father’s name,

Pope Innocent, I do demand of thee.

K. John.

What earthly name to interrogatories

Can task the free breath of a sacred king? 148

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 152

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, 156

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 usurp’d authority. 160

K. Phi.

Brother of England, you blaspheme in this.

K. 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, 165

Purchase corrupted pardon of a man,

Who in that sale sells pardon from himself;

Though you and all the rest so grossly led 168

This juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish;

Yet I alone, alone do me oppose

Against the pope, and count his friends my foes.

Pand.

Then, by the lawful power that I have,

Thou shalt stand curs’d and excommunicate:

And blessed shall he be that doth revolt

From his allegiance to a heretic;

And meritorious shall that hand be call’d, 176

Canonized and worshipp’d as a saint,

That takes away by any secret course

Thy hateful life.

Const.

O! lawful let it be

That I have room with Rome to curse awhile.

Good father cardinal, cry thou amen 181

To my keen curses; for without my wrong

There is no tongue hath power to curse him right.

Pand.

There’s law and warrant, lady, for my curse. 184

Const.

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, 189

How can the law forbid my tongue to curse?

Pand.

Philip of France, on peril of a curse,

Let go the hand of that arch-heretic, 192

And raise the power of France upon his head,

Unless he do submit himself to Rome.

Eli.

Look’st thou pale, France? do not let go thy hand.

Const.

Look to that, devil, lest that France repent, 196

And by disjoining hands, hell lose a soul.

Aust.

King Philip, listen to the cardinal.

Bast.

And hang a calf’s-skin on his recreant limbs.

Aust.

Well, ruffian, I must pocket up these wrongs, 200

Because—

Bast.

Your breeches best may carry them.

K. John.

Philip, what sayst thou to the cardinal?

Const.

What should he say, but as the cardinal?

Lew.

Bethink you, father; for the difference

Is purchase of a heavy curse from Rome, 205

Or the light loss of England for a friend:

Forego the easier.

Blanch.

That’s the curse of Rome.

Const.

O Lewis, stand fast! the devil tempts thee here, 208

In likeness of a new untrimmed bride.

Blanch.

The Lady Constance speaks not from her faith,

But from her need.

Const.

O! if thou grant my need,

Which only lives but by the death of faith, 212

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.

K. John.

The king is mov’d, and answers not to this. 217

Const.

O! be remov’d from him, and answer well.

Aust.

Do so, King Philip: hang no more in doubt.

Bast.

Hang nothing but a calf’s-skin, most sweet lout. 220

K. Phi.

I am perplex’d, and know not what to say.

Pand.

What canst thou say but will perplex thee more,

If thou stand excommunicate and curs’d?

K. Phi.

Good reverend father, make my person yours, 224

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 link’d together

With all religious strength of sacred vows; 229

The latest breath that gave the sound of words

Was deep-sworn faith, peace, amity, true love,

Between our kingdoms and our royal selves; 232

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 besmear’d and overstain’d 236

With slaughter’s pencil, where revenge did paint

The fearful difference of incensed kings:

And shall these hands, so lately purg’d of blood,

So newly join’d in love, so strong in both, 240

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, 248

My reverend father, let it not be so!

Out of your grace, devise, ordain, impose

Some gentle order, and then we shall be bless’d

To do your pleasure and continue friends. 252

Pand.

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. 257

France, thou mayst hold a serpent by the tongue,

A chafed lion by the mortal paw,

A fasting tiger safer by the tooth, 260

Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost hold.

K. Phi.

I may disjoin my hand, but not my faith.

Pand.

So mak’st thou faith an enemy to faith:

And like a civil war sett’st oath to oath, 264

Thy tongue against thy tongue. O! let thy vow

First made to heaven, first be to heaven perform’d;

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; 269

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. 273

The better act of purposes mistook

Is to mistake again; though indirect,

Yet indirection thereby grows direct, 276

And falsehood falsehood cures, as fire cools fire

Within the scorched veins of one new-burn’d.

It is religion that doth make vows kept;

But thou hast sworn against religion 280

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; 284

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 later vows against thy first 288

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: 292

Upon which better part our prayers come in,

If thou vouchsafe them; but, if not, then know

The peril of our curses light on thee

So heavy as thou shalt not shake them off, 296

But in despair die under their black weight.

Aust.

Rebellion, flat rebellion!

Bast.

Will’t not be?

Will not a calf’s-skin stop that mouth of thine?

Lew.

Father, to arms!

Blanch.

Upon thy wedding-day? 300

Against the blood that thou hast married?

What! shall our feast be kept with slaughter’d men?

Shall braying trumpets and loud churlish drums,

Clamours of hell, be measures to our pomp? 304

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 308

Against mine uncle.

Const.

O! upon my knee,

Made hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee,

Thou virtuous Dauphin, alter not the doom

Forethought by heaven. 312

Blanch.

Now shall I see thy love: what motive may

Be stronger with thee than the name of wife?

Const.

That which upholdeth him that thee upholds,

His honour: O! thine honour, Lewis, thine honour. 316

Lew.

I muse your majesty doth seem so cold,

When such profound respects do pull you on.

Pand.

I will denounce a curse upon his head.

K. Phi.

Thou shalt not need. England, I’ll fall from thee. 320

Const.

O fair return of banish’d majesty!

Eli.

O foul revolt of French inconstancy!

K. John.

France, thou shalt rue this hour within this hour.

Bast.

Old Time the clock-setter, that bald sexton Time, 324

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; 328

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; 333

Grandam, I will not wish thy wishes thrive:

Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose;

Assured loss before the match be play’d. 336

Lew.

Lady, with me; with me thy fortune lies.

Blanch.

There where my fortune lives, there my life dies.

K. John.

Cousin, go draw our puissance together.

[Exit Bastard.

France, I am burn’d up with inflaming wrath;

A rage whose heat hath this condition, 341

That nothing can allay, nothing but blood,

The blood, and dearest-valu’d blood of France.

K. Phi.

Thy rage shall burn thee up, and thou shalt turn 344

To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire:

Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy.

K. John.

No more than he that threats. To arms let’s hie!

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. Plains near Angiers.

Alarums; excursions. Enter the Bastard, with the Duke of Austria’s head.

Bast.

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. 4

Enter King John, Arthur, and Hubert.

K. John.

Hubert, keep this boy. Philip, make up,

My mother is assailed in our tent,

And ta’en, I fear.

Bast.

My lord, I rescu’d her;

Her highness is in safety, fear you not: 8

But on, my liege; for very little pains

Will bring this labour to a happy end.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same.

Alarums; excursions; retreat. Enter King John, Elinor, Arthur, the Bastard, Hubert, and Lords.

K. 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. 4

Arth.

O! this will make my mother die with grief.

K. John.

[To the Bastard.] Cousin, away for England! haste before;

And, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags

Of hoarding abbots; set at liberty 8

Imprison’d angels: the fat ribs of peace

Must by the hungry now be fed upon:

Use our commission in his utmost force.

Bast.

Bell, book, and candle shall not drive me back 12

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. 16

Eli.

Farewell, gentle cousin.

K. John.

Coz, farewell.

[Exit Bastard.

Eli.

Come hither, little kinsman; hark, a word.

[She takes Arthur aside.

K. John.

Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert,

We owe thee much: within this wall of flesh 20

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. 24

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 asham’d

To say what good respect I have of thee. 28

Hub.

I am much bounden to your majesty.

K. 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. 32

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 36

To give me audience: if the midnight bell

Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,

Sound one into the drowsy race of night;

If this same were a churchyard where we stand,

And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs; 41

Or if that surly spirit, melancholy,

Had bak’d thy blood and made it heavy-thick,

Which else runs tickling up and down the veins,

Making that idiot, laughter, keep men’s eyes 45

And strain their cheeks to idle merriment,

A passion hateful to my purposes;

Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes, 48

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, 52

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.

Hub.

So well, that what you bid me undertake, 56

Though that my death were adjunct to my act,

By heaven, I would do it.

K. 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, 60

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.

Hub.

And I’ll keep him so 64

That he shall not offend your majesty.

K. John.

Death.

Hub.

My lord?

K. John.

A grave.

Hub.

He shall not live.

K. John.

Enough.

I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee;

Well, I’ll not say what I intend for thee: 68

Remember. Madam, fare you well:

I’ll send those powers o’er to your majesty.

Eli.

My blessing go with thee!

K. John.

For England, cousin; go:

Hubert shall be your man, attend on you 72

With all true duty. On toward Calais, ho!

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. The French King’s Tent.

Enter King Philip, Lewis, Pandulph, and Attendants.

K. Phi.

So, by a roaring tempest on the flood,

A whole armado of convicted sail

Is scatter’d and disjoin’d from fellowship.

Pand.

Courage and comfort! all shall yet go well. 4

K. Phi.

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, 8

O’erbearing interruption, spite of France?

Lew.

What he hath won that hath he fortified:

So hot a speed with such advice dispos’d,

Such temperate order in so fierce a cause, 12

Doth want example: who hath read or heard

Of any kindred action like to this?

K. Phi.

Well could I bear that England had this praise,

So we could find some pattern of our shame. 16

Enter Constance.

Look, who comes here! a grave unto a soul;

Holding the eternal spirit, against her will,

In the vile prison of afflicted breath.

I prithee lady, go away with me. 20

Const.

Lo now! now see the issue of your peace.

K. Phi.

Patience, good lady! comfort, gentle Constance!

Const.

No, I defy all counsel, all redress,

But that which ends all counsel, true redress, 24

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, 28

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: 33

Come, grin on me; and I will think thou smil’st

And buss thee as thy wife! Misery’s love,

O! come to me.

K. Phi

O fair affliction, peace! 36

Const.

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 40

Which cannot hear a lady’s feeble voice,

Which scorns a modern invocation.

Pand.

Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.

Const.

Thou art not holy to belie me so; 44

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! 48

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 canoniz’d, cardinal; 52

For being not mad but sensible of grief,

My reasonable part produces reason

How I may be deliver’d of these woes,

And teaches me to kill or hang myself: 56

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. 60

K. Phi.

Bind up those tresses. O! what love I note

In the fair multitude of those her hairs:

Where but by chance a silver drop hath fallen,

Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends 64

Do glue themselves in sociable grief;

Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,

Sticking together in calamity.

Const.

To England, if you will.

K. Phi.

Bind up your hairs. 68

Const.

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!’ 72

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 76

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, 80

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, 84

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 88

Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.

Pand.

You hold too heinous a respect of grief.

Const.

He talks to me, that never had a son.

K. Phi.

You are as fond of grief as of your child. 92

Const.

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, 96

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. 100

I will not keep this form upon my head

When there is such disorder in my wit.

O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!

My life, my joy, my food, my all the world! 104

My widow-comfort, and my sorrows’ cure!

[Exit.

K. Phi.

I fear some outrage, and I’ll follow her.

[Exit.

Lew.

There’s nothing in this world can make me joy:

Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale, 108

Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man;

And bitter shame hath spoil’d the sweet world’s taste,

That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.

Pand.

Before the curing of a strong disease,

Even in the instant of repair and health, 113

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? 116

Lew.

All days of glory, joy, and happiness.

Pand.

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. 120

’Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost

In this which he accounts so clearly won.

Are not you griev’d that Arthur is his prisoner?

Lew.

As heartily as he is glad he hath him.

Pand.

Your mind is all as youthful as your blood. 125

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 129

Thy foot to England’s throne; and therefore mark.

John hath seiz’d Arthur; and it cannot be,

That whiles warm life plays in that infant’s veins 132

The misplac’d John should entertain an hour,

One minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest.

A sceptre snatch’d with an unruly hand

Must be as boisterously maintain’d as gain’d;

And he that stands upon a slippery place 137

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. 140

Lew.

But what shall I gain by young Arthur’s fall?

Pand.

You, in the right of Lady Blanch your wife,

May then make all the claim that Arthur did.

Lew.

And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did.

Pand.

How green you are and fresh in this old world! 145

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. 148

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; 152

No natural exhalation in the sky,

No scope of nature, no distemper’d day,

No common wind, no customed event,

But they will pluck away his natural cause 156

And call them meteors, prodigies, and signs,

Abortives, presages, and tongues of heaven,

Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John.

Lew.

May be he will not touch young Arthur’s life, 160

But hold himself safe in his prisonment.

Pand.

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 165

And kiss the lips of unacquainted change,

And pick strong matter of revolt and wrath

Out of the bloody fingers’ ends of John. 168

Methinks I see this hurly all on foot:

And, O! what better matter breeds for you

Than I have nam’d. The bastard Faulconbridge

Is now in England ransacking the church, 172

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, 176

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. 180

For England go; I will whet on the king.

Lew.

Strong reasons make strong actions. Let us go:

If you say ay, the king will not say no.

[Exeunt.

Scene I.— Northampton. A Room in the Castle.

Enter Hubert and Two Attendants.

Hub.

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 4

Fast to the chair: be heedful. Hence, and watch.

First Attend.

I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.

Hub.

Uncleanly scruples! fear not you: look to’t.

[Exeunt Attendants.

Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.

Enter Arthur.

Arth.

Good morrow, Hubert.

Hub.

Good morrow, little prince.

Arth.

As little prince,—having so great a title

To be more prince,—as may be. You are sad.

Hub.

Indeed, I have been merrier.

Arth.

Mercy on me! 12

Methinks nobody 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, 16

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: 20

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.

Hub.

[Aside.] If I talk to him with his innocent prate 25

He will awake my mercy which lies dead:

Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch.

Arth.

Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day: 28

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.

Hub.

[Aside.] His words do take possession of my bosom. 32

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. 36

Can you not read it? is it not fair writ?

Arth.

Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect.

Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?

Hub.

Young boy, I must.

Arth.

And will you?

Hub.

And I will. 40

Arth.

Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,

I knit my handkercher about your brows,—

The best I had, a princess wrought it me,—

And I did never ask it you again; 44

And with my hand at midnight held your head,

And like the watchful minutes to the hour,

Still and anon cheer’d up the heavy time,

Saying, ‘What lack you?’ and, ‘Where lies your grief?’ 48

Or, ‘What good love may I perform for you?’

Many a poor man’s son would have lain still,

And ne’er have spoke a loving word to you;

But you at your sick-service had a prince. 52

Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,

And call it cunning: do an if you will.

If heaven be pleas’d that you must use me ill,

Why then you must. Will you put out mine eyes? 56

These eyes that never did nor never shall

So much as frown on you?

Hub.

I have sworn to do it;

And with hot irons must I burn them out.

Arth.

Ah! none but in this iron age would do it! 60

The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,

Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears

And quench this fiery indignation

Even in the matter of mine innocence; 64

Nay, after that, consume away in rust,

But for containing fire to harm mine eye.

Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer’d iron?

An if an angel should have come to me 68

And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,

I would not have believ’d him; no tongue but Hubert’s.

Hub.

[Stamps.] Come forth.

Re-enter Attendants, with cord, irons, &c.

Do as I bid you do. 72

Arth.

O! save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out

Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.

Hub.

Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.

Arth.

Alas! what need you be so boisterousrough? 76

I will not struggle; I will stand stone-still.

For heaven’s sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!

Nay, hear me, Hubert: drive these men away,

And I will sit as quiet as a lamb; 80

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. 84

Hub.

Go, stand within: let me alone with him.

First Attend.

I am best pleas’d to be from such a deed.

[Exeunt Attendants.

Arth.

Alas! I then have chid away my friend:

He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart. 88

Let him come back, that his compassion may

Give life to yours.

Hub.

Come, boy, prepare yourself.

Arth.

Is there no remedy?

Hub.

None, but to lose your eyes.

Arth.

O heaven! that there were but a mote in yours, 92

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. 96

Hub.

Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue.

Arth.

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, 101

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 104

And would not harm me.

Hub.

I can heat it, boy.

Arth.

No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief,

Being create for comfort, to be us’d

In undeserv’d extremes: see else yourself; 108

There is no malice in this burning coal;

The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out

And strew’d repentant ashes on his head.

Hub.

But with my breath I can revive it, boy. 112

Arth.

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 compell’d to fight, 116

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. 121

Hub.

Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eyes

For all the treasure that thine uncle owes:

Yet am I sworn and I did purpose, boy, 124

With this same very iron to burn them out.

Arth.

O! now you look like Hubert, all this while

You were disguised.

Hub.

Peace! no more. Adieu.

Your uncle must not know but you are dead;

I’ll fill these dogged spies with false reports: 129

And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure,

That Hubert for the wealth of all the world

Will not offend thee.

Arth.

O heaven! I thank you, Hubert.

Hub.

Silence! no more, go closely in with me: 133

Much danger do I undergo for thee.

[Exeunt.

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.

K. John.

Here once again we sit, once again crown’d,

And look’d upon, I hope, with cheerful eyes.

Pem.

This ‘once again,’ but that your highness pleas’d,

Was once superfluous: you were crown’d before,

And that high royalty was ne’er pluck’d off, 5

The faiths of men ne’er stained with revolt;

Fresh expectation troubled not the land

With any long’d-for change or better state. 8

Sal.

Therefore, to be possess’d 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, 12

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. 16

Pem.

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. 20

Sal.

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, 25

Makes sound opinion sick and truth suspected,

For putting on so new a fashion’d robe.

Pem.

When workmen strive to do better than well 28

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 32

Discredit more in hiding of the fault

Than did the fault before it was so patch’d.

Sal.

To this effect, before you were newcrown’d,

We breath’d our counsel: but it pleas’d your highness 36

To overbear it, and we are all well pleas’d;

Since all and every part of what we would

Doth make a stand at what your highness will.

K. John.

Some reasons of this double coronation 40

I have possess’d 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 reform’d that is not well;

And well shall you perceive how willingly 45

I will both hear and grant you your requests.

Pem.

Then I,—as one that am the tongue of these

To sound the purposes of all their hearts,— 48

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 53

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? 60

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 64

Than whereupon our weal, on you depending,

Counts it your weal he have his liberty.

Enter Hubert.

K. John.

Let it be so: I do commit his youth

To your direction. Hubert, what news with you?

[Taking him apart.

Pem.

This is the man should do the bloody deed; 69

He show’d his warrant to a friend of mine:

The image of a wicked hemous fault

Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his 72

Does show the mood of a much troubled breast;

And I do fearfully believe ’tis done,

What we so fear’d he had a charge to do.

Sal.

The colour of the king doth come and go

Between his purpose and his conscience, 77

Like heralds ’twixt two dreadful battles set:

His passion is so ripe it needs must break.

Pem.

And when it breaks, I fear will issue thence 80

The foul corruption of a sweet child’s death.

K. 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 deceas’d to-night. 85

Sal.

Indeed we fear’d his sickness was past cure.

Pem.

Indeed we heard how near his death he was

Before the child himself felt he was sick: 88

This must be answer’d, either here or hence.

K. 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? 92

Sal.

It is apparent foul play; and ’tis shame

That greatness should so grossly offer it:

So thrive it in your game! and so, farewell.

Pem.

Stay yet, Lord Salisbury; I’ll go with thee, 96

And find the inheritance of this poor child,

His little kingdom of a forced grave.

That blood which ow’d the breadth of all this isle,

Three foot of it doth hold: bad world the while! 100

This must not be thus borne: this will break out

To all our sorrows, and ere long I doubt.

[Exeunt Lords.

K. John.

They burn in indignation. I repent:

There is no sure foundation set on blood, 104

No certain life achiev’d 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: 108

Pour down thy weather: how goes all in France?

Mess.

From France to England. Never such a power

For any foreign preparation

Was levied in the body of a land. 112

The copy of your speed is learn’d by them;

For when you should be told they do prepare,

The tidings come that they are all arriv’d.

K. John.

O! where hath our intelligence been drunk? 116

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?

Mess.

My liege, her ear

Is stopp’d with dust: the first of April died 120

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. 124

K. John.

Withhold thy speed, dreadful occasion!

O! make a league with me, till I have pleas’d

My discontented peers. What! mother dead!

How wildly then walks my estate in France! 128

Under whose conduct came those powers of France

That thou for truth giv’st out are landed here?

Mess.

Under the Dauphin.

K. John.

Thou hast made me giddy

With these ill tidings.

Enter the Bastard, and Peter of Pomfret.

Now, what says the world 132

To your proceedings? do not seek to stuff

My head with more ill news, for it is full.

Bast.

But if you be afeard to hear the worst,

Then let the worst unheard fall on your head.

K. John.

Bear with me, cousin, for I was amaz’d 137

Under the tide; but now I breathe again

Aloft the flood, and can give audience

To any tongue, speak it of what it will. 140

Bast.

How I have sped among the clergymen,

The sums I have collected shall express.

But as I travell’d hither through the land,

I find the people strangely fantasied, 144

Possess’d 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 148

With many hundreds treading on his heels;

To whom he sung, in rude harsh-sounding rimes,

That, ere the next Ascension-day at noon,

Your highness should deliver up your crown. 152

K. John.

Thou idle dreamer, wherefore didst thou so?

Peter.

Foreknowing that the truth will fall out so.

K. John.

Hubert, away with him; imprison him:

And on that day at noon, whereon, he says, 156

I shall yield up my crown, let him be hang’d.

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 arriv’d?

Bast.

The French, my lord; men’s mouths are full of it: 161

Besides, I met Lord Bigot and Lord Salisbury,

With eyes as red as new-enkindled fire,

And others more, going to seek the grave 164

Of Arthur, whom they say is kill’d to-night

On your suggestion.

K. John.

Gentle kinsman, go,

And thrust thyself into their companies.

I have a way to win their loves again; 168

Bring them before me.

Bast.

I will seek them out.

K. John.

Nay, but make haste; the better foot before.

O! let me have no subject enemies

When adverse foreigners affright my towns 172

With dreadful pomp of stout invasion.

Be Mercury, set feathers to thy heels,

And fly like thought from them to me again.

Bast.

The spirit of the time shall teach me speed. 176

K. 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.

Mess.

With all my heart, my liege.

[Exit.

K. John.

My mother dead!

Re-enter Hubert.

Hub.

My lord, they say five moons were seen to-night:

Four fixed, and the fifth did whirl about

The other four in wondrous motion. 184

K. John.

Five moons!

Hub.

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 188

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. 192

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 rank’d in Kent. 200

Another lean unwash’d artificer

Cuts off his tale and talks of Arthur’s death.

K. John.

Why seek’st thou to possess me with these fears?

Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur’s death?

Thy hand hath murder’d him: I had a mighty cause 205

To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill him.

Hub.

No had, my lord! why, did you not provoke me?

K. John.

It is the curse of kings to be attended 208

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 212

Of dangerous majesty, when, perchance, it frowns

More upon humour than advis’d respect.

Hub.

Here is your hand and seal for what I did.

K. John.

O! when the last account ’twixt heaven and earth 216

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

Makes ill deeds done! Hadst not thou been by,

A fellow by the hand of nature mark’d, 221

Quoted and sign’d to do a deed of shame,

This murder had not come into my mind;

But taking note of thy abhorr’d aspect, 224

Finding thee fit for bloody villany,

Apt, liable to be employ’d in danger,

I faintly broke with thee of Arthur’s death;

And thou, to be endeared to a king, 228

Made it no conscience to destroy a prince.

Hub.

My lord,—

K. John.

Hadst thou but shook thy head or made a pause

When I spake darkly what I purposed, 232

Or turn’d 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: 236

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 240

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 brav’d,

Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers:

Nay, in the body of this fleshly land, 245

This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath,

Hostility and civil tumult reigns

Between my conscience and my cousin’s death.

Hub.

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, 252

Not painted with the crimson spots of blood.

Within this bosom never enter’d yet

The dreadful motion of a murderous thought;

And you have slander’d nature in my form, 256

Which, howsoever rude exteriorly,

Is yet the cover of a fairer mind

Than to be butcher of an innocent child.

K. John.

Doth Arthur live? O! haste thee to the peers, 260

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, 264

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. 268

I conjure thee but slowly; run more fast.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. Before the Castle.

Enter Arthur, on the Walls.

Arth

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 disguis’d me quite. 4

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. 8

[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.

Sal.

Lords, I will meet him at Saint Edmundsbury.

It is our safety, and we must embrace 12

This gentle offer of the perilous time.

Pem.

Who brought that letter from the cardinal?

Sal.

The Count Melun, a noble lord of France;

Whose private with me of the Dauphin’s love, 16

Is much more general than these lines import.

Big.

To-morrow morning let us meet him then.

Sal.

Or rather then set forward; for ’twill be

Two long days’ journey, lords, or e’er we meet.

Enter the Bastard.

Bast.

Once more to-day well met, distemper’d lords! 21

The king by me requests your presence straight.

Sal.

The king hath dispossess’d himself of us:

We will not line his thin bestained cloak 24

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.

Bast.

Whate’er you think, good words, I think, were best. 28

Sal.

Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now.

Bast.

But there is little reason in your grief;

Therefore ’twere reason you had manners now.

Pem.

Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege.

Bast.

’Tis true; to hurt his master, no man else. 33

Sal.

This is the prison.

[Seeing Arthur.

What is he lies here?

Pem.

O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!

The earth had not a hole to hide this deed. 36

Sal.

Murder, as hating what himself hath done,

Doth lay it open to urge on revenge.

Big.

Or when he doom’d this beauty to a grave,

Found it too precious-princely for a grave. 40

Sal.

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, 44

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, 48

That ever wall-eyed wrath or staring rage

Presented to the tears of soft remorse.

Pem.

All murders past do stand excus’d in this:

And this, so sole and so unmatchable, 52

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. 56

Bast.

It is a damned and a bloody work;

The graceless action of a heavy hand,

If that it be the work of any hand.

Sal.

If that it be the work of any hand! 60

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, 64

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, 68

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. 72

Pem.

Our souls religiously confirm thy words.

Big.

Our souls religiously confirm thy words.

Enter Hubert.

Hub.

Lords, I am hot with haste in seeking you:

Arthur doth live: the king hath sent for you.

Sal.

O! he is bold and blushes not at death.

Avaunt, thou hateful villain! get thee gone. 77

Hub.

I am no villain.

Sal.

[Drawing his sword.] Must I rob the law?

Bast.

Your sword is bright, sir; put it up again.

Sal.

Not till I sheathe it in a murderer’s skin.

Hub.

Stand back, Lord Salisbury, stand back, I say: 81

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; 84

Lest I, by marking of your rage, forget

Your worth, your greatness, and nobility.

Big.

Out, dunghill! dar’st thou brave a nobleman?

Hub.

Not for my life; but yet I dare defend

My innocent life against an emperor. 89

Sal.

Thou art a murderer.

Hub.

Do not prove me so;

Yet I am none. Whose tongue soe’er speaks false,

Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lies. 92

Pem.

Cut him to pieces.

Bast.

Keep the peace, I say.

Sal.

Stand by, or I shall gall you, Faulconbridge.

Bast.

Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury:

If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot, 96

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.

Big.

What wilt thou do, renowned Faulconbridge? 101

Second a villain and a murderer?

Hub.

Lord Bigot, I am none.

Big.

Who kill’d this prince?

Hub.

’Tis not an hour since I left him well:

I honour’d him, I lov’d him; and will weep 105

My date of life out for his sweet life’s loss.

Sal.

Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes,

For villany is not without such rheum; 108

And he, long traded in it, makes it seem

Like rivers of remorse and innocency.

Away with me, all you whose souls abhor

The uncleanly savours of a slaughter-house;

For I am stifled with this smell of sin. 113

Big.

Away toward Bury; to the Dauphin there!

Pem.

There tell the king he may inquire us out.

[Exeunt Lords.

Bast.

Here’s a good world! Knew you of this fair work? 116

Beyond the infinite and boundless reach

Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death,

Art thou damn’d, Hubert.

Hub.

Do but hear me, sir.

Bast.

Ha! I’ll tell thee what; 120

Thou art damn’d as black—nay, nothing is so black;

Thou art more deep damn’d than Prince Lucifer:

There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell

As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child. 124

Hub.

Upon my soul,—

Bast.

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 128

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, 132

Enough to stifle such a villain up.

I do suspect thee very grievously.

Hub.

If I in act, consent, or sin of thought,

Be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath 136

Which was embounded in this beauteous clay,

Let hell want pains enough to torture me.

I left him well.

Bast.

Go, bear him in thine arms.

I am amaz’d, methinks, and lose my way 140

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 144

Is fled to heaven; and England now is left

To tug and scamble and to part by the teeth

The unow’d interest of proud swelling state.

Now for the bare-pick’d bone of majesty 148

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,— 152

As doth a raven on a sick-fallen beast,—

The imminent decay of wrested pomp.

Now happy he whose cloak and ceinture can

Hold out this tempest. Bear away that child

And follow me with speed: I’ll to the king: 157

A thousand businesses are brief in hand,

And heaven itself doth frown upon the land.

[Exeunt.

Scene I.— The Same. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King John, Pandulph with the crown, and Attendants.

K. John.

Thus have I yielded up into your hand

The circle of my glory.

Pand.

[Giving John the crown.] Take again

From this my hand, as holding of the pope,

Your sovereign greatness and authority. 4

K. 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 inflam’d.

Our discontented counties do revolt, 8

Our people quarrel with obedience,

Swearing allegiance and the love of soul

To stranger blood, to foreign royalty.

This inundation of mistemper’d humour 12

Rests by you only to be qualified:

Then pause not; for the present time’s so sick,

That present medicine must be minister’d,

Or overthrow incurable ensues. 16

Pand.

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 20

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.

K. John.

Is this Ascension-day? Did not the prophet 25

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; 28

But, heaven be thank’d, it is but voluntary.

Enter the Bastard.

Bast.

All Kent hath yielded; nothing there holds out

But Dover Castle: London hath receiv’d,

Like a kind host, the Dauphin and his powers:

Your nobles will not hear you, but are gone 33

To offer service to your enemy;

And wild amazement hurries up and down

The little number of your doubtful friends. 36

K. John.

Would not my lords return to me again

After they heard young Arthur was alive?

Bast

They found him dead and cast into the streets,

An empty casket, where the jewel of life 40

By some damn’d hand was robb’d and ta’en away.

K. John.

That villain Hubert told me he did live.

Bast.

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; 45

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; 48

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 52

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. 56

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 further from the doors, 60

And grapple with him ere he comes so nigh.

K. John.

The legate of the pope hath been with me,

And I have made a happy peace with him;

And he hath promis’d to dismiss the powers 64

Led by the Dauphin.

Bast.

O inglorious league!

Shall we, upon the footing of our land,

Send fair-play orders and make compromise,

Insinuation, parley and base truce 68

To arms invasive? shall a beardless boy,

A cocker’d silken wanton, brave our fields,

And flesh his spirit in a war-like soul,

Mocking the air with colours idly spread, 72

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. 76

K. John.

Have thou the ordering of this present time.

Bast.

Away then, with good courage! yet, I know,

Our party may well meet a prouder foe.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Plain, near St. Edmundsbury. The French Camp.

Enter, in arms, Lewis, Salisbury, Melun, Pembroke, Bigot, and Soldiers.

Lew.

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, 4

Both they and we, perusing o’er these notes,

May know wherefore we took the sacrament,

And keep our faiths firm and inviolable.

Sal.

Upon our sides it never shall be broken. 8

And, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear

A voluntary zeal, an unurg’d faith

To your proceedings; yet, believe me, prince,

I am not glad that such a sore of time 12

Should seek a plaster by contemn’d 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 16

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, 20

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! 24

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 28

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? 32

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 gripple thee unto a pagan shore; 36

Where these two Christian armies might combine

The blood of malice in a vein of league,

And not to spend it so unneighbourly!

Lew.

A noble temper dost thou show in this;

And great affections wrestling in thy bosom 41

Do make an earthquake of nobility.

O! what a noble combat hast thou fought

Between compulsion and a brave respect. 44

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; 48

But this effusion of such manly drops,

This shower, blown up by tempest of the soul,

Startles mine eyes, and makes me more amaz’d

Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven 52

Figur’d 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 56

That never saw the giant world enrag’d;

Nor met with fortune other than at feasts,

Full warm of blood, of mirth, of gossiping.

Come, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as deep 60

Into the purse of rich prosperity

As Lewis himself: so, nobles, shall you all,

That knit your sinews to the strength of mine.

Enter Pandulph attended.

And even there, methinks, an angel spake: 64

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.

Pand.

Hail, noble prince of France! 68

The next is this: King John hath reconcil’d

Himself to Rome; his spirit is come in

That so stood out against the holy church,

The great metropolis and see of Rome. 72

Therefore thy threat’ning colours now wind up,

And tame the savage spirit of wild war,

That, like a lion foster’d up at hand,

It may lie gently at the foot of peace, 76

And be no further harmful than in show.

Lew.

Your grace shall pardon me; I will not back:

I am too high-born to be propertied,

To be a secondary at control, 80

Or useful serving-man and instrument

To any sovereign state throughout the world.

Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars

Between this chastis’d kingdom and myself, 84

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, 88

Acquainted me with interest to this land,

Yea, thrust this enterprise into my heart;

And come you now to tell me John hath made

His peace with Rome? What is that peace to me? 92

I, by the honour of my marriage-bed,

After young Arthur, claim this land for mine;

And, now it is half-conquer’d, must I back

Because that John hath made his peace with Rome? 96

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, 100

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 roy! as I have bank’d their towns? 104

Have I not here the best cards for the game

To win this easy match play’d for a crown?

And shall I now give o’er the yielded set?

No, no, on my soul, it never shall be said. 108

Pand.

You look but on the outside of this work.

Lew.

Outside or inside, I will not return

Till my attempt so much be glorified

As to my ample hope was promised 112

Before I drew this gallant head of war,

And cull’d these fiery spirits from the world,

To outlook conquest and to win renown

Even in the jaws of danger and of death. 116

[Trumpet sounds.

What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?

Enter the Bastard, attended.

Bast.

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 120

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.

Pand.

The Dauphin is too wilful-opposite,

And will not temporize with my entreaties: 125

He flatly says he’ll not lay down his arms.

Bast.

By all the blood that ever fury breath’d,

The youth says well. Now hear our English king; 128

For thus his royalty doth speak in me.

He is prepar’d; and reason too he should:

This apish and unmannerly approach,

This harness’d masque and unadvised revel, 132

This unhair’d sauciness and boyish troops,

The king doth smile at; and is well prepar’d

To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms,

From out the circle of his territories. 136

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: 140

To lie like pawns lock’d 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, 144

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, 148

And like an eagle o’er his aiery towers,

To souse annoyance that comes near his nest.

And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts,

You bloody Neroes, ripping up the womb 152

Of your dear mother England, blush for shame:

For your own ladies and pale-visag’d maids

Like Amazons come tripping after drums,

Their thimbles into armed gauntlets change, 156

Their neelds to lances, and their gentle hearts

To fierce and bloody inclination.

Lew.

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 161

With such a brabbler.

Pand.

Give me leave to speak.

Bast.

No, I will speak.

Lew.

We will attend to neither.

Strike up the drums; and let the tongue of war 164

Plead for our interest and our being here.

Bast.

Indeed, your drums, being beaten, will cry out;

And so shall you, being beaten. Do but start

An echo with the clamour of thy drum, 168

And even at hand a drum is ready brac’d

That shall reverberate all as loud as thine;

Sound but another, and another shall

As loud as thine rattle the welkin’s ear 172

And mock the deep-mouth’d thunder: for at hand,—

Not trusting to this halting legate here,

Whom he hath us’d rather for sport than need,—

Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits 176

A bare-ribb’d death, whose office is this day

To feast upon whole thousands of the French.

Lew.

Strike up our drums, to find this danger out.

Bast.

And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. A Field of Battle.

Alarums. Enter King John and Hubert.

K. John.

How goes the day with us? O! tell me, Hubert.

Hub.

Badly, I fear. How fares your majesty?

K. John.

This fever, that hath troubled me so long,

Lies heavy on me: O! my heart is sick. 4

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

My lord, your valiant kinsman, Faulconbridge,

Desires your majesty to leave the field,

And send him word by me which way you go.

K. John.

Tell him, toward Swinstead, to the abbey there. 8

Mess.

Be of good comfort: for the great supply

That was expected by the Dauphin here,

Are wrack’d three nights ago on Goodwin sands.

This news was brought to Richard but even now.

The French fight coldly, and retire themselves. 13

K. 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. 17

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. Another Part of the Same.

Enter Salisbury, Pembroke, Bigot, and Others.

Sal.

I did not think the king so stor’d with friends.

Pem.

Up once again; put spirit in the French:

If they miscarry we miscarry too.

Sal.

That misbegotten devil, Faulconbridge,

In spite of spite, alone upholds the day. 5

Pem.

They say King John, sore sick, hath left the field.

Enter Melun wounded, and led by Soldiers.

Mel.

Lead me to the revolts of England here.

Sal.

When we were happy we had other names.

Pem.

It is the Count Melun.

Sal.

Wounded to death.

Mel.

Fly, noble English; you are bought and sold;

Unthread the rude eye of rebellion,

And welcome home again discarded faith. 12

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 moe with me, 17

Upon the altar at Saint Edmundsbury;

Even on that altar where we swore to you

Dear amity and everlasting love. 20

Sal.

May this be possible? may this be true?

Mel.

Have I not hideous death within my view,

Retaining but a quantity of life,

Which bleeds away, even as a form of wax 24

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 28

That I must die here and live hence by truth?

I say again, if Lewis do win the day,

He is forsworn, if e’er those eyes of yours

Behold another day break in the east: 32

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 37

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; 40

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 44

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. 48

Sal.

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, 52

And like a bated and retired flood,

Leaving our rankness and irregular course,

Stoop low within those bounds we have o’erlook’d,

And calmly run on in obedience, 56

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. 61

[Exeunt, leading off Melun.

Scene V.— The Same. The French Camp.

Enter Lewis and his Train.

Lew.

The sun of heaven methought was loath to set,

But stay’d and made the western welkin blush,

When the English measur’d backward their own ground

In faint retire. O! bravely came we off, 4

When with a volley of our needless shot,

After such bloody toil, we bid good night,

And wound our tottering colours clearly up,

Last in the field, and almost lords of it! 8

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

Where is my prince, the Dauphin?

Lew.

Here: what news?

Mess.

The Count Melun is slain; the English lords,

By his persuasion, are again fall’n off;

And your supply, which you have wish’d so long,

Are cast away and sunk, on Goodwin sands. 13

Lew.

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 16

King John did fly an hour or two before

The stumbling night did part our weary powers?

Mess.

Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord.

Lew.

Well; keep good quarter and good care to-night: 20

The day shall not be up so soon as I,

To try the fair adventure of to-morrow.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— An open Place in the neighbourhood of Swinstead Abbey.

Enter the Bastard and Hubert, severally.

Hub.

Who’s there? speak, ho! speak quickly, or I shoot.

Bast.

A friend. What art thou?

Hub.

Of the part of England.

Bast.

Whither dost thou go?

Hub.

What’s that to thee? Why may not I demand 4

Of thine affairs as well as thou of mine?

Bast.

Hubert, I think?

Hub.

Thou hast a perfect thought:

I will upon all hazards well believe

Thou art my friend, that know’st my tongue so well. 8

Who art thou?

Bast.

Who thou wilt: and if thou please,

Thou mayst befriend me so much as to think

I come one way of the Plantagenets.

Hub.

Unkind remembrance! thou and eyeless night 12

Have done me shame: brave soldier, pardon me,

That any accent breaking from thy tongue

Should ’scape the true acquaintance of mine ear.

Bast.

Come, come; sans compliment, what news abroad? 16

Hub.

Why, here walk I in the black brow of night,

To find you out.

Bast

Brief, then; and what’s the news?

Hub.

O! my sweet sir, news fitting to the night,

Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible. 20

Bast.

Show me the very wound of this ill news:

I am no woman; I’ll not swound at it.

Hub.

The king, I fear, is poison’d by a monk:

I left him almost speechless; and broke out 24

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.

Bast.

How did he take it? who did taste to him? 28

Hub.

A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain,

Whose bowels suddenly burst out: the king

Yet speaks, and peradventure may recover.

Bast.

Whom didst thou leave to tend his majesty? 32

Hub.

Why, know you not? the lords are all come back,

And brought Prince Henry in their company;

At whose request the king hath pardon’d them,

And they are all about his majesty. 36

Bast.

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; 40

These Lincoln Washes have devoured them:

Myself, well-mounted, hardly have escap’d.

Away before! conduct me to the king;

I doubt he will be dead or ere I come.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— The Orchard of Swinstead Abbey.

Enter Prince Henry, Salisbury, and Bigot.

P. Hen.

It is too late: the life of all his blood

Is touch’d corruptibly; and his pure brain,—

Which some suppose the soul’s frail dwelling-house,—

Doth, by the idle comments that it makes, 4

Foretell the ending of mortality.

Enter Pembroke.

Pem

His highness yet doth speak; and holds belief

That, being brought into the open air,

It would allay the burning quality 8

Of that fell poison which assaileth him.

P. Hen.

Let him be brought into the orchard here.

Doth he still rage?

[Exit Bigot.

Pem.

He is more patient

Than when you left him: even now he sung. 12

P. Hen.

O, vanity of sickness! fierce extremes

In their continuance will not feel themselves.

Death, having prey’d upon the outward parts,

Leaves them invisible; and his siege is now 16

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. 20

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 24

Sal.

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 carrying King John in a chair.

K. John.

Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room; 28

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 32

Upon a parchment, and against this fire

Do I shrink up.

P. Hen.

How fares your majesty?

K. John.

Poison’d, ill-fare; dead, forsook, cast off;

And none of you will bid the winter come 36

To thrust his icy fingers in my maw;

Nor let my kingdom’s rivers take their course

Through my burn’d bosom; nor entreat the north

To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips 40

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.

P. Hen.

O! that there were some virtue in my tears, 44

That might relieve you.

K John.

The salt in them is hot.

Within me is a hell; and there the poison

Is as a fiend confin’d to tyrannize

On unreprievable condemned blood. 48

Enter the Bastard.

Bast.

O! I am scalded with my violent motion

And spleen of speed to see your majesty.

K. John.

O cousin! thou art come to set mine eye:

The tackle of my heart is crack’d and burn’d, 52

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; 56

And then all this thou seest is but a clod

And module of confounded royalty.

Bast.

The Dauphin is preparing hitherward,

Where heaven he knows how we shall answer him: 60

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. 64

[The King dies.

Sal.

You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear.

My liege! my lord! But now a king, now thus.

P. Hen.

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? 69

Bast.

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. 73

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, 76

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. 80

Sal.

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 84

As we with honour and respect may take,

With purpose presently to leave this war.

Bast.

He will the rather do it when he sees

Ourselves well sinewed to our defence. 88

Sal.

Nay, it is in a manner done already;

For many carriages he hath dispatch’d

To the sea-side, and put his cause and quarrel

To the disposing of the cardinal: 92

With whom yourself, myself, and other lords,

If you think meet, this afternoon will post

To consummate this business happily.

Bast

Let it be so. And you, my noble prince,

With other princes that may best be spar’d, 97

Shall wait upon your father’s funeral.

P. Hen.

At Worcester must his body be interr’d;

For so he will’d it.

Bast.

Thither shall it then. 100

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 104

And true subjection everlastingly.

Sal.

And the like tender of our love we make,

To rest without a spot for evermore.

P. Hen.

I have a kind soul that would give you thanks, 108

And knows not how to do it but with tears.

Bast.

O! let us pay the time but needful woe

Since it hath been beforehand with our griefs.

This England never did, nor never shall, 112

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, 116

And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue,

If England to itself do rest but true.

[Exeunt.

THE TRAGEDY OF KING RICHARD THE SECOND

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

King Richard the Second.
John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, }	Uncles to the King.
Edmund of Langley, Duke of York, }	Uncles to the King.
Henry, surnamed Bolingbroke, Duke of Hereford, Son to John of Gaunt: afterwards King Henry IV.
Duke of Aumerle,	Son to the Duke of York.
Thomas Mowbray,	Duke of Norfolk.
Duke of Surrey.
Earl of Salisbury.
Lord Berkeley.
Bushy, }	Servants to King Richard.
Bagot, }
Green, }
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.

Scene I.— London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King Richard, attended; John of Gaunt, and other Nobles.

K. Rich.

Old John of Gaunt, time-honour’d Lancaster,

Hast thou, according to thy oath and band,

Brought hither Henry Hereford thy bold son,

Here to make good the boisterous late appeal, 4

Which then our leisure would not let us hear,

Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

Gaunt.

I have, my liege.

K. Rich.

Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded him, 8

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, 12

On some apparent danger seen in him

Aim’d at your highness, no inveterate malice.

K. Rich.

Then call them to our presence: face to face,

And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear

The accuser and the accused freely speak: 17

[Exeunt some Attendants.

High-stomach’d are they both, and full of ire,

In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire.

Re-enter Attendants, with Bolingbroke and Mowbray.

Boling.

Many years of happy days befall 20

My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege!

Mow.

Each day still better other’s happiness;

Until the heavens, envying earth’s good hap,

Add an immortal title to your crown! 24

K. Rich.

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 28

Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

Boling.

First,—heaven be the record to my speech!—

In the devotion of a subject’s love,

Tendering the precious safety of my prince, 32

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 36

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, 40

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; 44

And wish, so please my sovereign, ere I move,

What my tongue speaks, my right drawn sword may prove.

Mow.

Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal:

’Tis not the trial of a woman’s war, 48

The bitter clamour of two eager tongues,

Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain;

The blood is hot that must be cool’d for this:

Yet can I not of such tame patience boast 52

As to be hush’d 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 return’d 56

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; 60

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, 64

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. 68

Boling.

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: 72

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, 76

What I have spoke, or thou canst worse devise.

Mow.

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, 80

Or chivalrous design of knightly trial:

And when I mount, alive may I not light,

If I be traitor or unjustly fight!

K. Rich.

What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray’s charge? 84

It must be great that can inherit us

So much as of a thought of ill in him.

Boling.

Look, what I speak, my life shall prove it true;

That Mowbray hath receiv’d eight thousand nobles 88

In name of lendings for your highness’ soldiers,

The which he hath detain’d for lewd employments,

Like a false traitor and injurious villain.

Besides I say and will in battle prove, 92

Or here or elsewhere to the furthest verge

That ever was survey’d by English eye,

That all the treasons for these eighteen years

Complotted and contrived in this land, 96

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, 101

And consequently, like a traitor coward,

Sluic’d out his innocent soul through streams of blood:

Which blood, like sacrificing Abel’s, cries, 104

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. 108

K. Rich.

How high a pitch his resolution soars!

Thomas of Norfolk, what sayst thou to this?

Mow.

O! let my sovereign turn away his face

And bid his ears a little while be deaf, 112

Till I have told this slander of his blood

How God and good men hate so foul a liar.

K. Rich.

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,— 117

Now, by my sceptre’s awe I make a vow,

Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood

Should nothing privilege him, nor partialize 120

The unstooping firmness of my upright soul.

He is our subject, Mowbray; so art thou:

Free speech and fearless I to thee allow.

Mow.

Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart, 124

Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest.

Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais

Disburs’d I duly to his highness’ soldiers;

The other part reserv’d I by consent, 128

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, 132

I slew him not; but to mine own disgrace

Neglected my sworn duty in that case.

For you, my noble Lord of Lancaster,

The honourable father to my foe, 136

Once did I lay an ambush for your life,

A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul;

But ere I last receiv’d the sacrament

I did confess it, and exactly begg’d 140

Your Grace’s pardon, and I hope I had it.

This is my fault: as for the rest appeal’d,

It issues from the rancour of a villain,

A recreant and most degenerate traitor; 144

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 148

Even in the best blood chamber’d in his bosom.

In haste whereof, most heartily I pray

Your highness to assign our trial day.

K. Rich.

Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be rul’d by me; 152

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, 156

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: 160

Throw down, my son, the Duke of Norfolk’s gage.

K. Rich.

And, Norfolk, throw down his.

Gaunt.

When, Harry, when?

Obedience bids I should not bid again.

K. Rich.

Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is no boot. 164

Mow.

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,— 168

To dark dishonour’s use thou shalt not have.

I am disgrac’d, impeach’d, and baffled here,

Pierc’d to the soul with slander’s venom’d spear,

The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood 172

Which breath’d this poison.

K. Rich.

Rage must be withstood:

Give me his gage: lions make leopards tame.

Mow.

Yea, but not change his spots: take but my shame,

And I resign my gage. My dear dear lord, 176

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-barr’d-up chest 180

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. 185

K. Rich.

Cousin, throw down your gage: do you begin.

Boling.

O! God defend my soul from such deep sin.

Shall I seem crest fall’n in my father’s sight, 188

Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height

Before this out-dar’d dastard? Ere my tongue

Shall wound mine honour with such feeble wrong,

Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear 192

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.

K. Rich.

We were not born to sue, but to command: 196

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 200

The swelling difference of your settled hate:

Since we cannot atone you, we shall see

Justice design the victor’s chivalry.

Marshal, command our officers-at-arms 204

Be ready to direct these home alarms.

[Exeunt.

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 4

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. 8

Duch.

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, 12

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, 17

One flourishing branch of his most royal root,

Is crack’d, and all the precious liquor spilt;

Is hack’d down, and his summer leaves all vaded,

By envy’s hand and murder’s bloody axe. 21

Ah, Gaunt! his blood was thine: that bed, that womb,

That metal, that self-mould, that fashion’d thee

Made him a man; and though thou liv’st and breath’st, 24

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. 28

Call it not patience, Gaunt; it is despair:

In suffering thus thy brother to be slaughter’d

Thou show’st the naked pathway to thy life,

Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee: 32

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, 37

His deputy anointed in his sight,

Hath caus’d his death; the which if wrongfully,

Let heaven revenge, for I may never lift 40

An angry arm against his minister.

Duch.

Where then, alas! may I complain myself?

Gaunt.

To God, the widow’s champion and defence.

Duch.

Why then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt.

Thou go’st to Coventry, there to behold 45

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. 48

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, 52

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! 57

Duch.

Yet one word more. Grief boundeth where it falls,

Not with the empty hollowness, but weight:

I take my leave before I have begun, 60

For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done.

Commend me to my brother, Edmund York.

Lo! this is all: nay, yet depart not so;

Though this be all, do not so quickly go; 64

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 unfurnish’d walls, 68

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. 72

Desolate, desolate will I hence, and die:

The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Open Space, near Coventry. Lists set out, and a Throne. Heralds, &c., attending.

Enter the Lord Marshal and Aumerle.

Mar.

My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm’d?

Aum.

Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in.

Mar.

The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold,

Stays but the summons of the appellant’s trumpet. 4

Aum.

Why then, the champions are prepar’d, and stay

For nothing but his majesty’s approach.

Flourish. 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, preceded by a Herald.

K. Rich.

Marshal, demand of yonder champion

The cause of his arrival here in arms: 8

Ask him his name, and orderly proceed

To swear him in the justice of his cause.

Mar.

In God’s name, and the king’s, say who thou art,

And why thou com’st thus knightly clad in arms,

Against what man thou com’st, and what thy quarrel. 13

Speak truly, on thy knighthood and thine oath:

As so defend thee heaven and thy valour!

Mow.

My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, 16

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 his succeeding issue, 20

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: 24

And as I truly fight, defend me heaven!

[He takes his seat.

Trumpet sounds. Enter Bolingbroke, appellant, in armour, preceded by a Herald.

K. Rich.

Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms,

Both who he is and why he cometh hither

Thus plated in habiliments of war; 28

And formally, according to our law,

Depose him in the justice of his cause.

Mar.

What is thy name? and wherefore com’st thou hither,

Before King Richard in his royal lists? 32

Against whom comest thou? and what’s thy quarrel?

Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven!

Boling.

Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,

Am I; who ready here do stand in arms, 36

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: 40

And as I truly fight, defend me heaven!

Mar.

On pain of death, no person be so bold

Or daring-hardy as to touch the lists,

Except the marshal and such officers 44

Appointed to direct these fair designs.

Boling.

Lord marshal, let me kiss my sovereign’s hand,

And bow my knee before his majesty:

For Mowbray and myself are like two men 48

That vow a long and weary pilgrimage;

Then let us take a ceremonious leave

And loving farewell of our several friends.

Mar.

The appellant in all duty greets your highness, 52

And craves to kiss your hand and take his leave.

K. Rich.

[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! 56

Farewell, my blood; which if to-day thou shed,

Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.

Boling.

O! let no noble eye profane a tear

For me, if I be gor’d with Mowbray’s spear. 60

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; 64

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, 69

Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate,

Doth with a two-fold vigour lift me up

To reach at victory above my head, 72

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, 76

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, 80

Fall like amazing thunder on the casque

Of thy adverse pernicious enemy:

Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant and live.

Boling.

Mine innocency and Saint George to thrive!

[He takes his seat.

Mow.

[Rising.] However God or fortune cast my lot, 85

There lives or dies, true to King Richard’s throne,

A loyal, just, and upright gentleman.

Never did captive with a freer heart 88

Cast off his chains of bondage and embrace

His golden uncontroll’d enfranchisement,

More than my dancing soul doth celebrate

This feast of battle with mine adversary. 92

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 has a quiet breast. 96

K. Rich.

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.

Mar.

Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, 100

Receive thy lance; and God defend the right!

Boling.

[Rising.] Strong as a tower in hope, I cry ‘amen.’

Mar.

[To an Officer.] Go bear this lance to Thomas, Duke of Norfolk.

First Her.

Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, 104

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; 108

And dares him to set forward to the fight.

Sec. Her.

Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,

On pain to be found false and recreant,

Both to defend himself and to approve 112

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. 116

Mar.

Sound, trumpets; and set forward, combatants.

[A charge sounded.

Stay, stay, the king hath thrown his warderdown.

K. Rich.

Let them lay by their helmets and their spears,

And both return back to their chairs again: 120

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 soil’d 125

With that dear blood which it hath fostered;

And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect

Of civil wounds plough’d up with neighbours’ swords; 128

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 132

Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep;

Which so rous’d up with boist’rous untun’d drums,

With harsh-resounding trumpets’ dreadful bray,

And grating shock of wrathful iron arms, 136

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, 140

Till twice five summers have enrich’d our fields,

Shall not regreet our fair dominions,

But tread the stranger paths of banishment.

Boling.

Your will be done: this must my comfort be, 144

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.

K. Rich.

Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom, 148

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’ 152

Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.

Mow.

A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege,

And all unlook’d for from your highness’ mouth:

A dearer merit, not so deep a maim 156

As to be cast forth in the common air,

Have I deserved at your highness’ hands.

The language I have learn’d these forty years,

My native English, now I must forego; 160

And now my tongue’s use is to me no more

Than an unstringed viol or a harp,

Or like a cunning instrument cas’d up,

Or, being open, put into his hands 164

That knows no touch to tune the harmony:

Within my mouth you have engaol’d my tongue,

Doubly portcullis’d with my teeth and lips;

And dull, unfeeling, barren ignorance 168

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? 173

K. Rich.

It boots thee not to be compassionate:

After our sentence plaining comes too late.

Mow.

Then, thus I turn me from my country’s light, 176

To dwell in solemn shades of endless night.

[Retiring.

K. Rich.

Return again, and take an oath with thee.

Lay on our royal sword your banish’d hands;

Swear by the duty that you owe to God— 180

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; 184

Nor never look upon each other’s face;

Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile

This low’ring tempest of your home-bred hate;

Nor never by advised purpose meet 188

To plot, contrive, or complot any ill

’Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land.

Boling.

I swear.

Mow.

And I, to keep all this. 192

Boling.

Norfolk, so far, as to mine enemy:—

By this time, had the king permitted us,

One of our souls had wander’d in the air,

Banish’d this frail sepulchre of our flesh, 196

As now our flesh is banish’d 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. 200

Mow.

No, Bolingbroke: if ever I were traitor,

My name be blotted from the book of life,

And I from heaven banish’d as from hence!

But what thou art, God, thou, and I do know; 204

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.

K. Rich.

Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes 208

I see thy grieved heart: thy sad aspect

Hath from the number of his banish’d years

Pluck’d four away.—[To Bolingbroke.] Six frozen winters spent,

Return with welcome home from banishment.

Boling.

How long a time lies in one little word! 213

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; 217

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, 220

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. 224

K. Rich.

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 canst help time to furrow me with age. 229

But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage;

Thy word is current with him for my death,

But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath.

K. Rich.

Thy son is banish’d upon good advice, 233

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. 236

You urg’d 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: 240

A partial slander sought I to avoid,

And in the sentence my own life destroy’d.

Alas! I look’d when some of you should say,

I was too strict to make mine own away; 244

But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue

Against my will to do myself this wrong.

K. Rich.

Cousin, farewell; and, uncle, bid him so:

Six years we banish him, and he shall go. 248

[Flourish. Exeunt King Richard and Train.

Aum.

Cousin, farewell: what presence must not know,

From where you do remain let paper show.

Mar.

My lord, no leave take I; for I will ride,

As far as land will let me, by your side. 252

Gaunt.

O! to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,

That thou return’st no greeting to thy friends?

Boling.

I have too few to take my leave of you,

When the tongue’s office should be prodigal 256

To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart.

Gaunt.

Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.

Boling.

Joy absent, grief is present for that time.

Gaunt.

What is six winters? they are quickly gone. 260

Boling.

To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten.

Gaunt.

Call it a travel that thou tak’st for pleasure.

Boling.

My heart will sigh when I miscall it so,

Which finds it an inforced pilgrimage. 264

Gaunt.

The sullen passage of thy weary steps

Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set

The precious jewel of thy home return.

Boling.

Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make 268

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, 272

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. 276

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. 281

Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour,

And not the king exil’d thee; or suppose

Devouring pestilence hangs in our air, 284

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, 288

The grass whereon thou tread’st the presence strew’d,

The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more

Than a delightful measure or a dance;

For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite 292

The man that mocks at it and sets it light.

Boling.

O! who can hold a fire in his hand

By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?

Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite 296

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 300

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. 304

Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stay.

Boling.

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, 308

Though banish’d, yet a true-born Englishman.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— London. A Room in the King’s Castle.

Enter King Richard, Bagot, and Green at one door; Aumerle at another.

K. Rich

We did observe. Cousin Aumerle,

How far brought you high Hereford on his way?

Aum.

I brought high Hereford, if you call him so,

But to the next highway, and there I left him. 4

K. Rich.

And say, what store of parting tears were shed?

Aum.

Faith, none for me; except the northeast wind,

Which then blew bitterly against our faces,

Awak’d the sleeping rheum, and so by chance 8

Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.

K. Rich.

What said our cousin when you parted with him?

Aum.

‘Farewell:’

And, for my heart disdained that my tongue 12

Should so profane the word, that taught me craft

To counterfeit oppression of such grief

That words seem’d buried in my sorrow’s grave.

Marry, would the word ‘farewell’ have lengthen’d hours 16

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.

K. Rich.

He is our cousin, cousin; but ’tis doubt, 20

When time shall call him home from banishment,

Whether our kinsman come to see his friends.

Ourself and Bushy, Bagot here and Green

Observ’d his courtship to the common people, 24

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, 29

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, 32

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. 36

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 40

For their advantage and your highness’ loss.

K. Rich.

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 enforc’d to farm our royal realm; 45

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, 49

They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold,

And send them after to supply our wants;

For we will make for Ireland presently. 52

Enter Bushy.

Bushy, what news?

Bushy.

Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my lord,

Suddenly taken, and hath sent post-haste

To entreat your majesty to visit him. 56

K. Rich.

Where lies he?

Bushy.

At Ely House.

K. Rich.

Now, put it, God. in his physician’s mind

To help him to his grave immediately! 60

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. 4

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. 8

He that no more must say is listen’d more

Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose;

More are men’s ends mark’d than their lives before:

The setting sun, and music at the close, 12

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. 16

York.

No; it is stopp’d 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: 20

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,— 24

So it be new there’s no respect how vile,—

That is not quickly buzz’d into his ears?

Then all too late comes counsel to be heard,

Where will doth mutiny with wit’s regard. 28

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 inspir’d,

And thus expiring do foretell of him: 32

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; 36

With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder:

Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,

Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.

This royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle, 40

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, 44

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, 48

Against the envy of less happier lands,

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,

This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,

Fear’d by their breed and famous by their birth, 52

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: 56

This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land,

Dear for her reputation through the world,

Is now leas’d out,—I die pronouncing it,—

Like to a tenement, or pelting farm: 60

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: 64

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. 68

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 rag’d, do rage the more.

Queen.

How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster?

K. Rich.

What comfort, man? How is’t with aged Gaunt? 72

Gaunt.

O! how that name befits my composition;

Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old:

Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast; 75

And who abstains from meat that is not gaunt?

For sleeping England long time have I watch’d;

Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt.

The pleasure that some fathers feed upon

Is my strict fast, I mean my children’s looks; 80

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.

K. Rich.

Can sick men play so nicely with their names? 84

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.

K. Rich.

Should dying men flatter with those that live? 88

Gaunt.

No, no; men living flatter those that die.

K. Rich.

Thou, now a-dying, sayst thou flatter’st me.

Gaunt.

O, no! thou diest, though I the sicker be.

K. Rich.

I am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill. 92

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: 96

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, 100

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, 104

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 possess’d,

Which art possess’d now to depose thyself. 108

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? 112

Landlord of England art thou now, not king:

Thy state of law is bond-slave to the law,

And—

K. Rich.

And thou a lunatic lean-witted fool,

Presuming on an ague’s privilege, 116

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, 120

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, 124

For that I was his father Edward’s son.

That blood already, like the pelican,

Hast thou tapp’d out and drunkenly carous’d:

My brother Gloucester, plain well-meaning soul,—

Whom fair befall in heaven ’mongst happy souls!— 129

May be a precedent and witness good

That thou respect’st not spilling Edward’s blood:

Join with the present sickness that I have; 132

And thy unkindness be like crooked age,

To crop at once a too-long wither’d flower.

Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee!

These words hereafter thy tormentors be! 136

Convey me to my bed, then to my grave:

Love they to live that love and honour have.

[Exit, borne out by his Attendants.

K. Rich.

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 141

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. 144

K. Rich.

Right, you say true: as Hereford’s love, so his;

As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is.

Enter Northumberland.

North.

My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your majesty.

K. Rich.

What says he? 148

North.

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! 152

Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

K. Rich.

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. 156

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 161

The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables,

Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possess’d.

York.

How long shall I be patient? Ah! how long 164

Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong?

Not Gloucester’s death, nor Hereford’s banishment,

Not Gaunt’s rebukes, nor England’s private wrongs,

Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke 168

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, 172

Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first;

In war was never lion rag’d more fierce,

In peace was never gentle lamb more mild,

Than was that young and princely gentleman.

His face thou hast, for even so look’d he, 177

Accomplish’d with the number of thy hours;

But when he frown’d, it was against the French,

And not against his friends; his noble hand 180

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. 184

O, Richard! York is too far gone with grief,

Or else he never would compare between.

K. Rich.

Why, uncle, what’s the matter?

York.

O! my liege.

Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleas’d 188

Not to be pardon’d, am content withal.

Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands

The royalties and rights of banish’d Hereford?

Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford live?

Was not Gaunt just, and is not Harry true? 193

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; 197

Let not to-morrow then ensue to-day;

Be not thyself; for how art thou a king

But by fair sequence and succession? 200

Now, afore God,—God forbid I say true!—

If you do wrongfully seize Hereford’s rights,

Call in the letters-patent that he hath

By his attorneys-general to sue 204

His livery, and deny his offer’d 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. 209

K. Rich.

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: 212

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.

K. Rich.

Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire straight: 216

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, 220

Our uncle York lord governor of England;

For he is just, and always lov’d us well.

Come on, our queen: to-morrow must we part;

Be merry, for our time of stay is short.

[Flourish.

[Exeunt King, Queen, Bushy, Aumerle, Green, and Bagot.

North.

Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead. 225

Ross.

And living too; for now his son is duke.

Willo.

Barely in title, not in revenue.

North.

Richly in both, if justice had her right.

Ross.

My heart is great; but it must break with silence, 229

Ere’t be disburden’d with a liberal tongue.

North.

Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne’er speak more

That speaks thy words again to do thee harm!

Willo.

Tends that thou’dst speak to the Duke of Hereford? 233

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, 236

Unless you call it good to pity him,

Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.

North.

Now, afore God, ’tis shame such wrongs are borne

In him, a royal prince, and many more 240

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, 244

That will the king severely prosecute

’Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.

Ross.

The commons hath he pill’d with grievous taxes,

And quite lost their hearts: the nobles hath he fin’d 248

For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts.

Willo.

And daily new exactions are devis’d;

As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what:

But what, o’ God’s name, doth become of this?

North.

Wars have not wasted it, for warr’d he hath not, 253

But basely yielded upon compromise

That which his ancestors achiev’d with blows.

More hath he spent in peace than they in wars.

Ross.

The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm. 257

Willo.

The king’s grown bankrupt, like a broken man.

North.

Reproach and dissolution hangeth over him.

Ross.

He hath not money for these Irish wars,

His burdenous taxations notwithstanding, 261

But by the robbing of the banish’d duke.

North.

His noble kinsman: most degenerate king!

But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing, 264

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; 268

And unavoided is the danger now,

For suffering so the causes of our wrack.

North.

Not so: even through the hollow eyes of death

Ispy life peering; but I dare not say 272

How near the tidings of our comfort is.

Willo.

Nay, let us share thy thoughts, as thou dost ours.

Ross.

Be confident to speak, Northumberland:

We three are but thyself: and, speaking so, 276

Thy words are but as thoughts; therefore, be bold.

North.

Then thus: I have from Port le Blanc, a bay

In Brittany, receiv’d intelligence

That Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainold Lord Cobham, 280

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, 284

All these well furnish’d 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 289

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 blemish’d 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; 296

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.

Willo.

Hold out my horse, and I will first be there.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Queen, Bushy, and Bagot.

Bushy.

Madam, your majesty is too much sad:

You promis’d, when you parted with the king,

To lay aside life-harming heaviness,

And entertain a cheerful disposition. 4

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 8

As my sweet Richard: yet, again, methinks,

Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune’s womb,

Is coming towards me, and my inward soul 11

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 show like grief itself, but are not so.

For sorrow’s eye, glazed with blinding tears, 16

Divides one thing entire to many objects;

Like perspectives, which rightly gaz’d upon

Show nothing but confusion; ey’d awry

Distinguish form: so your sweet majesty, 20

Looking awry upon your lord’s departure,

Finds shapes of grief more than himself to wail;

Which, look’d 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; 25

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, 29

I cannot but be sad, so heavy sad,

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. 33

Queen.

’Tis nothing less: conceit is still deriv’d

From some forefather grief; mine is not so,

For nothing hath begot my something grief; 36

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. 40

Enter Green.

Green.

God save your majesty! and well met, gentlemen:

I hope the king is not yet shipp’d for Ireland.

Queen.

Why hop’st thou so? ’tis better hope he is, 43

For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope:

Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipp’d?

Green.

That he, our hope, might have retir’d his power,

And driven into despair an enemy’s hope,

Who strongly hath set footing in this land: 48

The banish’d Bolingbroke repeals himself,

And with uplifted arms is safe arriv’d

At Ravenspurgh.

Queen.

Now God in heaven forbid!

Green.

Ah! madam, ’tis too true: and that is worse, 52

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 proclaim’d Northumberland 56

And all the rest of the revolted faction traitors?

Green.

We have: whereupon the Earl of Worcester

Hath broke his staff, resign’d his stewardship,

And all the household servants fled with him 60

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, 64

And I, a gasping new-deliver’d mother,

Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow join’d.

Bushy.

Despair not, madam.

Queen.

Who shall hinder me?

I will despair, and be at enmity 68

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. 72

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: 77

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, 80

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 flatter’d him.

Enter a Servant.

Serv.

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, 88

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. 92

Serv.

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? 96

Serv.

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,— 100

So my untruth had not provok’d him to it,—

The king had cut off my head with my brother’s.

What! are there no posts dispatch’d for Ireland?

How shall we do for money for these wars? 104

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 109

Thus thrust disorderly into my hands,

Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen:

The one is my sovereign, whom both my oath

And duty bids defend; the other again 113

Is my kinsman, whom the king hath wrong’d,

Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right.

Well, somewhat we must do. Come, cousin, 116

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, 120

And every thing 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 124

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’s the wavering commons; for their love 128

Lies in their purses, and whoso empties them,

By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.

Bushy.

Wherein the king stands generally condemn’d.

Bagot.

If judgment lie in them, then so do we,

Because we ever have been near the king. 133

Green.

Well, I’ll for refuge straight to Bristol Castle;

The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.

Bushy.

Thither will I with you; for little office 136

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, 141

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 144

Is numbering 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. 148

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Wolds in Gloucestershire.

Enter Bolingbroke and Northumberland, with Forces.

Boling.

How far is it, my lord, to Berkeley now?

North.

Believe me, noble lord,

I am a stranger here in Gloucestershire:

These high wild hills and rough uneven ways 4

Draw out our miles and make them wearisome;

But yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar,

Making the hard way sweet and delectable.

But I bethink me what a weary way 8

From Ravenspurgh to Cotswold will be found

In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company,

Which, I protest, hath very much beguil’d

The tediousness and process of my travel: 12

But theirs is sweeten’d with the hope to have

The present benefit which I possess;

And hope to joy is little less in joy

Than hope enjoy’d: by this the weary lords 16

Shall make their way seem short, as mine hath done

By sight of what I have, your noble company.

Boling.

Of much less value is my company

Than your good words. But who comes here?

Enter Henry Percy.

North.

It is my son, young Harry Percy, 21

Sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever.

Harry, how fares your uncle?

H. Percy.

I had thought, my lord, to have learn’d his health of you. 24

North.

Why, is he not with the queen?

H. Percy.

No, my good lord; he hath forsook the court,

Broken his staff of office, and dispers’d

The household of the king.

North.

What was his reason? 28

He was not so resolv’d when last we spake together.

H. Percy.

Because your lordship was proclaimed traitor.

But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurgh,

To offer service to the Duke of Hereford, 32

And sent me over by Berkeley to discover

What power the Duke of York had levied there;

Then with direction to repair to Ravenspurgh.

North.

Have you forgot the Duke of Hereford, boy? 36

H. 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.

North.

Then learn to know him now: this is the duke. 40

H. 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. 44

Boling.

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, 48

It shall be still thy true love’s recompense:

My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it.

North.

How far is it to Berkeley? and what stir

Keeps good old York there with his men of war?

H. Percy.

There stands the castle, by yon tuft of trees, 53

Mann’d 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. 56

Enter Ross and Willoughby.

North.

Here come the Lords of Ross and Willoughby,

Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste.

Boling.

Welcome, my lords. I wot your love pursues

A banish’d traitor; all my treasury 60

Is yet but unfelt thanks, which, more enrich’d,

Shall be your love and labour’s recompense.

Ross.

Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord.

Willo.

And far surmounts our labour to attain it. 64

Boling.

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.

North.

It is my Lord of Berkeley, as I guess.

Berk.

My lord of Hereford, my message is to you. 69

Boling.

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 72

Before I make reply to aught you say.

Berk.

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, 76

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-born arms.

Enter York, attended.

Boling.

I shall not need transport my words by you: 81

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. 84

Boling.

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. 89

Why have those banish’d and forbidden legs

Dar’d once to touch a dust of England’s ground?

But then, more ‘why?’ why have they dar’d to march 92

So many miles upon her peaceful bosom,

Frighting her pale-fac’d 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, 97

And in my loyal bosom lies his power.

Were I but now the lord of such hot youth

As when brave Gaunt thy father, and myself, 100

Rescu’d 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 thee 104

And minister correction to thy fault!

Boling.

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: 109

Thou art a banish’d man, and here art come

Before the expiration of thy time,

In braving arms against thy sovereign. 112

Boling.

As I was banish’d, I was banish’d Hereford;

But as I come, I come for Lancaster.

And, noble uncle, I beseech your Grace

Look on my wrongs with an indifferent eye: 116

You are my father, for methinks in you

I see old Gaunt alive: O! then, my father,

Will you permit that I shall stand condemn’d

A wandering vagabond; my rights and royalties

Pluck’d from my arms perforce and given away

To upstart unthrifts? Wherefore was I born?

If that my cousin king be King of England,

It must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster. 124

You have a son, Aumerle, my noble kinsman;

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, 129

And yet my letters-patent give me leave:

My father’s goods are all distrain’d and sold,

And these and all are all amiss employ’d. 132

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. 136

North.

The noble duke hath been too much abus’d.

Ross.

It stands your Grace upon to do him right.

Willo.

Base men by his endowments are made great.

York.

My lords of England, let me tell you this: 140

I have had feeling of my cousin’s wrongs,

And labour’d 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, 144

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.

North.

The noble duke hath sworn his coming is 148

But for his own; and for the right of that

We all have strongly sworn to give him aid;

And let him ne’er see joy that breaks that oath!

York.

Well, well, I see the issue of these arms: 152

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 156

Unto the sovereign mercy of the king;

But since I cannot, be it known to you

I do remain as neuter. So, fare you well;

Unless you please to enter in the castle 160

And there repose you for this night.

Boling.

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 164

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; 168

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.

Scene IV.— A Camp in Wales.

Enter Salisbury and a Captain.

Cap.

My Lord of Salisbury, we have stay’d ten days,

And hardly kept our countrymen together,

And yet we hear no tidings from the king;

Therefore we will disperse ourselves: farewell. 4

Sal.

Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman:

The king reposeth all his confidence in thee.

Cap.

’Tis thought the king is dead: we will not stay.

The bay-trees in our country are all wither’d 8

And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven,

The pale-fac’d moon looks bloody on the earth

And lean-look’d prophets whisper fearful change,

Rich men look sad and ruffians dance and leap,

The one in fear to lose what they enjoy, 13

The other to enjoy by rage and war:

These signs forerun the death or fall of kings.

Farewell: our countrymen are gone and fled, 16

As well assur’d Richard their king is dead.

[Exit.

Sal.

Ah, Richard! with the eyes of heavy mind

I see thy glory like a shooting star

Fall to the base earth from the firmament. 20

Thy 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.

Boling.

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, 4

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, 8

A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments,

By you unhappied and disfigur’d clean:

You have in manner with your sinful hours

Made a divorce betwixt his queen and him, 12

Broke the possession of a royal bed,

And stain’d 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, 16

Near to the king in blood, and near in love

Till you did make him misinterpret me,

Have stoop’d my neck under your injuries,

And sigh’d my English breath in foreign clouds,

Eating the bitter bread of banishment; 21

Whilst you have fed upon my signories,

Dispark’d my parks, and felled my forest woods,

From mine own windows torn my household coat, 24

Raz’d 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, 28

Condemns you to the death. See them deliver’d 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 33

And plague injustice with the pains of hell.

Boling.

My Lord Northumberland, see them dispatch’d.

[Exeunt Northumberland and Others, with Bushy and Green.

Uncle, you say the queen is at your house; 36

For God’s sake, fairly let her be entreated:

Tell her I send to her my kind commends;

Take special care my greetings be deliver’d.

York.

A gentleman of mine I have dispatch’d

With letters of your love to her at large. 41

Boling.

Thanks, gentle uncle. Come, lords, away,

To fight with Glendower and his complices:

Awhile to work, and after holiday.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Coast of Wales. A Castle in view.

Flourish: drams and trumpets. Enter King Richard, the Bishop of Carlisle, Aumerle, and Soldiers.

K. Rich.

Barkloughly Castle call they this at hand?

Aum.

Yea, my lord. How brooks your Grace the air,

After your late tossing on the breaking seas?

K. Rich.

Needs must I like it well: I weep for joy 4

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 8

Plays fondly with her tears and smiles in meeting,

So, weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth,

And do thee favour with my royal hands.

Feed not thy sovereign’s foe, my gentle earth, 12

Nor with thy sweets comfort his revenous sense;

But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom,

And heavy-gaited toads lie in their way,

Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet 16

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 20

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 25

Shall falter under foul rebellion’s arms.

Car.

Fear not, my lord: that power that made you king

Hath power to keep you king in spite of all. 28

The means that heaven yields must be embrac’d,

And not neglected; else, if heaven would,

And we will not, heaven’s offer we refuse,

The proffer’d means of succour and redress. 32

Aum.

He means, my lord, that we are too remiss;

Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security,

Grows strong and great in substance and in friends.

K. Rich.

Discomfortable cousin! know’st thou not 36

That when the searching eye of heaven is hid

Behind the globe, and lights the lower world,

Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen,

In murders and in outrage bloody here; 40

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, 44

The cloak of night being pluck’d from off their backs,

Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves?

So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke,

Who all this while hath revell’d in the night 48

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, 52

But self-affrighted tremble at his sin.

Not all the water in the rough rude sea

Can wash the balm from an anointed king;

The breath of worldly men cannot depose 56

The deputy elected by the Lord.

For every man that Bolingbroke hath press’d

To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown,

God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay 60

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?

Sal.

Nor near nor further off, my gracious lord, 64

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. 68

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; 72

For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead,

Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispers’d, and fled.

Aum.

Comfort, my liege! why looks your Grace so pale?

K. Rich.

But now, the blood of twenty thousand men 76

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; 80

For time hath set a blot upon my pride.

Aum.

Comfort, my liege! remember who you are.

K. Rich.

I had forgot myself. Am I not king?

Awake, thou sluggard majesty! thou sleepest. 84

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? 88

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-tun’d tongue deliver him! 92

K. Rich.

Mine ear is open and my heart prepar’d:

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? 96

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; 100

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 arm’d 104

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 dissolv’d to tears, 108

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 arm’d their thin and hairless scalps 112

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 116

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. 120

K. Rich.

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 124

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. 128

K. Rich.

O villains, vipers, damn’d without redemption!

Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!

Snakes, in my heart-blood warm’d, 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. 136

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, grav’d in the hollow ground. 140

Aum.

Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead?

Scroop.

Yea, all of them at Bristol lost their heads.

Aum.

Where is the duke my father with his power?

K. Rich.

No matter where. Of comfort no man speak: 144

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: 148

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 call our own but death, 152

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: 156

How some have been depos’d, some slain in war,

Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos’d,

Some poison’d by their wives, some sleeping kill’d;

All murder’d: for within the hollow crown 160

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, 164

To monarchize, be fear’d, and kill with looks,

Infusing him with self and vain conceit

As if this flesh which walls about our life

Were brass impregnable; and humour’d thus

Comes at the last, and with a little pin 169

Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!

Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood

With solemn reverence: throw away respect, 172

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, 176

How can you say to me I am a king?

Car.

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; 184

Where fearing dying pays death servile breath.

Aum.

My father hath a power; inquire of him

And learn to make a body of a limb.

K. Rich.

Thou chid’st me well. Proud Boling broke, I come 188

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 and inclination of the day;

So may you by my dull and heavy eye, 196

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 join’d with Bolingbroke, 200

And all your northern castles yielded up,

And all your southern gentlemen in arms

Upon his party.

K. Rich.

Thou hast said enough.

[To Aumerle.] Beshrew thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth 204

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. 208

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 213

To alter this, for counsel is but vain.

Aum.

My liege, one word.

K. Rich.

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.

Scene III.— Wales. Before Flint Castle.

Enter, with drum and colours, Bolingbroke and Forces; York, Northumberland, and Others.

Boling.

So that by this intelligence we learn

The Welshmen are dispers’d and Salisbury

Is gone to meet the king, who lately landed

With some few private friends upon this coast. 4

North.

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 8

When such a sacred king should hide his head!

North.

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 12

Have been so brief with you, to shorten you,

For taking so the head, your whole head’s length.

Boling.

Mistake not, uncle, further than you should.

York.

Take not, good cousin, further than you should, 16

Lest you mistake the heavens are o’er our heads.

Boling.

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? 20

H. Percy.

The castle royally is mann’d, my lord,

Against thy entrance.

Boling.

Royally!

Why, it contains no king?

H. Percy.

Yes, my good lord, 24

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 28

Of holy reverence; who, I cannot learn.

North.

O! belike it is the Bishop of Carlisle.

Boling.

[To North.] Noble lord,

Go to the rude ribs of that ancient castle, 32

Through brazen trumpet send the breath of parley

Into his ruin’d ears, and thus deliver:

Henry Bolingbroke

On both his knees doth kiss King Richard’s hand,

And sends allegiance and true faith of heart 37

To his most royal person; hither come

Even at his feet to lay my arms and power,

Provided that my banishment repeal’d, 40

And lands restor’d again be freely granted.

If not, I’ll use the advantage of my power,

And lay the summer’s dust with showers of blood

Rain’d from the wounds of slaughter’d Englishmen: 44

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. 48

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 the castle’s totter’d battlements 52

Our fair appointments may be well perus’d.

Methinks King Richard and myself should meet

With no less terror than the elements

Of fire and water, when their thundering shock

At meeting tears the cloudy cheeks of heaven.

Be he the fire, I’ll be the yielding water:

The rage be his, while on the earth I rain

My waters; on the earth, and not on him. 60

March on, and mark King Richard how he looks.

A Parley sounded, and answered by a Trumpet within. Flourish. Enter on the Walls King Richard, the Bishop of Carlisle, Aumerle, Scroop, and Salisbury.

H. Percy.

See, see, King Richard doth himself appear,

As doth the blushing discontented sun

From out the fiery portal of the east, 64

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 looks he like a king: behold, his eye,

As bright as is the eagle’s, lightens forth 69

Controlling majesty: alack, alack, for woe,

That any harm should stain so fair a show!

K. Rich.

[To Northumberland.] We are amaz’d; and thus long have we stood 72

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? 76

If we be not, show us the hand of God

That hath dismiss’d us from our stewardship;

For well we know, no hand of blood and bone

Can gripe the sacred handle of our sceptre, 80

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; 84

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, 88

That lift your vassal hands against my head

And threat the glory of my precious crown.

Tell Bolingbroke,—for yond methinks he is,—

That every stride he makes upon my land 92

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 96

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.

North.

The king of heaven forbid our lord the king 101

Should so with civil and uncivil arms

Be rush’d upon! Thy thrice-noble cousin,

Harry Bolingbroke, doth humbly kiss thy hand;

And by the honourable tomb he swears, 105

That stands upon your royal grandsire’s bones,

And by the royalties of both your bloods,

Currents that spring from one most gracious head, 108

And by the buried hand of war-like Gaunt,

And by the worth and honour of himself,

Comprising all that may be sworn or said,

His coming hither hath no further scope 112

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, 116

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. 120

K. Rich.

Northumberland, say, thus the king returns:

His noble cousin is right welcome hither;

And all the number of his fair demands

Shall be accomplish’d without contradiction: 124

With all the gracious utterance thou hast

Speak to his gentle hearing kind commends.

[Northumberland retires to Bolingbroke.

[To Aumerle.] We do debase ourself, cousin, do we not,

To look so poorly and to speak so fair? 128

Shall we call back Northumberland and send

Defiance to the traitor, and so die?

Aum.

No, good my lord; let’s fight with gentle words,

Till time lend friends and friends their helpful swords. 132

K. Rich.

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, 137

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, 140

Since foes have scope to beat both thee and me.

Aum.

Northumberland comes back from Bolingbroke.

K. Rich.

What must the king do now? Must he submit?

The king shall do it: must he be depos’d? 144

The king shall be contented: must he lose

The name of king? o’ God’s name, let it go:

I’ll give my jewels for a set of beads,

My gorgeous palace for a hermitage, 148

My gay apparel for an almsman’s gown,

My figur’d goblets for a dish of wood,

My sceptre for a palmer’s walking-staff,

My subjects for a pair of carved saints, 152

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? 159

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, 164

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 digg’d their graves with weeping eyes.’ 169

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.

North.

My lord, in the base court he doth attend 176

To speak with you; may’t please you to come down?

K. Rich.

Down, down, I come; like glistering Phaethon,

Wanting the manage of unruly jades.

In the base court? Base court, where kings grow base, 180

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.

Boling.

What says his majesty?

North.

Sorrow and grief of heart 184

Makes him speak fondly, like a frantic man:

Yet he is come.

Enter King Richard, and his Attendants.

Boling.

Stand all apart,

And show fair duty to his majesty.

[Kneeling.

My gracious lord,— 189

K. Rich.

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 192

Than my unpleas’d eye see your courtesy.

Up, cousin, up; your heart is up, I know,

Thus high at least, although your knee be low.

Boling.

My gracious lord, I come but for mine own. 196

K. Rich.

Your own is yours, and I am yours, and all.

Boling.

So far be mine, my most redoubted lord,

As my true service shall deserve your love.

K. Rich.

Well you deserve: they well deserve to have 200

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, 204

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? 208

Boling.

Yea, my good lord.

K. Rich.

Then I must not say no.

[Flourish. Exeunt.

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?

First Lady.

Madam, we’ll play at bowls.

Queen.

’Twill make me think the world is full of rubs; 4

And that my fortune runs against the bias.

First 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. 9

First Lady.

Madam, we’ll tell tales.

Queen.

Of sorrow or of joy?

First Lady.

Of either, madam.

Queen.

Of neither, girl: 12

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: 16

For what I have I need not to repeat,

And what I want it boots not to complain.

First Lady.

Madam, I’ll sing.

Queen.

’Tis well that thou hast cause;

But thou shouldst please me better wouldst thou weep. 20

First 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: 24

Let’s step into the shadow of these trees.

My wretchedness unto a row of pins,

They’ll talk of state; for every one doth so

Against a change: woe is forerun with woe. 28

[Queen and Ladies retire.

Enter a Gardener and two Servants.

Gard.

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. 32

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. 36

You thus employ’d, I will go root away

The noisome weeds, that without profit suck

The soil’s fertility from wholesome flowers.

First Serv.

Why should we in the compass of a pale 40

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 chok’d up, 44

Her fruit-trees all unprun’d, her hedges ruin’d,

Her knots disorder’d, and her wholesome herbs

Swarming with caterpillars?

Gard.

Hold thy peace:

He that hath suffer’d this disorder’d spring 48

Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf;

The weeds that his broad-spreading leaves did shelter,

That seem’d in eating him to hold him up,

Are pluck’d up root and all by Bolingbroke; 52

I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.

First Serv.

What! are they dead?

Gard.

They are; and Bolingbroke

Hath seiz’d the wasteful king. O! what pity is it

That he hath not so trimm’d and dress’d his land

As we this garden. We at time of year 57

Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees,

Lest, being over-proud with sap and blood,

With too much riches it confound itself: 60

Had he done so to great and growing men,

They might have liv’d to bear and he to taste

Their fruits of duty: superfluous branches

We lop away that bearing boughs may live: 64

Had he done so, himself had borne the crown,

Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down.

First Serv.

What! think you then the king shall be depos’d?

Gard.

Depress’d he is already, and depos’d

’Tis doubt he will be: letters came last night 69

To a dear friend of the good Duke of York’s,

That tell black tidings.

Queen.

O! I am press’d to death through want of speaking.

[Coming forward.

Thou, old Adam’s likeness, set to dress this garden, 73

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? 76

Why dost thou say King Richard is depos’d?

Dar’st thou, thou little better thing than earth,

Divine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how

Cam’st thou by these ill tidings? speak, thou wretch. 80

Gard.

Pardon me, madam: little joy have I

To breathe these news, yet what I say is true.

King Richard, he is in the mighty hold

Of Bolingbroke; their fortunes both are weigh’d:

In your lord’s scale is nothing but himself, 85

And some few vanities that make him light;

But in the balance of great Bolingbroke,

Besides himself, are all the English peers, 88

And with that odds he weighs King Richard down.

Post you to London and you’ll find it so;

I speak no more than every one doth know.

Queen.

Nimble mischance. that art so light of foot, 92

Doth not thy embassage belong to me,

And am I last that knows it? O! thou think’st

To serve me last, that I may longest keep

Thy sorrow in my breast. Come, ladies, go, 96

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, 100

Pray God the plants thou graft’st may never grow.

[Exeunt Queen and Ladies.

Gard.

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, 104

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.— London. 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.

Boling.

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 perform’d 4

The bloody office of his timeless end.

Bagot.

Then set before my face the Lord Aumerle.

Boling.

Cousin, stand forth, and look upon that man.

Bagot.

My Lord Aumerle, I know your daring tongue 8

Scorns to unsay what once it hath deliver’d.

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 12

As far as Calais, to my uncle’s head?’

Amongst much other talk, that very time,

I heard you say that you had rather refuse

The offer of a hundred thousand crowns 16

Than Bolingbroke’s return to England;

Adding withal, how blest this land would be

In this your cousin’s death.

Aum.

Princes and noble lords,

What answer shall I make to this base man? 20

Shall I so much dishonour my fair stars,

On equal terms to give him chastisement?

Either I must, or have mine honour soil’d

With the attainder of his slanderous lips. 24

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, though being all too base 28

To stain the temper of my knightly sword.

Boling.

Bagot, forbear; thou shalt not take it up.

Aum.

Excepting one, I would he were the best

In all this presence that hath mov’d me so. 32

Fitz.

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. 37

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. 40

Aum.

Thou dar’st not, coward, live to see that day.

Fitz.

Now, by my soul, I would it were this hour.

Aum.

Fitzwater, thou art damn’d to hell for this.

H. Percy.

Aumerle, thou liest; his honour is as true 44

In this appeal as thou art all 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. 48

Aum.

And if I do not may my hands rot off

And never brandish more revengeful steel

Over the glittering helmet of my foe!

Lord.

I task the earth to the like, forsworn Aumerle; 52

And spur thee on with full as many lies

As may be holla’d in thy treacherous ear

From sun to sun: there is my honour’s pawn;

Engage it to the trial if thou dar’st. 56

Aum.

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 60

The very time Aumerle and you did talk.

Fitz.

’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. 64

Fitz.

Surrey, thou best.

Surrey.

Dishonourable boy!

That he shall lie so heavy on my sword

That it shall render vengeance and revenge,

Till thou the lie-giver and that lie do lie 68

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.

Fitz.

How fondly dost thou spur a forward horse! 72

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 76

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 banish’d Norfolk say 80

That thou, Aumerle, didst send two of thy men

To execute the noble duke at Calais.

Aum.

Some honest Christian trust me with a gage.

That Norfolk lies, here do I throw down this, 84

If he may be repeal’d to try his honour.

Boling.

These differences shall all rest under gage

Till Norfolk be repeal’d: repeal’d he shall be,

And though mine enemy, restor’d again 88

To all his lands and signories; when he’s return’d,

Against Aumerle we will enforce his trial.

Car.

That honourable day shall ne’er be seen.

Many a time hath banish’d Norfolk fought 92

For Jesu Christ in glorious Christian field,

Streaming the ensign of the Christian cross

Against black pagans, Turks, and Saracens;

And toil’d with works of war, retir’d himself 96

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. 100

Boling.

Why, bishop, is Norfolk dead?

Car.

As surely as I live, my lord.

Boling.

Sweet peace conduct his sweet soul to the bosom

Of good old Abraham! Lords appellants, 104

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 thee

From plume-pluck’d Richard; who with willing soul 108

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!

Boling.

In God’s name, I’ll ascend the regal throne. 113

Car.

Marry, God forbid!

Worst in this royal presence may I speak,

Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth. 116

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. 120

What subject can give sentence on his king?

And who sits here that is not Richard’s subject?

Thieves are not judg’d but they are by to hear,

Although apparent guilt be seen in them; 124

And shall the figure of God’s majesty,

His captain, steward, deputy elect,

Anointed, crowned, planted many years,

Be judg’d by subject and inferior breath, 128

And he himself not present? O! forfend it, God,

That in a Christian climate souls refin’d

Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed.

I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks, 132

Stirr’d 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, 136

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 140

Shall kin with kin and kind with kind confound;

Disorder, horror, fear and mutiny

Shall here inhabit, and this land be call’d

The field of Golgotha and dead men’s skulls. 144

O! if you rear 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, 148

Lest child, child’s children, cry against you ‘woe!’

North.

Well have you argu’d, sir; and, for your pains,

Of capital treason we arrest you here.

My Lord of Westminster, be it your charge 152

To keep him safely till his day of trial.

May it please you, lords, to grant the commons’ suit?

Boling.

Fetch hither Richard, that in common view

He may surrender; so we shall proceed 156

Without suspicion.

York.

I will be his conduct.

[Exit.

Boling.

Lords, you that here are under our arrest,

Procure your sureties for your days of answer.

[To Carlisle.] Little are we beholding to your love, 160

And little look’d for at your helping hands.

Re-enter York, with King Richard, and Officers bearing the Crown, &c.

K. Rich.

Alack! why am I sent for to a king

Before I have shook off the regal thoughts

Wherewith I reign’d? I hardly yet have learn’d

To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my limbs:

Give sorrow leave awhile to tutor me

To this submission. Yet I well remember

The favours of these men: were they not mine? 168

Did they not sometime cry, ‘All haill’ 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? 172

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? 176

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. 180

K. Rich.

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 184

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, 188

Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.

Boling.

I thought you had been willing to resign.

K. Rich.

My crown, I am; but still my griefs are mine.

You may my glories and my state depose, 192

But not my griefs; still am I king of those.

Boling.

Part of your cares you give me with your crown.

K. Rich.

Your cares set up do not pluck my cares down.

My care is loss of care, by old care done; 196

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.

Boling.

Are you contented to resign the crown? 200

K. Rich.

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, 204

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, 208

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 forego; 212

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 griev’d,

And thou with all pleas’d, that hast all achiev’d!

Long mayst thou live in Richard’s seat to sit,

And soon lie Richard in an earthy pit!

God save King Henry, unking’d Richard says,

And send him many years of sunshine days! 221

What more remains?

North.

[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; 225

That, by confessing them, the souls of men

May deem that you are worthily depos’d.

K. Rich.

Must I do so? and must I ravel out

My weav’d-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, 232

There shouldst thou find one heinous article,

Containing the deposing of a king,

And cracking the strong warrant of an oath,

Mark’d with a blot, damn’d in the book of heaven.

Nay, all of you that stand and look upon me, 237

Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself,

Though some of you with Pilate wash your hands,

Showing an outward pity; yet you Pilates 240

Have here deliver’d me to my sour cross,

And water cannot wash away your sin.

North.

My lord, dispatch; read o’er these articles.

K. Rich.

Mine eyes are full of tears, I cannot see: 244

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; 248

For I have given here my soul’s consent

To undeck the pompous body of a king;

Made glory base and sovereignty a slave,

Proud majesty a subject, state a peasant, 252

North.

My lord,—

K. Rich.

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, 256

But ’tis usurp’d: 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, 260

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, 264

Let it command a mirror hither straight,

That it may show me what a face I have,

Since it is bankrupt of his majesty.

Boling.

Go some of you and fetch a looking-glass.

[Exit an Attendant.

North.

Read o’er this paper while the glass doth come. 269

K. Rich.

Fiend! thou torment’st me ere I come to hell.

Boling.

Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland.

North.

The commons will not then be satisfied.

K. Rich.

They shall be satisfied: I’ll read enough 273

When I do see the very book indeed

Where all my sins are writ, and that’s myself.

Re-enter Attendant, with a glass.

Give me the glass, and therein will I read. 276

No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck

So many blows upon this face of mine

And made no deeper wounds? O, flattering glass!

Like to my followers in prosperity, 280

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? 284

Was this the face that fac’d so many follies,

And was at last out-fac’d by Bolingbroke?

A brittle glory shineth in this face:

As brittle as the glory is the face; 288

[Dashes the glass against the ground.

For there it is, crack’d in a hundred shivers.

Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport,

How soon my sorrow hath destroy’d my face.

Boling.

The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy’d 292

The shadow of your face.

K. Rich.

Say that again.

The shadow of my sorrow! Ha! let’s see:

’Tis very true, my grief lies all within;

And these external manners of laments 296

Are merely shadows to the unseen grief

That swells with silence in the tortur’d soul;

There lies the substance: and I thank thee, king,

For thy great bounty, that not only giv’st 300

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?

Boling.

Name it, fair cousin. 304

K. Rich.

‘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. 308

Being so great, I have no need to beg.

Boling.

Yet ask.

K. Rich.

And shall I have?

Boling.

You shall. 312

K. Rich.

Then give me leave to go.

Boling.

Whither?

K. Rich.

Whither you will, so I were from your sights.

Boling.

Go, some of you convey him to the Tower. 316

K. Rich.

O, good! convey? conveyers are you all,

That rise thus nimbly by a true king’s fall.

[Exeunt King Richard and Guard.

Boling.

On Wednesday next we solemnly set down

Our coronation: lords, prepare yourselves. 320

[Exeunt all except the Bishop of Carlisle, the Abbot of Westminster, and Aumerle.

Abbot.

A woeful pageant have we here beheld.

Bishop.

The woe’s to come; the children yet unborn

Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn.

Aum.

You holy clergymen, is there no plot

To rid the realm of this pernicious blot? 325

Abbot.

My lord,

Before I freely speak my mind herein,

You shall not only take the sacrament 328

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 333

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 Cæsar’s ill-erected tower,

To whose flint bosom my condemned lord

Is doom’d a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke. 4

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, 8

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, 13

Why should hard-favour’d grief be lodg’d in thee,

When triumph is become an alehouse guest?

K. Rich.

Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so, 16

To make my end too sudden: learn, good soul,

To think our former state a happy dream;

From which awak’d, the truth of what we are

Shows us but this. I am sworn brother, sweet,

To grim Necessity, and he and I 21

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, 24

Which our profane hours here have stricken down.

Queen.

What! is my Richard both in shape and mind

Transform’d and weaken’d! Hath Bolingbroke depos’d

Thine intellect? hath he been in thy heart? 28

The lion dying thrusteth forth his paw

And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage

To be o’erpower’d; and wilt thou, pupil-like,

Take thy correction mildly, kiss the rod, 32

And fawn on rage with base humility,

Which art a lion and a king of beasts?

K. Rich.

A king of beasts indeed; if aught but beasts,

I had been still a happy king of men. 36

Good sometime queen, prepare thee hence for France,

Think I am dead, and that even here thou tak’st,

As from my death-bed, my last living leave.

In winter’s tedious nights sit by the fire 40

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 grief,

Tell thou the lamentable tale of me, 44

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; 48

And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black,

For the deposing of a rightful king.

Enter Northumberland, attended.

North.

My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is chang’d;

You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower. 52

And, madam, there is order ta’en for you;

With all swift speed you must away to France.

K. Rich.

Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal

The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne,

The time shall not be many hours of age 57

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; 61

And he shall think that thou, which know’st the way

To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again,

Being ne’er so little urg’d, another way 64

To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne.

The love of wicked friends converts to fear;

That fear to hate, and hate turns one or both

To worthy danger and deserved death. 68

North.

My guilt be on my head, and there an end.

Take leave and part; for you must part forthwith.

K. Rich.

Doubly divorc’d! Bad men, ye violate

A two-fold marriage; ’twixt my crown and me,

And then, betwixt me and my married wife. 73

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; 77

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. 80

Queen.

And must we be divided? must we part?

K. Rich.

Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart from heart.

Queen.

Banish us both and send the king with me.

North.

That were some love but little policy. 84

Queen.

Then whither he goes, thither let me go.

K. Rich.

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. 88

Go, count thy way with sighs, I mine with groans.

Queen.

So longest way shall have the longest moans.

K. Rich.

Twice for one step I’ll groan, the way being short,

And piece the way out with a heavy heart. 92

Come, come, in wooing sorrow let’s be brief,

Since, wedding it, thero is such length in grief.

One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part;

Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart. 96

[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. 100

K. Rich.

We make woe wanton with this fond delay:

Once more, adieu; the rest let sorrow say.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Room in the Duke of York’s Palace.

Enter York and his Duchess.

Duch.

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?

Duch.

At that sad stop, my lord, 4

Where rude misgovern’d 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, 8

Which his aspiring rider seem’d to know,

With slow but stately pace kept on his course,

While all tongues cried, ‘God save thee, Bolingbroke!’

You would have thought the very windows spake, 12

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 16

‘Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!’

Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,

Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed’s neck,

Bespake them thus, ‘I thank you, countrymen:’

And thus still doing, thus he pass’d along. 21

Duch.

Alack, poor Richard! where rode he the whilst?

York.

As in a theatre, the eyes of men,

After a well-grac’d actor leaves the stage, 24

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;’ 28

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, 32

The badges of his grief and patience,

That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel’d

The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,

And barbarism itself have pitied him. 36

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. 40

Duch.

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 44

And lasting fealty to the new-made king.

Enter Aumerle.

Duch.

Welcome, my son: who are the violets now

That strew the green lap of the new come spring?

Aum.

Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not: 48

God knows I had as lief be none as one.

York.

Well, bear you well in this new spring of time,

Lest you be cropp’d before you come to prime.

What news from Oxford? hold those justs and triumphs? 52

Aum.

For aught I know, my lord, they do.

York.

You will be there, I know.

Aum.

If God prevent it not, I purpose so.

York.

What seal is that that hangs without thy bosom? 56

Yea, look’st thou pale? let me see the writing.

Aum.

My lord, ’tis nothing.

York.

No matter then, who sees it:

I will be satisfied; let me see the writing.

Aum.

I do beseech your Grace to pardon me:

It is a matter of small consequence, 61

Which for some reasons I would not have seen.

York.

Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.

I fear, I fear,—

Duch.

What should you fear? 64

’Tis nothing but some bond he’s enter’d 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. 68

Boy, let me see the writing.

Aum.

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! 72

Duch.

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!

Duch.

Why, what is it, my lord? 76

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.

Duch.

What’s the matter?

York.

Peace, foolish woman. 80

Duch.

I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle?

Aum.

Good mother, be content; it is no more

Than my poor life must answer.

Duch.

Thy life answer!

York.

Bring me my boots: I will unto the king. 84

Re-enter Servant with boots.

Duch.

Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art amaz’d.

[To Servant.] Hence, villain! never more come in my sight.

[Exit Servant.

York.

Give me my boots, I say.

Duch.

Why, York, what wilt thou do? 88

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? 93

Is he not like thee? is he not thine own?

York.

Thou fond, mad woman,

Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy? 96

A dozen of them here have ta’en the sacrament,

And interchangeably set down their hands,

To kill the king at Oxford.

Duch.

He shall be none;

We’ll keep him here: then, what is that to him?

York.

Away, fond woman! were he twenty times 101

My son, I would appeach him.

Duch.

Hadst thou groan’d for him

As I have done, thou’dst be more pitiful.

But now I know thy mind: thou dost suspect

That I have been disloyal to thy bed, 105

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, 108

Not like to me, nor any of my kin,

And yet I love him.

York.

Make way, unruly woman!

[Exit.

Duch.

After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his horse;

Spur post, and get before him to the king, 112

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 116

Till Bolingbroke have pardon’d thee. Away! be gone.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Windsor. A Room in the Castle.

Enter Bolingbroke as King; Henry Percy, and other Lords.

Boling.

Can no man tell 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: 4

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 8

And beat our watch and rob our passengers;

While he, young wanton and effeminate boy,

Takes on the point of honour to support

So dissolute a crew. 12

H. Percy.

My lord, some two days since I saw the prince,

And told him of these triumphs held at Oxford.

Boling.

And what said the gallant?

H. Percy.

His answer was: he would unto the stews, 16

And from the common’st creature pluck a glove,

And wear it as a favour; and with that

He would unhorse the lustiest challenger.

Boling.

As dissolute as desperate; yet, through both, 20

I see some sparkles of a better hope,

Which elder days may happily bring forth.

But who comes here?

Enter Aumerle.

Aum.

Where is the king?

Boling.

What means

Our cousin, that he stares and looks so wildly?

Aum.

God save your Grace! I do beseech your majesty, 26

To have some conference with your Grace alone.

Boling

Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here alone.

[Exeunt H. Percy and Lords.

What is the matter with our cousin now? 29

Aum.

[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. 32

Boling.

Intended or committed was this fault?

If on the first, how heinous e’er it be,

To win thy after-love I pardon thee.

Aum.

Then give me leave that I may turn the key, 36

That no man enter till my tale be done.

Boling.

Have thy desire.

[Aumerle locks the door.

York.

[Within.] My liege, beware! look to thyself;

Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there. 40

Boling.

[Drawing.] Villain, I’ll make thee safe.

Aum.

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? 44

Open the door, or I will break it open.

[Bolingbroke unlocks the door; and afterwards relocks it.

Enter York.

Boling.

What is the matter, uncle? speak;

Recover breath; tell us how near is danger,

That we may arm us to encounter it. 48

York.

Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt know

The treason that my haste forbids me show.

Aum.

Remember, as thou read’st, thy promise pass’d:

I do repent me; read not my name there; 52

My heart is not confederate with my hand.

York.

’Twas, villain, ere thy hand did set it down.

I tore it from the traitor’s bosom, king;

Fear, and not love, begets his penitence. 56

Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove

A serpent that will sting thee to the heart.

Boling.

O heinous, strong, and bold conspiracy!

O loyal father of a treacherous son! 60

Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain,

From whence this stream through muddy passages

Hath held his current and defil’d himself!

Thy overflow of good converts to bad, 64

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. 69

Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies,

Or my sham’d life in his dishonour lies:

Thou kill’st me in his life; giving him breath, 72

The traitor lives, the true man’s put to death.

Duch.

[Within.] What ho, my liege! for God’s sake let me in.

Boling.

What shrill-voic’d suppliant makes this eager cry?

Duch.

[Within.] A woman, and thine aunt, great king; ’tis I. 76

Speak with me, pity me, open the door:

A beggar begs, that never begg’d before.

Boling.

Our scene is alter’d from a serious thing,

And now chang’d to ‘The Beggar and the King.’

My dangerous cousin, let your mother in: 81

I know she’s come to pray for your foul sin.

[Aumerle unlocks the door.

York.

If thou do pardon, whosoever pray,

More sins, for this forgiveness, prosper may. 84

This fester’d joint cut off, the rest rests sound;

This, let alone, will all the rest confound.

Enter Duchess.

Duch.

O king! believe not this hard-hearted man:

Love, loving not itself, none other can. 88

York.

Thou frantic woman, what dost thou make here?

Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear?

Duch.

Sweet York, be-patient.

[Kneels.

Hear me, gentle liege.

Boling.

Rise up, good aunt.

Duch.

Not yet, I thee beseech. 92

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. 96

Aum.

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!

Duch.

Pleads he in earnest? look upon his face; 100

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: 104

His weary joints would gladly rise, I know;

Our knees shall kneel till to the ground they grow:

His prayers are full of false hypocrisy;

Ours of true zeal and deep integrity. 108

Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them have

That mercy which true prayer ought to have.

Boling.

Good aunt, stand up.

Duch.

Nay, do not say ‘stand up;’

But ‘pardon’ first, and afterwards ‘stand up.’

An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach, 113

‘Pardon’ should be the first word of thy speech.

I never long’d to hear a word till now;

Say ‘pardon,’ king; let pity teach thee how: 116

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, ‘pardonnez moy.’

Duch.

Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy? 120

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. 124

Thine eye begins to speak, set thy tongue there,

Or in thy piteous heart plant thou thine ear,

That hearing how our plants and prayers do pierce,

Pity may move thee pardon to rehearse. 128

Boling.

Good aunt, stand up.

Duch.

I do not sue to stand;

Pardon is all the suit I have in hand.

Boling.

I pardon him, as God shall pardon me.

Duch.

O happy vantage of a kneeling knee!

Yet am I sick for fear: speak it again; 133

Twice saying ‘pardon’ doth not pardon twain,

But makes one pardon strong.

Boling.

With all my heart

I pardon him.

Duch.

A god on earth thou art. 136

Boling.

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 140

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 too, adieu: 144

Your mother well hath pray’d, and prove you true.

Duch.

Come, my old son: I pray God make thee new.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Another Room in the Castle.

Enter Exton and a 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?

Serv.

Those were his very words.

Exton.

‘Have I no friend?’ quoth he: he spake it twice, 4

And urg’d it twice together, did he not?

Serv.

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.

Scene V.— Pomfret. The Dungeon of the Castle.

Enter King Richard.

K. Rich.

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, 4

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, 8

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 intermix’d 12

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 16

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 20

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, 24

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, 28

Bearing their own misfortune on the back

Of such as have before endur’d the like.

Thus play I in one person many people,

And none contented: sometimes am I king; 32

Then treason makes me wish myself a beggar,

And so I am: then crushing penury

Persuades me I was better when a king;

Then am I king’d again; and by and by 36

Think that I am unking’d by Bolingbroke,

And straight am nothing: but whate’er I be,

Nor I nor any man that but man is

With nothing shall be pleas’d, till he be eas’d 40

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. 44

And here have I the daintiness of ear

To check time broke in a disorder’d string;

But for the concord of my state and time

Had not an ear to hear my true time broke. 48

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, 52

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, that 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; 61

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! 64

For ’tis a sign of love, and love to Richard

Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.

Enter Groom of the Stable.

Groom.

Hail, royal prince!

K. Rich.

Thanks, noble peer;

The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear. 68

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, 73

With much ado at length have gotten leave

To look upon my sometimes royal master’s face.

O! how it yearn’d my heart when I beheld 76

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 dress’d. 80

K. Rich.

Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend,

How went he under him?

Groom.

So proudly as if he disdain’d the ground.

K. Rich.

So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back! 84

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 88

Of that proud man that did usurp his back?

Forgiveness, horse! why do I rail on thee,

Since thou, created to be aw’d by man,

Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse; 92

And yet I bear a burden like an ass,

Spur-gall’d and tir’d by jauncing Bolingbroke.

Enter Keeper, with a dish.

Keep.

[To the Groom.] Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay.

K. Rich.

If thou love me, ’tis time thou wert away. 96

Groom.

What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall say.

[Exit.

Keep.

My lord, will’t please you to fall to?

K. Rich.

Taste of it first, as thou art wont to do.

Keep.

My lord, I dare not: Sir Pierce of Exton, who lately came from the king, commands the contrary.

K. Rich.

The devil take Henry of Lancaster, and thee!

Patience is stale, and I am weary of it. 104

[Strikes the Keeper.

Keep.

Help, help, help!

Enter Exton and Servants, armed.

K. Rich.

How now! what means death in this rude assault?

Villain, thine own hand yields thy death’s instrument.

[Snatching a weapon and killing one.

Go thou and fill another room in hell. 108

[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 stain’d the king’s own land.

Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high, 112

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, 116

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.

Scene VI.— Windsor. An Apartment in the Castle.

Flourish.

Enter Bolingbroke and York, with Lords and Attendants.

Boling.

Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear

Is that the rebels have consum’d with fire

Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire;

But whether they be ta’en or slain we hear not. 4

Enter Northumberland.

Welcome, my lord. What is the news?

North.

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. 8

The manner of their taking may appear

At large discoursed in this paper here.

Boling.

We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains,

And to thy worth will add right worthy gains. 12

Enter Fitzwater.

Fitz.

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. 16

Boling.

Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot;

Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.

Enter Henry Percy, with the Bishop of Carlisle.

H. Percy.

The grand conspirator, Abbot of Westminster,

With clog of conscience and sour melancholy, 20

Hath yielded up his body to the grave;

But here is Carlisle living, to abide

Thy kingly doom and sentence of his pride.

Boling.

Carlisle, this is your doom: 24

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, 28

High sparks of honour in thee have I seen.

Enter Exton, with Attendants bearing a coffin

Exton.

Great king, within this coffin I present

Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies

The mightiest of thy greatest enemies, 32

Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought.

Boling.

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. 36

Exton.

From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed.

Boling.

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. 40

The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,

But neither my good word nor princely favour:

With Cain go wander through the shade of night,

And never show thy head by day nor light. 44

Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe,

That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow:

Come, mourn with me for that I do lament,

And put on sullen black incontinent. 48

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 FIRST PART OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

King Henry the Fourth.
Henry, Prince of Wales, }	Sons to the King.
John of Lancaster, }	Sons to the King.
Earl of Westmoreland.
Sir Walter Blunt.
Thomas Percy,	Earl of Worcester.
Henry Percy,	Earl of Northumberland.
Henry Percy,	surnamed Hotspur, his son.
Edmund Mortimer,	Earl of March.
Richard Scroop,	Archbishop of York.
Archibald,	Earl of Douglas.
Owen Glendower.
Sir Richard Vernon.
Sir John Falstaff.
Sir Michael,	a Friend to the Archbishop of York.
Poins.
Gadshill.
Peto.
Bardolph.
Lady Percy,	Wife to Hotspur, and Sister to Mortimer.
Lady Mortimer,	Daughter to Glendower, and Wife to Mortimer.
Mistress Quickly,	Hostess of the Boar’s Head Tavern in Eastcheap.
Lords, Officers, Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, two Carriers, Travellers, and Attendants.

Scene.—England.

ACT I.

Scene I.— London. The Palace.

Enter King Henry, Westmoreland, and Others.

K. Hen.

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 commenc’d in stronds afar remote. 4

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 8

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 12

And furious close of civil butchery,

Shall now, in mutual well-beseeming ranks,

March all one way, and be no more oppos’d

Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies: 16

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 20

We are impressed and engag’d to fight,—

Forthwith a power of English shall we levy,

Whose arms were moulded in their mother’s womb

To chase these pagans in those holy fields 24

Over whose acres walk’d those blessed feet

Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail’d

For our advantage on the bitter cross.

But this our purpose is a twelvemonth old, 28

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 32

In forwarding this dear expedience.

West.

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; 37

Whose worst was, that the noble Mortimer,

Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight

Against the irregular and wild Glendower, 40

Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken,

And a thousand of his people butchered;

Upon whose dead corpse’ there was such misuse,

Such beastly shameless transformation 44

By those Welshwomen done, as may not be

Without much shame re-told or spoken of.

K. Hen.

It seems then that the tidings of this broil

Brake off our business for the Holy Land. 48

West.

This match’d with other like, 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, 52

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, 57

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, 60

Uncertain of the issue any way.

K. Hen.

Here is a dear and true industrious friend,

Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse,

Stain’d with the variation of each soil 64

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, 68

Balk’d 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, 72

Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith.

And is not this an honourable spoil?

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

West.

In faith, 76

It is a conquest for a prince to boast of.

K. Hen.

Yea, there thou mak’st me sad and mak’st me sin

In envy that my Lord Northumberland

Should be the father to so blest a son, 80

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, 84

See riot and dishonour stain the brow

Of my young Harry. O! that it could be prov’d

That some night-tripping fairy had exchang’d

In cradle-clothes our children where they lay, 88

And call’d 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, 92

Which he in this adventure hath surpris’d,

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

I shall have none but Mordake Earl of Fife.

West.

This is his uncle’s teaching, this is Worcester, 96

Malevolent to you in all aspects;

Which makes him prune himself, and bristle up

The crest of youth against your dignity.

K. Hen.

But I have sent for him to answer this; 100

And for this cause a while we must neglect

Our holy purpose to Jerusalem.

Cousin, on Wednesday next our council we

Will hold at Windsor; so inform the lords: 104

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.

West.

I will, my hege.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. An Apartment of the Prince’s.

Enter the Prince and Falstaff.

Fal.

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 clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colour’d taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day. 13

Fal.

Indeed, you come near me now, Hal; for we that take purses go by the moon and the seven stars, and not by Phœbus, he, ‘that wandering knight so fair.’ And, I prithee, sweet wag, when thou art king,—as, God save thy Grace,—majesty, I should say, for grace thou wilt have none,— 20

Prince.

What! none?

Fal.

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. 25

Fal.

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. 33

Prince.

Thou sayest 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 in 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.

Fal.

By the Lord, thou sayest true, lad. And is not my hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench? 46

Prince.

As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle. And is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance? 49

Fal.

How now, how now, mad wag! what, in thy quips and thy quiddities? what a plague have I to do with a buff jerkin? 52

Prince.

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

Fal.

Well, thou hast called her to a reckoning many a time and oft. 56

Prince.

Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part?

Fal.

No; I’ll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there. 60

Prince.

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

Fal.

Yea, and so used it that, were it not here apparent that thou art their apparent.—But, I prithee, 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 antick the law? Do not thou, when thou art king, hang a thief. 70

Prince.

No; thou shalt.

Fal.

Shall I? O rare! By the Lord, I’ll be a brave judge. 73

Prince.

Thou judgest false already; I mean, thou shalt have the hanging of the thieves and so become a rare hangman. 76

Fal.

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? 80

Fal.

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. 84

Fal.

Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe.

Prince.

What sayest thou to a hare, or the melancholy of Moor-ditch? 88

Fal.

Thou hast the most unsavory similes, and art, indeed, the most comparative, rascalliest, sweet young prince; but, Hal, I prithee, 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. 98

Prince.

Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out in the streets, and no man regards it. 100

Fal.

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? 111

Fal.

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

Prince.

I see a good amendment of life in thee; from praying to purse-taking. 115

Enter Poins, at a distance.

Fal.

Why, Hal, ’tis my vocation, Hal; ’tis no sin for a man to labour in his vocation. 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. 122

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? 129

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. 136

Poins.

But my lads, my lads, to-morrow morning, by four o’clock, early at Gadshill! There are pilgrims going to Canterbury with rich offerings, and traders riding to London with fat purses: I have vizards 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. 147

Fal.

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

Poins.

You will, chops?

Fal.

Hal, wilt thou make one?

Prince.

Who, I rob? I a thief? not I, by my faith. 153

Fal.

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. 157

Prince.

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

Fal.

Why, that’s well said. 160

Prince.

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

Fal.

By the Lord, I’ll be a traitor then, when thou art king. 164

Prince.

I care not.

Poins.

Sir John, I prithee, leave the prince and me alone: I will lay him down such reasons for this adventure that he shall go. 168

Fal.

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. 175

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 from my shoulders. 185

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. 193

Prince.

Yea, but ’tis like that they will know us by our horses, by our habits, and by every other appointment, to be ourselves. 196

Poins.

Tut! our horses they shall not see, I’ll tie them in the wood; our vizards we will change after we leave them; and, sirrah, I have cases of buckram for the nonce, to inmask our noted outward garments. 201

Prince.

Yea, 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-morrow night in Eastcheap; there I’ll sup. Farewell.

Poins.

Farewell, my lord.

[Exit.

Prince.

I know you all, and will awhile uphold 217

The unyok’d 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, 221

That when he please again to be himself,

Being wanted, he may be more wonder’d at,

By breaking through the foul and ugly mists

Of vapours that did seem to strangle him. 225

If all the year were playing holidays,

To sport would be as tedious as to work;

But when they seldom come, they wish’d for come,

And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents. 229

So, when this loose behaviour I throw off,

And pay the debt I never promised,

By how much better than my word I am 232

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. 237

I’ll so offend to make offence a skill;

Redeeming time when men think least I will.

[Exit.

Scene III.— The Same. The Palace.

Enter King Henry, Northumberland, Worcester, Hotspur, Sir Walter Blunt, and Others.

K. Hen.

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, 4

I will from henceforth rather be myself,

Mighty, and to be fear’d, than my condition,

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

And therefore lost that title of respect 8

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

Wor.

Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves

The scourge of greatness to be us’d on it;

And that same greatness too which our own hands 12

Have holp to make so portly.

North.

My lord,—

K. Hen.

Worcester, get thee gone; for I do see

Danger and disobedience in thine eye. 16

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. 21

[Exit Worcester.

[To Northumberland.] You were about to speak.

North.

Yea, my good lord.

Those prisoners in your highness’ name demanded,

Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took, 24

Were, as he says, not with such strength denied

As is deliver’d to your majesty:

Either envy, therefore, or misprision

Is guilty of this fault and not my son. 28

Hot.

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, 32

Came there a certain lord, neat, and trimly dress’d,

Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reap’d,

Show’d like a stubble-land at harvest-home:

He was perfumed like a milliner, 36

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 smil’d and talk’d;

And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,

He call’d them untaught knaves, unmannerly,

To bring a slovenly unhandsome corpse 44

Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

With many holiday and lady terms

He question’d me; among the rest, demanded

My prisoners in your majesty’s behalf. 48

I then all smarting with my wounds being cold,

To be so pester’d with a popinjay,

Out of my grief and my impatience

Answer’d neglectingly, I know not what, 52

He should, or he should not; for he 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!— 56

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 villanous saltpetre should be digg’d 60

Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,

Which many a good tall fellow had destroy’d

So cowardly; and but for these vile guns,

He would himself have been a soldier. 64

This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord,

I answer’d indirectly, as I said;

And I beseech you, let not his report

Come current for an accusation 68

Betwixt my love and your high majesty.

Blunt.

The circumstance consider’d, good my lord,

Whatever Harry Percy then had said

To such a person and in such a place, 72

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. 76

K. Hen.

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; 80

Who, on my soul, hath wilfully betray’d

The lives of those that he did lead to fight

Against the great magician, damn’d Glendower,

Whose daughter, as we hear, the Earl of March

Hath lately married. Shall our coffers then 85

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; 89

For I shall never hold that man my friend

Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost

To ransom home revolted Mortimer. 92

Hot.

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, 96

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 100

In changing hardiment with great Glendower.

Three times they breath’d and three times did they drink,

Upon agreement, of swift Severn’s flood,

Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks, 104

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 108

Colour her working with such deadly wounds;

Nor never could the noble Mortimer

Receive so many, and all willingly:

Then let him not be slander’d with revolt. 112

K. Hen.

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 116

As Owen Glendower for an enemy.

Art thou not asham’d? But, sirrah, henceforth

Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer:

Send me your prisoners with the speediest means, 120

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. 124

[Exeunt King Henry, Blunt, and Train.

Hot.

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 ease my heart,

Albeit I make a hazard of my head. 128

North.

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

Here comes your uncle.

Re-enter Worcester.

Hot.

Speak of Mortimer!

’Zounds! I will speak of him; and let my soul

Want mercy if I do not join with him: 132

In his behalf 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, 136

As this ingrate and canker’d Bolingbroke.

North.

Brother, the king hath made your nephew mad.

Wor.

Who struck this heat up after I was gone?

Hot.

He will, forsooth, have all my prisoners;

And when I urg’d the ransom once again 141

Of my wife’s brother, then his cheek look’d pale,

And on my face he turn’d an eye of death,

Trembling even at the name of Mortimer. 144

Wor.

I cannot blame him: was he not proclaim’d

By Richard that dead is the next of blood?

North.

He was; I heard the proclamation:

And then it was when the unhappy king,— 148

Whose wrongs in us God pardon!—did set forth

Upon his Irish expedition;

From whence he, intercepted, did return

To be depos’d, and shortly murdered. 152

Wor.

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

Live scandaliz’d and foully spoken of.

Hot.

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

Proclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer 156

Heir to the crown?

North.

He did; myself did hear it.

Hot.

Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin king,

That wish’d him on the barren mountains starve.

But shall it be that you, that set the crown 160

Upon the head of this forgetful man,

And for his sake wear the detested blot

Of murd’rous subornation, shall it be,

That you a world of curses undergo, 164

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 168

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, 172

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 fool’d, discarded, and shook off

By him for whom these shames ye underwent?

No; yet time serves wherein you may redeem 180

Your banish’d honours, and restore yourselves

Into the good thoughts of the world again;

Revenge the jeering and disdain’d contempt

Of this proud king, who studies day and night

To answer all the debt he owes to you, 185

Even with the bloody payment of your deaths.

Therefore, I say,—

Wor.

Peace, cousin! say no more:

And now I will unclasp a secret book, 188

And to your quick-conceiving discontents

I’ll read you matter deep and dangerous,

As full of peril and adventurous spirit

As to o’er-walk a current roaring loud, 192

On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.

Hot.

If he 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, 196

And let them grapple: O! the blood more stirs

To rouse a lion than to start a hare.

North.

Imagination of some great exploit

Drives him beyond the bounds of patience. 200

Hot.

By heaven methinks it were an easy leap

To pluck bright honour from the pale-fac’d moon,

Or dive into the bottom of the deep,

Where fathom-line could never touch the ground, 204

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-fac’d fellowship! 208

Wor.

He apprehends a world of figures here,

But not the form of what he should attend.

Good cousin, give me audience for a while.

Hot.

I cry you mercy.

Wor.

Those same noble Scots 212

That are your prisoners,—

Hot.

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.

Wor.

You start away, 216

And lend no ear unto my purposes.

Those prisoners you shall keep.

Hot.

Nay, I will; that’s flat:

He said he would not ransom Mortimer;

Forbade my tongue to speak of Mortimer; 220

But I will find him when he lies asleep,

And in his ear I’ll holla ‘Mortimer!’

Nay,

I’ll have a starling shall be taught to speak 224

Nothing but ‘Mortimer,’ and give it him,

To keep his anger still in motion.

Wor.

Hear you, cousin; a word.

Hot.

All studies here I solemnly defy, 228

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 would have him poison’d with a pot of ale. 233

Wor.

Farewell, kinsman: I will talk to you

When you are better temper’d to attend.

North.

Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient fool 236

Art thou to break into this woman’s mood,

Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own!

Hot.

Why, look you, I am whipp’d and scourg’d with rods,

Nettled, and stung with pismires, when I hear

Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke. 241

In Richard’s time,—what do ye call the place?—

A plague upon’t—it is in Gloucestershire;—

’Twas where the madcap duke his uncle kept,

His uncle York; where I first bow’d my knee

Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke,

’Sblood!

When you and he came back from Ravenspurgh.

North.

At Berkeley Castle. 249

Hot.

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,’ 253

And ‘gentle Harry Percy,’ and ‘kind cousin.’

O! the devil take such cozeners. God forgive me!

Good uncle, tell your tale, for I have done. 256

Wor.

Nay, if you have not, to’t again;

We’ll stay your leisure.

Hot.

I have done, i’ faith.

Wor.

Then once more to your Scottish prisoners.

Deliver them up without their ransom straight,

And make the Douglas’ son your only mean 261

For powers in Scotland; which, for divers reasons

Which I shall send you written, be assur’d,

Will easily be granted. [To Northumberland.] You, my lord, 264

Your son in Scotland being thus employ’d,

Shall secretly into the bosom creep

Of that same noble prelate well belov’d,

The Archbishop. 268

Hot.

Of York, is it not?

Wor.

True; who bears hard

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

I speak not this in estimation, 272

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. 276

Hot.

I smell it.

Upon my life it will do wondrous well.

North.

Before the game’s afoot thou still lett’st slip.

Hot.

Why, it cannot choose but be a noble plot: 280

And then the power of Scotland and of York,

To join with Mortimer, ha?

Wor.

And so they shall.

Hot.

In faith, it is exceedingly well aim’d.

Wor.

And ’tis no little reason bids us speed,

To save our heads by raising of a head; 285

For, bear ourselves as even as we can,

The king will always think him in our debt,

And think we think ourselves unsatisfied, 288

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.

Hot.

He does, he does: we’ll be reveng’d on him. 292

Wor.

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; 296

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. 300

North.

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

Hot.

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 lanthorn in his hand.

First Car.

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! 4

Ost.

[Within.] Anon, anon.

First Car.

I prithee, Tom, beat Cut’s saddle, put a few flocks in the point; the poor jade is wrung in the withers out of all cess. 8

Enter another Carrier.

Sec. Car.

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. 12

First Car.

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

Sec. Car.

I think this be the most villanous house in all London road for fleas: I am stung like a tench. 17

First Car.

Like a tench! by the mass, there is ne’er a king christen could be better bit than I have been since the first cock. 20

Sec. Car.

Why, they will allow us ne’er a jordan, and then we leak in the chimney; and your chamber-lie breeds fleas like a loach.

First Car.

What, ostler! come away and be hanged, come away. 25

Sec. Car.

I have a gammon of bacon and two razes of ginger, to be delivered as far as Charing-cross. 28

First Car.

Godsbody! 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 on thee, I am a very villain. Come, and be hanged! hast no faith in thee?

Enter Gadshill.

Gads.

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

First Car.

I think it be two o’clock. 37

Gads.

I prithee, lend me thy lanthorn, to see my gelding in the stable.

First Car.

Nay, by God, soft: I know a trick worth two of that, i’ faith. 41

Gads.

I prithee, lend me thine.

Sec. Car.

Ay, when? canst tell? Lend me thy lanthorn, quoth a’? marry, I’ll see thee hanged first. 45

Gads.

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

Sec. Car.

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

[Exeunt Carriers.

Gads.

What, ho! chamberlain! 52

Cham.

[Within.] ‘At hand, quoth pick-purse.’

Gads.

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 layest the plot how. 57

Enter Chamberlain.

Cham.

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.

Gads.

Sirrah, if they meet not with Saint Nicholas’ clerks, I’ll give thee this neck. 68

Cham.

No, I’ll none of it: I prithee, keep that for the hangman; for I know thou worship’st Saint Nicholas as truly as a man of falsehood may. 72

Gads

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 knowest he’s no starveling. Tut! there are other Troyans 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 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.

Cham.

What! the commonwealth their boots? will she hold out water in foul way? 93

Gads.

She will, she will; justice hath liquored her. We steal as in a castle, cock-sure; we have the receipt of fern-seed, we walk invisible. 96

Cham.

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

Gads

Give me thy hand: thou shalt have a share in our purchase, as I am a true man. 101

Cham.

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

Gads.

Go to; homo is a common name to all men. Bid the ostler bring my gelding out of the stable. Farewell, you muddy knave. 106

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Road by Gadshill.

Enter the Prince and Poins.

Poins.

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

Prince.

Stand close. 4

Enter Falstaff.

Fal.

Poins! Poins, and be hanged! Poins!

Prince.

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

Fal.

Where’s Poins, Hal? 8

Prince.

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

[Pretends to seek Poins, and retires.

Fal.

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 afoot 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 years, 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 true man and leave these rogues, I am the veriest varlet that ever chewed with a tooth. Eight yards of uneven ground is threescore and ten miles afoot 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. 34

Prince.

[Coming forward.] Peace, ye fatguts! lie down: lay thine ear close to the ground, and list if thou canst hear the tread of travellers. 38

Fal.

Have you any levers to lift me up again, being down? ’Sblood! I’ll not bear mine own flesh so far afoot 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. 45

Fal.

I prithee, good Prince Hal, help me to my horse, good king’s son.

Prince.

Out, you rogue! shall I be your ostler?

Fal.

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 afoot too! I hate it. 53

Enter Gadshill.

Gads.

Stand.

Fal.

So I do, against my will.

Poins.

O! ’tis our setter: I know his voice.

Enter Bardolph and Peto.

Bard.

What news? 57

Gads.

Case ye, case ye; on with your vizards: there’s money of the king’s coming down the hill; ’tis going to the king’s exchequer. 60

Fal.

You lie, you rogue; ’tis going to the king’s tavern.

Gads.

There’s enough to make us all.

Fal.

To be hanged. 64

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. 68

Peto.

How many be there of them?

Gads.

Some eight or ten.

Fal.

’Zounds! will they not rob us?

Prince.

What! a coward, Sir John Paunch?

Fal.

Indeed, I am not John of Gaunt, your grandfather; but yet no coward, Hal. 74

Prince.

Well, we leave that to the proof.

Poins.

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

Fal.

Now cannot I strike him if I should be hanged. 80

Prince.

[Aside to Poins.] Ned, where are our disguises?

Poins.

Here, hard by; stand close.

[Exeunt Prince and Poins.

Fal.

Now my masters, happy man be his dole, say I: every man to his business. 85

Enter Travellers.

First Trav.

Come, neighbour; the boy shall lead our horses down the hill; we’ll walk afoot awhile, and ease our legs. 88

Thieves.

Stand!

Travellers.

Jesu bless us!

Fal.

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

Travellers.

O! we are undone, both we and ours for ever. 96

Fal.

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. 101

[Here they rob and bind them. Exeunt.

Re-enter the Prince and Poins.

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. 106

Poins.

Stand close; I hear them coming.

Re-enter Thieves.

Fal.

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. 112

Prince.

Your money!

Poins.

Villains!

[As they are sharing, the Prince and Poins set upon them. They all run away; and Falstaff, after a blow or two, runs away too, leaving the booty behind.

Prince

Got with much ease. Now merrily to horse:

The thieves are scatter’d and possess’d with fear

So strongly that they dare not meet each other;

Each takes his fellow for an officer.

Away, good Ned. Falstaff sweats to death

And lards the lean earth as he walks along: 120

Were’t not for laughing I should pity him.

Poins.

How the rogue roar’d!

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Warkworth. A Room in the Castle.

Enter Hotspur, reading a letter.

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;— 8

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. 12

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. 16

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. ’Zounds! 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 skim milk with so honourable an action. Hang him! let him tell the king; we are prepared. I will set forward to-night. 40

Enter Lady Percy.

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

Lady P.

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

For what offence have I this fortnight been

A banish’d woman from my Harry’s bed? 44

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? 48

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 watch’d, 52

And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars,

Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed,

Cry, ‘Courage! to the field!’ And thou hast talk’d

Of sallies and retires, of trenches, tents, 56

Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets,

Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin,

Of prisoners’ ransom, and of soldiers slain,

And all the currents of a heady fight. 60

Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war,

And thus hath so bestirr’d thee in thy sleep,

That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow,

Like bubbles in a late-disturbed stream; 64

And in thy face strange motions have appear’d,

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, 68

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

Hot.

What, ho!

Enter Servant.

Is Gilliams with the packet gone?

Serv.

He is, my lord, an hour ago.

Hot.

Hath Butler brought those horses from the sheriff? 72

Serv.

One horse, my lord, he brought even now.

Hot.

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

Serv.

It is, my lord.

Hot.

That roan shall be my throne.

Well, I will back him straight: O, Esperance!

Bid Butler lead him forth into the park. 77

[Exit Servant.

Lady P.

But hear you, my lord.

Hot.

What sayst thou, my lady?

Lady P.

What is it carries you away? 80

Hot.

Why, my horse, my love, my horse.

Lady P.

Out, you mad-headed ape!

A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen

As you are toss’d with. In faith, 84

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— 88

Hot.

So far afoot, I shall be weary, love.

Lady P.

Come, come, you paraquito, answer me

Directly unto this question that I ask.

In faith, I’ll break thy little finger, Harry, 92

An if thou wilt not tell me all things true.

Hot.

Away,

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

I care not for thee, Kate: this is no world 96

To play with mammets and to tilt with lips:

We must have bloody noses and crack’d crowns,

And pass them current too. God’s me, my horse!

What sayst thou, Kate? what wouldst thou have with me? 100

Lady P.

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. 104

Hot.

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 108

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 112

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. 117

Lady P.

How! so far?

Hot.

Not an inch further. But, hark you, Kate;

Whither I go, thither shall you go too; 120

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

Will this content you, Kate?

Lady P.

It must, of force.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Eastcheap. A Room in the Boar’s Head Tavern.

Enter the Prince and Poins.

Prince.

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

Poins.

Where hast been, Hal? 3

Prince.

With three or four loggerheads amongst three or four score 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 christen 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, dyeing 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 underskinker, 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 prithee 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. 37

Poins.

Francis!

Prince.

Thou art perfect.

Poins.

Francis!

[Exit Poins.

Enter Francis.

Fran.

Anon, anon, sir. Look down into the Pomgarnet, Ralph.

Prince.

Come hither, Francis.

Fran.

My lord. 44

Prince.

How long hast thou to serve, Francis?

Fran.

Forsooth, five years, and as much as to—

Poins.

[Within.] Francis!

Fran.

Anon, anon, sir. 48

Prince.

Five years! 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? 53

Fran.

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

Poins.

[Within.] Francis! 56

Fran.

Anon, sir.

Prince.

How old art thou, Francis?

Fran.

Let me see—about Michaelmas next I shall be— 60

Poins.

[Within.] Francis!

Fran.

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? 66

Fran.

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!

Fran.

Anon, anon. 72

Prince.

Anon, Francis? No, Francis; but to-morrow, Francis; or, Francis, o’ Thursday; or, indeed, Francis, when thou wilt. But, Francis! 76

Fran.

My lord?

Prince.

Wilt thou rob this leathern-jerkin, crystal-button, knot-pated, agate-ring, pukestocking, caddis-garter, smooth-tongue, Spanish-pouch,— 81

Fran.

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.

Fran.

What, sir?

Poins.

[Within.] Francis! 88

Prince.

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

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

Enter Vintner.

Vint.

What! standest thou still, and hearest 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! 97

Re-enter Poins.

Poins.

Anon, anon, sir.

Prince.

Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the thieves are at the door: shall we be merry? 100

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? 104

Prince.

I am now of all humours that have show’d themselves humours since the old days of goodman Adam to the pupil age of this present twelve o’clock at midnight. [Francis crosses the stage, with wine.] What’s o’clock, Francis? 110

Fran.

Anon, anon, sir.

[Exit.

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 prithee 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. 127

Enter Falstaff, Gadshill, Bardolph, Peto, and Francis.

Poins.

Welcome, Jack: where hast thou been?

Fal.

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?

[He drinks.

Prince.

Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter—pitiful-hearted Titan, that melted at the sweet tale of the sun? if thou didst then behold that compound. 138

Fal.

You rogue, here’s lime in this sack too: there is nothing but roguery to be found in villanous 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 anything. A plague of all cowards, I say still.

Prince.

How now, wool-sack! what mutter you? 152

Fal.

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! 157

Prince.

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

Fal.

Are you not a coward? answer me to that; and Poins there? 161

Poins.

’Zounds! ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, I’ll stab thee.

Fal.

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. 172

Prince.

O villain! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drunkest last.

Fal.

All’s one for that. [He drinks.] A plague of all cowards, still say I. 176

Prince.

What’s the matter?

Fal.

What’s the matter? there be four of us here have ta’en a thousand pound this day morning. 180

Prince.

Where is it, Jack? where is it?

Fal.

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

Prince.

What, a hundred, man? 184

Fal.

I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have ’scap’d by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet, four through the hose; my buckler out 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?

Gads.

We four set upon some dozen,— 196

Fal.

Sixteen, at least, my lord.

Gads.

And bound them.

Peto.

No, no, they were not bound.

Fal.

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

Gads.

As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us,— 204

Fal.

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

Prince.

What, fought ye with them all?

Fal.

All! I know not what ye 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. 212

Prince.

Pray God you have not murdered some of them.

Fal.

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,— 221

Prince.

What, four? thou saidst but two even now.

Fal.

Four, Hal; I told thee four. 224

Poins.

Ay, ay, he said four.

Fal.

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. 228

Prince.

Seven? why, there were but four even now.

Fal.

In buckram.

Poins.

Ay, four, in buckram suits. 232

Fal.

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

Prince.

Prithee, let him alone; we shall have more anon. 236

Fal.

Dost thou hear me, Hal?

Prince.

Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.

Fal.

Do so, for it is worth the listening to.

These nine in buckram that I told thee of,— 240

Prince.

So, two more already.

Fal.

Their points being broken,—

Poins.

Down fell their hose.

Fal.

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. 248

Fal.

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. 252

Prince.

These lies are like the father that begets them; gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou whoreson, obscene, greasy tallowketch,— 257

Fal.

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? 263

Poins.

Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.

Fal.

What, upon compulsion? ’Zounds! an I were 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 plenty as blackberries I would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I. 270

Prince.

I’ll be no longer guilty of this sin: this sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horseback-breaker, this huge hill of flesh;— 273

Fal.

’Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat’s-tongue, you bull’s pizzle, 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;— 278

Prince.

Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again; and when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this. 281

Poins.

Mark, Jack.

Prince.

We two saw you four set on four and 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, out-faced you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in the house. And, Falstaff, you carried your guts 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? 296

Poins.

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

Fal.

By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he that made ye. Why, hear you, 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 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. 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? 313

Prince.

Content; and the argument shall be thy running away.

Fal.

Ah! no more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me! 317

Enter Mistress Quickly.

Quick.

O Jesu! my lord the prince!

Prince.

How now, my lady the hostess! what sayest thou to me? 320

Quick.

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.

Fal.

What manner of man is he? 326

Quick.

An old man.

Fal.

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

Prince.

Prithee, do, Jack. 330

Fal.

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!

Bard.

Faith, I ran when I saw others run. 336

Prince.

Faith, 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. 342

Bard.

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. 348

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 rannest away. What instinct hadst thou for it?

Bard.

[Pointing to his face.] My lord, do you see these meteors? do you behold these exhalations? 357

Prince.

I do.

Bard.

What think you they portend?

Prince.

Hot livers and cold purses. 360

Bard.

Choler, my lord, if rightly taken.

Prince.

No, if rightly taken, halter.—

Re-enter Falstaff.

Here comes lean Jack, here comes bare-bone.—How now, my sweet creature of bombast! How long is’t ago, Jack, since thou sawest thine own knee? 366

Fal.

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 made Lucifer cuckold, and swore the devil his true liegeman upon the cross of a Welsh hook—what a plague call you him? 378

Poins.

Owen Glendower.

Fal.

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. 385

Fal.

You have hit it.

Prince.

So did he never the sparrow.

Fal.

Well, that rascal hath good mettle in him; he will not run. 389

Prince.

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

Fal.

O’ horseback, ye cuckoo! but, afoot he will not budge a foot. 393

Prince.

Yes, Jack, upon instinct.

Fal.

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. 400

Prince.

Why then, it is like, if there come a hot June and this civil buffeting hold, we shall buy maidenheads as they buy hob-nails, by the hundreds. 404

Fal.

By the mass, lad, thou sayest true; it is like we shall have good trading that way. But tell me, Hal, art thou not horribly 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? 412

Prince.

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

Fal.

Well, thou wilt be horribly chid to-morrow when thou comest to thy father: if thou love me, practise an answer. 417

Prince.

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

Fal.

Shall I? content: this chair shall be my state, this dagger my sceptre, and this cushion my crown. 422

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! 425

Fal.

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 mine 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.

[Drinks.

Prince.

Well, here is my leg.

[Makes a bow.

Fal.

And here is my speech. Stand aside, nobility. 434

Quick.

O Jesu! This is excellent sport, i’ faith!

Fal.

Weep not, sweet queen, for trickling tears are vain. 436

Quick.

O, the father! how he holds his countenance.

Fal.

For God’s sake, lords, convey my tristful queen,

For tears do stop the flood-gates of her eyes. 440

Quick.

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

Fal.

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 villanous 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. 467

Prince.

What manner of man, an it like your majesty?

Fal.

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. 483

Fal.

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. 488

Fal.

And here I stand. Judge, my masters.

Prince.

Now, Harry! whence come you?

Fal.

My noble lord, from Eastcheap.

Prince.

The complaints I hear of thee are grievous. 493

Fal.

’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 a fat old man; a tun of man is thy companion. Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humours, that bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swoln parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stuffed cloak-bag of guts, 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 villanous but in all things? wherein worthy but in nothing? 512

Fal.

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

Prince.

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

Fal.

My lord, the man I know. 517

Prince.

I know thou dost.

Fal.

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; but that he is, saving your reverence, a whoremaster, that I utterly deny. 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. 535

Prince.

I do, I will.

[A knocking heard.

[Exeunt Mistress Quickly, Francis, and Bardolph.

Re-enter Bardolph, running.

Bard.

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

Fal.

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

Re-enter Mistress Quickly.

Quick.

O Jesu! my lord, my lord! 541

Prince.

Heigh, heigh! the devil rides upon a fiddle-stick: what’s the matter?

Quick.

The sheriff and all the watch are at the door: they are come to search the house. Shall I let them in? 546

Fal.

Dost thou hear, Hal? never call a true piece of gold a counterfeit: thou art essentially mad without seeming so. 549

Prince.

And thou a natural coward without instinct.

Fal.

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. 556

Prince.

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

Fal.

Both which I have had; but their date is out, and therefore I’ll hide me. 561

[Exeunt all but the Prince and Peto.

Prince.

Call in the sheriff.

Enter Sheriff and Carrier.

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

Sher.

First, pardon me, my lord. A hue and cry 564

Hath follow’d certain men unto this house.

Prince.

What men?

Sher.

One of them is well known, my gracious lord,

A gross fat man.

Car.

As fat as butter. 568

Prince.

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

For I myself at this time have employ’d him.

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

That I will, by to-morrow dinner-time, 572

Send him to answer thee, or any man,

For anything he shall be charg’d withal:

And so let me entreat you leave the house.

Sher.

I will, my lord. There are two gentlemen 576

Have in this robbery lost three hundred marks.

Prince.

It may be so: if he have robb’d these men,

He shall be answerable; and so farewell.

Sher.

Good night, my noble lord. 580

Prince.

I think it is good morrow, is it not?

Sher.

Indeed, my lord, I think it be two o’clock.

[Exeunt Sheriff and Carrier.

Prince.

This oily rascal is known as well as Paul’s.

Go, call him forth. 584

Peto.

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

Prince.

Hark, how hard he fetches breath.

Search his pockets. [He searcheth his pockets, and findeth certain papers.] What hast thou found? 590

Peto.

Nothing but papers, my lord.

Prince.

Let’s see what they be: read them.

Peto.

Item, A capon	2s. 2d.
Item, Sauce	4l.
Item, Sack, two gallons	5s. 8l.
Item, Anchovies and sack after supper	2s. 6l.
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, Peto. 608

Peto.

Good morrow, good my lord.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Bangor. A Room in the Archdeacon’s House.

Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Mortimer, and Glendower.

Mort.

These promises are fair, the parties sure,

And our induction full of prosperous hope.

Hot.

Lord Mortimer, and cousin Glendower,

Will you sit down? 4

And uncle Worcester: a plague upon it!

I have forgot the map.

Glend.

No, here it is.

Sit, cousin Percy; sit, good cousin Hotspur;

For by that name as oft as Lancaster 8

Doth speak of you, his cheek looks pale and with

A rising sigh he wishes you in heaven.

Hot.

And you in hell, as often as he hears

Owen Glendower spoke of. 12

Glend.

I cannot blame him: at my nativity

The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,

Of burning cressets; and at my birth

The frame and huge foundation of the earth 16

Shak’d like a coward.

Hot.

Why, so it would have done at the same season, if your mother’s cat had but kittened, though yourself had never been born. 20

Glend.

I say the earth did shake when I was born.

Hot.

And I say the earth was not of my mind,

If you suppose as fearing you it shook.

Glend.

The heavens were all on fire, the earth did tremble. 24

Hot.

O! then the 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 28

Is with a kind of colic pinch’d and vex’d

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 33

Our grandam earth, having this distemperature,

In passion shook.

Glend.

Cousin, of many men

I do not bear these crossings. Give me leave 36

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 mark’d me extraordinary; 41

And all the courses of my life do show

I am not in the roll of common men.

Where is he living, clipp’d in with the sea 44

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 48

And hold me pace in deep experiments.

Hot.

I think there’s no man speaks better Welsh.

I’ll to dinner.

Mort.

Peace, cousin Percy! you will make him mad. 52

Glend.

I can call spirits from the vasty deep.

Hot.

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

But will they come when you do call for them?

Glend.

Why, I can teach thee, cousin, to command 56

The devil.

Hot.

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, 60

And I’ll be sworn I have power to shame him hence.

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

Mort.

Come, come;

No more of this unprofitable chat. 64

Glend.

Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made head

Against my power; thrice from the banks of Wye

And sandy-bottom’d Severn have I sent him

Bootless home and weather-beaten back. 68

Hot.

Home without boots, and in foul weather too!

How ’scapes he agues, in the devil’s name?

Glend.

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

According to our threefold order ta’en? 72

Mort.

The archdeacon hath divided it

Into three limits very equally.

England, from Trent and Severn hitherto,

By south and east, is to my part assign’d: 76

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. 80

And our indentures tripartite are drawn,

Which being sealed interchangeably,

A business that this night may execute,

To-morrow, cousin Percy, you and I 84

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, 88

Nor shall we need his help these fourteen days.

[To Glendower.] Within that space you may have drawn together

Your tenants, friends, and neighbouring gentlemen.

Glend.

A shorter time shall send me to you, lords; 92

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. 96

Hot.

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 100

A huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out.

I’ll have the current in this place damm’d up,

And here the smug and silver Trent shall run

In a new channel, fair and evenly: 104

It shall not wind with such a deep indent,

To rob me of so rich a bottom here.

Glend.

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

Mort.

Yea, but 108

Mark how he bears his course, and runs me up

With like advantage on the other side;

Gelding the opposed continent as much,

As on the other side it takes from you. 112

Wor.

Yea, but a little charge will trench him here,

And on this north side win this cape of land;

And then he runs straight and even.

Hot.

I’ll have it so; a little charge will do it.

Glend.

I will not have it alter’d.

Hot.

Will not you? 117

Glend.

No, nor you shall not.

Hot.

Who shall say me nay?

Glend.

Why, that will I.

Hot.

Let me not understand you then:

Speak it in Welsh. 120

Glend.

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

For I was train’d up in the English court;

Where, being but young, I framed to the harp

Many an English ditty lovely well, 124

And gave the tongue an helpful ornament;

A virtue that was never seen in you.

Hot.

Marry, and I’m glad of it with all my heart.

I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew 128

Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers;

I had rather hear a brazen canstick turn’d,

Or a dry wheel grate on the axle-tree;

And that would set my teeth nothing on edge,

Nothing so much as mincing poetry: 133

’Tis like the forc’d gait of a shuffling nag.

Glend.

Come, you shall have Trent turn’d.

Hot.

I do not care: I’ll give thrice so much land 136

To any well-deserving friend;

But in the way of bargain, mark you me,

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

Are the indentures drawn? shall we be gone?

Glend.

The moon shines fair, you may away by night: 141

I’ll haste the writer and withal

Break with your wives of your departure hence:

I am afraid my daughter will run mad, 144

So much she doteth on her Mortimer.

[Exit.

Mort.

Fie, cousin Percy! how you cross my father!

Hot.

I cannot choose: sometimes he angers me

With telling me of the moldwarp and the ant,

Of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies, 149

And of a dragon, and a finless fish,

A clip-wing’d griffin, and a moulten raven,

A couching lion, and a ramping cat, 152

And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff

As puts me from my faith. I’ll tell thee what;

He held me last night at least nine hours

In reckoning up the several devils’ names 156

That were his lackeys: I cried ‘hum!’ and ‘well, go to.’

But mark’d 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 garlick in a windmill, far, 161

Than feed on cates and have him talk to me

In any summer-house in Christendom.

Mort.

In faith, he is a worthy gentleman, 164

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? 168

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 172

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.

Wor.

In faith, my lord, you are too wilfulblame; 176

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,— 180

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: 184

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. 188

Hot.

Well, I am school’d; good manners be your speed!

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

Re-enter Glendower, with the Ladies.

Mort.

This is the deadly spite that angers me,

My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh. 192

Glend.

My daughter weeps; she will not part with you:

She’ll be a soldier too: she’ll to the wars.

Mort.

Good father, tell her that she and my aunt Percy,

Shall follow in your conduct speedily. 196

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

Glend.

She’s desperate here; a peevish self-will’d harlotry, one that no persuasion can do good upon.

[She speaks to Mortimer in Welsh.

Mort.

I understand thy looks: that pretty Welsh 200

Which thou pour’st down from these swelling heavens

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

In such a parley would I answer thee.

[She speaks again.

I understand thy kisses and thou mine, 204

And that’s a feeling disputation:

But I will never be a truant, love,

Till I have learn’d thy language; for thy tongue

Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn’d,

Sung by a fair queen in a summer’s bower, 209

With ravishing division, to her lute.

Glend.

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

[She speaks again.

Mort.

O! I am ignorance itself in this. 212

Glend.

She bids you

Upon 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 eye-lids crown the god of sleep, 217

Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness,

Making such difference ’twixt wake and sleep

As is the difference between day and night 220

The hour before the heavenly-harness’d team

Begins his golden progress in the east.

Mort.

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

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

Glend.

Do so; 225

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. 228

Hot.

Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down: come, quick, quick, that I may lay my head in thy lap.

Lady P.

Go, ye giddy goose. 232

[Glendower speaks some Welsh words, and music is heard.

Hot.

Now I perceive the devil understands Welsh;

And ’tis no marvel he is so humorous.

By’r lady, he’s a good musician.

Lady P.

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.

Hot.

I had rather hear Lady, my brach, how! in Irish. 240

Lady P.

Wouldst thou have thy head broken?

Hot.

No.

Lady P.

Then be still.

Hot.

Neither; ’tis a woman’s fault. 244

Lady P.

Now, God help thee!

Hot.

To the Welsh lady’s bed.

Lady P.

What’s that?

Hot.

Peace! she sings. 248

[A Welsh song sung by Lady Mortimer.

Hot.

Come, Kate, I’ll have your song too.

Lady P.

Not mine, in good sooth.

Hot.

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 giv’st such sarcenet surety for thy oaths,

As if thou never walk’dst further than Finsbury. 256

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. 260

Come, sing.

Lady P.

I will not sing.

Hot.

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

[Exit.

Glend.

Come, come, Lord Mortimer; you are as slow

As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go. 268

By this our book is drawn; we will but seal,

And then to horse immediately.

Mort.

With all my heart.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King Henry, the Prince, and Lords.

K. Hen.

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, 4

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 8

Make me believe that thou art only mark’d

For the hot vengeance and the rod of heaven

To punish my mistreadings. Tell me else,

Could such inordinate and low desires, 12

Such poor, such bare, such lewd, such mean attempts,

Such barren pleasures, rude society,

As thou art match’d withal and grafted to,

Accompany the greatness of thy blood 16

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 20

Myself of many I am charg’d withal:

Yet such extenuation let me beg,

As, in reproof of many tales devis’d,

Which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear,

By smiling pick-thanks and base newsmongers,

I may, for some things true, wherein my youth

Hath faulty wander’d and irregular,

Find pardon on my true submission. 28

K. Hen.

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, 32

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 36

Is ruin’d, and the soul of every man

Prophetically do forethink thy fall.

Had I so lavish of my presence been,

So common-hackney’d in the eyes of men, 40

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, 44

A fellow of no mark nor likelihood.

By being seldom seen, I could not stir,

But like a comet I was wonder’d at;

That men would tell their children, ‘This is he;’

Others would say, ‘Where? which is Bolingbroke?’ 49

And then I stole all courtesy from heaven,

And dress’d 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, 56

Ne’er seen but wonder’d 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 60

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, 65

To laugh at gibing boys and stand the push

Of every beardless vain comparative;

Grew a companion to the common streets, 68

Enfeoff’d himself to popularity;

That, being daily swallow’d 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. 73

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, 77

Afford no extraordinary gaze,

Such as is bent on sun-like majesty

When it shines seldom in admiring eyes; 80

But rather drows’d and hung their eyelids down,

Slept in his face, and render’d such aspect

As cloudy men use to their adversaries,

Being with his presence glutted, gorg’d, and full.

And in that very line, Harry, stand’st thou; 85

For thou hast lost thy princely privilege

With vile participation: not an eye

But is aweary of thy common sight, 88

Save mine, which hath desir’d 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, 92

Be more myself.

K. Hen.

For all the world,

As thou art to this hour was Richard then

When I from France set foot at Ravenspurgh;

And even as I was then is Percy now. 96

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, 100

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 104

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, 109

And military title capital,

Through all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ.

Thrice hath this Hotspur, Mars in swathling clothes, 112

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 116

And shake the peace and safety of our throne.

And what say you to this? Percy, Northumberland,

The Archbishop’s Grace of York, Douglas, Mortimer,

Capitulate against us and are up. 120

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, 125

To fight against me under Percy’s pay,

To dog his heels, and curtsy at his frowns,

To show how much thou art degenerate. 128

Prince.

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

And God forgive them, that so much have sway’d

Your majesty’s good thoughts away from me!

I will redeem all this on Percy’s head, 132

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 favours in a bloody mask, 136

Which, wash’d 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, 140

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,

To engross up glorious deeds on my behalf; 148

And I will call him 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. 152

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

The which, if he be pleas’d I shall perform,

I do beseech your majesty may salve

The long-grown wounds of my intemperance: 156

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.

K. Hen.

A hundred thousand rebels die in this: 160

Thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein.

Enter Sir Walter Blunt.

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

Blunt.

So hath the business that I come to speak of.

Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word 164

That Douglas and the English rebels met,

The eleventh of this month at Shrewsbury.

A mighty and a fearful head they are,—

If promises be kept on every hand,— 168

As ever offer’d foul play in a state.

K. Hen.

The Earl of Westmoreland set forth to-day,

With him my son, Lord John of Lancaster;

For this advertisement is five days old. 172

On Wednesday next, Harry, you shall set forward;

On Thursday we ourselves will march: our meeting

Is Bridgenorth; and Harry, you shall march

Through Gloucestershire; by which account, 176

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. 180

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Eastcheap. A Room in the Boar’s Head Tavern.

Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.

Fal.

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, villanous company, hath been the spoil of me. 12

Bard.

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

Fal.

Why, there is it: come, sing me a bawdy 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; went to a bawdy-house not above once in a quarter—of an hour; 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. 23

Bard.

Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must needs be out of all compass, out of all reasonable compass, Sir John. 26

Fal.

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

Bard.

Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm. 32

Fal.

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 rannest up Gadshill in the night to catch my horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an igius 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! 55

Bard.

’Sblood, I would my face were in your belly.

Fal.

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

Enter Mistress Quickly.

How now, Dame Partlet the hen! have you inquired yet who picked my pocket? 61

Quick.

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. 67

Fal.

You 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.

Quick.

Who, I? No; I defy thee: God’s light!

I was never called so in my own house before. 72

Fal.

Go to, I know you well enough.

Quick.

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. 78

Fal.

Dowlas, filthy dowlas: I have given them away to bakers’ wives, and they have made bolters of them. 81

Quick.

Now, as I am 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. 85

Fal.

He had his part of it; let him pay.

Quick.

He! alas! he is poor; he hath nothing.

Fal.

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.

Quick.

O Jesu! I have heard the prince tell him, I know not how oft, that that ring was copper. 97

Fal.

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. 100

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

Fal

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

Bard.

Yea, two and two, Newgate fashion.

Quick.

My lord, I pray you, hear me. 104

Prince.

What sayest thou, Mistress Quickly?

How does thy husband? I love him well, he is an honest man.

Quick.

Good my lord, hear me. 108

Fal.

Prithee, let her alone, and list to me.

Prince.

What sayest thou, Jack?

Fal.

The other night I fell asleep here behind the arras and had my pocket picked: this house is turned bawdy-house; they pick pockets. 113

Prince.

What didst thou lose, Jack?

Fal.

Wilt thou believe me, Hal? three or four bonds of forty pound a-piece, and a seal-ring of my grandfather’s. 117

Prince.

A trifle; some eight-penny matter.

Quick.

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. 122

Prince.

What! he did not?

Quick.

There’s neither faith, truth, nor womanhood in me else. 125

Fal.

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 womanhood, Maid Marian may be the deputy’s wife of the ward to thee. Go, you thing, go.

Quick.

Say, what thing? what thing?

Fal.

What thing! why, a thing to thank God on. 133

Quick.

I am no thing to thank God on, I would thou shouldst know it; I am an honest man’s wife; and, setting thy knighthood aside, thou art a knave to call me so. 137

Fal.

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

Quick.

Say, what beast, thou knave thou? 140

Fal.

What beast! why, an otter.

Prince.

An otter, Sir John! why, an otter?

Fal.

Why? she’s neither fish nor flesh; a man knows not where to have her. 144

Quick.

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

Prince.

Thou sayest true, hostess; and he slanders thee most grossly. 149

Quick.

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

Prince.

Sirrah! do I owe you a thousand pound? 153

Fal.

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

Quick.

Nay, my lord, he called you Jack, and said he would cudgel you. 157

Fal.

Did I, Bardolph?

Bard.

Indeed, Sir John, you said so.

Fal.

Yea; if he said my ring was copper. 160

Prince.

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

Fal.

Why, Hal, thou knowest, 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. 165

Prince.

And why not as the lion?

Fal.

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! 170

Prince.

O! if it should, how would thy guts fall about thy knees. But, sirrah, there’s no room for faith, truth, or honesty in this bosom of thine; it is all filled up with guts and midriff. Charge an honest woman with picking thy pocket! Why, thou whoreson, impudent, embossed rascal, if there were any thing in thy pocket but tavern reckonings, memorandums of bawdy-houses, 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? 183

Fal.

Dost thou hear, Hal? thou knowest in the state of innocency Adam fell; and what should poor Jack Falstaff do in the days of villany? Thou seest I have more flesh than another man, and therefore more frailty. You confess then, you picked my pocket? 189

Prince.

It appears so by the story.

Fal.

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 seest I am pacified. Still! Nay prithee, be gone. [Exit Mistress Quickly.] Now, Hal, to the news at court: for the robbery, lad, how is that answered? 197

Prince.

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

Fal.

O! I do not like that paying back; ’tis a double labour. 201

Prince.

I am good friends with my father and may do anything.

Fal.

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

Bard.

Do, my lord.

Prince.

I have procured thee, Jack, a charge of foot. 208

Fal.

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!

Bard.

My lord? 216

Prince.

Go bear this letter to Lord John of Lancaster,

To my brother John; this to my Lord of Westmoreland.

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

Have thirty miles to ride ere dinner-time. 220

Jack, meet me to-morrow in the Temple-hall

At two o’clock in the afternoon:

There shalt thou know thy charge, and there receive

Money and order for their furniture. 224

The land is burning; Percy stands on high;

And either we or they must lower lie.

[Exeunt the Prince, Poins, and Bardolph.

Fal.

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

O! I could wish this tavern were my drum. 228

[Exit.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— The Rebel Camp near Shrewsbury.

Enter Hotspur, Worcester, and Douglas.

Hot.

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 4

Should go so general current through the world.

By God, I cannot flatter; do defy

The tongues of soothers; but a braver place

In my heart’s love hath no man than yourself. 8

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

Doug.

Thou art the king of honour:

No man so potent breathes upon the ground

But I will beard him.

Hot.

Do so, and ’tis well. 12

Enter a Messenger, with letters.

What letters hast thou there? [To Douglas.] I can but thank you.

Mess.

These letters come from your father.

Hot.

Letters from him! why comes he not himself?

Mess.

He cannot come, my lord: he’s grievous sick. 16

Hot.

’Zounds! how has he the leisure to be sick

In such a justling time? Who leads his power?

Under whose government come they along?

Mess.

His letters bear his mind, not I, my lord. 20

Wor.

I prithee, tell me, doth he keep his bed?

Mess.

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

And at the time of my departure thence

He was much fear’d by his physicians. 24

Wor.

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.

Hot.

Sick now! droop now! this sickness doth infect 28

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 32

So soon be drawn; nor did he think it meet

To lay so dangerous and dear a trust

On any soul remov’d but on his own.

Yet doth he give us bold advertisement, 36

That with our small conjunction we should on,

To see how fortune is dispos’d to us;

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

Because the king is certainly possess’d 40

Of all our purposes. What say you to it?

Wor.

Your father’s sickness is a maim to us.

Hot.

A perilous gash, a very limb lopp’d off:

And yet, in faith, ’tis not; his present want 44

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? 48

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.

Doug.

Faith, and so we should; 52

Where now remains a sweet reversion:

We may boldly spend upon the hope of what

Is to come in:

A comfort of retirement lives in this. 56

Hot.

A rendezvous, a home to fly unto,

If that the devil and mischance look big

Upon the maidenhead of our affairs.

Wor.

But yet, I would your father had been here. 60

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 64

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; 68

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: 72

This absence of your father’s draws a curtain,

That shows the ignorant a kind of fear

Before not dreamt of.

Hot.

You strain too far.

I rather of his absence make this use: 76

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 80

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.

Doug.

As heart can think: there is not such a word 84

Spoke of in Scotland as this term of fear.

Enter Sir Richard Vernon.

Hot.

My cousin Vernon! welcome, by my soul.

Ver.

Pray God my news be worth a welcome, lord.

The Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong,

Is marching hitherwards; with him Prince John.

Hot.

No harm: what more?

Ver.

And further, I have learn’d,

The king himself in person is set forth,

Or hitherwards intended speedily, 92

With strong and mighty preparation.

Hot.

He shall be welcome too. Where is his son,

The nimble-footed madcap Prince of Wales,

And his comrades, that daff’d the world aside, 96

And bid it pass?

Ver.

All furnish’d, all in arms,

All plum’d like estridges that wing the wind,

Baited like eagles having lately bath’d,

Glittering in golden coats, like images, 100

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, 104

His cushes on his thighs, gallantly arm’d,

Rise from the ground like feather’d Mercury,

And vaulted with such ease into his seat,

As if an angel dropp’d down from the clouds,

To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus 109

And witch the world with noble horsemanship.

Hot.

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, 113

And to the fire-ey’d maid of smoky war

All hot and bleeding will we offer them:

The mailed Mars shall on his altar sit 116

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 120

Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales:

Harry to Harry shall, hot horse to horse,

Meet and ne’er part till one drop down a corse.

O! that Glendower were come.

Ver.

There is more news: 124

I learn’d in Worcester, as I rode along,

He cannot draw his power these fourteen days.

Doug.

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

Wor.

Ay, by my faith, that bears a frosty sound. 123

Hot.

What may the king’s whole battle reach unto?

Ver.

To thirty thousand.

Hot.

Forty let it be:

My father and Glendower being both away,

The powers of us may serve so great a day. 132

Come, let us take a muster speedily:

Doomsday is near; die all, die merrily.

Doug.

Talk not of dying: I am out of fear

Of death or death’s hand for this one half year.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A public Road near Coventry.

Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.

Fal.

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

Bard.

Will you give me money, captain? 4

Fal.

Lay out, lay out.

Bard.

This bottle makes an angel.

Fal.

An if it do, take it for thy labour; and if it make twenty, take them all, I’ll answer the coinage. Bid my Lieutenant Peto meet me at the town’s end. 10

Bard.

I will, captain: farewell.

[Exit.

Fal.

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 press me none but good householders, yeomen’s sons; inquire 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 bellies 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 inn-keeper of Daventry. But that’s all one; they’ll find linen enough on every hedge. 53

Enter the Prince and Westmoreland.

Prince.

How now, blown Jack! how now, quilt!

Fal.

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.

West.

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 night. 63

Fal.

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?

Fal.

Mine, Hal, mine. 70

Prince.

I did never see such pitiful rascals.

Fal.

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.

West.

Ay, but, Sir John, methinks they are exceeding poor and bare; too beggarly. 76

Fal.

Faith, for their poverty, I know not where they had that; and for their bareness, I am sure they never learned that of me. 79

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.

Fal.

What, is the king encamped?

West.

He is, Sir John: I fear we shall stay too long. 84

Fal.

Well,

To the latter end of a fray and the beginning of a feast

Fits a dull fighter and a keen guest.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Rebel Camp near Shrewsbury.

Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Douglas, and Vernon.

Hot.

We’ll fight with him to-night.

Wor.

It may not be.

Doug.

You give him then advantage.

Ver.

Not a whit.

Hot.

Why say you so? looks he not for supply?

Ver.

So do we.

Hot.

His is certain, ours is doubtful. 4

Wor.

Good cousin, be advis’d: stir not to-night.

Ver.

Do not, my lord.

Doug.

You do not counsel well:

You speak it out of fear and cold heart.

Ver

Do me no slander, Douglas: by my life,—

And I dare well maintain it with my life,— 9

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 13

Which of us fears.

Doug.

Yea, or to-night.

Ver.

Content.

Hot.

To-night, say I.

Ver.

Come, come, it may not be. I wonder much, 16

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: 20

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 of himself. 24

Hot.

So are the horses of the enemy

In general, journey-bated and brought low:

The better part of ours are full of rest.

Wor.

The number of the king exceedeth ours:

For God’s sake, cousin, stay till all come in. 29

[The trumpet sounds a parley.

Enter Sir Walter Blunt.

Blunt.

I come with gracious offers from the king,

If you vouchsafe me hearing and respect.

Hot.

Welcome, Sir Walter Blunt; and would to God 32

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, 36

But stand against us like an enemy.

Blunt.

And God defend but still I should stand so,

So long as out of limit and true rule

You stand against anointed majesty. 40

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 44

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 48

You shall have your desires with interest,

And pardon absolute for yourself and these

Herein misled by your suggestion.

Hot.

The king is kind; and well we know the king 52

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, 56

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, 61

To sue his livery and beg his peace,

With tears of innocency and terms of zeal,

My father, in kind heart and pity mov’d, 64

Swore him assistance and perform’d it too.

Now when the lords and barons of the realm

Perceiv’d Northumberland did lean to him,

The more and less came in with cap and knee;

Met him in boroughs, cities, villages, 69

Attended him on bridges, stood in lanes,

Laid gifts before him, proffer’d him their oaths,

Gave him their heirs as pages, follow’d him 72

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, 76

Upon the naked shore at Ravenspurgh;

And now, forsooth, takes on him to reform

Some certain edicts and some strait decrees

That lie too heavy on the commonwealth, 80

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; 84

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. 88

Blunt.

Tut, I came not to hear this.

Hot.

Then to the point.

In short time after, he depos’d the king;

Soon after that, depriv’d him of his life;

And, in the neck of that, task’d the whole state;

To make that worse, suffer’d his kinsman March— 93

Who is, if every owner were well plac’d,

Indeed his king—to be engag’d in Wales,

There without ransom to lie forfeited; 96

Disgrac’d me in my happy victories;

Sought to entrap me by intelligence;

Rated my uncle from the council-board;

In rage dismiss’d my father from the court; 100

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 we find 104

Too indirect for long continuance.

Blunt.

Shall I return this answer to the king?

Hot.

Not so, Sir Walter: we’ll withdraw awhile.

Go to the king; and let there be impawn’d 108

Some surety for a safe return again,

And in the morning early shall my uncle

Bring him our purposes; and so farewell.

Blunt.

I would you would accept of grace and love. 112

Hot.

And may be so we shall.

Blunt.

Pray God, you do!

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— York. A Room in the Archbishop’s Palace.

Enter the Archbishop of York and Sir Michael.

Arch.

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 4

How much they do import, you would make haste.

Sir M.

My good lord,

I guess their tenour.

Arch.

Like enough you do.

To-morrow, good Sir Michael, is a day 8

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 12

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, 16

Who with them was a rated sinew too,

And comes not in, o’er-rul’d by prophecies,—

I fear the power of Percy is too weak

To wage an instant trial with the king. 20

Sir M.

Why, my good lord, you need not fear:

There is the Douglas and Lord Mortimer.

Arch.

No, Mortimer is not there.

Sir M.

But there is Mordake, Vernon, Lord Harry Percy, 24

And there’s my Lord of Worcester, and a head

Of gallant warriors, noble gentlemen.

Arch.

And so there is; but yet the king hath drawn

The special head of all the land together: 28

The Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster,

The noble Westmoreland, and war-like Blunt;

And many moe corrivals and dear men

Of estimation and command in arms. 32

Sir M.

Doubt not, my lord, they shall be well oppos’d.

Arch.

I hope no less, yet needful ’tis to fear;

And, to prevent the worse, Sir Michael, speed:

For if Lord Percy thrive not, ere the king 36

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 40

To other friends; and so farewell, Sir Michael.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— The King’s Camp near Shrewsbury.

Enter King Henry, the Prince, John of Lancaster, Sir Walter Blunt, and Sir John Falstaff.

K. Hen.

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, 4

And by his hollow whistling in the leaves

Foretells a tempest and a blustering day.

K. Hen.

Then with the losers let it sympathize,

For nothing can seem foul to those that win. 8

[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 deceiv’d our trust,

And made us doff our easy robes of peace, 12

To crush our old limbs in ungentle steel:

This is not well, my lord; this is not well.

What say you to it? will you again unknit

This churlish knot of all-abhorred war, 16

And move in that obedient orb again

Where you did give a fair and natural light,

And be no more an exhal’d meteor,

A prodigy of fear and a portent 20

Of broached mischief to the unborn times?

Wor.

Hear me, my liege.

For mine own part, I could be well content

To entertain the lag-end of my life 24

With quiet hours; for I do protest

I have not sought the day of this dislike.

K. Hen.

You have not sought it! how comes it then?

Fal.

Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it.

Prince.

Peace, chewet, peace! 29

Wor.

It pleas’d your majesty to turn your looks

Of favour from myself and all our house;

And yet I must remember you, my lord, 32

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, 36

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, 41

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. 45

To this we swore our aid: but, in short space

It rain’d down fortune showering on your head,

And such a flood of greatness fell on you, 48

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 52

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 woo’d 56

To gripe the general sway into your hand;

Forgot your oath to us at Doncaster;

And being fed by us you us’d us so

As that ungentle gull, the cuckoo’s bird, 60

Useth the sparrow: did oppress our nest,

Grew by our feeding to so great a bulk

That even our love durst not come near your sight

For fear of swallowing; but with nimble wing 64

We were enforc’d, for safety’s sake, to fly

Out of your sight and raise this present head;

Whereby we stand opposed by such means

As you yourself have forg’d against yourself 68

By unkind usage, dangerous countenance,

And violation of all faith and troth

Sworn to us in your younger enterprise.

K. Hen.

These things indeed, you have articulate, 72

Proclaim’d 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, 76

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; 80

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, 84

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, 88

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. 92

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— 96

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. 100

K. Hen.

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 104

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. 108

So tell your cousin, and 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: 112

We will not now be troubled with reply;

We offer fair, take it advisedly.

[Exeunt Worcester and Vernon.

Prince.

It will not be accepted, on my life.

The Douglas and the Hotspur both together 116

Are confident against the world in arms.

K. Hen.

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! 120

[Exeunt King Henry, Blunt, and John of Lancaster.

Fal.

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.

Fal.

I would it were bed-time, Hal, and all well. 126

Prince.

Why, thou owest God a death.

[Exit.

Fal.

’Tis not due yet: I would be loath 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 honour 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 he hear it? No. It is 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. 143

[Exit.

Scene II.— The Rebel Camp near Shrewsbury.

Enter Worcester and Vernon.

Wor.

O, no! my nephew must not know, Sir Richard,

The liberal kind offer of the king.

Ver.

’Twere best he did.

Wor.

Then are we all undone.

It is not possible, it cannot be, 4

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; 8

For treason is but trusted like the fox,

Who, ne’er so tame, so cherish’d, and lock’d up,

Will have a wild trick of his ancestors.

Look how we can, or sad or merrily, 12

Interpretation will misquote our looks,

And we shall feed like oxen at a stall,

The better cherish’d, still the nearer death.

My nephew’s trespass may be well forgot, 16

It hath the excuse of youth and heat of blood;

And an adopted name of privilege,

A hare-brain’d Hotspur, govern’d by a spleen.

All his offences live upon my head 20

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 24

In any case the offer of the king.

Ver.

Deliver what you will, I’ll say ’tis so.

Here comes your cousin.

Enter Hotspur and Douglas; Officers and Soldiers behind.

Hot.

My uncle is return’d: deliver up 28

My Lord of Westmoreland. Uncle, what news?

Wor.

The king will bid you battle presently.

Doug.

Defy him by the Lord of Westmoreland.

Hot.

Lord Douglas, go you and tell him so. 32

Doug.

Marry, and shall, and very willingly.

[Exit.

Wor.

There is no seeming mercy in the king.

Hot.

Did you beg any? God forbid!

Wor.

I told him gently of our grievances, 36

Of his oath-breaking; which he mended thus,

By now forswearing that he is forsworn:

He calls us rebels, traitors; and will scourge

With haughty arms this hateful name in us. 40

Re-enter Douglas.

Doug.

Arm, gentlemen! to arms! for I have thrown

A brave defiance in King Henry’s teeth,

And Westmoreland, that was engag’d, did bear it;

Which cannot choose but bring him quickly on.

Wor.

The Prince of Wales stepp’d forth before the king, 45

And, nephew, challeng’d you to single fight.

Hot.

O! would the quarrel lay upon our heads,

And that no man might draw short breath to-day 48

But I and Harry Monmouth. Tell me, tell me,

How show’d his tasking? seem’d it in contempt?

Ver.

No, by my soul; I never in my life

Did hear a challenge urg’d more modestly, 52

Unless a brother should a brother dare

To gentle exercise and proof of arms.

He gave you all the duties of a man,

Trimm’d up your praises with a princely tongue,

Spoke your deservings like a chronicle, 57

Making you ever better than his praise,

By still dispraising praise valu’d with you;

And, which became him like a prince indeed, 60

He made a blushing cital of himself,

And chid his truant youth with such a grace

As if he master’d there a double spirit

Of teaching and of learning instantly. 64

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 misconstru’d in his wantonness. 68

Hot.

Cousin, I think thou art enamoured

On his follies: never did I hear

Of any prince so wild a libertine.

But be he as he will, yet once ere night 72

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, 76

Than I, that have not well the gift of tongue,

Can lift your blood up with persuasion.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

My lord, here are letters for you.

Hot.

I cannot read them now. 80

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 the arrival of an hour. 84

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. 88

Enter another Messenger.

Mess.

My lord, prepare; the king comes on apace.

Hot.

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 92

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. 96

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. 100

[The trumpets sound. They embrace, and exeunt.

Scene III.— Between the Camps.

Excursions and Parties fighting. Alarum to the Battle. Then enter Douglas and Sir Walter Blunt, meeting.

Blunt.

What is thy name, that in the battle thus

Thou crossest me? what honour dost thou seek

Upon my head?

Doug.

Know then, my name is Douglas;

And I do haunt thee in the battle thus 4

Because some tell me that thou art a king.

Blunt.

They tell thee true.

Doug.

The Lord of Stafford dear to-day hath bought

Thy likeness; for, instead of thee, King Harry, 8

This sword hath ended him: so shall it thee,

Unless thou yield thee as my prisoner.

Blunt.

I was not born a yielder, thou proud Scot;

And thou shalt find a king that will revenge 12

Lord Stafford’s death.

[They fight, and Blunt is slain.

Enter Hotspur.

Hot.

O, Douglas! hadst thou fought at Holmedon thus,

I never had triumph’d upon a Scot.

Doug.

All’s done, all’s won: here breathless lies the king. 16

Hot.

Where?

Doug.

Here.

Hot.

This, Douglas! no; I know this face full well;

A gallant knight he was, his name was Blunt; 20

Semblably furnish’d like the king himself.

Doug.

A fool go with thy soul, whither it goes!

A borrow’d title hast thou bought too dear:

Why didst thou tell me that thou wert a king?

Hot.

The king hath many marching in his coats. 25

Doug.

Now, by my sword, I will kill all his coats;

I’ll murder all his wardrobe, piece by piece,

Until I meet the king.

Hot.

Up, and away! 28

Our soldiers stand full fairly for the day.

[Exeunt.

Alarums. Enter Falstaff.

Fal.

Though I could ’scape shot-free at London, I fear the shot here; here’s no scoring but upon the pate. Soft! who art thou? Sir Walter Blunt: 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? 40

Enter the Prince.

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 unreveng’d: prithee, lend me thy sword. 44

Fal.

O Hal! I prithee, 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. 48

Prince.

He is, indeed; and living to kill thee.

I prithee, lend me thy sword.

Fal.

Nay, before God, Hal, if Percy be alive, thou gett’st not my sword; but take my pistol, if thou wilt. 53

Prince.

Give it me. What! is it in the case?

Fal.

Ay, Hal; ’tis hot, ’tis hot: there’s that will sack a city. 56

[The Prince draws out a bottle of sack.

Prince.

What! is’t a time to jest and dally now?

[Throws it at him, and exit.

Fal.

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.

Scene IV.— Another Part of the Field.

Alarums. Excursions. Enter King Henry, the Prince, John of Lancaster, and Westmoreland.

K. Hen.

I prithee,

Harry, withdraw thyself; thou bleed’st too much.

Lord John of Lancaster, go you with him.

Lanc.

Not I, my lord, unless I did bleed too. 4

Prince.

I beseech your majesty, make up,

Lest your retirement do amaze your friends.

K. Hen.

I will do so.

My Lord of Westmoreland, lead him to his tent. 8

West.

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, 12

Where stain’d nobility lies trodden on,

And rebels’ arms triumph in massacres!

Lanc.

We breathe too long: come, cousin Westmoreland,

Our duty this way lies: for God’s sake, come. 16

[Exeunt John of Lancaster and Westmoreland.

Prince.

By God, thou hast deceiv’d me, Lancaster;

I did not think thee lord of such a spirit:

Before, I lov’d thee as a brother, John;

But now, I do respect thee as my soul. 20

K. Hen.

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.

Doug.

Another king! they grow like Hydra’s heads: 25

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? 28

K. Hen.

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: 32

But, seeing thou fall’st on me so luckily,

I will assay thee; so defend thyself.

Doug.

I fear thou art another counterfeit;

And yet, in faith, thou bear’st thee like a king:

But mine I am sure thou art, whoe’er thou be,

And thus I win thee.

[They fight. King Henry being in danger, re-enter the Prince.

Prince.

Hold up thy head, vile Scot, or thou art like

Never to hold it up again! the spirits 40

Of valiant Shirley, Stafford, Blunt, 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? 44

Sir Nicholas Gawsey hath for succour sent,

And so hath Clifton: I’ll to Clifton straight.

K. Hen.

Stay, and breathe awhile.

Thou hast redeem’d thy lost opinion, 48

And show’d thou mak’st 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 hearken’d for your death. 52

If it were so, I might have let alone

The insulting hand of Douglas over you;

Which would have been as speedy in your end

As all the poisonous potions in the world, 56

And sav’d the treacherous labour of your son.

K. Hen.

Make up to Clifton: I’ll to Sir Nicholas Gawsey.

[Exit.

Enter Hotspur.

Hot.

If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth.

Prince.

Thou speak’st as if I would deny my name. 60

Hot.

My name is Harry Percy.

Prince.

Why, then, I see

A very valiant rebel of that name.

I am the Prince of Wales; and think not, Percy,

To share with me in glory any more: 64

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.

Hot.

Nor shall it, Harry; for the hour is come 68

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 72

I’ll crop, to make a garland for my head.

Hot.

I can no longer brook thy vanities.

[They fight.

Enter Falstaff.

Fal.

Well said, Hal! to it, Hal! Nay, you shall find no boy’s play here, I can tell you. 76

Re-enter Douglas; he fights with Falstaff, who falls down as if he were dead, and exit Douglas. Hotspur is wounded, and falls.

Hot.

O, Harry! thou hast robb’d 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: 80

But thought’s 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 84

Lies on my tongue. No, Percy, thou art dust,

And food for—

[Dies.

Prince.

For worms, brave Percy. Fare thee well, great heart!

Ill-weav’d ambition, how much art thou shrunk!

When that this body did contain a spirit, 89

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, 92

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, 96

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 ignomy sleep with thee in the grave, 100

But not remember’d in thy epitaph!

[He spies Falstaff on the ground.

What! old acquaintance! could not all this flesh

Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell!

I could have better spar’d a better man. 104

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. 108

Embowell’d will I see thee by and by:

Till then in blood by noble Percy lie.

[Exit.

Fal.

[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. ’Zounds! 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 [stabbing him], with a new wound in your thigh come you along with me.

[He takes Hotspur on his back.

Re-enter the Prince and John of Lancaster.

Prince.

Come, brother John; full bravely hast thou flesh’d 132

Thy maiden sword.

Lanc.

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 on the ground. 136

Art thou alive? or is it fantasy

That plays upon our eyesight? I prithee, speak;

We will not trust our eyes without our ears:

Thou art not what thou seem’st. 140

Fal.

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. 147

Fal.

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, ’zounds, I would make him eat a piece of my sword. 157

Lanc.

This is the strangest tale that e’er I heard.

Prince.

This is the strangest fellow, brother John.

Come, bring your luggage nobly on your back:

For my part, if a lie may do thee grace, 161

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 us to the highest of the field,

To see what friends are living, who are dead. 165

[Exeunt the Prince and John of Lancaster.

Fal.

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.

Scene V.— Another Part of the Field.

The trumpets sound. Enter King Henry, the Prince, John of Lancaster, Westmoreland, and Others, with Worcester and Vernon prisoners.

K. Hen.

Thus ever did rebellion find rebuke.

Ill-spirited Worcester! did we not send grace,

Pardon, and terms of love to all of you?

And wouldst thou turn our offers contrary? 4

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, 8

If like a Christian, thou hadst truly borne

Betwixt our armies true intelligence.

Wor.

What I have done my safety urg’d me to;

And I embrace this fortune patiently, 12

Since not to be avoided it falls on me.

K. Hen.

Bear Worcester to the death and Vernon too:

Other offenders we will pause upon.

[Exeunt Worcester and Vernon, guarded.

How goes the field? 16

Prince.

The noble Scot, Lord Douglas, when he saw

The fortune of the day quite turn’d from him,

The noble Percy slain, and all his men

Upon the foot of fear, fled with the rest; 20

And falling from a hill he was so bruis’d

That the pursuers took him. At my tent

The Douglas is, and I beseech your Grace

I may dispose of him.

K. Hen.

With all my heart. 24

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: 28

His valour shown upon our crests to-day

Hath taught us how to cherish such high deeds,

Even in the bosom of our adversaries.

Lanc.

I thank your Grace for this high courtesy, 32

Which I shall give away immediately.

K. Hen.

Then this remains, that we divide our power.

You, son John, and my cousin Westmoreland

Towards York shall bend you, with your dearest speed, 36

To meet Northumberland and the prelate Scroop,

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, 41

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 SECOND PART OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Rumour, the Presenter.
King Henry the Fourth.
Henry, Prince of Wales; afterwards King Henry the Fifth. }	His Sons.
George, Duke of Clarence, }
John of Lancaster, }
Humphrey of Gloucester, }
Earl of Warwick, }	Of the King’s party.
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, }	Opposites to the King.
Richard Scroop, Archbishop of York, }
Lord Mowbray, }
Lord Hastings, }
Lord Bardolph, }
Sir John Colevile, }
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.
A Porter.
A Dancer, Speaker of the Epilogue.
Lady Northumberland.
Lady Percy.
Mistress Quickly,	Hostess of a tavern in Eastcheap.
Doll Tearsheet.
Lords and Attendants; Officers, Soldiers, Messenger, Drawers, Beadles, Grooms, &c.

Scene.—England.

INDUCTION.

Warkworth. Before Northumberland’s Castle.

Enter Rumour, painted full of tongues

Ram.

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 4

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. 8

I speak of peace, while covert enmity

Under the smile of safety wounds the world:

And who but Rumour, who but only I,

Make fearful musters and prepar’d defence, 12

Whilst 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, 16

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 20

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 24

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 28

To noise abroad that Harry Monmouth fell

Under the wrath of noble Hotspur’s sword,

And that the king before the Douglas’ rage

Stoop’d his anointed head as low as death. 32

This have I rumour’d through the peasant towns

Between the 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, 37

And not a man of them brings other news

Than they have learn’d of me: from Rumour’s tongues

They bring smooth comforts false, worse than true wrongs.

[Exit.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Warkworth. Before Northumberland’s Castle.

Enter Lord Bardolph.

L. Bard.

Who keeps the gate here? ho!

[The Porter opens the gate.

Where is the earl?

Port.

What shall I say you are?

L. Bard.

Tell thou the earl

That the Lord Bardolph doth attend him here.

Port.

His Lordship is walk’d forth into the orchard: 4

Please it your honour knock but at the gate,

And he himself will answer.

Enter Northumberland.

L. Bard.

Here comes the earl.

[Exit Porter.

North.

What news, Lord Bardolph? every minute now

Should be the father of some stratagem. 8

The times are wild; contention, like a horse

Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose

And bears down all before him.

L. Bard.

Noble earl,

I bring you certain news from Shrewsbury. 12

North.

Good, an God will!

L. Bard.

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 16

Kill’d 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, 20

So fought, so follow’d, and so fairly won,

Came not till now to dignify the times

Since Cæsar’s fortunes.

North.

How is this deriv’d?

Saw you the field? came you from Shrewsbury?

L. Bard.

I spake with one, my lord, that came from thence; 25

A gentleman well bred and of good name,

That freely render’d me these news for true.

North.

Here comes my servant Travers, whom I sent 28

On Tuesday last to listen after news.

L. Bard.

My lord, I over-rode him on the way;

And he is furnish’d with no certainties

More than he haply may retail from me. 32

Enter Travers.

North.

Now, Travers, what good tidings come with you?

Tra.

My lord, Sir John Umfrevile turn’d me back

With joyful tidings; and, being better hors’d,

Out-rode me. After him came spurring hard 36

A gentleman, almost forspent with speed,

That stopp’d by me to breathe his bloodied horse.

He ask’d the way to Chester; and of him

I did demand what news from Shrewsbury. 40

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 44

Against the panting sides of his poor jade

Up to the rowel-head, and, starting so,

He seem’d in running to devour the way,

Staying no longer question.

North.

Ha! Again: 48

Said he young Harry Percy’s spur was cold?

Of Hotspur, Coldspur? that rebellion

Had met ill luck?

L. Bard.

My lord, I’ll tell you what:

If my young lord your son have not the day, 52

Upon mine honour, for a silken point

I’ll give my barony: never talk of it.

North.

Why should the gentleman that rode by Travers

Give then such instances of loss?

L. Bard.

Who, he? 56

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.

North.

Yea, this man’s brow, like to a title-leaf, 60

Foretells the nature of a tragic volume:

So looks the strond, whereon the imperious flood

Hath left a witness’d usurpation.

Say, Morton, didst thou come from Shrewsbury?

Mor.

I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord;

Where hateful death put on his ugliest mask

To fright our party.

North.

How doth my son and brother?

Thou tremblest, and the whiteness in thy cheek

Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand. 69

Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless,

So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone,

Drew Priam’s curtain in the dead of night, 72

And would have told him half his Troy was burn’d;

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; 76

Your brother thus; so fought the noble Douglas;’

Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds:

But in the end, to stop mine ear indeed,

Thou hast a sigh to blow away this praise, 80

Ending with ‘Brother, son, and all are dead.’

Mor.

Douglas is living, and your brother, yet;

But, for my lord your son,—

North.

Why, he is dead.—

See, what a ready tongue suspicion hath! 84

He that but fears the thing he would not know

Hath by instinct knowledge from others’ eyes

That what he fear’d is chanced. Yet speak, Morton:

Tell thou thy earl his divination lies, 88

And I will take it as a sweet disgrace

And make thee rich for doing me such wrong.

Mor.

You are too great to be by me gainsaid;

Your spirit is too true, your fears too certain. 92

North.

Yet, for all this, say not that Percy’s dead.

I see a strange confession in thine eye:

Thou shak’st thy head, and hold’st it fear or sin

To speak a truth. If he be slain, say so; 96

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 100

Hath but a losing office, and his tongue

Sounds ever after as a sullen bell,

Remember’d knolling a departing friend.

L. Bard.

I cannot think, my lord, your son is dead. 104

Mor.

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 outbreath’d, 108

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 112

Even to the dullest peasant in his camp,—

Being bruited once, took fire and heat away

From the best-temper’d courage in his troops;

For from his metal was his party steel’d; 116

Which once in him abated, all the rest

Turn’d on themselves, like dull and heavy lead:

And as the thing that’s heavy in itself,

Upon enforcement flies with greatest speed, 120

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, 124

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, 128

’Gan vail his stomach, and did grace the shame

Of those that turn’d 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, 133

Under the conduct of young Lancaster

And Westmoreland. This is the news at full.

North.

For this I shall have time enough to mourn. 136

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-weaken’d joints,

Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life, 141

Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire

Out of his keeper’s arms, even so my limbs,

Weaken’d with grief, being now enrag’d with grief, 144

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 148

Which princes, flesh’d 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 enrag’d Northumberland! 152

Let heaven kiss earth! now let not nature’s hand

Keep the wild flood confin’d! let order die!

And let this world no longer be a stage

To feed contention in a lingering act; 156

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! 160

Tra.

This strained passion doth you wrong, my lord.

L. Bard.

Sweet earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour.

Mor.

The lives of all your loving complices

Lean on your health; the which, if you give o’er

To stormy passion must perforce decay. 165

You cast the event of war, my noble lord,

And summ’d the account of chance, before you said,

‘Let us make head.’ It was your presurmise 168

That in the dole of blows your son might drop:

You knew he walk’d o’er perils, on an edge,

More likely to fall in than to get o’er;

You were advis’d his flesh was capable 172

Of wounds and scars, and that his forward spirit

Would lift him where most trade of danger rang’d:

Yet did you say, ‘Go forth;’ and none of this,

Though strongly apprehended, could restrain 176

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?

L. Bard.

We all that are engaged to this loss

Knew that we ventur’d on such dangerous seas

That if we wrought out life ’twas ten to one;

And yet we ventur’d, for the gain propos’d

Chok’d the respect of likely peril fear’d; 184

And since we are o’erset, venture again.

Come, we will all put forth, body and goods.

Mor.

’Tis more than time: and, my most noble lord,

I hear for certain, and do speak the truth, 188

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’, 192

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, constrain’d,

As men drink potions, that their weapons only

Seem’d 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 200

Turns insurrection to religion:

Suppos’d sincere and holy in his thoughts,

He’s follow’d both with body and with mind,

And doth enlarge his rising with the blood 204

Of fair King Richard, scrap’d 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; 208

And more and less do flock to follow him.

North.

I knew of this before; but, to speak truth,

This present grief had wip’d it from my mind.

Go in with me; and counsel every man 212

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.

Scene II.— London. A Street.

Enter Sir John Falstaff, with his Page bearing his sword and buckler.

Fal.

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 more diseases than he knew for. 5

Fal.

Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me: the brain of this foolish-compounded clay, man, is not able to invent anything 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 judgment. 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 set 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, it is not a hair amiss yet: he may keep it still as a face-royal, for a barber shall never earn sixpence out of it; and yet he will be crowing as if he had writ man ever since his father was a bachelor. He may keep his own grace, but he is almost out of mine, I can assure him. What said Master Dombledon about the satin for my short cloak and my slops? 33

Page.

He said, sir, you should procure him better assurance than Bardolph; he would not take his bond and yours: he liked not the security. 37

Fal.

Let him be damned like the glutton! may 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 thorough 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? 54

Page.

He’s gone into Smithfield to buy your worship a horse.

Fal.

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. 60

Enter the Lord Chief Justice and Servant.

Page.

Sir, here comes the nobleman that committed the prince for striking him about Bardolph.

Fal.

Wait close; I will not see him. 64

Ch. Just.

What’s he that goes there?

Ser.

Falstaff, an’t please your lordship.

Ch. Just.

He that was in question for the robbery? 68

Ser.

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. 72

Ch. Just.

What, to York? Call him back again.

Ser.

Sir John Falstaff!

Fal.

Boy, tell him I am deaf. 76

Page.

You must speak louder, my master is deaf.

Ch. Just.

I am sure he is, to the hearing of anything good. Go, pluck him by the elbow; I must speak with him.

Ser.

Sir John! 82

Fal.

What! a young knave, and beg! Is there not wars? is there not employment? doth not the king lack subjects? do not the rebels want 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.

Ser.

You mistake me, sir. 90

Fal.

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. 94

Ser.

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. 98

Fal.

I give thee leave to tell me so! I lay aside that which grows to me! If thou gett’st any leave of me, hang me: if thou takest leave, thou wert better be hanged. You hunt-counter: hence! avaunt!

Ser.

Sir, my lord would speak with you. 104

Ch. Just.

Sir John Falstaff, a word with you.

Fal.

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. 115

Ch. Just.

Sir John, I sent for you before your expedition to Shrewsbury.

Fal.

An’t please your lordship, I hear his majesty is returned with some discomfort from Wales. 120

Ch. Just.

I talk not of his majesty. You would not come when I sent for you.

Fal.

And I hear, moreover, his highness is fallen into this same whoreson apoplexy. 124

Ch. Just.

Well, heaven mend him! I pray you, let me speak with you.

Fal.

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. 129

Ch. Just.

What tell you me of it? be it as it is.

Fal.

It hath its 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.

Ch. Just.

I think you are fallen into the disease, for you hear not what I say to you. 137

Fal.

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. 141

Ch. Just.

To punish you by the heels would amend the attention of your ears; and I care not if I do become your physician. 144

Fal.

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. 150

Ch. Just.

I sent for you, when there were matters against you for your life, to come speak with me.

Fal.

As I was then advised by my learned counsel in the laws of this land-service, I did not come. 156

Ch. Just.

Well, the truth is, Sir John, you live in great infamy.

Fal.

He that buckles him in my belt cannot live in less. 160

Ch. Just.

Your means are very slender, and your waste is great.

Fal.

I would it were otherwise: I would my means were greater and my waist slenderer. 164

Ch. Just.

You have misled the youthful prince.

Fal.

The young prince hath misled me: I am the fellow with the great belly, and he my dog. 168

Ch. Just.

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 Gadshill: you may thank the unquiet time for your quiet o’er-posting that action. 173

Fal.

My lord!

Ch. Just.

But since all is well, keep it so: wake not a sleeping wolf. 176

Fal.

To wake a wolf is as bad as to smell a fox.

Ch. Just.

What! you are as a candle, the better part burnt out. 180

Fal.

A wassail candle, my lord; all tallow: if I did say of wax, my growth would approve the truth.

Ch. Just.

There is not a white hair on your face but should have his effect of gravity. 185

Fal.

His effect of gravy, gravy, gravy.

Ch. Just.

You follow the young prince up and down, like his ill angel. 188

Fal.

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 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. 203

Ch. Just.

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! 212

Fal.

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 hollaing, and singing of anthems. To approve my youth further, I will not: the truth is, I am only old in judgment 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 o’ 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. 226

Ch. Just.

Well, God send the prince a better companion!

Fal.

God send the companion a better prince! I cannot rid my hands of him. 230

Ch. Just.

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. 234

Fal.

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 anything but my 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 always yet the trick of our English nation, if they have a good thing, to make it too common. If you 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 rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion. 251

Ch. Just.

Well, be honest, be honest; and God bless your expedition.

Fal.

Will your lordship lend me a thousand pound to furnish me forth? 255

Ch. Just.

Not a penny; not a penny; you are too impatient to bear crosses. Fare you well: commend me to my cousin Westmoreland. 258

[Exeunt Chief Justice and Servant.

Fal.

If I do, fillip me with a three-man beetle. A man can no more separate age and covetousness than he 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! 264

Page.

Sir!

Fal.

What money is in my purse?

Page.

Seven groats and twopence. 267

Fal.

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 on 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 anything; I will turn diseases to commodity.

[Exit.

Scene III.— York. A Room in the Archbishop’s Palace.

Enter the Archbishop of York, Lord Hastings, Mowbray, and Bardolph.

Arch.

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? 4

Mowb.

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 8

Upon the power and puissance of the king.

Hast.

Our present musters grow upon the file

To five-and-twenty thousand men of choice;

And our supplies live largely in the hope 12

Of great Northumberland, whose bosom burns

With an incensed fire of injuries.

L. Bard.

The question, then, Lord Hastings, standeth thus:

Whether our present five-and-twenty thousand

May hold up head without Northumberland. 17

Hast.

With him, we may.

L. Bard.

Ay, marry, there’s the point:

But if without him we be thought too feeble,

My judgment is, we should not step too far 20

Till we had his assistance by the hand;

For in a theme so bloody-fao’d as this,

Conjecture, expectation, and surmise

Of aids incertain should not be admitted. 24

Arch.

’Tis very true, Lord Bardolph; for, indeed

It was young Hotspur’s case at Shrewsbury.

L. Bard.

It was, my lord; who lin’d himself with hope,

Eating the air on promise of supply, 28

Flattering himself with 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, 32

And winking leap’d into destruction.

Hast.

But, by your leave, it never yet did hurt

To lay down likelihoods and forms of hope.

L. Bard.

Yes, if this present quality of war,—

Indeed the instant action,—a cause on foot, 37

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 40

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 must we rate the cost of the erection; 44

Which if we find outweighs ability,

What do we then but draw anew the model

In fewer offices, or at last desist

To build at all? Much more, in this great work,—

Which is almost to pluck a kingdom down 49

And set another up,—should we survey

The plot of situation and the model,

Consent upon a sure foundation, 52

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, 56

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 60

A naked-subject to the weeping clouds,

And waste for churlish winter’s tyranny.

Hast.

Grant that our hopes, yet likely of fair birth,

Should be still-born, and that we now possess’d

The utmost man of expectation; 65

I think we are a body strong enough,

Even as we are, to equal with the king.

L. Bard.

What! is the king but five-and-twenty thousand? 68

Hast.

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 72

Must take up us: so is the unfirm king

In three divided, and his coffers sound

With hollow poverty and emptiness.

Arch.

That he should draw his several strengths together 76

And come against us in full puissance,

Need not be dreaded.

Hast.

If he should do so,

He leaves his back unarm’d, the French and Welsh

Baying him at the heels: never fear that. 80

L. Bard.

Who is it like should lead his forces hither?

Hast.

The Duke of Lancaster and Westmoreland;

Against the Welsh, himself and Harry Monmouth:

But who is substituted ’gainst the French 84

I have no certain notice.

Arch.

Let us on

And publish the occasion of our arms.

The commonwealth is sick of their own choice;

Their over-greedy love hath surfeited. 88

A 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 92

Before he was what thou wouldst have him be:

And being now trimm’d in thine own desires,

Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of him

That thou provok’st thyself to cast him up. 96

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? 100

They that, when Richard liv’d, would have him die,

Are now become enamour’d on his grave:

Thou, that threw’st dust upon his goodly head,

When through proud London he came sighing on 104

After the admired heels of Bolingbroke,

Cry’st now, ‘O earth! yield us that king again,

And take thou this!’ O, thoughts of men accurst!

Past and to come seem best; things present worst. 108

Mowb.

Shall we go draw our numbers and set on?

Hast.

We are time’s subjects, and time bids be gone.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— London. A Street.

Enter Mistress Quickly: Fang, and his Boy, with her; and Snare following.

Quick.

Master Fang, have you entered the exion?

Fang.

It is entered.

Quick.

Where’s your yeoman? Is it a lusty yeoman? will a’ stand to’t? 5

Fang.

Sirrah, where’s Snare?

Quick.

O Lord, ay! good Master Snare.

Snare.

Here, here. 8

Fang.

Snare, we must arrest Sir John Falstaff.

Quick.

Yea, good Master Snare; I have entered him and all. 12

Snare.

It may chance cost some of us our lives, for he will stab.

Quick.

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 doth if his weapon be out: he will foin like any devil, he will spare neither man, woman, nor child. 20

Fang.

If I can close with him I care not for his thrust.

Quick.

No, nor I neither: I’ll be at your elbow. 24

Fang.

An I but fist him once; an a’ come but within my vice,—

Quick.

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’s 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. Yonder he comes; and that arrant malmseynose knave, Bardolph, with him. Do your offices, do your offices, Master Fang and Master Snare; do me, do me, do me your offices. 47

Enter Sir John Falstaff, Page, and Bardolph.

Fal.

How now! whose mare’s dead? what’s the matter?

Fang.

Sir John, I arrest you at the suit of Mistress Quickly. 51

Fal.

Away, varlets! Draw, Bardolph: cut me off the villain’s head; throw the quean in the channel. 54

Quick.

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. 61

Fal.

Keep them off, Bardolph.

Fang.

A rescue! a rescue!

Quick.

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!

Fal.

Away, you scullion! you rampallian! you fustilarian! I’ll tickle your catastrophe. 68

Enter the Lord Chief Justice, attended.

Ch. Just.

What is the matter? keep the peace here, ho!

Quick.

Good my lord, be good to me! I beseech you, stand to me! 72

Ch. Just.

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 upon him? 76

Quick.

O, my most worshipful lord, an’t please your grace, I am a poor widow of Eastcheap, and he is arrested at my suit.

Ch. Just.

For what sum? 80

Quick.

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.

Fal.

I think I am as like to ride the mare if I have any vantage of ground to get up. 88

Ch. Just.

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? 93

Fal.

What is the gross sum that I owe thee?

Quick.

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 seacoal 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 a 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. 116

Fal.

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. 122

Ch. Just.

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.

Quick.

Yea, in troth, my lord. 132

Ch. Just.

Prithee, 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.

Fal.

My lord, I will not undergo this sneap without reply. You call honourable boldness impudent sauciness: if a man will make curtsy, 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. 144

Ch. Just.

You speak as having power to do wrong: but answer in the effect of your reputation, and satisfy the poor woman.

Fal.

Come hither, hostess.

[Taking her aside.

Enter Gower.

Ch. Just.

Now, Master Gower! what news?

Gow.

The king, my lord, and Harry Prince of Wales

Are near at hand: the rest the paper tells.

[Gives a letter.

Fal.

As I am a gentleman. 152

Quick.

Nay, you said so before.

Fal.

As I am a gentleman. Come, no more words of it.

Quick.

By this heavenly ground I tread on, I must be fain to pawn both my plate and the tapestry of my dining-chambers. 158

Fal.

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 it were not for thy humours, there is not a better wench in England. Go, wash thy face, and draw thy 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. 169

Quick.

Prithee, Sir John, let it be but twenty nobles: i’ faith, I am loath to pawn my plate, so God save me, la! 172

Fal.

Let it alone; I’ll make other shift: you’ll be a fool still.

Quick.

Well, you shall have it, though I pawn my gown. I hope you’ll come to supper. You’ll pay me all together? 177

Fal.

Will I live? [To Bardolph.] Go, with her, with her; hook on, hook on.

Quick.

Will you have Doll Tearsheet meet you at supper?

Fal.

No more words; let’s have her.

[Exeunt Mistress Quickly, Bardolph, Officers, and Page.

Ch. Just.

I have heard better news.

Fal.

What’s the news, my good lord? 184

Ch. Just.

Where lay the king last night?

Gow.

At Basingstoke, my lord.

Fal.

I hope, my lord, all’s well: what is the news, my lord? 188

Ch. Just.

Come all his forces back?

Gow.

No; fifteen hundred foot, five hundred horse,

Are march’d up to my Lord of Lancaster,

Against Northumberland and the archbishop.

Fal.

Comes the king back from Wales, my noble lord? 193

Ch. Just.

You shall have letters of me presently.

Come, go along with me, good Master Gower.

Fal

My lord! 196

Ch. Just.

What’s the matter?

Fal.

Master Gower, shall I entreat you with me to dinner?

Gow.

I must wait upon my good lord here;

I thank you, good Sir John. 201

Ch. Just.

Sir John, you loiter here too long, being you are to take soldiers up in counties as you go. 204

Fal.

Will you sup with me, Master Gower?

Ch. Just.

What foolish master taught you these manners, Sir John?

Fal.

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. 211

Ch. Just.

Now the Lord lighten thee! thou art a great fool.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. Another Street.

Enter the Prince and Poins.

Prince.

Before God, I am exceeding weary.

Poins.

Is it come to that? I had thought weariness durst not have attached one of so high blood. 4

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? 8

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 one other 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 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. 31

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? 36

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. 41

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. 48

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. 56

Poins.

The reason?

Prince.

What wouldst thou think of me if I should weep?

Poins.

I would think thee a most princely hypocrite. 61

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 a 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. 69

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 these two things I confess I cannot help. By the mass, here comes Bardolph. 76

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.

Bard.

God save your Grace! 80

Prince.

And yours, most noble Bardolph.

Bard.

[To the Page.] 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 it such a matter to get a pottle-pot’s maidenhead? 86

Page.

A’ calls me even 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 peeped through.

Prince.

Hath not the boy profited? 92

Bard.

Away, you whoreson upright rabbit, away!

Page.

Away, you rascally Althea’s dream, away! 96

Prince.

Instruct us, boy; what dream, boy?

Page.

Marry, my lord, Althea dreamed she was delivered of a firebrand; and therefore I call him her dream. 100

Prince.

A crown’s worth of good interpretation. There it is, boy.

[Gives him money.

Poins.

O! that this good blossom could be kept from cankers. Well, there is sixpence to preserve thee. 105

Bard.

An you do not make him be hanged among you, the gallows shall have wrong.

Prince.

And how doth thy master, Bardolph?

Bard.

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? 112

Bard.

In bodily health, sir.

Poins.

Marry, the immortal part needs a physician; but that moves not him: though that be sick, it dies not. 116

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. 119

Poins.

‘John Falstaff, knight,’—every man must know that, as oft as he has occasion to name himself: even like those that are akin to the king, for they never prick their finger but they say, ‘There is 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.’ 128

Prince.

Nay, they will be kin to us, or they will fetch it from Japhet. But to the letter:

Poins.

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! 134

Poins.

I will imitate the honourable Romans in brevity: sure he 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. 142

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. 149

Prince.

That’s to make him eat twenty of his words. But do you use me thus, Ned? must I marry your sister? 152

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?

Bard.

Yes, my lord.

Prince.

Where sups he? doth the old boar feed in the old frank? 160

Bard.

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? 165

Page.

None, my lord, but old Mistress Quickly and Mistress Doll Tearsheet.

Prince.

What pagan may that be? 168

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? 173

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.

[Gives money.

Bard.

I have no tongue, sir.

Page.

And for mine, sir, I will govern it. 180

Prince.

Fare ye 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. 185

Prince.

How might we see Falstaff bestow himself to-night in his true colours, and not ourselves be seen? 188

Poins.

Put on two leathern jerkins and aprons, and wait upon him at his table as drawers. 191

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 every thing the purpose must weigh with the folly. Follow me, Ned.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Warkworth. Before Northumberland’s Castle.

Enter Northumberland, Lady Northumberland, and Lady Percy.

North.

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. 4

Lady N.

I have given over, I will speak no more:

Do what you will; your wisdom be your guide.

North.

Alas! sweet wife, my honour is at pawn;

And, but my going, nothing can redeem it. 8

Lady P.

O! yet for God’s sake, go not to these wars.

The time was, father, that you broke your word

When you were more endear’d to it than now;

When your own Percy, when my heart’s dear Harry, 12

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: 16

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 20

To do brave acts: he was indeed the glass

Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves:

He had no legs, that practis’d not his gait;

And speaking thick, which nature made his blemish, 24

Became the accents of the valiant;

For those that could speak low and tardily,

Would turn their own perfection to abuse,

To seem like him: so that, in speech, in gait, 28

In diet, in affections of delight,

In military rules, humours of blood,

He was the mark and glass, copy and book,

That fashion’d others. And him, O wondrous him! 32

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 36

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 40

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, 44

Have talk’d of Monmouth’s grave.

North.

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, 48

Or it will seek me in another place,

And find me worse provided.

Lady N.

O! fly to Scotland,

Till that the nobles and the armed commons

Have of their puissance made a little taste. 52

Lady P.

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; 56

He was so suffer’d: 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. 61

North.

Come, come, go in with me. ’Tis with my mind

As with the tide swell’d up unto its height,

That makes a still-stand, running neither way: 64

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. 68

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— London. A Room in the Boar’s Head Tavern, in Eastcheap.

Enter two Drawers.

First Draw.

What the devil hast thou brought there? apple-johns? thou knowest Sir John cannot endure an apple-john. 3

Sec. Draw.

Mass, thou sayst 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. 10

First Draw.

Why then, cover, and set them down: and see if thou canst find out Sneak’s noise; Mistress Tearsheet would fain hear some music. Dispatch: the room where they supped is too hot; they’ll come in straight. 15

Sec. Draw.

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. 20

First Draw.

By the mass, here will be old utis: it will be an excellent stratagem.

Sec. Draw.

I’ll see if I can find out Sneak.

[Exit.

Enter Mistress Quickly and Doll Tearsheet.

Quick.

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? 32

Dol.

Better than I was: hem!

Quick.

Why, that’s well said; a good heart’s worth gold. Lo! here comes Sir John.

Enter Falstaff, singing.

Fal.

When Arthur first in court—Empty the jordan.—[Exit First Drawer.]—And was a worthy king. How now, Mistress Doll! 38

Quick.

Sick of a calm: yea, good sooth.

Fal

So is all her sect; an they be once in a calm they are sick. 41

Dol.

You muddy rascal, is that all the comfort you give me?

Fal.

You make fat rascals, Mistress Doll. 44

Dol.

I make them! gluttony and diseases make them; I make them not.

Fal.

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. 50

Dol.

Ay, marry; our chains and our jewels.

Fal.

‘Your brooches, pearls, and owches:’—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,— 56

Dol.

Hang yourself, you muddy conger, hang yourself!

Quick.

By my troth, this is the old fashion; you two never meet but you fall to some discord: you are both, in good troth, 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 they say, the emptier vessel. 65

Dol.

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. 72

Re-enter First Drawer.

First Draw.

Sir, Ancient Pistol’s below, and would speak with you.

Dol.

Hang him, swaggering rascal! let him not come hither: it is the foul-mouthedest rogue in England. 77

Quick.

If he swagger, let him not come here: no, by my faith; I must live amongst 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. 84

Fal.

Dost thou hear, hostess?

Quick.

Pray you, pacify yourself, Sir John: there comes no swaggerers here.

Fal.

Dost thou hear? it is mine ancient. 88

Quick.

Tilly-fally, Sir John, never tell me: your ancient swaggerer comes not in my doors. I was before Master Tisick, the deputy, t’other day; and, as he said to me,—’twas no longer ago than Wednesday last,—‘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. 103

Fal.

He’s no swaggerer, hostess; a tame cheater, i’ faith; you may stroke him as gently as a puppy greyhound: he will not swagger with a Barbary hen if her feathers turn back in any show of resistance. Call him up, drawer. 108

[Exit First Drawer.

Quick.

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. 113

Dol.

So you do, hostess.

Quick.

Do I? yea, in very truth, do I, an ’twere an aspen leaf: I cannot abide swaggerers.

Enter Pistol, Bardolph, and Page.

Pist.

God save you, Sir John! 117

Fal.

Welcome, Ancient Pistol. Here, Pistol, I charge you with a cup of sack: do you discharge upon mine hostess. 120

Pist.

I will discharge upon her, Sir John, with two bullets.

Fal.

She is pistol-proof, sir; you shall hardly offend her. 124

Quick.

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.

Pist.

Then to you, Mistress Dorothy; I will charge you. 129

Dol.

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.

Pist.

I know you, Mistress Dorothy. 134

Dol.

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! 141

Pist.

God let me not live. I will murder your ruff for this!

Fal.

No more, Pistol: I would not have you go off here. Discharge yourself of our company, Pistol.

Quick.

No, good captain Pistol; not here, sweet captain. 148

Dol.

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 captain as odious as the word ‘occupy,’ which was an excellent good word before it was ill sorted: therefore captains had need look to it.

Bard.

Pray thee, go down, good ancient. 162

Fal.

Hark thee hither, Mistress Doll.

Pist.

Not I; I tell thee what, Corporal Bardolph; I could tear her. I’ll be revenged of her. 166

Page.

Pray thee, go down.

Pist.

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 fates! Have we not Hiren here? 172

Quick.

Good Captain Peesel, be quiet; it is very late, i’ faith. I beseek you now, aggravate your choler.

Pist.

These be good humours, indeed! Shall pack-horses, 176

And hollow pamper’d jades of Asia,

Which cannot go but thirty miles a day,

Compare with Cæsars, and with Cannibals,

And Trojan Greeks? nay, rather damn them with 180

King Cerberus; and let the welkin roar.

Shall we fall foul for toys?

Quick.

By my troth, captain, these are very bitter words. 184

Bard.

Be gone, good ancient: this will grow to a brawl anon.

Pist.

Dio men like dogs! give crowns like pins! Have we not Hiren here? 188

Quick.

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.

Pist.

Then feed, and be fat, my fair Calipolis.

Come, give’s some sack. 193

Si fortuna 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 et ceteras nothing? 197

Fal.

Pistol, I would be quiet.

Pist.

Sweet knight, I kiss thy neif. What! we have seen the seven stars. 200

Dol.

For God’s sake, thrust him down stairs! I cannot endure such a fustian rascal.

Pist.

‘Thrust him down stairs!’ know we not Galloway nags? 204

Fal.

Quoit him down, Bardolph, like a shovegroat shilling: nay, an a’ do nothing but speak nothing, a’ shall be nothing here.

Bard.

Come, get you down stairs. 208

Pist.

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! 212

Quick.

Here’s goodly stuff toward!

Fal.

Give me my rapier, boy.

Dol.

I pray thee, Jack, I pray thee, do not draw. 216

Fal.

Get you down stairs.

[Drawing.

Quick.

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 Bardolph and Pistol.

Dol.

I pray thee, Jack, be quiet; the rascal’s gone. Ah! you whoreson little valiant villain, you! 225

Quick.

Are you not hurt i’ the groin? methought a’ made a shrewd thrust at your belly.

Re-enter Bardolph.

Fal.

Have you turned him out o’ doors? 228

Bard.

Yes, sir: the rascal’s drunk. You have hurt him, sir, i’ the shoulder.

Fal.

A rascal, to brave me!

Dol.

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!

Fal.

A rascally slave! I will toss the rogue in a blanket. 240

Dol.

Do, an thou darest for thy heart: an thou dost, I’ll canvass thee between a pair of sheets.

Enter Music.

Page.

The music is come, sir. 244

Fal.

Let them play. Play, sirs. Sit on my knee, Doll. A rascal bragging slave! the rogue fled from me like quicksilver.

Dol.

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? 252

Enter behind the Prince and Poins, disguised like Drawers.

Fal.

Peace, good Doll! do not speak like a death’s head: do not bid me remember mine end.

Dol.

Sirrah, what humour is the prince of?

Fal.

A good shallow young fellow: a’ would have made a good pantler, a’ would have chipped bread well.

Dol.

They say, Poins has a good wit. 260

Fal.

He a good wit! hang him, baboon! his wit is as thick as Tewksbury mustard: there is no more conceit in him than is in a mallet.

Dol.

Why does the prince love him so, then?

Fal.

Because their legs are both of a bigness, and he plays at quoits well, and eats conger and fennel, and drinks off candles’ ends for flapdragons, and rides the wild mare with the boys, and jumps upon joint-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. 277

Prince.

Would not this nave of a wheel have his ears cut off?

Poins.

Let’s beat him before his whore. 280

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? 284

Fal.

Kiss me, Doll.

Prince.

Saturn and Venus this year in conjunction! what says the almanack 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. 290

Fal.

Thou dost give me flattering busses.

Dol.

By my troth, I kiss thee with a most constant heart.

Fal.

I am old, I am old.

Dol.

I love thee better than I love e’er a scurvy young boy of them all. 296

Fal.

What stuff wilt have a kirtle of? I shall receive money o’ Thursday; thou 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. 301

Dol.

By my troth, thou’lt set me a-weeping an thou sayst so: prove that ever I dress myself handsome till thy return. Well, hearken at the end. 305

Fal.

Some sack, Francis!

Prince.

[Coming forward.] Anon, anon, sir. 308

Poins.

[Coming forward.] Anon, anon, sir. 308

Fal.

Ha! a bastard son of the king’s? And art not thou Poins his brother?

Prince.

Why, thou globe of sinful cntinents, what a life dost thou lead! 312

Fal.

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. 316

Quick.

O! the Lord preserve thy good Grace; by my troth, welcome to London. Now, the Lord bless that sweet face of thine! O Jesu! are you come from Wales? 320

Fal.

Thou whoreson mad compound of majesty, by this light flesh and corrupt blood [pointing to Doll], thou art welcome.

Dol.

How, you fat fool! I scorn you. 324

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!

Quick.

Blessing on your good heart! and so she is, by my troth. 332

Fal.

Didst thou hear me?

Prince.

Yea; and you knew me, as you did when you ran away by Gadshill: you knew I was at your back, and spoke it on purpose to try my patience. 337

Fal.

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.

Fal.

No abuse, Hal, o’ mine honour; no abuse. 344

Prince.

Not to dispraise me, and call me pantler and bread-chipper and I know not what?

Fal.

No abuse, Hal.

Poins.

No abuse! 348

Fal.

No abuse, Ned, in 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. 355

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? 362

Poins.

Answer, thou dead elm, answer.

Fal.

The fiend hath pricked down Bardolph irrecoverable; and his face is Lucifer’s privykitchen, where he doth nothing but roast maltworms. For the boy, there is a good angel about him; but the devil outbids him too. 368

Prince.

For the women?

Fal.

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. 373

Quick.

No, I warrant you.

Fal.

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.

Quick.

All victuallers do so: what’s a joint of mutton or two in a whole Lent? 381

Prince.

You, gentlewoman,—

Dol.

What says your Grace?

Fal.

His Grace says that which his flesh rebels against.

[Knocking within.

Quick.

Who knocks so loud at door? Look to the door there, Francis.

Enter Peto.

Prince.

Peto, how now! what news? 388

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, 392

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, 396

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 the Prince, Poins, Peto, and Bardolph.

Fal.

Now comes in the sweetest morsel of the night, and we must hence and leave it unpicked. [Knocking within.] More knocking at the door! 404

Re-enter Bardolph.

How now! what’s the matter?

Bard.

You must away to court, sir, presently;

A dozen captains stay at door for you. 407

Fal.

[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. 414

Dol.

I cannot speak; if my heart be not ready to burst,—well, sweet Jack, have a care of thyself. 417

Fal.

Farewell, farewell.

[Exeunt Falstaff and Bardolph.

Quick.

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.

Bard.

[Within.] Mistress Tearsheet!

Quick.

What’s the matter? 424

Bard.

[Within.] Bid Mistress Tearsheet come to my master.

Quick.

O! run, Doll, run; run, good Doll.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Westminster. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King Henry in his night-gown, with a Page.

K. Hen.

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 thousand of my poorest subjects 4

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? 8

Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,

Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,

And hush’d with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,

Than in the perfum’d chambers of the great, 12

Under the canopies of costly state,

And lull’d with sound of sweetest melody?

O thou dull god! why liest thou with the vile

In loathsome beds, and leav’st the kingly couch

A watch-case or a common ’larum bell? 17

Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast

Seel up the ship-boy’s eyes, and rock his brains

In cradle of the rude imperious surge, 20

And in the visitation of the winds,

Who take the ruffian billows by the top,

Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them

With deaf’ning clamour in the slippery clouds,

That with the hurly death itself awakes? 25

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, 28

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.

War.

Many good morrows to your majesty!

K. Hen.

Is it good morrow, lords? 33

War.

’Tis one o’clock, and past.

K. Hen.

Why then, good morrow to you all, my lords.

Have you read o’er the letters that I sent you?

War.

We have, my liege. 37

K. Hen.

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. 40

War.

It is but as a body, yet, distemper’d,

Which to his former strength may be restor’d

With good advice and little medicine:

My Lord Northumberland will soon be cool’d. 44

K. Hen.

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 48

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 52

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 57

Since Richard and Northumberland, great friends,

Did feast together, and in two years after

Were they at wars: it is but eight years since 60

This Percy was the man nearest my soul,

Who like a brother toil’d in my affairs

And laid his love and life under my foot;

Yea, for my sake, even to the eyes of Richard 64

Gave him defiance. But which of you was by,—

[To Warwick.] You, cousin Nevil, as I may remember,—

When Richard, with his eye brimful of tears,

Then check’d and rated by Northumberland, 68

Did speak these words, now prov’d 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 bow’d the state 73

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, 76

Shall break into corruption:’—so went on,

Foretelling this same time’s condition

And the division of our amity.

War.

There is a history in all men’s lives, 80

Figuring the nature of the times deceas’d;

The which observ’d, a man may prophesy,

With a near aim, of the main chance of things

As yet not come to life, which in their seeds 84

And weak leginnings 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 88

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.

K. Hen.

Are these things then necessities?

Then let us meet them like necessities; 93

And that same word even now cries out on us.

They say the bishop and Northumberland

Are fifty thousand strong.

War.

It cannot be, my lord!

Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, 97

The numbers of the fear’d. Please it your Grace

To go to bed: upon my soul, my lord,

The powers that you already have sent forth 100

Shall bring this prize in very easily.

To comfort you the more, I have receiv’d

A certain instance that Glendower is dead.

Your majesty hath been this fortnight ill, 104

And these unseason’d hours perforce must add

Unto your sickness.

K. Hen.

I will take your counsel:

And were these inward wars once out of hand,

We would, dear lords, unto the Holy Land. 108

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Court before Justice Shallow’s House in Gloucestershire.

Enter Shallow and Silence, meeting; Mouldy, Shadow, Wart, Feeble, Bullcalf and Servants, behind.

Shal.

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? 4

Sil.

Good morrow, good cousin Shallow.

Shal.

And how doth my cousin, your bed-fellow? and your fairest daughter and mine, my god-daughter Ellen? 8

Sil.

Alas! a black ousel, cousin Shallow!

Shal.

By yea and nay, sir, I dare say my cousin William is become a good scholar. He is at Oxford still, is he not? 12

Sil.

Indeed, sir, to my cost.

Shal.

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. 16

Sil.

You were called ‘lusty Shallow’ then, cousin.

Shal.

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 of 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, a boy, and page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk. 29

Sil.

This Sir John, cousin, that comes hither anon about soldiers?

Shal.

The same Sir John, the very same. I saw 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 mine old acquaintance are dead! 38

Sil.

We shall all follow, cousin.

Shal.

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?

Sil.

Truly, cousin, I was not there. 44

Shal.

Death is certain. Is old Double of your town living yet?

Sil.

Dead, sir.

Shal.

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? 55

Sil.

Thereafter as they be: a score of good ewes may be worth ten pounds.

Shal.

And is old Double dead?

Sil.

Here come two of Sir John Falstaff’s men, as I think. 60

Enter Bardolph, and One with him.

Bard.

Good morrow, honest gentlemen: I beseech you, which is Justice Shallow?

Shal.

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? 66

Bard.

My captain, sir, commends him to you; my captain, Sir John Falstaff: a tall gentleman, by heaven, and a most gallant leader. 69

Shal.

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?

Bard.

Sir, pardon; a soldier is better accommodated than with a wife. 74

Shal.

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. 80

Bard.

Pardon me, sir; I have heard the word. ‘Phrase,’ call you it? By this good 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. 89

Enter Falstaff.

Shal.

It is very just. Look, here comes good Sir John. Give me your good hand, give me your worship’s good hand. By my troth, you look well and bear your years very well: welcome, good Sir John. 94

Fal.

I am glad to see you well, good Master Robert Shallow. Master Surecard, as I think.

Shal.

No, Sir John; it is my cousin, Silence, in commission with me.

Fal.

Good Master Silence, it well befits you should be of the peace. 100

Sil.

Your good worship is welcome.

Fal.

Fie! this is hot weather, gentlemen.

Have you provided me here half a dozen sufficient men? 104

Shal.

Marry, have we, sir. Will you sit?

Fal.

Let me see them, I beseech you.

Shal.

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?

Moul.

Here, an’t please you. 112

Shal.

What think you, Sir John? a goodlimbed fellow; young, strong, and of good friends.

Fal.

Is thy name Mouldy? 116

Moul.

Yea, an’t please you.

Fal.

’Tis the more time thou wert used.

Shal.

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. 122

Fal.

Prick him.

Moul.

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. 128

Fal.

Go to: peace, Mouldy! you shall go. Mouldy, it is time you were spent.

Moul.

Spent!

Shal.

Peace, fellow, peace! stand aside: know you where you are? For the other, Sir John: let me see. Simon Shadow!

Fal.

Yea, marry, let me have him to sit under: he’s like to be a cold soldier. 136

Shal.

Where’s Shadow?

Shad.

Here, sir.

Fal.

Shadow, whose son art thou?

Shad.

My mother’s son, sir. 140

Fal.

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 not of the father’s substance. 144

Shal.

Do you like him, Sir John?

Fal.

Shadow will serve for summer; prick him, for we have a number of shadows to fill up the muster-book. 148

Shal.

Thomas Wart?

Fal.

Where’s he?

Wart.

Here, sir.

Fal.

Is thy name Wart? 152

Wart.

Yea, sir.

Fal.

Thou art a very ragged wart.

Shal.

Shall I prick him, Sir John?

Fal.

It were superfluous; for his apparel is built upon his back, and the whole frame stands upon pins: prick him no more. 158

Shal.

Ha, ha, ha! you can do it, sir; you can do it: I commend you well. Francis Feeble!

Fee.

Here, sir.

Fal.

What trade art thou, Feeble?

Fee.

A woman’s tailor, sir.

Shal.

Shall I prick him, sir? 164

Fal.

You may; but if he had been a man’s tailor he’d have pricked you. Wilt thou make as many holes in an enemy’s battle as thou hast done in a woman’s petticoat? 168

Fee.

I will do my good will, sir: you can have no more.

Fal.

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.

Fee.

I would Wart might have gone, sir. 176

Fal.

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. 181

Fee.

It shall suffice, sir.

Fal.

I am bound to thee, reverend Feeble.

Who is next? 184

Shal.

Peter Bullcalf o’ the green!

Fal.

Yea, marry, let’s see Bullcalf.

Bull.

Here, sir.

Fal

’Fore God, a likely fellow! Come, prick me Bullcalf till he roar again. 189

Bull.

O Lord! good my lord captain,—

Fal.

What! dost thou roar before thou art pricked? 192

Bull.

O Lord, sir! I am a diseased man.

Fal.

What disease hast thou?

Bull.

A whoreson cold, sir; a cough, sir, which I caught with ringing in the king’s affairs upon his coronation day, sir. 197

Fal.

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? 201

Shal.

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. 204

Fal.

Come, I will go drink with you, but I cannot tarry dinner. I am glad to see you, by my troth, Master Shallow.

Shal.

O, Sir John, do you remember since we lay all night in the windmill in Saint George’s fields?

Fal.

No more of that, good Master Shallow, no more of that. 212

Shal.

Ha! it was a merry night. And is Jane Nightwork alive?

Fal.

She lives, Master Shallow.

Shal.

She never could away with me. 216

Fal.

Never, never; she would always say she could not abide Master Shallow.

Shal.

By the mass, I could anger her to the heart. She was then a bona-roba. Doth she hold her own well? 221

Fal.

Old, old, Master Shallow.

Shal.

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.

Sil.

That’s fifty-five year ago. 227

Shal.

Ha! cousin Silence, that thou hadst seen that that this knight and I have seen. Ha! Sir John, said I well?

Fal.

We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master Shallow. 232

Shal.

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. 237

[Exeunt Falstaff, Shallow, and Silence.

Bull.

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. 245

Bard.

Go to; stand aside.

Moul.

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.

Bard.

Go to; stand aside. 252

Fee.

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.

Bard.

Well said; thou’rt a good fellow.

Fee.

Faith, I’ll bear no base mind. 260

Re-enter Falstaff and the Justices.

Fal.

Come, sir, which men shall I have?

Shal.

Four, of which you please.

Bard.

[To Falstaff.] Sir, a word with you. I have three pound to free Mouldy and Bullcalf.

Fal.

[Aside to Bardolph.] Go to; well. 265

Shal.

Come, Sir John, which four will you have?

Fal.

Do you choose for me. 268

Shal.

Marry, then, Mouldy, Bullcalf, Feeble, and Shadow.

Fal.

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. 274

Shal

Sir John, Sir John, do not yourself wrong: they are your likeliest men, and I would have you served with the best. 277

Fal.

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. 293

Bard.

Hold, Wart, traverse; thus, thus, thus.

Fal.

Come, manage me your caliver. So: very well: go to: very good: exceeding good. O, give me always a little, lean, old, chopp’d, bald shot. Well said, i’ faith, Wart; thou’rt a good scab: hold, there’s a tester for thee. 299

Shal.

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 never see such a fellow. 309

Fal.

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. 314

Shal.

Sir John, the Lord bless you! and 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. 319

Fal.

’Fore God I would you would, Master Shallow.

Shal.

Go to; I have spoke at a word. God keep you. 323

Fal.

Fare you well, gentle gentlemen. [Exeunt Shallow and Silence.] 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 over-scutched huswives 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’ never 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 will be acquainted with him, if I return; and it shall go hard but I will 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.— A Forest in Yorkshire.

Enter the Archbishop of York, Mowbray, Hastings, and Others.

Arch.

What is this forest call’d?

Hast.

’Tis Gaultree Forest, an’t shall please your Grace.

Arch.

Here stand, my lords, and send discovers forth,

To know the numbers of our enemies. 4

Hast.

We have sent forth already.

Arch.

’Tis well done.

My friends and brethren in these great affairs,

I must acquaint you that I have receiv’d

New-dated letters from Northumberland; 8

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 12

He is retir’d, 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. 16

Mowb.

Thus do the hopes we have in him touch ground

And dash themselves to pieces.

Enter a Messenger.

Hast.

Now, what news?

Mess.

West of this forest, scarcely off a mile,

In goodly form comes on the enemy; 20

And, by the ground they hide, I judge their number

Upon or near the rate of thirty thousand.

Mowb.

The just proportion that we gave them out.

Let us sway on and face them in the field. 24

Enter Westmoreland.

Arch.

What well-appointed leader fronts us here?

Mowb.

I think it is my Lord of Westmoreland.

West.

Health and fair greeting from our general.

The Prince, Lord John and Duke of Lancaster.

Arch.

Say on, my Lord of Westmoreland, in peace, 29

What doth concern your coming.

West.

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, 33

Led on by bloody youth, guarded with rags,

And countenanc’d by boys and beggary;

I say, if damn’d commotion so appear’d, 36

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 40

With your fair honours. You, lord archbishop,

Whose see is by a civil peace maintain’d,

Whose beard the silver hand of peace hath touch’d,

Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutor’d, 44

Whose white investments figure innocence,

The dove and very blessed spirit of peace,

Wherefore do you so ill translate yourself

Out of the speech of peace that bears such grace

Into the harsh and boisterous tongue of war; 49

Turning your books to greaves, your ink to blood,

Your pens to lances, and your tongue divine

To a loud trumpet and a point of war? 52

Arch.

Wherefore do I this? so the question stands.

Briefly to this end: we are all diseas’d;

And, with our surfeiting and wanton hours

Have brought ourselves into a burning fever, 56

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, 60

Nor do I as an enemy to peace

Troop in the throngs of military men;

But rather show a while like fearful war,

To diet rank minds sick of happiness 64

And purge the obstructions which begin to stop

Our very veins of life. Hear me more plainly:

I have in equal balance justly weigh’d

What wrongs our arms may do, what wrongs we suffer, 68

And find our griefs heavier than our offences.

We see which way the stream of time doth run

And are enforc’d from our most quiet sphere

By the rough torrent of occasion; 72

And have the summary of all our griefs,

When time shall serve, to show in articles,

Which long ere this we offer’d to the king,

And might by no suit gain our audience. 76

When we are wrong’d 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,— 80

Whose memory is written on the earth

With yet appearing blood,—and the examples

Of every minute’s instance, present now,

Have put us in these ill-beseeming arms; 84

Not to break peace, or any branch of it,

But to establish here a peace indeed,

Concurring both in name and quality.

West.

When ever yet was your appeal denied?

Wherein have you been galled by the king? 89

What peer hath been suborn’d to grate on you,

That you should seal this lawless bloody book

Of forg’d rebellion with a seal divine, 92

And consecrate commotion’s bitter edge?

Arch.

My brother general, the commonwealth,

To brother born an household cruelty,

I make my quarrel in particular. 96

West.

There is no need of any such redress;

Or if there were, it not belongs to you.

Mowb.

Why not to him in part, and to us all

That feel the bruises of the days before, 100

And suffer the condition of these times

To lay a heavy and unequal hand

Upon our honours?

West.

O! my good Lord Mowbray,

Construe the times to their necessities, 104

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 108

That you should have an inch of any ground

To build a grief on: were you not restor’d

To all the Duke of Norfolk’s signories,

Your noble and right well-remember’d father’s?

Mowb.

What thing, in honour, had my father lost, 113

That need to be reviv’d and breath’d in me?

The king that lov’d him as the state stood then,

Was force perforce compell’d to banish him:

And then that Harry Bolingbroke and he, 117

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, 121

And the loud trumpet blowing them together,

Then, then, when there was nothing could have stay’d

My father from the breast of Bolingbroke, 124

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 128

Have since miscarried under Bolingbroke.

West.

You speak, Lord Mowbray, now you know not what.

The Earl of Hereford was reputed then

In England the most valiant gentleman: 132

Who knows on whom Fortune would then have smil’d?

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 136

Cried hate upon him; and all their prayers and love

Were set on Hereford, whom they doted on

And bless’d and grac’d indeed, more than the king.

But this is mere digression from my purpose. 140

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, 144

You shall enjoy them; every thing set off

That might so much as think you enemies.

Mowb.

But he hath forc’d us to compel this offer,

And it proceeds from policy, not love. 148

West.

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 152

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 compell’d.

Mowb.

Well, by my will we shall admit no parley.

West.

That argues but the shame of your offence: 160

A rotten case abides no handling.

Hast.

Hath the Prince John a full commission,

In very ample virtue of his father,

To hear and absolutely to determine 164

Of what conditions we shall stand upon?

West.

That is intended in the general’s name.

I muse you make so slight a question.

Arch.

Then take, my Lord of Westmoreland, this schedule, 168

For this contains our general grievances:

Each several article herein redress’d;

All members of our cause, both here and hence,

That are insinew’d to this action, 172

Acquitted by a true substantial form

And present execution of our wills

To us and to our purposes consign’d;

We come within our awful banks again 176

And knit our powers to the arm of peace.

West.

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 181

Which must decide it.

Arch.

My lord, we will do so.

[Exit Westmoreland.

Mowb.

There is a thing within my bosom tells me

That no conditions of our peace can stand. 184

Hast.

Fear you not that: if we can make our peace

Upon such large terms, and so absolute

As our condition shall consist upon,

Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.

Mowb.

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; 192

That, were our royal faiths martyrs in love,

We shall be winnow’d with so rough a wind

That even our corn shall seem as light as chaff

And good from bad find no partition. 196

Arch.

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; 200

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 205

As his misdoubts present occasion:

His foes are so enrooted with his friends

That, plucking to unfix an enemy, 208

He doth unfasten so and shake a friend.

So that this land, like an offensive wife,

That hath enrag’d him on to offer strokes,

As he is striking, holds his infant up 212

And hangs resolv’d correction in the arm

That was uprear’d to execution.

Hast.

Besides, the king hath wasted all his rods

On late offenders, that he now doth lack 216

The very instruments of chastisement;

So that his power, like to a fangless lion,

May offer, but not hold.

Arch.

’Tis very true:

And therefore be assur’d, my good lord marshal,

If we do now make our atonement well, 221

Our peace will, like a broken limb united,

Grow stronger for the breaking.

Mowb.

Be it so.

Here is return’d my Lord of Westmoreland. 224

Re-enter Westmoreland.

West.

The prince is here at hand: pleaseth your lordship,

To meet his Grace just distance ’tween our armies?

Mowb.

Your Grace of York, in God’s name then, set forward.

Arch.

Before, and greet his Grace: my lord, we come.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter, from one side, Mowbray, the Archbishop, Hastings, and Others: from the other side, John of Lancaster, Westmoreland, Officers, and Attendants.

Lanc.

You are well encounter’d 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 show’d with you, 4

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, 8

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, 12

Would he abuse the countenance of the king,

Alack! what mischief might he set abroach

In shadow of such greatness. With you, lord bishop,

It is even so. Who hath not heard it spoken 16

How deep you were within the books of God?

To us, the speaker in his parliament;

To us the imagin’d voice of God himself;

The very opener and intelligencer 20

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, 24

As a false favourite doth his prince’s name,

In deeds dishonourable? You have taken up,

Under the counterfeited zeal of God,

The subjects of his substitute, my father; 28

And both against the peace of heaven and him

Have here upswarm’d them.

Arch.

Good my Lord of Lancaster,

I am not here against your father’s peace;

But, as I told my Lord of Westmoreland, 32

The time misorder’d 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,— 36

The which hath been with scorn shov’d from the court,—

Whereon this Hydra son of war is born;

Whose dangerous eyes may well be charm’d asleep

With grant of our most just and right desires, 40

And true obedience, of this madness cur’d,

Stoop tamely to the foot of majesty.

Mowb.

If not, we ready are to try our fortunes

To the last man.

Hast.

And though we here fall down, 44

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 48

Whiles England shall have generation.

Lanc.

You are too shallow, Hastings, much too shallow,

To sound the bottom of the after-times.

West.

Pleaseth your Grace, to answer them directly 52

How far forth you do like their articles.

Lanc.

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, 56

And some about him have too lavishly

Wrested his meaning and authority.

My lord, these griefs shall be with speed redress’d;

Upon my soul, they shall. If this may please you, 60

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. 65

Arch.

I take your princely word for these redresses.

Lanc.

I give it you, and will maintain my word:

And thereupon I drink unto your Grace. 68

Hast.

[To an Officer.] Go, captain, and deliver to the army

This news of peace: let them have pay, and part:

I know it will well please them: hie thee, captain.

[Exit Officer.

Arch.

To you, my noble Lord of Westmoreland. 72

West.

I pledge your Grace: and, if you knew what pains

I have bestow’d to breed this present peace,

You would drink freely; but my love to you

Shall show itself more openly hereafter. 76

Arch.

I do not doubt you.

West.

I am glad of it.

Health to my lord and gentle cousin, Mowbray.

Mowb.

You wish me health in very happy season;

For I am, on the sudden, something ill. 80

Arch.

Against ill chances men are ever merry,

But heaviness foreruns the good event.

West.

Therefore be merry, coz; since sudden sorrow

Serves to say thus, Some good thing comes to morrow. 84

Arch.

Believe me, I am passing light in spirit.

Mowb.

So much the worse if your own rule be true.

[Shouts within.

Lanc.

The word of peace is render’d: hark, how they shout! 87

Mowb.

This had been cheerful, after victory.

Arch.

A peace is of the nature of a conquest;

For then both parties nobly are subdu’d,

And neither party loser.

Lanc.

Go, my lord,

And let our army be discharged too. 92

[Exit Westmoreland.

And, good my lord, so please you, let our trains

March by us, that we may peruse the men

We should have cop’d withal.

Arch.

Go, good Lord Hastings, 96

And, ere they be dismiss’d, let them march by.

[Exit Hastings.

Lanc.

I trust, lords, we shall lie to-night together.

Re-enter Westmoreland.

Now, cousin, wherefore stands our army still?

West.

The leaders, having charge from you to stand, 100

Will not go off until they hear you speak.

Lanc.

They know their duties.

Re-enter Hastings.

Hast.

My lord, our army is dispers’d already:

Like youthful steers unyok’d, they take their courses 104

East, west, north, south; or, like a school broke up,

Each hurries toward his home and sporting-place.

West.

Good tidings, my Lord Hastings; for the which

I do arrest thee, traitor, of high treason: 108

And you, lord archbishop, and you, Lord Mowbray,

Of capital treason I attach you both.

Mowb.

Is this proceeding just and honourable?

West.

Is your assembly so? 112

Arch.

Will you thus break your faith?

Lanc.

I pawn’d thee none.

I promis’d you redress of these same grievances

Whereof you did complain; which, by mine honour,

I will perform with a most Christian care. 116

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 scatter’d 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. 124

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Another Part of the Forest.

Alarums. Excursions. Enter Falstaff and Colevile, meeting.

Fal.

What’s your name, sir? of what condition are you, and of what place, I pray?

Cole.

I am a knight, sir; and my name is Colevile of the dale. 4

Fal.

Well then, Colevile is your name, a knight is your degree, and your place the dale: Colevile shall still be your name, a traitor your degree, and the dungeon your place, a place deep enough; so shall you be still Colevile of the dale.

Cole.

Are not you Sir John Falstaff? 11

Fal.

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. 17

Cole.

I think you are Sir John Falstaff, and in that thought yield me.

Fal.

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. 26

Enter John of Lancaster, Westmoreland, Blunt, and Others.

Lanc.

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? 29

When everything is ended, then you come:

These tardy tricks of yours will, on my life,

One time or other break some gallows’ back. 32

Fal.

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.’

Lanc.

It was more of his courtesy than your deserving. 48

Fal.

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 two-pences 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. 61

Lanc.

Thine’s too heavy to mount.

Fal.

Let it shine then.

Lanc.

Thine’s too thick to shine. 64

Fal.

Let it do something, my good lord, that may do me good, and call it what you will.

Lanc.

Is thy name Colevile?

Cole.

It is, my lord. 68

Lanc.

A famous rebel art thou, Colevile.

Fal.

And a famous true subject took him.

Cole.

I am, my lord, but as my betters are

That led me hither: had they been rul’d by me 72

You should have won them dearer than you have.

Fal.

I know not how they sold themselves: but thou, like a kind fellow, gavest thyself away gratis, and I thank thee for thee. 76

Re-enter Westmoreland.

Lanc.

Have you left pursuit?

West.

Retreat is made and execution stay’d.

Lanc.

Send Colevile with his confederates

To York, to present execution. 80

Blunt, lead him hence, and see you guard him sure.

[Exit Blunt and Others with Colevile, guarded.

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, 84

Which, cousin [addressing Westmoreland], you shall bear, to comfort him;

And we with sober speed will follow you.

Fal.

My lord, I beseech you, give me leave to go,

Through Gloucestershire, and when you come to court 88

Stand my good lord, pray, in your good report.

Lanc.

Fare you well, Falstaff: I, in my condition,

Shall better speak of you than you deserve. 91

[Exeunt all but Falstaff.

Fal.

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, deliver’d 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 extreme. 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 leaining, 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 human principle I would teach them should be, to forswear thin potations and to addict themselves to sack. 136

Enter Bardolph.

How now, Bardolph?

Bard.

The army is discharged all and gone.

Fal.

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.

Scene IV.— Westminster. The Jerusalem Chamber.

Enter King Henry, Clarence, Gloucester, Warwick, and Others.

K. Hen.

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. 4

Our navy is address’d, our power collected,

Our substitutes in absence well invested,

And everything lies level to our wish:

Only, we want a little personal strength; 8

And pause us, till these rebels, now afoot,

Come underneath the yoke of government.

War.

Both which we doubt not but your majesty

Shall soon enjoy.

K. Hen.

Humphrey, my son of Gloucester,

Where is the prince your brother? 13

Glo.

I think he’s gone to hunt, my lord, at Windsor.

K. Hen.

And how accompanied?

Glo.

I do not know, my lord.

K. Hen.

Is not his brother Thomas of Clarence with him? 16

Glo.

No, my good lord; he is in presence here.

Cla.

What would my lord and father?

K. Hen.

Nothing but well to thee, Thomas of Clarence.

How chance thou art not with the prince thy brother? 20

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 24

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 28

By seeming cold or careless of his will;

For he is gracious, if he be observ’d:

He hath a tear for pity and a hand

Open as day for melting charity; 32

Yet, notwithstanding, being incens’d, he’s flint;

As humorous as winter, and as sudden

As flaws congealed in the spring of day.

His temper therefore must be well observ’d: 36

Chide him for faults, and do it reverently,

When you perceive his blood inclin’d to mirth;

But, being moody, give him line and scope,

Till that his passions, like a whale on ground, 40

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, 44

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. 48

Cla.

I shall observe him with all care and love.

K. Hen.

Why art thou not at Windsor with him, Thomas?

Cla.

He is not there to-day; he dines in London.

K. Hen.

And how accompanied? canst thou tell that? 52

Cla.

With Poins and other his continual followers.

K. Hen.

Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds;

And he, the noble image of my youth,

Is overspread with them: therefore my grief 56

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 60

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 65

Towards fronting peril and oppos’d decay.

War.

My gracious lord, you look beyond him quite:

The prince but studies his companions 68

Like a strange tongue, wherein, to gain the language,

’Tis needful that the most immodest word

Be look’d upon, and learn’d; which once attain’d,

Your highness knows, comes to no further use 72

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, 76

By which his Grace must mete the lives of others,

Turning past evils to advantages.

K. Hen.

’Tis seldom when the bee doth leave her comb

In the dead carrion.

Enter Westmoreland.

Who’s here? Westmoreland! 80

West.

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. 85

There is not now a rebel’s sword unsheath’d,

But Peace puts forth her olive everywhere.

The manner how this action hath been borne 88

Here at more leisure may your highness read,

With every course in his particular.

K. Hen.

O Westmoreland! thou art a summer bird,

Which ever in the haunch of winter sings 92

The lifting up of day.

Enter Harcourt.

Look! here’s more news.

Har.

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! 96

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 100

This packet, please it you, contains at large.

K. Hen.

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; 105

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. 108

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.

Glo.

Comfort, your majesty!

Cla.

O my royal father! 112

West.

My sovereign lord, cheer up yourself: look up!

War.

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. 116

Cla.

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. 120

Glo.

The people fear me; for they do observe

Unfather’d heirs and loathly births of nature:

The seasons change their manners, as the year

Had found some months asleep and leap’d them over. 124

Cla.

The river hath thrice flow’d, no ebb between;

And the old folk, time’s doting chronicles,

Say it did so a little time before

That our great-grandsire, Edward, sick’d and died. 128

War.

Speak lower, princes, for the king recovers.

Glo.

This apoplexy will certain be his end.

K. Hen.

I pray you take me up, and bear me hence

Into some other chamber: softly, pray. 132

Scene V.— Another Chamber.

King Henry lying on a bed Clarence, Gloucester, Warwick, and Others in attendance.

K. Hen.

Let there be no noise made, my gentle friends;

Unless some dull and favourable hand

Will whisper music to my weary spirit.

War.

Call for the music in the other room. 4

K. Hen.

Set me the crown upon my pillow here.

Cla.

His eye is hollow, and he changes much.

War.

Less noise, less noise!

Enter the Prince.

Prince.

Who saw the Duke of Clarence?

Cla.

I am here, brother, full of heaviness. 8

Prince.

How now! rain within doors, and none abroad!

How doth the king?

Glo.

Exceeding ill.

Prince.

Heard he the good news yet?

Tell it him.

Glo.

He alter’d much upon the hearing it. 12

Prince.

If he be sick with joy, he will recover without physic.

War.

Not so much noise, my lords. Sweet prince, speak low;

The king your father is dispos’d to sleep. 16

Cla.

Let us withdraw into the other room.

War.

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, 20

Being so troublesome a bedfellow?

O polish’d 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 25

As he whose brow with homely biggin 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, 29

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! 33

This sleep is sound indeed; this is a sleep

That from this golden rigol hath divorc’d

So many English kings. Thy due from me 36

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, 40

Which, as immediate from thy place and blood,

Derives itself to me. Lo! here it sits,

[Putting it on his head.

Which heaven shall guard; and put the world’s whole strength

Into one giant arm, it shall not force 44

This lineal honour from me. This from thee

Will I to mine leave, as ’tis left to me.

[Exit.

K. Hen.

[Waking.] Warwick! Gloucester! Clarence!

Re-enter Warwick, Gloucester, Clarence, and the rest.

Cla.

Doth the king call?

War.

What would your majesty? How fares your Grace? 48

K. Hen.

Why did you leave me here alone, my lords?

Cla.

We left the prince my brother here, my liege,

Who undertook to sit and watch by you.

K. Hen.

The Prince of Wales! Where is he? let me see him: 52

He is not here.

War.

This door is open; he is gone this way.

Glo.

He came not through the chamber where we stay’d.

K. Hen.

Where is the crown? who took it from my pillow? 56

War.

When we withdrew, my liege, we left it here.

K. Hen.

The prince hath ta’en it hence: go, seek him out.

Is he so hasty that he doth suppose

My sleep my death? 60

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 64

When gold becomes her object!

For this the foolish over-careful fathers

Have broke their sleeps with thoughts,

Their brains with care, their bones with industry; 68

For this they have engrossed and pil’d up

The canker’d heaps of strange-achieved gold;

For this they have been thoughtful to invest

Their sons with arts and martial exercises: 72

When, like the bee, culling 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, 76

Are murder’d for our pains. This bitter taste

Yield his engrossments to the ending father.

Re-enter Warwick.

Now, where is he that will not stay so long

Till his friend sickness hath determin’d me? 80

War.

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 quaff’d but blood, 84

Would, by beholding him, have wash’d his knife

With gentle eye-drops. He is coming hither.

K. Hen.

But wherefore did he take away the crown?

Re-enter the Prince.

Lo, where he comes. Come hither to me, Harry.

Depart the chamber, leave us here alone. 89

[Exeunt Warwick, and the rest.

Prince.

I never thought to hear you speak again.

K. Hen.

Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought:

I stay too long by thee, I weary thee. 92

Dost thou so hunger for my empty chair

That thou wilt needs invest thee with mine honours

Before thy hour be ripe? O foolish youth!

Thou seek’st the greatness that will overwhelm thee. 96

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 stol’n that which after some few hours 100

Were thine without offence; and at my death

Thou hast seal’d up my expectation:

Thy life did manifest thou lov’dst me not,

And thou wilt have me die assur’d of it. 104

Thou hid’st 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, 109

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: 113

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. 117

Harry the Fifth is crown’d! Up, vanity!

Down, royal state! all you sage counsellors, hence!

And to the English court assemble now, 120

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 124

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 curb’d licence plucks

The muzzle of restraint, and the wild dog

Shall flesh his tooth in every innocent.

O my poor kingdom! sick with civil blows. 132

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. 136

Prince.

O! pardon me, my liege; but for my tears,

The moist impediments unto my speech,

I had forestall’d 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, 144

Let me no more from this obedience rise,—

Which my most true and inward duteous spirit

Teacheth,—this prostrate and exterior bending.

God witness with me, when I here came in, 148

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. 153

Coming to look on you, thinking you dead,

And dead almost, my liege, to think you were,

I spake unto the crown as having sense, 156

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, 160

Preserving life in medicine potable:

But thou most fine, most honour’d, most renown’d,

Hast eat thy bearer up.’ Thus, my most royal liege,

Accusing it, I put it on my head, 164

To try with it, as with an enemy

That had before my face murder’d my father,

The quarrel of a true inheritor.

But if it did infect my blood with joy, 168

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, 172

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!

K. Hen.

O my son! 176

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; 180

And hear, I think, the very latest counsel

That ever I shall breathe. God knows, my son,

By what by-paths and indirect crook’d ways

I met this crown; and I myself know well 184

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 188

With me into the earth. It seem’d in me

But as an honour snatch’d with boisterous hand,

And I had many living to upbraid

My gain of it by their assistances; 192

Which daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed,

Wounding supposed peace. All these bold fears

Thou seest with peril I have answered;

For all my reign hath been but as a scene 196

Acting that argument; and now my death

Changes the mode: for what in me was purchas’d,

Falls upon thee in a more fairer sort;

So thou the garment wear’st successively. 200

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 advanc’d, 205

And by whose power I well might lodge a fear

To be again displac’d: which to avoid,

I cut them off; and had a purpose now 208

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 212

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. 216

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; 220

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 John of Lancaster.

K. Hen.

Look, look, here comes my John of Lancaster. 224

Lanc.

Health, peace, and happiness to my royal father!

K. Hen.

Thou bring’st me happiness and peace, son John;

But health, alack, with youthful wings is flown

From this bare wither’d trunk: upon thy sight

My worldly business makes a period. 229

Where is my Lord of Warwick?

Prince.

My Lord of Warwick!

Re-enter Warwick and Others.

K. Hen.

Doth any name particular belong

Unto the lodging where I first did swound? 232

War.

’Tis call’d Jerusalem, my noble lord.

K. Hen.

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, 236

Which vainly I suppos’d 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. A Hall in Shallow’s House.

Enter Shallow, Falstaff, Bardolph, and Page.

Shal.

By cock and pie, sir, you shall not away to-night. What! Davy, I say.

Fal.

You must excuse me, Master Robert Shallow. 4

Shal.

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! 8

Enter Davy.

Davy.

Here, sir.

Shal.

Davy, Davy, Davy, Davy, let me see, Davy; let me see: yea, marry, William cook, bid him come hither. Sir John, you shall not be excused. 13

Davy.

Marry, sir, thus; those precepts cannot be served: and again, sir, shall we sow the headland with wheat? 16

Shal.

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. 20

Shal.

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? 26

Shal.

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? 32

Shal.

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. 36

Davy.

No worse than they are back-bitten, sir; for they have marvellous foul linen.

Shal.

Well conceited, Davy: about thy business, Davy. 40

Davy.

I beseech you, sir, to countenance William Visor of Wincot against Clement Perkes of the hill.

Shal.

There are many complaints, Davy, against that Visor: that Visor is an arrant knave, on my knowledge. 46

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. 57

Shal.

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. 61

Bard.

I am glad to see your worship.

Shal.

I thank thee with all my heart, kind Master Bardolph:—[To the Page.] and welcome, my tall fellow. Come, Sir John. 65

Fal.

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 hermit’s staves as Master Shallow. It is a wonderful thing to see the semblable coherence of his men’s spirits and his: they, by observing 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! 94

Shal.

[Within.] Sir John!

Fal.

I come, Master Shallow: I come, Master Shallow.

[Exit.

Scene II.— Westminster. An Apartment in the Palace.

Enter Warwick and the Lord Chief Justice.

War.

How now, my Lord Chief Justice! whither away?

Ch. Just.

How doth the king?

War.

Exceeding well: his cares are now all ended.

Ch. Just.

I hope not dead.

War.

He’s walk’d the way of nature; 4

And to our purposes he lives no more.

Ch. Just.

I would his majesty had call’d me with him:

The service that I truly did his life

Hath left me open to all injuries. 8

War.

Indeed I think the young king loves you not.

Ch. Just.

I know he doth not, and do arm myself,

To welcome the condition of the time;

Which cannot look more hideously upon me 12

Than I have drawn it in my fantasy.

Enter Lancaster, Clarence, Gloucester, Westmoreland and Others.

War.

Here come the heavy issue of dead Harry:

O! that the living Harry had the temper

Of him, the worst of these three gentlemen. 16

How many nobles then should hold their places,

That must strike sail to spirits of vile sort!

Ch. Just.

O God! I fear all will be overturn’d.

Lanc.

Good morrow, cousin Warwick, good morrow. 20

Glo.

Good morrow, cousin.

Cla.

Good morrow, cousin.

Lanc.

We meet like men that had forgot to speak.

War.

We do remember; but our argument

Is all too heavy to admit much talk. 24

Lanc.

Well, peace be with him that hath made us heavy!

Ch. Just.

Peace be with us, lest we be heavier!

Glo.

O! good my lord, you have lost a friend indeed;

And I dare swear you borrow not that face 28

Of seeming sorrow; it is sure your own.

Lanc.

Though no man be assur’d what grace to find,

You stand in coldest expectation.

I am the sorrier; would ’twere otherwise. 32

Cla.

Well, you must now speak Sir John Falstaff fair,

Which swims against your stream of quality.

Ch. Just.

Sweet princes, what I did, I did in honour,

Led by the impartial conduct of my soul; 36

And never shall you see that I will beg

A ragged and forestall’d remission.

If truth and upright innocency fail me,

I’ll to the king my master that is dead, 40

And tell him who hath sent me after him.

War.

Here comes the prince.

Enter King Henry the Fifth, attended.

Ch. Just.

Good morrow, and God save your majesty!

K. Hen. V.

This new and gorgeous garment, majesty, 44

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, 48

But Harry Harry. Yet be sad, good brothers,

For, to speak truth, it very well becomes you:

Sorrow so royally in you appears

That I will deeply put the fashion on 52

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 assur’d, 56

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 60

By number into hours of happiness.

Lanc., &c.

We hope no other from your majesty.

K. Hen. V.

You all look strangely on me: [To the Chief Justice.] and you most;

You are, I think, assur’d I love you not. 64

Ch. Just.

I am assur’d, if I be measur’d rightly,

Your majesty hath no just cause to hate me.

K. Hen. V.

No!

How might a prince of my great hopes forget 68

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 wash’d in Lethe, and forgotten? 72

Ch. Just.

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, 76

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 judgment; 80

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, 84

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. 90

Question your royal thoughts, make the case yours;

Be now the father and propose a son, 92

Hear your own dignity so much profan’d,

See your most dreadful laws so loosely slighted,

Behold yourself so by a son disdain’d;

And then imagine me taking your part, 96

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, 100

My person, or my liege’s sov’reignty.

K. Hen. V.

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 104

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 108

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 113

The unstained sword that you have us’d to bear;

With this remembrance, that you use the same

With the like bold, just, and impartial spirit 116

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 120

To your well-practis’d 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; 124

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 128

After my seeming. The tide of blood in me

Hath proudly flow’d in vanity till now:

Now doth it turn and ebb back to the sea,

Where it shall mingle with the state of floods 132

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 136

In equal rank with the best govern’d 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, 141

As I before remember’d, 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. 145

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Gloucestershire. The Garden of Shallow’s House.

Enter Falstaff, Shallow, Silence, Bardolph, the Page, and Davy.

Shal.

Nay, you shall see mine orchard, where, in an arbour, we will eat a last year’s pippin of my own graffing, with a dish of caraways, and so forth; come, cousin Silence; and then to bed.

Fal.

’Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling, and a rich. 6

Shal.

Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir John: marry, good air. Spread, Davy; spread, Davy: well said, Davy.

Fal.

This Davy serves you for good uses; he is your serving-man and your husband. 11

Shal.

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.

Sil.

Ah, sirrah! quoth a’, we shall 16

Do nothing but eat, and make good cheer,

And praise God for the merry year;

When flesh is cheap and females dear,

And lusty lads roam here and there, 20

So merrily

And ever among so merrily.

Fal.

There’s a merry heart! Good Master Silence, I’ll give you a health for that anon. 24

Shal.

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.

Shal.

Be merry, Master Bardolph; and my little soldier there, be merry. 32

Sil.

Be merry, be merry, my wife has all;

For women are shrews, both short and tall:

’Tis merry in hall when beards wag all,

And welcome merry Shrove-tide. 36

Be merry, be merry.

Fal.

I did not think Master Silence had been a man of this mettle.

Sil.

Who, I? I have been merry twice and once ere now. 41

Re-enter Davy.

Davy.

There’s a dish of leather-coats for you.

[Setting them before Bardolph.

Shal.

Davy!

Davy.

Your worship! I’ll be with you straight. A cup of wine, sir? 45

Sil.

A cup of wine that’s brisk and fine

And drink unto the leman mine;

And a merry heart lives long-a. 48

Fal.

Well said, Master Silence.

Sil.

And we shall be merry, now comes in the sweet o’ the night.

Fal.

Health and long life to you, Master Silence. 53

Sil.

Fill the cup, and let it come;

I’ll pledge you a mile to the bottom.

Shal.

Honest Bardolph, welcome: if thou wantest anything and wilt not call, beshrew thy heart. [To the Page.] Welcome, my little tiny thief; and welcome indeed too. I’ll drink to Master Bardolph and to all the cavaleiroes about London.

Davy.

I hope to see London once ere I die. 61

Bard.

An I might see you there, Davy,—

Shal.

By the mass, you’ll crack a quart together: ha! will you not, Master Bardolph? 64

Bard.

Yea, sir, in a pottle-pot.

Shal.

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. 68

Bard.

And I’ll stick by him, sir.

Shal.

Why, there spoke a king. Lack nothing: be merry. [Knocking within.] Look who’s at door there. Ho! who knocks?

[Exit Davy.

Fal.

[To Silence, who drinks a bumper.]

Why, now you have done me right. 74

Sil.

Do me right,

And dub me knight:

Samingo 77

Is’t not so?

Fal.

’Tis so.

Sil.

Is’t so? Why, then, say an old man can do somewhat. 81

Re-enter Davy.

Davy.

An’t please your worship, there’s one Pistol come from the court with news.

Fal.

From the court! let him come in. 84

Enter Pistol.

How now, Pistol!

Pist.

Sir John, God save you, sir!

Fal.

What wind blew you hither, Pistol?

Pist.

Not the ill wind which blows no man to good. 88

Sweet knight, thou art now one of the greatest men in this realm.

Sil.

By’r lady, I think a’ be, but goodman Puff of Barson. 92

Pist.

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, 96

And tidings do I bring and lucky joys

And golden times and happy news of price.

Fal.

I prithee now, deliver them like a man of this world.

Pist.

A foutra for the world and worldlings base! 100

I speak of Africa and golden joys.

Fal.

O base Assyrian knight, what is thy news?

Let King Cophetua know the truth thereof.

Sil.

And Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John. 104

Pist.

Shall dunghill curs confront the Helicons?

And shall good news be baffled?

Then, Pistol, lay thy head in Furies’ lap.

Shal.

Honest gentleman, I know not your breeding. 109

Pist.

Why then, lament therefore.

Shal.

Give me pardon, sir: if, sir, you come with news from the court, I take it there is but two ways: either to utter them, or to conceal them. I am, sir, under the king, in some authority. 114

Pist.

Under which king, Bezonian? speak, or die. 116

Shal.

Under King Harry.

Pist.

Harry the Fourth? or Fifth?

Shal.

Harry the Fourth.

Pist.

A foutra 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 121

The bragging Spaniard.

Fal.

What! is the old king dead?

Pist.

As nail in door: the things I speak are just. 124

Fal.

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. 128

Bard.

O joyful day!

I would not take a knighthood for my fortune.

Pist.

What! I do bring good news. 131

Fal.

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. Happy are they which have been my friends, and woe unto my lord chief justice! 143

Pist.

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.

Scene IV.— London. A Street.

Enter Beadles, dragging in Mistress Quickly and Doll Tearsheet.

Quick.

No, thou arrant knave: I would to God I might die that I might have thee hanged; thou hast drawn my shoulder out of joint.

First Bead.

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. 7

Dol.

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 hadst better thou hadst struck thy mother, thou paper-faced villain. 12

Quick.

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 Bead

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 among you.

Dol.

I’ll tell thee what, thou 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. 24

First Bead.

Come, come, you she knighterrant, come.

Quick.

O, that right should thus overcome might! Well, of sufferance comes ease.

Dol.

Come, you rogue, come: bring me to a justice. 29

Quick.

Ay; come, you starved blood-hound.

Dol.

Goodman death! goodman bones!

Quick.

Thou atomy, thou! 32

Dol.

Come, you thin thing; come, you rascal!

First Bead.

Very well.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— A public Place near Westminster Abbey.

Enter two Grooms, strewing rushes.

First Groom.

More rushes, more rushes.

Sec. Groom.

The trumpets have sounded twice. 3

First Groom.

It will be two o’clock ere they come from the coronation. Dispatch, dispatch.

[Exeunt.

Enter Falstaff, Shallow, Pistol, Bardolph, and the Page.

Fal.

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. 9

Pist.

God bless thy lungs, good knight.

Fal.

Come here, Pistol; stand behind me. O! if I had had time 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. 16

Shal.

It doth so.

Fal.

It shows my earnestness of affection.

Shal.

It doth so.

Fal.

My devotion. 20

Shal.

It doth, it doth, it doth.

Fal.

As it were, to ride day and night; and not to deliberate, not to remember, not to have patience to shift me. 24

Shal.

It is most certain.

Fal.

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.

Pist.

’Tis semper idem, for absque hoc nihil est:

’Tis all in every part. 32

Shal.

’Tis so, indeed.

Pist.

My knight, I will inflame thy noble liver,

And make thee rage.

Thy Doll, and Helen of thy noble thoughts, 36

Is in base durance and contagious prison;

Hal’d thither

By most mechanical and dirty hand:

Rouse up revenge from ebon den with fell Alecto’s snake, 40

For Doll is in: Pistol speaks nought but truth.

Fal.

I will deliver her.

[Shouts within and trumpets sound.

Pist.

There roar’d the sea, and trumpetclangor sounds.

Enter King Henry the Fifth and his Train, the Lord Chief Justice among them.

Fal.

God save thy grace, King Hal! my royal Hal! 45

Pist.

The heavens thee guard and keep, most royal imp of fame!

Fal.

God save thee, my sweet boy! 48

K. Hen. V.

My lord chief justice, speak to that vain man.

Ch. Just.

Have you your wits? know you what ’tis you speak?

Fal.

My king! my Jove! I speak to thee, my heart!

K. Hen. V.

I know thee not, old man: fall to thy prayers; 52

How ill white hairs become a fool and jester!

I have long dream’d of such a kind of man,

So surfeit-swell’d, so old, and so profane;

But, being awak’d, I do despise my dream. 56

Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace;

Leave gormandising; know the grave doth gape

For thee thrice wider than for other men.

Reply not to me with a fool-born jest: 60

Presume not that I am the thing I was;

For God doth know, so shall the world perceive,

That I have turn’d away my former self;

So will I those that kept me company. 64

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, 68

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 evil: 72

And, as we hear you do reform yourselves,

We will, according to your strength and qualities,

Give you advancement. Be it your charge, my lord,

To see perform’d the tenour of our word. 76

Set on.

[Exeunt King Henry V. and his Train.

Fal.

Master Shallow, I owe you a thousand pound.

Shal.

Ay, marry, Sir John; which I beseech you to let me have home with me. 80

Fal.

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. 85

Shal.

I cannot perceive how, unless you should give me your doublet and stuff me out with straw. I beseech you, good Sir John, let me have five hundred of my thousand. 89

Fal.

Sir, I will be as good as my word: this that you heard was but a colour.

Shal.

A colour that I fear you will die in, Sir John. 93

Fal.

Fear no colours: go with me to dinner. Come, Lieutenant Pistol; come, Bardolph: I shall be sent for soon at night. 96

Re-enter John of Lancaster, the Lord Chief Justice; Officers with them.

Ch. Just.

Go, carry Sir John Falstaff to the Fleet;

Take all his company along with him.

Fal.

My lord, my lord!

Ch. Just.

I cannot now speak: I will hear you soon. 100

Take them away.

Pist.

Si fortuna me tormenta, spero contenta.

[Exeunt Falstaff, Shallow, Pistol, Bardolph, Page, and Officers.

Lanc.

I like this fair proceeding of the king’s.

He hath intent his wonted followers 104

Shall all be very well provided for;

But all are banish’d till their conversations

Appear more wise and modest to the world.

Ch. Just.

And so they are. 108

Lanc.

The king hath call’d his parliament, my lord.

Ch. Just.

He hath.

Lanc.

I will lay odds, that, ere this year expire,

We bear our civil swords and native fire 112

As far as France. I heard a bird so sing,

Whose music, to my thinking, pleas’d the king.

Come, will you hence?

[Exeunt.

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by a Dancer.

First, my fear; then, my curtsy; last my speech. My fear is, your displeasure, my curtsy, my duty, and my speech, to beg your pardon. 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 purpose, 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 did mean 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. 18

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 will 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. 27

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 anything 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. 38

THE LIFE OF KING HENRY THE FIFTH

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

King Henry the Fifth.
Duke of Gloucester, }	Brothers to the King.
Duke of Bedford, }	Brothers to the King.
Duke of Exeter,	Uncle to the King.
Duke of York,	Cousin to the King.
Earls of Salisbury, Westmoreland, and Warwick.
Archbishop of Canterbury.
Bishop of Ely.
Earl of Cambridge.
Lord Scroop.
Sir Thomas Grey.
Sir Thomas Erpingham, Gower, Fluellen, Macmorris, Jamy,	Officers in King Henry’s Army.
Bates, Court, Williams,	Soldiers in the Same.
Pistol, Nym, Bardolph.
Boy.
A Herald.
Charles the Sixth,	King of France.
Lewis,	the Dauphin.
Dukes of Burgundy, Orleans, and Bourbon.
The Constable of France.
Rambures and Grandpré,	French Lords.
Montjoy,	a French Herald.
Governor of Harfleur.
Ambassadors to the King of England.
Isabel,	Queen of France.
Katharine,	Daughter to Charles and Isabel.
Alice,	a Lady attending on the Princess Katharine.
Hostess of the Boar’s Head Tavern, formerly Mistress Quickly, and now married to Pistol.
Lords, Ladies, Officers, French and English Soldiers, Citizens, Messengers, and Attendants.

Chorus.

Scene.—England; afterwards France.

Enter Chorus.

Chor.

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. 4

Then should the war-like Harry, like himself,

Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels,

Leash’d in like hounds, should famine, sword, and fire

Crouch for employment. But pardon, gentles all,

The flat unraised spirits that hath dar’d 9

On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth

So great an object: can this cockpit hold

The vasty fields of France? or may we cram 12

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; 16

And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,

On your imaginary forces work.

Suppose within the girdle of these walls

Are now confin’d two mighty monarchies, 20

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, 24

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, 28

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; 32

Who prologue-like your humble patience pray,

Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play.

[Exit.

ACT I.

Scene I.— London. An Antechamber in the King’s Palace.

Enter the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Ely.

Cant.

My lord, I’ll tell you; that self bill is urg’d,

Which in th’ eleventh year of the last king’s reign

Was like, and had indeed against us pass’d,

But that the scambling and unquiet time 4

Did push it out of further question.

Ely.

But how, my lord, shall we resist it now?

Cant.

It must be thought on. If it pass against us,

We lose the better half of our possession; 8

For all the temporal lands which men devout

By testament have given to the church

Would they strip from us; being valu’d thus:

As much as would maintain, to the king’s honour, 12

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, 16

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.

Cant.

’Twould drink the cup and all.

Ely.

But what prevention? 21

Cant.

The king is full of grace and fair regard.

Ely.

And a true lover of the holy church.

Cant.

The courses of his youth promis’d it not. 24

The breath no sooner left his father’s body

But that his wildness, mortified in him,

Seem’d to die too; yea, at that very moment,

Consideration like an angel came, 28

And whipp’d the offending Adam out of him,

Leaving his body as a paradise,

To envelop and contain celestial spirits.

Never was such a sudden scholar made; 32

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 36

As in this king.

Ely.

We are blessed in the change.

Cant.

Hear him but reason in divinity,

And, all-admiring, with an inward wish

You would desire the king were made a prelate: 40

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 render’d you in music: 44

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 charter’d libertine, is still, 48

And the mute wonder lurketh in men’s ears,

To steal his sweet and honey’d sentences;

So that the art and practic part of life

Must be the mistress to this theoric: 52

Which is a wonder how his Grace should glean it,

Since his addiction was to courses vain;

His companies unletter’d, rude, and shallow;

His hours fill’d up with riots, banquets, sports; 56

And never noted in him any study,

Any retirement, any sequestration

From open haunts and popularity.

Ely.

The strawberry grows underneath the nettle, 60

And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best

Neighbour’d by fruit of baser quality:

And so the prince obscur’d his contemplation

Under the veil of wildness; which, no doubt, 64

Grew like the summer grass, fastest by night,

Unseen, yet crescive in his faculty.

Cant.

It must be so; for miracles are ceas’d;

And therefore we must needs admit the means

How things are perfected.

Ely.

But, my good lord, 69

How now for mitigation of this bill

Urg’d by the commons? Doth his majesty

Incline to it, or no?

Cant.

He seems indifferent, 72

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, 76

And in regard of causes now in hand,

Which I have open’d to his Grace at large,

As touching France, to give a greater sum

Than ever at one time the clergy yet 80

Did to his predecessors part withal.

Ely.

How did this offer seem receiv’d, my lord?

Cant.

With good acceptance of his majesty;

Save that there was not time enough to hear,— 84

As I perceiv’d 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,

Deriv’d from Edward, his great-grandfather. 89

Ely.

What was the impediment that broke this off?

Cant.

The French ambassador upon that instant

Crav’d audience; and the hour I think is come

To give him hearing: is it four o’clock? 93

Ely.

It is.

Cant.

Then go we in to know his embassy;

Which I could with a ready guess declare 96

Before the Frenchman speak a word of it.

Ely.

I’ll wait upon you, and I long to hear it.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. The Presence Chamber.

Enter King Henry, Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Warwick, Westmoreland, and Attendants.

K. Hen.

Where is my gracious lord of Canterbury?

Exe.

Not here in presence.

K. Hen.

Send for him, good uncle.

West.

Shall we call in the ambassador, my liege?

K. Hen.

Not yet, my cousin: we would be resolv’d, 4

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.

Cant.

God and his angels guard your sacred throne,

And make you long become it!

K. Hen.

Sure, we thank you.

My learned lord, we pray you to proceed, 9

And justly and religiously unfold

Why the law Salique that they have in France

Or should, or should not, bar us in our claim. 12

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 16

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. 20

Therefore take heed how you impawn our person,

How you awake the sleeping sword of war:

We charge you in the name of God, take heed;

For never two such kingdoms did contend 24

Without much fall of blood; whose guiltless drops

Are every one a woe, a sore complaint,

’Gainst him whose wrongs give edge unto the swords

That make such waste in brief mortality. 28

Under this conjuration speak, my lord,

And we will hear, note, and believe in heart,

That what you speak is in your conscience wash’d

As pure as sin with baptism. 32

Cant.

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, 38

‘No woman shall succeed in Salique land:’

Which Salique land the French unjustly gloze

To be the realm of France, and Pharamond 41

The founder of this law and female bar.

Yet their own authors faithfully affirm

That the land Salique is in Germany, 44

Between the floods of Sala and of Elbe;

Where Charles the Great, having subdu’d the Saxons,

There left behind and settled certain French;

Who, holding in disdain the German women 48

For some dishonest manners of their life,

Establish’d 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 call’d Meisen. 53

Then doth it well appear the Salique law

Was not devised for the realm of France;

Nor did the French possess the Salique land 56

Until four hundred one-and-twenty years

After defunction of King Pharamond,

Idly suppos’d the founder of this law;

Who died within the year of our redemption 60

Four hundred twenty-six; and Charles the Great

Subdu’d 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, 65

Did, as heir general, being descended

Of Blithild, which was daughter to King Clothair,

Make claim and title to the crown of France. 68

Hugh Capet also, who usurp’d the crown

Of Charles the Duke of Loraine, sole heir male

Of the true line and stock of Charles the Great,

To find his title with some shows of truth,— 72

Though in pure truth, it was corrupt and naught,—

Convey’d himself as heir to the Lady Lingare,

Daughter to Charlemain, who was the son

To Lewis the emperor, and Lewis the son 76

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 80

That fair Queen Isabel, his grandmother,

Was lineal of the Lady Ermengare,

Daughter to Charles the aforesaid Duke of Loraine:

By the which marriage the line of Charles the Great 84

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 88

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 93

Than amply to imbar their crooked titles

Usurp’d from you and your progenitors.

K. Hen.

May I with right and conscience make this claim? 96

Cant.

The sin upon my head, dread sovereign!

For in the book of Numbers is it writ:

‘When the son dies, let the inheritance

Descend unto the daughter.’ Gracious lord, 100

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 war-like spirit, 104

And your great-uncle’s, Edward the Black Prince,

Who on the French ground play’d a tragedy,

Making defeat on the full power of France;

Whiles his most mighty father on a hill 108

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, 113

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-puissantliege

Is in the very May-morn of his youth, 120

Ripe for exploits and mighty enterprises.

Exe.

Your brother kings and monarchs of the earth

Do all expect that you should rouse yourself,

As did the former lions of your blood. 124

West.

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 128

And lie pavilion’d in the fields of France.

Cant.

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 132

Will raise your highness such a mighty sum

As never did the clergy at one time

Bring in to any of your ancestors.

K. Hen.

We must not only arm to invade the French, 136

But lay down our proportions to defend

Against the Scot, who will make road upon us

With all advantages.

Cant.

They of those marches, gracious sovereign, 140

Shall be a wall sufficient to defend

Our inland from the pilfering borderers.

K. Hen.

We do not mean the coursing snatchers only,

But fear the main intendment of the Scot, 144

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 unfurnish’d kingdom

Came pouring, like the tide into a breach, 149

With ample and brim fulness of his force,

Galling the gleaned land with hot essays,

Girding with grievous siege castles and towns;

That England, being empty of defence, 153

Hath shook and trembled at the ill neighbourhood.

Cant.

She hath been then more fear’d than harm’d, my liege;

For hear her but exampled by herself: 156

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 160

The King of Scots; whom she did send to France,

To fill King Edward’s fame with prisoner kings,

And make your chronicle as rich with praise

As is the owse and bottom of the sea 164

With sunken wrack and sumless treasuries.

West.

But there’s a saying very old and true;

If that you will France win,

Then with Scotland first begin: 168

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, 172

To tear and havoc more than she can eat.

Exe.

It follows then the cat must stay at home:

Yet that is but a crush’d necessity;

Since we have locks to safeguard necessaries 176

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, 180

Put into parts, doth keep in one consent,

Congreeing in a full and natural close,

Like music.

Cant.

Therefore doth heaven divide

The state of man in divers functions, 184

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 188

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, 193

Make boot upon the summer’s velvet buds;

Which pillage they with merry march bring home

To the tent-royal of their emperor: 196

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 200

Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate,

The sad-ey’d justice, with his surly hum,

Delivering o’er to executors pale

The lazy yawning drone. I this infer, 204

That many things, having full reference

To one consent, may work contrariously;

As many arrows, loosed several ways,

Fly to one mark; as many ways meet in one town; 208

As many fresh streams meet in one salt sea;

As many lines close in the dial’s centre;

So may a thousand actions, once afoot,

End in one purpose, and be all well borne 212

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. 216

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. 220

K. Hen.

Call in the messengers sent from the Dauphin.

[Exit an Attendant.

Now are we well resolv’d; and by God’s help,

And yours, the noble sinews of our power,

France being ours, we’ll bend it to our awe 224

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, 228

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, 232

Not worshipp’d with a waxen epitaph.

Enter Ambassadors of France.

Now are we well prepar’d to know the pleasure

Of our fair cousin Dauphin; for we hear

Your greeting is from him, not from the king.

First Amb.

May’t please your majesty to give us leave 237

Freely to render what we have in charge;

Or shall we sparingly show you far off

The Dauphin’s meaning and our embassy? 240

K. Hen.

We are no tyrant, but a Christian king;

Unto whose grace our passion is as subject

As are our wretches fetter’d in our prisons:

Therefore with frank and with uncurbed plainness 244

Tell us the Dauphin’s mind.

First Amb.

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. 248

In answer of which claim, the prince our master

Says that you savour too much of your youth,

And bids you be advis’d there’s nought in France

That can be with a nimble galliard won; 252

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 256

Hear no more of you. This the Dauphin speaks.

K. Hen.

What treasure, uncle?

Exe.

Tennis-balls, my liege.

K. Hen.

We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us:

His present and your pains we thank you for:

When we have match’d our rackets to these balls, 261

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 264

That all the courts of France will be disturb’d

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. 268

We never valu’d 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. 272

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 276

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. 280

And tell the pleasant prince this mock of his

Hath turn’d 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 284

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. 288

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 292

My rightful hand in a well-hallow’d 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. 296

Convey them with safe conduct. Fare you well.

[Exeunt Ambassadors.

Exe.

This was a merry message.

K. Hen.

We hope to make the sender blush at it.

Therefore, my lords, omit no happy hour 300

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 304

Be soon collected, and all things thought upon

That may with reasonable swiftness add

More feathers to our wings; for, God before, 307

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. Flourish.

ACT II.

Enter Chorus.

Chor.

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: 4

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 8

And hides a sword from hilts unto the point

With crowns imperial, crowns and coronets,

Promis’d to Harry and his followers.

The French, advis’d by good intelligence 12

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, 16

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 20

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!—

Confirm’d conspiracy with fearful France;

And by their hands this grace of kings must die,— 28

If hell and treason hold their promises,—

Ere he take ship for France, and in Southampton.

Linger your patience on; and well digest

The abuse of distance while we force a play. 32

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. 40

But, till the king come forth and not till then,

Unto Southampton do we shift our scene.

[Exit.

Scene I.— London. Eastcheap.

Enter Nym and Bardolph.

Bard.

Well met, Corporal Nym.

Nym.

Good morrow, Lieutenant Bardolph.

Bard.

What, are Ancient Pistol and you friends yet? 4

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. 11

Bard.

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. 18

Bard.

It is certain, corporal, that he is married to Nell Quickly; and, certainly she did you wrong, for you were troth-plight to her. 21

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.

Bard.

Here comes Ancient Pistol and his wife. Good corporal, be patient here. How now, mine host Pistol!

Pist.

Base tike, call’st thou me host?

Now, by this hand, I swear, I scorn the term; 32

Nor shall my Nell keep lodgers.

Host.

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. 40

Bard.

Good lieutenant! good corporal! offer nothing here.

Nym.

Pish!

Pist.

Pish for thee, Iceland dog! thou prickeared cur of Iceland! 44

Host.

Good Corporal Nym, show thy valour and put up your sword.

Nym.

Will you shog off? I would have you solus.

[Sheathing his sword.

Pist.

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! 53

I do retort the solus in thy bowels;

For I can take, and Pistol’s cock is up,

And flashing fire will follow. 56

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.

Pist.

O braggart vile and damned furious wight! 64

The grave doth gape, and doting death is near;

Therefore exhale.

Bard.

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.

Pist.

An oath of mickle might, and fury shall abate.

Give me thy fist, thy fore-foot to me give;

Thy spirits are most tall. 72

Nym.

I will cut thy throat, one time or other, in fair terms; that is the humour of it.

Pist.

Coupe le gorge!

That is the word. I thee defy again. 76

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, 80

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 your 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. 88

Bard.

Away, you rogue!

Host.

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.

Bard.

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? 96

Pist.

Let floods o’erswell, and fiends for food howl on!

Nym.

You’ll pay me the eight shillings I won of you at betting?

Pist.

Base is the slave that pays. 100

Nym.

That now I will have; that’s the humour of it.

Pist.

As manhood shall compound: push home.

[They draw.

Bard.

By this sword, he that makes the first thrust, I’ll kill him; by this sword, I will. 105

Pist.

Sword is an oath, and oaths must have their course.

Bard.

Corporal Nym, an thou wilt be friends, be friends: an thou wilt not, why then, be enemies with me too. Prithee, put up. 109

Nym.

I shall have my eight shillings I won of you at betting?

Pist.

A noble shalt thou have, and present pay;

And liquor likewise will I give to thee, 113

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 116

Unto the camp, and profits will accrue.

Give me thy hand.

Nym.

I shall have my noble?

Pist.

In cash most justly paid.

[Paying him.

Nym.

Well then, that’s the humour of it. 121

Re-enter Hostess.

Host.

As ever you came 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. 128

Pist.

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. 133

Pist.

Let us condole the knight; for, lambkins, we will live.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Southampton. A Council-chamber.

Enter Exeter, Bedford, and Westmoreland.

Bed.

’Fore God, his Grace is bold to trust these traitors.

Exe.

They shall be apprehended by and by.

West.

How smooth and even they do bear themselves!

As if allegiance in their bosoms sat, 4

Crowned with faith and constant loyalty.

Bed.

The king hath note of all that they intend,

By interception which they dream not of.

Exe.

Nay, but the man that was his bedfellow,

Whom he hath dull’d and cloy’d with gracious favours, 9

That he should, for a foreign purse, so sell

His sovereign’s life to death and treachery!

Trumpets sound. Enter King Henry, Scroop, Cambridge, Grey, Lords, and Attendants.

K. Hen.

Now sits the wind fair, and we will aboard. 12

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, 16

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.

K. Hen.

I doubt not that; since we are well persuaded 20

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. 24

Cam.

Never was monarch better fear’d and lov’d

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. 28

Grey.

True: those that were your father’s enemies

Have steep’d their galls in honey, and do serve you

With hearts create of duty and of zeal.

K. Hen.

We therefore have great cause of thankfulness, 32

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, 36

And labour shall refresh itself with hope,

To do your Grace incessant services.

K. Hen.

We judge no less. Uncle of Exeter,

Enlarge the man committed yesterday 40

That rail’d 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 punish’d, sovereign, lest example 45

Breed, by his sufference, more of such a kind.

K. Hen.

O! let us yet be merciful.

Cam.

So may your highness, and yet punish too. 48

Grey.

Sir,

You show great mercy, if you give him life

After the taste of much correction.

K. Hen.

Alas! your too much love and care of me 52

Are heavy orisons ’gainst this poor wretch.

If little faults, proceeding on distemper,

Shall not be wink’d at, how shall we stretch our eye

When capital crimes, chew’d, swallow’d, and digested, 56

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 punish’d. And now to our French causes: 60

Who are the late commissioners?

Cam.

I one, my lord:

Your highness bade me ask for it to-day.

Scroop.

So did you me, my liege. 64

Grey.

And I, my royal sovereign.

K. Hen.

Then, Richard, Earl of Cambridge, there is yours;

There yours, Lord Scroop of Masham; and, sir knight,

Grey of Northumberland, this same is yours: 68

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 72

So much complexion? Look ye, how they change!

Their cheeks are paper. Why, what read you there,

That hath so cowarded and chas’d your blood

Out of appearance?

Cam.

I do confess my fault, 76

And do submit me to your highness’ mercy.

Grey.

To which we all appeal.

Scroop.

To which we all appeal.

K. Hen.

The mercy that was quick in us but late

By your own counsel is suppress’d and kill’d: 80

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, 84

These English monsters! My Lord of Cambridge here,

You know how apt our love was to accord

To furnish him with all appertinents

Belonging to his honour; and this man 88

Hath, for a few light crowns, lightly conspir’d,

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 92

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, 97

That almost mightst have coin’d me into gold

Wouldst thou have practis’d on me for thy use!

May it be possible that foreign hire 100

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 from white, my eye will scarcely see it.

Treason and murder ever kept together, 105

As two yoke-devils sworn to either’s purpose,

Working so grossly in a natural cause

That admiration did not whoop at them: 108

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 112

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 fetch’d 116

From glistering semblances of piety;

But he that temper’d thee bade thee stand up,

Gave thee no instance why thou shouldst do treason,

Unless to dub thee with the name of traitor. 120

If that same demon that hath gull’d 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 124

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? 128

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, 132

Constant in spirit, not swerving with the blood,

Garnish’d and deck’d in modest complement,

Not working with the eye without the ear,

And but in purged judgment trusting neither?

Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem: 137

And thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot,

To mark the full-fraught man and best indu’d

With some suspicion. I will weep for thee; 140

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! 144

Exe.

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. 148

I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland.

Scroop.

Our purposes God justly hath discover’d,

And I repent my fault more than my death; 152

Which I beseech your highness to forgive,

Although my body pay the price of it.

Cam.

For me, the gold of France did not seduce,

Although I did admit it as a motive 156

The sooner to effect what I intended:

But God be thanked for prevention;

Which I in sufference heartily will rejoice,

Beseeching God and you to pardon me. 160

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. 164

My fault, but not my body; pardon, sovereign.

K. Hen.

God quit you in his mercy! Hear your sentence.

You have conspir’d against our royal person,

Join’d with an enemy proclaim’d, and from his coffers 168

Receiv’d 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, 172

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 176

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 180

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, 184

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. 188

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: 192

No king of England, if not king of France.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— London. Before a Tavern in Eastcheap.

Enter Pistol, Hostess, Nym, Bardolph, and Boy.

Host.

Prithee, honey-sweet husband, let me bring thee to Staines.

Pist.

No; for my manly heart doth yearn.

Bardolph, be blithe; Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins; 4

Boy, bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is dead,

And we must yearn therefore.

Bard.

Would I were with him, wheresome’er he is, either in heaven or in hell! 8

Host.

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 of 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 so upward, and upward, and all was as cold as any stone. 28

Nym

They say he cried out of sack.

Host.

Ay, that a’ did.

Bard.

And of women.

Host.

Nay, that a’ did not. 32

Boy.

Yes, that a’ did; and said they were devils incarnate.

Host.

A’ could never abide carnation; ’twas a colour he never liked. 36

Boy.

A’ said once, the devil would have him about women.

Host.

A’ did in some sort, indeed, handle women; but then he was rheumatic, and talked of the whore of Babylon. 41

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? 44

Bard.

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. 49

Pist.

Come, let’s away. My love, give me thy lips.

Look to my chattels and my moveables:

Let senses rule, the word is, ‘Pitch and pay;’ 52

Trust none;

For oaths are straws, men’s faiths are wafercakes,

And hold-fast is the only dog, my duck:

Therefore, caveto be thy counsellor. 56

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. 61

Pist.

Touch her soft mouth, and march.

Bard.

Farewell, hostess.

[Kissing her.

Nym.

I cannot kiss, that is the humour of it; but, adieu. 65

Pist.

Let housewifery appear: keep close, I thee command.

Host.

Farewell; adieu.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— France. An Apartment in the French King’s Palace.

Flourish. Enter the French King, attended; the Dauphin, the Dukes of Berri and Britaine, the Constable, and Others.

Fr. King.

Thus come 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 Britaine, 4

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: 8

For England his approaches makes as fierce

As waters to the sucking of a gulf.

It fits us then to be as provident

As fear may teach us, out of late examples 12

Left by the fatal and neglected English

Upon our fields.

Dau.

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,— 17

But that defences, musters, preparations,

Should be maintain’d, assembled, and collected,

As were a war in expectation. 20

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: 25

For, my good liege, she is so idly king’d,

Her sceptre so fantastically borne

By a vain, giddy, shallow, humorous youth, 28

That fear attends her not.

Con.

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, 33

How modest in exception, and, withal

How terrible in constant resolution,

And you shall find his vanities forespent 36

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. 40

Dau.

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: 44

So the proportions of defence are fill’d;

Which of a weak and niggardly projection

Doth like a miser spoil his coat with scanting

A little cloth.

Fr. King.

Think we King Harry strong; 48

And, princes, look you strongly arm to meet him.

The kindred of him hath been flesh’d upon us,

And he is bred out of that bloody strain

That haunted us in our familiar paths: 52

Witness our too much memorable shame

When Cressy battle fatally was struck

And all our princes captiv’d by the hand

Of that black name, Edward Black Prince of Wales; 56

Whiles that his mounting sire, on mountain standing,

Up in the air, crown’d with the golden sun,

Saw his heroical seed, and smil’d to see him

Mangle the work of nature, and deface 60

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. 64

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

Ambassadors from Harry King of England

Do crave admittance to your majesty.

Fr. King.

We’ll give them present audience. Go, and bring them.

[Exeunt Messenger and certain Lords.

You see this chase is hotly follow’d, friends. 68

Dau.

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: 73

Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin

As self-neglecting.

Re-enter Lords, with Exeter and Train.

Fr. King.

From our brother England?

Exe.

From him; and thus he greets your majesty. 76

He wills you, in the name of God Almighty,

That you divest yourself, and lay apart

The borrow’d glories that by gift of heaven,

By law of nature and of nations ’long 80

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, 85

Pick’d from the worm-holes of long-vanish’d days,

Nor from the dust of old oblivion rak’d,

He sends you this most memorable line, 88

[Gives a pedigree.

In every branch truly demonstrative;

Willing you overlook this pedigree;

And when you find him evenly deriv’d

From his most fam’d of famous ancestors, 92

Edward the Third, he bids you then resign

Your crown and kingdom, indirectly held

From him the native and true challenger.

Fr. King.

Or else what follows? 96

Exe.

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, 100

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 104

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, 108

That shall be swallow’d 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. 112

Fr. King.

For us, we will consider of this further:

To-morrow shall you bear our full intent

Back to our brother England.

Dau.

For the Dauphin,

I stand here for him: what to him from England? 116

Exe.

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 120

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 124

Shall chide your trespass and return your mock

In second accent of his ordinance.

Dau.

Say, if my father render fair return,

It is against my will; for I desire 128

Nothing but odds with England: to that end,

As matching to his youth and vanity,

I did present him with the Paris balls.

Exe.

He’ll make your Paris Louvre shake for it, 132

Were it the mistress-court of mighty Europe:

And, be assur’d, you’ll find a difference—

As we his subjects have in wonder found—

Between the promise of his greener days 136

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.

Fr. King.

To-morrow shall you know our mind at full. 140

Exe.

Dispatch us with all speed, lest that our king

Come here himself to question our delay;

For he is footed in this land already.

Fr. King.

You shall be soon dispatch’d with fair conditions: 144

A night is but small breath and little pause

To answer matters of this consequence.

[Flourish. Exeunt.

ACT III.

Enter Chorus.

Chor.

Thus with imagin’d 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 4

Embark his royalty; and his brave fleet

With silken streamers the young Phœbus fanning:

Play with your fancies, and in them behold

Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing; 8

Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give

To sounds confus’d; behold the threaden sails,

Borne with the invisible and creeping wind,

Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow’d sea, 12

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, 16

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, 20

Either past or not arriv’d to pith and puissance:

For who is he, whose chin is but enrich’d

With one appearing hair, that will not follow

Those call’d and choice-drawn cavaliers to France? 24

Work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege;

Behold the ordenance on their carriages,

With fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur.

Suppose the ambassador from the French comes back; 28

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 32

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.

Scene I.— France. Before Harfleur.

Alarums. Enter King Henry, Exeter, Bedford, Gloucester, and Soldiers, with scaling ladders.

K. Hen.

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: 4

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-favour’d rage; 8

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 doth a galled rock 12

O’erhang and jutty his confounded base,

Swill’d 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 sheath’d their swords for lack of argument. 21

Dishonour not your mothers; now attest

That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you.

Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 24

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; 28

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: 32

Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge

Cry ‘God for Harry! England and Saint George!’

[Exeunt. Alarum, and chambers go off.

Scene II.— The Same.

Enter Nym, Bardolph, Pistol, and Boy.

Bard.

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.

Pist.

The plain-song is most just, for humours do abound: 8

Knocks go and come: God’s vassals drop and die;

And sword and shield

In bloody field

Doth win immortal fame. 12

Boy.

Would I were in an alehouse in London! I would give all my fame for a pot of ale, and safety.

Pist.

And I: 16

If wishes would prevail with me,

My purpose should not fail with me,

But thither would I hie.

Boy.

As duly, 20

But not as truly,

As bird doth sing on bough.

Enter Fluellen.

Flu.

Up to the breach, you dogs! avaunt, you cullions!

[Driving them forward.

Pist.

Be merciful, great duke, to men of mould! 24

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. 29

[Exeunt Nym, Pistol, and Bardolph, followed by Fluellen.

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 antiques 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 any thing 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 villany goes against my weak stomach, and therefore I must cast it up.

[Exit.

Re-enter Fluellen, Gower following.

Gow.

Captain Fluellen, you must come presently to the mines: the Duke of Gloucester would speak with you. 62

Flu.

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, th’ athversary—you may discuss unto the duke, look you—is digt himself four yards under the countermines; by Cheshu, I think, a’ will plow up all if there is not better directions. 71

Gow.

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.

Flu.

It is Captain Macmorris, is it not? 76

Gow.

I think it be.

Flu.

By Cheshu, he is an ass, as in the world:

I will verify as much in his peard: he has no more directions in the true disciplines of the wars, look you, of the Roman disciplines, than is a puppy-dog. 82

Enter Macmorris and Jamy, at a distance.

Gow.

Here a’ comes; and the Scots captain, Captain Jamy, with him.

Flu.

Captain Jamy is a marvellous falorous gentleman, that is certain; and of great expedition and knowledge in th’ 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. 91

Jamy.

I say gud day, Captain Fluellen.

Flu.

God-den to your worship, good Captain James.

Gow.

How now, Captain Macmorris! have you quit the mines? have the pioners given o’er?

Mac.

By Chrish, la! tish ill done: the work ish give over, the trumpet 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! 103

Flu.

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. 112

Jamy

It sall be vary gud, gud feith, gud captains bath: [Aside.] and I sall quit you with gud leve, as I may pick occasion; that sall I, marry.

Mac.

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 calls 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! 125

Jamy.

By the mess, ere theise eyes of mine take themselves to slumber, aile do gud service, or aile lig i’ the grund for it; ay, or go to death; and aile pay it as valorously as I may, that sal I suerly do, that is the breff and the long. Marry, I wad full fain heard some question ’tween you tway. 132

Flu.

Captain Macmorris, I think, look you, under your correction, there is not many of your nation— 135

Mac.

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? 139

Flu.

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 wars, and in the derivation of my birth, and in other particularities. 146

Mac.

I do not know you so good a man as myself: so Chrish save me, I will cut off your head. 149

Gow.

Gentlemen both, you will mistake each other.

Jamy.

A! that’s a foul fault.

[A parley sounded.

Gow.

The town sounds a parley. 153

Flu.

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 wars; and there is an end.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. Before the Gates of Harfleur.

The Governor and some Citizens on the walls; the English forces below. Enter King Henry and his Train.

K. Hen.

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 4

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 8

Till in her ashes she lie buried.

The gates of mercy shall be all shut up,

And the flesh’d soldier, rough and hard of heart,

In liberty of bloody hand shall range 12

With conscience wide as hell, mowing like grass

Your fresh-fair virgins and your flowering infants.

What is it then to me, if impious war,

Array’d in flames like to the prince of fiends, 16

Do, with his smirch’d complexion, all fell feats

Enlink’d to waste and desolation?

What is’t to me, when you yourselves are cause,

If your pure maidens fall into the hand 20

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 25

As send precepts to the leviathan

To come ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur,

Take pity of your town and of your people, 28

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 villany. 32

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, 36

And their most reverend heads dash’d to the walls;

Your naked infants spitted upon pikes,

Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confus’d

Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry

At Herod’s bloody-hunting slaughtermen. 41

What say you? will you yield, and this avoid?

Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy’d?

Gov.

Our expectation hath this day an end.

The Dauphin, whom of succour we entreated, 45

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; 49

For we no longer are defensible.

K. Hen.

Open your gates! Come, uncle Exeter,

Go you and enter Harfleur; there remain, 52

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. 56

To-night in Harfleur will we be your guest;

To-morrow for the march are we addrest.

[Flourish. King Henry and his Train enter the town.

Scene IV.— Rouen. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Katharine and Alice.

Kath.

Alice, tu as esté en Angleterre, et tu parles bien le langage.

Alice.

Un peu, madame. 3

Kath.

Je te prie, m’enseignez; il faut que j’apprenne à parler. Comment appellez vous la main en Anglois?

Alice.

La main? elle est appellée, de hand.

Kath.

De hand. Et les doigts? 8

Alice.

Les doigts? ma foy, je oublie les doigts; mais je me souviendray. Les doigts? je pense qu’ils sont appellés de fingres; ouy, de fingres. 12

Kath.

La main, de hand; les doigts, de fingres. Je pense que je suis le bon escolier. J’ai gagné deux mots d’Anglois vistement. Comment appellez vous les ongles? 16

Alice.

Les ongles? nous les appellons, de nails.

Kath.

De nails. Escoutez; dites moy, si je parle bien: de hands, de fingres, et de nails.

Alice.

C’est bien dict, madame; il est fort bon Anglois. 21

Kath.

Dites moy l’Anglois pour le bras.

Alice.

De arm, madame.

Kath.

Et le coude? 24

Alice.

De elbow.

Kath.

De elbow. Je m’en fais la répétition de tous les mots que vous m’avez appris dès à présent. 28

Alice.

Il est trop difficile, madame, comme je pense.

Kath.

Excusez moy, Alice; escoutez: de hand, de fingres, de nails, de arma, de bilbow. 32

Alice.

De elbow, madame.

Kath.

O Seigneur Dieu! je m’en oublie; de elbow. Comment appellez vous le col?

Alice.

De nick, madame. 36

Kath.

De nick. Et le menton?

Alice.

De chin.

Kath.

De sin. Le col, de nick: le menton, de sin. 40

Alice.

Ouy. Sauf vostre honneur, en vérité vous prononcez les mots aussi droict que les natifs d’Angleterre.

Kath.

Je ne doute point d’apprendre par la grace de Dieu, et en peu de temps. 45

Alice.

N’avez vous déjà oublié ce que je vous ay enseignée?

Kath.

Non, je reciteray à vous promptement.

De hand, de fingre, de mails,— 49

Alice.

De nails, madame.

Kath.

De nails, de arme, de ilbow.

Alice.

Sauf vostre honneur, d’elbow. 52

Kath.

Ainsi dis je; d’elbow, de nick, et de sin. Comment appellez vous le pied et la robe?

Alice.

De foot, madame; et de coun. 55

Kath.

De foot, et de coun? O Seigneur Dieu! ces sont mots de son mauvais, corruptible, gros, et impudique, et non pour les dames d’honneur d’user. Je ne voudrois prononcer ces mots devant les seigneurs de France, pour tout le monde. Foh! le foot, et le coun. Néantmoins je reciterai une autre fois ma leçon ensemble: de hand, de fingre, de nails, d’arm, d’elbow, de nick, de sin, de foot, de coun. 64

Alice.

Excellent, madame!

Kath.

C’est assez pour une fois: allons nous à diner.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— The Same. Another Room in the Palace.

Enter the French King, the Dauphin, Duke of Bourbon, the Constable of France, and Others.

Fr. King.

’Tis certain, he hath pass’d the river Somme.

Con.

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. 4

Dau.

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, 8

And overlook their grafters?

Bour.

Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards!

Mort de ma vie! if they march along

Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom, 12

To buy a slobbery and a dirty farm

In that nook-shotten isle of Albion.

Con.

Dieu de battailes! where have they this mettle?

Is not their climate foggy, raw, and dull, 16

On whom, as in despite, the sun looks pale,

Killing their fruit with frowns? Can sodden water,

A drench for sur-rein’d jades, their barley-broth,

Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat? 20

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 24

Sweat drops of gallant youth in our rich fields;

Poor we may call them in their native lords.

Dau.

By faith and honour,

Our madams mock at us, and plainly say 28

Our mettle is bred out; and they will give

Their bodies to the lust of English youth

To new-store France with bastard warriors.

Bour.

They bid us to the English dancing-schools, 32

And teach lavoltas high and swift corantos;

Saying our grace is only in our heels,

And that we are most lofty runaways.

Fr. King.

Where is Montjoy the herald? speed him hence: 36

Let him greet England with our sharp defiance.

Up, princes! and, with spirit of honour edg’d

More sharper than your swords, hie to the field:

Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France; 40

You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and Berri,

Alençon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy;

Jaques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont,

Beaumont, Grandpré, Roussi, and Fauconberg,

Foix, Lestrale, Bouciqualt, and Charolois; 45

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: 52

Go down upon him, you have power enough,

And in a captive chariot into Roan

Bring him our prisoner.

Con.

This becomes the great.

Sorry am I his numbers are so few, 56

His soldiers sick and famish’d 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. 60

Fr. 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 Roan.

Dau.

Not so, I do beseech your majesty. 65

Fr. 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. 68

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— The English Camp in Picardy.

Enter Gower and Fluellen.

Gow.

How now, Captain Fluellen! come you from the bridge?

Flu.

I assure you, there is very excellent services committed at the pridge. 4

Gow.

Is the Duke of Exeter safe?

Flu.

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 life, and my living, and my uttermost power: he is not—God be praised and plessed!—any hurt in the world; but keeps the pridge 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. 17

Gow.

What do you call him?

Flu.

He is called Aunchient Pistol.

Gow.

I know him not. 20

Enter Pistol.

Flu.

Here is the man.

Pist.

Captain, I thee beseech to do me favours:

The Duke of Exeter doth love thee well.

Flu.

Ay, I praise God; and I have merited some love at his hands. 25

Pist.

Bardolph, a soldier firm and sound of heart,

And of buxom valour, hath, by cruel fate

And giddy Fortune’s furious fickle wheel, 28

That goddess blind,

That stands upon the rolling restless stone,—

Flu.

By your patience, Aunchient Pistol. Fortune is painted plind, with a muffler afore her eyes, to signify to you that Fortune is plind: 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. 40

Pist.

Fortune is Bardolph’s foe, and frowns on him;

For he hath stol’n a pax, and hanged must a’ be,

A damned death!

Let gallows gape for dog, let man go free 44

And let not hemp his wind-pipe suffocate.

But Exeter hath given the doom of death

For pax of little price.

Therefore, go speak; the duke will hear thy voice; 48

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.

Flu.

Aunchient Pistol, I do partly understand your meaning. 53

Pist.

Why then, rejoice therefore.

Flu.

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.

Pist.

Die and be damn’d; and figo for thy friendship! 60

Flu.

It is well.

Pist.

The fig of Spain!

[Exit.

Flu.

Very good.

Gow.

Why, this is an arrant counterfeit rascal: I remember him now; a bawd, a cutpurse. 66

Flu.

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. 71

Gow.

Why, ’tis 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. 88

Flu.

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 pridgo.

Enter King Henry, Gloucester, and Soldiers.

Flu.

God pless your majesty!

K. Hen.

How now, Fluellen! cam’st thou from the bridge? 96

Flu.

Ay, so please your majesty. The Duke of Exeter hath 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. 104

K. Hen.

What men have you lost, Fluellen?

Flu.

The perdition of th’ 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. 115

K. Hen.

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.

Mont.

You know me by my habit. 124

K. Hen.

Well then I know thee: what shall I know of thee?

Mont.

My master’s mind.

K. Hen.

Unfold it. 127

Mont.

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 pettiness 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.

K. Hen.

What is thy name? I know thy quality. 149

Mont.

Montjoy.

K. Hen.

Thou dost thy office fairly. Turn thee back,

And tell thy king I do not seek him now, 152

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,— 156

My people are with sickness much enfeebled,

My numbers lessen’d, and those few I have

Almost no better than so many French:

Who, when they were in health, I tell thee, herald, 160

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. 164

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, 168

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 hinder’d, 172

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; 176

Nor, as we are, we say we will not shun it:

So tell your master.

Mont.

I shall deliver so. Thanks to your highness.

[Exit.

Glo.

I hope they will not come upon us now. 180

K. Hen.

We are in God’s hand, 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. 184

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— The French Camp, near Agincourt.

Enter the Constable of France, the Lord Rambures, the Duke of Orleans, the Dauphin, and Others.

Con.

Tut! I have the best armour of the world. Would it were day!

Orl.

You have an excellent armour; but let my horse have his due. 4

Con.

It is the best horse of Europe.

Orl.

Will it never be morning?

Dau.

My Lord of Orleans, and my lord high constable, you talk of horse and armour— 8

Orl.

You are as well provided of both as any prince in the world.

Dau.

What a long night is this! I will not change my horse with any that treads but on four pasterns. Ça, 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.

Orl.

He’s of the colour of the nutmeg. 20

Dau.

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.

Con.

Indeed, my lord, it is a most absolute and excellent horse. 28

Dau.

It is the prince of palfreys; his neigh is like the bidding of a monarch and his countenance enforces homage.

Orl.

No more, cousin. 32

Dau.

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!’— 44

Orl.

I have heard a sonnet begin so to one’s mistress.

Dau.

Then did they imitate that which I composed to my courser; for my horse is my mistress. 49

Orl.

Your mistress bears well.

Dau.

Me well; which is the prescript praise and perfection of a good and particular mistress. 53

Con.

Ma foi, methought yesterday your mistress shrewdly shook your back.

Dau.

So perhaps did yours. 56

Con.

Mine was not bridled.

Dau.

O! then belike she was old and gentle; and you rode, like a kern of Ireland, your French hose off and in your straight strossers. 60

Con.

You have good judgment in horsemanship.

Dau.

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. 65

Con.

I had as lief have my mistress a jade.

Dau.

I tell thee, constable, my mistress wears his own hair. 68

Con.

I could make as true a boast as that if I had a sow to my mistress.

Dau.

Le chien est retourné à son propre vomissement, et la truie lavée au bourbier: thou makest use of any thing. 73

Con.

Yet do I not use my horse for my mistress: or any such proverb so little kin to the purpose. 76

Ram.

My lord constable, the armour that I saw in your tent to-night, are those stars or suns upon it?

Con.

Stars, my lord. 80

Dau.

Some of them will fall to-morrow, I hope.

Con.

And yet my sky shall not want.

Dau.

That may be, for you bear a many superfluously, and ’twere more honour some were away. 86

Con.

Even as your horse bears your praises; who would trot as well were some of your brags dismounted. 89

Dau.

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. 93

Con.

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. 97

Ram.

Who will go to hazard with me for twenty prisoners?

Con.

You must first go yourself to hazard, ere you have them. 101

Dau.

’Tis midnight: I’ll go arm myself.

[Exit.

Orl.

The Dauphin longs for morning.

Ram.

He longs to eat the English. 104

Con.

I think he will eat all he kills.

Orl.

By the white hand of my lady, he’s a gallant prince.

Con.

Swear by her foot, that she may tread out the oath. 109

Orl.

He is simply the most active gentleman of France.

Con.

Doing is activity, and he will still be doing. 113

Orl.

He never did harm, that I heard of.

Con.

Nor will do none to-morrow: he will keep that good name still. 116

Orl.

I know him to be valiant.

Con.

I was told that by one that knows him better than you.

Orl.

What’s he? 120

Con.

Marry, he told me so himself; and he said he cared not who knew it.

Orl.

He needs not; it is no hidden virtue in him. 124

Con.

By my faith, sir, but it is; never any body saw it but his lackey: ’tis a hooded valour; and when it appears, it will bate.

Orl.

‘Ill will never said well.’ 128

Con.

I will cap that proverb with ‘There is flattery in friendship.’

Orl.

And I will take up that with ‘Give the devil his due.’ 132

Con.

Well placed: there stands your friend for the devil: have at the very eye of that proverb, with ‘A pox of the devil.’

Orl.

You are the better at proverbs, by how much ‘A fool’s bolt is soon shot.’ 137

Con.

You have shot over.

Orl.

’Tis not the first time you were overshot.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

My lord high constable, the English lie within fifteen hundred paces of your tents. 141

Con.

Who hath measured the ground?

Mess.

The Lord Grandpré.

Con.

A valiant and most expert gentleman. Would it were day! Alas! poor Harry of England, he longs not for the dawning as we do. 146

Orl.

What a wretched and peevish fellow is this King of England, to mope with his fatbrained followers so far out of his knowledge!

Con.

If the English had any apprehension they would run away. 151

Orl.

That they lack; for if their heads had any intellectual armour they could never wear such heavy head-pieces.

Ram.

That island of England breeds very valiant creatures: their mastiffs are of unmatchable courage. 157

Orl.

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. 162

Con.

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. 168

Orl.

Ay, but these English are shrewdly out of beef.

Con.

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? 173

Orl.

It is now two o’clock: but, let me see, by ten

We shall have each a hundred Englishmen.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Enter 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, 4

The hum of either army stilly sounds,

That the fix’d sentinels almost receive

The secret whispers of each other’s watch:

Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames 8

Each battle sees the other’s umber’d face:

Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs

Piercing the night’s dull ear; and from the tents

The armourers, accomplishing the knights, 12

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. 16

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 20

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 24

The morning’s danger, and their gesture sad

Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats

Presenteth them unto the gazing moon

So many horrid ghosts. O! now, who will behold 28

The royal captain of this ruin’d 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,— 32

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; 36

Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour

Unto the weary and all-watched night:

But freshly looks and overbears attaint

With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty; 40

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, 44

Thawing cold fear. Then 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; 48

Where,—O for pity,—we shall much disgrace,

With four or five most vile and ragged foils,

Right ill dispos’d in brawl ridiculous,

The name of Agincourt. Yet sit and see; 52

Minding true things by what their mockeries be.

[Exit.

Scene I.— The English Camp at Agincourt.

Enter King Henry, Bedford, and Gloucester.

K. Hen.

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, 4

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, 8

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. 12

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.

Erp.

Not so, my liege: this lodging likes me better, 16

Since I may say, ‘Now lie I like a king.’

K. Hen.

’Tis good for men to love their present pains

Upon example; so the spirit is eas’d:

And when the mind is quicken’d, out of doubt, 20

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; 25

Do my good morrow to them; and anon

Desire them all to my pavilion.

Glo.

We shall, my liege. 28

[Exeunt Gloucester and Bedford.

Erp.

Shall I attend your Grace?

K. Hen.

No, my good knight;

Go with my brothers to my lords of England:

I and my bosom must debate awhile,

And then I would no other company. 32

Erp.

The Lord in heaven bless thee, noble Harry!

[Exit.

K. Hen.

God-a-mercy, old heart! thou speak’st cheerfully.

Enter Pistol.

Pist.

Qui va là?

K. Hen.

A friend. 36

Pist.

Discuss unto me; art thou officer?

Or art thou base, common and popular?

K. Hen.

I am a gentleman of a company.

Pist.

Trail’st thou the puissant pike? 40

K. Hen.

Even so. What are you?

Pist.

As good a gentleman as the emperor.

K. Hen.

Then you are a better than the king.

Pist.

The king’s a bawcock, and a heart of gold, 44

A lad of life, an imp of fame:

Of parents good, of fist most valiant:

I kiss his dirty shoe, and from my heart-string

I love the lovely bully. What’s thy name? 48

K. Hen.

Harry le Roy.

Pist.

Le Roy! a Cornish name: art thou of Cornish crew?

K. Hen.

No, I am a Welshman.

Pist.

Know’st thou Fluellen? 52

K. Hen.

Yes.

Pist.

Tell him, I’ll knock his leek about his pate

Upon Saint Davy’s day.

K. Hen.

Do not you wear your dagger in your cap that day, lest he knock that about yours. 57

Pist.

Art thou his friend?

K. Hen.

And his kinsman too.

Pist.

The figo for thee then! 60

K. Hen.

I thank you. God be with you!

Pist.

My name is Pistol called.

[Exit.

K. Hen.

It sorts well with your fierceness.

[Retires.

Enter Fluellen and Gower, severally.

Gow.

Captain Fluellen! 64

Flu.

Sol in the name of Cheshu Christ, speak lower. It is the greatest admiration in the universal world, when the true and auncient 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. 76

Gow.

Why, the enemy is loud; you heard him all night.

Flu.

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?

Gow.

I will speak lower. 83

Flu.

I pray you and peseech you that you will.

[Exeunt Gower and Fluellen.

K. Hen.

Though it appear a little out of fashion,

There is much care and valour in this Welshman.

Enter John Bates, Alexander Court, and Michael Williams.

Court.

Brother John Bates, is not that the morning which breaks yonder? 89

Bates.

I think it be; but we have no great cause to desire the approach of day.

Will.

We see yonder the beginning of the day, but I think we shall never see the end of it. Who goes there?

K. Hen.

A friend.

Will.

Under what captain serve you? 96

K. Hen.

Under Sir Thomas Erpingham.

Will.

A good old commander and a most kind gentleman: I pray you, what thinks he of our estate? 100

K. Hen.

Even as men wracked upon a sand, that look to be washed off the next tide.

Bates.

He hath not told his thought to the king? 104

K. Hen.

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. 118

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. 123

K. Hen.

By my troth, I will speak my conscience of the king: I think he would not wish himself any where 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. 129

K. Hen.

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 any where so contented as in the king’s company, his cause being just and his quarrel honourable.

Will.

That’s more than we know. 136

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. 140

Will.

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 any thing 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, whom to disobey were against all proportion of subjection. 155

K. Hen.

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. 199

Will.

’Tis certain, every man that dies ill, the ill upon his own head: the king is not to answer it.

Bates.

I do not desire he should answer for me; and yet I determine to fight lustily for him.

K. Hen.

I myself heard the king say he would not be ransomed. 206

Will.

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.

K. Hen.

If I live to see it, I will never trust his word after. 211

Will.

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. 218

K. Hen.

Your reproof is something too round; I should be angry with you if the time were convenient. 221

Will.

Let it be a quarrel between us, if you live.

K. Hen.

I embrace it. 224

Will.

How shall I know thee again?

K. Hen.

Give me any gage of thine, and I will wear it in my bonnet: then, if ever thou darest acknowledge it, I will make it my quarrel.

Will.

Here’s my glove: give me another of thine. 230

K. Hen.

There.

Will.

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.

K. Hen.

If ever I live to see it, I will challenge it. 237

Will.

Thou darest as well be hanged.

K. Hen.

Well, I will do it, though I take thee in the king’s company. 240

Will.

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. 244

K. Hen.

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. 249

[Exeunt Soldiers.

Upon the king! let us our lives, our souls,

Our debts, our careful wives,

Our children, and our sins lay on the king! 252

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! 257

And what have kings that privates have not too,

Save ceremony, save general ceremony?

And what art thou, thou idle ceremony? 260

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: 264

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 fear’d, 268

Than they in fearing.

What drink’st thou oft, instead of homage sweet,

But poison’d flattery? O! be sick, great greatness,

And bid thy ceremony give thee cure. 272

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, 276

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, 280

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 284

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, 288

Who with a body fill’d and vacant mind

Gets him to rest, cramm’d with distressful bread;

Never sees horrid night, the child of hell,

But, like a lackey, from the rise to set 292

Sweats in the eye of Phœbus, 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 296

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. 300

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. 304

Re-enter Erpingham.

Erp.

My lord, your nobles, jealous of your absence,

Seek through your camp to find you.

K. Hen.

Good old knight,

Collect them all together at my tent:

I’ll be before thee.

Erp.

I shall do’t, my lord.

[Exit.

K. Hen.

O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts; 309

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! 312

O! not to-day, think not upon the fault

My father made in compassing the crown.

I Richard’s body have interr’d anew,

And on it have bestow’d more contrite tears 316

Than from it issu’d forced drops of blood.

Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay,

Who twice a day their wither’d hands hold up

Toward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built 320

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, 324

Imploring pardon.

Re-enter Gloucester.

Glo.

My liege!

K. Hen.

My brother Gloucester’s voice! Ay;

I know thy errand, I will go with thee: 328

The day, my friends, and all things stay for me.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The French Camp.

Enter the Dauphin, Orleans, Rambures, and Others.

Orl.

The sun doth gild our armour: up, my lords!

Dau.

Montez à cheval! My horse! varlet! lacquais! ha!

Orl.

O brave spirit!

Dau.

Via! les eaux et la terre! 4

Orl.

Rien puis? l’air et le feu.

Dau.

Ciel! cousin Orleans.

Enter Constable.

Now, my lord constable!

Con.

Hark how our steeds for present service neigh! 8

Dau.

Mount them, and make incision in their hides,

That their hot blood may spin in English eyes,

And dout them with superfluous courage: ha!

Ram.

What! will you have them weep our horses’ blood? 12

How shall we then behold their natural tears?

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

The English are embattail’d, you French peers.

Con.

To horse, you gallant princes! straight to horse!

Do but behold yon poor and starved band, 16

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 20

To give each naked curtal-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. 24

’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 28

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, 33

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 couch down in fear and yield.

Enter Grandpré.

Grand.

Why do you stay so long, my lords of France?

Yon island carrions desperate of their bones,

Ill-favour’dly become the morning field: 40

Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose,

And our air shakes them passing scornfully:

Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar’d host,

And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps: 44

The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks,

With torch-staves in their hand; and their poor jades

Lob down their heads, dropping the hides and hips,

The gum down-roping from their pale-dead eyes, 48

And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal bit

Lies foul with chew’d grass, still and motionless;

And their executors, the knavish crows,

Fly o’er them, all impatient for their hour. 52

Description cannot suit itself in words

To demonstrate the life of such a battle

In life so lifeless as it shows itself.

Con.

They have said their prayers, and they stay for death. 56

Dau.

Shall we go send them dinners and fresh suits,

And give their fasting horses provender,

And after fight with them?

Con.

I stay but for my guard: on, to the field! 60

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.

Scene III.— The English Camp.

Enter the English host; Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Salisbury, and Westmoreland.

Glo.

Where is the king?

Bed.

The king himself is rode to view their battle.

West.

Of fighting men they have full three-score thousand.

Exe.

There’s five to one; besides, they all are fresh. 4

Sal

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, 8

My dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter,

And my kind kinsman, warriors all, adieu!

Bed.

Farewell, good Salisbury; and good luck go with thee!

Exe.

Farewell, kind lord. Fight valiantly to-day: 12

And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it,

For thou art fram’d of the firm truth of valour.

[Exit Salisbury.

Bed.

He is as full of valour as of kindness;

Princely in both.

Enter King Henry.

West.

O! that we now had here 16

But one ten thousand of those men in England

That do no work to-day.

K. Hen.

What’s he that wishes so?

My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin:

If we are mark’d to die, we are enow 20

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, 24

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, 28

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, 32

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, 36

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 call’d the feast of Crispian: 40

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall live this day, and see old age, 44

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 Crispin’s day.’

Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot, 49

But he’ll remember with advantages

What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,

Familiar in his mouth as household words, 52

Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,

Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.

This story shall the good man teach his son; 56

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; 60

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 64

Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

Re-enter Salisbury.

Sal.

My sov’reign lord, bestow yourself with speed: 68

The French are bravely in their battles set,

And will with all expedience charge on us.

K. Hen.

All things are ready, if our minds be so.

West.

Perish the man whose mind is backward now! 72

K. Hen.

Thou dost not wish more help from England, coz?

West.

God’s will! my liege, would you and I alone,

Without more help, could fight this royal battle!

K. Hen.

Why, now thou hast unwish’d five thousand men; 76

Which likes me better than to wish us one.

You know your places: God be with you all!

Tucket. Enter Montjoy.

Mont.

Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry,

If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound, 80

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 84

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.

K. Hen.

Who hath sent thee now? 88

Mont.

The Constable of France.

K. Hen.

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? 92

The man that once did sell the lion’s skin

While the beast liv’d, was kill’d with hunting him.

A many of our bodies shall no doubt

Find native graves; upon the which, I trust, 96

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 dung-hills,

They shall be fam’d; for there the sun shall greet them, 100

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, 105

Break out into a second course of mischief,

Killing in relapse of mortality.

Let me speak proudly: tell the constable, 108

We are but warriors for the working-day;

Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirch’d

With rainy marching in the painful field;

There’s not a piece of feather in our host— 112

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 116

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; 121

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, 124

Shall yield them little, tell the constable.

Mont.

I shall, King Harry. And so, fare thee well:

Thou never shalt hear herald any more.

[Exit.

K. Hen.

I fear thou’lt once more come again for ransom. 128

Enter York.

York.

My lord, most humbly on my knee I beg

The leading of the vaward.

K. Hen.

Take it, brave York. Now, soldiers, march away:

And how thou pleasest, God, dispose the day!

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Field of Battle.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter French Soldier, Pistol, and Boy.

Pist.

Yield, cur!

Fr. Sol.

Je pense que vous estes le gentilhomme de bonne qualité.

Pist.

Quality? Calen O custure me! Art thou a gentleman? 4

What is thy name? discuss.

Fr. Sol.

O Seigneur Dieu!

Pist.

O Signieur Dew should be a gentleman:—

Perpend my words, O Signieur Dew, and mark:

O Signieur Dew, thou diest on point of fox 9

Except, O signieur, thou do give to me

Egregious ransom.

Fr. Sol.

O, prenez misericorde! ayez pitié de moy! 13

Pist.

Moy shall not serve; I will have forty moys;

Or I will fetch thy rim out at thy throat

In drops of crimson blood. 16

Fr. Sol.

Est-il impossible d’eschapper la force de ton bras?

Pist.

Brass, cur!

Thou damned and luxurious mountain goat, 20

Offer’st me brass?

Fr. Sol.

O pardonnez moy!

Pist.

Sayst thou me so? is that a ton of moys?

Come hither, boy: ask me this slave in French

What is his name. 25

Boy.

Escoutez: comment estes vous appellé?

Fr. Sol.

Monsieur le Fer.

Boy.

He says his name is Master Fer. 28

Pist.

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. 33

Pist.

Bid him prepare, for I will cut his throat.

Fr. Sol.

Que dit-il, monsieur?

Boy.

Il me commande à vous dire que vous faites vous prest; car ce soldat icy est disposé tout à cette heure de couper vostre gorge.

Pist.

Ouy, cuppele gorge, permafoy.

Peasant, unless thou give me crowns, brave crowns; 40

Or mangled shalt thou be by this my sword.

Fr. Sol.

O! je vous supplie pour l’amour de

Dieu, me pardonner! Je suis le gentilhomme de bonne maison: gardez ma vie, et je vous donneray deux cents escus. 45

Pist.

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. 49

Pist.

Tell him, my fury shall abate, and I

The crowns will take.

Fr. Sol.

Petit monsieur, que dit-il? 52

Boy.

Encore qu’il est contre son jurement de pardonner aucan prisonnier; neant-moins, pour les escus que vous l’avez promis, il est content de vous donner la liberte, le franchisement. 57

Fr. Sol.

Sur mes genoux, je vous donne mille remerciemens; et je m’estime heureux que je suis tombé entre les mains d’un chevalier, je pense, le plus brave, valiant, et très distingué seigneur d’Angleterre.

Pist.

Expound unto me, boy. 63

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. 68

Pist.

As I suck blood, I will some mercy show.—

Follow me!

[Exeunt Pistol and French Soldier.

Boy.

Suivez vous le grand capitaine. 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.

Scene V.— Another Part of the Field.

Alarums. Enter Dauphin, Orleans, Bourbon, Constable, Rambures, and Others. Con. O diable!

Orl.

O seigneur! le jour est perdu! tout est perdu!

Dau.

Mort de ma vie! all is confounded, all!

Reproach and everlasting shame 4

Sit mocking in our plumes. O meschante fortune!

Do not run away.

[A short alarum.

Con.

Why, all our ranks are broke.

Dau.

O perdurable shame! let’s stab ourselves.

Be these the wretches that we play’d at dice for? 8

Orl.

Is this the king we sent to for his ransom?

Bour.

Shame, and eternal shame, nothing but shame!

Let’s die in honour! once more back again;

And he that will not follow Bourbon now, 12

Let him go hence, and with his cap in hand,

Like a base pander, hold the chamber-door

Whilst by a slave, no gentler than my dog,

His fairest daughter is contaminated. 16

Con.

Disorder, that hath spoil’d us, friend us now!

Let us on heaps go offer up our lives.

Orl.

We are enough yet living in the field

To smother up the English in our throngs, 20

If any order might be thought upon.

Bour.

The devil take order now! I’ll to the throng:

Let life be short, else shame will be too long.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— Another Part of the Field.

Alarums. Enter King Henry and Forces; Exeter, and Others.

K. Hen.

Well have we done, thrice-valiant countrymen:

But all’s not done; yet keep the French the field.

Exe.

The Duke of York commends him to your majesty.

K. Hen.

Lives he, good uncle? thrice within this hour 4

I saw him down; thrice up again, and fighting;

From helmet to the spur all blood he was.

Exe.

In which array, brave soldier, doth he lie,

Larding the plain; and by his bloody side,— 8

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 insteep’d, 12

And takes him by the beard, kisses the gashes

That bloodily did yawn upon his face;

And cries aloud, ‘Tarry, dear cousin Suffolk!

My soul shall thine keep company to heaven; 16

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 cheer’d him up:

He smil’d 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 24

He threw his wounded arm, and kiss’d his lips;

And so espous’d to death, with blood he seal’d

A testament of noble-ending love.

The pretty and sweet manner of it forc’d 28

Those waters from me which I would have stopp’d;

But I had not so much of man in me,

And all my mother came into mine eyes

And gave me up to tears.

K. Hen.

I blame you not; 32

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 reinforc’d their scatter’d men:

Then every soldier kill his prisoners! 37

Give the word through.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— Another Part of the Field.

Alarums. Enter Fluellen and Gower.

Flu.

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? 4

Gow.

’Tis certain, there’s not a boy left alive; and the cowardly rascals that ran from the battle have 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. 11

Flu.

Ay, he was porn at Monmouth, Captain Gower. What call you the town’s name where Alexander the Pig was born?

Gow.

Alexander the Great. 15

Flu.

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. 19

Gow.

I think Alexander the Great was born in Macedon: his father was called Philip of Macedon, as I take it.

Flu.

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 pest friend, Cleitus. 42

Gow.

Our king is not like him in that: he never killed any of his friends.

Flu.

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 judgments, 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. 54

Gow.

Sir John Falstaff.

Flu.

That is he. I’ll tell you, there is goot men porn at Monmouth.

Gow.

Here comes his majesty. 58

Alarum. Enter King Henry, with a part of the English Forces; Warwick, Gloucester, Exeter, and Others.

K. Hen.

I was not angry since I came to France

Until this instant. Take a trumpet, herald; 60

Ride thou unto the horsemen on yon 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, 64

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 68

Shall taste our mercy. Go and tell them so.

Enter Montjoy.

Exe.

Here comes the herald of the French, my liege.

Glo.

His eyes are humbler than they us’d to be.

K. Hen.

How now! what means this, herald? know’st thou not 72

That I have fin’d these bones of mine for ransom?

Com’st thou again for ransom?

Mont.

No, great king.

I come to thee for charitable licence,

That we may wander o’er this bloody field 76

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 drown’d and soak’d in mercenary blood; 80

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.

K. Hen.

I tell thee truly, herald,

I know not if the day be ours or no; 88

For yet a many of your horsemen peer

And gallop o’er the field.

Mont.

The day is yours.

K. Hen.

Praised be God, and not our strength, for it!

What is this castle call’d that stands hard by?

Mont.

They call it Agincourt. 93

K. Hen.

Then call we this the field of Agincourt,

Fought on the day of Crispin Crispianus.

Flu.

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. 100

K. Hen.

They did, Fluellen.

Flu.

Your majesty says very true. If your majesties is remembered of it, the Welshmen did good service in a 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. 109

K. Hen.

I wear it for a memorable honour; For I am Welsh, you know, good countryman.

Flu.

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!

K. Hen.

Thanks, good my countryman. 116

Flu.

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. 121

K. Hen.

God keep me so! Our heralds go with him:

Bring me just notice of the numbers dead

On both our parts. Call yonder fellow hither.

[Points to Williams. Exeunt Montjoy and Others.

Exe.

Soldier, you must come to the king.

K. Hen.

Soldier, why wear’st thou that glove in thy cap? 127

Will.

An’t please your majesty, ’tis the gage of one that I should fight withal, if he be alive.

K. Hen.

An Englishman?

Will.

An’t please your majesty, a rascal that swaggered with me last night; who, if a’ live 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. 137

K. Hen.

What think you, Captain Fluellen? is it fit this soldier keep his oath?

Flu.

He is a craven and a villain else, an’t please your majesty, in my conscience. 141

K. Hen.

It may be his enemy is a gentleman of great sort, quite from the answer of his degree.

Flu.

Though he be as good a gentleman as the devil is, as Lucifer 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 Jack-sauce as ever his black shoe trod upon God’s ground and his earth, in my conscience, la! 151

K. Hen.

Then keep thy vow, sirrah, when thou meetest the fellow.

Will.

So I will, my liege, as I live.

K. Hen.

Who servest thou under?

Will.

Under Captain Gower, my liege. 156

Flu.

Gower is a goot captain, and is good knowledge and literatured in the wars.

K. Hen.

Call him hither to me, soldier.

Will.

I will, my liege.

[Exit.

K. Hen.

Here, Fluellen; wear thou this favour for me and stick it in thy cap. When Alençon and myself were down together I plucked this glove from his helm: if any man challenge this, he is a friend to Alençon, and an enemy to our person; if thou encounter any such, apprehend him, an thou dost me love. 167

Flu.

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, and please God of his grace that I might see. 173

K. Hen.

Knowest thou Gower?

Flu.

He is my dear friend, an’t please you.

K. Hen.

Pray thee, go seek him, and bring him to my tent. 177

Flu.

I will fetch him.

[Exit.

K. Hen.

My Lord of Warwick, and my brother Gloucester,

Follow Fluellen closely at the heels. 180

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 185

By his blunt bearing he will keep his word,—

Some sudden mischief may arise of it;

For I do know Fluellen valiant, 188

And touch’d 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.

Scene VIII.— Before King Henry’s Pavilion.

Enter Gower and Williams.

Will.

I warrant it is to knight you, captain.

Enter Fluellen.

Flu.

God’s will and his pleasure, captain, I peseech you now come apace to the king: there is more good toward you peradventure than is in your knowledge to dream of. 5

Will.

Sir, know you this glove?

Flu.

Know the glove! I know the glove is a glove.

Will.

I know this; and thus I challenge it. 8

[Strikes him.

Flu.

’Sblood! an arrant traitor as any’s in the universal ’orld, or in France, or in England

Gow.

How now, sir! you villain!

Will.

Do you think I’ll be forsworn? 12

Flu.

Stand away, Captain Gower; I will give treason his payment into plows, I warrant you.

Will.

I am no traitor.

Flu.

That’s a lie in thy throat. I charge you in his majesty’s name, apprehend him: he is a friend of the Duke Alençon’s. 18

Enter Warwick and Gloucester.

War.

How now, how now! what’s the matter?

Flu.

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.

K. Hen.

How now! what’s the matter? 24

Flu.

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 Alençon.

Will.

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. 33

Flu.

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 avouchments, that this is the glove of Alençon that your majesty is give me; in your conscience now.

K. Hen.

Give me thy glove, soldier: look, here is the fellow of it. 41

’Twas I, indeed, thou promisedst to strike;

And thou hast given me most bitter terms.

Flu.

An’t please your majesty, let his neck answer for it, if there is any martial law in the ’orld.

K. Hen.

How canst thou make me satisfaction? 48

Will.

All offences, my lord, come from the heart: never came any from mine that might offend your majesty.

K. Hen.

It was ourself thou didst abuse. 52

Will.

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. 60

K. Hen.

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 the crowns: 64

And, captain, you must needs be friends with him.

Flu.

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.

Will.

I will none of your money. 72

Flu.

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 shilling, I warrant you, or I will change it. 77

Enter an English Herald.

K. Hen.

Now, herald, are the dead number’d?

Her.

Here is the number of the slaughter’d French.

[Delivers a paper.

K. Hen.

What prisoners of good sort are taken, uncle? 80

Exe.

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. 84

K. Hen.

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, 88

Of knights, esquires, and gallant gentlemen,

Eight thousand and four hundred; of the which

Five hundred were but yesterday dubb’d knights:

So that, in these ten thousand they have lost, 92

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: 96

Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France;

Jaques of Chatillon, Admiral of France;

The master of the cross-bows, Lord Rambures;

Great-master of France, the brave Sir Guischard Dauphin; 100

John Duke of Alençon; Antony Duke of Brabant,

The brother to the Duke of Burgundy,

And Edward Duke of Bar: of lusty earls,

Grandpré and Roussi, Fauconberg and Foix, 104

Beaumont and Marle, Vaudemont and Lestrale.

Here was a royal fellowship of death!

Where is the number of our English dead?

[Herald presents another paper.

Edward the Duke of York, the Earl of Suffolk,

Sir Richard Ketly, Davy Gam, esquire: 109

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, 112

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!

Exe.

’Tis wonderful! 117

K. Hen.

Come, go we in procession to the village:

And be it death proclaimed through our host

To boast of this or take the praise from God 120

Which is his only.

Flu.

Is it not lawful, an please your majesty, to tell how many is killed?

K. Hen.

Yes, captain; but with this acknowledgment, 124

That God fought for us.

Flu.

Yes, my conscience, he did us great good.

K. Hen.

Do we all holy rites:

Let there be sung Non nobis and Te Deum; 128

The dead with charity enclos’d in clay.

We’ll then to Calais; and to England then,

Where ne’er from France arriv’d more happy men.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Enter Chorus.

Chor.

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, 4

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 8

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-mouth’d sea,

Which, like a mighty whiffler ’fore the king, 12

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; 16

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; 20

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. 24

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 Cæsar in:

As, by a lower but loving likelihood, 29

Were now the general of our gracious empress,—

As in good time he may,—from Ireland coming,

Bringing rebellion broached on his sword, 32

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 36

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 chanc’d, 40

Till Harry’s back-return again to France:

There must we bring him; and myself have play’d

The interim, by remembering you ’tis past.

Then brook abridgment, and your eyes advance,

After your thoughts, straight back again to France.

[Exit.

Scene I.— France. An English Court of Guard.

Enter Fluellen and Gower.

Gow.

Nay, that’s right; but why wear you your leek to-day? Saint Davy’s day is past.

Flu.

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 ’orld 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 pid me eat my leek. It was in a place where I could not preed no contention with him; but I will be so pold 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.

Gow.

Why, here he comes, swelling like a turkey-cock. 16

Enter Pistol.

Flu.

’Tis no matter for his swellings nor his turkey-cocks. God pless you, Aunchient Pistol! you scurvy, lousy knave, God pless you!

Pist.

Ha! art thou bedlam? dost thou thirst, base Troyan, 20

To have me fold up Parca’s fatal web?

Hence! I am qualmish at the smell of leek.

Flu.

I peseech you heartily, scurvy lousy knave, at my desires and my requests and my petitions to eat, look you, this leek; pecause, look you, you do not love it, nor your affections and your appetites and your digestions does not agree with it, I would desire you to eat it. 28

Pist.

Not for Cadwallader and all his goats.

Flu.

[Strikes him.] There is one goat for you.

Will you be so good, scald knave, as eat it?

Pist.

Base Troyan, thou shalt die. 32

Flu.

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 again.] 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.

Gow.

Enough, captain: you have astonished him. 41

Flu.

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. 45

Pist.

Must I bite?

Flu.

Yes, certainly, and out of doubt and out of question too and ambiguities. 48

Pist.

By this leek, I will most horribly revenge. I eat and eat, I swear—

Flu.

Eat, I pray you: will you have some more sauce to your leek? there is not enough leek to swear by. 53

Pist.

Quiet thy cudgel: thou dost see I eat.

Flu.

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 hereafter, I pray you, mock at ’em; that is all.

Pist.

Good. 60

Flu.

Ay, leeks is good. Hold you, there is a groat to heal your pate.

Pist.

Me a groat!

Flu.

Yes, verily and in truth, you shall take it; or I have another leek in my pocket, which you shall eat. 66

Pist.

I take thy groat in earnest of revenge.

Flu.

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.

Pist.

All hell shall stir for this. 72

Gow.

Go, go; you are a counterfeit 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 a vouch 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.

Pist.

Doth Fortune play the huswife with me now? 85

News have I that my Nell is dead i’ the spital

Of malady of France:

And there my rendezvous is quite cut off. 88

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: 92

And patches will I get unto these cudgell’d scars,

And swear I got them in the Gallia wars.

[Exit.

Scene II.— Troyes in Champagne. An Apartment in the French King’s Palace.

Enter, from one side, King Henry, Bedford, Gloucester, Exeter, Warwick, Westmoreland, and other Lords; from the other side, the French King, Queen Isabel, the Princess Katharine, Alice and other Ladies; the Duke of Burgundy, and his Train.

K. Hen.

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, 5

By whom this great assembly is contriv’d,

We do salute you, Duke of Burgundy;

And, princes French, and peers, health to you all! 8

Fr. King.

Right joyous are we to behold your face,

Most worthy brother England; fairly met:

So are you, princes English, every one.

Q. Isa.

So happy be the issue, brother England,

Of this good day and of this gracious meeting, 13

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: 17

The venom of such looks, we fairly hope,

Have lost their quality, and that this day

Shall change all griefs and quarrels into love. 20

K. Hen.

To cry amen to that, thus we appear.

Q. Isa.

You English princes all, I do salute you.

Bur.

My duty to you both, on equal love,

Great Kings of France and England! That I have labour’d 24

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 prevail’d 29

That face to face, and royal eye to eye,

You have congreeted, let it not disgrace me

If I demand before this royal view, 32

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, 36

Our fertile France, put up her lovely visage?

Alas! she hath from France too long been chas’d,

And all her husbandry doth lie on heaps,

Corrupting in its own fertility. 40

Her vine, the merry cheerer of the heart,

Unpruned dies; her hedges even-pleach’d,

Like prisoners wildly overgrown with hair,

Put forth disorder’d twigs; her fallow leas 44

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 51

But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, 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, 57

The sciences that should become our country,

But grow like savages,—as soldiers will,

That nothing do but meditate on blood,— 60

To swearing and stern looks, diffus’d attire,

And every thing that seems unnatural.

Which to reduce into our former favour

You are assembled; and my speech entreats 64

That I may know the let why gentle Peace

Should not expel these inconveniences,

And bless us with her former qualities.

K. Hen.

If, Duke of Burgundy, you would the peace, 68

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 72

You have, enschedul’d briefly, in your hands.

Bur.

The king hath heard them; to the which as yet,

There is no answer made.

K. Hen.

Well then the peace,

Which you before so urg’d, lies in his answer. 76

Fr. King

I have but with a cursorary eye

O’erglanc’d the articles: pleaseth your Grace

To appoint some of your council presently

To sit with us once more, with better heed 80

To re-survey them, we will suddenly

Pass our accept and peremptory answer.

K. Hen.

Brother, we shall. Go, uncle Exeter,

And brother Clarence, and you, brother Gloucester, 84

Warwick and Huntingdon, 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, 88

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?

Q. Isa.

Our gracious brother, I will go with them. 92

Haply a woman’s voice may do some good

When articles too nicely urg’d be stood on.

K. Hen.

Yet leave our cousin Katharine here with us:

She is our capital demand, compris’d 96

Within the fore-rank of our articles.

Q. Isa.

She hath good leave.

[Exeunt all except King Henry, Katharine, and Alice.

K. Hen.

Fair Katharine, and most fair!

Will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms,

Such as will enter at a lady’s ear, 100

And plead his love-suit to her gentle heart?

Kath.

Your majesty sall mock at me; I cannot speak your England.

K. Hen.

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? 107

Kath.

Pardonnez moy, I cannot tell vat is ‘like me.’

K. Hen.

An angel is like you, Kate; and you are like an angel.

Kath.

Que dit-il? que je suis semblable à les anges? 113

Alice.

Ouy, vrayment, sauf vostre grace, ainsi dit-il.

K. Hen.

I said so, dear Katharine; and I must not blush to affirm it. 117

Kath.

O bon Dieu! les langues des hommes sont pleines des tromperies.

K. Hen.

What says she, fair one? that the tongues of men are full of deceits? 121

Alice.

Ouy, dat de tongues of de mans is be full of deceits: dat is de princess.

K. Hen.

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 further 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?

Kath.

Sauf vostre honneur, me understand vell.

K. Hen.

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 caust love a fellow of this temper, Kate. whose face is not worth sun-burning, 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 livest, 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 rime themselves into ladies’ favours, they do always reason themselves out again. What! a speaker is but a prater; a rime 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 sayest thou then to my love? speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee.

Kath.

Is it possible dat I sould love de enemy of France? 178

K. Hen.

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. 185

Kath.

I cannot tell vat is dat.

K. Hen.

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 moy,—let me see, what then? Saint Denis be my speed!—donc vostre est France, et vous estes 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. 197

Kath.

Sauf vostre honneur, le François que vous parlez est meilleur que l’Anglois lequel je parle. 200

K. Hen.

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? 205

Kath.

I cannot tell.

K. Hen.

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 be’st 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 sayest thou, my fair flower-de-luce?

Kath.

I do not know dat. 224

K. Hen.

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 Katharine du monde, mon très cher et divine déesse? 231

Kath.

Your majesté ave fausse French enough to deceive de most sage demoiselle dat is en France. 234

K. Hen.

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? 265

Kath.

Dat is as it sall please de roy mon père.

K. Hen.

Nay, it will please him well, Kate; it shall please him, Kate. 268

Kath.

Den it sall also content me.

K. Hen.

Upon that I kiss your hand, and I call you my queen.

Kath.

Laissez, mon seigneur, laissez, laissez! Ma foy, je ne veux point que vous abaissez vostre grandeur, en baisant la main d’une vostre indigne serviteure: excusez moy, je vous supplie, mon très puissant seigneur. 276

K. Hen.

Then I will kiss your lips, Kate.

Kath.

Les dames, et demoiselles, pour estre baisées devant leur noces, il n’est pas la coutume de France. 280

K. Hen.

Madam my interpreter, what says she?

Alice.

Dat it is not be de fashion pour les ladies of France,—I cannot tell what is baiser in English. 284

K. Hen.

To kiss.

Alice.

Your majesty entendre bettre que moy.

K. Hen

It is not a fashion for the maids in France to kiss before they are married, would she say? 289

Alice.

Ouy, vrayment.

K. Hen.

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 mouths 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. 304

Re-enter the King and Queen, Burgundy, Bedford, Gloucester, Exeter, Warwick, Westmoreland, and other French and English Lords.

Bur.

God save your majesty! My royal cousin, teach you our princess English?

K. Hen.

I would have her learn, my fair cousin, how perfectly I love her; and that is good English. 309

Bur.

Is she not apt?

K. Hen.

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. 315

Bur.

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. 325

K. Hen.

Yet they do wink and yield, as love is blind and enforces.

Bur.

They are then excused, my lord, when they see not what they do. 329

K. Hen.

Then, good my lord, teach your cousin to consent winking.

Bur.

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.

K. Hen.

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. 341

Bur.

As love is, my lord, before it loves.

K. Hen.

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. 346

Fr. King.

Yes, my lord, you see them perspectively, the cities turned into a maid; for they are all girdled with maiden walls that war hath never entered.

K. Hen.

Shall Kate be my wife?

Fr. King.

So please you. 352

K. Hen.

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. 356

Fr. King.

We have consented to all terms of reason.

K. Hen.

Is’t so, my lords of England?

West.

The king hath granted every article:

His daughter first, and then in sequel all, 361

According to their firm proposed natures.

Exe.

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 très cher filz Henry roy d’Angleterre, Héretier de France; and thus in Latin, Præclarissimus filius noster Henricus, Rex Angliæ, et Hæres Franciæ.

Fr. King.

Nor this I have not, brother, so denied,

But your request shall make me let it pass. 372

K. Hen.

I pray you then, in love and dear alliance,

Let that one article rank with the rest;

And thereupon give me your daughter.

Fr. King.

Take her, fair son; and from her blood raise up 376

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.

All.

Amen! 384

K. Hen.

Now, welcome, Kate: and bear me witness all,

That here I kiss her as my sovereign queen.

[Flourish.

Q. Isa.

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, 389

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! 396

All.

Amen!

K. Hen.

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. 400

Then shall I swear to Kate, and you to me;

And may our oaths well kept and prosperous be!

[Sennet. Exeunt.

Enter Chorus.

Thus far, with rough and all-unable pen,

Our bending author hath pursu’d the story;

In little room confining mighty men, 405

Mangling by starts the full course of their glory.

Small time, but in that small most greatly liv’d

This star of England: Fortune made his sword,

By which the world’s best garden he achiev’d, 409

And of it left his son imperial lord.

Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crown’d King

Of France and England, did this king succeed;

Whose state so many had the managing, 413

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. 416

[Exit.

THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

King Henry the Sixth.
Duke of Gloucester,	Uncle to the King, and Protector.
Duke of Bedford,	Uncle to the King, 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 Shrewsbury.
John Talbot,	his Son.
Edmund Mortimer,	Earl of March.
Sir John Fastolfe.
Sir William Lucy.
Sir William Glansdale.
Sir Thomas Gargrave.
Woodvile,	Lieutenant of the Tower. Mayor of London. Mortimer’s Keepers. A Lawyer.
Vernon,	of the White-Rose, or York Faction.
Basset,	of the Red-Rose, or Lancaster Faction.
Charles,	Dauphin, and afterwards King of France.
Reignier,	Duke of Anjou, and titular King of Naples.
Duke of Burgundy.
Duke of Alençon.
Bastard of Orleans.
Governor of Paris.
Master-Gunner of Orleans, and his Son.
General of the French Forces in Bourdeaux.
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 Dukes of Bedford, Gloucester, and Exeter; the Earl of Warwick, the Bishop of Winchester, Heralds, &c.

Bed.

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! 5

King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long!

England ne’er lost a king of so much worth.

Glo.

England ne’er had a king until his time.

Virtue he had, deserving to command: 9

His brandish’d sword did blind men with his beams;

His arms spread wider than a dragon’s wings;

His sparkling eyes, replete with wrathful fire, 12

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. 16

Exe.

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 20

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? 24

Or shall we think the subtle-witted French

Conjurers and sorcerers, that, afraid of him,

By magic verses have contriv’d his end?

Win.

He was a king bless’d of the King of kings. 28

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.

Glo.

The church! where is it? Had not churchmen pray’d 33

His thread of life had not so soon decay’d:

None do you like but an effeminate prince,

Whom like a school-boy you may over-awe. 36

Win.

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. 40

Glo.

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.

Bed.

Cease, cease these jars and rest your minds in peace! 44

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, 48

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: 52

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 Cæsar, or bright— 56

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

My honourable lords, health to you all!

Sad tidings bring I to you out of France,

Of loss, of slaughter, and discomfiture:

Guienne, Champaigne, Rheims, Orleans, 60

Paris, Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost.

Bed.

What sayst 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. 64

Glo.

Is Paris lost? is Roan yielded up?

If Henry were recall’d to life again

These news would cause him once more yield the ghost.

Exe.

How were they lost? what treachery was us’d? 68

Mess.

No treachery; but want of men and money.

Among the soldiers this is muttered,

That here you maintain several factions;

And, whilst a field should be dispatch’d and fought, 72

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, 76

By guileful fair words peace may be obtain’d.

Awake, awake, English nobility!

Let not sloth dim your honours new-begot:

Cropp’d are the flower-de-luces in your arms; 80

Of England’s coat one half is cut away.

Exe.

Were our tears wanting to this funeral

These tidings would call forth their flowing tides.

Bed.

Me they concern; Regent I am of France. 84

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. 88

Enter another Messenger.

Sec. Mess.

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; 92

The Bastard of Orleans with him is join’d;

Reignier, Duke of Anjou, doth take his part;

The Duke of Alençon flieth to his side.

Exe.

The Dauphin crowned king! all fly to him! 96

O! whither shall we fly from this reproach?

Glo.

We will not fly, but to our enemies’ throats.

Bedford, if thou be slack, I’ll fight it out.

Bed.

Gloucester, why doubt’st thou of my forwardness? 100

An army have I muster’d in my thoughts,

Wherewith already France is overrun.

Enter a third Messenger.

Third Mess.

My gracious lords, to add to your laments,

Wherewith you now bedew King Henry’s hearse,

I must inform you of a dismal fight 105

Betwixt the stout Lord Talbot and the French.

Win.

What! wherein Talbot overcame? is’t so?

Third Mess.

O, no! wherein Lord Talbot was o’erthrown: 108

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, 112

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; 116

Instead whereof sharp stakes pluck’d out of hedges

They pitched in the ground confusedly,

To keep the horsemen off from breaking in.

More than three hours the fight continued; 120

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, enrag’d he flew:

The French exclaim’d the devil was in arms; 125

All the whole army stood agaz’d on him.

His soldiers, spying his undaunted spirit,

A Talbot! A Talbot! cried out amain, 128

And rush’d into the bowels of the battle.

Here had the conquest fully been seal’d up,

If Sir John Fastolfe had not play’d the coward.

He, being in the vaward,—plac’d behind, 132

With purpose to relieve and follow them,—

Cowardly fled, not having struck one stroke.

Hence grew the general wrack and massacre;

Enclosed were they with their enemies. 136

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. 140

Bed.

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 betray’d. 144

Third Mess.

O no! he lives; but is took prisoner,

And Lord Scales with him, and Lord Hungerford:

Most of the rest slaughter’d or took likewise.

Bed.

His ransom there is none but I shall pay: 148

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; 152

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 all Europe quake. 156

Third Mess.

So you had need; for Orleans is besieg’d;

The English army is grown weak and faint;

The Earl of Salisbury craveth supply,

And hardly keeps his men from mutiny, 160

Since they, so few, watch such a multitude.

Exe.

Remember, lords, your oaths to Henry sworn,

Either to quell the Dauphin utterly,

Or bring him in obedience to your yoke. 164

Bed.

I do remember it; and here take my leave,

To go about my preparation.

[Exit.

Glo.

I’ll to the Tower with all the haste I can,

To view the artillery and munition; 168

And then I will proclaim young Henry king.

[Exit.

Exe.

To Eltham will I, where the young king is,

Being ordain’d his special governor;

And for his safety there I’ll best devise.

[Exit.

Win.

Each hath his place and function to attend: 173

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, 176

And sit at chiefest stern of public weal.

[Exit.

Scene II.— France. Before Orleans.

Flourish. Enter Charles, with his Forces: Alençon, Reignier, and Others.

Char.

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. 4

What towns of any moment but we have?

At pleasure here we lie near Orleans;

Otherwhiles the famish’d English, like pale ghosts,

Faintly besiege us one hour in a month. 8

Alen.

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. 12

Reig.

Let’s raise the siege: why live we idly here?

Talbot is taken, whom we wont to fear:

Remaineth none but mad-brain’d Salisbury,

And he may well in fretting spend his gall; 16

Nor men nor money hath he to make war.

Char.

Sound, sound alarum! we will rush on them.

Now for the honour of the forlorn French!

Him I forgive my death that killeth me 20

When he sees me go back one foot or fly.

[Exeunt.

Alarums; Excursions; afterwards a retreat. Re-enter Charles, Alençon, Reignier, and Others.

Char.

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. 24

Reig.

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. 28

Alen.

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; 32

For none but Samsons and Goliases,

It sendeth forth to skirmish. One to ten!

Lean raw-bon’d rascals! who would e’er suppose

They had such courage and audacity? 36

Char.

Let’s leave this town; for they are hare-brain’d 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. 40

Reig.

I think, by some odd gimmals 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 e’en let them alone. 44

Alen.

Be it so.

Enter the Bastard of Orleans.

Bast.

Where’s the prince Dauphin? I have news for him.

Char.

Bastard of Orleans, thrice welcome to us.

Bast.

Methinks your looks are sad, your cheer appall’d: 48

Hath the late overthrow wrought this offence?

Be not dismay’d, for succour is at hand:

A holy maid hither with me I bring,

Which by a vision sent to her from heaven 52

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; 56

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.

Char.

Go, call her in. [Exit Bastard.] But first, to try her skill, 60

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.

[Retires.

Re-enter the Bastard of Orleans, with Joan la Pucelle and Others.

Reig.

Fair maid, is’t thou wilt do these wondrous feats? 64

Joan.

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 amaz’d, there’s nothing hid from me: 68

In private will I talk with thee apart.

Stand back, you lords, and give us leave a while.

Reig.

She takes upon her bravely at first dash.

Joan.

Dauphin, I am by birth a shepherd’s daughter, 72

My wit untrain’d in any kind of art.

Heaven and our Lady gracious hath it pleas’d

To shine on my contemptible estate:

Lo! whilst I waited on my tender lambs, 76

And to sun’s parching heat display’d my cheeks,

God’s mother deigned to appear to me,

And in a vision full of majesty

Will’d me to leave my base vocation 80

And free my country from calamity:

Her aid she promis’d and assur’d success;

In complete glory she reveal’d herself;

And, whereas I was black and swart before, 84

With those clear rays which she infus’d on me,

That beauty am I bless’d with which you see.

Ask me what question thou canst possible

And I will answer unpremeditated: 88

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 war-like mate. 92

Char.

Thou hast astonish’d 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; 96

Otherwise I renounce all confidence.

Joan.

I am prepar’d: here is my keen-edg’d sword,

Deck’d with five flower-de-luces on each side;

The which at Touraine, in Saint Katharine’s churchyard, 100

Out of a great deal of old iron I chose forth.

Char.

Then come, o’ God’s name; I fear no woman.

Joan.

And, while I live, I’ll ne’er fly from a man.

[They fight, and Joan la Pucelle overcomes.

Char.

Stay, stay thy hands! thou art an Amazon, 104

And fightest with the sword of Deborah.

Joan.

Christ’s mother helps me, else I were too weak.

Char.

Whoe’er helps thee, ’tis thou that must help me:

Impatiently I burn with thy desire; 108

My heart and hands thou hast at once subdu’d.

Excellent Pucelle, if thy name be so,

Let me thy servant and not sovereign be;

’Tis the French Dauphin sueth to thee thus. 112

Joan.

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. 116

Char.

Meantime look gracious on thy prostrate thrall.

Reig.

My lord, methinks, is very long in talk.

Alen.

Doubtless he shrives this woman to her smock;

Else ne’er could he so long protract his speech.

Reig.

Shall we disturb him, since he keeps no mean? 121

Alen.

He may mean more than we poor men do know:

These women are shrewd tempters with their tongues.

Reig.

My lord, where are you? what devise you on? 124

Shall we give over Orleans, or no?

Joan.

Why, no, I say, distrustful recreants!

Fight till the last gasp; I will be your guard.

Char.

What she says, I’ll confirm: we’ll fight it out. 128

Joan.

Assign’d 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. 132

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. 137

Now am I like that proud insulting ship

Which Cæsar and his fortune bare at once.

Char.

Was Mahomet inspired with a dove?

Thou with an eagle art inspired then. 141

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?

Alen.

Leave off delays and let us raise the siege. 146

Reig.

Woman, do what thou canst to save our honours;

Drive them from Orleans and be immortalis’d.

Char.

Presently we’ll try. Come, let’s away about it:

No prophet will I trust if she prove false. 150

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— London. Before the Tower.

Enter at the Gates the Duke of Gloucester, with his Serving-men, in blue coats.

Glo.

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. 4

[Servants knock.

First Ward.

[Within.] Who’s there that knocks so imperiously?

First Serv.

It is the noble Duke of Gloucester.

Sec. Ward.

[Within.] Whoe’er he be, you may not be let in.

First Serv.

Villains, answer you so the Lord Protector? 8

First Ward.

[Within.] The Lord protect him! so we answer him:

We do not otherwise than we are will’d.

Glo.

Who willed you? or whose will stands but mine?

There’s none protector of the realm but I. 12

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. Wood. What noise is this? what traitors have we here?

Glo.

Lieutenant, is it you whose voice I hear?

Open the gates! here’s Gloucester that would enter. 17

Wood.

[Within.] Have patience, noble Duke; I may not open;

The Cardinal of Winchester forbids:

From him I have express commandment 20

That thou nor none of thine shall be let in.

Glo.

Faint-hearted Woodvile, prizest him ’fore me?

Arrogant Winchester, that haughty prelate,

Whom Henry, our late sovereign, ne’er could brook? 24

Thou art no friend to God or to the king:

Open the gates, or I’ll shut thee out shortly.

First Serv.

Open the gates unto the Lord Protector;

Or we’ll burst them open, if that you come not quickly. 28

Enter Winchester, attended by Serving-men in tawny coats.

Win.

How now, ambitious Humphrey! what means this?

Glo.

Peel’d priest, dost thou command me to be shut out?

Win.

I do, thou most usurping proditor,

And not protector, of the king or realm. 32

Glo.

Stand back, thou manifest conspirator,

Thou that contriv’dst to murder our dead lord;

Thou that giv’st whores indulgences to sin:

I’ll canvass thee in thy broad cardinal’s hat, 36

If thou proceed in this thy insolence.

Win.

Nay, stand thou back; I will not budge a foot:

This be Damascus, be thou cursed Cam,

To slay thy brother Abel, if thou wilt. 40

Glo.

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.

Win.

Do what thou dar’st; I’ll beard thee to thy face. 44

Glo.

What! am I dar’d and bearded to my face?—

Draw, men, for all this privileged place;

Blue coats to tawny-coats. Priest, beware your beard;

[Gloucester and his men attack the Cardinal.

I mean to tug it and to cuff you soundly. 48

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.

Win.

Gloucester, thou’lt answer this before the pope. 52

Glo.

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! 56

Here Gloucester’s Men beat out the Cardinal’s Men, and enter in the hurly-burly the Mayor of London and his Officers.

May.

Fie, lords! that you, being supreme magistrates,

Thus contumeliously should break the peace!

Glo.

Peace, mayor! thou know’st little of my wrongs:

Here’s Beaufort, that regards nor God nor King,

Hath here distrain’d the Tower to his use. 61

Win.

Here’s Gloucester, a foe to citizens;

One that still motions war and never peace,

O’ercharging your free purses with large fines, 64

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.

Glo.

I will not answer thee with words, but blows.

[Here they skirmish again.

May.

Nought rests for me, in this tumultuous strife

But to make open proclamation.

Come, officer: as loud as e’er thou canst; 72

Cry.

Off.

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. 80

Glo.

Cardinal, I’ll be no breaker of the law;

But we shall meet and break our minds at large.

Win.

Gloucester, we will meet; to thy cost, be sure:

Thy heart-blood I will have for this day’s work.

May.

I’ll call for clubs if you will not away.

This cardinal’s more haughty than the devil. 86

Glo.

Mayor, farewell: thou dost but what thou mayst.

Win.

Abominable Gloucester! guard thy head;

For I intend to have it ere long.

[Exeunt, severally, Gloucester and Winchester, with their Serving-men.

May.

See the coast clear’d, and then we will depart. 90

Good God! these nobles should such stomachs bear;

I myself fight not once in forty year.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— France. Before Orleans.

Enter, on the walls, the Master-Gunner and his Boy.

M. Gun.

Sirrah, thou know’st how Orleans is besieg’d,

And how the English have the suburbs won.

Son.

Father, I know; and oft have shot at them,

Howe’er unfortunate I miss’d my aim. 4

M. Gun.

But now thou shalt not. Be thou rul’d 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 8

How the English, in the suburbs close entrench’d,

Wont through a secret gate 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. 13

To intercept this inconvenience,

A piece of ordnance ’gainst it I have plac’d;

And fully even these three days have I watch’d

If I could see them. Now, boy, do thou watch, 17

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.

Son.

Father, I warrant you; take you no care; 21

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.

Sal.

Talbot, my life, my joy! again return’d!

How wert thou handled being prisoner? 24

Or by what means got’st thou to be releas’d,

Discourse, I prithee, on this turret’s top.

Tal.

The Duke of Bedford had a prisoner

Called the brave Lord Ponton de Santrailles; 28

For him I was exchang’d and ransomed.

But with a baser man at arms by far

Once in contempt they would have barter’d me:

Which I disdaining scorn’d, and craved death 32

Rather than I would be so vile-esteem’d.

In fine, redeem’d I was as I desir’d.

But, O! the treacherous Fastolfe wounds my heart:

Whom with my bare fists I would execute 36

If I now had him brought into my power.

Sal.

Yet tell’st thou not how thou wert entertain’d.

Tal.

With scoffs and scorns and contumelious taunts.

In open market-place produc’d they me, 40

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, 44

And with my nails digg’d 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 deem’d me not secure; 49

So great fear of my name ’mongst them was spread

That they suppos’d I could rend bars of steel

And spurn in pieces posts of adamant: 52

Wherefore a guard of chosen shot I had,

That walk’d about me every minute-while;

And if I did but stir out of my bed

Ready they were to shoot me to the heart. 56

Enter the Boy with a linstock.

Sal.

I grieve to hear what torments you endur’d;

But we will be reveng’d sufficiently.

Now it is supper-time in Orleans:

Here, through this grate, I count each one, 60

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 64

Where is best place to make our battery next.

Gar.

I think at the North gate; for there stand lords.

Glan.

And I, here, at the bulwark of the bridge.

Tal.

For aught I see, this city must be famish’d, 68

Or with light skirmishes enfeebled.

[Here they shoot. Salisbury and Sir Thomas Gargrave fall.

Sal.

O Lord! have mercy on us, wretched sinners.

Gar.

O Lord! have mercy on me, woeful man.

Tal.

What chance is this that suddenly hath cross’d us? 72

Speak, Salisbury; at least, if thou canst speak:

How far’st thou, mirror of all martial men?

One of thy eyes and thy cheek’s side struck off!

Accursed tower! accursed fatal hand 76

That hath contriv’d this woeful tragedy!

In thirteen battles Salisbury o’ercame;

Henry the Fifth he first train’d to the wars;

Whilst any trump did sound or drum struck up, 80

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. 84

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? 88

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, 92

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: 96

Wretched shall France be only in my name.

[It thunders and lightens. An alarum.

What stir is this? What tumult’s in the heavens?

Whence cometh this alarum and the noise?

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

My lord, my lord! the French have gather’d head: 100

The Dauphin, with one Joan la Pucelle join’d,

A holy prophetess new risen up

Is come with a great power to raise the siege.

[Here Salisbury lifteth himself up and groans.

Tal.

Hear, hear how dying Salisbury doth groan! 104

It irks his heart he cannot be reveng’d.

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, 110

And then we’ll try what these dastard Frenchmen dare.

[Exeunt, bearing out the bodies.

Scene V.— The Same. Before one of the Gates.

Alarum. Skirmishings. Enter Talbot, pursuing the Dauphin; drives him in, and exit: then enter Joan la Pucelle, driving Englishmen before her, and exit after them. Then re-enter Talbot.

Tal.

Where is my strength, my valour, and my force?

Our English troops retire, I cannot stay them;

A woman clad in armour chaseth them.

Re-enter Joan la Pucelle.

Here, here she comes. I’ll have a bout with thee:

Devil, or devil’s dam, I’ll conjure thee: 5

Blood will I draw on thee, thou art a witch,

And straightway give thy soul to him thou serv’st.

Joan.

Come, come; ’tis only I that must disgrace thee.

[They fight.

Tal.

Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail? 9

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. 12

[They fight again.

Joan.

Talbot, farewell; thy hour is not yet come:

I must go victual Orleans forthwith.

[A short alarum; then la Pucelle enters the town with Soldiers.

O’ertake me if thou canst; I scorn thy strength.

Go, go, cheer up thy hunger-starved men; 16

Help Salisbury to make his testament:

This day is ours, as many more shall be.

[Exit.

Tal.

My thoughts are whirled like a potter’s wheel;

I know not where I am, nor what I do: 20

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. 24

They call’d 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; 28

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. 32

[Alarum. Another skirmish.

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 entered into Orleans 36

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.

[Alarum. Retreat. Exeunt Talbot and his Forces, &c.

Scene VI.— The Same.

Flourish. Enter, on the walls, Joan la Pucelle, Charles, Reignier, Alençon, and Soldiers.

Joan.

Advance our waving colours on the walls;

Rescu’d is Orleans from the English:

Thus Joan la Pucelle hath perform’d her word.

Char.

Divinest creature, Astræa’s daughter, 4

How shall I honour thee for this success?

Thy promises are like Adonis’ gardens,

That one day bloom’d and fruitful were the next.

France, triumph in thy glorious prophetess! 8

Recover’d is the town of Orleans:

More blessed hap did ne’er befall our state.

Reig.

Why ring not out the bells throughout the town?

Dauphin, command the citizens make bonfires

And feast and banquet in the open streets, 13

To celebrate the joy that God hath given us.

Alen.

All France will be replete with mirth and joy,

When they shall hear how we have play’d the men. 16

Char.

’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. 20

A statelier pyramis to her I’ll rear

Than Rhodope’s or Memphis ever was:

In memory of her when she is dead,

Her ashes, in an urn more precious 24

Than the rich-jewell’d coffer of Darius,

Transported shall be at high festivals

Before the kings and queens of France.

No longer on Saint Denis will we cry, 28

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 to the Gates, a French Sergeant, and two Sentinels.

Serg.

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. 4

First Sent.

Sergeant, you shall.

[Exit Sergeant.

Thus are poor servitors—

When others sleep upon their quiet beds—

Constrain’d to watch in darkness, rain, and cold.

Enter Talbot, Bedford, Burgundy, and Forces with scaling-ladders; their drums beating a dead march.

Tal.

Lord regent, and redoubted Burgundy, 8

By whose approach the regions of Artois,

Walloon, and Picardy, are friends to us,

This happy night the Frenchmen are secure,

Having all day carous’d and banqueted: 12

Embrace we then this opportunity,

As fitting best to quittance their deceit

Contriv’d by art and baleful sorcery.

Bed.

Coward of France! how much he wrongs his fame, 16

Despairing of his own arm’s fortitude,

To join with witches and the help of hell!

Bur.

Traitors have never other company.

But what’s that Pucelle whom they term so pure?

Tal.

A maid, they say.

Bed.

A maid, and be so martial! 21

Bur.

Pray God she prove not masculine ere long;

If underneath the standard of the French

She carry armour, as she hath begun. 24

Tal.

Well, let them practise and converse with spirits;

God is our fortress, in whose conquering name

Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks.

Bed.

Ascend, brave Talbot; we will follow thee. 28

Tal.

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. 32

Bed.

Agreed. I’ll to yond corner.

Bur.

And I to this.

Tal.

And here will Talbot mount, or make his grave.

Now, Salisbury, for thee, and for the right

Of English Henry, shall this night appear 36

How much in duty I am bound to both.

[The English scale the walls, crying, ‘Saint George!’ ‘A Talbot!’ and all enter the town.

First Sent.

Arm, arm! the enemy doth make assault!

The French leap over the Walls in their shirts. Enter, several ways, Bastard of Orleans, Alençon, and Reignier, half ready, and half unready.

Alen.

How now, my lords! what! all unready so?

Bast.

Unready! ay, and glad we ’scap’d so well. 40

Reig.

’Twas time, I trow, to wake and leave our beds,

Hearing alarums at our chamber-doors.

Alen.

Of all exploits since first I follow’d arms,

Ne’er heard I of a war-like enterprise 44

More venturous or desperate than this.

Bast.

I think this Talbot be a fiend of hell.

Reig.

If not of hell, the heavens, sure, favour him.

Alen.

Here cometh Charles: I marvel how he sped. 48

Bast.

Tut! holy Joan was his defensive guard.

Enter Charles and Joan la Pucelle.

Char.

Is this thy cunning, thou deceitful dame?

Didst thou at first, to flatter us withal,

Make us partakers of a little gain, 52

That now our loss might be ten times so much?

Joan.

Wherefore is Charles impatient with his friend?

At all times will you have my power alike?

Sleeping or waking must I still prevail, 56

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.

Char.

Duke of Alençon, this was your default,

That, being captain of the watch to-night, 61

Did look no better to that weighty charge.

Alen.

Had all your quarters been so safely kept

As that whereof I had the government, 64

We had not been thus shamefully surpris’d.

Bast.

Mine was secure.

Reig.

And so was mine, my lord.

Char.

And for myself, most part of all this night,

Within her quarter and mine own precinct 68

I was employ’d in passing to and fro,

About relieving of the sentinels:

Then how or which way should they first break in?

Joan.

Question, my lords, no further of the case, 72

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, scatter’d and dispers’d,

And lay new platforms to endamage them. 77

Alarum. Enter an English Soldier, crying, ‘A Talbot! a Talbot!’ They fly, leaving their clothes behind.

Sold.

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, 80

Using no other weapon but his name.

[Exit.

Scene II.— Orleans. Within the Town.

Enter Talbot, Bedford, Burgundy, a Captain, and Others.

Bed.

The day begins to break, and night is fled,

Whose pitchy mantle over-veil’d the earth.

Here sound retreat, and cease our hot pursuit.

[Retreat sounded.

Tal.

Bring forth the body of old Salisbury, 4

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 8

There hath at least five Frenchmen died to-night.

And that hereafter ages may behold

What ruin happen’d in revenge of him,

Within their chiefest temple I’ll erect 12

A tomb wherein his corse shall be interr’d:

Upon the which, that every one may read,

Shall be engrav’d the sack of Orleans,

The treacherous manner of his mournful death,

And what a terror he had been to France. 17

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. 21

Bed.

’Tis thought, Lord Talbot, when the fight began,

Rous’d on the sudden from their drowsy beds,

They did amongst the troops of armed men 24

Leap o’er the walls for refuge in the field.

Bur.

Myself—as far as I could well discern

For smoke and dusky vapours of the night—

Am sure I scar’d the Dauphin and his trull, 28

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, 32

We’ll follow them with all the power we have.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

All hail, my lords! Which of this princely train

Call ye the war-like Talbot, for his acts

So much applauded through the realm of France? 36

Tal.

Here is the Talbot: who would speak with him?

Mess.

The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne,

With modesty admiring thy renown,

By me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe 40

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.

Bur.

Is it even so? Nay, then, I see our wars

Will turn into a peaceful comic sport, 45

When ladies crave to be encounter’d with.

You may not, my lord, despise her gentle suit.

Tal.

Ne’er trust me then; for when a world of men 48

Could not prevail with all their oratory,

Yet hath a woman’s kindness over-rul’d:

And therefore tell her I return great thanks,

And in submission will attend on her. 52

Will not your honours bear me company?

Bed.

No, truly; it is more than manners will;

And I have heard it said, unbidden guests

Are often welcomest when they are gone. 56

Tal.

Well then, alone,—since there’s no remedy,—

I mean to prove this lady’s courtesy.

Come hither, captain. [Whispers.] You perceive my mind.

Capt.

I do, my lord, and mean accordingly.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Auvergne. Court of the Castle.

Enter the Countess and her Porter.

Count.

Porter, remember what I gave in charge;

And when you have done so, bring the keys to me.

Port.

Madam, I will.

[Exit.

Count.

The plot is laid: if all things fall out right, 4

I shall as famous be by this exploit

As Scythian Tomyris by Cyrus’ death.

Great is the rumour of this dreadful knight,

And his achievements of no less account: 8

Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears,

To give their censure of these rare reports.

Enter Messenger and Talbot.

Mess.

Madam,

According as your ladyship desir’d, 12

By message crav’d, so is Lord Talbot come.

Count.

And he is welcome. What! is this the man?

Mess.

Madam, it is.

Count.

Is this the scourge of France?

Is this the Talbot, so much fear’d abroad, 16

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, 20

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. 24

Tal.

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.

Count.

What means he now? Go ask him whither he goes. 28

Mess.

Stay, my Lord Talbot; for my lady craves

To know the cause of your abrupt departure.

Tal.

Marry, for that she’s in a wrong belief,

I go to certify her Talbot’s here. 32

Re-enter Porter, with keys.

Count.

If thou be he, then art thou prisoner.

Tal.

Prisoner! to whom?

Count.

To me, blood-thirsty lord;

And for that cause I train’d thee to my house.

Long time thy shadow hath been thrall to me, 36

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 40

Wasted our country, slain our citizens,

And sent our sons and husbands captivate.

Tal.

Ha, ha, ha!

Count.

Laughest thou, wretch? thy mirth shall turn to moan. 44

Tal.

I laugh to see your ladyship so fond

To think that you have aught but Talbot’s shadow,

Whereon to practise your severity.

Count.

Why, art not thou the man?

Tal.

I am, indeed. 48

Count.

Then have I substance too.

Tal.

No, no, I am but shadow of myself:

You are deceiv’d, my substance is not here;

For what you see is but the smallest part 52

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 it. 56

Count.

This is a riddling merchant for the nonce;

He will be here, and yet he is not here:

How can these contrarieties agree?

Tal.

That will I show you presently. 60

He winds a horn. Drums strike up; a peal of ordnance. The Gates being forced, 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, 64

Razeth your cities, and subverts your towns,

And in a moment makes them desolate.

Count.

Victorious Talbot! pardon my abuse:

I find thou art no less than fame hath bruited,

And more than may be gather’d 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. 72

Tal.

Be not dismay’d, fair lady; nor misconster

The mind of Talbot as you did mistake

The outward composition of his body.

What you have done hath not offended me; 76

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.

Count.

With all my heart, and think me honoured 81

To feast so great a warrior in my house.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— London. The Temple Garden.

Enter the Earls of Somerset, Suffolk, and Warwick; Richard Plantagenet, Vernon, and a Lawyer.

Plan.

Great lords, and gentlemen, what means this silence?

Dare no man answer in a case of truth?

Suf.

Within the Temple hall we were too loud;

The garden here is more convenient. 4

Plan.

Then say at once if I maintain’d the truth,

Or else was wrangling Somerset in the error?

Suf.

Faith, I have been a truant in the law,

And never yet could frame my will to it; 8

And therefore frame the law unto my will.

Som.

Judge you, my Lord of Warwick, then, between us.

War.

Between two hawks, which flies the higher pitch;

Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth;

Between two blades, which bears the better temper; 13

Between two horses, which doth bear him best;

Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye;

I have perhaps, some shallow spirit of judgment; 16

But in these nice sharp quillets of the law,

Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw.

Plan.

Tut, tut! here is a mannerly forbearance:

The truth appears so naked on my side, 20

That any purblind eye may find it out.

Som.

And on my side it is so well apparell’d,

So clear, so shining, and so evident,

That it will glimmer through a blind man’s eye.

Plan.

Since you are tongue-tied, and so loath to speak, 25

In dumb significants proclaim your thoughts:

Let him that is a true-born gentleman,

And stands upon the honour of his birth, 28

If he suppose that I have pleaded truth,

From off this brier pluck a white rose with me.

Som.

Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer,

But dare maintain the party of the truth, 32

Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me.

War.

I love no colours, and, without all colour

Of base insinuating flattery

I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet. 36

Suf.

I pluck this red rose with young Somerset:

And say withal I think he held the right.

Ver.

Stay, lords and gentlemen, and pluck no more,

Till you conclude that he, upon whose side 40

The fewest roses are cropp’d from the tree,

Shall yield the other in the right opinion.

Som.

Good Master Vernon, it is well objected:

If I have fewest I subscribe in silence. 44

Plan.

And I.

Ver.

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. 48

Som.

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.

Ver.

If I, my lord, for my opinion bleed, 52

Opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt,

And keep me on the side where still I am.

Som.

Well, well, come on: who else?

Law.

[To Somerset.] Unless my study and my books be false, 56

The argument you held was wrong in you,

In sign whereof I pluck a white rose too.

Plan.

Now, Somerset, where is your argument?

Som.

Here, in my scabbard; meditating that 60

Shall dye your white rose in a bloody red.

Plan.

Meantime, your cheeks do counterfeit our roses;

For pale they look with fear, as witnessing

The truth on our side.

Som.

No, Plantagenet, 64

’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.

Plan.

Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset?

Som.

Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet? 69

Plan.

Ay, sharp and piercing, to maintain his truth;

Whiles thy consuming canker eats his falsehood.

Som.

Well, I’ll find friends to wear my bleeding roses, 72

That shall maintain what I have said is true,

Where false Plantagenet dare not be seen.

Plan.

Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand,

I scorn thee and thy faction, peevish boy. 76

Suf.

Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet.

Plan.

Proud Pole, I will, and scorn both him and thee.

Suf.

I’ll turn my part thereof into thy throat.

Som.

Away, away! good William de la Pole:

We grace the yeoman by conversing with him.

War.

Now, by God’s will, thou wrong’st him, Somerset: 82

His grandfather was Lionel, Duke of Clarence,

Third son to the third Edward, King of England.

Spring crestless yeomen from so deep a root?

Plan.

He bears him on the place’s privilege,

Or durst not, for his craven heart, say thus.

Som.

By Him that made me, I’ll maintain my words 88

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; 94

And, till thou be restor’d, thou art a yeoman.

Plan.

My father was attached, not attained;

Condemn’d to die for treason, but no traitor;

And that I’ll prove on better men than Somerset,

Were growing time once ripen’d to my will.

For your partaker Pole and you yourself, 100

I’ll note you in my book of memory,

To scourge you for this apprehension:

Look to it well and say you are well warn’d.

Som.

Ah, thou shalt find us ready for thee still, 104

And know us by these colours for thy foes;

For these my friends in spite of thee shall wear.

Plan.

And, by my soul, this pale and angry rose,

As cognizance of my blood-drinking hate, 108

Will I for ever and my faction wear,

Until it wither with me to my grave

Or flourish to the height of my degree.

Suf.

Go forward, and be chok’d with thy ambition: 112

And so farewell until I meet thee next.

[Exit.

Som.

Have with thee, Pole. Farewell, ambitious Richard.

[Exit.

Plan.

How I am brav’d and must perforce endure it!

War.

This blot that they object against your house 116

Shall be wip’d out in the next parliament,

Call’d for the truce of Winchester and Gloucester;

And if thou be not then created York,

I will not live to be accounted Warwick. 120

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, 124

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.

Plan.

Good Master Vernon, I am bound to you, 128

That you on my behalf would pluck a flower.

Ver.

In your behalf still would I wear the same.

Law.

And so will I.

Plan.

Thanks, gentle sir. 132

Come, let us four to dinner: I dare say

This quarrel will drink blood another day.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— London. A Room in the Tower.

Enter Mortimer, brought in a chair by two Gaolers.

Mor.

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; 4

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, 8

Wax dim, as drawing to their exigent;

Weak shoulders, overborne with burdening grief,

And pithless arms, like to a wither’d vine

That droops his sapless branches to the ground:

Yet are these feet, whose strengthless stay is numb, 13

Unable to support this lump of clay,

Swift-winged with desire to get a grave,

As witting I no other comfort have. 16

But tell me, keeper, will my nephew come?

First Keep.

Richard Plantagenet, my lord, will come:

We sent unto the Temple, unto his chamber.

And answer was return’d that he will come. 20

Mor.

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, 24

This loathsome sequestration have I had;

And even since then hath Richard been obscur’d,

Depriv’d of honour and inheritance.

But now the arbitrator of despairs, 28

Just death, kind umpire of men’s miseries,

With sweet enlargement doth dismiss me hence:

I would his troubles likewise were expir’d,

That so he might recover what was lost. 32

Enter Richard Plantagenet.

First Keep.

My lord, your loving nephew now is come.

Mor.

Richard Plantagenet, my friend, is he come?

Plan.

Ay, noble uncle, thus ignobly us’d,

Your nephew, late despised Richard, comes. 36

Mor.

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. 40

And now declare, sweet stem from York’s great stock,

Why didst thou say of late thou wert despis’d?

Plan.

First, lean thine aged back against mine arm;

And in that ease, I’ll tell thee my disease. 44

This day, in argument upon a case,

Some words there grew ’twixt Somerset and me;

Among which terms he us’d a lavish tongue

And did upbraid me with my father’s death: 48

Which obloquy set bars before my tongue,

Else with the like I had requited him.

Therefore, good uncle, for my father’s sake,

In honour of a true Plantagenet, 52

And for alliance sake, declare the cause

My father, Earl of Cambridge, lost his head.

Mor.

That cause, fair nephew, that imprison’d me,

And hath detain’d me all my flow’ring youth 56

Within a loathsome dungeon, there to pine,

Was cursed instrument of his decease.

Plan.

Discover more at large what cause that was,

For I am ignorant and cannot guess. 60

Mor.

I will, if that my fading breath permit,

And death approach not ere my tale be done.

Henry the Fourth, grandfather to this king,

Depos’d his nephew Richard, Edward’s son, 64

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, 68

Endeavour’d my advancement to the throne.

The reason mov’d these warlike lords to this

Was, for that—young King Richard thus remov’d,

Leaving no heir begotten of his body— 72

I was the next by birth and parentage;

For by my mother I derived am

From Lionel Duke of Clarence, the third son

To King Edward the Third; whereas he 76

From John of Gaunt doth bring his pedigree,

Being but fourth of that heroic line.

But mark: as, in this haughty great attempt

They laboured to plant the rightful heir, 80

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 deriv’d 84

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 88

And have install’d 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 suppress’d. 92

Plan.

Of which, my lord, your honour is the last.

Mor.

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: 96

But yet be wary in thy studious care.

Plan.

Thy grave admonishments prevail with me.

But yet methinks my father’s execution

Was nothing less than bloody tyranny. 100

Mor.

With silence, nephew, be thou politic:

Strong-fixed is the house of Lancaster,

And like a mountain, not to be remov’d.

But now thy uncle is removing hence, 104

As princes do their courts, when they are cloy’d

With long continuance in a settled place.

Plan.

O uncle! would some part of my young years

Might but redeem the passage of your age. 108

Mor.

Thou dost then wrong me,—as the slaughterer doth,

Which giveth many wounds when one will kill.—

Mourn not, except thou sorrow for my good;

Only give order for my funeral: 112

And so farewell; and fair be all thy hopes,

And prosperous be thy life in peace and war!

[Dies.

Plan.

And peace, no war, befall thy parting soul!

In prison hast thou spent a pilgrimage, 116

And like a hermit overpass’d 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 120

Will see his burial better than his life.

[Exeunt Keepers, bearing out the body of Mortimer.

Here dies the dusky torch of Mortimer,

Chok’d with ambition of the meaner sort:

And, for those wrongs, those bitter injuries, 124

Which Somerset hath offer’d 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, 128

Or make my ill the advantage of my good.

[Exit.

ACT III.

Scene I.— London. The Parliament House.

Flourish. Enter King Henry, Exeter, Gloucester, Warwick, Somerset, and Suffolk; the Bishop of Winchester, Richard Plantagenet, and Others. Gloucester offers to put up a bill; Winchester snatches it, and tears it.

Win.

Com’st thou with deep premeditated lines,

With written pamphlets studiously devis’d,

Humphrey of Gloucester? If thou canst accuse,

Or aught intend’st to lay unto my charge, 4

Do it without invention, suddenly;

As I, with sudden and extemporal speech

Purpose to answer what thou canst object.

Glo.

Presumptuous priest! this place commands my patience 8

Or thou shouldst find thou hast dishonour’d me.

Think not, although in writing I preferr’d

The manner of thy vile outrageous crimes,

That therefore I have forg’d, or am not able 12

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. 16

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; 20

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 were sifted, 24

The king, thy sov’reign, is not quite exempt

From envious malice of thy swelling heart.

Win.

Gloucester, I do defy thee. Lords, vouchsafe

To give me hearing what I shall reply. 28

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? 32

And for dissension, who preferreth peace

More than I do, except I be provok’d?

No, my good lords, it is not that offends;

It is not that that hath incens’d the duke: 36

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. 40

But he shall know I am as good—

Glo.

As good!

Thou bastard of my grandfather!

Win.

Ay, lordly sir; for what are you, I pray,

But one imperious in another’s throne? 44

Glo.

Am I not protector, saucy priest?

Win.

And am not I a prelate of the church?

Glo.

Yes, as an outlaw in a castle keeps,

And useth it to patronage his theft. 48

Win.

Unreverent Gloucester!

Glo.

Thou art reverent,

Touching thy spiritual function, not thy life.

Win.

Rome shall remedy this.

War.

Roam thither then.

Som.

My lord, it were your duty to forbear.

War.

Ay, see the bishop be not overborne.

Som.

Methinks my lord should be religious,

And know the office that belongs to such.

War.

Methinks his lordship should be humbler; 56

It fitteth not a prelate so to plead.

Som.

Yes, when his holy state is touch’d so near.

War.

State holy, or unhallow’d, what of that?

Is not his Grace protector to the king? 60

Plan.

[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. 64

K. Hen.

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. 68

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, 72

That gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth.

[A noise within; ‘Down with the tawny coats!’

What tumult’s this?

War.

An uproar, I dare warrant,

Begun through malice of the bishop’s men.

[A noise again within; ‘Stones! Stones!’

Enter the Mayor of London, attended.

May.

O, my good lords, and virtuous Henry,

Pity the city of London, pity us! 77

The bishop and the Duke of Gloucester’s men,

Forbidden late to carry any weapon,

Have fill’d their pockets full of pebble stones, 80

And banding themselves in contrary parts

Do pelt so fast at one another’s pate,

That many have their giddy brains knock’d out:

Our windows are broke down in every street, 84

And we for fear compell’d to shut our shops.

Enter, skirmishing, the Serving-men of Gloucester and Winchester, with bloody pates.

K. Hen.

We charge you, on allegiance to ourself,

To hold your slaught’ring hands, and keep the peace.—

Pray, uncle Gloucester, mitigate this strife. 88

First Serv.

Nay, if we be forbidden stones, we’ll fall to it with our teeth.

Sec. Serv.

Do what ye dare, we are as resolute.

[Skirmish again.

Glo.

You of my household, leave this peevish broil, 92

And set this unaccustom’d fight aside.

Third Serv.

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; 96

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, 100

And have our bodies slaught’red by thy foes.

First Serv.

Ay, and the very parings of our nails

Shall pitch a field when we are dead.

[Skirmish again.

Glo.

Stay, stay, I say!

And, if you love me, as you say you do, 104

Let me persuade you to forbear a while.

K. Hen.

O! how this discord doth afflict my soul!

Can you, my Lord of Winchester, behold

My sighs and tears and will not once relent? 108

Who should be pitiful if you be not?

Or who should study to prefer a peace

If holy churchmen take delight in broils?

War.

Yield, my Lord Protector; yield, Winchester; 112

Except you mean with obstinate repulse

To slay your sov’reign and destroy the realm.

You see what mischief and what murder too

Hath been enacted through your enmity: 116

Then be at peace, except ye thirst for blood.

Win.

He shall submit or I will never yield.

Glo.

Compassion on the king commands me stoop;

Or I would see his heart out ere the priest 120

Should ever get that privilege of me.

War.

Behold, my Lord of Winchester, the duke

Hath banish’d moody discontented fury,

As by his smoothed brows it doth appear: 124

Why look you still so stern and tragical?

Glo.

Here, Winchester, I offer thee my hand.

K. Hen.

Fie, uncle Beaufort! I have heard you preach,

That malice was a great and grievous sin; 128

And will not you maintain the thing you teach,

But prove a chief offender in the same?

War.

Sweet king! the bishop hath a kindly gird.

For shame, my Lord of Winchester, relent! 132

What! shall a child instruct you what to do?

Win.

Well, Duke of Gloucester, I will yield to thee;

Love for thy love and hand for hand I give.

Glo.

[Aside.] Ay; but I fear me, with a hollow heart. 136

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! 140

Win.

[Aside.] So help me God, as I intend it not!

K. Hen.

O loving uncle, kind Duke of Gloucester,

How joyful am I made by this contract!

Away, my masters! trouble us no more; 144

But join in friendship, as your lords have done.

First Serv.

Content: I’ll to the surgeon’s.

Sec. Serv.

And so will I.

Third Serv.

And I will see what physic the tavern affords.

[Exeunt Mayor, Serving-men, &c.

War.

Accept this scroll, most gracious sovereign, 148

Which in the right of Richard Plantagenet

We do exhibit to your majesty.

Glo.

Well urg’d, my Lord of Warwick: for, sweet prince,

An if your Grace mark every circumstance, 152

You have great reason to do Richard right;

Especially for those occasions

At Eltham-place I told your majesty.

K. Hen.

And those occasions, uncle, were of force: 156

Therefore, my loving lords, our pleasure is

That Richard be restored to his blood.

War.

Let Richard be restored to his blood;

So shall his father’s wrongs be recompens’d. 160

Win.

As will the rest, so willeth Winchester.

K. Hen.

If Richard will be true, not that alone,

But all the whole inheritance I give

That doth belong unto the house of York, 164

From whence you spring by lineal descent.

Plan.

Thy humble servant vows obedience,

And humble service till the point of death.

K. Hen.

Stoop then and set your knee against my foot; 168

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. 172

Plan.

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! 176

Som.

[Aside.] Perish, base prince, ignoble Duke of York!

Glo.

Now, will it best avail your majesty

To cross the seas and to be crown’d in France.

The presence of a king engenders love 180

Amongst his subjects and his loyal friends,

As it disanimates his enemies.

K. Hen.

When Gloucester says the word, King Henry goes;

For friendly counsel cuts off many foes. 184

Glo.

Your ships already are in readiness.

[Flourish. Exeunt all except Exeter.

Exe.

Ay, we may march in England or in France,

Not seeing what is likely to ensue.

This late dissension grown betwixt the peers 188

Burns under feigned ashes of forg’d love,

And will at last break out into a flame:

As fester’d members rot but by degree,

Till bones and flesh and sinews fall away, 192

So will this base and envious discord breed.

And now I fear that fatal prophecy

Which in the time of Henry, nam’d the Fifth,

Was in the mouth of every sucking babe; 196

That Henry born at Monmouth should win all;

And Henry born at Windsor should lose all:

Which is so plain that Exeter doth wish

His days may finish ere that hapless time. 200

[Exit.

Scene II.— France. Before Roan.

Enter Joan la Pucelle, disguised, and Soldiers dressed like countrymen, with sacks upon their backs.

Joan.

These are the city gates, the gates of Roan,

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 4

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, 8

That Charles the Dauphin may encounter them.

First Sold.

Our sacks shall be a mean to sack the city,

And we be lords and rulers over Roan;

Therefore we’ll knock.

[Knocks.

Guard.

[Within.] Qui est là? 13

Joan.

Paisans, pauvres gens de France:

Poor market-folks that come to sell their corn.

Guard.

[Opening the gates.] Enter, go in; the market-bell is rung. 16

Joan.

Now, Roan, I’ll shake thy bulwarks to the ground.

[Joan la Pucelle, &c., enter the city.

Enter Charles, the Bastard of Orleans, Alençon, and Forces.

Char.

Saint Denis bless this happy stratagem!

And once again we’ll sleep secure in Roan.

Bast.

Here enter’d Pucelle and her practisants; 20

Now she is there how will she specify

Where is the best and safest passage in?

Alen.

By thrusting out a torch from yonder tower;

Which, once discern’d, shows that her meaning is, 24

No way to that, for weakness, which she enter’d.

Enter Joan la Pucelle on a battlement, holding out a torch burning.

Joan.

Behold! this is the happy wedding torch

That joineth Roan unto her countrymen, 27

But burning fatal to the Talbotites!

[Exit.

Bast.

See, noble Charles, the beacon of our friend,

The burning torch in yonder turret stands.

Char.

Now shine it like a comet of revenge,

A prophet to the fall of all our foes! 32

Alen.

Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends;

Enter, and cry ‘The Dauphin!’ presently,

And then do execution on the watch.

[They enter the town.

Alarum.

Enter Talbot in an Excursion.

Tal.

France, thou shalt rue this treason with thy tears, 36

If Talbot but survive thy treachery.

Pucelle, that witch, that damned sorceress,

Hath wrought this hellish mischief unawares,

That hardly we escap’d the pride of France. 40

[Exit.

Alarum: Excursions. Enter from the town, Bedford, brought in sick in a chair. Enter Talbot and Burgundy, and the English Forces. Then, enter on the walls, Joan la Pucelle, Charles, the Bastard of Orleans, Alençon, and Others.

Joan.

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? 44

Bur.

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.

Char.

Your Grace may starve perhaps, before that time. 48

Bed.

O! let no words, but deeds, revenge this treason!

Joan.

What will you do, good grey-beard? break a lance,

And run a tilt at death within a chair?

Tal.

Foul fiend of France, and hag of all despite, 52

Encompass’d 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, 56

Or else let Talbot perish with this shame.

Joan.

Are you so hot, sir? Yet, Pucelle, hold thy peace;

If Talbot do but thunder, rain will follow.

[Talbot and the rest consult together.

God speed the parliament! who shall be the speaker? 60

Tal.

Dare ye come forth and meet us in the field?

Joan.

Belike your lordship takes us then for fools,

To try if that our own be ours or no.

Tal.

I speak not to that railing Hecate, 64

But unto thee, Alençon, and the rest;

Will ye, like soldiers, come and fight it out?

Alen.

Signior, no.

Tal.

Signior, hang! base muleters of France! 68

Like peasant foot-boys do they keep the walls,

And dare not take up arms like gentlemen.

Joan.

Away, captains! let’s get us from the walls;

For Talbot means no-goodness, by his looks. 72

God be wi’ you, my lord! we came but to tell you

That we are here.

[Exeunt Joan la Pucelle, &c., from the Walls.

Tal.

And there will we be too, ere it be long,

Or else reproach be Talbot’s greatest fame! 76

Vow, Burgundy, by honour of thy house,—

Prick’d on by public wrongs sustain’d in France,—

Either to get the town again, or die;

And I, as sure as English Henry lives, 80

And as his father here was conqueror,

As sure as in this late-betrayed town

Great Cœur-de-lion’s heart was buried,

So sure I swear to get the town or die. 84

Bur.

My vows are equal partners with thy vows.

Tal.

But, ere we go, regard this dying prince,

The valiant Duke of Bedford. Come, my lord,

We will bestow you in some better place, 88

Fitter for sickness and for crazy age.

Bed.

Lord Talbot, do not so dishonour me:

Here will I sit before the walls of Roan,

And will be partner of your weal or woe. 92

Bur.

Courageous Bedford, let us now persuade you.

Bed.

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: 96

Methinks I should revive the soldiers’ hearts,

Because I ever found them as myself.

Tal.

Undaunted spirit in a dying breast!

Then be it so: heavens keep old Bedford safe!

And now no more ado, brave Burgundy, 101

But gather we our forces out of hand,

And set upon our boasting enemy.

[Exeunt all but Bedford and Attendants.

Alarum: Excursions; in one of which, enter Sir John Fastolfe and a Captain.

Cap.

Whither away, Sir John Fastolfe, in such haste? 104

Fast.

Whither away! to save myself by flight:

We are like to have the overthrow again.

Cap.

What! will you fly, and leave Lord Talbot?

Fast.

Ay,

All the Talbots in the world, to save my life. 108

[Exit.

Cap.

Cowardly knight! ill fortune follow thee!

[Exit.

Retreat: Excursions. Re-enter, from the town, Joan la Pucelle, Alençon, Charles, &c., and exeunt, flying.

Bed.

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.

[Dies, and is carried off in his chair.

Alarum. Re-enter Talbot, Burgundy, and Others.

Tal.

Lost, and recover’d in a day again!

This is a double honour, Burgundy: 116

Yet heavens have glory for this victory!

Bur.

Warlike and martial Talbot, Burgundy

Enshrines thee in his heart, and there erects

Thy noble deeds as valour’s monument. 120

Tal.

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? Roan hangs her head for grief, 124

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; 128

For there young Henry with his nobles lie.

Bur.

What wills Lord Talbot pleaseth Burgundy.

Tal.

But yet, before we go, let’s not forget

The noble Duke of Bedford late deceas’d, 132

But see his exequies fulfill’d in Roan:

A braver soldier never couched lance,

A gentler heart did never sway in court;

But kings and mightiest potentates must die, 136

For that’s the end of human misery.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Plains near Roan.

Enter Charles, the Bastard of Orleans, Alençon, Joan la Pucelle, and Forces.

Joan.

Dismay not, princes, at this accident,

Nor grieve that Roan is so recovered:

Care is no cure, but rather corrosive,

For things that are not to be remedied. 4

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 rul’d. 8

Char.

We have been guided by thee hitherto,

And of thy cunning had no diffidence:

One sudden foil shall never breed distrust.

Bast.

Search out thy wit for secret policies,

And we will make thee famous through the world. 13

Alen.

We’ll set thy statue in some holy place

And have thee reverenc’d like a blessed saint:

Employ thee, then, sweet virgin, for our good. 16

Joan.

Then thus it must be; this doth Joan devise:

By fair persuasions, mix’d with sugar’d words,

We will entice the Duke of Burgundy

To leave the Talbot and to follow us. 20

Char.

Ay, 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. 24

Alen.

For ever should they be expuls’d from France,

And not have title of an earldom here.

Joan.

Your honours shall perceive how I will work

To bring this matter to the wished end. 28

[Drums heard 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, Talbot and his Forces.

There goes the Talbot, with his colours spread,

And all the troops of English after him. 32

A French march. Enter the Duke of Burgundy and his Forces.

Now in the rearward comes the duke and his:

Fortune in favour makes him lag behind.

Summon a parley; we will talk with him.

[A parley.

Char.

A parley with the Duke of Burgundy!

Bur.

Who craves a parley with the Burgundy? 37

Joan.

The princely Charles of France, thy countryman.

Bur.

What sayst thou, Charles? for I am marching hence.

Char.

Speak, Pucelle, and enchant him with thy words. 40

Joan.

Brave Burgundy, undoubted hope of France!

Stay, let thy humble handmaid speak to thee.

Bur.

Speak on; but be not over-tedious.

Joan.

Look on thy country, look on fertile France, 44

And see the cities and the towns defac’d

By wasting ruin of the cruel foe.

As looks the mother on her lowly babe

When death doth close his tender dying eyes, 48

See, see the pining malady of France;

Behold the wounds, the most unnatural wounds,

Which thou thyself hast giv’n her woeful breast.

O! turn thy edged sword another way; 52

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, 56

And wash away thy country’s stained spots.

Bur.

Either she hath bewitch’d me with her words,

Or nature makes me suddenly relent.

Joan.

Besides, all French and France exclaims on thee, 60

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, 64

And fashion’d 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, 68

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, 72

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 wand’ring lord; 76

Charles and the rest will take thee in their arms.

Bur.

I am vanquished; these haughty words of hers

Have batter’d me like roaring cannon-shot,

And made me almost yield upon my knees. 80

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. 84

Joan.

Done like a Frenchman: turn, and turn again!

Char.

Welcome, brave duke! thy friendship makes us fresh.

Bast.

And doth beget new courage in our breasts.

Alen.

Pucelle hath bravely play’d her part in this, 88

And doth deserve a coronet of gold.

Char.

Now let us on, my lords, and join our powers:

And seek how we may prejudice the foe.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Paris. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King Henry, Gloucester, Bishop of Winchester, York, Suffolk, Somerset, Warwick, Exeter; Vernon, Basset, and Others. To them with his Soldiers, Talbot.

Tal.

My gracious prince, and honourable peers,

Hearing of your arrival in this realm,

I have a while giv’n truce unto my wars,

To do my duty to my sovereign: 4

In sign whereof, this arm,—that hath reclaim’d

To your obedience fifty fortresses,

Twelve cities, and seven walled towns of strength,

Beside five hundred prisoners of esteem,— 8

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. 12

K. Hen.

Is this the Lord Talbot, uncle Gloucester,

That hath so long been resident in France?

Glo.

Yes, if it please your majesty, my liege.

K. Hen.

Welcome, brave captain and victorious lord! 16

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, 20

Your faithful service and your toil in war;

Yet never have you tasted our reward,

Or been reguerdon’d with so much as thanks,

Because till now we never saw your face: 24

Therefore, stand up; and for these good deserts,

We here create you Earl of Shrewsbury;

And in our coronation take your place.

[Flourish. Exeunt all but Vernon and Basset.

Ver.

Now, sir, to you, that were so hot at sea,

Disgracing of these colours that I wear 29

In honour of my noble Lord of York,

Dar’st thou maintain the former words thou spak’st?

Bas.

Yes, sir: as well as you dare patronage

The envious barking of your saucy tongue 33

Against my lord the Duke of Somerset.

Ver.

Sirrah, thy lord I honour as he is.

Bas.

Why, what is he? as good a man as York. 36

Ver.

Hark ye; not so: in witness, take ye that.

[Strikes him.

Bas.

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. 40

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.

Ver.

Well, miscreant, I’ll be there as soon as you; 44

And, after, meet you sooner than you would.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— Paris. A Room of State.

Enter King Henry, Gloucester, Exeter, York, Suffolk, Somerset, the Bishop of Winchester, Warwick, Talbot, the Governor of Paris, and Others.

Glo.

Lord bishop, set the crown upon his head.

Win.

God save King Henry, of that name the sixth.

Glo.

Now, Governor of Paris, take your oath,—

[Governor kneels.

That you elect no other king but him, 4

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! 8

[Exeunt Governor and his Train.

Enter Sir John Fastolfe.

Fast.

My gracious sovereign; as I rode from Calais,

To haste unto your coronation,

A letter was deliver’d to my hands,

Writ to your Grace from the Duke of Burgundy.

Tal.

Shame to the Duke of Burgundy and thee! 13

I vow’d, 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 16

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, 20

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, 25

Were there surpris’d and taken prisoners.

Then judge, great lords, if I have done amiss;

Or whether that such cowards ought to wear 28

This ornament of knighthood, yea, or no?

Glo.

To say the truth, this fact was infamous

And ill beseeming any common man,

Much more a knight, a captain and a leader. 32

Tal.

When first this order was ordain’d, 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; 36

Not fearing death, nor shrinking for distress,

But always resolute in most extremes.

He then that is not furnish’d in this sort

Doth but usurp the sacred name of knight, 40

Profaning this most honourable 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. 44

K. Hen.

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 48

Sent from our uncle Duke of Burgundy.

Glo.

[Viewing superscription.] What means his Grace, that he hath chang’d his style?

No more, but plain and bluntly, To the King!

Hath he forgot he is his sovereign? 52

Or doth this churlish superscription

Pretend some alteration in good will?

What’s here? I have, upon especial cause,

Mov’d with compassion of my country’s wrack,

Together with the pitiful complaints 57

Of such as your oppression feeds upon,

Forsaken your pernicious faction,

And join’d with Charles, the rightful King of France. 60

O, monstrous treachery! Can this be so,

That in alliance, amity, and oaths,

There should be found such false dissembling guile?

K. Hen.

What! doth my uncle Burgundy revolt? 64

Glo.

He doth, my lord, and is become your foe.

K. Hen.

Is that the worst this letter doth contain?

Glo.

It is the worst, and all, my lord, he writes.

K. Hen.

Why then, Lord Talbot there shall talk with him, 68

And give him chastisement for this abuse.

How say you, my lord? are you not content?

Tal.

Content, my liege! Yes: but that I am prevented,

I should have begg’d I might have been employ’d. 72

K. Hen.

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.

Tal.

I go, my lord; in heart desiring still 76

You may behold confusion of your foes.

[Exit.

Enter Vernon and Basset.

Ver.

Grant me the combat, gracious sovereign!

Bas.

And me, my lord; grant me the combat too!

York.

This is my servant: hear him, noble prince! 80

Som.

And this is mine: sweet Henry, favour him!

K. Hen.

Be patient, lords; and give them leave to speak.

Say, gentlemen, what makes you thus exclaim?

And wherefore crave you combat? or with whom? 84

Ver.

With him, my lord; for he hath done me wrong.

Bas.

And I with him; for he hath done me wrong.

K. Hen.

What is that wrong whereof you both complain?

First let me know, and then I’ll answer you. 88

Bas.

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 92

Did represent my master’s blushing cheeks,

When stubbornly he did repugn the truth

About a certain question in the law

Argu’d betwixt the Duke of York and him; 96

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. 100

Ver.

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 provok’d by him; 104

And he first took exceptions at this badge,

Pronouncing, that the paleness of this flower

Bewray’d the faintness of my master’s heart.

York.

Will not this malice, Somerset, be left? 108

Som.

Your private grudge, my Lord of York, will out,

Though ne’er so cunningly you smother it.

K. Hen.

Good Lord! what madness rules in brain-sick men,

When, for so slight and frivolous a cause, 112

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, 116

And then your highness shall command a peace.

Som.

The quarrel toucheth none but us alone;

Betwixt ourselves let us decide it, then.

York.

There is my pledge; accept it, Somerset. 120

Ver.

Nay, let it rest where it began at first.

Bas.

Confirm it so, mine honourable lord.

Glo.

Confirm it so! Confounded be your strife!

And perish ye, with your audacious prate! 124

Presumptuous vassals! are you not asham’d,

With this immodest clamorous outrage

To trouble and disturb the king and us?—

And you, my lords, methinks you do not well 128

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. 132

Exe.

It grieves his highness: good my lords, be friends.

K. Hen.

Come hither, you that would be combatants.

Henceforth I charge you, as you love our favour,

Quite to forget this quarrel and the cause. 136

And you, my lords, remember where we are;

In France, amongst a fickle wav’ring nation.

If they perceive dissension in our looks,

And that within ourselves we disagree, 140

How will their grudging stomachs be provok’d

To wilful disobedience, and rebel!

Beside, what infamy will there arise,

When foreign princes shall be certified 144

That for a toy, a thing of no regard,

King Henry’s peers and chief nobility

Destroy’d themselves, and lost the realm of France!

O! think upon the conquest of my father, 148

My tender years, and let us not forego

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, 152

[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 crown’d.

But your discretions better can persuade

Than I am able to instruct or teach:

And therefore, as we hither came in peace, 160

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 164

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. 168

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, 172

With Charles, Alençon, and that traitorous rout.

[Flourish. Exeunt all but York, Warwick, Exeter, and Vernon.

War.

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. 177

War.

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. 181

[Exeunt York, Warwick, and Vernon.

Exe.

Well didst thou, Richard, to suppress thy voice;

For had the passions of thy heart burst out,

I fear we should have seen decipher’d there 184

More rancorous spite, more furious raging broils,

Than yet can be imagin’d or suppos’d.

But howsoe’er, no simple man that sees

This jarring discord of nobility, 188

This shouldering of each other in the court,

This factious bandying of their favourites,

But that it doth presage some ill event.

’Tis much when sceptres are in children’s hands;

But more, when envy breeds unkind division:

There comes the ruin, there begins confusion.

[Exit.

Scene II.— Before Bourdeaux.

Enter Talbot, with his Forces.

Tal.

Go to the gates of Bourdeaux, trumpeter;

Summon their general unto the wall.

Trumpet sounds a parley. Enter, on the Walls, the General of the French Forces, and Others.

English John Talbot, captains, calls you forth,

Servant in arms to Harry King of England; 4

And thus he would: Open your city gates,

Be humble to us, call my sov’reign yours,

And do him homage as obedient subjects,

And I’ll withdraw me and my bloody power; 8

But, if you frown upon this proffer’d peace,

You tempt the fury of my three attendants,

Lean famine, quartering steel, and climbing fire;

Who in a moment even with the earth 12

Shall lay your stately and air-braving towers,

If you forsake the offer of their love.

Gen.

Thou ominous and fearful owl of death,

Our nation’s terror and their bloody scourge! 16

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: 20

If thou retire, the Dauphin, well appointed,

Stands with the snares of war to tangle thee:

On either hand thee there are squadrons pitch’d,

To wall thee from the liberty of flight; 24

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 29

Upon no Christian soul but English Talbot.

Lo! there thou stand’st, a breathing valiant man,

Of an invincible unconquer’d spirit: 32

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, 36

These eyes, that see thee now well coloured,

Shall see thee wither’d, bloody, pale, and dead.

[Drum afar off.

Hark! hark! the Dauphin’s drum, a warning bell,

Sings heavy music to thy timorous soul; 40

And mine shall ring thy dire departure out.

[Exeunt General, &c., from the Walls.

Tal.

He fables not; I hear the enemy:

Out, some light horsemen, and peruse their wings.

O! negligent and heedless discipline; 44

How are we park’d and bounded in a pale,

A little herd of England’s timorous deer,

Maz’d with a yelping kennel of French curs!

If we be English deer, be then, in blood; 48

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: 52

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 colours in this dangerous fight! 56

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Plains in Gascony.

Enter York, with Forces; to him a Messenger.

York.

Are not the speedy scouts return’d again,

That dogg’d the mighty army of the Dauphin?

Mess.

They are return’d, my lord; and give it out,

That he is march’d to Bourdeaux with his power,

To fight with Talbot. As he march’d along, 5

By your espials were discovered

Two mightier troops than that the Dauphin led,

Which join’d with him and made their march for Bourdeaux. 8

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, 12

And I am louted by a traitor villain,

And cannot help the noble chevalier.

God comfort him in this necessity!

If he miscarry, farewell wars in France. 16

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 20

And hemm’d about with grim destruction.

To Bourdeaux, war-like duke! To Bourdeaux, York!

Else, farewell Talbot, France, and England’s honour.

York.

O God! that Somerset, who in proud heart 24

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, make me weep 28

That thus we die, while remiss traitors sleep.

Lucy.

O! send some succour to the distress’d lord.

York.

He dies, we lose; I break my war-like word;

We mourn, France smiles; we lose, they daily get; 32

All ’long of this vile traitor Somerset.

Lucy.

Then God take mercy on brave Talbot’s soul;

And on his son young John, whom two hours since

I met in travel toward his war-like father. 36

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? 40

Away! vexation almost stops my breath

That sunder’d friends greet in the hour of death.

Lucy, farewell: no more my fortune can,

But curse the cause I cannot aid the man. 44

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 49

The conquest of our scarce cold conqueror,

That ever living man of memory,

Henry the Fifth: Whiles they each other cross,

Lives, honours, lands, and all hurry to loss. 53

[Exit.

Scene IV.— Other Plains in Gascony.

Enter Somerset, with his Army; a Captain of Talbot’s with him.

Som.

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 4

Be buckled with: the over-daring Talbot

Hath sullied all his gloss of former honour

By this unheedful, desperate, wild adventure:

York set him on to fight and die in shame, 8

That, Talbot dead, great York might bear the name.

Cap.

Here is Sir William Lucy, who with me

Set from our o’ermatch’d forces forth for aid.

Enter Sir William Lucy.

Som.

How now, Sir William! whither were you sent? 12

Lucy.

Whither, my lord? from bought and sold Lord Talbot;

Who, ring’d about with bold adversity,

Cries out for noble York and Somerset,

To beat assailing death from his weak legions:

And whiles the honourable captain there 17

Drops bloody sweat from his war-wearied limbs,

And, in advantage lingering, looks for rescue,

You, his false hopes, the trust of England’s honour, 20

Keep off aloof with worthless emulation.

Let not your private discord keep away

The levied succours that should lend him aid,

While he, renowned noble gentleman, 24

Yields up his life unto a world of odds:

Orleans the Bastard, Charles, Burgundy,

Alençon, Reignier, compass him about,

And Talbot perisheth by your default. 28

Som.

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. 32

Som.

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, 36

Hath now entrapp’d the noble-minded Talbot.

Never to England shall he bear his life,

But dies, betray’d to fortune by your strife.

Som.

Come, go; I will dispatch the horsemen straight: 40

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. 44

Som.

If he be dead, brave Talbot, then adieu!

Lucy.

His fame lives in the world, his shame in you.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— The English Camp near Bourdeaux.

Enter Talbot and John his Son.

Tal.

O young John Talbot! I did send for thee

To tutor thee in stratagems of war,

That Talbot’s name might be in thee reviv’d

When sapless age, and weak unable limbs 4

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: 8

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? 12

And shall I fly? O! if you love my mother,

Dishonour not her honourable name,

To make a bastard and a slave of me:

The world will say he is not Talbot’s blood 16

That basely fled when noble Talbot stood.

Tal.

Fly, to revenge my death, if I be slain.

John.

He that flies so will ne’er return again.

Tal.

If we both stay, we both are sure to die.

John.

Then let me stay; and, father, do you fly: 21

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; 24

In yours they will, in you all hopes are lost.

Flight cannot stain the honour you have won;

But mine it will that no exploit have done:

You fled for vantage everyone will swear; 28

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, 32

Rather than life preserv’d with infamy.

Tal.

Shall all thy mother’s hopes lie in one tomb?

John.

Ay, rather than I’ll shame my mother’s womb.

Tal.

Upon my blessing I command thee go.

John.

To fight I will, but not to fly the foe.

Tal.

Part of thy father may be sav’d in thee.

John.

No part of him but will be shame in me.

Tal.

Thou never hadst renown, nor canst not lose it. 40

John.

Yes, your renowned name: shall flight abuse it?

Tal.

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. 44

Tal.

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 sever’d from your side 48

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.

Tal.

Then here I take my leave of thee, fair son, 52

Born to eclipse thy life this afternoon.

Come, side by side together live and die,

And soul with soul from France to heaven fly.

Scene VI.— A Field of Battle.

Alarum: Excursions, wherein Talbot’s Son is hemmed about, and Talbot rescues him.

Tal.

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: 4

I gave thee life and rescu’d thee from death.

John.

O! twice my father, twice am I thy son:

The life thou gav’st me first was lost and done,

Till with thy war-like sword, despite of fate, 8

To my determin’d time thou gav’st new date.

Tal.

When from the Dauphin’s crest thy sword struck fire,

It warm’d thy father’s heart with proud desire

Of bold-fac’d victory. Then leaden age, 12

Quicken’d with youthful spleen and war-like rage,

Beat down Alençon, Orleans, Burgundy,

And from the pride of Gallia rescu’d thee.

The ireful bastard Orleans,—that drew blood 16

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, 20

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:’ 24

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, 28

Now thou art seal’d 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, 32

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; 36

’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; 40

All these are sav’d 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, 45

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, 48

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; 52

If son to Talbot, die at Talbot’s foot.

Tal.

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, 56

And, commendable prov’d, let’s die in pride.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— Another Part of the Field.

Alarum: Excursions. Enter Old Talbot, wounded, led by a Servant.

Tal.

Where is my other life?—mine own is gone;—

O! where’s young Talbot? where is valiant John?

Triumphant death, smear’d with captivity,

Young Talbot’s valour makes me smile at thee.

When he perceiv’d me shrink and on my knee,

His bloody sword he brandish’d over me,

And like a hungry lion did commence

Rough deeds of rage and stern impatience; 8

But when my angry guardant stood alone,

Tendering my ruin and assail’d of none,

Dizzy-ey’d fury and great rage of heart

Suddenly made him from my side to start 12

Into the clust’ring battle of the French;

And in that sea of blood my boy did drench

His overmounting spirit; and there died

My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride. 16

Enter Soldiers, bearing the body of Young Talbot.

Serv.

O, my dear lord! lo, where your son is borne!

Tal.

Thou antick, death, which laugh’st us here to scorn,

Anon, from thy insulting tyranny,

Coupled in bonds of perpetuity, 20

Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky,

In thy despite shall ’scape mortality.

O! thou, whose wounds become hard-favour’d death,

Speak to thy father ere thou yield thy breath; 24

Brave death by speaking whe’r 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. 28

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.

Alarums. Exeunt Soldiers and Servant, leaving the two bodies. Enter Charles, Alençon, Burgundy, the Bastard of Orleans, Joan la Pucelle, and Forces.

Char.

Had York and Somerset brought rescue in

We should have found a bloody day of this.

Bast.

How the young whelp of Talbot’s, raging-wood, 35

Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen’s blood!

Joan.

Once I encounter’d him, and thus I said:

‘Thou maiden youth, be vanquish’d by a maid:’

But with a proud majestical high scorn,

He answer’d thus: ‘Young Talbot was not born

To be the pillage of a giglot wench.’ 41

So, rushing in the bowels of the French,

He left me proudly, as unworthy fight.

Bur.

Doubtless he would have made a noble knight; 44

See, where he lies inhearsed in the arms

Of the most bloody nurser of his harms.

Bast.

Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asunder,

Whose life was England’s glory, Gallia’s wonder.

Char.

O, no! forbear; for that which we have fled 49

During the life, let us not wrong it dead.

Enter Sir William Lucy, attended: a French Herald preceding.

Lucy.

Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin’s tent,

To know who hath obtain’d the glory of the day.

Char.

On what submissive message art thou sent? 53

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. 57

Char.

For prisoners ask’st thou? hell our prison is.

But tell me whom thou seek’st.

Lucy.

Where is the great Alcides of the field,

Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury? 61

Created, for his rare success in arms,

Great Earl of Washford, Waterford, and Valence;

Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield, 64

Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Vordun of Alton,

Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffield,

The thrice-victorious Lord of Falconbridge;

Knight of the noble order of Saint George, 68

Worthy Saint Michael and the Golden Fleece;

Great mareschal to Henry the Sixth

Of all his wars within the realm of France?

Joan.

Here is a silly stately style indeed! 72

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. 76

Lucy.

Is Talbot slain, the Frenchmen’s only scourge,

Your kingdom’s terror and black Nemesis?

O! were mine eye-balls into bullets turn’d,

That I in rage might shoot them at your faces!

O! that I could but call these dead to life! 81

It were enough to fright the realm of France.

Were but his picture left among you here

It would amaze the proudest of you all. 84

Give me their bodies, that I may bear them hence,

And give them burial as beseems their worth.

Joan.

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 89

They would but stink and putrefy the air.

Char.

Go, take their bodies hence.

Lucy.

I’ll bear them hence:

But from their ashes shall be rear’d 92

A phœnix that shall make all France afeard.

Char.

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. 96

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King Henry, Gloucester, and Exeter.

K. Hen.

Have you perus’d the letters from the pope,

The emperor, and the Earl of Armagnac?

Glo.

I have, my lord; and their intent is this:

They humbly sue unto your excellence 4

To have a godly peace concluded of

Between the realms of England and of France.

K. Hen.

How doth your Grace affect their motion?

Glo.

Well, my good lord; and as the only means 8

To stop effusion of our Christian blood,

And stablish quietness on every side.

K. Hen.

Ay, marry, uncle; for I always thought

It was both impious and unnatural 12

That such immanity and bloody strife

Should reign among professors of one faith.

Glo.

Beside, my lord, the sooner to effect

And surer bind this knot of amity, 16

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.

K. Hen.

Marriage, uncle! alas! my years are young, 21

And fitter is my study and my books

Than wanton dalliance with a paramour.

Yet call the ambassadors; and, as you please, 24

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 a Legate, and two Ambassadors, with Winchester, now Cardinal Beaufort, and habited accordingly.

Exe.

[Aside.] What! is my Lord of Winchester install’d, 28

And call’d 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, 32

He’ll make his cap co-equal with the crown.’

K. Hen.

My lords ambassadors, your several suits

Have been consider’d, and debated on.

Your purpose is both good and reasonable; 36

And therefore are we certainly resolv’d

To draw conditions of a friendly peace;

Which by my Lord of Winchester we mean

Shall be transported presently to France. 40

Glo.

And for the proffer of my lord your master,

I have inform’d his highness so at large,

As,—liking of the lady’s virtuous gifts,

Her beauty, and the value of her dower,— 44

He doth intend she shall be England’s queen.

K. Hen.

[To the Ambassador.] In argument and proof of which contract,

Bear her this jewel, pledge of my affection.

And so, my lord protector, see them guarded, 48

And safely brought to Dover; where inshipp’d

Commit them to the fortune of the sea.

[Exeunt King Henry and Train; Gloucester, Exeter, and Ambassadors.

Win.

Stay, my lord legate: you shall first receive

The sum of money which I promised 52

Should be deliver’d to his holiness

For clothing me in these grave ornaments.

Leg.

I will attend upon your lordship’s leisure.

Win.

[Aside.] Now Winchester will not submit, I trow, 56

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: 60

I’ll either make thee stoop and bend thy knee,

Or sack this country with a mutiny.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— France. Plains in Anjou.

Enter Charles, Burgundy, Alençon, Joan la Pucelle, and Forces, marching.

Char.

These news, my lord, may cheer our drooping spirits;

’Tis said the stout Parisians do revolt,

And turn again unto the war-like French.

Alen.

Then, march to Paris, royal Charles of France, 4

And keep not back your powers in dalliance.

Joan.

Peace be amongst them if they turn to us;

Else, ruin combat with their palaces!

Enter a Scout.

Scout.

Success unto our valiant general, 8

And happiness to his accomplices!

Char.

What tidings send our scouts? I prithee speak.

Scout.

The English army, that divided was

Into two parties, is now conjoin’d in one, 12

And means to give you battle presently.

Char.

Somewhat too sudden, sirs, the warning is:

But we will presently provide for them.

Bur.

I trust the ghost of Talbot is not there: 16

Now he is gone, my lord, you need not fear.

Joan.

Of all base passions, fear is most accurs’d.

Command the conquest, Charles, it shall be thine;

Let Henry fret and all the world repine. 20

Char.

Then on, my lords; and France be fortunate!

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— France. Before Angiers.

Alarum: Excursions. Enter Joan la Pucelle.

Joan.

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: 4

[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 accustom’d diligence to me. 9

Now, ye familiar spirits, that are cull’d

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. 13

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, 16

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 20

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, 24

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: 28

Now, France, thy glory droopeth to the dust.

[Exit.

Alarum. Enter French and English fighting: Joan la Pucelle and York fight hand to hand: Joan 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. 32

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.

Joan.

Chang’d to a worser shape thou canst not be. 36

York.

O! Charles the Dauphin is a proper man;

No shape but his can please your dainty eye.

Joan.

A plaguing mischief light on Charles and thee!

And may ye both be suddenly surpris’d 40

By bloody hands, in sleeping on your beds!

York.

Fell banning hag, enchantress, hold thy tongue!

Joan.

I prithee, give me leave to curse a while.

York.

Curse, miscreant, when thou comest to the stake.

[Exeunt.

Alarum. Enter Suffolk, with Margaret in his hand.

Suf.

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, 48

And lay them gently on thy tender side.

What art thou? say, that I may honour thee.

Mar.

Margaret my name, and daughter to a king,

The King of Naples, whosoe’er thou art. 52

Suf.

An earl I am, and Suffolk am I call’d.

Be not offended, nature’s miracle,

Thou art allotted to be ta’en by me:

So doth the swan her downy cygnets save, 56

Keeping them prisoners underneath her wings.

Yet if this servile usage once offend,

Go and be free again, as Suffolk’s friend.

[She turns away as going.

O stay! I have no power to let her pass; 60

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. 64

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 thy prisoner? 68

Wilt thou be daunted at a woman’s sight?

Ay; beauty’s princely majesty is such

Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough.

Mar.

Say, Earl of Suffolk,—if thy name be so,— 72

What ransom must I pay before I pass?

For I perceive, I am thy prisoner.

Suf.

[Aside.] How canst thou tell she will deny thy suit,

Before thou make a trial of her love? 76

Mar.

Why speak’st thou not? what ransom must I pay?

Suf.

[Aside.] She’s beautiful and therefore to be woo’d,

She is a woman, therefore to be won.

Mar.

Wilt thou accept of ransom, yea or no?

Suf.

[Aside.] Fond man! remember that thou hast a wife; 81

Then how can Margaret be thy paramour?

Mar.

I were best to leave him, for he will not hear.

Suf.

[Aside.] There all is marr’d; there lies a cooling card. 84

Mar.

He talks at random; sure, the man is mad.

Suf.

[Aside.] And yet a dispensation may be had.

Mar.

And yet I would that you would answer me.

Suf.

[Aside.] I’ll win this Lady Margaret. For whom? 88

Why, for my king: tush! that’s a wooden thing.

Mar.

[Overhearing him.] He talks of wood: it is some carpenter.

Suf.

[Aside.] Yet so my fancy may be satisfied,

And peace established between these realms. 92

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. 96

Mar.

Hear ye, captain? Are you not at leisure?

Suf.

[Aside.] It shall be so, disdain they ne’er so much:

Henry is youthful and will quickly yield.

Madam, I have a secret to reveal. 100

Mar.

[Aside.] What though I be enthrall’d? he seems a knight,

And will not any way dishonour me.

Suf.

Lady, vouchsafe to listen what I say.

Mar.

[Aside.] Perhaps I shall be rescu’d by the French; 104

And then I need not crave his courtesy.

Suf.

Sweet madam, give me hearing in a cause—

Mar.

Tush, women have been captivate ere now.

Suf.

Lady, wherefore talk you so? 108

Mar.

I cry you mercy, ’tis but quid for quo.

Suf.

Say, gentle princess, would you not suppose

Your bondage happy to be made a queen?

Mar.

To be a queen in bondage is more vile

Than is a slave in base servility; 113

For princes should be free.

Suf.

And so shall you,

If happy England’s royal king be free.

Mar.

Why, what concerns his freedom unto me? 116

Suf.

I’ll undertake to make thee Henry’s queen,

To put a golden sceptre in thy hand

And set a precious crown upon thy head,

If thou wilt condescend to be my—

Mar.

What?

Suf.

His love. 120

Mar.

I am unworthy to be Henry’s wife.

Suf.

No, gentle madam; I unworthy am

To woo so fair a dame to be his wife

And have no portion in the choice myself. 124

How say you, madam, are you so content?

Mar.

An if my father please, I am content.

Suf.

Then call our captains and our colours forth!

And, madam, at your father’s castle walls 128

We’ll crave a parley, to confer with him.

[Troops come forward.

A Parley sounded. Enter Reignier on the Walls.

Suf.

See, Reignier, see thy daughter prisoner!

Reig.

To whom?

Suf.

To me.

Reig.

Suffolk, what remedy?

I am a soldier, and unapt to weep, 132

Or to exclaim on Fortune’s fickleness.

Suf.

Yes, there is remedy enough; my lord:

Consent, and for thy honour, give consent,

Thy daughter shall be wedded to my king, 136

Whom I with pain have woo’d and won thereto;

And this her easy-held imprisonment

Hath gain’d thy daughter princely liberty.

Reig.

Speaks Suffolk as he thinks?

Suf.

Fair Margaret knows 140

That Suffolk doth not flatter, face, or feign.

Reig.

Upon thy princely warrant, I descend

To give thee answer of thy just demand.

[Exit from the walls.

Suf.

And here I will expect thy coming. 144

Trumpets sound. Enter Reignier, below.

Reig.

Welcome, brave earl, into our territories:

Command in Anjou what your honour pleases.

Suf.

Thanks, Reignier, happy for so sweet a child,

Fit to be made companion with a king. 148

What answer makes your Grace unto my suit?

Reig.

Since thou dost deign to woo her little worth

To be the princely bride of such a lord,

Upon condition I may quietly 152

Enjoy mine own, the county Maine and Anjou,

Free from oppression or the stroke of war,

My daughter shall be Henry’s if he please.

Suf.

That is her ransom; I deliver her; 156

And those two counties I will undertake

Your Grace shall well and quietly enjoy.

Reig.

And I again, in Henry’s royal name,

As deputy unto that gracious king, 160

Give thee her hand for sign of plighted faith.

Suf.

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 164

To be mine own attorney in this case.

I’ll over then, to England with this news,

And make this marriage to be solemniz’d.

So farewell, Reignier: set this diamond safe, 168

In golden palaces, as it becomes.

Reig.

I do embrace thee, as I would embrace

The Christian prince, King Henry, were he here.

Mar.

Farewell, my lord. Good wishes, praise, and prayers 172

Shall Suffolk ever have of Margaret.

[Going.

Suf.

Farewell, sweet madam! but hark you, Margaret;

No princely commendations to my king?

Mar.

Such commendations as become a maid,

A virgin, and his servant, say to him. 177

Suf.

Words sweetly plac’d and modestly directed.

But madam, I must trouble you again,

No loving token to his majesty? 180

Mar.

Yes, my good lord; a pure unspotted heart,

Never yet taint with love, I send the king.

Suf.

And this withal.

[Kisses her.

Mar.

That for thyself: I will not so presume,

To send such peevish tokens to a king. 185

[Exeunt Reignier and Margaret.

Suf.

O! wert thou for myself! But Suffolk, stay;

Thou mayst not wander in that labyrinth;

There Minotaurs and ugly treasons lurk. 188

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, 192

That, when thou com’st to kneel at Henry’s feet,

Thou mayst bereave him of his wits with wonder.

[Exit.

Scene IV.— Camp of the Duke of York, in Anjou.

Enter York, Warwick, and Others.

York.

Bring forth that sorceress, condemn’d to burn.

Enter Joan la Pucelle, guarded; and a Shepherd.

Shep.

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, 4

Must I behold thy timeless cruel death?

Ah, Joan! sweet daughter Joan, I’ll die with thee.

Joan.

Decrepit miser! base ignoble wretch!

I am descended of a gentler blood: 8

Thou art no father nor no friend of mine.

Shep.

Out, out! My lords, an please you, ’tis not so;

I did beget her all the parish knows:

Her mother liveth yet, can testify 12

She was the first fruit of my bachelorship.

War.

Graceless! wilt thou deny thy parentage?

York.

This argues what her kind of life hath been:

Wicked and vile; and so her death concludes. 16

Shep.

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. 20

Joan.

Peasant, avaunt! You have suborn’d this man,

Of purpose to obscure my noble birth.

Shep.

’Tis true, I gave a noble to the priest,

The morn that I was wedded to her mother. 24

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 suck’dst her breast, 28

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? 32

O! burn her, burn her! hanging is too good.

[Exit.

York.

Take her away; for she hath liv’d too long,

To fill the world with vicious qualities.

Joan.

First, let me tell you whom you have condemn’d: 36

Not me begotten of a shepherd swain,

But issu’d from the progeny of kings;

Virtuous and holy; chosen from above,

By inspiration of celestial grace, 40

To work exceeding miracles on earth.

I never had to do with wicked spirits:

But you,—that are polluted with your lusts,

Stain’d with the guiltless blood of innocents, 44

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. 48

No misconceived! Joan of Arc hath been

A virgin from her tender infancy,

Chaste and immaculate in very thought;

Whose maiden blood, thus rigorously effus’d, 52

Will cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven.

York.

Ay, ay: away with her to execution!

War.

And hark ye, sirs; because she is a maid,

Spare for no fagots, let there be enow: 56

Place barrels of pitch upon the fatal stake,

That so her torture may be shortened.

Joan.

Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts?

Then, Joan, discover thine infirmity; 60

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. 64

York.

Now, heaven forefend! the holy maid with child!

War.

The greatest miracle that e’er ye wrought!

Is all your strict preciseness come to this?

York.

She and the Dauphin have been juggling: 68

I did imagine what would be her refuge.

War.

Well, go to; we will have no bastards live;

Especially since Charles must father it.

Joan.

You are deceiv’d; my child is none of his: 72

It was Alençon that enjoy’d my love.

York.

Alençon! that notorious Machiavel!

It dies an if it had a thousand lives.

Joan.

O! give me leave, I have deluded you:

’Twas neither Charles, nor yet the duke I nam’d,

But Reignier, King of Naples, that prevail’d.

War.

A married man: that’s most intolerable.

York.

Why, here’s a girl! I think she knows not well, 80

There were so many, whom she may accuse.

War.

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. 85

Joan.

Then lead me hence; with whom I leave my curse:

May never glorious sun reflex his beams

Upon the country where you make abode; 88

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.

York.

Break thou in pieces and consume to ashes, 92

Thou foul accursed minister of hell!

Enter Cardinal Beaufort, attended.

Car.

Lord regent, I do greet your excellence

With letters of commission from the king.

For know, my lords, the states of Christendom,

Mov’d with remorse of these outrageous broils,

Have earnestly implor’d a general peace 98

Betwixt our nation and the aspiring French;

And here at hand the Dauphin, and his train,

Approacheth to confer about some matter. 101

York.

Is all our travail turn’d to this effect?

After the slaughter of so many peers,

So many captains, gentlemen, and soldiers, 104

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, 108

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. 112

War.

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, attended; Alençon, the Bastard of Orleans, Reignier, and Others.

Char.

Since, lords of England, it is thus agreed, 116

That peaceful truce shall be proclaim’d in France,

We come to be informed by yourselves

What the conditions of that league must be.

York.

Speak, Winchester; for boiling choler chokes 120

The hollow passage of my poison’d voice,

By sight of these our baleful enemies.

Car.

Charles, and the rest, it is enacted thus:

That, in regard King Henry gives consent, 124

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 plac’d as viceroy under him,

And still enjoy thy regal dignity. 132

Alen.

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? 136

This proffer is absurd and reasonless.

Char.

’Tis known already that I am possess’d

With more than half the Gallian territories,

And therein reverenc’d for their lawful king: 140

Shall I, for lucre of the rest unvanquish’d,

Detract so much from that prerogative

As to be call’d but viceroy of the whole?

No, lord ambassador; I’ll rather keep 144

That which I have than, coveting for more,

Be cast from possibility of all.

York.

Insulting Charles! hast thou by secret means

Us’d intercession to obtain a league, 148

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 152

And not of any challenge of desert,

Or we will plague thee with incessant wars.

Reig.

My lord, you do not well in obstinacy

To cavil in the course of this contract: 156

If once it be neglected, ten to one,

We shall not find like opportunity.

Alen.

[Aside to Charles.] To say the truth, it is your policy

To save your subjects from such massacre 160

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.

War.

How sayst thou, Charles? shall our condition stand? 165

Char.

It shall;

Only reserv’d, you claim no interest

In any of our towns of garrison. 168

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.

[Charles, &c., give tokens of fealty.

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.

Scene V.— London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King Henry, in conference with Suffolk; Gloucester and Exeter following.

K. Hen.

Your wondrous rare description, noble earl,

Of beauteous Margaret hath astonish’d me:

Her virtues, graced with external gifts

Do breed love’s settled passions in my heart: 4

And like as rigour of tempestuous gusts

Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide,

So am I driven by breath of her renown

Either to suffer shipwrack, or arrive 8

Where I may have fruition of her love.

Suf.

Tush! my good lord, this superficial tale

Is but a preface of her worthy praise:

The chief perfections of that lovely dame— 12

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, 16

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 chaste intents, 20

To love and honour Henry as her lord.

K. Hen.

And otherwise will Henry ne’er presume.

Therefore, my Lord Protector, give consent

That Margaret may be England’s royal queen.

Glo.

So should I give consent to flatter sin. 25

You know, my lord, your highness is betroth’d

Unto another lady of esteem;

How shall we then dispense with that contract,

And not deface your honour with reproach? 29

Suf.

As doth a ruler with unlawful oaths;

Or one that, at a triumph having vow’d

To try his strength, forsaketh yet the lists 32

By reason of his adversary’s odds.

A poor earl’s daughter is unequal odds,

And therefore may be broke without offence.

Glo.

Why, what, I pray, is Margaret more than that? 36

Her father is no better than an earl,

Although in glorious titles he excel.

Suf.

Yes, my good lord, her father is a king,

The King of Naples and Jerusalem; 40

And of such great authority in France

As his alliance will confirm our peace,

And keep the Frenchmen in allegiance.

Glo.

And so the Earl of Armagnac may do, 44

Because he is near kinsman unto Charles.

Exe.

Beside, his wealth doth warrant liberal dower,

Where Reignier sooner will receive than give.

Suf.

A dower, my lords! disgrace not so your king, 48

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: 52

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: 56

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, 60

In our opinions she should be preferr’d.

For what is wedlock forced, but a hell,

An age of discord and continual strife?

Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss, 64

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, 68

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; 72

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 link’d in love. 76

Then yield, my lords; and here conclude with me

That Margaret shall be queen, and none but she.

K. Hen.

Whether it be through force of your report,

My noble lord of Suffolk, or for that 80

My tender youth was never yet attaint

With any passion of inflaming love,

I cannot tell; but this I am assur’d,

I feel such sharp dissension in my breast, 84

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 88

That Lady Margaret do vouchsafe to come

To cross the seas to England and be crown’d

King Henry’s faithful and anointed queen:

For your expenses and sufficient charge, 92

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 offence: 96

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 100

I may revolve and ruminate my grief.

[Exit.

Glo.

Ay, grief, I fear me, both at first and last.

[Exeunt Gloucester and Exeter.

Suf.

Thus Suffolk hath prevail’d; and thus he goes,

As did the youthful Paris once to Greece; 104

With hope to find the like event in love,

But prosper better than the Trojan did.

Margaret shall now be queen, and rule the king;

But I will rule both her, the king, and realm. 108

[Exit.

THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

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, }	Of the King’s Party.
Duke of Suffolk, }
Duke of Buckingham, }
Lord Clifford, }
Young Clifford, his Son, }
Earl of Salisbury, }	of the York Faction\.
Earl of Warwick, }	of the York Faction\.
Lord Scales,	Governor of the Tower.
Sir Humphrey Stafford, and William Stafford,	his Brother.
Lord Say.
A Sea-captain, Master, and Master’s Mate.
Walter Whitmore.
Sir John Stanley.
Two Gentlemen, prisoners with Suffolk.
Vaux.
Matthew Goffe.
John Hume and John Southwell,	Priests.
Bolingbroke,	a Conjurer.
A Spirit raised by him.
Thomas Horner,	an Armourer.
Peter,	his Man.
Clerk of Chatham.
Mayor of St. Alban’s.
Simpcox,	an Impostor.
Two Murderers.
Jack Cade,	a Rebel.
George Bevis, John Holland, Dick the Butcher, Smith the Weaver. Michael,	&c., Followers of Cade.
Alexander Iden,	a Kentish Gentleman.
Margaret,	Queen to King Henry.
Eleanor,	Duchess of Gloucester.
Margery Jourdain,	a Witch.
Wife to Simpcox.
Lords, Ladies, and Attendants; Herald, Petitioners, Aldermen, a Beadle, Sheriff, and Officers; Citizens, Prentices, Falconers, Guards, Soldiers, Messengers, &c.

Scene.—In various parts of England.

ACT I.

Scene I.— London. A Room of State in the Palace.

Flourish of Trumpets: then hautboys. Enter, on one side, King Henry, Duke of Gloucester, Salisbury, Warwick, and Cardinal Beaufort; on the other, Queen Margaret, led in by Suffolk; York, Somerset, Buckingham, and Others, following.

Suf.

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; 4

So, in the famous ancient city, Tours,

In presence of the Kings of France and Sicil,

The Dukes of Orleans, Calaber, Britaine, and Alençon,

Seven earls, twelve barons, and twenty reverend bishops, 8

I have perform’d my task, and was espous’d:

And humbly now upon my bended knee,

In sight of England and her lordly peers,

Deliver up my title in the queen 12

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 receiv’d. 16

K. Hen.

Suffolk, arise. Welcome, Queen Margaret:

I can express no kinder sign of love

Than this kind kiss. O Lord! that lends me life,

Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness! 20

For thou hast given me in this beauteous face

A world of earthly blessings to my soul,

If sympathy of love unite our thoughts.

Q. Mar.

Great King of England and my gracious lord, 24

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 alderliefest sovereign, 28

Makes me the bolder to salute my king

With ruder terms, such as my wit affords,

And over-joy of heart doth minister.

K. Hen.

Her sight did ravish, but her grace in speech, 32

Her words y-clad 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. 36

All.

Long live Queen Margaret, England’s happiness!

Q. Mar.

We thank you all.

[Flourish.

Suf.

My Lord Protector, so it please your Grace,

Here are the articles of contracted peace 40

Between our sovereign and the French King Charles,

For eighteen months concluded by consent.

Glo.

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.

K. Hen.

Uncle, how now!

Glo.

Pardon me, gracious lord;

Some sudden qualm hath struck me at the heart

And dimm’d mine eyes, that I can read no further. 56

K. Hen.

Uncle of Winchester, I pray, read on.

Car.

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.

K. Hen.

They please us well. Lord marquess, kneel down: 64

We here create thee the first Duke of Suffolk,

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 68

Be full expir’d. Thanks, uncle Winchester,

Gloucester, York, Buckingham, Somerset,

Salisbury, and Warwick;

We thank you all for this great favour done, 72

In entertainment to my princely queen.

Come, let us in, and with all speed provide

To see her coronation be perform’d.

[Exeunt King, Queen, and Suffolk.

Glo.

Brave peers of England, pillars of the state, 76

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? 80

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, 84

To keep by policy what Henry got?

Have you yourselves, Somerset, Buckingham,

Brave York, Salisbury, and victorious Warwick,

Receiv’d deep scars in France and Normandy?

Or hath mine uncle Beaufort and myself, 89

With all the learned council of the realm,

Studied so long, sat in the council-house

Early and late, debating to and fro 92

How France and Frenchmen might be kept in awe?

And hath his highness in his infancy

Been crown’d in Paris, in despite of foes?

And shall these labours and these honours die?

Shall Henry’s conquest, Bedford’s vigilance, 97

Your deeds of war and all our counsel die?

O peers of England! shameful is this league,

Fatal this marriage, cancelling your fame, 100

Blotting your names from books of memory,

Razing the characters of your renown,

Defacing monuments of conquer’d France,

Undoing all, as all had never been. 104

Car.

Nephew, what means this passionate discourse,

This peroration with such circumstance?

For France, ’tis ours; and we will keep it still.

Glo.

Ay, uncle; we will keep it, if we can;

But now it is impossible we should. 109

Suffolk, the new-made duke that rules the roast,

Hath given the duchies of Anjou and Maine

Unto the poor King Reignier, whose large style

Agrees not with the leanness of his purse. 113

Sal.

Now, by the death of him who died for all,

These counties were the keys of Normandy. 115

But wherefore weeps Warwick, my valiant son?

War.

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. 119

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,

Deliver’d up again with peaceful words?

Mort Dieu! 124

York.

For Suffolk’s duke, may he be suffocate,

That dims the honour of this war-like isle!

France should have torn and rent my very heart

Before I would have yielded to this league. 128

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. 132

Glo.

A proper jest, and never heard before,

That Suffolk should demand a whole fifteenth

For costs and charges in transporting her!

She should have stay’d in France, and starv’d in France, 136

Before—

Car.

My Lord of Gloucester, now you grow too hot:

It was the pleasure of my lord the king.

Glo.

My Lord of Winchester, I know your mind: 140

’Tis not my speeches that you do mislike,

But ’tis my presence that doth trouble ye.

Rancour will out: proud prelate, in thy face

I see thy fury. If I longer stay 144

We shall begin our ancient bickerings.

Lordings, farewell; and say, when I am gone,

I prophesied France will be lost ere long.

[Exit.

Car.

So, there goes our protector in a rage.

’Tis known to you he is mine enemy, 149

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, 152

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 displeas’d at it. 156

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;’ 160

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, 164

He will be found a dangerous protector.

Buck.

Why should he then protect our sovereign,

He being of age to govern of himself?

Cousin of Somerset, join you with me, 168

And all together, with the Duke of Suffolk,

We’ll quickly hoise Duke Humphrey from his seat.

Car.

This weighty business will not brook delay;

I’ll to the Duke of Suffolk presently.

[Exit.

Som.

Cousin of Buckingham, though Humphrey’s pride 173

And greatness of his place be grief to us,

Yet let us watch the haughty cardinal:

His insolence is more intolerable 176

Than all the princes in the land beside:

If Gloucester be displac’d, he’ll be protector.

Buck.

Or thou, or I, Somerset, will be protector,

Despite Duke Humphrey or the cardinal. 180

[Exeunt Buckingham and Somerset.

Sal.

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. 185

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, 188

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 house-keeping,

Have 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, 196

Thy late exploits done in the heart of France,

When thou wert regent for our sovereign,

Have made thee fear’d and honour’d of the people.

Join we together for the public good, 200

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, 204

While they do tend the profit of the land.

War.

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. 208

Sal.

Then let’s make haste away, and look unto the main.

War.

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, 213

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 216

Stands on a tickle point now they are gone.

Suffolk concluded on the articles,

The peers agreed, and Henry was well pleas’d

To change two dukedoms for a duke’s fair daughter. 220

I cannot blame them all: what is’t to them?

’Tis thine they give away, and not their own.

Pirates may make cheap pennyworths of their pillage,

And purchase friends, and give to courtezans,

Still revelling like lords till all be gone; 225

While as 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 shar’d and all is borne away, 229

Ready to starve and dare not touch his own:

So York must sit and fret and bite his tongue

While his own lands are bargain’d for and sold.

Methinks the realms of England, France, and Ireland 233

Bear that proportion to my flesh and blood

As did the fatal brand Althæa burn’d

Unto the prince’s heart of Calydon. 236

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 241

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. 244

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 fit 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, 252

With his new bride and England’s dear-bought queen,

And Humphrey with the peers be fall’n at jars:

Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose,

With whose sweet smell the air shall be perfum’d, 256

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 pull’d fair England down.

[Exit.

Scene II.— The Same. A Room in the Duke of Gloucester’s House.

Enter Gloucester and his Duchess.

Duch.

Why droops my lord, like over-ripen’d 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? 4

Why are thine eyes fix’d to the sullen earth,

Gazing on that which seems to dim thy sight?

What seest thou there? King Henry’s diadem

Enchas’d with all the honours of the world? 8

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; 12

And having both together heav’d 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. 16

Glo.

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! 21

My troublous dream this night doth make me sad.

Duch.

What dream’d my lord? tell me, and I’ll requite it

With sweet rehearsal of my morning’s dream. 24

Glo.

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 28

Were plac’d 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.

Duch.

Tut! this was nothing but an argument 32

That he that breaks a stick of Gloucester’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 36

In the cathedral church of Westminster,

And in that chair where kings and queens are crown’d;

Where Henry and Dame Margaret kneel’d to me,

And on my head did set the diadem. 40

Glo.

Nay, Eleanor, then must I chide outright:

Presumptuous dame! ill-nurtur’d Eleanor!

Art thou not second woman in the realm,

And the protector’s wife, belov’d of him? 44

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 48

From top of honour to disgrace’s feet?

Away from me, and let me hear no more.

Duch.

What, what, my lord! are you so choleric

With Eleanor, for telling but her dream? 52

Next time I’ll keep my dreams unto myself,

And not be check’d.

Glo.

Nay, be not angry; I am pleas’d again.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

My Lord Protector, ’tis his highness’ pleasure 56

You do prepare to ride unto Saint Alban’s,

Whereas the king and queen do mean to hawk.

Glo.

I go. Come, Nell, thou wilt ride with us?

Duch.

Yes, my good lord, I’ll follow presently. 60

[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, 68

We are alone; here’s none but thee and I.

Enter Hume.

Hume.

Jesus preserve your royal majesty!

Duch.

What sayst thou? majesty! I am but Grace.

Hume.

But, by the grace of God, and Hume’s advice, 72

Your Grace’s title shall be multiplied.

Duch.

What sayst thou, man? hast thou as yet conferr’d

With Margery Jourdain, the cunning witch,

With Roger Bolingbroke, the conjurer? 76

And will they undertake to do me good?

Hume.

This they have promised, to show your highness

A spirit rais’d from depth of under ground,

That shall make answer to such questions 80

As by your Grace shall be propounded him.

Duch.

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. 84

Here, Hume, take this reward; make merry, man,

With thy confed’rates in this weighty cause.

[Exit.

Hume.

Hume must make merry with the duchess’ gold;

Marry and shall. But how now, Sir John Hume! 88

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. 92

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, 96

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. 101

Hume, if you take not heed, you shall go near

To call them both a pair of crafty knaves.

Well, so it stands; and thus, I fear, at last 104

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.

Scene III.— The Same. A Room in the Palace.

Enter three or four Petitioners, Peter, the Armourer’s man, being one.

First Pet.

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. 4

Sec. Pet.

Marry, the Lord protect him, for he’s a good man! Jesu bless him!

Enter Suffolk and Queen Margaret.

First Pet.

Here a’ comes, methinks, and the queen with him. I’ll be the first, sure. 8

Sec. Pet.

Come back, fool! this is the Duke of Suffolk and not my Lord Protector.

Suf.

How now, fellow! wouldst anything with me? 12

First Pet.

I pray, my lord, pardon me: I took ye for my Lord Protector.

Q. Mar.

[Glancing at the Superscriptions.] To my Lord Protector! are your supplications to his lordship? Let me see them: what is thine?

First Pet.

Mine is, an’t please your Grace, against John Goodman, my Lord Cardinal’s man, for keeping my house, and lands, my wife and all, from me. 21

Suf.

Thy wife too! that is some wrong indeed. What’s yours? What’s here? Against the Duke of Suffolk, for enclosing the commons of Melford! How now, sir knave! 25

Sec. Pet.

Alas! sir, I am but a poor petitioner of our whole township.

Peter.

[Presenting his petition.] Against my master, Thomas Horner, for saying that the Duke of York was rightful heir to the crown.

Q. Mar.

What sayst thou? Did the Duke of York say he was rightful heir to the crown? 32

Pet.

That my master was? No, forsooth: my master said that he was; and that the king was an usurper.

Suf.

Who is there? 36

Enter Servants.

Take this fellow in, and send for his master with a pursuivant presently. We’ll hear more of your matter before the king.

[Exeunt Servants with Peter.

Q. Mar.

And as for you, that love to be protected 40

Under the wings of our protector’s grace,

Begin your suits anew and sue to him.

[Tears the petitions.

Away, base cullions! Suffolk, let them go.

All.

Come, let’s be gone. 44

[Exeunt Petitioners.

Q. Mar.

My Lord of Suffolk, say, is this the guise,

Is this the fashion of the court of England?

Is this the government of Britain’s isle,

And this the royalty of Albion’s king? 48

What! shall King Henry be a pupil still

Under the surly Gloucester’s governance?

Am I a queen in title and in style,

And must be made a subject to a duke? 52

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 56

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; 61

His study is his tilt-yard, and his loves

Are brazen images of canoniz’d saints.

I would the college of the cardinals 64

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.

Suf.

Madam, be patient; as I was cause 68

Your highness came to England, so will I

In England work your Grace’s full content.

Q. Mar.

Beside the haught protector, have we Beaufort

The imperious churchman, Somerset, Buckingham, 72

And grumbling York; and not the least of these

But can do more in England than the king.

Suf.

And he of these that can do most of all

Cannot do more in England than the Nevils: 76

Salisbury and Warwick are no simple peers.

Q. Mar.

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, 80

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. 84

Shall I not live to be aveng’d on her?

Contemptuous base-born callot as she is,

She vaunted ’mongst her minions t’other day

The very train of her worst wearing gown 88

Was better worth than all my father’s lands,

Till Suffolk gave two dukedoms for his daughter.

Suf.

Madam, myself have lim’d a bush for her,

And plac’d a quire of such enticing birds 92

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. 96

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 100

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.

Sound a sennet. Enter King Henry, York, and Somerset; Duke and Duchess of Gloucester, Cardinal Beaufort, Buckingham, Salisbury, and Warwick.

K. Hen.

For my part, noble lords, I care not which; 104

Or Somerset or York, all’s one to me.

York.

If York have ill demean’d himself in France,

Then let him be denay’d the regentship.

Som.

If Somerset be unworthy of the place,

Let York be regent; I will yield to him. 109

War.

Whether your Grace be worthy, yea or no,

Dispute not that: York is the worthier.

Car.

Ambitious Warwick, let thy betters speak. 112

War

The cardinal’s not my better in the field.

Buck.

All in this presence are thy betters, Warwick.

War.

Warwick may live to be the best of all.

Sal.

Peace, son! and show some reason, Buckingham, 116

Why Somerset should be preferr’d in this.

Q. Mar.

Because the king, forsooth, will have it so.

Glo.

Madam, the king is old enough himself

To give his censure: these are no women’s matters. 120

Q. Mar.

If he be old enough, what needs your Grace

To be protector of his excellence?

Glo.

Madam, I am protector of the realm;

And at his pleasure will resign my place. 124

Suf.

Resign it then and leave thine insolence.

Since thou wertking,—as who is king but thou?—

The commonwealth hath daily run to wrack;

The Dauphin hath prevail’d beyond the seas;

And all the peers and nobles of the realm 129

Have been as bondmen to thy sovereignty.

Car.

The commons hast thou rack’d; the clergy’s bags

Are lank and lean with thy extortions. 132

Som.

Thy sumptuous buildings and thy wife’s attire

Have cost a mass of public treasury.

Buck.

Thy cruelty in execution

Upon offenders hath exceeded law, 136

And left thee to the mercy of the law.

Q. Mar.

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?

[Giving the Duchess a box on the ear.

I cry you mercy, madam, was it you?

Duch.

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. 145

K. Hen.

Sweet aunt, be quiet; ’twas against her will.

Duch.

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, 149

She shall not strike Dame Eleanor unreveng’d.

[Exit.

Buck.

Lord Cardinal, I will follow Eleanor,

And listen after Humphrey, how he proceeds:

She’s tickled now; her fume can need no spurs,

She’ll gallop far enough to her destruction.

[Exit Buckingham.

Re-enter Gloucester.

Glo.

Now, lords, my choler being over-blown

With walking once about the quadrangle, 156

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 160

As I in duty love my king and country!

But to the matter that we have in hand.

I say, my sov’reign, York is meetest man

To be your regent in the realm of France. 164

Suf.

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: 168

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, 172

Till France be won into the Dauphin’s hands.

Last time I danc’d attendance on his will

Till Paris was besieg’d, famish’d, and lost.

War.

That can I witness; and a fouler fact

Did never traitor in the land commit. 177

Suf.

Peace, headstrong Warwick!

War.

Image of pride, why should I hold my peace?

Enter Servants of Suffolk, bringing in Horner and Peter.

Suf.

Because here is a man accus’d of treason: 180

Pray God the Duke of York excuse himself!

York.

Doth any one accuse York for a traitor?

K. Hen.

What mean’st thou, Suffolk? tell me, what are these?

Suf.

Please it your majesty, this is the man

That doth accuse his master of high treason. 185

His words were these: that Richard, Duke of York,

Was rightful heir unto the English crown,

And that your majesty was a usurper. 188

K. Hen.

Say, man, were these thy words?

Hor.

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. 192

Pet.

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 198

Let him have all the rigour of the law.

Hor.

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.

K. Hen

Uncle, what shall we say to this in law?

Glo.

This doom, my lord, if I may judge. 208

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; 212

For he hath witness of his servant’s malice.

This is the law, and this Duke Humphrey’s doom.

K. Hen.

Then be it so. My Lord of Somerset,

We make your Grace lord regent o’er the French. 216

Som.

I humbly thank your royal majesty.

Hor.

And I accept the combat willingly.

Pet.

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!

Glo.

Sirrah, or you must fight, or else be hang’d. 224

K. Hen.

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.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. The Duke of Gloucester’s Garden.

Enter Margery Jourdain, Hume, Southwell, and Bolingbroke.

Hume.

Come, my masters; the duchess, I tell you, expects performance of your promises.

Boling.

Master Hume, we are therefore provided. Will her ladyship behold and hear our exorcisms? 5

Hume.

Ay; what else? fear you not her courage.

Boling.

I have heard her reported to be a woman of 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.

Duch.

Well said, my masters, and welcome all. 16

To this gear the sooner the better.

Boling.

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; 20

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 hallow’d verge. 25

[Here they perform the ceremonies belonging, and make the circle; Bolingbroke, or Southwell reads, Conjuro te, &c. It thunders and lightens terribly; then the Spirit riseth.

Spir.

Adsum.

M. Jourd.

Asmath!

By the eternal God, whose name and power 28

Thou tremblest at, answer that I shall ask;

For till thou speak, thou shalt not pass from hence.

Spir.

Ask what thou wilt. That I had said and done!

Boling.

First, of the king: what shall of him become? 32

Spir.

The Duke yet lives that Henry shall depose;

But him outlive, and die a violent death.

[As the Spirit speaks, Southwell writes the answers.

Boling.

What fate awaits the Duke of Suffolk?

Spir.

By water shall he die and take his end.

Boling.

What shall befall the Duke of Somerset? 37

Spir.

Let him shun castles:

Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains

Than where castles mounted stand. 40

Have done, for more I hardly can endure.

Boling.

Descend to darkness and the burning lake!

False fiend, avoid!

[Thunder and lightning. Spirit descends.

Enter York and Buckingham, hastily, with their Guards, and Others.

York.

Lay hands upon these traitors and their trash. 44

Beldam, I think we watch’d 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, 48

See you well guerdon’d for these good deserts.

Duch.

Not half so bad as thine to England’s king,

Injurious duke, that threat’st where is no cause.

Buck.

True, madam, none at all. What call you this?

[Showing her the papers.

Away with them! let them be clapp’d up close 53

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. 56

All, away!

[Exeunt Southwell, Bolingbroke, &c., guarded.

York.

Lord Buckingham, methinks you watch’d her well:

A pretty plot, well chosen to build upon!

Now, pray, my lord, let’s see the devil’s writ. 60

What have we here?

The duke yet lives that Henry shall depose;

But him outlive, and die a violent death.

Why, this is just, 64

Aio te, Æacida, 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. 68

What shall betide the Duke of Somerset?

Let him shun castles:

Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains

Than where castles mounted stand. 72

Come, come, my lords; these oracles

Are hardly attain’d, and hardly understood.

The king is now in progress towards Saint Alban’s;

With him, the husband of this lovely lady: 76

Thither go these news as fast as horse can carry them,

A sorry breakfast for my Lord Protector.

Buck.

Your Grace shall give me leave, my Lord of York,

To be the post, in hope of his reward. 80

York.

At your pleasure, my good lord. Who’s within there, ho!

Enter a Serving-man.

Invite my Lords of Salisbury and Warwick

To sup with me to-morrow night. Away!

[Flourish. Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— St. Alban’s.

Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret, Gloucester, Cardinal Beaufort, and Suffolk, with Falconers, hollaing.

Q. Mar.

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. 4

K. Hen.

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. 8

Suf.

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.

Glo.

My lord, ’tis but a base ignoble mind 13

That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.

Car.

I thought as much; he’d be above the clouds.

Glo.

Ay, my Lord Cardinal; how think you by that? 16

Were it not good your Grace could fly to heaven?

K. Hen.

The treasury of everlasting joy.

Car.

Thy heaven is on earth; thine eyes and thoughts

Beat on a crown, the treasure of thy heart; 20

Pernicious protector, dangerous peer,

That smooth’st it so with king and commonweal!

Glo.

What! cardinal, is your priesthood grown peremptory?

Tantæne animis cœlestibus iræ? 24

Churchmen so hot? good uncle, hide such malice;

With such holiness can you do it?

Suf.

No malice, sir; no more than well becomes

So good a quarrel and so bad a peer. 28

Glo.

As who, my lord?

Suf.

Why, as you, my lord,

An’t like your lordly lord-protectorship.

Glo.

Why, Suffolk, England knows thine insolence.

Q. Mar.

And thy ambition, Gloucester.

K. Hen.

I prithee, peace, 32

Good queen, and whet not on these furious peers;

For blessed are the peacemakers on earth.

Car.

Let me be blessed for the peace I make

Against this proud protector with my sword! 36

Glo.

[Aside to the Cardinal.] Faith, holy uncle, would ’twere come to that!

Car.

[Aside to Gloucester.] Marry, when thou dar’st.

Glo.

[Aside to the Cardinal.] Make up no factious numbers for the matter;

In thine own person answer thy abuse. 40

Car.

[Aside to Gloucester.] Ay, where thou dar’st not peep: an if thou dar’st,

This evening on the east side of the grove.

K. Hen.

How now, my lords!

Car.

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. 45

Glo.

True, uncle.

Car.

Are you advis’d? [Aside to Gloucester] the east side of the grove.

Glo.

[Aside to the Cardinal.] Cardinal, I am with you. 48

K. Hen.

Why, how now, uncle Gloucester!

Glo.

Talking of hawking; nothing else, my lord.—

[Aside to the Cardinal.] Now, by God’s mother, priest, I’ll shave your crown

For this, or all my fence shall fail. 52

Car.

[Aside to Gloucester.] Medice teipsum;

Protector, see to’t well, protect yourself.

K. Hen.

The winds grow high; so do your stomachs, lords.

How irksome is this music to my heart! 56

When such strings jar, what hope of harmony?

I pray, my lords, let me compound this strife.

Enter One, crying, ‘A Miracle.’

Glo.

What means this noise?

Fellow, what miracle dost thou proclaim? 60

One.

A miracle! a miracle!

Suf.

Come to the king, and tell him what miracle.

One.

Forsooth, a blind man at Saint Alban’s shrine,

Within this half hour hath receiv’d his sight; 64

A man that ne’er saw in his life before.

K. Hen.

Now, God be prais’d, that to believing souls

Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair!

Enter the Mayor of Saint Alban’s, and his Brethren, and Simpcox, borne between two persons in a chair; his Wife and a great multitude following.

Car.

Here comes the townsmen on procession,

To present your highness with the man. 69

K. Hen.

Great is his comfort in this earthly vale,

Although by his sight his sin be multiplied.

Glo.

Stand by, my masters; bring him near the king: 72

His highness’ pleasure is to talk with him.

K. Hen.

Good fellow, tell us here the circumstance,

That we for thee may glorify the Lord.

What! hast thou been long blind, and now restor’d? 76

Simp.

Born blind, an’t please your Grace.

Wife.

Ay, indeed, was he.

Suf.

What woman is this?

Wife.

His wife, an’t like your worship. 80

Glo.

Hadst thou been his mother, thou couldst have better told.

K. Hen.

Where wert thou born?

Simp.

At Berwick in the north, an’t like your Grace.

K. Hen.

Poor soul! God’s goodness hath been great to thee: 84

Let never day nor night unhallow’d pass,

But still remember what the Lord hath done.

Q. Mar.

Tell me, good fellow, cam’st thou here by chance,

Or of devotion, to this holy shrine? 88

Simp.

God knows, of pure devotion; being call’d

A hundred times and oft’ner 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 93

Myself have heard a voice to call him so.

Car.

What! art thou lame?

Simp.

Ay, God Almighty help me!

Suf.

How cam’st thou so?

Simp.

A fall off of a tree. 96

Wife.

A plum-tree, master.

Glo.

How long hast thou been blind?

Simp.

O! born so, master.

Glo.

What! and wouldst climb a tree?

Simp.

But that in all my life, when I was a youth.

Wife.

Too true; and bought his climbing very dear. 100

Glo.

Mass, thou lov’dst plums well, that wouldst venture so.

Simp.

Alas! master, my wife desir’d some damsons,

And made me climb with danger of my life.

Glo.

A subtle knave! but yet it shall not serve.

Let me see thine eyes: wink now: now open them: 105

In my opinion yet thou seest not well.

Simp.

Yes, master, clear as day; I thank God and Saint Alban.

Glo.

Sayst thou me so? What colour is this cloak of? 108

Simp.

Red, master; red as blood.

Glo.

Why, that’s well said. What colour is my gown of?

Simp.

Black, forsooth; coal-black, as jet.

K. Hen.

Why then, thou know’st what colour jet is of? 112

Suf.

And yet, I think, jet did he never see.

Glo.

But cloaks and gowns before this day a many.

Wife.

Never, before this day, in all his life.

Glo.

Tell me, sirrah, what’s my name? 116

Simp.

Alas! master, I know not.

Glo.

What’s his name?

Simp.

I know not.

Glo.

Nor his? 120

Simp.

No, indeed, master.

Glo.

What’s thine own name?

Simp.

Saunder Simpcox, an if it please you, master.

Glo.

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 that cunning to be great, that could restore this cripple to his legs again?

Simp.

O, master, that you could! 133

Glo.

My masters of Saint Alban’s, have you not beadles in your town, and things called whips? 136

May.

Yes, my lord, if it please your Grace.

Glo.

Then send for one presently.

May.

Sirrah, go fetch the beadle hither straight.

[Exit an Attendant.

Glo.

Now fetch me a stool hither by and by.

[A stool brought out.] Now, sirrah, if you mean to save yourself from whipping, leap me over this stool and run away.

Simp.

Alas! master, I am not able to stand alone: 144

You go about to torture me in vain.

Re-enter Attendant, and a Beadle with a whip.

Glo.

Well, sir, we must have you find your legs. Sirrah beadle, whip him till he leap over that same stool. 148

Bead.

I will, my lord. Come on, sirrah; off with your doublet quickly.

Simp.

Alas! master, what shall I do? I am not able to stand. 152

[After the Beadle hath hit him once, he leaps over the stool, and runs away: and the people follow and cry, ‘A miracle!’

K. Hen.

O God! seest thou this, and bear’st so long?

Q. Mar.

It made me laugh to see the villain run.

Glo.

Follow the knave; and take this drab away.

Wife.

Alas! sir, we did it for pure need. 156

Glo.

Let them be whipp’d through every market town

Till they come to Berwick, from whence they came.

[Exeunt Mayor, Beadle, Wife, &c.

Car.

Duke Humphrey has done a miracle to-day.

Suf.

True; made the lame to leap and fly away. 160

Glo.

But you have done more miracles than I;

You made in a day, my lord, whole towns to fly.

Enter Buckingham.

K. Hen.

What tidings with our cousin Buckingham?

Buck.

Such as my heart doth tremble to unfold. 164

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, 168

Have practis’d dangerously against your state,

Dealing with witches and with conjurers:

Whom we have apprehended in the fact;

Raising up wicked spirits from under-ground,

Demanding of King Henry’s life and death, 173

And other of your highness’ privy council,

As more at large your Grace shall understand.

Car.

And so, my Lord Protector, by this means

Your lady is forthcoming yet at London. 177

This news, I think, hath turn’d your weapon’s edge;

’Tis like, my lord, you will not keep your hour.

Glo.

Ambitious churchman, leave to afflict my heart: 180

Sorrow and grief have vanquish’d all my powers;

And, vanquish’d as I am, I yield to thee,

Or to the meanest groom.

K. Hen.

O God! what mischiefs work the wicked ones, 184

Heaping confusion on their own heads thereby.

Q. Mar.

Gloucester, see here the tainture of thy nest;

And look thyself be faultless, thou wert best.

Glo.

Madam, for myself, to heaven I do appeal,

How I have lov’d my king and commonweal; 189

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 192

Honour and virtue, and convers’d 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, 196

That hath dishonour’d Gloucester’s honest name.

K. Hen.

Well, for this night we will repose us here:

To-morrow toward London back again,

To look into this business thoroughly, 200

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.

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, 4

Which is infallible to England’s crown.

Sal.

My lord, I long to hear it at full.

War.

Sweet York, begin; and if thy claim be good,

The Nevils are thy subjects to command. 8

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 13

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; 16

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, reign’d as king; 20

Till Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster,

The eldest son and heir of John of Gaunt,

Crown’d by the name of Henry the Fourth,

Seiz’d on the realm, depos’d the rightful king, 24

Sent his poor queen to France, from whence she came,

And him to Pomfret; where as all you know,

Harmless Richard was murder’d traitorously.

War.

Father, the duke hath told the truth;

Thus got the house of Lancaster the crown. 29

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 reign’d. 32

Sal.

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: 37

Roger had issue Edmund, Anne, and Eleanor.

Sal.

This Edmund, in the reign of Bolingbroke,

As I have read, laid claim unto the crown; 40

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, 44

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 48

Of Edmund Mortimer; who married Philippe,

Sole daughter unto Lionel, Duke of Clarence:

So, if the issue of the eldest son

Succeed before the younger, I am king. 52

War.

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: 56

It fails not yet, but flourishes in thee,

And in thy sons, fair slips of such a stock.

Then, father Salisbury, kneel we together,

And in this private plot be we the first 60

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! But I am not your king 64

Till I be crown’d, and that my sword be stain’d

With heart-blood of the house of Lancaster;

And that’s not suddenly to be perform’d,

But with advice and silent secrecy. 68

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, 72

Till they have snar’d the shepherd of the flock,

That virtuous prince, the good Duke Humphrey:

’Tis that they seek; and they, in seeking that

Shall find their deaths, if York can prophesy. 76

Sal.

My lord, break we off; we know your mind at full.

War.

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, 80

Richard shall live to make the Earl of Warwick

The greatest man in England but the king.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. A Hall of Justice.

Trumpets sounded. Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret, Gloucester, York, Suffolk, and Salisbury; the Duchess of Gloucester, Margery Jourdain, Southwell, Hume, and Bolingbroke, under guard.

K. Hen.

Stand forth, Dame Eleanor Cobham, Gloucester’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 adjudg’d to death. 4

You four, from hence to prison back again;

From thence, unto the place of execution:

The witch in Smithfield shall be burn’d to ashes,

And you three shall be strangled on the gallows.

You, madam, for you are more nobly born, 9

Despoiled of your honour in your life,

Shall, after three days’ open penance done,

Live in your country here, in banishment, 12

With Sir John Stanley, in the Isle of Man.

Duch.

Welcome is banishment; welcome were my death.

Glo.

Eleanor, the law, thou seest, hath judged thee:

I cannot justify whom the law condemns.— 16

[Exeunt the 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; 20

Sorrow would solace and mine age would ease.

K. Hen.

Stay, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester: ere thou go,

Give up thy staff: Henry will to himself

Protector be; and God shall be my hope, 24

My stay, my guide, and lantern to my feet.

And go in peace, Humphrey; no less belov’d

Than when thou wert protector to thy king.

Q. Mar.

I see no reason why a king of years 28

Should be to be protected like a child.

God and King Henry govern England’s helm!

Give up your staff, sir, and the king his realm.

Glo.

My staff! here, noble Henry, is my staff: 32

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. 36

Farewell, good king! when I am dead and gone,

May honourable peace attend thy throne.

[Exit.

Q. Mar.

Why, now is Henry king, and Margaret queen;

And Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, scarce himself, 40

That bears so shrewd a maim: two pulls at once;

His lady banish’d, and a limb lopp’d off;

This staff of honour raught: there let it stand,

Where it best fits to be, in Henry’s hand. 44

Suf.

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; 48

And ready are the appellant and defendant,

The armourer and his man, to enter the lists,

So please your highness to behold the fight.

Q. Mar.

Ay, good my lord; for purposely therefore 52

Left I the court, to see this quarrel tried.

K. Hen.

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, 56

Or more afraid to fight, than is the appellant,

The servant of this armourer, my lords.

Enter, on one side, Horner, and his Neighbours drinking to him so much that he is drunk; and he enters bearing his staff with a sand-bag fastened to it; a drum before him: on the other side, Peter, with a drum and a sand-bag; and Prentices drinking to him.

First Neigh.

Here, neighbour Horner, I drink to you in a cup of sack: and fear not, neighbour, you shall do well enough. 61

Sec. Neigh.

And here, neighbour, here’s a cup of charneco.

Third Neigh.

And here’s a pot of good double beer, neighbour: drink, and fear not your man.

Hor.

Let it come, i’ faith, and I’ll pledge you all; and a fig for Peter! 68

First Pren.

Here, Peter, I drink to thee; and be not afraid.

Sec. Pren.

Be merry, Peter, and fear not thy master: fight for credit of the prentices. 72

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. 80

Sal.

Come, leave your drinking and fall to blows. Sirrah, what’s thy name?

Peter.

Peter, forsooth.

Sal.

Peter! what more? 84

Peter.

Thump.

Sal.

Thump! then see thou thump thy master well.

Hor.

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! 94

York.

Dispatch: this knave’s tongue begins to double.

Sound, trumpets, alarum to the combatants.

[Alarum. They fight, and Peter strikes down his Master.

Hor.

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. 100

Peter.

O God! have I overcome mine enemies in this presence? O Peter! thou hast prevailed in right!

K. Hen.

Go, take hence that traitor from our sight; 104

For by his death we do perceive his guilt:

And God in justice hath reveal’d to us

The truth and innocence of this poor fellow,

Which he had thought to have murder’d wrongfully. 108

Come, fellow, follow us for thy reward.

[Sound a flourish. Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. A Street.

Enter Gloucester and Serving-men, in mourning cloaks.

Glo.

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. 4

Sirs, what’s o’clock?

Serv.

Ten, my lord.

Glo.

Ten is the hour that was appointed me

To watch the coming of my punish’d duchess:

Uneath may she endure the flinty streets, 8

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 still laughing at thy shame,

That erst did follow thy proud chariot wheels 13

When thou didst ride in triumph through the streets.

But, soft! I think she comes; and I’ll prepare

My tear-stain’d eyes to see her miseries. 16

Enter the Duchess of Gloucester, with papers pinned upon her back, in a white sheet, her feet bare, and a taper burning in her hand; Sir John Stanley, a Sheriff, and Officers.

Serv.

So please your Grace, we’ll take her from the sheriff.

Glo.

No, stir not, for your lives; let her pass by.

Duch.

Come you, my lord, to see my open shame?

Now thou dost penance too. Look! how they gaze. 20

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, 24

And ban thine enemies, both mine and thine!

Glo.

Be patient, gentle Nell; forget this grief.

Duch.

Ay, Gloucester, teach me to forget myself;

For whilst I think I am thy wedded wife, 28

And thou a prince, protector of this land,

Methinks I should not thus be led along,

Mail’d up in shame, with papers on my back,

And follow’d with a rabble that rejoice 32

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. 36

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. 41

Sometime I’ll say, I am Duke Humphrey’s wife;

And he a prince and ruler of the land:

Yet so he rul’d and such a prince he was 44

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 49

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, 52

And York, and impious Beaufort, that false priest,

Have all lim’d bushes to betray thy wings;

And, fly thou how thou canst, they’ll tangle thee:

But fear not thou, until thy foot be snar’d, 56

Nor never seek prevention of thy foes.

Glo.

Ah, Nell! forbear: thou aimest all awry;

I must offend before I be attainted;

And had I twenty times so many foes, 60

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? 64

Why, yet thy scandal were not wip’d 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; 68

These few days’ wonder will be quickly worn.

Enter a Herald.

Her.

I summon your Grace to his majesty’s parliament, holden at Bury the first of this next month. 72

Glo.

And my consent ne’er ask’d 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. 76

Sher.

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.

Glo

Must you, Sir John, protect my lady here? 80

Stan.

So am I given in charge, may’t please your Grace.

Glo.

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 84

You do it her: and so, Sir John, farewell.

Duch.

What! gone, my lord, and bid me not farewell!

Glo.

Witness my tears, I cannot stay to speak.

[Exeunt Gloucester and Serving-men.

Duch.

Art thou gone too? All comfort go with thee! 88

For none abides with me: my joy is death;

Death, at whose name I oft have been afear’d,

Because I wish’d this world’s eternity.

Stanley, I prithee, go, and take me hence; 92

I care not whither, for I beg no favour,

Only convey me where thou art commanded.

Stan.

Why, madam, that is to the Isle of Man;

There to be us’d according to your state. 96

Duch.

That’s bad enough, for I am but reproach:

And shall I then be us’d reproachfully?

Stan.

Like to a duchess, and Duke Humphrey’s lady:

According to that state you shall be us’d. 100

Duch.

Sheriff, farewell, and better than I fare,

Although thou hast been conduct of my shame.

Sher.

It is my office; and, madam, pardon me.

Duch.

Ay, ay, farewell; thy office is discharg’d. 104

Come, Stanley, shall we go?

Stan.

Madam, your penance done, throw off this sheet,

And go we to attire you for our journey.

Duch.

My shame will not be shifted with my sheet: 108

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 to the Parliament, King Henry, Queen Margaret, Cardinal Beaufort, Suffolk, York, Buckingham, and Others.

K. Hen.

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.

Q. Mar.

Can you not see? or will ye not observe 4

The strangeness of his alter’d countenance?

With what a majesty he bears himself,

How insolent of late he is become,

How proud, how peremptory, and unlike himself? 8

We know the time since he was mild and affable,

An if we did but glance a far-off look,

Immediately he was upon his knee,

That all the court admir’d him for submission:

But meet him now, and, be it in the morn, 13

When everyone will give the time of day,

He knits his brow and shows an angry eye,

And passeth by with stiff unbowed knee, 16

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. 20

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, 24

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, 28

And when he please to make commotion,

’Tis to be fear’d they all will follow him.

Now ’tis the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted;

Suffer them now and they’ll o’ergrow the garden, 32

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, call it a woman’s fear; 36

Which fear if better reasons can supplant,

I will subscribe and say I wrong’d the duke.

My Lord of Suffolk, Buckingham, and York,

Reprove my allegation if you can 40

Or else conclude my words effectual.

Suf.

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. 44

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, 48

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. 52

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 sov’reign; Gloucester is a man 56

Unsounded yet, and full of deep deceit.

Car.

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.

Buck.

Tut! these are petty faults to faults unknown, 64

Which time will bring to light in smooth Duke Humphrey.

K. Hen.

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, 68

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 72

To dream on evil, or to work my downfall.

Q. Mar.

Ah! what’s more dangerous than this fond affiance!

Seems he a dove? his feathers are but borrow’d,

For he’s disposed as the hateful raven: 76

Is he a lamb? his skin is surely lent him,

For he’s inclin’d as is the ravenous wolf.

Who cannot steal a shape that means deceit?

Take heed, my lord; the welfare of us all 80

Hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man.

Enter Somerset.

Som.

All health unto my gracious sovereign!

K. Hen.

Welcome, Lord Somerset. What news from France?

Som.

That all your interest in those territories

Is utterly bereft you; all is lost. 85

K. Hen.

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. 88

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. 92

Enter Gloucester.

Glo.

All happiness unto my lord the king!

Pardon, my liege, that I have stay’d so long.

Suf.

Nay, Gloucester, know that thou art come too soon,

Unless thou wert more loyal than thou art: 96

I do arrest thee of high treason here.

Glo.

Well, Suffolk’s duke, thou shalt not see me blush,

Nor change my countenance for this arrest:

A heart unspotted is not easily daunted. 100

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.

’Tis thought, my lord, that you took bribes of France, 104

And, being protector, stay’d the soldiers’ pay;

By means whereof his highness hath lost France.

Glo.

Is it but thought so? What are they that think it?

I never robb’d the soldiers of their pay, 108

Nor ever had one penny bribe from France.

So help me God, as I have watch’d the night,

Ay, night by night, in studying good for England,

That doit that e’er I wrested from the king, 112

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 disbursed to the garrisons, 117

And never ask’d for restitution.

Car.

It serves you well, my lord, to say so much.

Glo.

I say no more than truth, so help me God! 120

York.

In your protectorship you did devise

Strange tortures for offenders, never heard of,

That England was defam’d by tyranny.

Glo.

Why, ’tis well known that, whiles I was protector, 124

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 murderer, 128

Or foul felonious thief that fleec’d poor passengers,

I never gave them condign punishment:

Murder, indeed, that bloody sin, I tortur’d

Above the felon or what trespass else. 132

Suf.

My lord, these faults are easy, quickly answer’d:

But mightier crimes are laid unto your charge,

Whereof you cannot easily purge yourself.

I do arrest you in his highness’ name; 136

And here commit you to my Lord Cardinal

To keep until your further time of trial.

K. Hen.

My Lord of Gloucester, ’tis my special hope

That you will clear yourself from all suspect: 140

My conscience tells me you are innocent.

Glo.

Ah! gracious lord, these days are dangerous.

Virtue is chok’d with foul ambition,

And charity chas’d hence by rancour’s hand; 144

Foul subornation is predominant,

And equity exil’d 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, 149

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. 153

Beaufort’s red sparkling eyes blab his heart’s malice,

And Suffolk’s cloudy brow his stormy hate;

Sharp Buckingham unburdens with his tongue

The envious load that lies upon his heart; 157

And dogged York, that reaches at the moon,

Whose overweening arm I have pluck’d back,

By false accuse doth level at my life: 160

And you, my sov’reign lady, with the rest,

Causeless have laid disgraces on my head,

And with your best endeavour have stirr’d up

My liefest liege to be mine enemy. 164

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; 169

The ancient proverb will be well effected:

‘A staff is quickly found to beat a dog.’

Car.

My liege, his railing is intolerable. 172

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, 176

’Twill make them cool in zeal unto your Grace.

Suf.

Hath he not twit our sovereign lady here

With ignominious words, though clerkly couch’d,

As if she had suborned some to swear 180

False allegations to o’erthrow his state?

Q. Mar.

But I can give the loser leave to chide.

Glo.

Far truer spoke than meant: I lose, indeed;

Beshrew the winners, for they play’d me false!

And well such losers may have leave to speak.

Buck.

He’ll wrest the sense and hold us here all day.

Lord Cardinal, he is your prisoner.

Car.

Sirs, take away the duke, and guard him sure. 188

Glo.

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. 192

Ah! that my fear were false, ah! that it were;

For, good King Henry, thy decay I fear.

[Exeunt Attendants with Gloucester.

K. Hen.

My lords, what to your wisdoms seemeth best

Do or undo, as if ourself were here. 196

Q. Mar.

What! will your highness leave the parliament?

K. Hen.

Ay, Margaret; my heart is drown’d with grief,

Whose flood begins to flow within mine eyes,

My body round engirt with misery, 200

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 prov’d thee false, or fear’d thy faith.

What low’ring star now envies thy estate,

That these great lords, and Margaret our queen,

Do seek subversion of thy harmless life? 208

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, 212

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 Gloucester’s case,

With sad unhelpful tears, and with dimm’d eyes

Look after him, and cannot do him good;

So mighty are his vowed enemies. 220

His fortunes I will weep; and, ’twixt each groan,

Say ‘Who’s a traitor, Gloucester he is none.’

[Exit.

Q. Mar.

Fair lords, cold snow melts with the sun’s hot beams.

Henry my lord is cold in great affairs, 224

Too full of foolish pity; and Gloucester’s show

Beguiles him as the mournful crocodile

With sorrow snares relenting passengers;

Or as the snake, roll’d in a flow’ring bank, 228

With shining checker’d 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,— 232

This Gloucester should be quickly rid the world,

To rid us from the fear we have of him.

Car.

That he should die is worthy policy;

And yet we want a colour for his death. 236

’Tis meet he be condemn’d by course of law.

Suf.

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; 240

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.

Suf.

Ah! York, no man alive so fain as I. 244

York.

’Tis 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 248

To guard the chicken from a hungry kite,

As place Duke Humphrey for the king’s protector?

Q. Mar.

So the poor chicken should be sure of death.

Suf.

Madam, ’tis true: and were’t not madness, then, 252

To make the fox surveyor of the fold?

Who, being accus’d a crafty murderer,

His guilt should be but idly posted over

Because his purpose is not executed. 256

No; let him die, in that he is a fox,

By nature prov’d an enemy to the flock,

Before his chaps be stain’d with crimson blood,

As Humphrey, prov’d by reasons, to my liege.

And do not stand on quillets how to slay him:

Be it by gins, by snares, by subtilty,

Sleeping or waking, ’tis no matter how,

So he be dead; for that is good deceit 264

Which mates him first that first intends deceit.

Q. Mar.

Thrice noble Suffolk, ’tis resolutely spoke.

Suf.

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. 272

Car.

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; 276

I tender so the safety of my liege.

Suf.

Here is my hand, the deed is worthy doing.

Q. Mar.

And so say I.

York.

And I: and now we three have spoke it, 280

It skills not greatly who impugns our doom.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

Great lords, from Ireland am I come amain,

To signify that rebels there are up,

And put the Englishmen unto the sword. 284

Send succours, lords, and stop the rage betime,

Before the wound do grow uncurable;

For, being green, there is great hope of help.

Car.

A breach that craves a quick expedient stop! 288

What counsel give you in this weighty cause?

York.

That Somerset be sent as regent thither.

’Tis meet that lucky ruler be employ’d;

Witness the fortune he hath had in France. 292

Som.

If York, with all his far-fet policy,

Had been the regent there instead of me,

He never would have stay’d in France so long.

York.

No, not to lose it all, as thou hast done: 296

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 character’d on thy skin: 300

Men’s flesh preserv’d so whole do seldom win.

Q. Mar.

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 prov’d far worse than his.

York.

What! worse than nought? nay, then a shame take all.

Som.

And in the number thee, that wishest shame. 308

Car.

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, 312

Collected choicely, from each county some,

And try your hap against the Irishmen?

York.

I will, my lord, so please his majesty.

Suf.

Why, our authority is his consent, 316

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. 320

Suf.

A charge, Lord York, that I will see perform’d.

But now return we to the false Duke Humphrey.

Car.

No more of him; for I will deal with him

That henceforth he shall trouble us no more. 324

And so break off; the day is almost spent.

Lord Suffolk, you and I must talk of that event.

York.

My Lord of Suffolk, within fourteen days

At Bristol I expect my soldiers; 328

For there I’ll ship them all for Ireland.

Suf.

I’ll see it truly done, my Lord of York.

[Exeunt all except York.

York.

Now, York, or never, steel thy fearful thoughts,

And change misdoubt to resolution: 332

Be that thou hop’st to be, or what thou art

Resign to death; it is not worth the enjoying.

Let pale-fac’d fear keep with the mean-born man,

And find no harbour in a royal heart. 336

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. 340

Well, nobles, well; ’tis politicly done,

To send me packing with a host of men:

I fear me you but warm the starved snake,

Who, cherish’d in your breasts, will sting your hearts. 344

’Twas men I lack’d, and you will give them me:

I take it kindly; yet be well assur’d

You put sharp weapons in a madman’s hands.

Whiles I in Ireland nourish a mighty band, 348

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, 352

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 seduc’d a headstrong Kentishman, 356

John Cade of Ashford,

To make commotion, as full well he can,

Under the title of John Mortimer.

In Ireland have I seen this stubborn Cade 360

Oppose himself against a troop of kerns,

And fought so long, till that his thighs with darts

Were almost like a sharp-quill’d porpentine:

And, in the end being rescu’d, I have seen 364

Him caper upright like a wild Morisco,

Shaking the bloody darts as he his bells.

Full often, like a shag-hair’d crafty kern,

Hath he conversed with the enemy, 368

And undiscover’d come to me again,

And given me notice of their villanies.

This devil here shall be my substitute;

For that John Mortimer, which now is dead, 372

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, rack’d, and tortured, 376

I know no pain they can inflict upon him

Will make him say I mov’d him to those arms.

Say that he thrive,—as ’tis great like he will,—

Why, then from Ireland come I with my strength, 380

And reap the harvest which that rascal sow’d;

For, Humphrey being dead, as he shall be,

And Henry put apart, the next for me.

[Exit.

Scene II.— Bury St. Edmund’s. A Room in the Palace.

Enter certain Murderers, hastily.

First Mur.

Run to my Lord of Suffolk; let him know

We have dispatch’d the duke, as he commanded.

Sec. Mur.

O! that it were to do. What have we done?

Didst ever hear a man so penitent? 4

Enter Suffolk.

First Mur.

Here comes my lord.

Suf.

Now, sirs, have you dispatch’d this thing?

First Mur.

Ay, my good lord, he’s dead.

Suf.

Why, that’s well said. Go, get you to my house; 8

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? 12

First Mur.

’Tis, my good lord.

Suf.

Away! be gone.

[Exeunt Murderers.

Sound trumpets. Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret, Cardinal Beaufort, Somerset, Lords, and Others.

K. Hen.

Go, call our uncle to our presence straight;

Say, we intend to try his Grace to-day, 16

If he be guilty, as ’tis published.

Suf.

I’ll call him presently, my noble lord.

[Exit.

K. Hen.

Lords, take your places; and, I pray you all,

Proceed no straiter ’gainst our uncle Gloucester

Than from true evidence, of good esteem, 21

He be approv’d in practice culpable.

Q. Mar.

God forbid any malice should prevail

That faultless may condemn a nobleman! 24

Pray God, he may acquit him of suspicion!

K. Hen.

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? 28

Suf.

Dead in his bed, my lord; Gloucester is dead.

Q. Mar.

Marry, God forfend!

Car.

God’s secret judgment: I did dream to-night

The duke was dumb, and could not speak a word.

[The King swoons.

Q. Mar.

How fares my lord? Help, lords! the king is dead. 33

Som.

Rear up his body; wring him by the nose.

Q. Mar.

Run, go, help, help! O Henry, ope thine eyes!

Suf.

He doth revive again. Madam, be patient. 36

K. Hen.

O heavenly God!

Q. Mar.

How fares my gracious lord?

Suf.

Comfort, my sovereign! grocious Henry, comfort!

K. Hen.

What! doth my Lord of Suffolk comfort me?

Came he right now to sing a raven’s note, 40

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? 44

Hide not thy poison with such sugar’d 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! 48

Upon thy eyeballs murderous 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, 52

And kill the innocent gazer with thy sight;

For in the shade of death I shall find joy,

In life but double death, now Gloucester’s dead.

Q. Mar.

Why do you rate my Lord of Suffolk thus? 56

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 60

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. 64

What know I how the world may deem of me?

For it is known we were but hollow friends:

It may be judg’d I made the duke away:

So shall my name with slander’s tongue be wounded, 68

And princes’ courts be fill’d with my reproach.

This get I by his death. Ay me, unhappy!

To be a queen, and crown’d with infamy!

K. Hen.

Ah! woe is me for Gloucester, wretched man. 72

Q. Mar.

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? 76

Be poisonous too and kill thy forlorn queen.

Is all thy comfort shut in Gloucester’s tomb?

Why, then, Dame Margaret was ne’er thy joy:

Erect his statua and worship it, 80

And make my image but an alehouse sign.

Was I for this nigh wrack’d upon the sea,

And twice by awkward wind from England’s bank

Drove back again unto my native clime? 84

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 curs’d the gentle gusts 88

And he that loos’d them forth their brazen caves;

And bid them blow towards England’s blessed shore,

Or turn our stern upon a dreadful rock?

Yet Æolus would not be a murderer, 92

But left that hateful office unto thee:

The pretty vaulting sea refus’d to drown me,

Knowing that thou wouldst have me drown’d on shore

With tears as salt as sea through thy unkindness: 96

The splitting rocks cower’d 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. 100

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 104

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 receiv’d it, 108

And so I wish’d 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 call’d them blind and dusky spectacles 112

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 116

When he to madding Dido would unfold

His father’s acts, commenc’d in burning Troy!

Am I not witch’d like her? or thou not false like him?

Ay me! I can no more. Die, Margaret! 120

For Henry weeps that thou dost live so long.

Noise within. Enter Warwick and Salisbury.

The Commons press to the door.

War.

It is reported, mighty sovereign,

That good Duke Humphrey trait’rously is murder’d

By Suffolk and the Cardinal Beaufort’s means.

The commons, like an angry hive of bees 125

That want their leader, scatter up and down,

And care not who they sting in his revenge.

Myself have calm’d their spleenful mutiny, 128

Until they hear the order of his death.

K. Hen.

That he is dead, good Warwick, ’tis too true;

But how he died God knows, not Henry.

Enter his chamber, view his breathless corpse,

And comment then upon his sudden death. 133

War.

That shall I do, my liege. Stay, Salisbury,

With the rude multitude till I return.

[Warwick goes into an inner chamber. Salisbury retires.

K. Hen.

O! Thou that judgest all things, stay my thoughts, 136

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. 140

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 deaf dumb trunk, 144

And with my fingers feel his hand unfeeling:

But all in vain are these mean obsequies,

And to survey his dead and earthly image

What were it but to make my sorrow greater?

Re-enter Warwick and Others bearing Gloucester’s body on a bed.

War.

Come hither, gracious sovereign, view this body. 149

K. Hen.

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. 152

War.

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 156

Upon the life of this thrice-famed duke.

Suf.

A dreadful oath, sworn with a solemn tongue!

What instance gives Lord Warwick for his vow?

War.

See how the blood is settled in his face.

Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost, 161

Of ashy semblance, meagre, pale, and bloodless,

Being all descended to the labouring heart;

Who, in the conflict that it holds with death, 164

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, 168

His eyeballs further out than when he liv’d,

Staring full ghastly like a strangled man;

His hair uprear’d, his nostrils stretch’d with struggling:

His hands abroad display’d, as one that grasp’d

And tugg’d for life, and was by strength subdu’d.

Look on the sheets, his hair, you see, is sticking;

His well-proportion’d beard made rough and rugged,

Like to the summer’s corn by tempest lodg’d.

It cannot be but he was murder’d here; 177

The least of all these signs were probable.

Suf.

Why, Warwick, who should do the duke to death?

Myself and Beaufort had him in protection; 180

And we, I hope, sir, are no murderers.

War.

But both of you were vow’d Duke Humphrey’s foes,

And you, forsooth, had the good duke to keep:

’Tis like you would not feast him like a friend,

And ’tis well seen he found an enemy. 185

Q. Mar.

Then you, belike, suspect these noblemen

As guilty of Duke Humphrey’s timeless death.

War.

Who finds the heifer dead, and bleeding fresh, 188

And sees fast by a butcher with an axe,

But will suspect ’twas he that made the slaughter?

Who finds the partridge in the puttock’s nest,

But may imagine how the bird was dead, 192

Although the kite soar with unbloodied beak?

Even so suspicious is this tragedy.

Q. Mar.

Are you the butcher, Suffolk? where’s your knife?

Is Beaufort term’d a kite? where are his talons?

Suf.

I wear no knife to slaughter sleeping men; 197

But here’s a vengeful sword, rusted with ease,

That shall be scoured in his rancorous heart

That slanders me with murder’s crimson badge.

Say, if thou dar’st, proud Lord of Warwickshire,

That I am faulty in Duke Humphrey’s death.

[Exeunt Cardinal Beaufort, Somerset, and Others.

War.

What dares not Warwick, if false Suffolk dare him?

Q. Mar.

He dares not calm his contumelious spirit, 204

Nor cease to be an arrogant controller,

Though Suffolk dare him twenty thousand times.

War.

Madam, be still, with reverence may I say;

For every word you speak in his behalf 208

Is slander to your royal dignity.

Suf.

Blunt-witted lord, ignoble in demeanour!

If ever lady wrong’d her lord so much,

Thy mother took into her blameful bed 212

Some stern untutor’d churl, and noble stock

Was graft with crab-tree slip; whose fruit thou art,

And never of the Nevils’ noble race.

War.

But that the guilt of murder bucklers thee, 216

And I should rob the deathsman of his fee,

Quitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames,

And that my sov’reign’s presence makes me mild,

I would, false murd’rous coward, on thy knee

Make thee beg pardon for thy passed speech, 221

And say it was thy mother that thou meant’st;

That thou thyself wast born in bastardy:

And after all this fearful homage done, 224

Give thee thy hire, and send thy soul to hell,

Pernicious blood-sucker of sleeping men.

Suf.

Thou shalt be waking while I shed thy blood,

If from this presence thou dar’st go with me.

War.

Away even now, or I will drag thee hence: 229

Unworthy though thou art, I’ll cope with thee,

And do some service to Duke Humphrey’s ghost.

[Exeunt Suffolk and Warwick.

K. Hen.

What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted! 232

Thrice is he arm’d that hath his quarrel just,

And he but naked, though lock’d up in steel,

Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.

Q. Mar.

What noise is this?

[A noise within.

Re-enter Suffolk and Warwick, with their weapons drawn.

K. Hen.

Why, how now, lords! your wrathful weapons drawn 237

Here in our presence! dare you be so bold?

Why, what tumultuous clamour have we here?

Suf.

The traitorous Warwick, with the men of Bury, 240

Set all upon me, mighty sovereign.

Noise of a crowd within. Re-enter Salisbury.

Sal.

[Speaking to those within.] 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, 245

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, 252

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 256

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, 260

It were but necessary you were wak’d,

Lest, being suffer’d 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, whe’r 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, 268

They say, is shamefully bereft of life.

Commons.

[Within.] An answer from the king, my Lord of Salisbury!

Suf.

’Tis like the commons, rude unpolish’d hinds,

Could send such message to their sovereign; 272

But you, my lord, were glad to be employ’d,

To show how quaint an orator you are:

But all the honour Salisbury hath won

Is that he was the lord ambassador, 276

Sent from a sort of tinkers to the king.

Commons.

[Within.] An answer from the king, or we will all break in!

K. Hen.

Go, Salisbury, and tell them all from me,

I thank them for their tender loving care; 280

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, 285

Whose far unworthy deputy I am,

He shall not breathe infection in this air

But three days longer, on the pain of death. 288

[Exit Salisbury.

Q. Mar.

O Henry! let me plead for gentle Suffolk.

K. Hen.

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. 292

Had I but said, I would have kept my word,

But when I swear, it is irrevocable.

[To Suffolk.] If after three days’ space thou here be’st found

On any ground that I am ruler of, 296

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 King Henry, Warwick, Lords, &c.

Q. Mar.

Mischance and sorrow go along with you! 300

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!

Suf.

Cease, gentle queen, these execrations,

And let thy Suffolk take his heavy leave.

Q. Mar.

Fie, coward woman and soft-hearted wretch!

Hast thou not spirit to curse thine enemy? 308

Suf.

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, 312

Deliver’d strongly through my fixed teeth,

With full as many signs of deadly hate,

As lean-fac’d Envy in her loathsome cave.

My tongue should stumble in mine earnest words; 316

Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint;

My hair be fix’d on end, as one distract;

Ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban:

And even now my burden’d 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 murdering basilisks! 324

Their softest touch as smart as lizard’s stings!

Their music frightful as the serpent’s hiss,

And boding screech-owls make the concert full!

All the foul terrors in dark-seated hell— 328

Q. Mar.

Enough, sweet Suffolk; thou torment’st thyself;

And these dread curses, like the sun ’gainst glass,

Or like an over-charged gun, recoil,

And turn the force of them upon thyself. 332

Suf.

You bade me ban, and will you bid me leave?

Now, by the ground that I am banish’d from,

Well could I curse away a winter’s night,

Though standing naked on a mountain top, 336

Where biting cold would never let grass grow,

And think it but a minute spent in sport.

Q. Mar.

O! let me entreat thee, cease! Give me thy hand,

That I may dew it with my mournful tears; 340

Nor let the rain of heaven wet this place,

To wash away my woeful monuments.

O! could this kiss be printed in thy hand,

[Kisses his hand.

That thou mightst think upon these by the seal,

Through whom a thousand sighs are breath’d for thee. 345

So, get thee gone, that I may know my grief;

’Tis but surmis’d whiles thou art standing by,

As one that surfeits thinking on a want. 348

I will repeal thee, or, be well assur’d,

Adventure to be banished myself;

And banished I am, if but from thee.

Go; speak not to me; even now be gone. 352

O! go not yet. Even thus two friends condemn’d

Embrace and kiss, and take ten thousand leaves,

Loather a hundred times to part than die.

Yet now farewell; and farewell life with thee!

Suf.

Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished,

Once by the king, and three times thrice by thee.

’Tis not the land I care for, wert thou thence;

A wilderness is populous enough, 360

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. 364

I can no more: live thou to joy thy life;

Myself to joy in nought but that thou liv’st.

Enter Vaux.

Q. Mar.

Whither goes Vaux so fast? what news, I prithee?

Vaux.

To signify unto his majesty 368

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: 376

And I am sent to tell his majesty

That even now he cries aloud for him.

Q. Mar.

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? 385

Now get thee hence: the king, thou know’st, is coming;

If thou be found by me thou art but dead.

Suf.

If I depart from thee I cannot live; 388

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, 392

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, 397

Or I should breathe it so into thy body,

And then it liv’d in sweet Elysium.

To die by thee, were but to die in jest; 400

From thee to die were torture more than death.

O! let me stay, befall what may befall!

Q. Mar.

Away! though parting be a fretful corsive,

It is applied to a deathful wound. 404

To France, sweet Suffolk: let me hear from thee;

For wheresoe’er thou art in this world’s globe,

I’ll have an Iris that shall find thee out.

Suf.

I go.

Q. Mar.

And take my heart with thee. 408

Suf.

A jewel, lock’d into the woefull’st cask

That ever did contain a thing of worth.

Even as a splitted bark, so sunder we:

This way fall I to death.

Q. Mar.

This way for me. 412

[Exeunt severally.

Scene III.— London. Cardinal Beaufort’s Bedchamber.

Enter King Henry, Salisbury, Warwick, and Others. The Cardinal in bed; Attendants with him.

K. Hen.

How fares my lord? speak, Beaufort, to thy sovereign.

Car.

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. 4

K. Hen.

Ah! what a sign it is of evil life

Where death’s approach is seen so terrible.

War.

Beaufort, it is thy sov’reign speaks to thee.

Car.

Bring me unto my trial when you will. 8

Died he not in his bed? where should he die?

Can I make men live whe’r they will or no?

O! torture me no more, I will confess.

Alive again? then show me where he is: 12

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. 16

Give me some drink; and bid the apothecary

Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.

K. Hen.

O thou eternal Mover of the heavens!

Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch; 20

O! beat away the busy meddling fiend

That lays strong siege unto this wretch’s soul,

And from his bosom purge this black despair.

War.

See how the pangs of death do make him grin! 24

Sal.

Disturb him not! let him pass peaceably.

K. Hen.

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. 28

He dies, and makes no sign. O God, forgive him!

War.

So bad a death argues a monstrous life.

K. Hen.

Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.

Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close; 32

And let us all to meditation.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— Kent. The Seashore near Dover.

Firing heard at Sea. Then enter from a boat, a Captain, a Master, a Master’s-Mate, Walter Whitmore, and Others; with them Suffolk disguised, and other Gentlemen, prisoners.

Cap.

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; 4

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, 8

For, whilst our pinnace anchors in the Downs

Here shall they make their ransom on the sand,

Or with their blood stain this discolour’d shore.

Master, this prisoner freely give I thee: 12

And thou that art his mate make boot of this;

The other [Pointing to Suffolk], Walter Whitmore, is thy share.

First Gent.

What is my ransom, master? let me know.

Mast.

A thousand crowns, or else lay down your head. 16

Mate.

And so much shall you give, or off goes yours.

Cap.

What! think you much to pay two thousand crowns,

And bear the name and port of gentlemen?

Cut both the villains’ throats! for die you shall:

The lives of those which we have lost in fight 21

Cannot be counterpois’d with such a petty sum!

First Gent.

I’ll give it, sir; and therefore spare my life.

Sec. Gent.

And so will I, and write home for it straight. 24

Whit.

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.

Cap.

Be not so rash: take ransom; let him live. 28

Suf.

Look on my George; I am a gentleman:

Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid.

Whit.

And so am I; my name is Walter Whitmore.

How now! why start’st thou? what! doth death affright? 32

Suf.

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; 36

Thy name is—Gaultier, being rightly sounded.

Whit.

Gaultier, or Walter, which it is I care not;

Never yet did base dishonour blur our name

But with our sword we wip’d away the blot: 40

Therefore, when merchant-like I sell revenge,

Broke be my sword, my arms torn and defac’d,

And I proclaim’d a coward through the world!

[Lays hold on Suffolk.

Suf.

Stay, Whitmore; for thy prisoner is a prince, 44

The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Pole.

Whit.

The Duke of Suffolk muffled up in rags!

Suf.

Ay, but these rags are no part of the duke:

Jove sometimes went disguis’d, and why not I?

Cap.

But Jove was never slain, as thou shalt be. 49

Suf.

Obscure and lowly swain, King Henry’s blood,

The honourable blood of Lancaster,

Must not be shed by such a jaded groom. 52

Hast thou not kiss’d 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, 56

Fed from my trencher, kneel’d down at the board,

When I have feasted with Queen Margaret?

Remember it and let it make thee crest-fall’n;

Ay, and allay this thy abortive pride. 60

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.

Whit.

Speak, captain, shall I stab the forlorn swain? 65

Cap.

First let my words stab him, as he hath me.

Suf.

Base slave, thy words are blunt, and so art thou.

Cap.

Convey him hence, and on our longboat’s side 68

Strike off his head.

Suf.

Thou dar’st not for thy own.

Cap.

Yes, Pole.

Suf.

Pole!

Cap.

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 73

For swallowing the treasure of the realm:

Thy lips, that kiss’d the queen, shall sweep the ground;

And thou, that smil’dst at good Duke Humphrey’s death, 76

Against the senseless winds shall 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 80

Unto the daughter of a worthless king,

Having neither subject, wealth, nor diadem.

By devilish policy art thou grown great,

And, like ambitious Sylla, overgorg’d 84

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 88

Hath slain their governors, surpris’d our forts,

And sent the ragged soldiers wounded home.

The princely Warwick, and the Nevils all,

Whose dreadful swords were never drawn in vain, 92

As hating thee, are rising up in arms:

And now the house of York, thrust from the crown

By shameful murder of a guiltless king,

And lofty proud encroaching tyranny, 96

Burns with revenging fire; whose hopeful colours

Advance our half-fac’d sun, striving to shine,

Under the which is writ Invitis nubibus.

The commons here in Kent are up in arms; 100

And to conclude, reproach and beggary

Is crept into the palace of our king,

And all by thee. Away! convey him hence.

Suf.

O! that I were a god, to shoot forth thunder 104

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. 108

Drones suck not eagles’ blood, but rob beehives.

It is impossible that I should die

By such a lowly vassal as thyself.

Thy words move rage, and not remorse in me:

I go of message from the queen to France; 113

I charge thee, waft me safely cross the Channel.

Cap.

Walter!

Whit.

Come, Suffolk, I must waft thee to thy death. 116

Suf.

Gelidus timor occupat artus: ’tis thee I fear.

Whit.

Thou shalt have cause to fear before I leave thee.

What! are ye daunted now? now will ye stoop?

First Gent.

My gracious lord, entreat him, speak him fair. 120

Suf.

Suffolk’s imperial tongue is stern and rough,

Us’d to command, untaught to plead for favour.

Far be it we should honour such as these

With humble suit: no, rather let my head 124

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 uncover’d to the vulgar groom. 128

True nobility is exempt from fear:

More can I bear than you dare execute.

Cap.

Hale him away, and let him talk no more.

Suf.

Come, soldiers, show what cruelty ye can,

That this my death may never be forgot. 133

Great men oft die by vile bezonians.

A Roman sworder and banditto slave

Murder’d sweet Tully; Brutus’ bastard hand 136

Stabb’d Julius Cæsar; savage islanders

Pompey the Great; and Suffolk dies by pirates.

[Exit with Suffolk, Whitmore and Others.

Cap.

And as for these whose ransom we have set,

It is our pleasure one of them depart: 140

Therefore come you with us and let him go.

[Exeunt all but first Gentleman.

Re-enter Whitmore, with Suffolk’s body.

Whit.

There let his head and lifeless body lie,

Until the queen his mistress bury it.

[Exit.

First Gent.

O barbarous and bloody spectacle! 144

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.

Scene II.— Blackheath.

Enter George Bevis and John Holland.

Geo.

Come, and get thee a sword, though made of a lath: they have been up these two days.

John.

They have the more need to sleep now then. 5

Geo.

I tell thee, Jack Cade the clothier means to dress the commonwealth, and turn it, and set a new nap upon it. 8

John.

So he had need, for ’tis threadbare. Well, I say it was never merry world in England since gentlemen came up.

Geo.

O miserable age! Virtue is not regarded in handicrafts-men. 13

John.

The nobility think scorn to go in leather aprons.

Geo.

Nay, more; the king’s council are no good workmen. 17

John.

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. 21

Geo.

Thou hast hit it; for there’s no better sign of a brave mind than a hard hand.

John.

I see them! I see them! There’s Best’s son, the tanner of Wingham,— 25

Geo.

He shall have the skins of our enemies to make dog’s-leather of.

John.

And Dick the butcher,— 28

Geo.

Then is sin struck down like an ox, and iniquity’s throat cut like a calf.

John.

And Smith the weaver,—

Geo.

Argo, their thread of life is spun. 32

John.

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. 37

Cade.

For our enemies shall fall before us, inspired with the spirit of putting down kings and princes,—Command silence. 40

Dick.

Silence!

Cade.

My father was a Mortimer.—

Dick.

[Aside.] He was an honest man, and a good bricklayer. 44

Cade.

My mother a Plantagenet,—

Dick.

[Aside.] I knew her well; she was a midwife.

Cade.

My wife descended of the Lacies,— 48

Dick.

[Aside.] She was, indeed, a pedlar’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. 53

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. 60

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. 68

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 palfrey go to grass. And when I am king,—as king I will be,—

All.

God save your majesty! 80

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. 85

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, ’tis 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? 95

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! 100

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. 105

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? 109

Clerk.

Emmanuel.

Dick.

They use to write it on the top of letters. ’Twill go hard with you. 112

Cade.

Let me alone. Dost thou use to write thy name, or hast thou a mark to thyself, like an honest plain-dealing man?

Clerk.

Sir, I thank God, I have been so well brought up, that I can write my name. 117

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 ink-horn about his neck. 121

[Exeunt some with the Clerk.

Enter Michael.

Mich.

Where’s our general?

Cade.

Here I am, thou particular fellow.

Mich.

Fly, fly, fly! Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother are hard by, with the king’s forces. 126

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’?

Mich.

No.

Cade.

To equal him, I will make myself a knight presently. [Kneels.] Rise up Sir John Mortimer. [Rises.] Now have at him. 133

Enter Sir Humphrey Stafford and William his Brother, with drum and Forces.

Staf.

Rebellious hinds, the filth and scum of Kent,

Mark’d for the gallows, lay your weapons down;

Home to your cottages, forsake this groom: 136

The king is merciful, if you revolt.

W. Staf.

But angry, wrathful, and inclin’d to blood,

If you go forward: therefore yield, or die.

Cade.

As for these silken-coated slaves, I pass not: 140

It is to you, good people, that I speak,

O’er whom, in time to come I hope to reign;

For I am rightful heir unto the crown.

Staf.

Villain! thy father was a plasterer;

And thou thyself a shearman, art thou not? 145

Cade.

And Adam was a gardener.

W. Staf.

And what of that?

Cade.

Marry, this: Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, 148

Married the Duke of Clarence’ daughter, did he not?

Staf.

Ay, sir.

Cade.

By her he had two children at one birth.

W. Staf.

That’s false. 152

Cade.

Ay, there’s the question; but I say, ’tis true:

The elder of them, being put to nurse,

Was by a beggar-woman stol’n away;

And, ignorant of his birth and parentage, 156

Became a bricklayer when he came to age:

His son am I; deny it if you can.

Dick.

Nay, ’tis 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.

Staf.

And will you credit this base drudge’s words,

That speaks he knows not what? 164

All.

Ay, marry, will we; therefore get ye gone.

W Staf.

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. 172

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 a eunuch; and more than that, he can speak French; and therefore he is a traitor. 181

Staf.

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.

W. Staf.

Well, seeing gentle words will not prevail, 188

Assail them with the army of the king.

Staf.

Herald, away; and throughout every town

Proclaim them traitors that are up with Cade;

That those which fly before the battle ends 192

May, even in their wives’ and children’s sight,

Be hang’d up for example at their doors:

And you, that be the king’s friends, follow me.

[Exeunt the two Staffords and Forces.

Cade.

And you, that love the commons, follow me. 196

Now show yourselves men; ’tis 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 200

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! 204

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Another Part of Blackheath.

Alarums. The two parties enter and fight, and both the Staffords are slain.

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. 8

Dick.

I desire no more.

Cade.

And, to speak truth, thou deservest no less. This monument of the victory will I bear; [Puts on Sir Humphrey Stafford’s armour.] 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. 14

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.

Scene IV.— London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King Henry, reading a Supplication; the Duke of Buckingham and Lord Say with him: at a distance, Queen Margaret, mourning over Suffolk’s head.

Q. Mar.

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? 4

Here may his head lie on my throbbing breast;

But where’s the body that I should embrace?

Buck.

What answer makes your Grace to the rebels’ supplication? 8

K. Hen.

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, 12

Will parley with Jack Cade their general.

But stay, I’ll read it over once again.

Q. Mar.

Ah, barbarous villains! hath this lovely face

Rul’d like a wandering planet over me, 16

And could it not enforce them to relent,

That were unworthy to behold the same?

K. Hen.

Lord Say, Jack Cade hath sworn to have thy head.

Say.

Ay, but I hope your highness shall have his. 20

K. Hen.

How now, madam!

Still lamenting and mourning for Suffolk’s death?

I fear me, love, if that I had been dead,

Thou wouldest not have mourn’d so much for me. 24

Q. Mar.

No, my love; I should not mourn, but die for thee.

Enter a Messenger.

K. Hen.

How now! what news? why com’st thou in such haste?

Mess.

The rebels are in Southwark; fly, my lord!

Jack Cade proclaims himself Lord Mortimer, 28

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 32

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, 36

They call false caterpillars, and intend their death.

K. Hen.

O graceless men! they know not what they do.

Buck.

My gracious lord, retire to Killingworth,

Until a power be rais’d to put them down. 40

Q. Mar.

Ah! were the Duke of Suffolk now alive,

These Kentish rebels would be soon appeas’d.

K. Hen.

Lord Say, the traitors hate thee,

Therefore away with us to Killingworth. 44

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. 48

Enter a second Messenger.

Sec. Mess.

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 52

To spoil the city and your royal court.

Buck.

Then linger not, my lord; away! take horse.

K. Hen.

Come, Margaret; God, our hope, will succour us.

Q. Mar.

My hope is gone, now Suffolk is deceas’d. 56

K. Hen.

[To Lord Say.] Farewell, my lord: trust not the Kentish rebels.

Buck.

Trust nobody, for fear you be betray’d.

Say.

The trust I have is in mine innocence,

And therefore am I bold and resolute.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— The Same. The Tower.

Enter Lord Scales and Others, on the Walls. Then enter certain Citizens, below.

Scales.

How now! is Jack Cade slain?

First Cit.

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; 8

The rebels have assay’d 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; 12

And so, farewell, for I must hence again.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— London. Cannon Street.

Enter Jack Cade, and his Followers. He 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 pissing-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.

Sold.

Jack Cade! Jack Cade! 8

Cade.

Knock him down there.

[They kill him.

Smith.

If this fellow be wise, he’ll never call you Jack Cade more: I think he hath a very fair warning. 12

Dick.

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.

Scene VII.— The Same. Smithfield.

Alarums. Enter, on one side, Cade and his company; on the other, Citizens, and the King’s Forces, headed by Matthew Goffe. They fight; the Citizens are routed, and Matthew Goffe is slain.

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. 4

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. 8

John.

[Aside.] Mass, ’twill be sore law then; for he was thrust in the mouth with a spear, and ’tis not whole yet.

Smith.

[Aside.] Nay, John, it will be stinking law; for his breath stinks with eating toasted cheese. 14

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.

John.

[Aside.] Then we are like to have biting statutes, unless his teeth be pulled out.

Cade.

And henceforward all things shall be in common. 21

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

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. 25

Enter George 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 Monsieur 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 fore-fathers 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 car 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 on a foot-cloth, dost thou not?

Say.

What of that? 53

Cade.

Marry, thou oughtest not to let thy horse wear a cloak, when honester men than thou go in their hose and doublets. 56

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? 60

Say.

Nothing but this: ’tis 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. 64

Kent, in the Commentaries Cæsar writ,

Is term’d the civil’st place of all this isle:

Sweet is the country, because full of riches;

The people liberal, valiant, active, wealthy; 68

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; 72

Prayers and tears have mov’d 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 bestow’d on learned clerks, 76

Because my book preferr’d me to the king,

And seeing ignorance is the curse of God,

Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven,

Unless you be possess’d with devilish spirits, 80

You cannot but forbear to murder me:

This tongue hath parley’d unto foreign kings

For your behoof,—

Cade.

Tut! when struck’st thou one blow in the field? 84

Say.

Great men have reaching hands: oft have I struck

Those that I never saw, and struck them dead.

Geo.

O monstrous coward! what, to come behind folks! 88

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, 92

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?. 96

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. 101

Say.

Tell me wherein have I offended most?

Have I affected wealth, or honour? speak.

Are my chests fill’d up with extorted gold? 104

Is my apparel sumptuous to behold?

Whom have I injur’d, that ye seek my death?

These hands are free from guiltless bloodshedding,

This breast from harbouring foul deceitful thoughts. 108

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. 118

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. 123

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. 132

Dick.

My lord, when shall we go to Cheapside and take up commodities upon our bills?

Cade.

Marry, presently.

All.

O! brave! 136

Re-enter Rebels, with the heads of Lord Say and his Son-in-law.

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! 144

[Exeunt.

Scene VIII.— The Same. Southwark.

Alarum. Enter Cade and all his Rabblement.

Cade.

Up Fish Street! down St. Magnus’ corner! kill and knock down! throw them into Thames! [A parley sounded, then a retreat.] 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, with Forces.

Buck.

Ay, here they be that dare and will disturb thee.

Know, Cade, we come ambassadors from the king 8

Unto the commons whom thou hast misled;

And here pronounce free pardon to them all

That will forsake thee and go home in peace.

Clif.

What say ye, countrymen? will ye relent, 12

And yield to mercy, whilst ’tis offer’d 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!’ 16

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 pardons 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 burdens, 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! 36

Clif.

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; 41

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, 48

Crying Villiago! 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; 52

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. 57

Cade.

[Aside.] Was ever feather so lightly blown to and fro as this multitude? The name of Henry the Fifth hales them to a 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.

Buck.

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 72

To reconcile you all unto the king.

[Exeunt.

Scene IX.— Kenilworth Costle.

Trumpets sounded. Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret, and Somerset, on the terrace.

K. Hen.

Was ever king that joy’d 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: 4

Was never subject long’d to be a king

As I do long and wish to be a subject.

Enter Buckingham and Old Clifford.

Buck.

Health, and glad tidings, to your majesty!

K. Hen.

Why, Buckingham, is the traitor Cade surpris’d? 8

Or is he but retir’d to make him strong?

Enter, below, a number of Cade’s followers, with halters about their necks.

Clif.

He’s 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. 12

K. Hen.

Then, heaven, set ope thy everlasting gates,

To entertain my vows of thanks and praise!

Soldiers, this day have you redeem’d your lives,

And show’d how well you love your prince and country: 16

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, 20

I do dismiss you to your several countries.

All.

God save the king! God save the king!

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

Please it your Grace to be advertised,

The Duke of York is newly come from Ireland;

And with a puissant and a mighty power 25

Of Gallowglasses, and stout kerns,

Is marching hitherward in proud array;

And still proclaimeth, as he comes along, 28

His arms are only to remove from thee

The Duke of Somerset, whom he terms a traitor.

K. Hen.

Thus stands my state, ’twixt Cade and York distress’d;

Like to a ship, that, having scap’d a tempest, 32

Is straight way calm’d, and boarded with a pirate.

But now is Cade driven back, his men dispers’d;

And now is York in arms to second him.

I pray thee, Buckingham, go and meet him, 36

And ask him what’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 dismiss’d from him. 40

Som.

My lord,

I’ll yield myself to prison willingly,

Or unto death, to do my country good.

K. Hen.

In any case, be not too rough in terms; 44

For he is fierce and cannot brook hard language.

Buck.

I will, my lord; and doubt not so to deal

As all things shall redound unto your good.

K. Hen.

Come, wife, let’s in, and learn to govern better; 48

For yet may England curse my wretched reign.

[Exeunt.

Scene X.— Kent. Iden’s Garden.

Enter Cade.

Cade.

Fie on ambition! 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 I am 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-pan 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. 17

Enter Iden with Servants behind.

Iden.

Lord! who would live turmoiled in the court,

And may enjoy such quiet walks as these?

This small inheritance my father left me 20

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, 24

And sends the poor well pleased from my gate.

Cade.

[Aside.] 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. 32

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, 36

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. 44

Iden.

Nay, it shall ne’er be said, while England stands,

That Alexander Iden, an esquire of Kent,

Took odds to combat a poor famish’d man.

Oppose thy steadfast-gazing eyes to mine, 48

See if thou canst out-face 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; 53

And if mine arm be heaved in the air

Thy grave is digg’d already in the earth.

As for more words, whose greatness answers words, 56

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 Jove on my knees, thou mayst be turned to hobnails. [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’ll 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. 69

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, 74

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. 81

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 85

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, 88

Leaving thy trunk for crows to feed upon.

[Exit, with Servants, dragging out the body.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Kent. Fields between Dartford and Blackheath.

The King’s camp on one side. On the other, 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. 4

Ah sancta majestas, who would not buy thee dear?

Let them obey that know not how to rule;

This hand was made to handle nought but gold:

I cannot give due action to my words, 8

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? 12

The king hath sent him, sure: I must dissemble.

Buck.

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? 16

Buck.

A messenger from Henry, our dread hege,

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, 20

Shouldst 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, 24

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, 28

More like a king, more kingly in my thoughts;

But I must make fair weather yet awhile,

Till Henry be more weak, and I more strong.

[Aloud.] Buckingham, I prithee, pardon me, 32

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, 36

Seditious to his Grace and to the state.

Buck.

That is too much presumption on thy part:

But if thy arms be to no other end,

The king hath yielded unto thy demand: 40

The Duke of Somerset is in the Tower.

York.

Upon thine honour, is he a prisoner?

Buck.

Upon mine honour, he is a prisoner.

York.

Then, Buckingham, I do dismiss my powers. 44

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 sov’reign, virtuous Henry, 48

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. 53

Buck.

York, I commend this kind submission:

We twain will go into his highness’ tent.

Enter King Henry, attended.

K. Hen.

Buckingham, doth York intend no harm to us, 56

That thus he marcheth with thee arm in arm?

York.

In all submission and humility

York doth present himself unto your highness.

K. Hen.

Then what intend these forces thou dost bring? 60

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 64

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.

K. Hen.

The head of Cade! Great God, how just art thou! 68

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. 72

K. Hen.

How art thou call’d, and what is thy degree?

Iden.

Alexander Iden, that’s my name;

A poor esquire of Kent, that loves his king.

Buck.

So please it you, my lord, ’twere not amiss 76

He were created knight for his good service.

K. Hen.

Iden, kneel down. [He kneels.] Rise up a knight.

We give thee for reward a thousand marks;

And will, that thou henceforth attend on us. 80

Iden.

May Iden live to merit such a bounty,

And never live but true unto his liege!

K. Hen.

See! Buckingham! Somerset comes with the queen:

Go, bid her hide him quickly from the duke. 84

Enter Queen Margaret and Somerset.

Q. Mar.

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-imprison’d thoughts 88

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? 92

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, 97

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. 101

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 104

O’er him whom heaven created for thy ruler.

Som.

O monstrous traitor:—I arrest thee, York,

Of capital treason ’gainst the king and crown.

Obey, audacious traitor; kneel for grace. 108

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 an Attendant.

I know ere they will have me go to ward, 112

They’ll pawn their swords for my enfranchisement.

Q. Mar.

Call hither Clifford; bid him come amain,

To say if that the bastard boys of York

Shall be the surety for their traitor father. 116

[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! 121

Enter Edward and Richard Plantagenet, with Forces at one side; at the other, with Forces also, Old Clifford and his Son.

See where they come: I’ll warrant they’ll make it good.

Q. Mar.

And here comes Clifford, to deny their bail.

Clif.

[Kneeling.] Health and all happiness to my lord the king! 124

York.

I thank thee, Clifford: say, what news with thee?

Nay, do not fright us with an angry look:

We are thy sov’reign, Clifford, kneel again;

For thy mistaking so, we pardon thee. 128

Clif.

This is my king, York, I do not mistake;

But thou mistak’st me much to think I do.

To Bedlam with him! is the man grown mad?

K. Hen.

Ay, Clifford; a bedlam and ambitious humour 132

Makes him oppose himself against his king.

Clif.

He is a traitor; let him to the Tower,

And chop away that factious pate of his.

Q. Mar.

He is arrested, but will not obey: 136

His sons, he says, shall give their words for him.

York.

Will you not, sons?

Edw.

Ay, noble father, if our words will serve.

Rich.

And if words will not, then our weapons shall. 140

Clif.

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, 144

That with the very shaking of their chains

They may astonish these fell-lurking curs:

Bid Salisbury and Warwick come to me.

Drums. Enter Warwick and Salisbury, with Forces.

Clif.

Are these thy bears? we’ll bait thy bears to death, 148

And manacle the bear-ward in their chains,

If thou dar’st bring them to the baiting-place.

Rich.

Oft have I seen a hot o’erweening cur

Run back and bite, because he was withheld;

Who, being suffer’d with the bear’s fell paw, 153

Hath clapp’d his tail between his legs, and cried:

And such a piece of service will you do,

If you oppose yourselves to match Lord Warwick. 156

Clif.

Hence, heap of wrath, foul indigested lump,

As crooked in thy manners as thy shape!

York.

Nay, we shall heat you thoroughly anon.

Clif.

Take heed, lest by your heat you burn yourselves. 160

K. Hen.

Why, Warwick, hath thy knee forgot to bow?

Old Salisbury, shame to thy silver hair,

Thou mad misleader of thy brain-sick son!

What! wilt thou on thy death-bed play the ruffian, 164

And seek for sorrow with thy spectacles?

O! where is faith? O, where is loyalty?

If it be banish’d from the frosty head,

Where shall it find a harbour in the earth? 168

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? 172

For shame! in duty bend thy knee to me,

That bows unto the grave with mickle age.

Sal.

My lord, I have consider’d with myself

The title of this most renowned duke; 176

And in my conscience do repute his Grace

The rightful heir to England’s royal seat.

K. Hen.

Hast thou not sworn allegiance unto me?

Sal.

I have. 180

K. Hen.

Canst thou dispense with heaven for such an oath?

Sal.

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 184

To do a murderous 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 custom’d right,

And have no other reason for this wrong 189

But that he was bound by a solemn oath?

Q. Mar.

A subtle traitor needs no sophister.

K. Hen.

Call Buckingham, and bid him arm himself. 192

York.

Call Buckingham, and all the friends thou hast,

I am resolv’d for death, or dignity.

Clif.

The first I warrant thee, if dreams prove true.

War.

You were best to go to bed and dream again, 196

To keep thee from the tempest of the field.

Clif.

I am resolv’d to bear a greater storm

Than any thou canst conjure up to-day;

And that I’ll write upon thy burgonet, 200

Might I but know thee by thy household badge.

War.

Now, by my father’s badge, old Nevil’s crest,

The rampant bear chain’d to the ragged staff,

This day I’ll wear aloft my burgonet,— 204

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.

Clif.

And from thy burgonet I’ll rend thy bear, 208

And tread it underfoot with all contempt,

Despite the bear-ward that protects the bear.

Y. Clif.

And so to arms, victorious father,

To quell the rebels and their complices. 212

Rich.

Fie! charity! for shame! speak not in spite,

For you shall sup with Jesu Christ to-night.

Y. Clif.

Foul stigmatic, that’s more than thou canst tell.

Rich.

If not in heaven, you’ll surely sup in hell.

[Exeunt severally.

Scene II.— Saint Alban’s.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter Warwick.

War.

Clifford of Cumberland, ’tis Warwick calls:

And if thou dost not hide thee from the bear,

Now, when the angry trumpet sounds alarm,

And dead men’s cries do fill the empty air, 4

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? 8

York.

The deadly-handed Clifford slew my steed;

But match to match I have encounter’d him,

And made a prey for carrion kites and crows

Even of the bonny beast he lov’d so well. 12

Enter Old Clifford.

War.

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.

War.

Then, nobly, York; ’tis for a crown thou fight’st. 16

As I intend, Clifford, to thrive to-day,

It grieves my soul to leave thee unassail’d.

[Exit.

Clif.

What seest thou in me, York? why dost thou pause?

York.

With thy brave bearing should I be in love, 20

But that thou art so fast mine enemy.

Clif.

Nor should thy prowess want praise and esteem,

But that ’tis shown ignobly and in treason.

York.

So let it help me now against thy sword

As I in justice and true right express it. 25

Clif.

My soul and body on the action both!

York.

A dreadful lay! address thee instantly.

Clif.

La fin couronne les œuvres. 28

[They fight, and Clifford falls and 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.

Y. Clif.

Shame and confusion! all is on the rout:

Fear frames disorder, and disorder wounds 32

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: 36

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 father’s body.

O! let the vile world end, 40

And the premised flames of the last day

Knit heaven and earth together;

Now let the general trumpet blow his blast,

Particularities and petty sounds 44

To cease!—Wast thou ordain’d, 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 49

My heart is turn’d to stone: and while ’tis mine

It shall be stony. York not our old men spares:

No more will I their babes: tears virginal 52

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: 56

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. 60

Come, thou new ruin of old Clifford’s house:

[Taking up the body.

As did Æneas old Anchises bear,

So bear I thee upon my manly shoulders;

But then Æneas bare a living load, 64

Nothing so heavy as these woes of mine.

[Exit.

Enter Richard and Somerset, fighting; Somerset is killed.

Rich.

So, lie thou there;

For underneath an alehouse’ paltry sign,

The Castle in Saint Alban’s, Somerset 68

Hath made the wizard famous in his death.

Sword, hold thy temper; heart, be wrathful still:

Priests pray for enemies, but princes kill.

[Exit.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret, and Others, retreating.

Q. Mar.

Away, my lord! you are slow: for shame, away! 72

K. Hen.

Can we outrun the heavens? good Margaret, stay.

Q. Mar.

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 76

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, 80

We shall to London get, where you are lov’d,

And where this breach now in our fortunes made

May readily be stopp’d.

Re-enter Young Clifford.

Y. Clif.

But that my heart’s on future mischief set, 84

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 88

To see their day and them our fortune give.

Away, my lord, away!

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Field near Saint Alban’s.

Alarum. Retreat. Flourish; then 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, 4

Repairs him with occasion? this happy day

Is not itself, nor have we won one foot,

If Salisbury be lost.

Rich.

My noble father,

Three times to-day I holp him to his horse, 8

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, 12

So was his will in his old feeble body.

But, noble as he is, look where he comes.

Enter Salisbury.

Sal.

Now, by my sword, well hast thou fought to-day;

By the mass, so did we all. I thank you, Richard: 16

God knows how long it is I have to live;

And it hath pleas’d him that three times to-day

You have defended me from imminent death.

Well, lords, we have not got that which we have: 20

’Tis 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, 24

To call a present court of parliament:

Let us pursue him ere the writs go forth:—

What says Lord Warwick? shall we after them?

War.

After them! nay, before them, if we can. 28

Now, by my hand, lords, ’twas a glorious day:

Saint Alban’s battle, won by famous York,

Shall be eterniz’d in all age to come.

Sound, drums and trumpets, and to London all: 32

And more such days as these to us befall!

[Exeunt.

THE THIRD PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

King Henry the Sixth.
Edward,	Prince of Wales, his Son.
Lewis the Eleventh,	King of France.
Duke of Somerset, }	on King Henry’s side.
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 the Fourth, }	his Sons.
Edmund, Earl of Rutland, }
George, afterwards Duke of Clarence, }
Richard, afterwards Duke of Gloucester, }
Duke of Norfolk, }	of the Duke of York’s Party.
Marquess of Montague, }
Earl of Warwick, }
Earl of Pembroke, }
Lord Hastings, }
Lord Stafford, }
Sir John Mortimer, }	Uncles to the Duke of York.
Sir Hugh Mortimer, }	Uncles 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 the Fourth.
Bona,	Sister to the French Queen.
Soldiers, and other Attendants on King Henry and King Edward, Messengers, Watchmen, &c.

Scene.—During part of the Third Act, in France; during the rest of the Play, in England.

ACT I.

Scene I.— London. The Parliament-House.

Drums. Some Soldiers of York’s party break in. Then, enter the Duke of York, Edward, Richard, Norfolk, Montague, Warwick, and Others, with white roses in their hats.

War.

I wonder how the king escap’d our hands.

York.

While we pursu’d the horsemen of the north,

He slily stole away and left his men:

Whereat the great Lord of Northumberland, 4

Whose warlike ears could never brook retreat,

Cheer’d up the drooping army; and himself,

Lord Clifford, and Lord Stafford, all abreast,

Charg’d our main battle’s front, and breaking in 8

Were by the swords of common soldiers slain.

Edw.

Lord Stafford’s father, Duke of Buckingham,

Is either slain or wounded dangerously;

I cleft his beaver with a downright blow: 12

That this is true, father, behold his blood.

[Showing his bloody sword.

Mont.

And, brother, here’s the Earl of Wiltshire’s blood,

[To York, showing his.

Whom I encounter’d as the battles join’d.

Rich.

Speak thou for me, and tell them what I did.

[Throwing down the Duke of Somerset’s head.

York.

Richard hath best deserv’d of all my sons. 17

But, is your Grace dead, my Lord of Somerset?

Norf.

Such hope have all the line of John of Gaunt!

Rich.

Thus do I hope to shake King Henry’s head. 20

War.

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. 24

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; 28

For hither we have broken in by force.

Norf.

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. 32

War.

And when the king comes, offer him no violence,

Unless he seek to thrust you out perforce.

[The Soldiers retire.

York.

The queen this day here holds her parliament,

But little thinks we shall be of her council: 36

By words or blows here let us win our right.

Rich.

Arm’d as we are, let’s stay within this house.

War.

The bloody parliament shall this be call’d,

Unless Plantagenet, Duke of York, be king, 40

And bashful Henry depos’d, whose cowardice

Hath made us by-words to our enemies.

York.

Then leave me not, my lords; be resolute;

I mean to take possession of my right. 44

War.

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 Others, with red roses in their hats.

K. Hen.

My lords, look where the sturdy rebel sits,

Even in the chair of state! belike he means—

Back’d by the power of Warwick, that false peer—

To aspire unto the crown and reign as king. 53

Earl of Northumberland, he slew thy father,

And thine, Lord Clifford; and you both have vow’d revenge

On him, his sons, his favourites, and his friends.

North.

If I be not, heavens be reveng’d on me!

Clif.

The hope thereof makes Clifford mourn in steel.

West.

What! shall we suffer this? let’s pluck him down:

My heart for anger burns; I cannot brook it. 60

K. Hen.

Be patient, gentle Earl of Westmoreland.

Clif.

Patience is for poltroons, such as he:

He durst not sit there had your father liv’d.

My gracious lord, here in the parliament 64

Let us assail the family of York.

North.

Well hast thou spoken, cousin: be it so.

K. Hen.

Ah! know you not the city favours them,

And they have troops of soldiers at their beck?

Exe.

But when the duke is slain they’ll quickly fly. 69

K. Hen.

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, 72

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. 76

Exe.

For shame! come down: he made thee Duke of York.

York.

’Twas my inheritance, as the earldom was.

Exe.

Thy father was a traitor to the crown.

War.

Exeter, thou art a traitor to the crown

In following this usurping Henry. 81

Clif.

Whom should he follow but his natural king?

War.

True, Clifford; and that’s Richard, Duke of York.

K. Hen.

And shall I stand, and thou sit in my throne? 84

York.

It must and shall be so: content thyself.

War.

Be Duke of Lancaster: let him be king.

West.

He is both king and Duke of Lancaster;

And that the Lord of Westmoreland shall maintain. 88

War.

And Warwick shall disprove it. You forget

That we are those which chas’d you from the field

And slew your fathers, and with colours spread

March’d through the city to the palace gates. 92

North.

Yes, Warwick, I remember it to my grief;

And, by his soul, thou and thy house shall rue it.

West.

Plantagenet, of thee, and these thy sons,

Thy kinsmen and thy friends, I’ll have more lives 96

Than drops of blood were in my father’s veins.

Clif.

Urge it no more; lest that instead of words,

I send thee, Warwick, such a messenger

As shall revenge his death before I stir. 100

War.

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.

K. Hen.

What title hast thou, traitor, to the crown? 104

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 seiz’d upon their towns and provinces. 109

War.

Talk not of France, sith thou hast lost it all.

K. Hen.

The Lord Protector lost it, and not I:

When I was crown’d I was but nine months old.

Rich.

You are old enough now, and yet, methinks, you lose. 113

Father, tear the crown from the usurper’s head.

Edw.

Sweet father, do so; set it on your head.

Mont.

[To York.] Good brother, as thou lov’st and honour’st arms, 116

Let’s fight it out and not stand cavilling thus.

Rich.

Sound drums and trumpets, and the king will fly.

York.

Sons, peace!

K. Hen.

Peace thou! and give King Henry leave to speak. 120

War.

Plantagenet shall speak first: hear him, lords;

And be you silent and attentive too,

For he that interrupts him shall not live.

K. Hen.

Think’st thou that I will leave my kingly throne, 124

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? 129

My title’s good, and better far than his.

War.

Prove it, Henry, and thou shalt be king.

K. Hen.

Henry the Fourth by conquest got the crown. 132

York.

’Twas by rebellion against his king.

K. Hen.

[Aside.] I know not what to say: my title’s weak.

[Aloud.] Tell me, may not a king adopt an heir?

York.

What then? 136

K. Hen.

An if he may, then am I lawful king;

For Richard, in the view of many lords,

Resign’d the crown to Henry the Fourth,

Whose heir my father was, and I am his. 140

York.

He rose against him, being his sovereign,

And made him to resign his crown perforce.

War.

Suppose, my lords, he did it unconstrain’d,

Think you ’twere prejudicial to his crown? 144

Exe.

No; for he could not so resign his crown

But that the next heir should succeed and reign.

K. Hen.

Art thou against us, Duke of Exeter?

Exe.

His is the right, and therefore pardon me. 148

York.

Why whisper you, my lords, and answer not?

Exe.

My conscience tells me he is lawful king.

K. Hen.

[Aside.] All will revolt from me, and turn to him.

North.

Plantagenet, for all the claim thou lay’st, 152

Think not that Henry shall be so depos’d.

War.

Depos’d he shall be in despite of all.

North.

Thou art deceiv’d: ’tis not thy southern power,

Of Essex, Norfolk, Suffolk, nor of Kent, 156

Which makes thee thus presumptuous and proud,

Can set the duke up in despite of me.

Clif.

King Henry, be thy title right or wrong,

Lord Clifford vows to fight in thy defence: 160

May that ground gape and swallow me alive,

Where I shall kneel to him that slew my father!

K. Hen.

O Clifford, how thy words revive my heart!

York.

Henry of Lancaster, resign thy crown.

What mutter you, or what conspire you, lords?

War.

Do right unto this princely Duke of York,

Or I will fill the house with armed men,

And o’er the chair of state, where now he sits, 168

Write up his title with usurping blood.

[He stamps with his foot, and the Soldiers show themselves.

K. Hen.

My Lord of Warwick, hear me but one word:—

Let me for this my life-time reign as king.

York.

Confirm the crown to me and to mine heirs, 172

And thou shalt reign in quiet while thou liv’st.

K. Hen.

I am content: Richard Plantagenet,

Enjoy the kingdom after my decease.

Clif.

What wrong is this unto the prince your son! 176

War.

What good is this to England and himself!

West.

Base, fearful, and despairing Henry!

Clif.

How hast thou injur’d both thyself and us!

West.

I cannot stay to hear these articles. 180

North.

Nor I.

Clif.

Come, cousin, let us tell the queen these news.

West.

Farewell, faint-hearted and degenerate king,

In whose cold blood no spark of honour bides.

North.

Be thou a prey unto the house of York, 185

And die in bands for this unmanly deed!

Clif.

In dreadful war mayst thou be overcome,

Or live in peace abandon’d and despis’d! 188

[Exeunt Northumberland, Clifford, and Westmoreland.

War.

Turn this way, Henry, and regard them not.

Exe.

They seek revenge and therefore will not yield.

K. Hen.

Ah! Exeter.

War.

Why should you sigh, my lord?

K. Hen.

Not for myself, Lord Warwick, but my son, 192

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 196

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. 200

York.

This oath I willingly take and will perform.

[Coming from the throne.

War.

Long live King Henry! Plantagenet, embrace him.

K. Hen.

And long live thou and these thy forward sons!

York.

Now York and Lancaster are reconcil’d. 204

Exe.

Accurs’d be he that seeks to make them foes!

[Sennet. The Lords come forward.

York.

Farewell, my gracious lord; I’ll to my castle.

War.

And I’ll keep London with my soldiers.

Norf.

And I to Norfolk with my followers. 208

Mont.

And I unto the sea from whence I came.

[Exeunt York and his Sons, Warwick, Norfolk, Montague, Soldiers, and Attendants.

K. Hen.

And I, with grief and sorrow, to the court.

Enter Queen Margaret and the Prince of Wales.

Exe.

Here comes the queen, whose looks bewray her anger:

I’ll steal away.

[Going.

K. Hen.

Exeter, so will I.

[Going.

Q. Mar.

Nay, go not from me; I will follow thee. 213

K. Hen.

Be patient, gentle queen, and I will stay.

Q. Mar.

Who can be patient in such extremes?

Ah! wretched man; would I had died a maid,

And never seen thee, never borne thee son, 217

Seeing thou hast prov’d so unnatural a father.

Hath he deserv’d to lose his birthright thus?

Hadst thou but lov’d him half so well as I, 220

Or felt that pain which I did for him once,

Or nourish’d 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, 224

And disinherited thine only son.

Prince.

Father, you cannot disinherit me:

If you be king, why should not I succeed?

K. Hen.

Pardon me, Margaret; pardon me, sweet son; 228

The Earl of Warwick, and the duke, enforc’d me.

Q. Mar.

Enforc’d thee! art thou king, and wilt be forc’d?

I shame to hear thee speak. Ah! timorous wretch;

Thou hast undone thyself, thy son, and me; 232

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, 236

And creep into it far before thy time?

Warwick is chancellor and the Lord of Calais;

Stern Faulconbridge commands the narrow seas;

The duke is made protector of the realm; 240

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 toss’d me on their pikes 244

Before I would have granted to that act;

But thou preferr’st thy life before thine honour:

And seeing thou dost, I here divorce myself,

Both from thy table, Henry, and thy bed, 248

Until that act of parliament be repeal’d

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. 256

K. Hen.

Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me speak.

Q. Mar.

Thou hast spoke too much already: get thee gone.

K. Hen.

Gentle son Edward, thou wilt stay with me?

Q. Mar.

Ay, to be murder’d by his enemies.

Prince.

When I return with victory from the field 261

I’ll see your Grace: till then, I’ll follow her.

Q. Mar.

Come, son, away; we may not linger thus.

[Exeunt Queen Margaret and the Prince of Wales.

K. Hen.

Poor queen! how love to me and to her son 264

Hath made her break out into terms of rage.

Reveng’d may she be on that hateful duke,

Whose haughty spirit, winged with desire,

Will cost my crown, and like an empty eagle 268

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. 272

Exe.

And I, I hope, shall reconcile them all.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Room in Sandal Castle, near Wakefield, in Yorkshire.

Enter Edward, Richard, and Montague.

Rich.

Brother, though I be youngest, give me leave.

Edw.

No, I can better play the orator.

Mont.

But I have reasons strong and forcible.

Enter York.

York.

Why, how now, sons and brother! at a strife? 4

What is your quarrel? how began it first?

Edw.

No quarrel, but a slight contention.

York.

About what?

Rich.

About that which concerns your Grace and us; 8

The crown of England, father, which is yours.

York.

Mine, boy? not till King Henry be dead.

Rich.

Your right depends not on his life or death.

Edw.

Now you are heir, therefore enjoy it now: 12

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.

Edw.

But for a kingdom any oath may be broken: 16

I would break a thousand oaths to reign one year.

Rich.

No; God forbid your Grace should be forsworn.

York.

I shall be, if I claim by open war.

Rich.

I’ll prove the contrary, if you’ll hear me speak. 20

York.

Thou canst not, son; it is impossible.

Rich.

An oath is of no moment, being not took

Before a true and lawful magistrate

That hath authority over him that swears: 24

Henry had none, but did usurp the place;

Then, seeing ’twas he that made you to depose,

Your oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous.

Therefore, to arms! And, father, do but think 28

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 32

Until the white rose that I wear be dy’d

Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry’s heart.

York.

Richard, enough, I will be king, or die.

Brother, thou shalt to London presently, 36

And whet on Warwick to this enterprise.

Thou, Richard, shalt unto the Duke of Norfolk,

And tell him privily of our intent.

You, Edward, shall unto my Lord Cobham, 40

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 employ’d, what resteth more, 44

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? 48

Mess.

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. 52

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, 56

Whom we have left protectors of the king,

With powerful policy strengthen themselves,

And trust not simple Henry nor his oaths.

Mont.

Brother, I go; I’ll win them, fear it not: 60

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. 64

Sir John.

She shall not need, we’ll meet her in the field.

York.

What! with five thousand men?

Rich.

Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need:

A woman’s general; what should we fear? 68

[A march afar off.

Edw.

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. 72

Many a battle have I won in France,

When as the enemy hath been ten to one:

Why should I not now have the like success?

[Alarum. Exeunt.

Scene III.— Field of Battle between Sandal Castle and Wakefield.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter Rutland and his Tutor.

Rut.

Ah, whither shall I fly to ’scape their hands?

Ah! tutor, look, where bloody Clifford comes!

Enter Clifford and Soldiers.

Clif.

Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy life.

As for the brat of this accursed duke, 4

Whose father slew my father, he shall die.

Tut.

And I, my lord, will bear him company.

Clif.

Soldiers, away with him.

Tut.

Ah! Clifford, murder not this innocent child, 8

Lest thou be hated both of God and man!

[Exit, forced off by Soldiers.

Clif.

How now! is he dead already? Or is it fear

That makes him close his eyes? I’ll open them.

Rut.

So looks the pent-up lion o’er the wretch 12

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, 16

And not with such a cruel threatening look.

Sweet Clifford! hear me speak before I die:

I am too mean a subject for thy wrath;

Be thou reveng’d on men, and let me live. 20

Clif.

In vain thou speak’st, poor boy; my father’s blood

Hath stopp’d the passage where thy words should enter.

Rut.

Then let my father’s blood open it again:

He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him. 24

Clif.

Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine

Were not revenge sufficient for me;

No, if I digg’d up thy forefathers’ graves,

And hung their rotten coffins up in chains, 28

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, 32

And leave not one alive, I live in hell.

Therefore—

[Lifting his hand.

Rut.

O! let me pray before I take my death.

To thee I pray; sweet Clifford, pity me! 36

Clif.

Such pity as my rapier’s point affords.

Rut.

I never did thee harm: why wilt thou slay me?

Clif.

Thy father hath.

Rut.

But ’twas ere I was born.

Thou hast one son; for his sake pity me, 40

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, 44

Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause.

Clif.

No cause!

Thy father slew my father; therefore, die.

[Stabs him.

Rut.

Dii faciant laudis summa sit ista tuœ!

[Dies.

Clif.

Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet! 49

And this thy son’s blood cleaving to my blade

Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood,

Congeal’d with this, do make me wipe off both.

[Exit.

Scene IV.— Another Part of the Plains.

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, 4

Or lambs pursu’d by hunger-starved wolves.

My sons, God knows what hath bechanced them:

But this I know, they have demean’d themselves

Like men born to renown by life or death. 8

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 12

In blood of those that had encounter’d 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! 16

A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre!’

With this, we charg’d again; but, out, alas!

We bodg’d again: as I have seen a swan

With bootless labour swim against the tide, 20

And spend her strength with over-matching 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: 24

The sands are number’d that make up my life;

Here must I stay, and here my life must end.

Enter Queen Margaret, Clifford, Northumberland, the young Prince, and Soldiers.

Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,

I dare your quenchless fury to more rage: 28

I am your butt, and I abide your shot.

North.

Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.

Clif.

Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm

With downright payment show’d unto my father. 32

Now Phæthon hath tumbled from his car,

And made an evening at the noontide prick.

York.

My ashes, as the phœnix, may bring forth

A bird that will revenge upon you all; 36

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?

Clif.

So cowards fight when they can fly no further; 40

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, 44

And in thy thought o’er-run 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. 48

Clif.

I will not bandy with thee word for word,

But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one.

[Draws.

Q. Mar.

Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand causes

I would prolong awhile the traitor’s life. 52

Wrath makes him deaf: speak thou, Northumberland.

North.

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, 56

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. 60

[They lay hands on York, who struggles.

Clif.

Ay, ay; so strives the woodcock with the gin.

North.

So doth the cony struggle in the net.

[York is taken prisoner.

York.

So triumph thieves upon their conquer’d booty;

So true men yield, with robbers so o’er-matched.

North.

What would your Grace have done unto him now? 65

Q. Mar.

Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,

Come, make him stand upon this molehill here,

That raught at mountains with outstretched arms, 68

Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.

What! was it you that would be England’s king?

Was’t you that revell’d in our parliament,

And made a preachment of your high descent?

Where are your mess of sons to back you now? 73

The wanton Edward, and the lusty George?

And where’s that valiant crook-back prodigy,

Dicky your boy, that with his grumbling voice 76

Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies?

Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland?

Look, York: I stain’d this napkin with the blood

That valiant Clifford with his rapier’s point 80

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, 84

I should lament thy miserable state.

I prithee grieve, to make me merry, York.

What! hath thy fiery heart so parch’d thine entrails

That not a tear can fall for Rutland’s death? 88

Why art thou patient, man? thou shouldst be mad;

And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus.

Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.

Thou wouldst be fee’d, I see, to make me sport:

York cannot speak unless he wear a crown. 93

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! 96

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 crown’d so soon, and broke his solemn oath?

As I bethink me, you should not be king 101

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, 104

Now in his life, against your holy oath?

O! ’tis 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. 108

Clif.

That is my office, for my father’s sake.

Q. Mar.

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! 112

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, visor-like, unchanging, 116

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 deriv’d,

Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless. 120

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, 125

Unless the adage must be verified,

That beggars mounted run their horse to death.

’Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud;

But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small:

’Tis virtue that doth make them most admir’d;

The contrary doth make thee wonder’d at:

’Tis government that makes them seem divine;

The want thereof makes thee abominable. 133

Thou art as opposite to every good

As the Antipodes are unto us,

Or as the south to the septentrion. 136

O tiger’s heart wrapp’d 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? 140

Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible;

Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.

Bidd’st thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish:

Wouldst have me weep? why, now thou hast thy will; 144

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. 149

North.

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 touch’d, would not have stain’d with blood; 153

But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,—

O! ten times more, than tigers of Hyrcania.

See, ruthless queen, a hapless father’s tears: 156

This cloth thou dipp’dst in blood of my sweet boy,

And I with tears do wash the blood away.

Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this;

[Giving back the handkerchief.

And if thou tell’st the heavy story right, 160

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, 164

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! 168

North.

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.

Q. Mar.

What! weeping-ripe, my Lord Northumberland? 172

Think but upon the wrong he did us all,

And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.

Clif.

Here’s for my oath; here’s for my father’s death.

[Stabbing him.

Q. Mar.

And here’s to right our gentlehearted king.

[Stabbing him.

York.

Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God! 177

My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee.

[Dies.

Q. Mar.

Off with his head, and set it on York gates;

So York may overlook the town of York. 180

[Flourish. Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— A Plain near Mortimer’s Cross in Herefordshire.

Drums. Enter Edward and Richard, with their Forces, marching.

Edw.

I wonder how our princely father ’scap’d,

Or whether he be ’scap’d away or no

From Clifford’s and Northumberland’s pursuit.

Had he been ta’en we should have heard the news; 4

Had he been slain we should have heard the news;

Or had he ’scap’d, methinks we should have heard

The happy tidings of his good escape.

How fares my brother? why is he so sad? 8

Rich.

I cannot joy until I be resolv’d

Where our right valiant father is become.

I saw him in the battle range about,

And watch’d him how he singled Clifford forth.

Methought he bore him in the thickest troop 13

As doth a lion in a herd of neat;

Or as a bear, encompass’d round with dogs,

Who having pinch’d a few and made them cry,

The rest stand all aloof and bark at him. 17

So far’d our father with his enemies;

So fled his enemies my war-like father:

Methinks, ’tis prize enough to be his son. 20

See how the morning opes her golden gates,

And takes her farewell of the glorious sun;

How well resembles it the prime of youth,

Trimm’d like a younker prancing to his love. 24

Edw.

Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?

Rich.

Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun;

Not separated with the racking clouds,

But sever’d in a pale clear-shining sky. 28

See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,

As if they vow’d some league inviolable:

Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun.

In this the heaven figures some event. 32

Edw.

’Tis 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, 36

Should notwithstanding join our lights together,

And over-shine the earth, as this the world.

Whate’er it bodes, henceforward will I bear

Upon my target three fair-shining suns. 40

Rich.

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? 44

Mess.

Ah! one that was a woeful looker-on,

When as the noble Duke of York was slain,

Your princely father, and my loving lord.

Edw.

O! speak no more, for I have heard too much. 48

Rich.

Say how he died, for I will hear it all.

Mess.

Environed he was with many foes,

And stood against them, as the hope of Troy

Against the Greeks that would have enter’d Troy. 52

But Hercules himself must yield to odds;

And many strokes, though with a little axe,

Hew down and fell the hardest-timber’d oak.

By many hands your father was subdu’d; 56

But only slaughter’d by the ireful arm

Of unrelenting Clifford and the queen,

Who crown’d the gracious duke in high despite;

Laugh’d in his face; and when with grief he wept, 60

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, 64

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 view’d.

Edw.

Sweet Duke of York! our prop to lean upon, 68

Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay!

O Clifford! boist’rous Clifford! thou hast slain

The flower of Europe for his chivalry;

And treacherously hast thou vanquish’d him, 72

For hand to hand he would have vanquish’d 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, 76

For never henceforth shall I joy again,

Never, O! never, shall I see more joy.

Rich.

I cannot weep, for all my body’s moisture

Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart: 80

Nor can my tongue unload my heart’s great burden;

For self-same wind, that I should speak withal

Is kindling coals that fire all my breast,

And burn me up with flames, that tears would quench. 84

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. 88

Edw.

His name that valiant duke hath left with thee;

His dukedom and his chair with me is left.

Rich.

Nay, if thou be that princely eagle’s bird,

Show thy descent by gazing ’gainst the sun: 92

For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say;

Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his.

March. Enter Warwick and the Marquess of Montague, with Forces.

War.

How now, fair lords! What fare? what news abroad?

Rich.

Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount 96

Our baleful news, and at each word’s deliv’rance

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. 100

Edw.

O Warwick! Warwick! that Plantagenet

Which held thee dearly as his soul’s redemption,

Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death.

War.

Ten days ago I drown’d these news in tears, 104

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 breath’d his latest gasp, 108

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,

Muster’d my soldiers, gather’d flocks of friends,

And very well appointed, as I thought, 113

March’d towards Saint Alban’s to intercept the queen,

Bearing the king in my behalf along;

For by my scouts I was advertised 116

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, 120

Our battles join’d, and both sides fiercely fought:

But whether ’twas the coldness of the king,

Who look’d full gently on his war-like queen,

That robb’d my soldiers of their heated spleen;

Or whether ’twas report of her success; 125

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, 128

Their weapons like to lightning came and went;

Our soldiers’—like the night-owl’s lazy flight,

Or like a lazy thresher with a flail—

Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends.

I cheer’d them up with justice of our cause, 133

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; 136

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, 140

Making another head to fight again.

Edw.

Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick?

And when came George from Burgundy to England?

War.

Some six miles off the duke is with the soldiers; 144

And for your brother, he was lately sent

From your kind aunt, Duchess of Burgundy,

With aid of soldiers to this needful war.

Rich.

’Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled: 148

Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit,

But ne’er till now his scandal of retire.

War.

Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou hear;

For thou shalt know, this strong right hand of mine 152

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 fam’d for mildness, peace, and prayer.

Rich.

I know it well, Lord Warwick; blame me not: 157

’Tis 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, 160

And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns,

Numb’ring our Ave-Maries with our beads?

Or shall we on the helmets of our foes

Tell our devotion with revengeful arms? 164

If for the last, say ‘Ay,’ and to it, lords.

War.

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 more proud birds,

Have wrought the easy-melting king like wax.

He swore consent to your succession, 172

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. 176

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!’ 184

But never once again turn back and fly.

Rich.

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. 188

Edw.

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!

War.

No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York: 192

The next degree is England’s royal throne;

For King of England shalt thou be proclaim’d

In every borough as we pass along;

And he that throws not up his cap for joy 196

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. 200

Rich.

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.

Edw.

Then strike up, drums! God, and Saint George for us! 204

Enter a Messenger.

War.

How now! what news?

Mess.

The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me,

The queen is coming with a puissant host;

And craves your company for speedy counsel.

War.

Why then it sorts; brave warriors, let’s away.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Before York.

Flourish. Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret, the Prince of Wales, Clifford and Northumberland, with drums and trumpets.

Q. Mar.

Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York.

Yonder’s the head of that arch-enemy,

That sought to be encompass’d with your crown:

Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord? 4

K. Hen.

Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their wrack:

To see this sight, it irks my very soul.

Withhold revenge, dear God! ’tis not my fault,

Nor wittingly have I infring’d my vow. 8

Clif.

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. 12

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. 16

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: 20

He, but a duke, would have his son a king,

And raise his issue like a loving sire;

Thou, being a king, bless’d with a goodly son,

Didst yield consent to disinherit him, 24

Which argu’d 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, 28

Who hath not seen them, even with those wings

Which sometime they have us’d with fearful flight,

Make war with him that climb’d 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, 36

‘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 40

Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart

To hold thine own and leave thine own with him.

K. Hen.

Full well hath Clifford play’d the orator,

Inferring arguments of mighty force. 44

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? 48

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 52

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!

Q. Mar.

My lord, cheer up your spirits: our foes are nigh, 56

And this soft courage makes your followers faint.

You promis’d knighthood to our forward son:

Unsheathe your sword, and dub him presently.

Edward, kneel down. 60

K. Hen.

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, 64

And in that quarrel use it to the death.

Clif.

Why, that is spoken like a toward prince.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

Royal commanders, be in readiness:

For with a band of thirty thousand men 68

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. 72

Clif.

I would your highness would depart the field:

The queen hath best success when you are absent.

Q. Mar.

Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fortune.

K. Hen.

Why, that’s my fortune too; therefore I’ll stay. 76

North.

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!’ 80

March. Enter Edward, George, Richard, Warwick, Norfolk, Montague, and Soldiers.

Edw.

Now, perjur’d Henry, wilt thou kneel for grace,

And set thy diadem upon my head;

Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?

Q. Mar.

Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting boy! 84

Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms

Before thy sovereign and thy lawful king?

Edw.

I am his king, and he should bow his knee;

I was adopted heir by his consent: 88

Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear,

You, that are king, though he do wear the crown,

Have caus’d him, by new act of parliament,

To blot out me, and put his own son in. 92

Clif.

And reason too:

Who should succeed the father but the son?

Rich.

Are you there, butcher? O! I cannot speak.

Clif.

Ay, crook-back; here I stand to answer thee, 96

Or any he the proudest of thy sort.

Rich.

’Twas you that kill’d young Rutland, was it not?

Clif.

Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied.

Rich.

For God’s sake, lords, give signal to the fight. 100

War.

What sayst thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown?

Q. Mar.

Why, how now, long-tongu’d Warwick! dare you speak?

When you and I met at Saint Alban’s last,

Your legs did better service than your hands. 104

War.

Then ’twas my turn to fly, and now ’tis thine.

Clif.

You said so much before, and yet you fled.

War.

’Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence.

North.

No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay. 108

Rich.

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. 112

Clif.

I slew thy father: call’st thou him a child?

Rich.

Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward,

As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland;

But ere sun-set I’ll make thee curse the deed.

K. Hen.

Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak. 117

Q. Mar.

Defy them, then, or else hold close thy lips.

K. Hen.

I prithee, give no limits to my tongue:

I am a king, and privileg’d to speak. 120

Clif.

My liege, the wound that bred this meeting here

Cannot be cur’d by words; therefore be still.

Rich.

Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword.

By him that made us all, I am resolv’d 124

That Clifford’s manhood lies upon his tongue.

Edw.

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. 128

War.

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 everything is right. 132

Rich.

Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands;

For well I wot thou hast thy mother’s tongue.

Q. Mar.

But thou art neither like thy sire nor dam,

But like a foul misshapen stigmatic, 136

Mark’d by the destinies to be avoided,

As venom toads, or lizards’ dreadful stings.

Rich.

Iron of Naples hid with English gilt,

Whose father bears the title of a king,— 140

As if a channel should be call’d the sea,—

Sham’st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,

To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?

Edw.

A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns, 144

To make this shameless callet know herself.

Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,

Although thy husband may be Menelaus;

And ne’er was Agamemnon’s brother wrong’d

By that false woman as this king by thee. 149

His father revell’d in the heart of France,

And tam’d the king, and made the Dauphin stoop;

And had he match’d according to his state, 152

He might have kept that glory to this day;

But when he took a beggar to his bed,

And grac’d thy poor sire with his bridal day,

Even then that sunshine brew’d a shower for him, 156

That wash’d his father’s fortunes forth of France,

And heap’d sedition on his crown at home.

For what hath broach’d this tumult but thy pride?

Hadst thou been meek our title still had slept,

And we, in pity of the gentle king, 161

Had slipp’d our claim until another age.

Geo.

But when we saw our sunshine made thy spring,

And that thy summer bred us no increase, 164

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 bath’d thy growing with our heated bloods.

Edw.

And in this resolution I defy thee;

Not willing any longer conference,

Since thou deny’st the gentle king to speak. 172

Sound trumpets!—let our bloody colours wave!

And either victory, or else a grave.

Q. Mar.

Stay, Edward.

Edw.

No, wrangling woman, we’ll no longer stay: 176

These words will cost ten thousand lives this day

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Field of Battle between Towton and Saxton, in Yorkshire.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter Warwick.

War.

Forspent with toil, as runners with a race,

I lay me down a little while to breathe;

For strokes receiv’d, and many blows repaid,

Have robb’d my strong-knit sinews of their strength, 4

And spite of spite needs must I rest a while.

Enter Edward, running.

Edw.

Smile, gentle heaven! or strike, ungentle death!

For this world frowns, and Edward’s sun is clouded.

War.

How now, my lord! what hap? what hope of good? 8

Enter George.

Geo.

Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair,

Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us.

What counsel give you? whither shall we fly?

Edw.

Bootless is flight, they follow us with wings; 12

And weak we are and cannot shun pursuit.

Enter Richard.

Rich.

Ah! Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?

Thy brother’s blood the thirsty earth hath drunk,

Broach’d with the steely point of Clifford’s lance;

And in the very pangs of death he cried, 17

Like to a dismal clangor heard from far,

‘Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death!’

So, underneath the belly of their steeds, 20

That stain’d their fetlocks in his smoking blood,

The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.

War.

Then let the earth be drunken with our blood:

I’ll kill my horse because I will not fly. 24

Why stand we like soft-hearted women here,

Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage;

And look upon, as if the tragedy

Were play’d in jest by counterfeiting actors? 28

Here on my knee I vow to God above,

I’ll never pause again, never stand still

Till either death hath clos’d these eyes of mine,

Of fortune given me measure of revenge. 32

Edw.

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, 37

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, 40

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.

Rich.

Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle Warwick, 44

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.

War.

Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell. 48

Geo.

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 52

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. 56

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Another Part of the Field.

Excursions. Enter Richard and Clifford.

Rich.

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 environ’d with a brazen wall. 4

Clif.

Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone.

This is the hand that stabb’d thy father York,

And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland;

And here’s the heart that triumphs in their death 8

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.

Rich.

Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase; 12

For I myself will hunt this wolf to death.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Another Part of the Field.

Alarum. Enter King Henry.

K. Hen.

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. 4

Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea

Forc’d by the tide to combat with the wind;

Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea

Forc’d to retire by fury of the wind: 8

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: 12

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, 16

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? 20

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, 24

Thereby to see the minutes how they run,

How many make the hour full complete;

How many hours bring about the day;

How many days will finish up the year; 28

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; 32

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; 36

So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:

So minutes, hours, days, months, and years,

Pass’d over to the end they were created,

Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. 40

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 embroider’d canopy 44

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, 48

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, 52

His body couched in a curious bed,

When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.

Alarum. Enter a Son that hath killed his Father, with the dead body.

Son.

Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.

This man whom hand to hand I slew in fight, 56

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. 60

Who’s this? O God! it is my father’s face,

Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill’d.

O heavy times, begetting such events!

From London by the king was I press’d forth; 64

My father, being the Earl of Warwick’s man,

Came on the part of York, press’d by his master;

And I, who at his hands receiv’d my life,

Have by my hands of life bereaved him. 68

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 flow’d their fill.

K. Hen.

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, 77

Be blind with tears, and break o’ercharg’d with grief.

Enter a Father that hath killed his Son, with the body in his arms.

Fath.

Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me,

Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold, 80

For I have bought it with a 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, 84

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. 88

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, 92

And hath bereft thee of thy life too late.

K. Hen.

Woe above woe! grief more than common grief!

O! that my death would stay these ruthful deeds.

O! pity, pity; gentle heaven, pity. 96

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! 101

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! 104

Fath.

How will my wife for slaughter of my son

Shed seas of tears and ne’er be satisfied!

K. Hen.

How will the country for these woeful chances

Misthink the king and not be satisfied! 108

Son.

Was ever son so ru’d a father’s death?

Fath.

Was ever father so bemoan’d a son?

K. Hen.

Was ever king so griev’d 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.

Fath.

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; 117

And so obsequious will thy father be,

E’en for the loss of thee, having no more,

As Priam was for all his valiant sons. 120

I’ll bear thee hence; and let them fight that will,

For I have murder’d where I should not kill.

[Exit with the body.

K. Hen.

Sad-hearted men,’ much overgone with care,

Here sits a king more woeful than you are. 124

Alarum. 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.

Q. Mar.

Mount you, my lord; towards Berwick post amain. 128

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 grasp’d in their ireful hands,

Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain.

Exe.

Away! for vengeance comes along with them.

Nay, stay not to expostulate; make speed,

Or else come after: I’ll away before. 136

K. Hen.

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.

Scene VI.— The Same.

A loud alarum. Enter Clifford, wounded.

Clif.

Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies,

Which, while it lasted, gave King Henry light.

O Lancaster! I fear thy overthrow

More than my body’s parting with my soul. 4

My love and fear glu’d many friends to thee;

And, now I fall, thy tough commixtures melt,

Impairing Henry, strengthening misproud York:

The common people swarm like summer flies; 8

And whither fly the gnats but to the sun?

And who shines now but Henry’s enemies?

O Phœbus! hadst thou never given consent

That Phæthon should check thy fiery steeds, 12

Thy burning car never had scorch’d the earth;

And, Henry, hadst thou sway’d as kings should do,

Or as thy father and his father did,

Giving no ground unto the house of York, 16

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? 21

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: 24

The foe is merciless, and will not pity;

For at their hands I have deserv’d 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 stabb’d your fathers’ bosoms, split my breast.

[He faints.

Alarum and Retreat. Enter Edward, George, Richard, Montague, Warwick, and Soldiers.

Edw.

Now breathe we, lords: good fortune bids us pause,

And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks. 32

Some troops pursue the bloody-minded queen,

That led calm Henry, though he were a king,

As doth a sail, fill’d with a fretting gust,

Command an argosy to stern the waves. 36

But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them?

War.

No, ’tis impossible he should escape;

For, though before his face I speak the words,

Your brother Richard mark’d him for the grave;

And wheresoe’er he is, he’s surely dead. 41

[Clifford groans and dies.

Edw.

Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave?

Rich.

A deadly groan, like life and death’s departing.

Edw.

See who it is: and now the battle’s ended, 44

If friend or foe let him be gently us’d.

Rich.

Revoke that doom of mercy, for ’tis Clifford;

Who not contented that he lopp’d the branch

In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth, 48

But set his murd’ring knife unto the root

From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring,

I mean our princely father, Duke of York.

War.

From off the gates of York fetch down the head, 52

Your father’s head, which Clifford placed there;

Instead whereof let this supply the room:

Measure for measure must be answered.

Edw.

Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house, 56

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.

[Attendants bring the body forward.

War.

I think his understanding is bereft. 60

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.

Rich.

O! would he did; and so perhaps he doth: 64

’Tis but his policy to counterfeit,

Because he would avoid such bitter taunts

Which in the time of death he gave our father.

Geo.

If so thou think’st, vex him with eager words. 68

Rich.

Clifford! ask mercy and obtain no grace.

Edw.

Clifford, repent in bootless penitence.

War.

Clifford! devise excuses for thy faults.

Geo.

While we devise fell tortures for thy faults. 72

Rich.

Thou didst love York, and I am son to York.

Edw.

Thou pitiedst Rutland, I will pity thee.

Geo.

Where’s Captain Margaret, to fence you now?

War.

They mock thee, Clifford: swear as thou wast wont. 76

Rich.

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, 80

That I in all despite might rail at him,

This hand should chop it off, and with the issuing blood

Stifle the villain whose unstaunched thirst

York and young Rutland could not satisfy. 84

War.

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: 88

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 92

The scatter’d 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; 96

And then to Brittany I’ll cross the sea,

To effect this marriage, so it please my lord.

Edw.

Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be;

For on thy shoulder do I build my seat, 100

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. 105

Rich.

Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloucester,

For Gloucester’s dukedom is too ominous.

War.

Tut! that’s a foolish observation: 108

Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London,

To see these honours in possession.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— A Chase in the North of England.

Enter two Keepers, with cross-bows in their hands.

First Keep.

Under this thick-grown hrake 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. 4

Sec. Keep.

I’ll stay above the hill, so both may shoot.

First Keep.

That cannot be; the noise of thy cross-bow

Will scare the herd, and so my shoot is lost.

Here stand we both, and aim we at the best: 8

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.

Sec. Keep.

Here comes a man; let’s stay till he be past. 12

Enter King Henry, disguised, with a prayer-book.

K. Hen.

From Scotland am I stol’n, even of pure love,

To greet mine own land with my wishful sight.

No, Harry, Harry, ’tis no land of thine;

Thy place is fill’d, thy sceptre wrung from thee,

Thy balm wash’d off wherewith thou wast anointed: 17

No bending knee will call thee Cæsar now,

No humble suitors press to speak for right,

No, not a man comes for redress of thee; 20

For how can I help them, and not myself?

First Keep.

Ay, here’s a deer whose skin’s a keeper’s fee:

This is the quondam king; let’s seize upon him.

K. Hen.

Let me embrace thee, sour adversity,

For wise men say it is the wisest course. 25

Sec. Keep.

Why linger we? let us lay hands upon him.

First Keep.

Forbear awhile; we’ll hear a little more.

K. Hen.

My queen and son are gone to France for aid; 28

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; 32

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: 36

Her sighs will make a battery 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, 40

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. 44

She weeps, and says her Henry is depos’d;

He smiles, and says his Edward is install’d;

That she, poor wretch, for grief can speak no more:

Whiles Warwick tells his title, smooths the wrong, 48

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 ’twill be; and thou, poor soul,

Art then forsaken, as thou went’st forlorn.

Sec. Keep.

Say, what art thou, that talk’st of kings and queens?

K. Hen.

More than I seem, and less than I was born to: 56

A man at least, for less I should not be;

And men may talk of kings, and why not I?

Sec. Keep.

Ay, but thou talk’st as if thou wert a king.

K. Hen.

Why, so I am, in mind; and that’s enough. 60

Sec. Keep.

But, if thou be a king, where is thy crown?

K. Hen.

My crown is in my heart, not on my head;

Not deck’d with diamonds and Indian stones,

Nor to be seen: my crown is call’d content; 64

A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.

Sec. Keep.

Well, if you be a king crown’d with content,

Your crown content and you must be contented

To go along with us; for, as we think, 68

You are the king King Edward hath depos’d;

And we his subjects, sworn in all allegiance,

Will apprehend you as his enemy.

K. Hen.

But did you never swear, and break an oath? 72

Sec. Keep.

No, never such an oath; nor will not now.

K. Hen.

Where did you dwell when I was King of England?

Sec. Keep.

Here in this country, where we now remain.

K. Hen.

I was anointed king at nine months old; 76

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?

First Keep.

No; 80

For we were subjects but while you were king.

K. Hen.

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, 84

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; 88

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. 93

First Keep.

We are true subjects to the king, King Edward.

K. Hen.

So would you be again to Henry,

If he were seated as King Edward is. 96

First Keep.

We charge you, in God’s name, and in the king’s,

To go with us unto the officers.

K. Hen.

In God’s name, lead; your king’s name be obey’d:

And what God will, that let your king perform;

And what he will, I humbly yield unto.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King Edward, Gloucester, Clarence, and Lady Grey.

K. Edw.

Brother of Gloucester, at Saint Alban’s field

This lady’s husband, Sir John Grey, was slain,

His lands then seiz’d on by the conqueror:

Her suit is now, to repossess those lands; 4

Which we in justice cannot well deny,

Because in quarrel of the house of York

The worthy gentleman did lose his life.

Glo.

Your highness shall do well to grant her suit; 8

It were dishonour to deny it her.

K. Edw.

It were no less: but yet I’ll make a pause.

Glo.

[Aside to Clarence.] Yea; is it so?

I see the lady hath a thing to grant 12

Before the king will grant her humble suit.

Clar.

[Aside to Gloucester.] He knows the game: how true he keeps the wind!

Glo.

[Aside to Clarence.] Silence!

K. Edw.

Widow, we will consider of your suit, 16

And come some other time to know our mind.

L. 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. 20

Glo.

[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.

Clar.

[Aside to Gloucester.] I fear her not, unless she chance to fall. 24

Glo.

[Aside to Clarence.] God forbid that! for he’ll take vantages.

K. Edw.

How many children hast thou, widow? tell me.

Clar.

[Aside to Gloucester.] I think he means to beg a child of her.

Glo.

[Aside to Clarence.] Nay, whip me, then; he’ll rather give her two. 28

L. Grey.

Three, my most gracious lord.

Glo.

[Aside to Clarence.] You shall have four, if you’ll be rul’d by him.

K. Edw.

’Twere pity they should lose their father’s lands.

L. Grey.

Be pitiful, dread lord, and grant it then. 32

K. Edw.

Lords, give us leave: I’ll try this widow’s wit.

Glo.

[Aside to Clarence.] Ay, good leave have you; for you will have leave,

Till youth take leave and leave you to the crutch.

[Retiring with Clarence.

K. Edw.

Now, tell me, madam, do you love your children? 36

L. Grey.

Ay, full as dearly as I love myself.

K. Edw.

And would you not do much to do them good?

L. Grey.

To do them good I would sustain some harm.

K. Edw.

Then get your husband’s lands, to do them good. 40

L. Grey.

Therefore I came unto your majesty.

K. Edw.

I’ll tell you how these lands are to be got.

L. Grey.

So shall you bind me to your highness’ service.

K. Edw.

What service wilt thou do me, if I give them? 44

L. Grey.

What you command, that rests in me to do.

K. Edw.

But you will take exceptions to my boon.

L. Grey.

No, gracious lord, except I cannot do it.

K. Edw.

Ay, but thou canst do what I mean to ask. 48

L. Grey.

Why, then I will do what your Grace commands.

Glo.

[Aside to Clarence.] He plies her hard; and much rain wears the marble.

Clar.

[Aside to Gloucester.] As red as fire! nay, then her wax must melt.

L. Grey.

Why stops my lord? shall I not hear my task? 52

K. Edw.

An easy task: ’tis but to love a king.

L. Grey.

That’s soon perform’d, because I am a subject.

K. Edw.

Why then, thy husband’s lands I freely give thee.

L. Grey.

I take my leave with many thousand thanks. 56

Glo.

[Aside to Clarence.] The match is made; she seals it with a curtsy.

K. Edw.

But stay thee; ’tis the fruits of love I mean.

L. Grey.

The fruits of love I mean, my loving liege.

K. Edw.

Ay, but, I fear me, in another sense.

What love think’st thou I sue so much to get?

L. Grey.

My love till death, my humble thanks, my prayers:

That love which virtue begs and virtue grants.

K. Edw.

No, by my troth, I did not mean such love. 64

L. Grey.

Why, then you mean not as I thought you did.

K. Edw.

But now you partly may perceive my mind.

L. Grey.

My mind will never grant what I perceive

Your highness aims at, if I aim aright. 68

K. Edw.

To tell thee plain, I aim to lie with thee.

L. Grey.

To tell you plain, I had rather lie in prison.

K. Edw.

Why, then thou shalt not have thy husband’s lands.

L. Grey.

Why, then mine honesty shall be my dower; 72

For by that loss I will not purchase them.

K. Edw.

Therein thou wrong’st thy children mightily.

L. Grey.

Herein your highness wrongs both them and me.

But, mighty lord, this merry inclination 76

Accords not with the sadness of my suit:

Please you dismiss me, either with ‘ay,’ or ‘no.’

K. Edw.

Ay, if thou wilt say ‘ay’ to my request;

No, if thou dost say ‘no’ to my demand. 80

L. Grey.

Then, no, my lord. My suit is at an end.

Glo.

[Aside to Clarence.] The widow likes him not, she knits her brows.

Clar.

[Aside to Gloucester.] He is the bluntest wooer in Christendom.

K. Edw.

[Aside.] Her looks do argue her replete with modesty; 84

Her words do 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. 88

Say that King Edward take thee for his queen?

L. Grey.

’Tis better said than done, my gracious lord:

I am a subject fit to jest withal,

But far unfit to be a sovereign. 92

K. Edw.

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.

L. Grey.

And that is more than I will yield unto. 96

I know I am too mean to be your queen,

And yet too good to be your concubine.

K. Edw.

You cavil, widow: I did mean, my queen.

L. Grey.

’Twill grieve your Grace my sons should call you father. 100

K. Edw.

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, ’tis a happy thing 104

To be the father unto many sons.

Answer no more, for thou shalt be my queen.

Glo.

[Aside to Clarence.] The ghostly father now hath done his shrift.

Clar.

[Aside to Gloucester.] When he was made a shriver, ’twas for shift. 108

K. Edw.

Brothers, you muse what chat we two have had.

Glo.

The widow likes it not, for she looks very sad.

K. Edw.

You’d think it strange if I should marry her.

Clar.

To whom, my lord?

K. Edw.

Why, Clarence, to myself.

Glo.

That would be ten days’ wonder at the least. 113

Clar.

That’s a day longer than a wonder lasts.

Glo.

By so much is the wonder in extremes.

K. Edw.

Well, jest on, brothers: I can tell you both 116

Her suit is granted for her husband’s lands.

Enter a Nobleman.

Nob.

My gracious lord, Henry your foe is taken,

And brought as prisoner to your palace gate.

K. Edw.

See that he be convey’d unto the Tower: 120

And go we, brothers, to the man that took him,

To question of his apprehension.

Widow, go you along. Lords, use her honourably.

[Exeunt all but Gloucester.

Glo.

Ay, Edward will use women honourably. 124

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— 128

The lustful Edward’s title buried,—

Is Clarence, Henry, and his son young Edward,

And all the unlook’d for issue of their bodies,

To take their rooms, ere I can place myself: 132

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; 137

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, 140

And so I chide the means that keep 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. 145

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, 148

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. 152

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 wither’d shrub;

To make an envious mountain on my back, 157

Where sits deformity to mock my body;

To shape my legs of an unequal size;

To disproportion me in every part, 160

Like to a chaos, or an unlick’d bear-whelp

That carries no impression like the dam.

And am I then a man to be belov’d?

O monstrous fault! to harbour such a thought.

Then, since this earth affords no joy to me 165

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-shap’d trunk that bears this head

Be round impaled with a glorious crown.

And yet I know not how to get the crown, 172

For many lives stand between me and home:

And I, like one lost in a thorny wood,

That rents the thorns and is rent with the thorns,

Seeking a way and straying from the way; 176

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, 180

Or hew my way out with a bloody axe.

Why, I can smile, and murder while I smile,

And cry, ‘Content,’ to that which grieves my heart,

And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, 184

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, 188

Deceive more slily than Ulysses could,

And, like a Sinon, take another Troy.

I can add colours to the chameleon,

Change shapes with Proteus for advantages, 192

And set the murd’rous Machiavel to school.

Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?

Tut! were it further off, I’ll pluck it down.

[Exit.

Scene III.— France. A Room in the Palace.

Flourish. Enter Lewis the French King, his sister Lady Bona, attended: his Admiral called Bourbon; the King takes his state. Then enter Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, and the Earl of Oxford. Lewis sits, and riseth up again.

K. Lew.

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.

Q. Mar.

No, mighty King of France: now Margaret 4

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, 8

And with dishonour laid me on the ground,

Where I must take like seat unto my fortune,

And to my humble seat conform myself.

K. Lew.

Why, say, fair queen, whence springs this deep despair? 12

Q. Mar.

From such a cause as fills mine eyes with tears

And stops my tongue, while heart is drown’d in cares.

K. Lew.

Whate’er it be, be thou still like thyself,

And sit thee by our side. [Seats her by him.] Yield not thy neck 16

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 eas’d, if France can yield relief. 20

Q. Mar.

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, 24

Is of a king become a banish’d man,

And forc’d to live in Scotland a forlorn;

While proud ambitious Edward Duke of York

Usurps the regal title and the seat 28

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; 32

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 seiz’d, our soldiers put to flight, 36

And, as thou seest, ourselves in heavy plight.

K. Lew.

Renowned queen, with patience calm the storm,

While we bethink a means to break it off.

Q. Mar.

The more we stay, the stronger grows our foe. 40

K. Lew.

The more I stay, the more I’ll succour thee.

Q. Mar.

O! but impatience waiteth on true sorrow:

And see where comes the breeder of my sorrow.

Enter Warwick, attended.

K. Lew.

What’s he, approacheth boldly to our presence? 44

Q. Mar.

Our Earl of Warwick, Edward’s greatest friend.

K. Lew.

Welcome, brave Warwick! What brings thee to France?

[Descending from his state. Queen Margaret rises.

Q. Mar.

Ay, now begins a second storm to rise;

For this is he that moves both wind and tide. 48

War.

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; 52

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, 56

To England’s king in lawful marriage.

Q. Mar.

If that go forward, Henry’s hope is done.

War.

[To Bona.] And, gracious madam, in our king’s behalf,

I am commanded, with your leave and favour, 60

Humbly to kiss your hand, and with my tongue

To tell the passion of my sov’reign’s heart;

Where fame, late entering at his heedful ears,

Hath plac’d thy beauty’s image and thy virtue.

Q. Mar.

King Lewis and Lady Bona, hear me speak, 65

Before you answer Warwick. His demand

Springs not from Edward’s well-meant honest love,

But from deceit bred by necessity; 68

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, 72

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, 76

Yet heavens are just, and time suppresseth wrongs.

War.

Injurious Margaret!

Prince.

And why not queen?

War.

Because thy father Henry did usurp,

And thou no more art prince than she is queen.

Oxf.

Then Warwick disannuls great John of Gaunt, 81

Which did subdue the greatest part of Spain;

And, after John of Gaunt, Henry the Fourth,

Whose wisdom was a mirror to the wisest; 84

And, after that wise prince, Henry the Fifth,

Who by his prowess conquered all France:

From these our Henry lineally descends.

War.

Oxford, how haps it, in this smooth discourse, 88

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 92

Of threescore and two years; a silly time

To make prescription for a kingdom’s worth.

Oxf.

Why, Warwick, canst thou speak against thy liege,

Whom thou obeyedst thirty and six years, 96

And not bewray thy treason with a blush?

War.

Can Oxford, that did ever fence the right,

Now buckler falsehood with a pedigree?

For shame! leave Henry, and call Edward king.

Oxf.

Call him my king, by whose injurious doom 101

My elder brother, the Lord Aubrey Vere,

Was done to death? and more than so, my father,

Even in the downfall of his mellow’d years, 104

When nature brought him to the door of death?

No, Warwick, no; while life upholds this arm,

This arm upholds the house of Lancaster.

War.

And I the house of York. 108

K. Lew.

Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, and Oxford,

Vouchsafe at our request to stand aside,

While I use further conference with Warwick.

[They stand aloof.

Q. Mar.

Heaven grant that Warwick’s words bewitch him not! 112

K. Lew.

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.

War.

Thereon I pawn my credit and mine honour. 116

K. Lew.

But is he gracious in the people’s eye?

War.

The more that Henry was unfortunate.

K. Lew.

Then further, all dissembling set aside,

Tell me for truth the measure of his love 120

Unto our sister Bona.

War.

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, 124

Whereof the root was fix’d in virtue’s ground,

The leaves and fruit maintain’d with beauty’s sun,

Exempt from envy, but not from disdain,

Unless the Lady Bona quit his pain. 128

K. Lew.

Now, sister, let us hear your firm resolve.

Bona.

Your grant, or your denial, shall be mine:

[To Warwick.] Yet I confess that often ere this day,

When I have heard your king’s desert recounted,

Mine ear hath tempted judgment to desire. 133

K. Lew.

Then, Warwick, thus: our sister shall be Edward’s;

And now forthwith shall articles be drawn

Touching the jointure that your king must make, 136

Which with her dowry shall be counterpois’d.

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. 140

Q. Mar.

Deceitful Warwick! it was thy device

By this alliance to make void my suit:

Before thy coming Lewis was Henry’s friend.

K. Lew.

And still is friend to him and Margaret: 144

But if your title to the crown be weak,

As may appear by Edward’s good success,

Then ’tis but reason that I be releas’d

From giving aid which late I promised. 148

Yet shall you have all kindness at my hand

That your estate requires and mine can yield.

War.

Henry now lives in Scotland at his ease,

Where having nothing, nothing can he lose. 152

And as for you yourself, our quondam queen,

You have a father able to maintain you,

And better ’twere you troubled him than France.

Q. Mar.

Peace! impudent and shameless Warwick, peace; 156

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; 160

For both of you are birds of self-same feather.

[A horn winded within.

K. Lew.

Warwick, this is some post to us or thee.

Enter a Post.

Mess.

My lord ambassador, these letters are for you,

Sent from your brother, Marquess Montague:

These from our king unto your majesty; 165

[To Margaret.] And, madam, these for you; from whom I know not.

[They all read their letters.

Oxf.

I like it well that our fair queen and mistress

Smiles at her news, while Warwick frowns at his. 168

Prince.

Nay, mark how Lewis stamps as he were nettled:

I hope all’s for the best.

K. Lew.

Warwick, what are thy news? and yours, fair queen?

Q. Mar.

Mine, such as fill my heart with unhop’d joys. 172

War.

Mine, full of sorrow and heart’s discontent.

K. Lew.

What! has your king married the Lady Grey?

And now, to soothe your forgery and his,

Sends me a paper to persuade me patience? 176

Is this the alliance that he seeks with France?

Dare he presume to scorn us in this manner?

Q. Mar.

I told your majesty as much before:

This proveth Edward’s love and Warwick’s honesty. 180

War.

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; 184

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? 188

Did I impale him with the regal crown?

Did I put Henry from his native right?

And am I guerdon’d at the last with shame?

Shame on himself! for my desert is honour: 192

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. 196

I will revenge his wrong to Lady Bona,

And replant Henry in his former state.

Q. Mar.

Warwick, these words have turn’d my hate to love;

And I forgive and quite forget old faults, 200

And joy that thou becom’st King Henry’s friend.

War.

So much his friend, ay, his unfeigned friend,

That, if King Lewis vouchsafe to furnish us

With some few bands of chosen soldiers, 204

I’ll undertake to land them on our coast,

And force the tyrant from his seat by war.

’Tis not his new-made bride shall succour him:

And as for Clarence, as my letters tell me, 208

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 reveng’d, 212

But by thy help to this distressed queen?

Q. Mar.

Renowned prince, how shall poor Henry live,

Unless thou rescue him from foul despair?

Bona.

My quarrel and this English queen’s are one. 216

War.

And mine, fair Lady Bona, joins with yours.

K. Lew.

And mine with hers, and thine and Margaret’s.

Therefore, at last, I firmly am resolv’d

You shall have aid. 220

Q. Mar.

Let me give humble thanks for all at once.

K. Lew.

Then, England’s messenger, return in post,

And tell false Edward, thy supposed king,

That Lewis of France is sending over masquers,

To revel it with him and his new bride. 225

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. 228

Q. Mar.

Tell him, my mourning weeds are laid aside,

And I am ready to put armour on.

War.

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 Messenger.

K. Lew.

But, Warwick, 233

Thou and Oxford, with five thousand men,

Shall cross the seas, and bid false Edward battle;

And, as occasion serves, this noble queen 236

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?

War.

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.

Q. Mar.

Yes, I agree, and thank you for your motion. 244

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; 249

And here, to pledge my vow, I give my hand.

[He gives his hand to Warwick.

K. Lew.

Why stay we now? These soldiers shall be levied,

And thou, Lord Bourbon, our high admiral, 252

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 except Warwick.

War.

I came from Edward as ambassador,

But I return his sworn and mortal foe: 257

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? 260

Then none but I shall turn his jest to sorrow.

I was the chief that rais’d him to the crown,

And I’ll be chief to bring him down again:

Not that I pity Henry’s misery, 264

But seek revenge on Edward’s mockery.

[Exit.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Gloucester, Clarence, Somerset, Montague, and Others.

Glo.

Now tell me, brother Clarence, what think you

Of this new marriage with the Lady Grey?

Hath not our brother made a worthy choice?

Clar.

Alas! you know, ’tis far from hence to France; 4

How could he stay till Warwick made return?

Som.

My lords, forbear this talk; here comes the king.

Glo.

And his well-chosen bride.

Clar.

I mind to tell him plainly what I think. 8

Flourish. Enter King Edward, attended; Lady Grey, as Queen; Pembroke, Stafford, Hastings, and Others.

K. Edw.

Now, brother Clarence, how like you our choice,

That you stand pensive, as half malcontent?

Clar.

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. 13

K. Edw.

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. 16

Glo.

And you shall have your will, because our king:

Yet hasty marriage seldom proveth well.

K. Edw.

Yea, brother Richard, are you offended too?

Glo.

Not I: 20

No, God forbid, that I should wish them sever’d

Whom God hath join’d together; ay, and ’twere pity

To sunder them that yoke so well together.

K. Edw.

Setting your scorns and your mislike aside, 24

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. 28

Clar.

Then this is mine opinion: that King Lewis

Becomes your enemy for mocking him

About the marriage of the Lady Bona.

Glo.

And Warwick, doing what you gave in charge, 32

Is now dishonoured by this new marriage.

K. Edw.

What if both Lewis and Warwick be appeas’d

By such invention as I can devise?

Mont.

Yet to have join’d with France in such alliance 36

Would more have strengthen’d this our commonwealth

’Gainst foreign storms, than any home-bred marriage.

Hast.

Why, knows not Montague, that of itself

England is safe, if true within itself? 40

Mont.

Yes; but the safer when ’tis back’d with France.

Hast.

’Tis better using France than trusting France:

Let us be back’d with God and with the seas

Which he hath given for fence impregnable, 44

And with their helps only defend ourselves:

In them and in ourselves our safety lies.

Clar.

For this one speech Lord Hastings well deserves

To have the heir of the Lord Hungerford. 48

K. Edw.

Ay, what of that? it was my will and grant;

And for this once my will shall stand for law.

Glo.

And yet methinks your Grace hath not done well,

To give the heir and daughter of Lord Scales 52

Unto the brother of your loving bride:

She better would have fitted me or Clarence:

But in your bride you bury brotherhood.

Clar.

Or else you would not have bestow’d the heir 56

Of the Lord Bonville on your new wife’s son,

And leave your brothers to go speed elsewhere.

K. Edw.

Alas, poor Clarence, is it for a wife

That thou art malcontent? I will provide thee.

Clar.

In choosing for yourself you show’d your judgment, 61

Which being shallow, you shall give me leave

To play the broker on mine own behalf;

And to that end I shortly mind to leave you. 64

K. Edw.

Leave me, or tarry, Edward will be king,

And not be tied unto his brother’s will.

Q. Eliz.

My lords, before it pleas’d his majesty

To raise my state to title of a queen, 68

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, 72

So your dislikes, to whom I would be pleasing,

Do cloud my joys with danger and with sorrow.

K. Edw.

My love, forbear to fawn upon their frowns:

What danger or what sorrow can befall thee, 76

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; 80

Which if they do, yet will I keep thee safe,

And they shall feel the vengeance of my wrath.

Glo.

[Aside.] I hear, yet say not much, but think the more.

Enter a Messenger.

K. Edw.

Now, messenger, what letters or what news 84

From France?

Mess.

My sovereign liege, no letters; and few words;

But such as I, without your special pardon,

Dare not relate. 88

K. Edw.

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?

Mess.

At my depart these were his very words: 92

‘Go tell false Edward, thy supposed king,

That Lewis of France is sending over masquers,

To revel it with him and his new bride.’

K. Edw.

Is Lewis so brave? belike he thinks me Henry. 96

But what said Lady Bona to my marriage?

Mess.

These were her words, utter’d with mild disdain:

‘Tell him, in hope he’ll prove a widower shortly,

I’ll wear the willow garland for his sake.’ 100

K. Edw.

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.

Mess.

‘Tell him,’ quoth she, ‘my mourning weeds are done, 104

And I am ready to put armour on.’

K. Edw.

Belike she minds to play the Amazon.

But what said Warwick to these injuries?

Mess.

He, more incens’d against your majesty

Than all the rest, discharg’d me with these words: 109

‘Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong,

And therefore I’ll uncrown him ere’t be long.’

K. Edw.

Ha! durst the traitor breathe out so proud words? 112

Well, I will arm me, being thus forewarn’d:

They shall have wars, and pay for their presumption.

But say, is Warwick friends with Margaret?

Mess.

Ay, gracious sovereign; they are so link’d in friendship, 116

That young Prince Edward marries Warwick’s daughter.

Clar.

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.

Glo.

[Aside.] Not I. 124

My thoughts aim at a further matter; I

Stay not for love of Edward, but the crown.

K. Edw.

Clarence and Somerset both gone to Warwick!

Yet am I arm’d against the worst can happen,

And haste is needful in this desperate case. 129

Pembroke and Stafford, you in our behalf

Go levy men, and make prepare for war:

They are already, or quickly will be landed: 132

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? 137

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 141

That I may never have you in suspect.

Mont.

So God help Montague as he proves true!

Hast.

And Hastings as he favours Edward’s cause! 144

K. Edw.

Now, brother Richard, will you stand by us?

Glo.

Ay, in despite of all that shall withstand you.

K. Edw.

Why, so! then am I sure of victory.

Now therefore let us hence; and lose no hour

Till we meet Warwick with his foreign power.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Plain in Warwickshire.

Enter Warwick and Oxford, with French and other Forces.

War.

Trust me, my lord, all hitherto goes well;

The common people by numbers swarm to us.

Enter Clarence and Somerset.

But see where Somerset and Clarence come!

Speak suddenly, my lords, are we all friends? 4

Clar.

Fear not that, my lord.

War.

Then, gentle Clarence, welcome unto Warwick;

And welcome, Somerset: I hold it cowardice,

To rest mistrustful where a noble heart 8

Hath pawn’d 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. 12

And now what rests, but in night’s coverture,

Thy brother being carelessly encamp’d,

His soldiers lurking in the towns about,

And but attended by a simple guard, 16

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, 20

And brought from thence the Thracian fatal steeds;

So we, well cover’d with the night’s black mantle,

At unawares may beat down Edward’s guard,

And seize himself; I say not, slaughter him, 24

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. 28

For Warwick and his friends, God and Saint George!

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Edward’s Camp near Warwick.

Enter certain Watchmen to guard the King’s tent.

First Watch.

Come on, my masters, each man take his stand;

The king, by this, is set him down to sleep.

Sec. Watch.

What, will he not to bed?

First Watch.

Why, no: for he hath made a solemn vow 4

Never to lie and take his natural rest

Till Warwick or himself be quite suppress’d.

Sec. Watch.

To-morrow then belike shall be the day,

If Warwick be so near as men report. 8

Third Watch.

But say, I pray, what nobleman is that

That with the king here resteth in his tent?

First Watch.

’Tis the Lord Hastings, the king’s chiefest friend.

Third Watch.

O! is it so? But why commands the king 12

That his chief followers lodge in towns about him,

While he himself keeps in the cold field?

Sec. Watch.

’Tis the more honour, because the more dangerous.

Third Watch.

Ay, but give me worship and quietness; 16

I like it better than a dangerous honour.

If Warwick knew in what estate he stands,

’Tis to be doubted he would waken him.

First Watch.

Unless our halberds did shut up his passage. 20

Sec. Watch.

Ay; wherefore else guard we his royal tent,

But to defend his person from night-foes?

Enter Warwick, Clarence, Oxford, Somerset, and Forces.

War.

This is his tent; and see where stand his guard.

Courage, my masters! honour now or never! 24

But follow me, and Edward shall be ours.

First Watch.

Who goes there?

Sec. Watch.

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.

Drums beating, and Trumpets sounding, re-enter Warwick and the rest, bringing the King out in his gown, sitting in a chair. Gloucester and Hastings fly over the stage.

Som.

What are they that fly there?

War.

Richard and Hastings: let them go; here’s the duke. 28

K. Edw.

The duke! Why, Warwick, when we parted last,

Thou call’dst me king!

War.

Ay, but the case is alter’d:

When you disgrac’d me in my embassade,

Then I degraded you from being king, 32

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, 36

Nor how to use your brothers brotherly,

Nor how to study for the people’s welfare,

Nor how to shroud yourself from enemies?

K. Edw.

Yea, brother of Clarence, art thou here too? 40

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: 44

Though Fortune’s malice overthrow my state,

My mind exceeds the compass of her wheel.

War.

Then, for his mind, be Edward England’s king:

[Takes off his crown.

But Henry now shall wear the English crown, 48

And be true king indeed, thou but the shadow.

My Lord of Somerset, at my request,

See that forthwith Duke Edward be convey’d

Unto my brother, Archbishop of York. 52

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. 56

K. Edw.

What fates impose, that men must needs abide;

It boots not to resist both wind and tide.

[Exit, led out; Somerset with him.

Oxf.

What now remains, my lords, for us to do,

But march to London with our soldiers? 60

War.

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.

Scene IV.— London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Queen Elizabeth and Rivers.

Riv.

Madam, what makes you in this sudden change?

Q Eliz.

Why, brother Rivers, are you yet to learn,

What late misfortune is befall’n King Edward?

Riv.

What! loss of some pitch’d battle against Warwick? 4

Q. Eliz.

No, but the loss of his own royal person.

Riv.

Then is my sovereign slain?

Q. Eliz.

Ay, almost slain, for he is taken prisoner;

Either betray’d by falsehood of his guard 8

Or by his foe surpris’d 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. 12

Riv.

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.

Q. Eliz.

Till then fair hope must hinder life’s decay. 16

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, 21

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. 24

Riv.

But, madam, where is Warwick then become?

Q. Eliz.

I am inform’d 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. 28

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: 32

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.

Scene V.— A Park near Middleham Castle in Yorkshire.

Enter Gloucester, Hastings, Sir William Stanley, and Others.

Glo.

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, 4

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. 8

I have advertis’d 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. 13

Enter King Edward and a Huntsman.

Hunt.

This way, my lord, for this way lies the game.

K. Edw.

Nay, this way, man: see where the huntsmen stand.

Now, brother of Gloucester, Lord Hastings, and the rest, 16

Stand you thus close, to steal the bishop’s deer?

Glo.

Brother, the time and case requireth haste.

Your horse stands ready at the park corner.

K. Edw.

But whither shall we then? 20

Hast.

To Lynn, my lord; and ship from thence to Flanders.

Glo.

Well guess’d, believe me; for that was my meaning.

K. Edw.

Stanley, I will requite thy forwardness.

Glo.

But wherefore stay we? ’tis no time to talk. 24

K. Edw.

Huntsman, what sayst thou? wilt thou go along?

Hunt.

Better do so than tarry and be hang’d.

Glo.

Come then, away; let’s ha’ no more ado.

K. Edw.

Bishop, farewell: shield thee from Warwick’s frown, 28

And pray that I may repossess the crown.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— A Room in the Tower.

Enter King Henry, Clarence, Warwick, Somerset, young Richmond, Oxford, Montague, Lieutenant of the Tower, and Attendants.

K. Hen.

Master lieutenant, now that God and friends

Have shaken Edward from the regal seat,

And turn’d my captive state to liberty,

My fear to hope, my sorrows unto joys, 4

At our enlargement what are thy due fees?

Lieu.

Subjects may challenge nothing of their sovereigns;

But if a humble prayer may prevail,

I then crave pardon of your majesty. 8

K. Hen.

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 encaged birds 12

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 set’st me free, 16

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, 20

And that the people of this blessed land

May not be punish’d with my thwarting stars,

Warwick, although my head still wear the crown,

I here resign my government to thee, 24

For thou art fortunate in all thy deeds.

War.

Your Grace hath still been fam’d for virtuous;

And now may seem as wise as virtuous,

By spying and avoiding Fortune’s malice; 28

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.

Clar.

No, Warwick, thou art worthy of the sway, 32

To whom the heavens, in thy nativity

Adjudg’d an olive branch and laurel crown,

As likely to be blest in peace, and war;

And therefore I yield thee my free consent. 36

War.

And I choose Clarence only for protector.

K. Hen

Warwick and Clarence, give me both your hands:

Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts,

That no dissension hinder government: 40

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. 44

War.

What answers Clarence to his sovereign’s will?

Clar.

That he consents, if Warwick yield consent;

For on thy fortune I repose myself.

War.

Why then, though loath, yet must I be content: 48

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. 52

And, Clarence, now then it is more than needful

Forthwith that Edward be pronounc’d a traitor,

And all his lands and goods be confiscate.

Clar.

What else? and that succession be determin’d. 56

War.

Ay, therein Clarence shall not want his part.

K. Hen.

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 eclips’d.

Clar.

It shall be done, my sov’reign, with all speed. 64

K. Hen.

My Lord of Somerset, what youth is that

Of whom you seem to have so tender care?

Som.

My liege, it is young Henry, Earl of Richmond.

K. Hen.

Come hither, England’s hope: [Lays his hand on his head.] If secret powers 68

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 fram’d to wear a crown, 72

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 Post.

War.

What news, my friend? 77

Mess.

That Edward is escaped from your brother,

And fled, as he hears since, to Burgundy.

War.

Unsavoury news! but how made he escape? 80

Mess.

He was convey’d 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 rescu’d him:

For hunting was his daily exercise. 85

War.

My brother was too careless of his charge.

But let us hence, my sovereign, to provide

A salve for any sore that may betide. 88

[Exeunt King Henry, Warwick, Clarence, Lieutenant, and Attendant.

Som.

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 92

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, 96

Forthwith we’ll send him hence to Brittany,

Till storms be past of civil enmity.

Oxf.

Ay, for if Edward repossess the crown,

’Tis like that Richmond with the rest shall down. 100

Som.

It shall be so; he shall to Brittany.

Come, therefore, let’s about it speedily.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— Before York.

Enter King Edward, Gloucester, Hastings, and Forces.

K. Edw.

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. 4

Well have we pass’d, and now repass’d the seas,

And brought desired help from Burgundy:

What then remains, we being thus arriv’d

From Ravenspurgh haven before the gates of York, 8

But that we enter, as into our dukedom?

Glo.

The gates made fast! Brother, I like not this;

For many men that stumble at the threshold

Are well foretold that danger lurks within. 12

K. Edw.

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.

Hast.

My liege, I’ll knock once more to summon them. 16

Enter, on the Walls, the Mayor of York and his Brethren.

May

My lords, we were forewarned of your coming,

And shut the gates for safety of ourselves;

For now we owe allegiance unto Henry.

K. Edw.

But, Master Mayor, if Henry be your king, 20

Yet Edward, at the least, is Duke of York.

May.

True, my good lord, I know you for no less.

K. Edw.

Why, and I challenge nothing but my dukedom,

As being well content with that alone. 24

Glo.

[Aside.] But when the fox hath once got in his nose,

He’ll soon find means to make the body follow.

Hast.

Why, Master Mayor, why stand you in a doubt?

Open the gates; we are King Henry’s friends. 28

May

Ay, say you so? the gates shall then be open’d.

[Exit, with Aldermen, above.

Glo

A wise stout captain, and soon persuaded.

Hast.

The good old man would fain that all were well,

So ’twere not ’long of him; but being enter’d, 32

I doubt not, I, but we shall soon persuade

Both him and all his brothers unto reason.

Re-enter the Mayor and two Aldermen.

K. Edw.

So, Master Mayor: these gates must not be shut

But in the night, or in the time of war. 36

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.

Enter Montgomery and Forces.

Glo.

Brother, this is Sir John Montgomery,

Our trusty friend, unless I be deceiv’d. 41

K. Edw.

Welcome, Sir John! but why come you in arms?

Mont.

To help King Edward in his time of storm,

As every loyal subject ought to do. 44

K. Edw.

Thanks, good Montgomery; but we now forget

Our title to the crown, and only claim

Our dukedom till God please to send the rest.

Mont.

Then fare you well, for I will hence again: 48

I came to serve a king and not a duke.

Drummer, strike up, and let us march away.

[A march begun.

K. Edw.

Nay, stay, Sir John, awhile; and we’ll debate

By what safe means the crown may be recover’d. 52

Mont.

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 be gone

To keep them back that come to succour you.

Why shall we fight, if you pretend no title? 57

Glo.

Why, brother, wherefore stand you on nice points?

K. Edw.

When we grow stronger then we’ll make our claim;

Till then, ’tis wisdom to conceal our meaning. 60

Hast.

Away with scrupulous wit! now arms must rule.

Glo.

And fearless minds climb soonest unto crowns.

Brother, we will proclaim you out of hand;

The bruit thereof will bring you many friends.

K. Edw.

Then be it as you will; for ’tis my right, 65

And Henry but usurps the diadem.

Mont.

Ay, now my sov’reign speaketh like himself;

And now will I be Edward’s champion. 68

Hast.

Sound, trumpet! Edward shall be here proclaim’d;

Come, fellow soldier, make thou proclamation.

[Gives him a paper. Flourish.

Sold.

Edward the Fourth, by the grace of God, King of England and France, and Lord of Ireland, &c. 73

Mont.

And whosoe’er gainsays King Edward’s right,

By this I challenge him to single fight.

[Throws down his gauntlet.

All.

Long live Edward the Fourth! 76

K. Edw.

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, 81

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! 85

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.

Scene VIII.— London. A Room in the Palace.

Flourish. Enter King Henry, Warwick, Clarence, Montague, Exeter, and Oxford.

War

What counsel, lords? Edward from Belgia,

With hasty Germans and blunt Hollanders,

Hath pass’d in safety through the narrow seas,

And with his troops doth march amain to London; 4

And many giddy people flock to him.

Oxf.

Let’s levy men, and beat him back again.

Clar.

A little fire is quickly trodden out,

Which, being suffer’d, rivers cannot quench. 8

War.

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, 12

The knights and gentlemen to come with thee:

Thou, brother Montague, in Buckingham,

Northampton, and in Leicestershire, shalt find

Men well inclin’d to hear what thou command’st:

And thou, brave Oxford, wondrous well belov’d

In Oxfordshire, shalt muster up thy friends.

My sov’reign, with the loving citizens,

Like to his island girt in with the ocean, 20

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. 24

K. Hen.

Farewell, my Hector, and my Troy’s true hope.

Clar.

In sign of truth, I kiss your highness’ hand.

K. Hen.

Well-minded Clarence, be thou fortunate!

Mont.

Comfort, my lord; and so, I take my leave. 28

Oxf.

[Kissing Henry’s hand.] And thus I seal my truth, and bid adieu.

K. Hen.

Sweet Oxford, and my loving Montague,

And all at once, once more a happy farewell.

War.

Farewell, sweet lords: let’s meet at Coventry. 32

[Exeunt all but King Henry and Exeter.

K. Hen.

Here at the palace will I rest awhile.

Cousin of Exeter, what thinks your lordship?

Methinks the power that Edward hath in field

Should not be able to encounter mine. 36

Exe.

The doubt is that he will seduce the rest.

K. Hen.

That’s not my fear; my meed hath got me fame:

I have not stopp’d mine ears to their demands,

Nor posted off their suits with slow delays; 40

My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds,

My mildness hath allay’d their swelling griefs,

My mercy dried their water-flowing tears;

I have not been desirous of their wealth; 44

Nor much oppress’d them with great subsidies,

Nor forward of revenge, though they much err’d.

Then why should they love Edward more than me?

No, Exeter, these graces challenge grace: 48

And, when the lion fawns upon the lamb,

The lamb will never cease to follow him.

[Shout within, ‘A Lancaster! A Lancaster!’

Exe.

Hark, hark, my lord! what shouts are these?

Enter King Edward, Gloucester, and Soldiers.

K. Edw.

Seize on the shame-fac’d Henry! bear him hence: 52

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. 56

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, 60

Cold biting winter mars our hop’d-for hay.

Glo.

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.

War.

Where is the post that came from valiant Oxford?

How far hence is thy lord, mine honest fellow?

First Mess.

By this at Dunsmore, marching hitherward.

War.

How far off is our brother Montague? 4

Where is the post that came from Montague?

Sec. Mess.

By this at Daintry, with a puissant troop.

Enter Sir John Somerville.

War.

Say, Somerville, what says my loving son?

And, by thy guess, how nigh is Clarence now? 8

Som.

At Southam I did leave him with his forces,

And do expect him here some two hours hence.

[Drum heard.

War.

Then Clarence is at hand, I hear his drum.

Som.

It is not his, my lord; here Southam lies:

The drum your honour hears marcheth from Warwick. 13

War.

Who should that be? belike, unlook’d for friends.

Som.

They are at hand, and you shall quickly know.

Enter King Edward, Gloucester, and Forces.

K. Edw.

Go, trumpet, to the walls, and sound a parle. 16

Glo.

See how the surly Warwick mans the wall.

War.

O, unbid spite! is sportful Edward come?

Where slept our scouts, or how are they seduc’d,

That we could hear no news of his repair? 20

K. Edw

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. 24

War.

Nay, rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence,—

Confess who set thee up and pluck’d thee down?—

Call Warwick patron, and be penitent;

And thou shalt still remain the Duke of York.

Glo.

I thought, at least, he would have said the king; 29

Or did he make the jest against his will?

War.

Is not a dukedom, sir, a goodly gift?

Glo.

Ay, by my faith, for a poor earl to give:

I’ll do thee service for so good a gift. 33

War.

’Twas I that gave the kingdom to thy brother.

K. Edw.

Why then ’tis mine, if but by Warwick’s gift.

War.

Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight:

And, weakling, Warwick takes his gift again; 37

And Henry is my king, Warwick his subject.

K. Edw.

But Warwick’s king is Edward’s prisoner;

And, gallant Warwick, do but answer this, 40

What is the body, when the head is off?

Glo.

Alas! that Warwick had no more forecast,

But, whiles he thought to steal the single ten,

The king was slily finger’d from the deck. 44

You left poor Henry at the bishop’s palace,

And, ten to one, you’ll meet him in the Tower.

K. Edw.

’Tis even so: yet you are Warwick still.

Glo.

Come, Warwick, take the time; kneel down, kneel down: 48

Nay, when? strike now, or else the iron cools.

War.

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. 52

K. Edw.

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.’ 57

Enter Oxford, with Soldiers, drum, and colours.

War.

O cheerful colours! see where Oxford comes!

Oxf.

Oxford, Oxford, for Lancaster!

[He and his Forces enter the city.

Glo.

The gates are open, let us enter too. 60

K. Edw.

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, 64

We’ll quickly rouse the traitors in the same.

War.

O! welcome, Oxford! for we want thy help.

Enter Montague, with Soldiers, drum, and colours.

Mont.

Montague, Montague, for Lancaster!

[He and his Forces enter the city.

Glo.

Thou and thy brother both shall buy this treason 68

Even with the dearest blood your bodies bear.

K. Edw.

The harder match’d, the greater victory:

My mind presageth happy gain, and conquest.

Enter Somerset, with Soldiers, drum, and colours.

Som.

Somerset, Somerset, for Lancaster! 72

[He and his Forces enter the city.

Glo.

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, drum, and colours.

War.

And lo! where George of Clarence sweeps along, 76

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.

Come, Clarence, come; thou wilt, if Warwick call.

Clar.

Father of Warwick, know you what this means? 81

[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, 85

That Clarence is so harsh, so blunt, unnatural,

To bend the fatal instruments of war

Against his brother and his lawful king? 88

Perhaps thou wilt object my holy oath:

To keep that oath were more impiety

Than Jephthah’s, when he sacrific’d his daughter.

I am so sorry for my trespass made 92

That, to deserve well at my brother’s hands,

I here proclaim myself thy mortal foe;

With resolution, wheresoe’er I meet thee—

As I will meet thee if thou stir abroad— 96

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; 100

And, Richard, do not frown upon my faults,

For I will henceforth be no more unconstant.

K. Edw.

Now welcome more, and ten times more belov’d,

Than if thou never hadst deserv’d our hate. 104

Glo.

Welcome, good Clarence; this is brother-like.

War.

O passing traitor, perjur’d, and unjust!

K. Edw.

What, Warwick, wilt thou leave the town, and fight?

Or shall we beat the stones about thine ears? 108

War.

Alas! I am not coop’d here for defence:

I will away towards Barnet presently,

And bid thee battle, Edward, if thou dar’st.

K. Edw.

Yes, Warwick, Edward dares, and leads the way. 112

Lords, to the field; Saint George and victory!

[March. Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Field of Battle near Barnet.

Alarums and Excursions. Enter King Edward, bringing in Warwick, wounded.

K. Edw.

So, lie thou there: die thou, and die our fear;

For Warwick was a bug that fear’d us all.

Now Montague, sit fast; I seek for thee,

That Warwick’s bones may keep thine company.

[Exit.

War.

Ah! who is nigh? come to me, friend or foe, 5

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, 8

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, 13

Whose top branch overpeer’d Jove’s spreading tree,

And kept low shrubs from winter’s powerful wind.

These eyes, that now are dimm’d with death’s black veil, 16

Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun,

To search the secret treasons of the world:

The wrinkles in my brows, now fill’d with blood,

Were liken’d oft to kingly sepulchres; 20

For who liv’d king, but I could dig his grave?

And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow?

Lo! now my glory smear’d in dust and blood;

My parks, my walks, my manors that I had, 24

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. 28

Enter Oxford and Somerset.

Som.

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. 32

War.

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 didst,

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.

Som.

Ah! Warwick, Montague hath breath’d his last; 40

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, 44

That mought not be distinguish’d: but at last

I well might hear, deliver’d with a groan,

‘O! farewell, Warwick!’

War.

Sweet rest his soul! Fly, lords, and save yourselves; 48

For Warwick bids you all farewell, to meet in heaven.

[Dies.

Oxf.

Away, away, to meet the queen’s great power.

[Exeunt, bearing off Warwick’s body.

Scene III.— Another Part of the Field.

Flourish. Enter King Edward, in triumph: with Clarence, Gloucester, and the rest.

K. Edw.

Thus far our fortune keeps an upward course,

And we are grac’d with wreaths of victory.

But in the midst of this bright-shining day,

I spy a black, suspicious, threat’ning cloud, 4

That will encounter with our glorious sun,

Ere he attain his easeful western bed:

I mean, my lords, those powers that the queen

Hath rais’d in Gallia, have arriv’d our coast, 8

And, as we hear, march on to fight with us.

Clar.

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, 12

For every cloud engenders not a storm.

Glo.

The queen is valu’d thirty thousand strong,

And Somerset, with Oxford, fled to her:

If she have time to breathe, be well assur’d 16

Her faction will be full as strong as ours.

K. Edw.

We are advertis’d by our loving friends

That they do hold their course toward Tewksbury.

We, having now the best at Barnet field, 20

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.

[Flourish. Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Plains near Tewksbury.

March. Enter Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, Somerset, Oxford, and Soldiers.

Q. Mar.

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 over-board,

The cable broke, the holding anchor lost, 4

And half our sailors swallow’d 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, 8

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 sav’d?

Ah! what a shame! ah, what a fault were this.

Say, Warwick was our anchor; what of that? 13

And Montague our top-mast; what of him?

Our slaughter’d friends the tackles; what of these?

Why, is not Oxford here another anchor? 16

And Somerset, another goodly mast?

The friends of France our shrouds and tacklings?

And, though unskilful, why not Ned and I

For once allow’d the skilful pilot’s charge? 20

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? 25

What Clarence but a quicksand of deceit?

And Richard but a ragged fatal rock?

All those the enemies to our poor bark. 28

Say you can swim; alas! ’tis 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. 32

This speak I, lords, to let you understand,

In case some one of you would fly from us,

That there’s no hop’d-for mercy with the brothers

More than with ruthless waves, with sands and rocks. 36

Why, courage, then! what cannot be avoided

’Twere childish weakness to lament or fear.

Prince.

Methinks a woman of this valiant spirit

Should, if a coward heard her speak these words, 40

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, 44

He should have leave to go away betimes,

Lest in our need he might infect another,

And make him of like spirit to himself.

If any such be here, as God forbid! 48

Let him depart before we need his help.

Oxf.

Women and children of so high a courage,

And warriors faint! why, ’twere 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!

Som.

And he, that will not fight for such a hope,

Go home to bed, and, like the owl by day, 56

If he arise, be mock’d and wonder’d at.

Q. Mar.

Thanks, gentle Somerset: sweet Oxford, thanks.

Prince.

And take his thanks that yet hath nothing else.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

Prepare you, lords, for Edward is at hand, 60

Ready to fight; therefore be resolute.

Oxf.

I thought no less: it is his policy

To haste thus fast, to find us unprovided.

Som.

But he’s deceiv’d; we are in readiness.

Q. Mar.

This cheers my heart to see your forwardness. 65

Oxf.

Here pitch our battle; hence we will not budge.

March. Enter, at a distance, King Edward, Clarence, Gloucester, and Forces.

K. Edw.

Brave followers, yonder stands the thorny wood,

Which, by the heavens’ assistance, and your strength, 68

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. 72

Q. Mar.

Lords, knights, and gentlemen, what I should say

My tears gainsay; for every word I speak,

Ye see, I drink the water of mine eyes.

Therefore, no more but this: Henry, your sovereign, 76

Is prisoner to the foe; his state usurp’d,

His realm a slaughter house, his subjects slain,

His statutes cancell’d, and his treasure spent;

And yonder is the wolf that makes this spoil. 80

You fight in justice: then, in God’s name, lords,

Be valiant, and give signal to the fight.

[Exeunt both armies.

Scene V.— Another Part of the Same.

Alarums: Excursions: and afterwards a retreat. Then enter King Edward, Clarence, Gloucester, and Forces; with Queen Margaret, Oxford, and Somerset prisoners.

K. Edw.

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.

Oxf.

For my part, I’ll not trouble thee with words. 5

Som.

Nor I, but stoop with patience to my fortune.

[Exeunt Oxford and Somerset, guarded.

Q. Mar.

So part we sadly in this troublous world,

To meet with joy in sweet Jerusalem. 8

K. Edw.

Is proclamation made, that who finds Edward

Shall have a high reward, and he his life?

Glo.

It is: and lo, where youthful Edward comes.

Enter Soldiers, with Prince Edward.

K. Edw.

Bring forth the gallant: let us hear him speak. 12

What! can so young a thorn begin to prick?

Edward, what satisfaction canst thou make,

For bearing arms, for stirring up my subjects,

And all the trouble thou hast turn’d me to? 16

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 self-same words to thee, 20

Which, traitor, thou wouldst have me answer to.

Q. Mar.

Ah! that thy father had been so resolv’d.

Glo.

That you might still have worn the petticoat,

And ne’er have stol’n the breech from Lancaster. 24

Prince.

Let Æsop fable in a winter’s night;

His currish riddles sort not with this place.

Glo.

By heaven, brat, I’ll plague you for that word.

Q. Mar.

Ay, thou wast born to be a plague to men. 28

Glo.

For God’s sake, take away this captive scold.

Prince.

Nay, take away this scolding crookback rather.

K. Edw.

Peace, wilful boy, or I will charm your tongue.

Clar.

Untutor’d lad, thou art too malapert.

Prince.

I know my duty; you are all undutiful: 33

Lascivious Edward, and thou perjur’d George,

And thou mis-shapen Dick, I tell ye all,

I am your better, traitors as ye are; 36

And thou usurp’st my father’s right and mine.

K. Edw.

Take that, the likeness of this railer here.

[Stabs him.

Glo.

Sprawl’st thou? take that, to end thy agony.

[Stabs him.

Clar.

And there’s for twitting me with perjury.

[Stabs him.

Q. Mar.

O, kill me too! 41

Glo.

Marry, and shall.

[Offers to kill her.

K. Edw.

Hold, Richard, hold! for we have done too much.

Glo.

Why should she live, to fill the world with words? 44

K. Edw.

What! doth she swoon? use means for her recovery.

Glo.

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.

Clar.

What? what? 49

Glo.

The Tower! the Tower!

[Exit.

Q. Mar.

O Ned, sweet Ned! speak to thy mother, boy!

Canst thou not speak? O traitors! murderers! 52

They that stabb’d Cæsar 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; 56

And men ne’er spend their fury on a child.

What’s worse than murderer, 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. 60

Butchers and villains! bloody cannibals!

How sweet a plant have you untimely cropp’d!

You have no children, butchers! if you had,

The thought of them would have stirr’d up remorse: 64

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!

K. Edw.

Away with her! go, bear her hence perforce. 68

Q. Mar.

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.

Clar.

By heaven, I will not do thee so much ease. 72

Q. Mar.

Good Clarence, do; sweet Clarence, do thou do it.

Clar.

Didst thou not hear me swear I would not do it?

Q. Mar.

Ay, but thou usest to forswear thyself:

’Twas sin before, but now ’tis charity. 76

What! wilt thou not? Where is that devil’s butcher,

Hard-favour’d Richard? Richard, where art thou?

Thou art not here: murder is thy alms-deed;

Petitioners for blood thou ne’er put’st back. 80

K. Edw.

Away, I say! I charge ye, bear her hence.

Q. Mar.

So come to you and yours, as to this prince!

[Exit, led out forcibly.

K. Edw.

Where’s Richard gone?

Clar.

To London, all in post; and, as I guess, 84

To make a bloody supper in the Tower.

K. Edw.

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; 89

By this, I hope, she hath a son for me.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— London. A Room in the Tower.

King Henry is discovered sitting with a book in his hand, the Lieutenant attending. Enter Gloucester.

Glo.

Good day, my lord. What! at your book so hard?

K. Hen.

Ay, my good lord:—my lord, I should say rather;

’Tis sin to flatter, ‘good’ was little better:

‘Good Gloucester’ and ‘good devil’ were alike, 4

And both preposterous; therefore, not ‘good lord.’

Glo.

Sirrah, leave us to ourselves: we must confer.

[Exit Lieutenant.

K. Hen.

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. 9

What scene of death hath Roscius now to act?

Glo.

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind;

The thief doth fear each bush an officer. 12

K. Hen.

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 16

Where my poor young was lim’d, was caught, and kill’d.

Glo.

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 drown’d.

K. Hen.

I, Dædalus; my poor boy, Icarus;

Thy father, Minos, that denied our course;

The sun, that sear’d the wings of my sweet boy,

Thy brother Edward, and thyself the sea, 24

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. 28

But wherefore dost thou come? is’t for my life?

Glo.

Think’st thou I am an executioner?

K. Hen.

A persecutor, I am sure, thou art:

If murd’ring innocents be executing, 32

Why, then thou art an executioner.

Glo.

Thy son I kill’d for his presumption.

K. Hen.

Hadst thou been kill’d, when first thou didst presume,

Thou hadst not liv’d to kill a son of mine. 36

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, 40

Men for their sons’, wives for their husbands’,

And orphans for their parents’ timeless death,

Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born.

The owl shriek’d at thy birth, an evil sign; 44

The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time;

Dogs howl’d, and hideous tempest shook down trees!

The raven rook’d her on the chimney’s top,

And chattering pies in dismal discords sung. 48

Thy mother felt more than a mother’s pain,

And yet brought forth less than a mother’s hope;

To wit an indigest deformed lump,

Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree. 52

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— 56

Glo.

I’ll hear no more: die, prophet, in thy speech:

[Stabs him.

For this, amongst the rest, was I ordain’d.

K. Hen.

Ay, and for much more slaughter after this.

O, God forgive my sins, and pardon thee!

[Dies.

Glo.

What! will the aspiring blood of Lancaster 61

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 64

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. 68

Indeed, ’tis 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, 72

And seek their ruin that usurp’d our right?

The midwife wonder’d, and the women cried

‘O! Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth.’

And so I was; which plainly signified 76

That I should snarl and bite and play the dog.

Then, since the heavens have shap’d my body so,

Let hell make crook’d my mind to answer it.

I have no brother, I am like no brother; 80

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: 84

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. 88

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, 92

And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom.

[Exit with the body.

Scene VII.— The Same. A Room in the Palace.

King Edward is discovered sitting on his throne: Queen Elizabeth with the infant Prince, Clarence, Gloucester, Hastings, and Others, near him.

K. Edw.

Once more we sit in England’s royal throne,

Re-purchas’d with the blood of enemies.

What valiant foemen like to autumn’s corn,

Have we mow’d down, in tops of all their pride! 4

Three Dukes of Somerset, threefold renown’d

For hardy and undoubted champions;

Two Cliffords, as the father and the son;

And two Northumberlands: two braver men 8

Ne’er spurr’d their coursers at the trumpet’s sound;

With them, the two brave bears, Warwick and Montague,

That in their chains fetter’d the kingly lion,

And made the forest tremble when they roar’d. 12

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 16

Have in our armours watch’d the winter’s night;

Went all a-foot in summer’s scalding heat,

That thou might’st repossess the crown in peace;

And of our labours thou shalt reap the gain. 20

Glo.

[Aside.] I’ll blast his harvest, if your head were laid;

For yet I am not look’d on in the world.

This shoulder was ordain’d so thick to heave;

And heave it shall some weight, or break my back: 24

Work thou the way, and thou shalt execute.

K. Edw.

Clarence and Gloucester, love my lovely queen;

And kiss your princely nephew, brothers both.

Clar.

The duty, that I owe unto your majesty, 28

I seal upon the lips of this sweet babe.

K. Edw.

Thanks, noble Clarence; worthy brother, thanks.

Glo.

And, that I love the tree from whence thou sprang’st,

Witness the loving kiss I give the fruit. 32

[Aside.] To say the truth, so Judas kiss’d his master,

And cried ‘all hail!’ when as he meant all harm.

K. Edw.

Now am I seated as my soul delights,

Having my country’s peace and brothers’ loves. 36

Clar.

What will your Grace have done with Margaret?

Reignier, her father, to the King of France

Hath pawn’d the Sicils and Jerusalem,

And hither have they sent it for her ransom. 40

K. Edw.

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 befit the pleasure of the court? 44

Sound, drums and trumpets! farewell, sour annoy!

For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy.

[Exeunt.

THE TRAGEDY OF KING RICHARD THE THIRD

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

King Edward the Fourth.
Edward, Prince of Wales; afterwards King Edward the Fifth, }	Sons to the King.
Richard, Duke of York, }	Sons to the King.
George, Duke of Clarence, }	Brothers to the King.
Richard, Duke of Gloucester, afterwards King Richard the Third, }	Brothers to the King.
A young Son of Clarence.
Henry,	Earl of Richmond; afterwards King Henry the Seventh.
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.
Marquess of Dorset, and Lord Grey,	her Sons.
Earl of Oxford.
Lord Hastings.
Lord Stanley, called also Earl of Derby.
Lord Lovel.
Sir Thomas Vaughan.
Sir Richard Ratcliff.
Sir William Catesby.
Sir James Tyrrell.
Sir James Blount.
Sir Walter Herbert.
Sir Robert Brakenbury,	Lieutenant of the Tower.
Sir William Brandon.
Christopher Urswick,	a Priest.
Another Priest.
Lord Mayor of London.	Sheriff of Wiltshire.
Tressel and Berkeley,	Gentlemen attending on Lady Anne.
Elizabeth,	Queen of King Edward the Fourth.
Margaret,	Widow of King Henry the Sixth.
Duchess of York,	Mother to King Edward the Fourth, Clarence, and Gloucester.
Lady Anne,	Widow of Edward, Prince of Wales, Son to King Henry the Sixth; afterwards married to the Duke of Gloucester.
Lady Margaret Plantagenet,	a young Daughter of Clarence.
Lords, and other Attendants; two Gentlemen, a Pursuivant, Scrivener, Citizens, Murderers, Messengers, Ghosts of those murdered by Richard the Third, Soldiers, &c.

Scene.—England.

ACT I.

Scene I.— London. A Street.

Enter Gloucester.

Glo.

Now is the winter of our discontent

Made glorious summer by this sun of York;

And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house

In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. 4

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. 8

Grim-visag’d war hath smooth’d 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 12

To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

But I, that am not shap’d for sportive tricks,

Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;

I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty 16

To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;

I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion,

Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,

Deform’d, unfinish’d, sent before my time 20

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, 24

Have no delight to pass away the time,

Unless to see my shadow in the sun

And descant on mine own deformity:

And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, 28

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, 32

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 36

As I am subtle, false, and treacherous,

This day should Clarence closely be mew’d up,

About a prophecy, which says, that G

Of Edward’s heirs the murderer shall be. 40

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?

Clar.

His majesty,

Tendering my person’s safety, hath appointed 44

This conduct to convey me to the Tower.

Glo.

Upon what cause?

Clar.

Because my name is George.

Glo.

Alack! my lord, that fault is none of yours;

He should, for that, commit your godfathers. 48

O! belike his majesty hath some intent

That you should be new-christen’d in the Tower.

But what’s the matter, Clarence? may I know?

Clar.

Yea, Richard, when I know; for I protest

As yet I do not: but, as I can learn, 53

He hearkens after prophecies and dreams;

And from the cross-row plucks the letter G,

And says a wizard told him that by G 56

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, 60

Have mov’d his highness to commit me now.

Glo.

Why, this it is, when men are rul’d by women:

’Tis not the king that sends you to the Tower;

My Lady Grey, his wife, Clarence, ’tis she 64

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, 68

From whence this present day he is deliver’d?

We are not safe, Clarence; we are not safe.

Clar.

By heaven, I think there is no man secure

But the queen’s kindred and night-walking heralds 72

That trudge betwixt the king and Mistress Shore.

Heard you not what a humble suppliant

Lord Hastings was to her for his delivery?

Glo.

Humbly complaining to her deity 76

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: 80

The jealous o’er-worn widow and herself,

Since that our brother dubb’d them gentlewomen,

Are mighty gossips in our monarchy.

Brak.

I beseech your Graces both to pardon me; 84

His majesty hath straitly given in charge

That no man shall have private conference,

Of what degree soever, with your brother.

Glo.

Even so; an please your worship, Brakenbury, 88

You may partake of anything 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; 92

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? 96

Brak.

With this, my lord, myself have nought to do.

Glo.

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. 100

Brak.

What one, my lord?

Glo.

Her husband, knave. Wouldst thou betray me?

Brak.

I beseech your Grace to pardon me; and withal

Forbear your conference with the noble duke.

Clar.

We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will obey. 105

Glo.

We are the queen’s abjects, and must obey.

Brother, farewell: I will unto the king;

And whatsoe’er you will employ me in, 108

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. 112

Clar.

I know it pleaseth neither of us well.

Glo.

Well, your imprisonment shall not be long;

I will deliver you, or else lie for you:

Meantime, have patience.

Clar.

I must perforce: farewell.

[Exeunt Clarence, Brakenbury, and Guard.

Glo.

Go, tread the path that thou shalt ne’er return, 117

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. 120

But who comes here? the new-deliver’d Hastings!

Enter Hastings.

Hast.

Good time of day unto my gracious lord!

Glo.

As much unto my good lord chamberlain!

Well are you welcome to this open air. 124

How hath your lordship brook’d imprisonment?

Hast.

With patience, noble lord, as prisoners must:

But I shall live, my lord, to give them thanks

That were the cause of my imprisonment. 128

Glo.

No doubt, no doubt; and so shall Clarence too;

For they that were your enemies are his,

And have prevail’d as much on him as you.

Hast.

More pity that the eagles should be mew’d, 132

While kites and buzzards prey at liberty.

Glo.

What news abroad?

Hast.

No news so bad abroad as this at home;

The king is sickly, weak, and melancholy, 136

And his physicians fear him mightily.

Glo.

Now by Saint Paul, this news is bad indeed.

O! he hath kept an evil diet long,

And over-much consum’d his royal person: 140

’Tis very grievous to be thought upon.

What, is he in his bed?

Hast.

He is.

Glo.

Go you before, and I will follow you.

[Exit Hastings.

He cannot live, I hope; and must not die 144

Till George be pack’d with post-horse up to heaven.

I’ll in, to urge his hatred more to Clarence,

With lies well steel’d with weighty arguments;

And, if I fail not in my deep intent, 148

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. 152

What though I kill’d 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 156

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: 160

When they are gone, then must I count my gains.

[Exit.

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 a while obsequiously lament

The untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster. 4

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, 8

To hear the lamentations of poor Anne,

Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughter’d son,

Stabb’d by the self-same hand that made these wounds!

Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life, 12

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! 16

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 venom’d thing that lives! 20

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; 24

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! 28

Come, now toward Chertsey with your holy load,

Taken from Paul’s to be interred there;

And still, as you are weary of the weight,

Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry’s corse. 32

[The Bearers take up the corpse and advance.

Enter Gloucester.

Glo.

Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it down.

Anne.

What black magician conjures up this fiend,

To stop devoted charitable deeds?

Glo.

Villains! set down the corse; or, by Saint Paul, 36

I’ll make a corse of him that disobeys.

First Gent.

My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass.

Glo.

Unmanner’d dog! stand thou when I command:

Advance thy halberd higher than my breast, 40

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, 44

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.

Glo.

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,

Fill’d it with cursing cries and deep exclaims. 52

If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds,

Behold this pattern of thy butcheries.

O! gentlemen; see, see! dead Henry’s wounds

Open their congeal’d mouths and bleed afresh.

Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity, 57

For ’tis thy presence that exhales this blood

From cold and empty veins, where no blood dwells:

Thy deed, inhuman and unnatural, 60

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, 64

Or earth, gape open wide, and eat him quick,

As thou dost swallow up this good king’s blood,

Which his hell-govern’d arm hath butchered!

Glo.

Lady, you know no rules of charity, 68

Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.

Anne.

Villain, thou know’st no law of God nor man:

No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.

Glo.

But I know none, and therefore am no beast. 72

Anne.

O! wonderful, when devils tell the truth.

Glo.

More wonderful when angels are so angry.

Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman,

Of these supposed evils, to give me leave, 76

By circumstance, but to acquit myself.

Anne.

Vouchsafe, diffus’d infection of a man,

For these known evils, but to give me leave,

By circumstance, to curse thy cursed self. 80

Glo.

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. 84

Glo.

By such despair I should accuse myself.

Anne.

And by despairing shouldst thou stand excus’d

For doing worthy vengeance on thyself,

Which didst unworthy slaughter upon others. 88

Glo.

Say that I slew them not.

Anne.

Then say they were not slain:

But dead they are, and, devilish slave, by thee.

Glo.

I did not kill your husband.

Anne.

Why, then he is alive.

Glo.

Nay, he is dead; and slain by Edward’s hand. 92

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. 96

Glo.

I was provoked by her sland’rous tongue,

That laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoulders.

Anne.

Thou wast provoked by thy bloody mind,

That never dreamt on aught but butcheries. 100

Didst thou not kill this king?

Glo.

I grant ye.

Anne.

Dost grant me, hedge-hog? Then, God grant me too

Thou mayst be damned for that wicked deed!

O! he was gentle, mild, and virtuous. 105

Glo.

The fitter for the King of heaven, that hath him.

Anne.

He is in heaven, where thou shalt never come.

Glo.

Let him thank me, that help’d to send him thither; 108

For he was fitter for that place than earth.

Anne.

And thou unfit for any place but hell.

Glo.

Yes, one place else, if you will bear me name it.

Anne.

Some dungeon.

Glo.

Your bed-chamber. 112

Anne.

Ill rest betide the chamber where thou liest!

Glo.

So will it, madam, till I lie with you.

Anne.

I hope so.

Glo.

I know so. But, gentle Lady Anne,

To leave this keen encounter of our wits, 116

And fall somewhat into a slower method,

Is not the causer of the timeless deaths

Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward,

As blameful as the executioner? 120

Anne.

Thou wast the cause, and most accurs’d effect.

Glo.

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, 124

So might I 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.

Glo.

These eyes could not endure that beauty’s wrack; 128

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! 132

Glo.

Curse not thyself, fair creature; thou art both.

Anne.

I would I were, to be reveng’d on thee.

Glo.

It is a quarrel most unnatural,

To be reveng’d on him that loveth thee. 136

Anne.

It is a quarrel just and reasonable,

To be reveng’d on him that kill’d my husband.

Glo.

He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband,

Did it to help thee to a better husband. 140

Anne.

His better doth not breathe upon the earth.

Glo.

He lives that loves thee better than he could.

Anne.

Name him.

Glo.

Plantagenet.

Anne.

Why, that was he.

Glo.

The self-same name, but one of better nature. 144

Anne.

Where is he?

Glo.

Here. [She spitteth at him.] Why dost thou spit at me?

Anne.

Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake!

Glo.

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. 149

Glo.

Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine.

Anne.

Would they were basilisks, to strike thee dead!

Glo.

I would they were, that I might die at once; 152

For now they kill me with a living death.

Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears,

Sham’d their aspects with store of childish drops;

These eyes, which never shed remorseful tear;

No, when my father York and Edward wept 157

To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made

When black-fac’d Clifford shook his sword at him;

Nor when thy war-like father like a child, 160

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 bedash’d with rain: in that sad time,

My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear; 165

And what these sorrows could not thence exhale,

Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping.

I never su’d to friend, nor enemy; 168

My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing words;

But, now thy beauty is propos’d 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 172

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, 177

I lay it open to the deadly stroke,

And humbly beg the death upon my knee.

[He lays his breast open: she offers at it with his sword.

Nay, do not pause; for I did kill King Henry;

But ’twas thy beauty that provoked me. 181

Nay, now dispatch; ’twas I that stabb’d 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. 184

Anne.

Arise, dissembler: though I wish thy death,

I will not be thy executioner.

Glo.

Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it.

Anne.

I have already.

Glo.

That was in thy rage:

Speak it again, and, even with the word, 189

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. 192

Anne.

I would I knew thy heart.

Glo.

’Tis figur’d in my tongue.

Anne.

I fear me both are false.

Glo.

Then never man was true. 196

Anne.

Well, well, put up your sword.

Glo.

Say, then, my peace is made.

Anne.

That shalt thou know hereafter.

Glo.

But shall I live in hope? 200

Anne.

All men, I hope, live so.

Glo.

Vouchsafe to wear this ring.

Anne.

To take is not to give.

[She puts on the ring.

Glo.

Look, how my ring encompasseth thy finger, 204

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, 208

Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever.

Anne.

What is it?

Glo.

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; 213

Where, after I have solemnly interr’d

At Chertsey monastery this noble king,

And wet his grave with my repentant tears, 216

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 220

To see you are become so penitent.

Tressel and Berkeley, go along with me.

Glo.

Bid me farewell.

Anne.

’Tis more than you deserve;

But since you teach me how to flatter you, 224

Imagine I have said farewell already.

[Exeunt Lady Anne, Tressel, and Berkeley.

Glo.

Sirs, take up the corse.

Gent.

Toward Chertsey, noble lord?

Glo.

No, to White-Friars; there attend my coming.

[Exeunt all but Gloucester.

Was ever woman in this humour woo’d? 229

Was ever woman in this humour won?

I’ll have her; but I will not keep her long.

What! I, that kill’d her husband, and his father, 232

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, 236

And nothing I to back my suit withal

But the plain devil and dissembling looks,

And yet to win her, all the world to nothing!

Ha! 240

Hath she forgot already that brave prince,

Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months since,

Stabb’d in my angry mood at Tewksbury?

A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman, 244

Fram’d 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, 248

That cropp’d 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? 252

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. 256

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, 260

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, 264

That I may see my shadow as I pass.

[Exit.

Scene III.— London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Queen Elizabeth, Lord Rivers, and Lord Grey.

Riv.

Have patience, madam: there’s no doubt his majesty

Will soon recover his accustom’d health.

Grey.

In that you brook it ill, it makes him worse:

Therefore, for God’s sake, entertain good comfort, 4

And cheer his Grace with quick and merry words.

Q. Eliz.

If he were dead, what would betide on me?

Grey.

No other harm but loss of such a lord.

Q. Eliz.

The loss of such a lord includes all harms. 8

Grey.

The heavens have bless’d you with a goodly son,

To be your comforter when he is gone.

Q. Eliz.

Ah! he is young; and his minority

Is put into the trust of Richard Gloucester, 12

A man that loves not me, nor none of you.

Riv.

Is it concluded he shall be protector?

Q. Eliz.

It is determin’d, not concluded yet:

But so it must be if the king miscarry. 16

Enter Buckingham and Stanley.

Grey.

Here come the Lords of Buckingham and Stanley.

Buck.

Good time of day unto your royal Grace!

Stan.

God make your majesty joyful as you have been!

Q. Eliz.

The Countess Richmond, good my Lord of Stanley, 20

To your good prayer will scarcely say amen.

Yet, Stanley, notwithstanding she’s your wife,

And loves not me, be you, good lord, assur’d

I hate not you for her proud arrogance. 24

Stan.

I do beseech you, either not believe

The envious slanders of her false accusers;

Or, if she be accus’d on true report,

Bear with her weakness, which, I think, proceeds

From wayward sickness, and no grounded malice.

Q. Eliz.

Saw you the king to-day, my Lord of Stanley?

Stan.

But now the Duke of Buckingham and I,

Are come from visiting his majesty. 32

Q. Eliz.

What likelihood of his amendment, lords?

Buck.

Madam, good hope; his Grace speaks cheerfully.

Q. Eliz.

God grant him health! did you confer with him?

Buck.

Ay, madam: he desires to make atonement 36

Between the Duke of Gloucester and your brothers,

And between them and my lord chamberlain;

And sent to warn them to his royal presence.

Q. Eliz.

Would all were well! But that will never be. 40

I fear our happiness is at the highest.

Enter Gloucester, Hastings, and Dorset.

Glo.

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? 44

By holy Paul, they love his Grace but lightly

That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours.

Because I cannot flatter and speak fair,

Smile in men’s faces, smooth, deceive, and cog,

Duck with French nods and apish courtesy, 49

I must be held a rancorous enemy.

Cannot a plain man live and think no harm,

But thus his simple truth must be abus’d 52

By silken, sly, insinuating Jacks?

Grey.

To whom in all this presence speaks your Grace?

Glo.

To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace.

When have I injur’d thee? when done thee wrong? 56

Or thee? or thee? or any of your faction?

A plague upon you all! His royal person,—

Whom God preserve better than you would wish!—

Cannot be quiet scarce a breathing-while, 60

But you must trouble him with lewd complaints.

Q. Eliz.

Brother of Gloucester, you mistake the matter.

The king, on his own royal disposition,

And not provok’d by any suitor else, 64

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 68

The ground of your ill-will, and so remove it.

Glo.

I cannot tell; the world is grown so bad

That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch:

Since every Jack became a gentleman 72

There’s many a gentle person made a Jack.

Q. Eliz.

Come, come, we know your meaning, brother Gloucester;

You envy my advancement and my friends’.

God grant we never may have need of you! 76

Glo.

Meantime, God grants that we have need of you:

Our brother is imprison’d by your means,

Myself disgrac’d, and the nobility

Held in contempt; while great promotions 80

Are daily given to ennoble those

That scarce, some two days since, were worth a noble.

Q. Eliz.

By him that rais’d me to this careful height

From that contented hap which I enjoy’d, 84

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, 88

Falsely to draw me in these vile suspects.

Glo.

You may deny that you were not the mean

Of my Lord Hastings’ late imprisonment.

Riv.

She may, my lord; for— 92

Glo.

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, 96

And lay those honours on your high deserts.

What may she not? She may,—ay, marry, may she,—

Riv.

What, marry, may she?

Glo.

What, marry, may she! marry with a king, 100

A bachelor, a handsome stripling too.

I wis your grandam had a worser match.

Q. Eliz.

My Lord of Gloucester, I have too long borne

Your blunt upbraidings and your bitter scoffs;

By heaven, I will acquaint his majesty 105

Of those gross taunts that oft I have endur’d.

I had rather be a country servantmaid

Than a great queen, with this condition, 108

To be so baited, scorn’d, and stormed at:

Small joy have I in being England’s queen.

Enter Queen Margaret, behind.

Q. Mar.

[Apart.] And lessen’d be that small, God, I beseech him!

Thy honour, state, and seat is due to me. 112

Glo.

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. 116

’Tis time to speak; my pains are quite forgot.

Q. Mar.

[Apart.] Out, devil! I remember them too well:

Thou kill’dst my husband Henry in the Tower,

And Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury. 120

Glo.

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; 124

To royalize his blood I split mine own.

Q. Mar.

Ay, and much better blood than his, or thine.

Glo.

In all which time you and your husband Grey

Were factious for the house of Lancaster; 128

And, Rivers, so were you. Was not your husband

In Margaret’s battle at Saint Alban’s slain?

Let me put in your minds, if you forget,

What you have been ere now, and what you are;

Withal, what I have been, and what I am. 133

Q. Mar.

A murderous villain, and so still thou art.

Glo.

Poor Clarence did forsake his father, Warwick,

Ay, and forswore himself,—which Jesu pardon!— 136

Q. Mar.

Which God revenge!

Glo.

To fight on Edward’s party for the crown;

And for his meed, poor lord, he is mew’d up.

I would to God my heart were flint, like Edward’s; 140

Or Edward’s soft and pitiful, like mine:

I am too childish-foolish for this world.

Q. Mar.

Hie thee to hell for shame, and leave this world,

Thou cacodemon! there thy kingdom is. 144

Riv.

My Lord of Gloucester, in those busy days

Which here you urge to prove us enemies,

We follow’d then our lord, our lawful king;

So should we you, if you should be our king. 148

Glo

If I should be! I had rather be a pedlar.

Far be it from my heart the thought thereof!

Q. Eliz.

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 153

That I enjoy, being the queen thereof.

Q. Mar.

As little joy enjoys the queen thereof;

For I am she, and altogether joyless. 156

I can no longer hold me patient.

[Advancing.

Hear me, you wrangling pirates, that fall out

In sharing that which you have pill’d from me!

Which of you trembles not that looks on me?

If not, that, I being queen, you bow like subjects, 161

Yet that, by you depos’d, you quake like rebels?

Ah! gentle villain, do not turn away.

Glo.

Foul wrinkled witch, what mak’st thou in my sight? 164

Q. Mar.

But repetition of what thou hast marr’d;

That will I make before I let thee go.

Glo.

Wert thou not banished on pain of death?

Q. Mar.

I was; but I do find more pain in banishment 168

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, 172

And all the pleasures you usurp are mine.

Glo.

The curse my noble father laid on thee,

When thou didst crown his war-like brows with paper,

And with thy scorns drew’st rivers from his eyes; 176

And then, to dry them, gav’st the duke a clout

Steep’d in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland;

His curses, then from bitterness of soul

Denounc’d against thee, are all fall’n upon thee; 180

And God, not we, hath plagu’d thy bloody deed.

Q. Eliz.

So just is God, to right the innocent

Hast.

O! ’twas the foulest deed to slay that babe,

And the most merciless, that e’er was heard of.

Riv.

Tyrants themselves wept when it was reported. 185

Dors.

No man but prophesied revenge for it.

Buck.

Northumberland, then present, wept to see it.

Q. Mar.

What! were you snarling all before I came, 188

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! 196

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, my son, which was Prince of Wales,

Die in his youth by like untimely violence! 201

Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen,

Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self!

Long mayst thou live to wail thy children’s loss, 204

And see another, as I see thee now,

Deck’d in thy rights, as thou art stall’d in mine!

Long die thy happy days before thy death;

And, after many lengthen’d hours of grief, 208

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 stabb’d with bloody daggers: God, I pray him, 212

That none of you may live your natural age,

But by some unlook’d accident cut off.

Glo.

Have done thy charm, thou hateful wither’d hag!

Q. Mar.

And leave out thee? stay, dog, for thou shalt hear me. 216

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 220

On thee, the troubler of the poor world’s peace.

The worm of conscience still begnaw 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, 225

Unless it be while some tormenting dream

Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils!

Thou elvish-mark’d, abortive, rooting hog! 228

Thou that wast seal’d in thy nativity

The slave of nature and the son of hell!

Thou slander of thy mother’s heavy womb!

Thou loathed issue of thy father’s loins! 232

Thou rag of honour! thou detested—

Glo.

Margaret!

Q. Mar.

Richard!

Glo.

Ha!

Q. Mar.

I call thee not.

Glo.

I cry thee mercy then, for I did think

That thou hadst call’d me all these bitter names.

Q. Mar.

Why, so I did; but look’d for no reply. 237

O! let me make the period to my curse.

Glo.

’Tis done by me, and ends in ‘Margaret.’

Q. Eliz.

Thus have you breath’d your curso against yourself. 240

Q. Mar.

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 whet’st a knife to kill thyself.

The day will come that thou shalt wish for me

To help thee curse this pois’nous bunch-back’d toad.

Hast.

False-boding woman, end thy frantic curse,

Lest to thy harm thou move our patience. 248

Q. Mar.

Foul shame upon you! you have all mov’d mine.

Riv.

Were you well serv’d, you would be taught your duty.

Q. Mar.

To serve me well, you all should do me duty,

Teach me to be your queen, and you my subjects: 252

O! serve me well, and teach yourselves that duty.

Dor.

Dispute not with her, she is lunatic.

Q. Mar.

Peace! Master marquess, you are malapert:

Your fire-new stamp of honour is scarce current. 256

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.

Glo.

Good counsel, marry: learn it, learn it, marquess. 261

Dor.

It touches you, my lord, as much as me.

Glo.

Ay, and much more; but I was born so high,

Our aery buildeth in the cedar’s top, 264

And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun.

Q. Mar.

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 268

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 was won with blood, lost be it so! 272

Buck.

Peace, peace! for shame, if not for charity.

Q. Mar.

Urge neither charity nor shame to me:

Uncharitably with me have you dealt,

And shamefully my hopes by you are butcher’d.

My charity is outrage, life my shame; 277

And in that shame still live my sorrow’s rage!

Buck.

Have done, have done.

Q. Mar.

O princely Buckingham! I’ll kiss thy hand, 280

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. 284

Buck.

Nor no one here; for curses never pass

The lips of those that breathe them in the air.

Q. Mar.

I will not think but they ascend the sky,

And there awake God’s gentle-sleeping peace.

O Buckingham! take heed of yonder dog: 289

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; 292

Sin, death and hell have set their marks on him,

And all their ministers attend on him.

Glo.

What doth she say, my Lord of Buckingham?

Buck.

Nothing that I respect, my gracious lord. 296

Q. Mar.

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, 300

And say poor Margaret was a prophetess.

Live each of you the subject to his hate,

And he to yours, and all of you to God’s!

[Exit.

Hast.

My hair doth stand on end to hear her curses. 304

Riv.

And so doth mine. I muse why she’s at liberty.

Glo.

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. 308

Q. Eliz.

I never did her any, to my knowledge.

Glo.

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. 312

Marry, as for Clarence, he is well repaid;

He is frank’d up to fatting for his pains:

God pardon them that are the cause thereof!

Riv.

A virtuous and a Christian-like conclusion, 316

To pray for them that have done scath to us.

Glo.

So do I ever [Aside], being well-advis’d;

For had I curs’d now, I had curs’d myself.

Enter Catesby.

Cates.

Madam, his majesty doth call for you;

And for your Grace; and you, my noble lords. 321

Q. Eliz.

Catesby, I come. Lords, will you go with me?

Riv.

We wait upon your Grace.

[Exeunt all but Gloucester.

Glo.

I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl.

The secret mischiefs that I set abroach 325

I lay unto the grievous charge of others.

Clarence, whom I, indeed, have cast in darkness,

I do beweep to many simple gulls; 328

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 332

To be reveng’d on Rivers, Vaughan, 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 336

With odd old ends stol’n forth of holy writ,

And seem a saint when most I play the devil.

Enter two Murderers.

But soft! here come my executioners.

How now, my hardy, stout resolved mates! 340

Are you now going to dispatch this thing?

First Murd.

We are, my lord; and come to have the warrant,

That we may be admitted where he is.

Glo.

Well thought upon; I have it here about me:

[Gives the warrant.

When you have done, repair to Crosby-place. 345

But, sirs, be sudden in the execution,

Withal obdurate, do not hear him plead;

For Clarence is well-spoken, and perhaps 348

May move your hearts to pity, if you mark him.

First Murd.

Tut, tut, my lord, we will not stand to prate;

Talkers are no good doers: be assur’d

We go to use our hands and not our tongues. 352

Glo.

Your eyes drop millstones, when fools’ eyes fall tears:

I like you, lads; about your business straight;

Go, go, dispatch.

First Murd.

We will, my noble lord.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. The Tower.

Enter Clarence and Brakenbury.

Brak.

Why looks your Grace so heavily to-day?

Clar.

O, I have pass’d a miserable night,

So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams,

That, as I am a Christian faithful man, 4

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.

Brak.

What was your dream, my lord? I pray you, tell me. 8

Clar.

Methought that I had broken from the Tower,

And was embark’d to cross to Burgundy;

And in my company my brother Gloucester,

Who from my cabin tempted me to walk 12

Upon the hatches: thence we look’d toward England,

And cited up a thousand heavy times,

During the wars of York and Lancaster,

That had befall’n us. As we pac’d along 16

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. 20

Lord, Lord! methought what pain it was to drown:

What dreadful noise of water in mine ears!

What sights of ugly death within mine eyes!

Methought I saw a thousand fearful wracks; 24

A thousand men that fishes gnaw’d upon;

Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,

Inestimable stones, unvalu’d jewels,

All scatter’d in the bottom of the sea. 28

Some lay in dead men’s skulls; and in those holes

Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept,

As ’twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems,

That woo’d the slimy bottom of the deep, 32

And mock’d the dead bones that lay scatter’d by.

Brak.

Had you such leisure in the time of death

To gaze upon those secrets of the deep?

Clar.

Methought I had; and often did I strive 36

To yield the ghost; but still the envious flood

Stopt in my soul, and would not let it forth

To find the empty, vast, and wandering air;

But smother’d it within my panting bulk, 40

Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.

Brak.

Awak’d you not with this sore agony?

Clar.

No, no, my dream was lengthen’d after life;

O! then began the tempest to my soul. 44

I pass’d, 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 cried aloud, ‘What scourge for perjury

Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?’

And so he vanish’d: then came wandering by 52

A shadow like an angel, with bright hair

Dabbled in blood; and he shriek’d out aloud,

‘Clarence is come,—false, fleeting, perjur’d Clarence,

That stabb’d me in the field by Tewksbury;— 56

Seize on him! Furies, take him unto torment.’

With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends

Environ’d me, and howled in mine ears

Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise 60

I trembling wak’d, and, for a season after

Could not believe but that I was in hell,

Such terrible impression made my dream.

Brak.

No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you; 64

I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.

Clar

O 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 aveng’d on my misdeeds,

Yet execute thy wrath on me alone:

O! spare my guiltless wife and my poor children. 72

I pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me;

My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

Brak.

I will, my lord. God give your Grace good rest!

[Clarence sleeps.

Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, 76

Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night.

Princes have but their titles for their glories,

An outward honour for an inward toil;

And, for unfelt imaginations, 80

They often feel a world of restless cares:

So that, between their titles and low names,

There’s nothing differs but the outward fame.

Enter the two Murderers.

First Murd.

Ho! who’s here? 84

Brak.

What wouldst thou, fellow? and how cam’st thou hither?

First Murd.

I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs.

Brak.

What! so brief? 88

Sec. Murd.

’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.

Brak.

I am, in this, commanded to deliver

The noble Duke of Clarence to your hands: 92

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 96

That thus I have resign’d to you my charge.

First Murd.

You may, sir; ’tis a point of wisdom: fare you well.

[Exit Brakenbury.

Sec. Murd.

What! shall we stab him as he sleeps? 101

First Murd.

No; he’ll say ’twas done cowardly, when he wakes.

Sec. Murd.

When he wakes! why, fool, he shall never wake till the judgment-day. 105

First Murd.

Why, then he’ll say we stabbed him sleeping.

Sec. Murd.

The urging of that word ‘judgment’ hath bred a kind of remorse in me. 110

First Murd.

What! art thou afraid?

Sec. Murd.

Not to kill him, having a warrant for it; but to be damn’d for killing him, from the which no warrant can defend me.

First Murd.

I thought thou hadst been resolute. 116

Sec. Murd.

So I am, to let him live.

First Murd.

I’ll back to the Duke of Gloucester, and tell him so.

Sec. Murd.

Nay, I prithee, stay a little: I hope my holy humour will change; it was wont to hold me but while one tells twenty.

First Murd.

How dost thou feel thyself now? 124

Sec. Murd.

Some certain dregs of conscience are yet within me.

First Murd.

Remember our reward when the deed’s done. 128

Sec. Murd.

’Zounds! he dies: I had forgot the reward.

First Murd.

Where’s thy conscience now?

Sec. Murd.

In the Duke of Gloucester’s purse.

First Murd.

So when he opens his purse to give us our reward, thy conscience flies out.

Sec. Murd.

’Tis no matter; let it go: there’s few or none will entertain it. 136

First Murd.

What if it come to thee again?

Sec. Murd.

I’ll not meddle with it; it makes a man a 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 shamefast spirit, that mutinies in a man’s bosom; it fills one full of obstacles; it made me once restore a purse of gold that I found; it beggars any man that keeps it; it is turned out of all towns and cities for a dangerous thing; and every man that means to live well, endeavours to trust to himself and live without it. 149

First Murd.

’Zounds! it is even now at my elbow, persuading me not to kill the duke.

Sec. Murd.

Take the devil in thy mind, and believe him not: he would insinuate with thee but to make thee sigh.

First Murd.

Tut, I am strong-framed; he cannot prevail with me. 156

Sec. Murd.

Spoke like a tall fellow that respects his reputation. Come, shall we to this gear?

First Murd.

Take him over the costard with the hilts of thy sword, and then throw him into the malmsey-butt in the next room.

Sec. Murd.

O, excellent device! make a sop of him. 164

First Murd.

Soft! he wakes.

Sec. Murd.

Strike!

First Murd.

No, we’ll reason with him.

Clar.

Where art thou, keeper? give me a cup of wine. 169

First Murd.

You shall have wine enough, my lord, anon.

Clar.

In God’s name, what art thou? 172

First Murd.

A man, as you are.

Clar.

But not, as I am, royal.

First Murd.

Nor you, as we are, loyal.

Clar.

Thy voice is thunder, but thy looks are humble. 176

First Murd.

My voice is now the king’s, my looks mine own.

Clar.

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?

Both Murd.

To, to, to— 181

Clar.

To murder me?

Both Murd.

Ay, ay.

Clar.

You scarcely have the hearts to tell me so, 184

And therefore cannot have the hearts to do it.

Wherein, my friends, have I offended you?

First Murd.

Offended us you have not, but the king.

Clar.

I shall be reconcil’d to him again. 188

Sec. Murd.

Never, my lord; therefore prepare to die.

Clar.

Are you call’d forth from out a world of men

To slay the innocent? What is my offence?

Where is the evidence that doth accuse me? 192

What lawful quest have given their verdict up

Unto the frowning judge? or who pronounc’d

The bitter sentence of poor Clarence’ death?

Before I be convict by course of law, 196

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; 200

The deed you undertake is damnable.

First Murd.

What we will do, we do upon command.

Sec. Murd.

And he that hath commanded is our king.

Clar.

Erroneous vassal! the great King of kings 204

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. 209

Sec. Murd.

And that same vengeance doth he hurl on thee,

For false forswearing and for murder too:

Thou didst receive the sacrament to fight 212

In quarrel of the house of Lancaster.

First Murd.

And, like a traitor to the name of God,

Didst break that vow, and, with thy treacherous blade

Unripp’dst the bowels of thy sovereign’s son. 216

Sec. Murd.

Whom thou wast sworn to cherish and defend.

First Murd.

How canst thou urge God’s dreadful law to us,

When thou hast broke it in such dear degree?

Clar.

Alas! for whose sake did I that ill deed? 220

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, 224

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. 228

First Murd.

Who made thee then a bloody minister,

When gallant-springing, brave Plantagenet,

That princely novice, was struck dead by thee?

Clar.

My brother’s love, the devil, and my rage. 232

First Murd.

Thy brother’s love, our duty, and thy fault,

Provoke us hither now to slaughter thee.

Clar.

If you do love my brother, hate not me;

I am his brother, and I love him well. 236

If you are hir’d 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. 240

Sec. Murd.

You are deceiv’d, your brother Gloucester hates you.

Clar.

O, no! he loves me, and he holds me dear:

Go you to him from me.

Both Murd.

Ay, so we will.

Clar.

Tell him, when that our princely father York 244

Bless’d his three sons with his victorious arm,

And charg’d us from his soul to love each other,

He little thought of this divided friendship:

Bid Gloucester think on this, and he will weep.

First Murd.

Ay, millstones; as he lesson’d us to weep. 249

Clar.

O! do not slander him, for he is kind.

First Murd.

Right;

As snow in harvest. Thou deceiv’st thyself: 252

’Tis he that sends us to destroy you here.

Clar.

It cannot be; for he bewept my fortune,

And hugg’d me in his arms, and swore, with sobs,

That he would labour my delivery. 256

First Murd.

Why, so he doth, when he delivers you

From this earth’s thraldom to the joys of heaven.

Sec. Murd.

Make peace with God, for you must die, my lord.

Clar.

Hast thou that holy feeling in thy soul, 260

To counsel me to make my peace with God,

And art thou yet to thy own soul so blind,

That thou wilt war with God by murdering me?

O! sirs, consider, he that set you on 264

To do this deed, will hate you for the deed.

Sec. Murd.

What shall we do?

Clar.

Relent and save your souls.

First Murd.

Relent! ’tis cowardly, and womanish.

Clar.

Not to relent, is beastly, savage, devilish. 268

Which of you, if you were a prince’s son,

Being pent from liberty, as I am now,

If two such murd’rers as yourselves came to you,

Would not entreat for life? 272

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: 276

A begging prince what beggar pities not?

Sec. Murd.

Look behind you, my lord.

First Murd.

[Stabs him.] Take that, and that: if all this will not do,

I’ll drown you in the malmsey-butt within. 280

[Exit with the body.

Sec. Murd.

A bloody deed, and desperately dispatch’d!

How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands

Of this most grievous murder.

Re-enter first Murderer.

First Murd.

How now! what mean’st thou, that thou help’st me not? 284

By heaven, the duke shall know how slack you have been.

Sec. Murd.

I would he knew that I had sav’d his brother!

Take thou the fee, and tell him what I say;

For I repent me that the duke is slain.

[Exit.

First Murd.

So do not I: go, coward as thou art. 289

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; 292

For this will out, and here I must not stay.

[Exit.

ACT II.

Scene I.— London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King Edward sick, Queen Elizabeth, Dorset, Rivers, Hastings, Buckingham, Grey, and Others.

K. Edw.

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; 4

And more in 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. 8

Riv.

By heaven, my soul is purg’d from grudging hate;

And with my hand I seal my true heart’s love.

Hast.

So thrive I, as I truly swear the like!

K. Edw.

Take heed, you dally not before your king; 12

Lest he that is the supreme King of kings

Confound your hidden falsehood, and award

Either of you to be the other’s end.

Hast.

So prosper I, as I swear perfect love!

Riv.

And I, as I love Hastings with my heart!

K. Edw.

Madam, yourself are not exempt in this,

Nor you, son Dorset, Buckingham, nor you;

You have been factious one against the other. 20

Wife, love Lord Hastings, let him kiss your hand;

And what you do, do it unfeignedly.

Q. Eliz.

There, Hastings; I will never more remember

Our former hatred, so thrive I and mine! 24

K. Edw.

Dorset, embrace him; Hastings, love lord marquess.

Dor.

This interchange of love, I here protest,

Upon my part shall be inviolable.

Hast.

And so swear I.

[They embrace.

K. Edw.

Now, princely Buckingham, seal thou this league 29

With thy embracements to my wife’s allies,

And make me happy in your unity.

Buck.

[To the Queen.] Whenever Buckingham doth turn his hate 32

Upon your Grace, 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, 36

And most assured that he is a friend,

Deep, hollow, treacherous, and full of guile,

Be he unto me! This do I beg of God,

When I am cold in love to you or yours. 40

[They embrace.

K. Edw.

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. 44

Buck.

And, in good time, here comes the noble duke.

Enter Gloucester.

Glo.

Good morrow to my sovereign king and queen;

And princely peers, a happy time of day!

K. Edw.

Happy, indeed, as we have spent the day. 48

Gloucester, we have done deeds of charity;

Made peace of enmity, fair love of hate,

Between these swelling wrong-incensed peers.

Glo.

A blessed labour, my most sovereign lord. 52

Among this princely heap, if any here,

By false intelligence, or wrong surmise,

Hold me a foe;

If I unwittingly, or in my rage, 56

Have aught committed that is hardly borne

By any in this presence, I desire

To reconcile me to his friendly peace:

’Tis death to me to be at enmity; 60

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, 64

If ever any grudge were lodg’d between us;

Of you, Lord Rivers, and Lord Grey, of you,

That all without desert have frown’d on me;

Of you, Lord Woodvile, and Lord Scales, of you;

Dukes, earls, lords, gentlemen; indeed, of all. 69

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: 72

I thank my God for my humility.

Q. Eliz.

A holy day shall this be kept hereafter:

I would to God all strifes were well compounded.

My sov’reign lord, I do beseech your highness 76

To take our brother Clarence to your grace.

Glo.

Why, madam, have I offer’d love for this,

To be so flouted in this royal presence?

Who knows not that the gentle duke is dead? 80

[They all start.

You do him injury to scorn his corse.

K. Edw.

Who knows not he is dead! who knows he is?

Q. Eliz.

All-seeing heaven, what a world is this!

Buck.

Look I so pale, Lord Dorset, as the rest? 84

Dor.

Ay, my good lord; and no man in the presence

But his red colour hath forsook his cheeks.

K. Edw.

Is Clarence dead? the order was revers’d.

Glo.

But he, poor man, by your first order died, 88

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, 92

Nearer in bloody thoughts, and not in blood,

Deserve not worse than wretched Clarence did,

And yet go current from suspicion.

Enter Stanley.

Stan.

A boon, my sov’reign, for my service done! 96

K. Edw.

I prithee, peace: my soul is full of sorrow.

Stan.

I will not rise, unless your highness hear me.

K. Edw.

Then say at once, what is it thou request’st.

Stan.

The forfeit, sovereign, of my servant’s life; 100

Who slew to-day a riotous gentleman

Lately attendant on the Duke of Norfolk.

K. Edw.

Have I a tongue to doom my brother’s death,

And shall that tongue give pardon to a slave?

My brother kill’d no man, his fault was thought;

And yet his punishment was bitter death.

Who su’d to me for him? who, in my wrath,

Kneel’d at my feet, and bade me be advis’d? 108

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, 112

When Oxford had me down, he rescu’d 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 116

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 pluck’d, and not a man of you 120

Had so much grace to put it in my mind.

But when your carters or your waiting-vassals

Have done a drunken slaughter, and defac’d

The precious image of our dear Redeemer, 124

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 128

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 132

On me and you and mine and yours for this.

Come, Hastings, help me to my closet. O! poor Clarence!

[Exeunt King Edward, Queen, Hastings, Rivers, Dorset, and Grey.

Glo.

This is the fruit of rashness. Mark’d you not

How that the guilty kindred of the queen 136

Look’d 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? 140

Buck.

We wait upon your Grace.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Room in the Palace.

Enter the Duchess of York, with a Son and Daughter of Clarence.

Boy.

Good grandam, tell us, is our father dead?

Duch.

No, boy.

Daugh.

Why do you wring your hands, and beat your breast,

And cry—‘O Clarence, my unhappy son?’ 4

Boy.

Why do you look on us, and shake your head,

And call us orphans, wretches, castaways,

If that our noble father be alive?

Duch.

My pretty cousins, you mistake me much; 8

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.

Boy.

Then, grandam, you conclude that he is dead. 12

The king mine uncle is to blame for it:

God will revenge it; whom I will importune

With earnest prayers all to that effect.

Daugh.

And so will I. 16

Duch.

Peace, children, peace! the king doth love you well:

Incapable and shallow innocents,

You cannot guess who caus’d your father’s death.

Boy.

Grandam, we can; for my good uncle Gloucester 20

Told me, the king, provok’d to’t by the queen,

Devis’d impeachments to imprison him:

And when my uncle told me so, he wept,

And pitied me, and kindly kiss’d my cheek; 24

Bade me rely on him, as on my father,

And he would love me dearly as his child.

Duch.

Ah! that deceit should steal such gentle shape,

And with a virtuous vizard hide deep vice. 28

He is my son, ay, and therein my shame,

Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit.

Boy.

Think you my uncle did dissemble, grandam?

Duch.

Ay, boy. 32

Boy.

I cannot think it. Hark! what noise is this?

Enter Queen Elizabeth, distractedly; Rivers and Dorset following her.

Q. Eliz.

Oh! who shall hinder me to wail and weep,

To chide my fortune, and torment myself?

I’ll join with black despair against my soul, 36

And to myself become an enemy.

Duch.

What means this scene of rude impatience?

Q. Eliz.

To make an act of tragic violence:

Edward, my lord, thy son, our king, is dead! 40

Why grow the branches now the root is wither’d?

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; 44

Or, like obedient subjects, follow him

To his new kingdom of perpetual rest.

Duch.

Ah! so much interest have I in thy sorrow

As I had title in thy noble husband. 48

I have bewept a worthy husband’s death,

And liv’d with looking on his images;

But now two mirrors of his princely semblance

Are crack’d in pieces by malignant death, 52

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 thee:

But death hath snatch’d my husband from mine arms, 57

And pluck’d two crutches from my feeble limbs,

Clarence and Edward. O! what cause have I—

Thine being but a moiety of my grief— 60

To overgo thy plaints, and drown thy cries!

Boy.

Ah, aunt, you wept not for our father’s death;

How can we aid you with our kindred tears?

Daugh.

Our fatherless distress was left unmoan’d; 64

Your widow-dolour likewise be unwept.

Q. Eliz.

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 govern’d by the wat’ry moon, 69

May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world!

Ah! for my husband, for my dear Lord Edward!

Chil.

Ah! for our father, for our dear Lord Clarence! 72

Duch.

Alas! for both, both mine, Edward and Clarence!

Q. Eliz.

What stay had I but Edward? and he’s gone.

Chil.

What stay had we but Clarence? and he’s gone.

Duch.

What stays had I but they? and they are gone. 76

Q. Eliz.

Was never widow had so dear a loss.

Chil.

Were never orphans had so dear a loss.

Duch.

Was never mother had so dear a loss.

Alas! I am the mother of these griefs: 80

Their woes are parcell’d, mine are 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; 84

I for an Edward weep, so do not they:

Alas! you three, on me, threefold distress’d,

Pour all your tears; I am your sorrow’s nurse,

And I will pamper it with lamentation. 88

Dor.

Comfort, dear mother: God is much displeas’d

That you take with unthankfulness his doing.

In common worldly things ’tis call’d ungrateful

With dull unwillingness to repay a debt 92

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.

Riv.

Madam, bethink you, like a careful mother, 96

Of the young prince your son: send straight for him;

Let him be crown’d; 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, Ratcliff, and Others.

Glo.

Sister, have comfort: all of us have cause

To wail the dimming of our shining star;

But none can cure their harms by wailing them.

Madam, my mother, I do cry you mercy; 104

I did not see your Grace: humbly on my knee

I crave your blessing.

Duch.

God bless thee! and put meekness in thy mind,

Love, charity, obedience, and true duty. 108

Glo.

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.

Buck

You cloudy princes and heart-sorrowing peers, 112

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. 116

The broken rancour of your high-swoln hearts,

But lately splinter’d, knit, and join’d together,

Must gently be preserv’d, cherish’d, and kept:

Me seemeth good, that, with some little train,

Forthwith from Ludlow the young prince be fetch’d 121

Hither to London, to be crown’d our king.

Riv.

Why with some little train, my Lord of Buckingham?

Buck.

Marry, my lord, lest, by a multitude,

The new-heal’d wound of malice should break out; 125

Which would be so much the more dangerous,

By how much the estate is green and yet ungovern’d;

Where every horse bears his commanding rein,

And may direct his course as please himself, 129

As well the fear of harm, as harm apparent,

In my opinion, ought to be prevented.

Glo.

I hope the king made peace with all of us; 132

And the compact is firm and true in me.

Riv.

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, 136

Which haply by much company might be urg’d:

Therefore I say with noble Buckingham,

That it is meet so few should fetch the prince.

Hast.

And so say I. 140

Glo.

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? 144

[Exeunt all except Buckingham and Gloucester.

Buck.

My lord, whoever journeys to the prince,

For God’s sake, let not us two stay at home:

For by the way I’ll sort occasion,

As index to the story we late talk’d of, 148

To part the queen’s proud kindred from the prince.

Glo.

My other self, my counsel’s consistory,

My oracle, my prophet! My dear cousin,

I, as a child, will go by thy direction. 152

Towards Ludlow then, for we’ll not stay behind.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. A Street.

Enter two Citizens, meeting.

First Cit.

Good morrow, neighbour: whither away so fast?

Sec. Cit.

I promise you, I scarcely know myself:

Hear you the news abroad?

First Cit.

Ay; that the king is dead.

Sec. Cit.

Ill news, by’r lady; seldom comes the better: 4

I fear, I fear, ’twill prove a giddy world.

Enter a third Citizen.

Third Cit.

Neighbours, God speed!

First Cit.

Give you good morrow, sir.

Third Cit.

Doth the news hold of good King Edward’s death?

Sec. Cit.

Ay, sir, it is too true; God help the while! 8

Third Cit.

Then, masters, look to see a troublous world.

First Cit.

No, no; by God’s good grace, his son shall reign.

Third Cit.

Woe to that land that’s govern’d by a child!

Sec. Cit.

In him there is a hope of government, 12

That in his nonage council under him,

And in his full and ripen’d years himself,

No doubt, shall then and till then govern well.

First Cit.

So stood the state when Henry the Sixth 16

Was crown’d at Paris but at nine months old.

Third Cit.

Stood the state so? no, no, good friends, God wot;

For then this land was famously enrich’d

With politic grave counsel; then the king 20

Had virtuous uncles to protect his Grace.

First Cit.

Why, so hath this, both by his father and mother.

Third Cit.

Better it were they all came by his father,

Or by his father there were none at all; 24

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; 28

And were they to be rul’d, and not to rule,

This sickly land might solace as before.

First Cit.

Come, come, we fear the worst, all will be well.

Third Cit.

When clouds are seen, wise men put on their cloaks; 32

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, 36

’Tis more than we deserve, or I expect.

Sec. Cit.

Truly, the hearts of men are full of fear:

You cannot reason almost with a man

That looks not heavily and full of dread. 40

Third Cit.

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 waters swell before a boisterous storm. 44

But leave it all to God. Whither away?

Sec. Cit.

Marry, we were sent for to the justices.

Third Cit.

And so was I: I’ll bear you company.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. A Room in the Palace.

Enter the Archbishop of York, the young Duke of York, Queen Elizabeth, and the Duchess of York.

Arch.

Last night, I hear, they lay at Northampton;

At Stony-Stratford they do rest to-night:

To-morrow, or next day, they will be here.

Duch.

I long with all my heart to see the prince. 4

I hope he is much grown since last I saw him.

Q. Eliz.

But I hear, no; they say my son of York

Hath almost overta’en him in his growth.

York.

Ay, mother, but I would not have it so.

Duch.

Why, my young cousin, it is good to grow. 9

York.

Grandam, one night, as we did sit at supper,

My uncle Rivers talk’d how I did grow

More than my brother: ‘Ay,’ quoth my uncle Gloucester, 12

‘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.

Duch.

Good faith, good faith, the saying did not hold 16

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.

Arch.

And so, no doubt, he is, my gracious madam. 21

Duch.

I hope he is; but yet let mothers doubt.

York.

Now, by my troth, if I had been remember’d,

I could have given my uncle’s grace a flout, 24

To touch his growth nearer than he touch’d mine.

Duch.

How, my young York? I prithee, let me hear it.

York.

Marry, they say my uncle grew so fast,

That he could gnaw a crust at two hours old: 28

’Twas full two years ere I could get a tooth.

Grandam, this would have been a biting jest.

Duch.

I prithee, pretty York, who told thee this?

York.

Grandam, his nurse. 32

Duch.

His nurse! why, she was dead ere thou wast born.

York.

If ’twere not she, I cannot tell who told me.

Q. Eliz.

A parlous boy: go to, you are too shrewd.

Arch.

Good madam, be not angry with the child. 36

Q. Eliz.

Pitchers have ears.

Enter a Messenger.

Arch.

Here comes a messenger. What news?

Mess.

Such news, my lord, as grieves me to report.

Q. Eliz.

How doth the prince?

Mess.

Well, madam, and in health.

Duch.

What is thy news? 41

Mess.

Lord Rivers and Lord Grey are sent to Pomfret,

With them Sir Thomas Vaughan, prisoners.

Duch.

Who hath committed them?

Mess.

The mighty dukes, 44

Gloucester and Buckingham.

Arch.

For what offence?

Mess.

The sum of all I can I have disclos’d:

Why or for what the nobles were committed

Is all unknown to me, my gracious lord. 48

Q. Eliz.

Ah me! I see the ruin of my house!

The tiger now hath seiz’d the gentle hind;

Insulting tyranny begins to jet

Upon the innocent and aweless throne: 52

Welcome, destruction, death, and massacre!

I see, as in a map, the end of all.

Duch.

Accursed and unquiet wrangling days,

How many of you have mine eyes beheld! 56

My husband lost his life to get the crown,

And often up and down my sons were toss’d,

For me to joy and weep their gain and loss:

And being seated, and domestic broils 60

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; 64

Or let me die, to look on death no more.

Q. Eliz.

Come, come, my boy; we will to sanctuary.

Madam, farewell.

Duch.

Stay, I will go with you.

Q. Eliz.

You have no cause.

Arch.

[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! 72

Come; I’ll conduct you to the sanctuary.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— The Same. A Street.

The Trumpets sound. Enter the Prince of Wales, Gloucester, Buckingham, Catesby, Cardinal Bourchier, and Others.

Buck.

Welcome, sweet prince, to London, to your chamber.

Glo.

Welcome, dear cousin, my thoughts’ sovereign;

The weary way hath made you melancholy.

Prince.

No, uncle; but our crosses on the way 4

Have made it tedious, wearisome, and heavy:

I want more uncles here to welcome me.

Glo.

Sweet prince, the untainted virtue of your years

Hath not yet div’d into the world’s deceit: 8

No 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 sugar’d words, 13

But look’d 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. 16

Glo.

My lord, the Mayor of London comes to greet you.

Enter the Lord Mayor and his Train.

May.

God bless your Grace with health and happy days!

Prince.

I thank you, good my lord; and thank you all.

I thought my mother and my brother York 20

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.

Enter Hastings.

Buck.

And in good time here comes the sweating lord. 24

Prince.

Welcome, my lord. What, will our mother come?

Hast.

On what occasion, God he knows, not I,

The queen your mother, and your brother York,

Have taken sanctuary: the tender prince 28

Would fain have come with me to meet your Grace,

But by his mother was perforce withheld.

Buck.

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.

Card.

My Lord of Buckingham, if my weak oratory 37

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 40

We should infringe the holy privilege

Of blessed sanctuary! not for all this land

Would I be guilty of so great a sin.

Buck.

You are too senseless-obstinate, my lord, 44

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 48

To those whose dealings have deserv’d the place

And those who have the wit to claim the place:

This prince hath neither claim’d it, nor deserv’d 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. 56

Card.

My lord, you shall o’er-rule my mind for once.

Come on, Lord Hastings, will you go with me?

Hast.

I go, my lord.

Prince.

Good lords, make all the speedy haste you may. 60

[Exeunt Cardinal Bourchier and Hastings.

Say, uncle Gloucester, if our brother come,

Where shall we sojourn till our coronation?

Glo.

Where it seems best unto your royal self.

If I may counsel you, some day or two 64

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 Cæsar build that place, my lord? 69

Buck.

He did, my gracious lord, begin that place,

Which, since, succeeding ages have re-edified.

Prince.

Is it upon record, or else reported 72

Successively from age to age, he built it?

Buck.

Upon record, my gracious lord.

Prince.

But say, my lord, it were not register’d,

Methinks the truth should live from age to age,

As ’twere retail’d to all posterity, 77

Even to the general all-ending day.

Glo.

[Aside.] So wise so young, they say, do never live long.

Prince.

What say you, uncle? 80

Glo.

I say, without characters, fame lives long.

[Aside.] Thus, like the formal Vice, Iniquity,

I moralize two meanings in one word.

Prince.

That Julius Cæsar was a famous man;

With what his valour did enrich his wit, 85

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. 88

I’ll tell you what, my cousin Buckingham,—

Buck.

What, my gracious lord?

Prince.

An if I live until I be a man,

I’ll win our ancient right in France again, 92

Or die a soldier, as I liv’d a king.

Glo.

[Aside.] Short summers lightly have a forward spring.

Enter York, Hastings, and Cardinal Bourchier.

Buck.

Now, in good time, here comes the Duke of York.

Prince.

Richard of York! how fares our loving brother? 96

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. 100

Glo.

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.

Glo.

He hath, my lord.

York.

And therefore is he idle? 105

Glo.

O, my fair cousin, I must not say so.

York.

Then he is more beholding to you than I.

Glo.

He may command me as my sovereign;

But you have power in me as in a kinsman. 109

York.

I pray you, uncle, give me this dagger.

Glo.

My dagger, little cousin? with all my heart.

Prince.

A beggar, brother? 112

York.

Of my kind uncle, that I know will give;

And, being but a toy, which is no grief to give.

Glo.

A greater gift than that I’ll give my cousin.

York.

A greater gift! O, that’s the sword to it.

Glo.

Ay, gentle cousin, were it light enough.

York.

O, then, I see, you’ll part but with light gifts;

In weightier things you’ll say a beggar nay.

Glo.

It is too weighty for your Grace to wear.

York.

I weigh it lightly, were it heavier. 121

Glo.

What! would you have my weapon, little lord?

York.

I would, that I might thank you, as you call me.

Glo.

How? 124

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: 128

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.

Buck.

With what a sharp provided with he reasons! 132

To mitigate the scorn he gives his uncle,

He prettily and aptly taunts himself:

So cunning and so young is wonderful.

Glo.

My lord, will’t please you pass along?

Myself and my good cousin Buckingham 137

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? 140

Prince.

My Lord Protector needs will have it so.

York.

I shall not sleep in quiet at the Tower.

Glo.

Why, what would you fear?

York.

Marry, my uncle Clarence’ angry ghost:

My grandam told me he was murder’d there. 145

Prince.

I fear no uncles dead.

Glo.

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 all but Gloucester, Buckingham, and Catesby.

Buck.

Think you, my lord, this little prating York

Was not incensed by his subtle mother 152

To taunt and scorn you thus opprobriously?

Glo.

No doubt, no doubt: O! ’tis a parlous boy;

Bold, quick, ingenious, forward, capable:

He’s all the mother’s, from the top to toe. 156

Buck.

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 urg’d upon the way: 160

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? 164

Cate.

He for his father’s sake so loves the prince

That he will not be won to aught against him.

Buck.

What think’st thou then of Stanley? what will he?

Cate.

He will do all in all as Hastings doth.

Buck.

Well then, no more but this: go, gentle Catesby, 169

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, 172

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, 176

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 employ’d. 180

Glo.

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, 184

Give Mistress Shore one gentle kiss the more.

Buck.

Good Catesby, go, effect this business soundly.

Cate.

My good lords both, with all the heed I can.

Glo.

Shall we hear from you, Catesby, ere we sleep? 188

Cate.

You shall, my lord.

Glo.

At Crosby-place, there shall you find us both.

[Exit Catesby.

Buck.

Now, my lord, what shall we do if we perceive

Lord Hastings will not yield to our complots?

Glo.

Chop off his head; something we will determine: 193

And, look, when I am king, claim thou of me

The earldom of Hereford, and all the moveables

Whereof the king my brother stood possess’d.

Buck.

I’ll claim that promise at your Grace’s hand. 197

Glo.

And look to have it yielded with all kindness.

Come, let us sup betimes, that afterwards

We may digest our complots in some form. 200

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. Before Lord Hastings’ House.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

[Knocking.] My lord! my lord!

Hast.

[Within.] Who knocks?

Mess.

One from the Lord Stanley.

Hast.

[Within.] What is’t o’clock? 4

Mess.

Upon the stroke of four.

Enter Hastings.

Hast.

Cannot my Lord Stanley sleep these tedious nights?

Mess.

So it appears by that I have to say.

First, he commends him to your noble self. 8

Hast.

What then?

Mess.

Then certifies your lordship, that this night

He dreamt the boar had razed off his helm:

Besides, he says there are two councils held; 12

And that may be determin’d 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, 16

And with all speed post with him towards the north,

To shun the danger that his soul divines.

Hast.

Go, fellow, go, return unto thy lord;

Bid him not fear the separated councils: 20

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. 24

Tell him his fears are shallow, wanting instance:

And for his dreams, I wonder he’s so fond

To trust the mockery of unquiet slumbers.

To fly the boar before the boar pursues, 28

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, 32

Where, he shall see, the boar will use us kindly.

Mess.

I’ll go, my lord, and tell him what you say.

[Exit.

Enter Catesby.

Cate.

Many good morrows to my noble lord!

Hast.

Good morrow, Catesby; you are early stirring. 36

What news, what news, in this our tottering state?

Cate.

It is a reeling world, indeed, my lord;

And I believe will never stand upright

Till Richard wear the garland of the realm. 40

Hast.

How! wear the garland! dost thou mean the crown?

Cate.

Ay, my good lord.

Hast.

I’ll have this crown of mine cut from my shoulders

Before I’ll see the crown so foul misplac’d. 44

But canst thou guess that he doth aim at it?

Cate.

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, 48

That this same very day your enemies,

The kindred of the queen, must die at Pomfret.

Hast.

Indeed, I am no mourner for that news,

Because they have been still my adversaries; 52

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.

Cate.

God keep your lordship in that gracious mind! 56

Hast.

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.

Cate.

’Tis a vile thing to die, my gracious lord,

When men are unprepar’d and look not for it.

Hast.

O monstrous, monstrous! and so falls it out 64

With Rivers, Vaughan, Grey; and so ’twill do

With some men else, who think themselves as safe

As thou and I; who, as thou know’st, are dear

To princely Richard and to Buckingham. 68

Cate.

The princes both make high account of you;

[Aside.] For they account his head upon the bridge.

Hast.

I know they do, and I have well deserv’d it.

Enter Stanley.

Come on, come on; where is your boar-spear, man? 72

Fear you the boar, and go so unprovided?

Stan.

My lord, good morrow; good morrow Catesby:

You may jest on, but by the holy rood,

I do not like these several councils, I. 76

Hast.

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, 80

I would be so triumphant as I am?

Stan.

The lords at Pomfret, when they rode from London,

Were jocund and suppos’d their state was sure,

And they indeed had no cause to mistrust; 84

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. 88

Hast.

Come, come, have with you. Wot you what, my lord?

To-day the lords you talk of are beheaded.

Stan.

They, for their truth, might better wear their heads,

Than some that have accus’d them wear their hats. 92

But come, my lord, let’s away.

Enter a Pursuivant.

Hast.

Go on before; I’ll talk with this good fellow.

[Exeunt Stanley and Catesby.

How now, sirrah! how goes the world with thee?

Purs.

The better that your lordship please to ask. 96

Hast.

I tell thee, man, ’tis better with me now

Than when I met thee last where now we meet:

Then was I going prisoner to the Tower,

By the suggestion of the queen’s allies; 100

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.

Purs.

God hold it to your honour’s good content! 104

Hast.

Gramercy, fellow: there, drink that for me.

[Throws him his purse.

Purs.

God save your lordship.

[Exit.

Enter a Priest.

Pr.

Well met, my lord; I am glad to see your honour.

Hast.

I thank thee, good Sir John, with all my heart. 108

I am in your debt for your last exercise;

Come the next Sabbath, and I will content you.

Enter Buckingham.

Buck.

What, talking with a priest, lord chamberlain?

Your friends at Pomfret, they do need the priest:

Your honour hath no shriving work in hand. 113

Hast.

Good faith, and when I met this holy man,

The men you talk of came into my mind.

What, go you toward the Tower? 116

Buck.

I do, my lord; but long I shall not stay:

I shall return before your lordship thence.

Hast.

Nay, like enough, for I stay dinner there.

Buck.

[Aside.] And supper too, although thou know’st it not. 120

Come, will you go?

Hast.

I’ll wait upon your lordship.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Pomfret. Before the Castle.

Enter Ratcliff, with halberds, carrying Rivers, Grey, and Vaughan to death.

Riv.

Sir Richard Ratcliff, 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! 4

A knot you are of damned blood suckers.

Vaugh.

You live that shall cry woe for this hereafter.

Rat.

Dispatch; the limit of your lives is out.

Riv.

O Pomfret, Pomfret! O thou bloody prison! 8

Fatal and ominous to noble peers!

Within the guilty closure of thy walls

Richard the Second here was hack’d to death;

And, for more slander to thy dismal seat, 12

We give thee up our guitless blood to drink.

Grey.

Now Margaret’s curse is fall’n upon our heads,

When she exclaim’d on Hastings, you, and I,

For standing by when Richard stabb’d her son. 16

Riv.

Then curs’d she Richard, then curs’d she Buckingham,

Then curs’d she Hastings: O! remember, God,

To hear her prayer for them, as now for us;

And for my sister and her princely sons, 20

Be satisfied, dear God, with our true blood,

Which, as thou know’st, unjustly must be spilt.

Rat.

Make haste; the hour of death is expiate.

Riv.

Come, Grey, come, Vaughan; let us here embrace: 24

And take our leave until we meet in heaven.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— London. The Tower.

Buckingham, Stanley, Hastings, the Bishop of Ely, Ratcliff, Lovel, and Others, sitting at a table. Officers of the Council attending.

Hast.

My lords, at once: the cause why we are met

Is to determine of the coronation:

In God’s name, speak, when is the royal day?

Buck.

Are all things ready for that royal time? 4

Stan.

It is; and wants but nomination.

Ely.

To-morrow then I judge a happy day.

Buck.

Who knows the Lord Protector’s mind herein?

Who is most inward with the noble duke? 8

Ely.

Your Grace, we think, should soonest know his mind.

Buck.

We know each other’s faces; for our hearts,

He knows no more of mine than I of yours;

Nor I of his, my lord, than you of mine. 12

Lord Hastings, you and he are near in love.

Hast.

I thank his Grace, I know he loves me well;

But, for his purpose in the coronation,

I have not sounded him, nor he deliver’d 16

His gracious pleasure any way therein:

But you, my noble 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. 20

Enter Gloucester.

Ely.

In happy time, here comes the duke himself.

Glo.

My noble lords and cousins all, good morrow.

I have been long a sleeper; but, I trust,

My absence doth neglect no great design, 24

Which by my presence might have been concluded.

Buck.

Had you not come upon your cue, my lord,

William Lord Hastings had pronounc’d your part,

I mean, your voice, for crowning of the king. 28

Glo.

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; 32

I do beseech you send for some of them.

Ely.

Marry, and will, my lord, with all my heart.

[Exit.

Glo.

Cousin of Buckingham, a word with you.

[Takes him aside.

Catesby hath sounded Hastings in our business, 36

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. 40

Buck.

Withdraw yourself a while; I’ll go with you.

[Exeunt Gloucester and Buckingham.

Stan.

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 44

As else I would be, were the day prolong’d.

Re-enter Bishop of Ely.

Ely.

Where is my lord, the Duke of Gloucester?

I have sent for these strawberries.

Hast.

His Grace looks cheerfully and smooth this morning: 48

There’s some conceit or other likes him well,

When that he bids good morrow with such spirit.

I think there’s never a man in Christendom

Can lesser hide his hate or love than he; 52

For by his face straight shall you know his heart.

Stan.

What of his heart perceiv’d you in his face

By any livelihood he show’d to-day?

Hast.

Marry, that with no man here he is offended; 56

For, were he, he had shown it in his looks.

Re-enter Gloucester and Buckingham.

Glo.

I pray you all, tell me what they deserve

That do conspire my death with devilish plots

Of damned witchcraft, and that have prevail’d 60

Upon my body with their hellish charms?

Hast.

The tender love I bear your Grace, my lord,

Makes me most forward in this princely presence

To doom th’ offenders, whosoe’er they be: 64

I say, my lord, they have deserved death.

Glo.

Then be your eyes the witness of their evil.

Look how I am bewitch’d; behold mine arm

Is like a blasted sapling, wither’d up: 68

And this is Edward’s wife, that monstrous witch

Consorted with that harlot strumpet Shore,

That by their witchcraft thus have marked me.

Hast.

If they have done this thing, my noble lord,— 72

Glo.

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. 76

Lovel and Ratcliff, look that it be done:

The rest, that love me, rise, and follow me.

[Exeunt all but Hastings, Ratcliff, and Lovel.

Hast.

Woe, woe, for England! not a whit for me;

For I, too fond, might have prevented this. 80

Stanley did dream the boar did raze his helm;

And I did scorn it, and disdain’d to fly.

Three times to-day my foot-cloth horse did stumble,

And startled when he looked upon the Tower, 84

As loath 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 88

To-day at Pomfret bloodily were butcher’d

And I myself secure in grace and favour.

O Margaret, Margaret! now thy heavy curse

Is lighted on poor Hastings’ wretched head. 92

Rat.

Come, come, dispatch; the duke would be at dinner:

Make a short shrift, he longs to see your head.

Hast.

O momentary grace of mortal man,

Which we more hunt for than the grace of God! 96

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. 100

Lov.

Come, come, dispatch; ’tis bootless to exclaim.

Hast.

O bloody Richard! miserable England!

I prophesy the fearfull’st time to thee

That ever wretched age hath look’d upon. 104

Come, lead me to the block; bear him my head:

They smile at me who shortly shall be dead.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— London. The Tower Walls.

Enter Gloucester and Buckingham, in rotten armour, marvellous ill-favoured.

Glo.

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 wert distraught and mad with terror? 4

Buck.

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 8

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? 12

Glo.

He is; and, see, he brings the mayor along.

Enter the Lord Mayor and Catesby.

Buck.

Lord Mayor,—

Glo.

Look to the drawbridge there!

Buck.

Hark! a drum.

Glo.

Catesby, o’erlook the walls. 16

Buck.

Lord Mayor, the reason we have sent,—

Glo.

Look back, defend thee; here are enemies.

Buck.

God and our innocency defend and guard us!

Enter Lovel and Ratcliff, with Hastings’ head.

Glo.

Be patient, they are friends, Ratcliff and Lovel. 20

Lov.

Here is the head of that ignoble traitor,

The dangerous and unsuspected Hastings.

Glo.

So dear I lov’d the man, that I must weep.

I took him for the plainest harmless creature 24

That breath’d upon the earth a Christian;

Made him my book, wherein my soul recorded

The history of all her secret thoughts:

So smooth he daub’d his vice with show of virtue, 28

That, his apparent open guilt omitted,

I mean his conversation with Shore’s wife,

He liv’d from all attainder of suspect.

Buck.

Well, well, he was the covert’st shelter’d traitor 32

That ever liv’d.

Would you imagine, or almost believe,—

Were’t not that by great preservation

We live to tell it, that the subtle traitor 36

This day had plotted, in the council-house,

To murder me and my good Lord of Gloucester?

May.

Had he done so?

Glo.

What! think you we are Turks or infidels? 40

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 person’s safety, 44

Enforc’d us to this execution?

May.

Now, fair befall you! he deserv’d his death;

And your good Graces both have well proceeded,

To warn false traitors from the like attempts. 48

I never look’d for better at his hands,

After he once fell in with Mistress Shore.

Buck.

Yet had we not determin’d he should die,

Until your lordship came to see his end; 52

Which now the loving haste of these our friends,

Something against our meaning, hath prevented:

Because, my lord, we would have had you heard

The traitor speak, and timorously confess 56

The manner and the purpose of his treason;

That you might well have signified the same

Unto the citizens, who haply may

Misconster us in him, and wail his death. 60

May.

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 64

With all your just proceedings in this cause.

Glo.

And to that end we wish’d your lordship here,

To avoid the censures of the carping world.

Buck.

But since you come too late of our intent, 68

Yet witness what you hear we did intend:

And so, my good Lord Mayor, we bid farewell.

[Exit Lord Mayor.

Glo.

Go, after, after, cousin Buckingham.

The mayor towards Guildhall hies him in all post: 72

There, at your meetest vantage 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 76

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; 80

Which stretch’d unto their servants, daughters, wives,

Even where his raging eye or savage heart

Without control lusted to make a prey.

Nay, for a need, thus far come near my person: 84

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, 88

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; 92

Because, my lord, you know my mother lives.

Buck.

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. 96

Glo.

If you thrive well, bring them to Baynard’s Castle;

Where you shall find me well accompanied

With reverend fathers and well-learned bishops.

Buck.

I go; and towards three or four o’clock 100

Look for the news that the Guildhall affords.

[Exit.

Glo.

Go, Lovel, with all speed to Doctor Shaw;

[To Catesby.] Go thou 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, 105

To draw the brats of Clarence out of sight;

And to give notice that no manner person

Have any time recourse unto the princes.

[Exit.

Scene VI.— The Same. A Street.

Enter a Scrivener.

Scriv.

Here is the indictment of the good Lord Hastings;

Which in a set hand fairly is engross’d,

That it may be to-day read o’er in Paul’s:

And mark how well the sequel hangs together. 4

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 liv’d, 8

Untainted, unexamin’d, 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? 12

Bad is the world; and all will come to naught,

When such ill dealing must be seen in thought.

[Exit.

Scene VII.— The Same. The Court of Baynard’s Castle.

Enter Gloucester and Buckingham, meeting.

Glo.

How, now, how now! what say the citizens?

Buck.

Now, by the holy mother of our Lord,

The citizens are mum, say not a word.

Glo.

Touch’d you the bastardy of Edward’s children? 4

Buck.

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; 8

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, 12

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, 16

Your bounty, virtue, fair humility;

Indeed, left nothing fitting for your purpose

Untouch’d or slightly handled in discourse;

And when my oratory drew toward end, 20

I bade them that did love their country’s good

Cry ‘God save Richard, England’s royal king!’

Glo.

And did they so?

Buck.

No, so God help me, they spake not a word; 24

But, like dumb statuas or breathing stones,

Star’d each on other, and look’d deadly pale.

Which when I saw, I reprehended them;

And ask’d the mayor what meant this wilful silence: 28

His answer was, the people were not wont

To be spoke to but by the recorder.

Then he was urg’d to tell my tale again:

‘Thus saith the duke, thus hath the duke inferr’d;’ 32

But nothing spoke in warrant from himself.

When he had done, some followers of mine own,

At lower end of the hall, hurl’d up their caps,

And some ten voices cried, ‘God save King Richard!’ 36

And thus I took the vantage of those few,

‘Thanks, gentle citizens and friends,’ quoth I;

‘This general applause and cheerful shout

Argues your wisdom and your love to Richard:’

And even here brake off, and came away. 41

Glo.

What tongueless blocks were they! would they not speak?

Will not the mayor then and his brethren come?

Buck.

The mayor is here at hand. Intend some fear; 44

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: 48

And be not easily won to our requests;

Play the maid’s part, still answer nay, and take it.

Glo.

I go; and if you plead as well for them

As I can say nay to thee for myself, 52

No doubt we bring it to a happy issue.

Buck.

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. 56

Enter, from the Castle, Catesby.

Now, Catesby! what says your lord to my request?

Cate.

He doth entreat your Grace, my noble lord,

To visit him to-morrow or next day.

He is within, with two right reverend fathers, 60

Divinely bent to meditation;

And in no worldly suit would he be mov’d,

To draw him from his holy exercise.

Buck.

Return, good Catesby, to the gracious duke: 64

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. 68

Cate.

I’ll signify so much unto him straight.

[Exit.

Buck.

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; 72

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. 76

Happy were England, would this virtuous prince

Take on his Grace the sovereignty thereof:

But sore, I fear, we shall not win him to it.

May.

Marry, God defend his Grace should say us nay! 80

Buck.

I fear he will. Here Catesby comes again.

Re-enter Catesby.

Now, Catesby, what says his Grace?

Cate.

He wonders to what end you have assembled

Such troops of citizens to come to him, 84

His Grace not being warn’d thereof before:

My lord, he fears you mean no good to him.

Buck.

Sorry I am my noble cousin should

Suspect me that I mean no good to him. 88

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; 92

So sweet is zealous contemplation.

Enter Gloucester, in a gallery above, between two Bishops. Catesby returns.

May.

See, where his Grace stands ’tween two clergymen!

Buck.

Two props of virtue for a Christian prince,

To stay him from the fall of vanity; 96

And, see, a book of prayer in his hand;

True ornament to know a holy man.

Famous Plantagenet, most gracious prince,

Lend favourable ear to our requests, 100

And pardon us the interruption

Of thy devotion, and right Christian zeal.

Glo.

My lord, there needs no such apology;

I do beseech your Grace to pardon me, 104

Who, earnest in the service of my God,

Deferr’d the visitation of my friends.

But, leaving this, what is your Grace’s pleasure?

Buck.

Even that, I hope, which pleaseth God above, 108

And all good men of this ungovern’d isle.

Glo.

I do suspect I have done some offence

That seems disgracious in the city’s eye;

And that you come to reprehend my ignorance.

Buck.

You have, my lord: would it might please your Grace, 113

On our entreaties to amend your fault!

Glo.

Else wherefore breathe I in a Christian land?

Buck.

Know then, it is your fault that you resign 116

The supreme seat, the throne majestical,

The sceptred office of your ancestors,

Your state of fortune and your due of birth,

The lineal glory of your royal house, 120

To the corruption of a blemish’d stock;

Whiles, in the mildness of your sleepy thoughts,—

Which here we waken to our country’s good,—

This noble isle doth want her proper limbs; 124

Her face defac’d with scars of infamy,

Her royal stock graft with ignoble plants,

And almost shoulder’d in the swallowing gulf

Of dark forgetfulness and deep oblivion. 128

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, 132

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, 136

Your very worshipful and loving friends,

And by their vehement instigation,

In this just cause come I to move your Grace.

Glo.

I cannot tell, if to depart in silence 140

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 144

To bear the golden yoke of sov’reignty,

Which fondly you would here impose on me;

If to reprove you for this suit of yours,

So season’d with your faithful love to me, 148

Then, on the other side, I check’d my friends.

Therefore, to speak, and to avoid the first,

And then, in speaking, not to incur the last,

Definitively thus I answer you. 152

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, 156

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, 161

Than in my greatness covet to be hid,

And in the vapour of my glory smother’d.

But, God be thank’d, there is no need of me; 164

And much I need to help you, were there need;

The royal tree hath left us royal fruit,

Which, mellow’d by the stealing hours of time,

Will well become the seat of majesty, 168

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! 172

Buck.

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: 176

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 betroth’d 180

To Bona, sister to the King of France.

These both put by, a poor petitioner,

A care-craz’d mother to a many sons,

A beauty-waning and distressed widow, 184

Even in the afternoon of her best days,

Made prize and purchase of his wanton eye,

Seduc’d the pitch and height of his degree

To base declension and loath’d bigamy: 188

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, 192

I give a sparing limit to my tongue.

Then, good my lord, take to your royal self

This proffer’d benefit of dignity;

If not to bless us and the land withal, 196

Yet to draw forth your noble ancestry

From the corruption of abusing times,

Unto a lineal true-derived course.

May.

Do, good my lord; your citizens entreat you. 200

Buck.

Refuse not, mighty lord, this proffer’d love.

Cate.

O! make them joyful: grant their lawful suit:

Glo.

Alas! why would you heap those cares on me?

I am unfit for state and majesty: 204

I do beseech you, take it not amiss,

I cannot nor I will not yield to you.

Buck.

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 209

And gentle, kind, effeminate remorse,

Which we have noted in you to your kindred,

And egally, indeed, to all estates, 212

Yet whether 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: 216

And in this resolution here we leave you.

Come, citizens, we will entreat no more.

[Exit Buckingham and Citizens.

Cate.

Call them again, sweet prince; accept their suit:

If you deny them, all the land will rue it. 220

Glo.

Will you enforce me to a world of cares?

Call them again: I am not made of stone,

But penetrable to your kind entreats,

[Exit Catesby.

Albeit against my conscience and my soul. 224

Re-enter Buckingham and the rest.

Cousin of Buckingham, and sage, grave men,

Since you will buckle fortune on my back,

To bear her burden, whe’r I will or no,

I must have patience to endure the load: 228

But if black scandal or foul-fac’d 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, 233

How far I am from the desire of this.

May.

God bless your Grace! we see it, and will say it.

Glo.

In saying so, you shall but say the truth.

Buck.

Then I salute you with this royal title:

Long live King Richard, England’s worthy king!

All.

Amen.

Buck.

To-morrow may it please you to be crown’d? 240

Glo.

Even when you please, for you will have it so.

Buck.

To-morrow then we will attend your Grace:

And so most joyfully we take our leave.

Glo.

[To the Bishops.] Come, let us to our holy work again. 244

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 Marquess of Dorset; on the other, Anne, Duchess of Gloucester, leading Lady Margaret Plantagenet, Clarence’s young daughter.

Duch.

Who meets us here? my niece Plantagenet,

Led in the hand of her kind aunt of Gloucester?

Now, for my life, she’s wand’ring to the Tower,

On pure heart’s love, to greet the tender princes.

Daughter, well met.

Anne.

God give your Graces both 5

A happy and a joyful time of day!

Q. Eliz.

As much to you, good sister! whither away?

Anne.

No further than the Tower; and, as I guess, 8

Upon the like devotion as yourselves,

To gratulate the gentle princes there.

Q. Eliz.

Kind sister, thanks: we’ll enter all together:—

Enter Brakenbury.

And, in good time, here the lieutenant comes. 12

Master lieutenant, pray you, by your leave,

How doth the prince, and my young son of York?

Brak.

Right well, dear madam. By your patience,

I may not suffer you to visit them: 16

The king hath strictly charg’d the contrary.

Q. Eliz.

The king! who’s that?

Brak.

I mean the Lord Protector.

Q. Eliz.

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?

Duch.

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, 24

And take thy office from thee, on my peril.

Brak.

No, madam, no, I may not leave it so:

I am bound by oath, and therefore pardon me.

[Exit.

Enter Stanley.

Stan.

Let me but meet you, ladies, one hour hence, 28

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. 32

Q. Eliz.

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! 36

Dor.

Be of good cheer: mother, how fares your Grace?

Q. Eliz.

O, Dorset! speak not to me, get thee gone;

Death and destruction dog thee at the heels:

Thy mother’s name is ominous to children. 40

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, 44

And make me die the thrall of Margaret’s curse,

Nor mother, wife, nor England’s counted queen.

Stan.

Full of wise care is this your counsel, madam.

[To Dorset.] Take all the swift advantage of the hours; 48

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.

Duch.

O ill-dispersing wind of misery! 52

O! my accursed womb, the bed of death,

A cockatrice hast thou hatch’d to the world,

Whose unavoided eye is murderous!

Stan.

Come, madam, come; I in all haste was sent. 56

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. 60

Anointed let me be with deadly venom;

And die, ere men can say ‘God save the queen!’

Q. Eliz.

Go, go, poor soul, I envy not thy glory;

To feed my humour, wish thyself no harm. 64

Anne.

No! why? When he, that is my husband now

Came to me, as I follow’d Henry’s corse;

When scarce the blood was well wash’d from his hands,

Which issu’d from my other angel husband, 68

And that dead saint which then I weeping follow’d;

O! when I say, I look’d on Richard’s face,

This was my wish, ‘Be thou,’ quoth I, ‘accurs’d,

For making me so young, so old a widow! 72

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!’ 76

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 prov’d the subject of mine own soul’s curse:

Which hitherto hath held mine 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 awak’d.

Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick, 85

And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me.

Q. Eliz.

Poor heart, adieu! I pity thy complaining.

Anne.

No more than with my soul I mourn for yours. 88

Q. Eliz.

Farewell! thou woeful welcomer of glory!

Anne.

Adieu, poor soul, that tak’st thy leave of it!

Duch.

[To Dorset.] Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune guide thee!

[To Anne.] Go thou to Richard, and good angels tend thee! 92

[To Q. 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 wrack’d with a week of teen.

Q. Eliz.

Stay yet, look back with me unto the Tower. 97

Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes

Whom envy hath immur’d within your walls,

Rough cradle for such little pretty ones! 100

Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow

For tender princes, use my babies well.

So foolish sorrow bids your stones farewell.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Room of State in the Palace.

Sennet. Richard, in pomp, crowned: Buckingham, Catesby, a Page, and Others.

K. Rich.

Stand all apart. Cousin of Buckingham.

Buck.

My gracious sovereign!

K. Rich.

Give me thy hand. [He ascends the throne.] Thus high, by thy advice,

And thy assistance, is King Richard seated: 4

But shall we wear these glories for a day?

Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them?

Buck.

Still live they, and for ever let them last!

K. Rich.

Ah! Buckingham, now do I play the touch, 8

To try if thou be current gold indeed:

Young Edward lives: think now what I would speak.

Buck.

Say on, my loving lord.

K. Rich.

Why, Buckingham, I say, I would be king. 12

Buck.

Why, so you are, my thrice-renowned liege.

K. Rich.

Ha! am I king? ’Tis so: but Edward lives.

Buck.

True, noble prince.

K. Rich.

O bitter consequence,

That Edward still should live! ‘True, noble prince!’ 16

Cousin, thou wast not wont to be so dull:

Shall I be plain? I wish the bastards dead;

And I would have it suddenly perform’d.

What sayst thou now? speak suddenly, be brief. 20

Buck.

Your Grace may do your pleasure.

K. Rich.

Tut, tut! thou art all ice, thy kindness freezes:

Say, have I thy consent that they shall die?

Buck.

Give me some little breath, some pause, dear lord, 24

Before I positively speak in this:

I will resolve you herein presently.

[Exit.

Cate.

[Aside to another.] The king is angry: see, he gnaws his lip.

K. Rich.

[Descends from his throne.] I will converse with iron-witted fools 28

And unrespective boys: none are for me

That look into me with considerate eyes.

High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect.

Boy! 32

Page.

My lord!

K. Rich.

Know’st thou not any whom corrupting gold

Will tempt unto a close exploit of death?

Page.

I know a discontented gentleman, 36

Whose humble means match not his haughty spirit:

Gold were as good as twenty orators,

And will, no doubt, tempt him to anything.

K. Rich.

What is his name?

Page.

His name, my lord, is Tyrrell.

K. Rich.

I partly know the man: go, call him hither.

[Exit Page.

The deep-revolving witty Buckingham

No more shall be the neighbour to my counsel.

Hath he so long held out with me untir’d, 44

And stops he now for breath? well, be it so.

Enter Stanley.

How now, Lord Stanley! what’s the news?

Stan.

Know, my loving lord,

The Marquess Dorset, as I hear, is fled 48

To Richmond, in the parts where he abides.

K. Rich.

Come hither, Catesby: rumour it abroad,

That Anne my wife is very grievous sick;

I will take order for her keeping close. 52

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 56

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, 60

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: 64

Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.

Re-enter Page, with Tyrrell.

Is thy name Tyrrell?

Tyr.

James Tyrrell, and your most obedient subject.

K. Rich.

Art thou, indeed?

Tyr.

Prove me, my gracious lord. 68

K. Rich.

Dar’st thou resolve to kill a friend of mine?

Tyr.

Please you; but I had rather kill two enemies.

K. Rich.

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. 73

Tyrrell, I mean those bastards in the Tower.

Tyr.

Let me have open means to come to them,

And soon I’ll rid you from the fear of them. 76

K. Rich.

Thou sing’st sweet music. Hark, come hither, Tyrrell:

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. 80

Tyr.

I will dispatch it straight.

[Exit.

Re-enter Buckingham.

Buck.

My lord, I have consider’d in my mind

The late demand that you did sound me in.

K. Rich.

Well, let that rest. Dorset is fled to Richmond. 84

Buck.

I hear the news, my lord.

K. Rich.

Stanley, he is your wife’s son: well, look to it.

Buck.

My lord, I claim the gift, my due by promise,

For which your honour and your faith is pawn’d; 88

The earldom of Hereford and the moveables

Which you have promised I shall possess.

K. Rich.

Stanley, look to your wife: if she convey

Letters to Richmond, you shall answer it. 92

Buck.

What says your highness to my just request?

K. Rich.

I do remember me, Henry the Sixth

Did prophesy that Richmond should be king,

When Richmond was a little peevish boy. 96

A king! perhaps—

Buck.

My lord!

K. Rich.

How chance the prophet could not at that time

Have told me, I being by, that I should kill him? 100

Buck.

My lord, your promise for the earldom,—

K. Rich.

Richmond! When last I was at Exeter,

The mayor in courtesy show’d me the castle,

And call’d it Rougemont: at which name I started, 104

Because a bard of Ireland told me once

I should not live long after I saw Richmond.

Buck.

My lord!

K. Rich.

Ay, what’s o’clock? 108

Buck.

I am thus bold to put your Grace in mind

Of what you promis’d me.

K. Rich.

Well, but what is’t o’clock?

Buck.

Upon the stroke of ten.

K. Rich.

Well, let it strike.

Buck.

Why let it strike? 112

K. Rich.

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.

Buck.

Why, then resolve me whe’r you will, or no. 116

K. Rich.

Thou troublest me: I am not in the vein.

[Exeunt King Richard and Train.

Buck.

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 120

To Brecknock, while my fearful head is on.

[Exit.

Scene III.— The Same.

Enter Tyrrell.

Tyr.

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, whom I did suborn 4

To do this piece of ruthless butchery,

Albeit they were flesh’d villains, bloody dogs,

Melting with tenderness and mild compassion,

Wept like to children in their death’s sad story.

‘Oh! thus,’ quoth Dighton, ‘lay the gentle babes:’ 9

‘Thus, thus,’ quoth Forrest, ‘girdling one another

Within their alabaster innocent arms:

Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, 12

Which in their summer beauty kiss’d each other.

A book of prayers on their pillow lay;

Which once,’ quoth Forrest, ‘almost chang’d my mind;

But, O, the devil’—there the villain stopp’d; 16

When Dighton thus told on: ‘We smothered

The most replenished sweet work of nature,

That from the prime creation e’er she fram’d.’

Hence both are gone with conscience and remorse; 20

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!

K. Rich.

Kind Tyrrell, am I happy in thy news? 24

Tyr.

If to have done the thing you gave in charge

Beget your happiness, be happy then,

For it is done.

K. Rich.

But didst thou see them dead?

Tyr

I did, my lord.

K. Rich.

And buried, gentle Tyrrell?

Tyr.

The chaplain of the Tower hath buried them; 29

But how or in what place I do not know.

K. Rich.

Come to me, Tyrrell, soon at after-supper,

When thou shalt tell the process of their death. 32

Meantime, but think how I may do thee good,

And be inheritor of thy desire.

Farewell till then.

Tyr.

I humbly take my leave.

[Exit.

K. Rich.

The son of Clarence have I pent up close; 36

His daughter meanly have I match’d 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 Breton Richmond aims 40

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 Catesby.

Cate.

My lord! 44

K. Rich.

Good or bad news, that thou com’st in so bluntly?

Cate.

Bad news, my lord: Morton is fled to Richmond;

And Buckingham, back’d with the hardy Welshmen,

Is in the field, and still his power increaseth. 48

K. Rich.

Ely with Richmond troubles me more near

Than Buckingham and his rash-levied strength.

Come; I have learn’d that fearful commenting

Is leaden servitor to dull delay: 52

Delay leads impotent and snail-pac’d beggary:

Then fiery expedition be my wing,

Jove’s Mercury, and herald for a king!

Go, muster men: my counsel is my shield; 56

We must be brief when traitors brave the field.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. Before the Palace.

Enter Queen Margaret.

Q. Mar.

So, now prosperity begins to mellow

And drop into the rotten mouth of death.

Here in these confines slily have I lurk’d

To watch the waning of mine enemies. 4

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? 8

Enter Queen Elizabeth and the Duchess of York.

Q. Eliz.

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 fix’d in doom perpetual, 12

Hover about me with your airy wings,

And hear your mother’s lamentation.

Q. Mar.

Hover about her; say, that right for right

Hath dimm’d your infant morn to aged night. 16

Duch.

So many miseries have craz’d my voice,

That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute.

Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead?

Q. Mar.

Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet;

Edward for Edward pays a dying debt. 21

Q. Eliz.

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? 24

Q. Mar.

When holy Harry died, and my sweet son.

Duch.

Dead life, blind sight, poor mortal living ghost,

Woe’s scene, world’s shame, grave’s due by life usurp’d,

Brief abstract and record of tedious days, 28

Rest thy unrest on England’s lawful earth,

[Sitting down.

Unlawfully made drunk with innocent blood!

Q. Eliz.

Ah! that thou wouldst as soon afford a grave

As thou canst yield a melancholy seat; 32

Then would I hide my bones, not rest them here.

Ah! who hath any cause to mourn but I?

[Sitting down by her.

Q. Mar.

If ancient sorrow be most reverend,

Give mine the benefit of seniory, 36

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 kill’d him; 40

I had a Harry, till a Richard kill’d him:

Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard kill’d him;

Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard kill’d him.

Duch.

I had a Richard too, and thou didst kill him; 44

I had a Rutland too, thou holp’st to kill him.

Q. Mar.

Thou hadst a Clarence too, and Richard kill’d him.

From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept

A hellhound that doth hunt us all to death: 48

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, 52

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 56

Preys on the issue of his mother’s body,

And makes her pew-fellow with others’ moan.

Duch.

O! Harry’s wife, triumph not in my woes:

God witness with me, I have wept for thine. 60

Q. Mar.

Bear with me; I am hungry for revenge,

And now I cloy me with beholding it.

Thy Edward he is dead, that kill’d my Edward;

Thy other Edward dead, to quit my Edward; 64

Young York he is but boot, because both they

Match not the high perfection of my loss:

Thy Clarence he is dead that stabb’d my Edward;

And the beholders of this tragic play, 68

The adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey,

Untimely smother’d in their dusky graves.

Richard yet lives, hell’s black intelligencer,

Only reserv’d their factor, to buy souls 72

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 convey’d from hence. 76

Cancel his bond of life, dear God! I pray,

That I may live to say, The dog is dead.

Q. Eliz.

O! thou didst prophesy the time would come

That I should wish for thee to help me curse 80

That bottled spider, that foul bunchback’d toad.

Q. Mar.

I call’d thee then vain flourish of my fortune;

I call’d thee then poor shadow, painted queen;

The presentation of but what I was; 84

The flattering index of a direful pageant;

One heav’d a-high to be hurl’d down below;

A mother only mock’d with two fair babes;

A dream of what thou wert, a breath, a bubble,

A sign of dignity, a garish flag, 89

To be the aim of every dangerous shot;

A queen in jest, only to fill the scene.

Where is thy husband now? where be thy brothers? 92

Where are thy children? wherein dost thou joy?

Who sues and kneels and cries God save the queen?

Where be the bending peers that flatter’d thee?

Where be the thronging troops that follow’d thee? 96

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 su’d to, one that humbly sues; 100

For queen, a very caitiff crown’d with care;

For one that scorn’d at me, now scorn’d of me;

For one being fear’d of all, now fearing one;

For one commanding all, obey’d of none. 104

Thus hath the course of justice whirl’d about,

And left thee but a very prey to time;

Having no more but thought of what thou wert,

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? 110

Now thy proud neck bears half my burden’d yoke;

From which even here, I slip my wearied head,

And leave the burden of it all on thee. 113

Farewell, York’s wife, and queen of sad mischance:

These English woes shall make me smile in France.

Q. Eliz.

O thou, well skill’d in curses, stay awhile, 116

And teach me how to curse mine enemies.

Q. Mar.

Forbear to sleep the night, and fast the day;

Compare dead happiness with living woe;

Think that thy babes were fairer than they were,

And he that slew them fouler than he is: 121

Bettering thy loss makes the bad causer worse:

Revolving this will teach thee how to curse.

Q. Eliz.

My words are dull; O! quicken them with thine! 124

Q. Mar.

Thy woes will make them sharp, and pierce like mine.

[Exit.

Duch.

Why should calamity be full of words?

Q. Eliz.

Windy attorneys to their client woes,

Airy succeeders of intestate joys, 128

Poor breathing orators of miseries!

Let them have scope: though what they do impart

Help nothing else, yet do they ease the heart.

Duch.

If so, then be not tongue-tied: go with me, 132

And in the breath of bitter words let’s smother

My damned son, that thy two sweet sons smother’d.

[A trumpet heard.

The trumpet sounds: be copious in exclaims.

Enter King Richard, and his Train, marching.

K. Rich.

Who intercepts me in my expedition? 136

Duch.

O! she that might have intercepted thee,

By strangling thee in her accursed womb,

From all the slaughters, wretch, that thou hast done!

Q. Eliz.

Hid’st thou that forehead with a golden crown, 140

Where should be branded, if that right were right,

The slaughter of the prince that ow’d that crown,

And the dire death of my poor sons and brothers?

Tell me, thou villain slave, where are my children? 144

Duch.

Thou toad, thou toad, where is thy brother Clarence

And little Ned Plantagenet, his son?

Q. Eliz.

Where is the gentle Rivers, Vaughan, Grey?

Duch.

Where is kind Hastings? 148

K. Rich.

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, 152

Or with the clamorous report of war

Thus will I drown your exclamations.

Duch.

Art thou my son?

K. Rich.

Ay; I thank God, my father, and yourself. 156

Duch.

Then patiently hear my impatience.

K. Rich.

Madam, I have a touch of your condition,

That cannot brook the accent of reproof.

Duch.

O, let me speak!

K. Rich.

Do, then; but I’ll not hear. 160

Duch.

I will be mild and gentle in my words.

K. Rich.

And brief, good mother; for I am in haste.

Duch.

Art thou so hasty? I have stay’d for thee,

God knows, in torment and in agony. 164

K. Rich.

And came I not at last to comfort you?

Duch.

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; 168

Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy;

Thy school-days frightful, desperate, wild and furious;

Thy prime of manhood daring, bold, and venturous;

Thy age confirm’d, proud, subtle, sly, and bloody, 172

More mild, but yet more harmful, kind in hatred:

What comfortable hour canst thou name

That ever grac’d me in thy company?

K. Rich.

Faith, none, but Humphrey Hour, that call’d your Grace 176

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!

Duch.

I prithee, hear me speak. 180

K. Rich.

You speak too bitterly.

Duch.

Hear me a word;

For I shall never speak to thee again.

K. Rich.

So!

Duch.

Either thou wilt die by God’s just ordinance, 184

Ere from this war thou turn a conqueror;

Or I with grief and extreme age shall perish

And never look upon thy face again.

Therefore take with thee my most grievous curse,

Which, in the day of battle, tire thee more 189

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 193

And promise them success and victory.

Bloody thou art, bloody will be thy end;

Shame serves thy life and doth thy death attend.

[Exit.

Q. Eliz.

Though far more cause, yet much less spirit to curse 197

Abides in me: I say amen to her.

[Going.

K. Rich.

Stay, madam; I must talk a word with you.

Q. Eliz.

I have no moe sons of the royal blood 200

For thee to slaughter: for my daughters, Richard,

They shall be praying nuns, not weeping queens;

And therefore level not to hit their lives.

K. Rich.

You have a daughter call’d Elizabeth, 204

Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious.

Q. Eliz.

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; 208

Throw over her the veil of infamy:

So she may live unscarr’d of bleeding slaughter,

I will confess she was not Edward’s daughter.

K. Rich.

Wrong not her birth; she is of royal blood. 212

Q. Eliz.

To save her life, I’ll say she is not so.

K. Rich.

Her life is safest only in her birth.

Q. Eliz.

And only in that safety died her brothers.

K. Rich.

Lo! at their births good stars were opposite! 216

Q. Eliz.

No, to their lives ill friends were contrary.

K. Rich.

All unavoided is the doom of destiny.

Q. Eliz.

True, when avoided grace makes destiny.

My babes were destin’d to a fairer death, 220

If grace had bless’d thee with a fairer life.

K. Rich.

You speak as if that I had slain my cousins.

Q. Eliz.

Cousins, indeed; and by their uncle cozen’d

Of comfort, kingdom, kindred, freedom, life. 224

Whose hands soever lanc’d 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, 228

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 anchor’d in thine eyes;

And I, in such a desperate bay of death, 233

Like a poor bark, of sails and tackling reft,

Rush all to pieces on thy rocky bosom.

K. Rich.

Madam, so thrive I in my enterprise 236

And dangerous success of bloody wars,

As I intend more good to you and yours

Than ever you or yours by me were harm’d.

Q. Eliz.

What good is cover’d with the face of heaven, 240

To be discover’d, that can do me good?

K. Rich.

The advancement of your children, gentle lady.

Q. Eliz.

Up to some scaffold, there to lose their heads?

K. Rich.

No, to the dignity and height of fortune, 244

The high imperial type of this earth’s glory.

Q. Eliz.

Flatter my sorrow with report of it:

Tell me what state, what dignity, what honour,

Canst thou demise to any child of mine? 248

K. Rich.

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 252

Which thou supposest I have done to thee.

Q. Eliz.

Be brief, lest that the process of thy kindness

Last longer telling than thy kindness’ date.

K. Rich.

Then know, that from my soul I love thy daughter. 256

Q. Eliz.

My daughter’s mother thinks it with her soul.

K. Rich.

What do you think?

Q. Eliz.

That thou dost love my daughter from thy soul:

So from thy soul’s love didst thou love her brothers; 260

And from my heart’s love I do thank thee for it.

K. Rich.

Be not too hasty to confound my meaning:

I mean, that with my soul I love thy daughter,

And do intend to make her Queen of England.

Q. Eliz.

Well then, who dost thou mean shall be her king? 265

K. Rich.

Even he that makes her queen: who else should be?

Q. Eliz.

What! thou?

K. Rich.

Even so: what think you of it? 268

Q. Eliz.

How canst thou woo her?

K. Rich.

That I would learn of you,

As one being best acquainted with her humour.

Q. Eliz.

And wilt thou learn of me?

K. Rich.

Madam, with all my heart.

Q. Eliz.

Send to her, by the man that slew her brothers, 272

A pair of bleeding hearts; thereon engrave

Edward and York; then haply will she weep:

Therefore present to her, as sometime Margaret

Did to thy father, steep’d in Rutland’s blood, 276

A handkerchief, which, say to her, did drain

The purple sap from her sweet brother’s body,

And bid her wipe her weeping eyes withal.

If this inducement move her not to love, 280

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. 284

K. Rich.

You mock me, madam; this is not the way

To win your daughter.

Q. Eliz.

There is no other way

Unless thou couldst put on some other shape,

And not be Richard that hath done all this. 288

K. Rich.

Say, that I did all this for love of her?

Q. Eliz.

Nay, then indeed, she cannot choose but hate thee,

Having bought love with such a bloody spoil.

K. Rich.

Look, what is done cannot be now amended: 292

Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes,

Which after-hours give 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 kill’d the issue of your womb, 297

To quicken your increase, I will beget

Mine issue of your blood upon your daughter:

A grandam’s name is little less in love 300

Than is the doting 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 304

Endur’d 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, 308

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 312

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, 316

Familiarly shall call thy Dorset brother;

Again shall you be mother to a king,

And all the ruins of distressful times

Repair’d with double riches of content. 320

What! we have many goodly days to see:

The liquid drops of tears that you have shed

Shall come again, transform’d to orient pearl,

Advantaging their loan with interest 324

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; 328

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 332

The petty rebel, dull-brain’d 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, 336

And she shall be sole victress, Cæsar’s Cæsar.

Q. Eliz.

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, 341

That God, the law, my honour, and her love

Can make seem pleasing to her tender years?

K. Rich.

Infer fair England’s peace by this alliance. 344

Q. Eliz.

Which she shall purchase with still lasting war.

K. Rich.

Tell her, the king, that may command, entreats.

Q. Eliz.

That at her hands which the king’s King forbids.

K. Rich.

Say, she shall be a high and mighty queen. 348

Q. Eliz.

To wail the title, as her mother doth.

K. Rich.

Say, I will love her everlastingly.

Q. Eliz.

But how long shall that title ‘ever’ last?

K. Rich.

Sweetly in force unto her fair life’s end. 352

Q. Eliz.

But how long fairly shall her sweet life last?

K. Rich.

As long as heaven and nature lengthens it.

Q. Eliz.

As long as hell and Richard likes of it.

K. Rich.

Say, I, her sovereign, am her subject low. 356

Q. Eliz.

But she, your subject, loathes such sovereignty.

K. Rich.

Be eloquent in my behalf to her.

Q. Eliz.

An honest tale speeds best being plainly told.

K. Rich.

Then plainly to her tell my loving tale. 360

Q. Eliz.

Plain and not honest is too harsh a style.

K. Rich.

Your reasons are too shallow and too quick.

Q. Eliz.

O, no! my reasons are too deep and dead;

Too deep and dead, poor infants, in their graves.

K. Rich.

Harp not on that string, madam; that is past. 365

Q. Eliz.

Harp on it still shall I till heart-strings break.

K. Rich.

Now, by my George, my garter, and my crown,—

Q. Eliz.

Profan’d, dishonour’d, and the third usurp’d. 368

K. Rich.

I swear,—

Q. Eliz.

By nothing; for this is no oath.

Thy George, profan’d, hath lost his holy honour;

Thy garter, blemish’d, pawn’d his knightly virtue; 371

Thy crown, usurp’d, disgrac’d his kingly glory.

If something thou wouldst swear to be believ’d,

Swear, then, by something that thou hast not wrong’d. 374

K. Rich.

Now, by the world,—

Q. Eliz.

’Tis full of thy foul wrongs.

K. Rich.

My father’s death,—

Q. Eliz.

Thy life hath that dishonour’d.

K. Rich.

Then, by myself,—

Q. Eliz.

Thyself is self-misus’d.

K. Rich.

Why, then, by God,—

Q. Eliz.

God’s wrong is most of all.

If thou hadst fear’d to break an oath by him,

The unity the king my husband made 380

Had not been broken, nor my brothers died:

If thou hadst fear’d to break an oath by him,

The imperial metal, circling now thy head,

Had grac’d the tender temples of my child, 384

And both the princes had been breathing here,

Which now, too tender bed-fellows for dust,

Thy broken faith hath made a prey for worms.

What canst thou swear by now?

K. Rich.

The time to come. 388

Q. Eliz.

That thou hast wronged in the time o’erpast;

For I myself have many tears to wash

Hereafter time for time past wrong’d by thee.

The children live, whose parents thou hast slaughter’d, 392

Ungovern’d youth, to wail it in their age:

The parents live, whose children thou hast butcher’d,

Old barren plants, to wail it with their age.

Swear not by time to come; for that thou hast

Misus’d ere us’d, by times ill-us’d o’erpast. 397

K. Rich.

As I intend to prosper, and repent,

So thrive I in my dangerous affairs

Of hostile arms! myself myself confound! 400

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, 404

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, 408

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. 412

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: 416

Urge the necessity and state of times,

And be not peevish-fond in great designs.

Q. Eliz.

Shall I be tempted of the devil thus?

K. Rich.

Ay, if the devil tempt thee to do good. 420

Q. Eliz.

Shall I forget myself to be myself?

K. Rich.

Ay, if your self’s remembrance wrong yourself.

Q. Eliz.

Yet thou didst kill my children.

K. Rich.

But in your daughter’s womb I bury them: 424

Where, in that nest of spicery, they shall breed

Selves of themselves, to your recomforture.

Q. Eliz.

Shall I go win my daughter to thy will?

K. Rich.

And be a happy mother by the deed.

Q. Eliz.

I go. Write to me very shortly, 429

And you shall understand from me her mind.

K. Rich.

Bear her my true love’s kiss; and so farewell.

[Kissing her. Exit Queen Elizabeth.

Relenting fool, and shallow changing woman!

Enter Ratcliff; Catesby following.

How now! what news? 433

Rat.

Most mighty sovereign, on the western coast

Rideth a puissant navy; to the shores

Throng many doubtful hollow-hearted friends,

Unarm’d, and unresolv’d to beat them back. 437

’Tis thought that Richmond is their admiral;

And there they hull, expecting but the aid

Of Buckingham to welcome them ashore. 440

K. Rich.

Some light-foot friend post to the Duke of Norfolk:

Ratcliff, thyself, or Catesby; where is he?

Cate.

Here, my good lord.

K. Rich.

Catesby, fly to the duke.

Cate.

I will, my lord, with all convenient haste. 444

K. Rich.

Ratcliff, 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?

Cate.

First, mighty liege, tell me your highness’ pleasure, 448

What from your Grace I shall deliver to him.

K. Rich.

O! true, good Catesby: bid him levy straight

The greatest strength and power he can make,

And meet me suddenly at Salisbury. 452

Cate.

I go.

[Exit.

Rat.

What, may it please you, shall I do at Salisbury?

K. Rich.

Why, what wouldst thou do there before I go?

Rat.

Your highness told me I should post before. 456

Enter Stanley.

K. Rich.

My mind is chang’d. Stanley, what news with you?

Stan.

None good, my liege, to please you with the hearing;

Nor none so bad but well may be reported.

K. Rich.

Hoyday, a riddle! neither good nor bad! 460

What need’st thou run so many miles about,

When thou mayst tell thy tale the nearest way?

Once more, what news?

Stan.

Richmond is on the seas.

K. Rich.

There let him sink, and be the seas on him! 464

White-liver’d runagate! what doth he there?

Stan.

I know not, mighty sovereign, but by guess.

K. Rich.

Well, as you guess?

Stan.

Stirr’d up by Dorset, Buckingham, and Morton, 468

He makes for England, here to claim the crown.

K. Rich.

Is the chair empty? is the sword unsway’d?

Is the king dead? the empire unpossess’d?

What heir of York is there alive but we? 472

And who is England’s king but great York’s heir?

Then, tell me, what makes he upon the seas?

Stan.

Unless for that, my liege, I cannot guess.

K. Rich.

Unless for that he comes to be your liege, 476

You cannot guess wherefore the Welshman comes.

Thou wilt revolt and fly to him I fear.

Stan.

No, my good lord; therefore mistrust me not.

K. Rich.

Where is thy power then to beat him back? 480

Where be thy tenants and thy followers?

Are they not now upon the western shore,

Safe-conducting the rebels from their ships?

Stan.

No, my good lord, my friends are in the north. 484

K. Rich.

Cold friends to me: what do they in the north

When they should serve their sovereign in the west?

Stan.

They have not been commanded, mighty king:

Pleaseth your majesty to give me leave, 488

I’ll muster up my friends, and meet your Grace,

Where and what time your majesty shall please.

K. Rich.

Ay, ay, thou wouldst be gone to join with Richmond:

But I’ll not trust thee.

Stan.

Most mighty sovereign, 492

You have no cause to hold my friendship doubtful.

I never was nor never will be false.

K. Rich.

Go then and muster men: but leave behind

Your son, George Stanley: look your heart be firm, 496

Or else his head’s assurance is but frail.

Stan.

So deal with him as I prove true to you.

[Exit.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

My gracious sovereign, now in Devonshire,

As I by friends am well advertised, 500

Sir Edward Courtney, and the haughty prelate,

Bishop of Exeter, his brother there,

With many moe confederates are in arms.

Enter a second Messenger.

Sec. Mess.

In Kent, my liege, the Guildfords are in arms; 504

And every hour more competitors

Flock to the rebels, and their power grows strong.

Enter a third Messenger.

Third Mess.

My lord, the army of great Buckingham—

K. Rich.

Out on ye, owls! nothing but songs of death?

[He strikes him.

There, take thou that, till thou bring better news.

Third Mess.

The news I have to tell your majesty

Is, that by sudden floods and fall of waters,

Buckingham’s army is dispers’d and scatter’d;

And he himself wander’d away alone, 513

No man knows whither.

K. Rich.

I cry thee mercy:

There is my purse, to cure that blow of thine.

Hath any well-advised friend proclaim’d 516

Reward to him that brings the traitor in?

Third Mess.

Such proclamation hath been made, my liege.

Enter a fourth Messenger.

Fourth Mess.

Sir Thomas Lovel, and Lord Marquess Dorset,

’Tis said, my liege, in Yorkshire are in arms: 520

But this good comfort bring I to your highness,

The Breton navy is dispers’d by tempest.

Richmond, in Dorsetshire, sent out a boat

Unto the shore to ask those on the banks 524

If they were his assistants, yea or no;

Who answer’d him, they came from Buckingham

Upon his party: he, mistrusting them,

Hois’d sail, and made away for Brittany. 528

K. Rich.

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.

Cate.

My liege, the Duke of Buckingham is taken, 532

That is the best news: that the Earl of Richmond

Is with a mighty power landed at Milford

Is colder news, but yet they must be told.

K. Rich.

Away towards Salisbury! while we reason here, 536

A royal battle might be won and lost.

Some one take order Buckingham be brought

To Salisbury; the rest march on with me.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— The Same. A Room in Lord Stanley’s House.

Enter Stanley and Sir Christopher Urswick.

Stan.

Sir Christopher, tell Richmond this from me:

That in the sty of this most bloody boar

My son George Stanley is frank’d up in hold:

If I revolt, off goes young George’s head; 4

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. 8

But, tell me, where is princely Richmond now?

Chris.

At Pembroke, or at Ha’rford-west, in Wales.

Stan.

What men of name resort to him?

Chris.

Sir Walter Herbert, a renowned soldier, 12

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: 16

And towards London do they bend their power,

If by the way they be not fought withal.

Stan.

Well, hie thee to thy lord; I kiss his hand:

My letter will resolve him of my mind. 20

Farewell.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Salisbury. An open Place.

Enter the Sheriff and Guard, with Buckingham, led to execution.

Buck.

Will not King Richard let me speak with him?

Sher.

No, my good lord; therefore be patient.

Buck.

Hastings, and Edward’s children, Grey and Rivers,

Holy King Henry, and thy fair son Edward, 4

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! 9

This is All-Souls’ day, fellows, is it not?

Sher.

It is, my lord.

Buck.

Why, then All-Souls’ day is my body’s doomsday. 12

This is the day that, in King Edward’s time,

I wish’d might fall on me, when I was found

False to his children or his wife’s allies;

This is the day wherein I wish’d to fall 16

By the false faith of him whom most I trusted;

This, this All-Souls’ day to my fearful soul

Is the determin’d respite of my wrongs.

That high All-Seer which I dallied with 20

Hath turn’d my feigned prayer on my head,

And given in earnest what I begg’d in jest.

Thus doth he force the swords of wicked men

To turn their own points on their masters’ bosoms: 24

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.

Scene II.— A Plain near Tamworth.

Enter with drum and colours, Richmond, Oxford, Sir James Blunt, Sir Walter Herbert, and Others, with Forces, marching.

Richm.

Fellows in arms, and my most loving friends,

Bruis’d underneath the yoke of tyranny,

Thus far into the bowels of the land

Have we march’d on without impediment: 4

And here receive we from our father Stanley

Lines of fair comfort and encouragement.

The wretched, bloody, and usurping boar,

That spoil’d your summer fields and fruitful vines, 8

Swills your warm blood like wash, and makes his trough

In your embowell’d bosoms, this foul swine

Is now even in the centre of this isle,

Near to the town of Leicester, as we learn: 12

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. 16

Oxf.

Every man’s conscience is a thousand men,

To fight against this guilty homicide.

Herb.

I doubt not but his friends will turn to us.

Blunt.

He hath no friends but what are friends for fear, 20

Which in his dearest need will fly from him.

Richm.

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.

Scene III.— Bosworth Field.

Enter King Richard and Forces; the Duke of Norfolk, Earl of Surrey, and Others.

K. Rich.

Here pitch our tent, even here in Bosworth field.

My Lord of Surrey, why look you so sad?

Sur.

My heart is ten times lighter than my looks.

K. Rich.

My Lord of Norfolk,—

Nor.

Here, most gracious liege. 4

K. Rich.

Norfolk, we must have knocks; ha! must we not?

Nor.

We must both give and take, my loving lord.

K. Rich.

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. 8

Who hath descried the number of the traitors?

Nor.

Six or seven thousand is their utmost power.

K. Rich.

Why, our battalia trebles that account;

Besides, the king’s name is a tower of strength,

Which they upon the adverse faction want. 13

Up with the tent! Come, noble gentlemen,

Let us survey the vantage of the ground;

Call for some men of sound direction: 16

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 Officers. Some of the Soldiers pitch Richmond’s tent.

Richm.

The weary sun hath made a golden set,

And, by the bright track of his fiery car, 20

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, 24

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. 28

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. 32

Yet one thing more, good captain, do for me;

Where is Lord Stanley quarter’d, do you know?

Blunt.

Unless I have mista’en his colours much,—

Which, well I am assur’d, I have not done,— 36

His regiment lies half a mile at least

South from the mighty power of the king.

Richm.

If without peril it be possible,

Good Captain Blunt, bear my good-night to him, 40

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!

Richm.

Good-night, good Captain Blunt. Come, gentlemen, 44

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, Ratcliff, and Catesby.

K. Rich.

What is ’t o’clock?

Cate.

It’s supper-time, my lord;

It’s nine o’clock.

K. Rich.

I will not sup to-night. 48

Give me some ink and paper.

What, is my beaver easier than it was,

And all my armour laid into my tent?

Cate.

It is, my liege; and all things are in readiness. 52

K. Rich.

Good Norfolk, hie thee to thy charge;

Use careful watch; choose trusty sentinels.

Nor.

I go, my lord.

K. Rich.

Stir with the lark to-morrow, gentle Norfolk. 56

Nor.

I warrant you, my lord.

[Exit.

K. Rich.

Ratcliff!

Rat.

My lord?

K. Rich.

Send out a pursuivant at arms

To Stanley’s regiment; bid him bring his power

Before sun-rising, lest his son George fall 61

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. 64

Look that my staves be sound, and not too heavy.

Ratcliff!

Rat.

My lord!

K. Rich.

Saw’st thou the melancholy Lord Northumberland? 68

Rat.

Thomas the Earl of Surrey, and himself,

Much about cock-shut time, from troop to troop

Went through the army, cheering up the soldiers.

K. Rich.

So, I am satisfied. Give me a bowl of wine: 72

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?

Rat.

It is, my lord. 76

K. Rich.

Bid my guard watch; leave me.

Ratcliff, 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 Ratcliff and Catesby.

Richmond’s tent opens, and discovers him and his Officers, &c.

Enter Stanley.

Stan.

Fortune and victory sit on thy helm!

Richm.

All comfort that the dark night can afford 81

Be to thy person, noble father-in-law!

Tell me, how fares our loving mother?

Stan.

I, by attorney, bless thee from thy mother, 84

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, 88

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,— 92

With best advantage will deceive the time,

And aid thee in this doubtful shock of arms:

But on thy side I may not be too forward,

Lest, being seen, thy brother, tender George, 96

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, 100

Which so long sunder’d friends should dwell upon:

God give us leisure for these rites of love!

Once more, adieu: be valiant, and speed well!

Richm.

Good lords, conduct him to his regiment. 104

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 all but Richmond.

O! thou, whose captain I account myself, 109

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 112

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, 116

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 stab’dst me in my prime of youth 120

At Tewksbury: despair, therefore, and die!

Be cheerful, Richmond; for the wronged souls

Of butcher’d princes fight in thy behalf:

King Henry’s issue, Richmond, comforts thee.

The Ghost of King Henry the Sixth rises.

Ghost.

[To King Richard.] When I was mortal, my anointed body 125

By thee was punched full of deadly holes:

Think on the Tower and me; despair and die!

Henry the Sixth bids thee despair and die. 128

[To Richmond.] Virtuous and holy, be thou conqueror!

Harry, that prophesied thou shouldst be the king,

Doth comfort thee in thy sleep: live thou and flourish!

The Ghost of Clarence rises.

Ghost.

[To King Richard.] Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow! 132

I, that was wash’d to death with fulsome wine,

Poor Clarence, by thy guile betray’d 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, 137

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 on thy soul to-morrow! 140

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 pointless lance: despair, and die!—

All Three.

[To Richmond.] Awake! and think our wrongs in Richard’s bosom 145

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! 148

Think on Lord Hastings, so 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 smother’d in the Tower: 152

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; 156

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 Lady Anne rises.

Ghost.

[To King Richard.] Richard, thy wife, that wretched Anne thy wife, 160

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; 165

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 help’d thee to the crown; 168

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: 174

But cheer thy heart, and be thou not dismay’d:

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.

K. Rich.

Give me another horse! bind up my wounds! 178

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. 184

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? 189

O! no: alas! I rather hate myself

For hateful deeds committed by myself.

I am a villain. Yet I lie; I am not. 192

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. 196

Perjury, perjury, in the high’st degree:

Murder, stern murder, in the dir’st degree;

All several sins, all us’d 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:

Nay, wherefore should they, since that I myself

Find in myself no pity to myself? 204

Methought the souls of all that I had murder’d

Came to my tent; and every one did threat

To-morrow’s vengeance on the head of Richard.

Enter Ratcliff.

Rat.

My lord! 208

K. Rich.

’Zounds! who’s there?

Rat.

Ratcliff, my lord; ’tis I. The early village cock

Hath twice done salutation to the morn;

Your friends are up, and buckle on their armour. 212

K. Rich.

O Ratcliff! I have dream’d a fearful dream.

What thinkest thou, will our friends prove all true?

Rat.

No doubt, my lord.

K. Rich.

O Ratcliff! I fear, I fear,—

Rat.

Nay, good my lord, be not afraid of shadows. 216

K. Rich.

By the apostle Paul, shadows to-night

Have struck 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; 221

Under our tents I’ll play the eaves-dropper,

To hear if any mean to shrink from me.

[Exeunt.

Richmond wakes. Enter Oxford and Others.

Lords.

Good morrow, Richmond! 224

Richm.

Cry mercy, lords, and watchful gentlemen,

That you have ta’en a tardy sluggard here.

Lords.

How have you slept, my lord?

Richm.

The sweetest sleep, the fairest-boding dreams 228

That ever enter’d in a drowsy head,

Have I since your departure had, my lords.

Methought their souls, whose bodies Richard murder’d,

Came to my tent and cried on victory: 232

I promise you, my heart is very jocund

In the remembrance of so fair a dream.

How far into the morning is it, lords?

Lords.

Upon the stroke of four. 236

Richm.

Why, then ’tis time to arm and give direction.

His oration to his Soldiers.

More than I have said, loving countrymen,

The leisure and enforcement of the time

Forbids to dwell on: yet remember this, 240

God and our good cause fight upon our side;

The prayers of holy saints and wronged souls,

Like high-rear’d bulwarks, stand before our faces;

Richard except, those whom we fight against 244

Had rather have us win than him they follow.

For what is he they follow? truly, gentlemen,

A bloody tyrant and a homicide;

One rais’d in blood, and one in blood establish’d;

One that made means to come by what he hath, 249

And slaughter’d 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; 252

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, 256

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, 260

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. 265

For me, the ransom of my bold attempt

Shall be this cold corse on the earth’s cold face;

But if I thrive, the gain of my attempt 268

The least of your shall share his part thereof.

Sound drums and trumpets, boldly and cheerfully;

God and Saint George! Richmond and victory!

[Exeunt.

Re-enter King Richard, Ratcliff, Attendants, and Forces.

K. Rich.

What said Northumberland as touching Richmond? 272

Rat.

That he was never trained up in arms.

K. Rich.

He said the truth: and what said Surrey then?

Rat.

He smil’d, and said, ‘The better for our purpose.’

K. Rich.

He was i’ the right; and so, indeed, it is.

[Clock strikes.

Tell the clock there. Give me a calendar. 277

Who saw the sun to-day?

Rat.

Not I, my lord.

K. Rich.

Then he disdains to shine; for by the book

He should have brav’d the east an hour ago: 280

A black day will it be to somebody.

Ratcliff!

Rat.

My lord?

K. Rich.

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 self-same heaven

That frowns on me looks sadly upon him. 288

Enter Norfolk.

Nor.

Arm, arm, my lord! the foe vaunts in the field.

K. Rich.

Come, bustle, bustle; caparison my horse.

Call up Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power:

I will lead forth my soldiers to the plain, 292

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: 296

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 300

Shall be well winged with our chiefest horse.

This, and Saint George to boot! What think’st thou, Norfolk?

Nor.

A good direction, war-like sovereign.

This found I on my tent this morning. 304

[Giving a scroll.

K. Rich.

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 to his charge: 308

Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls;

Conscience is but a word that cowards use,

Devis’d at first to keep the strong in awe:

Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law. 312

March on, join bravely, let us to ’t pell-mell;

If not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell.

His oration to his Army.

What shall I say more than I have inferr’d?

Remember whom you are to cope withal: 316

A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and run-aways,

A scum of Bretons and base lackey peasants,

Whom their o’er-cloyed country vomits forth

To desperate adventures and assur’d destruction.

You sleeping safe, they bring you to unrest; 321

You having lands, and bless’d with beauteous wives,

They would restrain the one, distain the other.

And who doth lead them but a paltry fellow, 324

Long kept in Britaine at our mother’s cost?

A milksop, one that never in his life

Felt so much cold as over shoes in snow?

Let’s whip these stragglers o’er the sea again;

Lash hence these overweening rags of France,

These famish’d beggars, weary of their lives;

Who, but for dreaming on this fond exploit,

For want of means, poor rats, had hang’d themselves: 332

If we be conquer’d, let men conquer us,

And not these bastard Bretons; whom our fathers

Have in their own land beaten, bobb’d, and thump’d,

And, on record, left them the heirs of shame. 336

Shall these enjoy our lands? lie with our wives?

Ravish our daughters?

[Drum afar off.

Hark! I hear their drum.

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?

Mess.

My lord, he doth deny to come. 344

K. Rich.

Off with his son George’s head!

Nor.

My lord, the enemy is pass’d the marsh:

After the battle let George Stanley die.

K. Rich.

A thousand hearts are great within my bosom: 348

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 upon our helms. 352

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Another Part of the Field.

Alarum: Excursions. Enter Norfolk and Forces; to him Catesby.

Cate.

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, 4

Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death.

Rescue, fair lord, or else the day is lost!

Alarum. Enter King Richard.

K. Rich.

A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!

Cate.

Withdraw, my lord; I’ll help you to a horse. 8

K. Rich.

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.— 12

A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!

[Exeunt.

Alarums. Enter from opposite sides King Richard and Richmond, and exeunt fighting. Retreat and flourish. Then re-enter Richmond, Stanley, bearing the crown, with divers other Lords, and Forces.

Richm.

God and your arms be prais’d, victorious friends;

The day is ours, the bloody dog is dead.

Stan.

Courageous Richmond, well hast thou acquit thee! 16

Lo! here, this long-usurped royalty

From the dead temples of this bloody wretch

Have I pluck’d off, to grace thy brows withal:

Wear it, enjoy it, and make much of it. 20

Richm.

Great God of heaven, say amen to all!

But, tell me, is young George Stanley living?

Stan.

He is, my lord, and safe in Leicester town;

Whither, if you please, we may withdraw us. 24

Richm.

What men of name are slain on either side?

Stan.

John Duke of Norfolk, Walter Lord Ferrers,

Sir Robert Brakenbury, and Sir William Brandon.

Richm.

Inter their bodies as becomes their births: 28

Proclaim a pardon to the soldiers fied

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: 32

Smile, heaven, upon this fair conjunction,

That long hath frown’d upon their enmity!

What traitor hears me, and says not amen?

England hath long been mad, and scarr’d herself; 36

The brother blindly shed the brother’s blood,

The father rashly slaughter’d his own son,

The son, compell’d, been butcher to the sire:

All this divided York and Lancaster, 40

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; 44

And let their heirs—God, if thy will be so,—

Enrich the time to come with smooth-fac’d peace,

With smiling plenty, and fair prosperous days!

Abate the edge of traitors, gracious Lord, 48

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! 52

Now civil wounds are stopp’d, peace lives again:

That she may long live here, God say amen!

[Exeunt.

THE FAMOUS HISTORY OF THE LIFE OF KING HENRY THE EIGHTH

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

King Henry the Eighth.
Cardinal Wolsey.
Cardinal Campeius.
Capucius,	Ambassador from the Emperor Charles the Fifth.
Cranmer,	Archbishop of Canterbury.
Duke of Norfolk.
Duke of Suffolk.
Duke of Buckingham.
Earl of Surrey.
Lord Chancellor.
Lord Chamberlain.
Gardiner,	Bishop of Winchester.
Bishop of Lincoln.
Lord Abergavenny.
Lord Sands.
Sir Thomas Lovell.
Sir Henry Guildford.
Sir Anthony Denny.
Sir Nicholas Vaux.
Secretaries to Wolsey.
Cromwell,	Servant to Wolsey.
Griffith,	Gentleman-Usher to Queen Katharine.
Three Gentlemen.
Garter King-at-Arms.
Doctor Butts,	Physician to the King.
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 Katharine,	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 Katharine.
Several Lords and Ladies in the Dumb Shows; Women attending upon the Queen; Spirits which appear to her; Scribes, Officers, Guards, and other Attendants.

Scene.—Chiefly in London and Westminster; once, at Kimbolton.

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, 4

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, 8

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 12

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 molley coat guarded with yellow, 16

Will be deceiv’d; for, gentle hearers, know,

To rank our chosen truth with such a show

As fool and fight is, besides forfeiting

Our own brains, and the opinion that we bring,

To make that only true we now intend, 21

Will leave us never an understanding friend.

Therefore, for goodness’ sake, and as you are known

The first and happiest hearers of the town, 24

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 follow’d with the general throng and sweat 28

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. 32

ACT I.

Scene I.— London. An Antechamber in the Palace.

Enter at one door the Duke of Norfolk; at the other, the Duke of Buckingham and the Lord Abergavenny.

Buck

Good morrow, and well met. How have you done,

Since last we saw in France?

Nor.

I thank your Grace,

Healthful; and ever since a fresh admirer

Of what I saw there.

Buck.

An untimely ague 4

Stay’d me a prisoner in my chamber, when

Those suns of glory, those two lights of men,

Met in the vale of Andren.

Nor.

’Twixt Guynes and Arde:

I was then present, saw them salute on horseback; 8

Beheld them, when they lighted, how they clung

In their embracement, as they grew together;

Which had they, what four thron’d ones could have weigh’d

Such a compounded one?

Buck.

All the whole time 12

I was my chamber’s prisoner.

Nor.

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 16

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 21

Show’d like a mine. Their dwarfish pages were

As cherubins, all gilt: the madams, too,

Not us’d to toil, did almost sweat to bear 24

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, 28

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— 33

For so they phrase ’em—by their heralds challeng’d

The noble spirits to arms, they did perform

Beyond thought’s compass; that former fabulous story, 36

Being now seen possible enough, got credit,

That Bevis was believ’d.

Buck.

O! you go far.

Nor.

As I belong to worship, and affect

In honour honesty, the tract of every thing 40

Would by a good discourser lose some life,

Which action’s self was tongue to. All was royal;

To the disposing of it nought rebell’d,

Order gave each thing view; the office did 44

Distinctly his full function.

Buck.

Who did guide,

I mean, who set the body and the limbs

Of this great sport together, as you guess?

Nor.

One certes, that promises no element 48

In such a business.

Buck.

I pray you, who, my lord?

Nor.

All this was order’d by the good discretion

Of the right reverend Cardinal of York.

Buck.

The devil speed him! no man’s pie is freed 52

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’ the beneficial sun, 56

And keep it from the earth.

Nor.

Surely, sir,

There’s in him stuff that puts him to these ends;

For, being not propp’d by ancestry, whose grace

Chalks successors their way, nor call’d upon 60

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; 64

A gift that heaven gives for him, which buys

A place next to the king.

Aber.

I cannot tell

What heaven hath given him: let some graver eye

Pierce into that; but I can see his pride 68

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.

Buck.

Why the devil, 72

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 76

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.

Aber.

I do know 80

Kinsmen of mine, three at the least, that have

By this so sicken’d their estates, that never

They shall abound as formerly.

Buck.

O! many

Have broke their backs with laying manors on ’em 84

For this great journey. What did this vanity

But minister communication of

A most poor issue?

Nor.

Grievingly I think,

The peace between the French and us not values 88

The cost that did conclude it.

Buck.

Every man,

After the hideous storm that follow’d, was

A thing inspir’d; and, not consulting, broke

Into a general prophecy: That this tempest, 92

Dashing the garment of this peace, aboded

The sudden breach on’t.

Nor.

Which is budded out;

For France hath flaw’d the league, and hath attach’d

Our merchants’ goods at Bourdeaux.

Aber.

Is it therefore 96

The ambassador is silenc’d?

Nor.

Marry, is’t.

Aber.

A proper title of a peace; and purchas’d

At a superfluous rate!

Buck.

Why, all this business

Our reverend cardinal carried.

Nor.

Like it your Grace, 100

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 104

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 109

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, 112

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.

Wol.

The Duke of Buckingham’s surveyor, ha?

Where’s his examination?

First Secr.

Here, so please you. 116

Wol.

Is he in person ready?

First Secr.

Ay, please your Grace.

Wol.

Well, we shall then know more; and Buckingham

Shall lessen this big look.

[Exeunt. Wolsey, and Train.

Buck.

This butcher’s cur is venom-mouth’d, and I 120

Have not the power to muzzle him; therefore best

Not wake him in his slumber. A beggar’s book

Outworths a noble’s blood.

Nor.

What! are you chaf’d?

Ask God for temperance; that’s the appliance only 124

Which your disease requires.

Buck.

I read in’s looks

Matter against me; and his eye revil’d

Me, as his abject object: at this instant

He bores me with some trick: he’s gone to the king; 128

I’ll follow, and out-stare him.

Nor.

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 132

A full-hot horse, who being allow’d 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.

Buck.

I’ll to the king; 136

And from a mouth of honour quite cry down

This Ipswich fellow’s insolence, or proclaim

There’s difference in no persons.

Nor.

Be advis’d;

Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot 140

That it do singe yourself. We may outrun

By violent swiftness that which we run at,

And lose by overrunning. Know you not,

The fire that mounts the liquor till it run o’er,

In seeming to augment it wastes it? Be advis’d:

I say again, there is no English soul

More stronger to direct you than yourself,

If with the sap of reason you would quench, 148

Or but allay, the fire of passion.

Buck.

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 152

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.

Nor.

Say not, ‘treasonous.’ 156

Buck.

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 160

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, 165

That swallow’d so much treasure, and like a glass

Did break i’ the rinsing.

Nor.

Faith, and so it did.

Buck.

Praygive me favour, sir. This cunning cardinal 168

The articles o’ the combination drew

As himself pleas’d; 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 172

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,— 177

For ’twas indeed his colour, but he came

To whisper Wolsey,—here makes visitation:

His fears were, that the interview betwixt 180

England and France might, through their amity,

Breed him some prejudice; for from this league

Peep’d harms that menac’d him. He privily

Deals with our cardinal, and, as I trow, 184

Which I do well; for, I am sure the emperor

Paid ere he promis’d; whereby his suit was granted

Ere it was ask’d; but when the way was made,

And pav’d with gold, the emperor thus desir’d:

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, 192

And for his own advantage.

Nor.

I am sorry

To hear this of him; and could wish he were

Something mistaken in ’t.

Buck.

No, not a syllable:

I do pronounce him in that very shape 196

He shall appear in proof.

Enter Brandon; a Sergeant-at-Arms before him.

Bran.

Your office, sergeant; execute it.

Serg.

Sir,

My Lord the Duke of Buckingham, and Earl

Of Hereford, Stafford, and Northampton, I 200

Arrest thee of high treason, in the name

Of our most sovereign king.

Buck.

Lo you, my lord,

The net has fall’n upon me! I shall perish

Under device and practice.

Bran.

I am sorry 204

To see you ta’en from liberty, to look on

The business present. ’Tis his highness’ pleasure

You shall to the Tower.

Buck.

It will help me nothing

To plead mine innocence, for that dye is on me

Which makes my whit’st part black. The will of heaven 209

Be done in this and all things! I obey.

O! my Lord Abergavenny, fare you well!

Bran.

Nay, he must bear you company. [To Abergavenny.] The king 212

Is pleas’d you shall to the Tower, till you know

How he determines further.

Aber.

As the duke said,

The will of heaven be done, and the king’s pleasure

By me obey’d!

Bran.

Here is a warrant from 216

The king to attach Lord Montacute; and the bodies

Of the duke’s confessor, John de la Car,

One Gilbert Peck, his chancellor,—

Buck.

So, so;

These are the limbs o’ the plot: no more, I hope.

Bran.

A monk o’ the Chartreux.

Buck.

O! Nicholas Hopkins?

Bran.

He.

Buck.

My surveyor is false; the o’er-great cardinal

Hath show’d him gold. My life is spann’d already:

I am the shadow of poor Buckingham, 224

Whose figure even this instant cloud puts on,

By dark’ning my clear sun. My lord, farewell.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Council Chamber.

Enter the King, leaning on the Cardinal’s shoulder, the Lords of the Council, Sir Thomas Lovell, Officers, and Attendants. The Cardinal places himself under the King’s feet on the right side.

K. Hen.

My life itself, and the best heart of it,

Thanks you for this great care: I stood i’ the level

Of a full-charg’d confederacy, and give thanks

To you that chok’d it. Let be call’d before us 4

That gentleman of Buckingham’s; in person

I’ll hear him his confessions justify;

And point by point the treasons of his master

He shall again relate. 8

A noise within, crying, ‘Room for the Queen!’ Enter Queen Katharine, ushered by the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk: she kneels. The King riseth from his state, takes her up, kisses, and placeth her by him.

Q. Kath.

Nay, we must longer kneel: I am a suitor.

K. Hen.

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; 12

Repeat your will, and take it.

Q. Kath.

Thank your majesty.

That you would love yourself, and in that love

Not unconsider’d leave your honour, nor

The dignity of your office, is the point 16

Of my petition.

K. Hen.

Lady mine, proceed.

Q. Kath.

I am solicited, not by a few,

And those of true condition, that your subjects

Are in great grievance: there have been commissions 20

Sent down among ’em, which hath flaw’d the heart

Of all their loyalties: wherein, although,

My good Lord Cardinal, they vent reproaches

Most bitterly on you, as putter-on 24

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 28

In loud rebellion.

Nor.

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 32

The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers, who,

Unfit for other life, compell’d by hunger

And lack of other means, in desperate manner

Daring the event to the teeth, are all in uproar, 36

And danger serves among them.

K. Hen.

Taxation!

Wherein? and what taxation? My Lord Cardinal,

You that are blam’d for it alike with us,

Know you of this taxation?

Wol.

Please you, sir, 40

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.

Q. Kath.

No, my lord,

You know no more than others; but you frame

Things that are known alike; which are not wholesome 45

To those which would not know them, and yet must

Perforce be their acquaintance. These exactions,

Whereof my sov’reign would have note, they are 48

Most pestilent to the hearing; and to bear ’em,

The back is sacrifice to the load. They say

They are devis’d by you, or else you suffer

Too hard an exclamation.

K. Hen.

Still exaction! 52

The nature of it? In what kind, let’s know,

Is this exaction?

Q. Kath.

I am much too venturous

In tempting of your patience; but am bolden’d

Under your promis’d pardon. The subjects’ grief 56

Comes through commissions, which compel from each

The sixth part of his substance, to be levied

Without delay; and the pretence for this

Is nam’d, your wars in France. This makes bold mouths: 60

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 64

To each incensed will. I would your highness

Would give it quick consideration, for

There is no primer business.

K. Hen.

By my life,

This is against our pleasure.

Wol.

And for me, 68

I have no further gone in this than by

A single voice, and that not pass’d me but

By learned approbation of the judges. If I am

Traduc’d by ignorant tongues, which neither know 72

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 76

Our necessary actions, in the fear

To cope malicious censurers; which ever,

As rav’nous fishes, do a vessel follow

That is new-trimm’d, but benefit no further 80

Than vainly longing. What we oft do best,

By sick interpreters, once weak ones, is

Not ours, or not allow’d; what worst, as oft,

Hitting a grosser quality, is cried up 84

For our best act. If we shall stand still,

In fear our motion will be mock’d or carp’d at,

We should take root here where we sit, or sit

State-statues only.

K. Hen.

Things done well, 88

And with a care, exempt themselves from fear;

Things done without example, in their issue

Are to be fear’d. Have you a precedent

Of this commission? I believe, not any. 92

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; 96

And, though we leave it with a root, thus hack’d,

The air will drink the sap. To every county

Where this is question’d, send our letters, with

Free pardon to each man that has denied 100

The force of this commission. Pray, look to ’t;

I put it to your care.

Wol.

[To the Secretary.] A word with you.

Let there be letters writ to every shire,

Of the king’s grace and pardon. The griev’d commons 104

Hardly conceive of me; let it be nois’d

That through our intercession this revokement

And pardon comes: I shall anon advise you

Further in the proceeding.

[Exit Secretary.

Enter Surveyor.

Q. Kath.

I am sorry that the Duke of Buckingham 109

Is run in your displeasure.

K. Hen.

It grieves many:

The gentleman is learn’d, 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 dispos’d, the mind growing once corrupt, 116

They turn to vicious forms, ten times more ugly

Than ever they were fair. This man so complete,

Who was enroll’d ’mongst wonders, and when we,

Almost with ravish’d listening, could not find

His hour of speech a minute; he, my lady, 121

Hath into monstrous habits put the graces

That once were his, and is become as black

As if besmear’d in hell. Sit by us; you shall hear— 124

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. 128

Wol.

Stand forth; and with bold spirit relate what you,

Most like a careful subject, have collected

Out of the Duke of Buckingham.

K. Hen.

Speak freely.

Surv.

First, it was usual with him, every day

It would infect his speech, that if the king 133

Should without issue die, he’d carry it so

To make the sceptre his. These very words

I’ve heard him utter to his son-in-law, 136

Lord Abergavenny, to whom by oath he menac’d

Revenge upon the cardinal.

Wol.

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 141

Beyond you, to your friends.

Q. Kath.

My learn’d Lord Cardinal,

Deliver all with charity.

K. Hen.

Speak on:

How grounded he his title to the crown 144

Upon our fail? to this point hast thou heard him

At any time speak aught?

Surv.

He was brought to this

By a vain prophecy of Nicholas Hopkins.

K. Hen.

What was that Hopkins?

Surv.

Sir, a Chartreux friar,

His confessor, who fed him every minute 149

With words of sovereignty.

K. Hen.

How know’st thou this?

Surv.

Not long before your highness sped to France,

The duke being at the Rose, within the parish

Saint Lawrence Poultney, did of me demand 153

What was the speech among the Londoners

Concerning the French journey: I replied,

Men fear’d the French would prove perfidious,

To the king’s danger. Presently the duke 157

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, 160

‘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 164

He solemnly had sworn, that what he spoke,

My chaplain to no creature living but

To me should utter, with demure confidence

This pausingly ensu’d: neither the king nor ’s heirs— 168

Tell you the duke—shall prosper: bid him strive

To gain the love o’ the commonalty: the duke

Shall govern England.’

Q. Kath.

If I know you well,

You were the duke’s surveyor, and lost your office 172

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.

K. Hen.

Let him on. 176

Go forward.

Surv.

On my soul, I’ll speak but truth.

I told my lord the duke, by the devil’s illusions

The monk might be deceiv’d; and that ’twas dangerous for him

To ruminate on this so far, until 180

It forg’d him some design, which, being believ’d,

It was much like to do. He answer’d, ‘Tush!

It can do me no damage;’ adding further,

That had the king in his last sickness fail’d, 184

The cardinal’s and Sir Thomas Lovell’s heads

Should have gone off.

K. Hen.

Ha! what, so rank? Ah, ha!

There’s mischief in this man. Canst thou say further?

Surv.

I can, my liege.

K. Hen.

Proceed.

Surv.

Being at Greenwich,

After your highness had reprov’d the duke 189

About Sir William Blomer,—

K. Hen.

I remember

Of such a time: being my sworn servant,

The duke retain’d him his. But on; what hence? 192

Surv.

‘If,’ quoth he, ‘I for this had been committed,

As, to the Tower, I thought, I would have play’d

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, 197

As he made semblance of his duty, would

Have put his knife into him.’

K. Hen

A giant traitor!

Wol.

Now, madam, may his highness live in freedom, 200

And this man out of prison?

Q. Kath.

God mend all!

K. Hen.

There’s something more would out of thee? what sayst?

Surv.

After ‘the duke his father,’ with ‘the knife,’

He stretch’d him, and, with one hand on his dagger, 204

Another spread on’s breast, mounting his eyes,

He did discharge a horrible oath; whose tenour

Was, were he evil us’d, he would outgo

His father by as much as a performance 208

Does an irresolute purpose.

K. Hen.

There’s his period;

To sheathe his knife in us. He is attach’d;

Call him to present trial: if he may

Find mercy in the law, ’tis his; if none, 212

Let him not seek’t of us: by day and night!

He’s traitor to the height.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Room in the Palace.

Enter the Lord Chamberlain and Lord Sands.

Cham.

Is’t possible the spells of France should juggle

Men into such strange mysteries?

Sands.

New customs,

Though they be never so ridiculous,

Nay, let ’em be unmanly, yet are follow’d. 4

Cham.

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 8

Their very noses had been counsellors

To Pepin or Clotharius, they keep state so.

Sands.

They have all new legs, and lame ones: one would take it,

That never saw ’em pace before, the spavin 12

Or springhalt reign’d among ’em.

Cham.

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?

Lov.

Faith, my lord,

I hear of none, but the new proclamation 17

That’s clapp’d upon the court-gate.

Cham.

What is’t for?

Lov.

The reformation of our travell’d gallants,

That fill the court with quarrels, talk, and tailors. 20

Cham.

I am glad ’tis there: now I would pray our monsieurs

To think an English courtier may be wise,

And never see the Louvre.

Lov.

They must either—

For so run the conditions—leave those remnants 24

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, 28

Out of a foreign wisdom;—renouncing clean

The faith they have in tennis and tall stockings,

Short blister’d breeches, and those types of travel,

And understand again like honest men; 32

Or pack to their old playfellows: there, I take it,

They may, cum privilegio, wear away

The lag end of their lewdness, and be laugh’d at.

Sands.

’Tis time to give ’em physic, their diseases 36

Are grown so catching.

Cham.

What a loss our ladies

Will have of these trim vanities!

Lov.

Ay, marry,

There will be woe indeed, lords: the sly whoresons

Have got a speeding trick to lay down ladies; 40

A French song and a fiddle has no fellow.

Sands.

The devil fiddle ’em! I am glad they’re going:

For, sure, there’s no converting of ’em: now

An honest country lord, as I am, beaten 44

A long time out of play, may bring his plainsong

And have an hour of hearing; and, by’r lady,

Held current music too.

Cham.

Well said, Lord Sands;

Your colt’s tooth is not cast yet.

Sands.

No, my lord; 48

Nor shall not, while I have a stump.

Cham.

Sir Thomas,

Whither were you a-going?

Lov.

To the cardinal’s:

Your lordship is a guest too.

Cham.

O! ’tis true:

This night he makes a supper, and a great one,

To many lords and ladies; there will be 53

The beauty of this kingdom, I’ll assure you.

Lov.

That churchman bears a bounteous mind indeed,

A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us; 56

His dews fall everywhere.

Cham.

No doubt he’s noble;

He had a black mouth that said other of him.

Sands.

He may, my lord; he has wherewithal: in him

Sparing would show a worse sin than ill doctrine: 60

Men of his way should be most liberal;

They are set here for examples.

Cham.

True, they are so;

But few now give so great ones. My barge stays;

Your lordship shall along. Come, good Sir Thomas, 64

We shall be late else; which I would not be,

For I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guildford,

This night to be comptrollers.

Sands.

I am your lordship’s.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Presence-chamber in York-Place.

Hautboys. A small table under a state for Cardinal Wolsey, a longer table for the guests. Enter, at one door, Anne Bullen, and divers Lords, Ladies, and Gentlewomen, as guests; at another door, enter Sir Henry Guildford.

Guild.

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 4

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 Sands, and Sir Thomas Lovell.

O, my lord! you’re tardy:

The very thought of this fair company 8

Clapp’d wings to me.

Cham.

You are young, Sir Harry Guildford.

Sands.

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, 13

They are a sweet society of fair ones.

Lov.

O! that your lordship were but now confessor

To one or two of these!

Sands.

I would I were; 16

They should find easy penance.

Lov.

Faith, how easy?

Sands.

As easy as a down-bed would afford it.

Cham.

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 plac’d together makes cold weather:

My Lord Sands, you are one will keep ’em waking;

Pray, sit between these ladies.

Sands.

By my faith, 24

And thank your lordship. By your leave, sweet ladies:

[Seats himself between Anne Bullen and another Lady.

If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me;

I had it from my father.

Anne.

Was he mad, sir?

Sands.

O! very mad, exceeding mad; in love too: 28

But he would bite none; just as I do now,

He would kiss you twenty with a breath.

[Kisses her.

Cham.

Well said, my lord.

So, now you’re fairly seated. Gentlemen,

The penance lies on you, if these fair ladies 32

Pass away frowning.

Sands.

For my little cure,

Let me alone.

Hautboys. Enter Cardinal Wolsey, attended, and takes his state.

Wol.

You’re welcome, my fair guests: that noble lady,

Or gentleman, that is not freely merry, 36

Is not my friend: this, to confirm my welcome;

And to you all, good health.

[Drinks.

Sands.

Your Grace is noble:

Let me have such a bowl may hold my thanks,

And save me so much talking.

Wol.

My Lord Sands, 40

I am beholding to you: cheer your neighbours.

Ladies, you are not merry: gentlemen,

Whose fault is this?

Sands.

The red wine first must rise

In their fair cheeks, my lord; then, we shall have ’em 44

Talk us to silence.

Anne.

You are a merry gamester,

My Lord Sands.

Sands.

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. 48

Sands.

I told your Grace they would talk anon.

[Drum and trumpets within; chambers discharged.

Wol.

What’s that?

Cham.

Look out there, some of ye.

[Exit a Servant.

Wol.

What war-like voice,

And to what end, is this? Nay, ladies, fear not;

By all the laws of war you’re privileg’d. 52

Re-enter Servant.

Cham.

How now, what is’t?

Serv.

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.

Wol.

Good Lord Chamberlain, 56

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 the Lord Chamberlain, attended. All arise, and tables removed.

You have now a broken banquet; but we’ll mend it. 61

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? 64

Cham.

Because they speak no English, thus they pray’d

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, 69

But leave their flocks; and, under your fair conduct,

Crave leave to view these ladies, and entreat

An hour of revels with ’em.

Wol.

Say, Lord Chamberlain,

They have done my poor house grace; for which I pay ’em 73

A thousand thanks, and pray ’em take their pleasures.

[They choose Ladies for the dance. The King chooses Anne Bullen.

K. Hen.

The fairest hand I ever touch’d! O beauty,

Till now I never knew thee!

[Music. Dance.

Wol.

My lord.

Cham.

Your Grace?

Wol.

Pray tell them 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 80

I would surrender it.

Cham.

I will, my lord.

[Whispers the Masquers.

Wol.

What say they?

Cham.

Such a one, they all confess,

There is, indeed; which they would have your Grace

Find out, and he will take it.

Wol.

Let me see then. 84

[Comes from his state.

By all your good leaves, gentlemen, here I’ll make

My royal choice.

K. Hen.

[Unmasking.] You have found him, cardinal.

You hold a fair assembly; you do well, lord:

You are a churchman, or, I’ll tell you, cardinal,

I should judge now unhappily.

Wol.

I am glad

Your Grace is grown so pleasant.

K. Hen.

My Lord Chamberlain,

Prithee, come hither. What fair lady’s that?

Cham.

An’t please your Grace, Sir Thomas Bullen’s daughter, 92

The Viscount Rochford, one of her highness’ women.

K. Hen.

By heaven, she is a dainty one. Sweetheart,

I were unmannerly to take you out,

And not to kiss you. A health, gentlemen! 96

Let it go round.

Wol.

Sir Thomas Lovell, is the banquest ready

I’ the privy chamber?

Lov.

Yes, my lord.

Wol.

Your Grace,

I fear, with dancing is a little heated. 100

K. Hen.

I fear, too much.

Wol.

There’s fresher air, my lord,

In the next chamber.

K. Hen.

Lead in your ladies, every one. Sweet partner,

I must not yet forsake you. Let’s be merry: 104

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, meeting.

First Gent.

Whither away so fast?

Sec. Gent.

O! God save ye.

E’en to the hall, to hear what shall become

Of the great Duke of Buckingham.

First Gent.

I’ll save you

That labour, sir. All’s now done but the ceremony 4

Of bringing back the prisoner.

Sec. Gent.

Were you there?

First Gent.

Yes, indeed, was I.

Sec. Gent.

Pray speak what has happen’d.

First Gent.

You may guess quickly what.

Sec. Gent.

Is he found guilty?

First Gent.

Yes, truly is he, and condemn’d upon’t. 8

Sec. Gent.

I am sorry for ’t.

First Gent.

So are a number more.

Sec. Gent.

But, pray, how pass’d it?

First Gent.

I’ll tell you in a little. The great duke

Came to the bar; where, to his accusations 12

He pleaded still not guilty, and alleg’d

Many sharp reasons to defeat the law.

The king’s attorney on the contrary

Urg’d on the examinations, proofs, confessions

Of divers witnesses, which the duke desir’d 17

To have brought, vivâ voce, to his face:

At which appear’d against him his surveyor;

Sir Gilbert Peck his chancellor; and John Car,

Confessor to him; with that devil-monk, 21

Hopkins, that made this mischief.

Sec. Gent.

That was he

That fed him with his prophecies?

First Gent.

The same.

All these accus’d him strongly; which he fain

Would have flung from him, but, indeed, he could not: 25

And so his peers, upon this evidence,

Have found him guilty of high treason. Much

He spoke, and learnedly, for life; but all 28

Was either pitied in him or forgotten.

Sec. Gent.

After all this how did he bear himself?

First Gent.

When he was brought again to the bar, to hear

His knell rung out, his judgment, he was stirr’d

With such an agony, he sweat extremely, 33

And something spoke in choler, ill, and hasty:

But he fell to himself again, and sweetly

In all the rest show’d a most noble patience. 36

Sec. Gent.

I do not think he fears death.

First Gent.

Sure, he does not;

He never was so womanish; the cause

He may a little grieve at.

Sec. Gent.

Certainly

The cardinal is the end of this.

First Gent.

’Tis likely 40

By all conjectures: first, Kildare’s attainder,

Then deputy of Ireland; who, remov’d,

Earl Surrey was sent thither, and in haste too,

Lest he should help his father.

Sec. Gent.

That trick of state 44

Was a deep envious one.

First Gent.

At his return,

No doubt he will requite it. This is noted,

And generally, whoever the king favours,

The cardinal instantly will find employment, 48

And far enough from court too.

Sec. Gent.

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, 52

The mirror of all courtesy;—

First Gent.

Stay there, sir,

And see the noble ruin’d man you speak of.

Enter Buckingham from his arraignment; Tipstaves before him; the axe with the edge towards him; halberds on each side: with him Sir Thomas Lovell, Sir Nicholas Vaux, Sir William Sands, and common people.

Sec. Gent.

Let’s stand close, and behold him.

Buck.

All good people,

You that thus far have come to pity me, 56

Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me.

I have this day receiv’d a traitor’s judgment,

And by that name must die: yet, heaven bear witness,

And if I have a conscience, let it sink me, 60

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: 64

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. 68

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 lov’d me,

And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham, 72

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, 76

Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice,

And lift my soul to heaven. Lead on, o’ God’s name.

Lov.

I do beseech your Grace, for charity,

If ever any malice in your heart 80

Were hid against me, now to forgive me frankly.

Buck.

Sir Thomas Lovell, I as free forgive you

As I would be forgiven: I forgive all.

There cannot be those numberless offences 84

’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 88

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 belov’d and loving may his rule be! 92

And when old time shall lead him to his end,

Goodness and he fill up one monument!

Lov.

To the water side I must conduct your Grace;

Then give my charge up to Sir Nicholas Vaux,

Who undertakes you to your end.

Vaux.

Prepare there! 97

The duke is coming: see the barge be ready;

And fit it with such furniture as suits

The greatness of his person.

Buck.

Nay, Sir Nicholas, 100

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, 104

That never knew what truth meant: I now seal it;

And with that blood will make them one day groan for’t.

My noble father, Henry of Buckingham,

Who first rais’d head against usurping Richard,

Flying for succour to his servant Banister, 109

Being distress’d, was by that wretch betray’d,

And without trial fell: God’s peace be with him!

Henry the Seventh succeeding, truly pitying 112

My father’s loss, like a most royal prince,

Restor’d 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 116

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: 120

Yet thus far we are one in fortunes; both

Fell by our servants, by those men welov’d 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: 125

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 128

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 132

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 Buckingham and Train.

First Gent.

O! this is full of pity! Sir, it calls,

I fear, too many curses on their heads

That were the authors.

Sec. Gent.

If the duke be guiltless,

’Tis full of woe; yet I can give you inkling 140

Of an ensuing evil, if it fall,

Greater than this.

First Gent.

Good angels keep it from us!

What may it be? You do not doubt my faith, sir?

Sec. Gent.

This secret is so weighty, ’twill require 144

A strong faith to conceal it.

First Gent.

Let me have it;

I do not talk much.

Sec. Gent.

I am confident:

You shall, sir. Did you not of late days hear

A buzzing of a separation 148

Between the king and Katharine?

First Gent.

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 152

That durst disperse it.

Sec. Gent.

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 157

To the good queen, possess’d him with a scruple

That will undo her: to confirm this too,

Cardinal Campeius is arriv’d, and lately; 160

As all think, for this business.

First Gent.

’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 purpos’d.

Sec. Gent.

I think you have hit the mark: but is’t not cruel 165

That she should feel the smart of this? The cardinal

Will have his will, and she must fall.

First Gent.

’Tis woeful.

We are too open here to argue this; 168

Let’s think in private more.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— An Antechamber in the Palace.

Enter the Lord Chamberlain, reading a letter.

Cham.

My lord, The horses your lordship sent for, with all the care I 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 them 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. 12

Enter the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk.

Nor.

Well met, my Lord Chamberlain.

Cham.

Good day to both your Graces.

Suf.

How is the king employ’d?

Cham.

I left him private,

Full of sad thoughts and troubles.

Nor.

What’s the cause?

Cham.

It seems the marriage with his brother’s wife 17

Has crept too near his conscience.

Suf.

No; his conscience

Has crept too near another lady.

Nor.

’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. 22

Suf.

Pray God he do! he’ll never know himself else.

Nor.

How holily he works in all his business,

And with what zeal! for, now he has crack’d the league 25

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, 28

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 32

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?

Cham.

Heaven keep me from such counsel! ’Tis most true

These news are every where; every tongue speaks ’em,

And every true heart weeps for’t. All that dare

Look into these affairs, see this main end, 41

The French king’s sister. Heaven will one day open

The king’s eyes, that so long have slept upon

This bold bad man.

Suf.

And free us from his slavery.

Nor.

We had need pray, 45

And heartily, for our deliverance;

Or this imperious man will work us all

From princes into pages. All men’s honours 48

Lie like one lump before him, to be fashion’d

Into what pitch he please.

Suf.

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, 52

If the king please; his curses and his blessings

Touch me alike, they’re breath I not believe in.

I knew him, and I know him; so I leave him

To him that made him proud, the pope.

Nor.

Let’s in;

And with some other business put the king 57

From these sad thoughts, that work too much upon him.

My lord, you’ll bear us company?

Cham.

Excuse me;

The king hath sent me otherwhere: besides, 60

You’ll find a most unfit time to disturb him:

Health to your lordships.

Nor.

Thanks, my good Lord Chamberlain.

[Exit Lord Chamberlain.

Norfolk opens a folding-door. The King is discovered sitting and reading pensively.

Suf.

How sad he looks! sure, he is much afflicted.

K. Hen.

Who is there, ha?

Nor.

Pray God he be not angry.

K. Hen.

Who’s there, I say? How dare you thrust yourselves 65

Into my private meditations?

Who am I, ha?

Nor.

A gracious king that pardons all offences 68

Malice ne’er meant: our breach of duty this way

Is business of estate; in which we come

To know your royal pleasure.

K. Hen.

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.

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, 76

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.

Wol.

Sir, you cannot.

I would your Grace would give us but an hour

Of private conference.

K. Hen.

[To Norfolk and Suffolk.] We are busy: go. 81

Nor.

[Aside to Suffolk.] This priest has no pride in him!

Suf.

[Aside to Norfolk.] Not to speak of;

I would not be so sick though for his place:

But this cannot continue.

Nor.

[Aside to Suffolk.] If it do, 84

I’ll venture one have-at-him.

Suf.

[Aside to Norfolk.] I another.

[Exeunt Norfolk and Suffolk.

Wol.

Your Grace has given a precedent of wisdom

Above all princes, in committing freely

Your scruple to the voice of Christendom. 88

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, 92

I mean the learned ones, in Christian kingdoms

Have their free voices: Rome, the nurse of judgment,

Invited by your noble self, hath sent

One general tongue unto us, this good man, 96

This just and learned priest, Cardinal Campeius;

Whom once more I present unto your highness.

K. Hen.

And once more in my arms I bid him welcome,

And thank the holy conclave for their loves:

They have sent me such a man I would have wish’d for. 101

Cam.

Your Grace must needs deserve all strangers’ loves,

You are so noble. To your highness’ hand

I tender my commission, by whose virtue,— 104

The court of Rome commanding,—you, my Lord

Cardinal of York, are join’d with me, their servant,

In the impartial judging of this business.

K. Hen.

Two equal men. The queen shall be acquainted 108

Forthwith for what you come. Where’s Gardiner?

Wol.

I know your majesty has always lov’d her

So dear in heart, not to deny her that

A woman of less place might ask by law, 112

Scholars, allow’d freely to argue for her.

K. Hen.

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.

Wol.

[Aside to Gardiner.] Give me your hand; much joy and favour to you;

You are the king’s now.

Gard.

[Aside to Wolsey.] But to be commanded

For ever by your Grace, whose hand has rais’d me. 120

K. Hen.

Come hither, Gardiner.

[They converse apart.

Cam.

My Lord of York, was not one Doctor Pace

In this man’s place before him?

Wol.

Yes, he was.

Cam.

Was he not held a learned man?

Wol.

Yes, surely. 124

Cam.

Believe me, there’s an ill opinion spread then

Even of yourself, Lord Cardinal.

Wol.

How! of me?

Cam.

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 griev’d him 129

That he ran mad and died.

Wol.

Heaven’s peace be with him!

That’s Christian care enough: for living murmurers

There’s places of rebuke. He was a fool, 132

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 grip’d by meaner persons. 136

K. Hen.

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 furnish’d. O my lord! 141

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. 144

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— An Antechamber in 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 liv’d so long with her, and she

So good a lady that no tongue could ever

Pronounce dishonour of her; by my life, 4

She never knew harm-doing; O! now, after

So many courses of the sun enthron’d,

Still growing in a majesty and pomp, the which

To leave a thousand-fold more bitter than 8

’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 12

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, 16

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, 20

Than to be perk’d 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, 24

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 28

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. 33

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 bow’d would hire me, 36

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: 40

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! 44

I swear again, I would not be a queen

For all the world.

Old Lady.

In faith, for little England

You’d venture an emballing: I myself

Would for Carnarvonshire, although there ’long’d

No more to the crown but that. Lo! who comes here? 49

Enter the Lord Chamberlain.

Cham.

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: 52

Our mistress’ sorrows we were pitying.

Cham.

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! 56

Cham.

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 61

Does purpose honour to you no less flowing

Than Marchioness of Pembroke; to which title

A thousand pound a year, annual support, 64

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 hallow’d, nor my wishes 68

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.

Cham.

Lady, 73

I shall not fail to approve the fair conceit

The king hath of you. [Aside.] I have perus’d her well;

Beauty and honour in her are so mingled 76

That they have caught the king; and who knows yet

But from this lady may proceed a gem

To lighten all this isle? [To her.] I’ll to the king,

And say, I spoke with you.

Anne.

My honour’d lord. 80

[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; 84

For any suit of pounds; and you, O fate!

A very fresh-fish here,—fie, fie, upon

This compell’d fortune!—have your mouth fill’d up

Before you open it.

Anne.

This is strange to me. 88

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 96

That promises more 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, 100

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. 104

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.

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, at some small distance, follows a Gentleman bearing the purse, with the great seal, and a cardinal’s hat; then two Priests, bearing each a silver cross; then a Gentleman Usher bare-headed, 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. Then enter the King and Queen, and their Trains. The King takes place under the cloth of state; the two Cardinals sit under him as judges. The Queen takes place at some distance from the King. The Bishops place themselves on each side the court, in manner of a consistory; below them, the Scribes. The Lords sit next the Bishops. The Crier and the rest of the Attendants stand in convenient order about the Stage.

Wol.

Whilst our commission from Rome is read,

Let silence be commanded.

K. Hen.

What’s the need?

It hath already publicly been read,

And on all sides the authority allow’d; 4

You may then spare that time.

Wol.

Be’t so. Proceed.

Scribe

Say, Henry King of England, come into the court.

Crier.

Henry King of England, come into the court.

K. Hen.

Here.

Scribe.

Say, Katharine Queen of England, come into the court.

Crier.

Katharine 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.

Q. Kath.

Sir, I desire you do me right and justice;

And to bestow your pity on me; for 12

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 17

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, 20

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 inclin’d. When was the hour 25

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 28

He were mine enemy? what friend of mine

That had to him deriv’d your anger, did I

Continue in my liking? nay, gave notice

He was from thence discharg’d. Sir, call to mind 32

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, 36

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 40

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 44

And unmatch’d wit and judgment: Ferdinand,

My father, King of Spain, was reckon’d one

The wisest prince that there had reign’d by many

A year before: it is not to be question’d 48

That they had gather’d a wise council to them

Of every realm, that did debate this business,

Who deem’d our marriage lawful. Wherefore I humbly

Beseech you, sir, to spare me, till I may 52

Be by my friends in Spain advis’d, whose counsel

I will implore: if not, i’ the name of God,

Your pleasure be fulfill’d!

Wol.

You have here, lady,—

And of your choice,—these reverend fathers; men 56

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 60

For your own quiet, as to rectify

What is unsettled in the king.

Cam.

His Grace

Hath spoken well and justly: therefore, madam,

It’s fit this royal session do proceed, 64

And that, without delay, their arguments

Be now produc’d and heard.

Q. Kath.

Lord Cardinal,

To you I speak.

Wol.

Your pleasure, madam?

Q. Kath.

Sir,

I am about to weep; but, thinking that 68

We are a queen,—or long have dream’d so,—certain

The daughter of a king, my drops of tears

I’ll turn to sparks of fire.

Wol.

Be patient yet.

Q. Kath.

I will, when you are humble; nay, before, 72

Or God will punish me. I do believe,

Induc’d by potent circumstances, that

You are mine enemy; and make my challenge

You shall not be my judge; for it is you 76

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 81

At all a friend to truth.

Wol.

I do profess

You speak not like yourself; who ever yet

Have stood to charity, and display’d the effects

Of disposition gentle, and of wisdom 85

O’ertopping woman’s power. Madam, you do me wrong:

I have no spleen against you; nor injustice

For you or any: how far I have proceeded, 88

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. 92

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 96

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 100

His highness shall speak in, I do beseech

You, gracious madam, to unthink your speaking,

And to say so no more.

Q. Kath.

My lord, my lord,

I am a simple woman, much too weak 104

To oppose your cunning. You’re meek and humble-mouth’d;

You sign your place and calling, in full seeming,

With meekness and humility; but your heart

Is cramm’d 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 112

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, 116

Before you all, appeal unto the pope,

To bring my whole cause ’fore his holiness,

And to be judg’d by him.

[She curtsies to the King, and offers to depart.

Cam.

The queen is obstinate,

Stubborn to justice, apt to accuse it, and 120

Disdainful to be tried by’t: ’tis not well.

She’s going away.

K. Hen.

Call her again.

Crier.

Katharine Queen of England, come into the court. 124

Grif.

Madam, you are call’d back.

Q. Kath.

What need you note it? pray you, keep your way:

When you are call’d, return. Now, the Lord help!

They vex me past my patience. Pray you, pass on: 128

I will not tarry; no, nor ever more

Upon this business my appearance make

In any of their courts.

[Exeunt Queen, and her Attendants.

K. Hen.

Go thy ways, Kate:

That man i’ the world who shall report he has

A better wife, let him in nought be trusted, 133

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 137

Sovereign and pious else, could speak thee out,—

The queen of earthly queens. She’s noble born;

And, like her true nobility, she has 140

Carried herself towards me.

Wol.

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 robb’d and bound 144

There must I be unloos’d, 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 148

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, 152

Or touch of her good person?

K. Hen.

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 156

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 excus’d:

But will you be more justified? you ever 160

Have wish’d the sleeping of this business; never

Desir’d it to be stirr’d; but oft have hinder’d, 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 mov’d me to’t, 165

I will be bold with time and your attention:

Then mark the inducement. Thus it came; give heed to’t:

My conscience first receiv’d a tenderness, 168

Scruple, and prick, on certain speeches utter’d

By the Bishop of Bayonne, then French ambassador,

Who had been hither sent on the debating

A marriage ’twixt the Duke of Orleans and 172

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 176

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, enter’d me, 180

Yea, with a splitting power, and made to tremble

The region of my breast; which forc’d such way,

That many maz’d considerings did throng,

And press’d in with this caution. First, methought 184

I stood not in the smile of heaven, who had

Commanded nature, that my lady’s womb,

If it conceiv’d a male child by me, should

Do no more offices of life to’t than 188

The grave does to the dead; for her male issue

Or died where they were made, or shortly after

This world had air’d them. Hence I took a thought

This was a judgment on me; that my kingdom,

Well worthy the best heir o’ the world, should not 193

Be gladded in’t by me. Then follows that

I weigh’d the danger which my realms stood in

By this my issue’s fail; and that gave to me 196

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, 200

I meant to rectify my conscience, which

I then did feel full sick, and yet not well,

By all the rev’rend fathers of the land

And doctors learn’d. First, I began in private

With you, my Lord of Lincoln; you remember

How under my oppression I did reek, 206

When I first mov’d you.

Lin.

Very well, my liege.

K. Hen.

I have spoke long: be pleas’d yourself to say 208

How far you satisfied me.

Lin.

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 212

The daring’st counsel that I had to doubt;

And did entreat your highness to this course

Which you are running here.

K. Hen.

Then I mov’d you,

My Lord of Canterbury, and got your leave 216

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 drive this forward.

Prove but our marriage lawful, by my life 224

And kingly dignity, we are contented

To wear our mortal state to come with her,

Katharine our queen, before the primest creature

That’s paragon’d o’ the world.

Cam.

So please your highness, 228

The queen being absent, ’tis a needful fitness

That we adjourn this court till further day:

Mean while must be an earnest motion

Made to the queen, to call back her appeal 232

She intends unto his holiness.

[They rise to depart.

K. Hen.

[Aside.] I may perceive

These cardinals trifle with me: I abhor

This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome.

My learn’d and well-beloved servant Cranmer,

Prithee, return: with thy approach, I know, 237

My comfort comes along. Break up the court:

I say, set on.

[Exeunt, in manner as they entered.

ACT III.

Scene I.— The Palace at Bridewell. A Room in the Queen’s Apartment.

The Queen and her Women at work.

Q. Kath.

Take thy lute, wench: my soul grows sad with troubles;

Sing and disperse ’em, if thou canst. Leave working.

SONG.

Orpheus with his lute made trees,

And the mountain tops that freeze,  4

Bow themselves, when he did sing:

To his music plants and flowers

Ever sprung; as sun and showers

There had made a lasting spring.  8

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,  12

Killing care and grief of heart

Fall asleep, or hearing, die.

Enter a Gentleman.

Q. Kath.

How now!

Gent.

An’t please your Grace, the two great cardinals 16

Wait in the presence.

Q. Kath.

Would they speak with me?

Gent.

They will’d me say so, madam.

Q. Kath.

Pray their Graces

To come near. [Exit Gentleman.] What can be their business

With me, a poor weak woman, fall’n from favour?

I do not like their coming, now I think on’t. 21

They should be good men, their affairs as righteous;

But all hoods make not monks.

Enter Wolsey and Campeius.

Wol.

Peace to your highness!

Q. Kath.

Your Graces find me here part of a housewife, 24

I would be all, against the worst may happen.

What are your pleasures with me, reverend lords?

Wol.

May it please you, noble madam, to withdraw

Into your private chamber, we shall give you 28

The full cause of our coming.

Q. Kath.

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! 32

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, 36

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.

Wol

Tanta est erga te mentis integritas, regina serenissima,— 40

Q. Kath.

O, good my lord, no Latin;

I am not such a truant since my coming

As not to know the language I have liv’d in:

A strange tongue makes my cause more strange, suspicious; 44

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 48

May be absolv’d in English.

Wol.

Noble lady,

I am sorry my integrity should breed,—

And service to his majesty and you,—

So deep suspicion, where all faith was meant. 52

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 56

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.

Cam.

Most honour’d madam, 60

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 sign of peace, 65

His service and his counsel.

Q. Kath.

[Aside.] To betray me.

My lords, I thank you both for your good wills;

Ye speak like honest men,—pray God, ye prove so!— 68

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, 72

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 76

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.

Wol.

Madam, you wrong the king’s love with these fears: 80

Your hopes and friends are infinite.

Q. Kath.

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,— 84

Though he be grown so desperate to be honest,—

And live a subject? Nay, forsooth, my friends,

They that must weigh out my afflictions, 87

They that my trust must grow to, live not here:

They are, as all my other comforts, far hence

In mine own country, lords.

Cam.

I would your Grace

Would leave your griefs, and take my counsel.

Q Kath.

How, sir?

Cam.

Put your main cause into the king’s protection; 92

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 disgrac’d.

Wol.

He tells you rightly. 96

Q. Kath.

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.

Cam.

Your rage mistakes us. 100

Q. Kath.

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? 104

The cordial that ye bring a wretched lady,

A woman lost among ye, laugh’d at, scorn’d?

I will not wish ye half my miseries,

I have more charity; but say, I warn’d ye: 108

Take heed, for heaven’s sake, take heed, lest at once

The burden of my sorrows fall upon ye.

Wol.

Madam, this is a mere distraction;

You turn the good we offer into envy. 112

Q. Kath.

Ye turn me into nothing: woe upon ye,

And all such false professors! Would ye have me,—

If ye have any justice, any pity;

If ye be anything but churchmen’s habits,— 116

Put my sick cause into his hands that hates me?

Alas! he has banish’d me his bed already,

His love, too long ago! I am old, my lords,

And all the fellowship I hold now with him 120

Is only my obedience. What can happen

To me above this wretchedness? all your studies

Make me a curse like this.

Cam.

Your fears are worse.

Q. Kath.

Have I liv’d thus long—let me speak myself, 124

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 128

Still met the king? lov’d him next heaven? obey’d him?

Been, out of fondness, superstitious to him?

Almost forgot my prayers to content him?

And am I thus rewarded? ’tis not well, lords. 132

Bring me a constant woman to her husband,

One that ne’er dream’d a joy beyond his pleasure,

And to that woman, when she has done most,

Yet will I add an honour, a great patience. 136

Wol.

Madam, you wander from the good we aim at.

Q. Kath.

My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty,

To give up willingly that noble title

Your master wed me to: nothing but death 140

Shall e’er divorce my dignities.

Wol.

Pray hear me.

Q. Kath.

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. 144

What will become of me now, wretched lady?

I am the most unhappy woman living.

[To her women.] Alas! poor wenches, where are now your fortunes?

Shipwrack’d upon a kingdom, where no pity, 148

No friends, no hope; no kindred weep for me;

Almost no grave allow’d me. Like the lily,

That once was mistress of the field and flourish’d,

I’ll hang my head and perish.

Wol.

If your Grace 152

Could but be brought to know our ends are honest,

You’d feel more comfort. Why should we, good lady,

Upon what cause, wrong you? alas! our places,

The way of our profession is against it: 156

We are to cure such sorrows, not to sow them.

For goodness’ sake, consider what you do;

How you may hurt yourself, ay, utterly

Grow from the king’s acquaintance, by this carriage. 160

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, 164

A soul as even as a calm: pray think us

Those we profess, peace-makers, friends, and servants.

Cam.

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 169

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 172

To use our utmost studies in your service.

Q. Kath.

Do what ye will, my lords: and, pray, forgive me

If I have us’d myself unmannerly.

You know I am a woman, lacking wit 176

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, 180

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.

Scene II.— Antechamber to the King’s Apartment.

Enter the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke of Suffolk, the Earl of Surrey, and the Lord Chamberlain.

Nor.

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 4

But that you shall sustain moe new disgraces

With these you bear already.

Sur.

I am joyful

To meet the least occasion that may give me

Remembrance of my father-in-law, the duke, 8

To be reveng’d on him.

Suf.

Which of the peers

Have uncontemn’d gone by him, or at least

Strangely neglected? when did he regard

The stamp of nobleness in any person, 12

Out of himself?

Cham.

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 16

Bar his access to the king, never attempt

Any thing on him, for he hath a witchcraft

Over the king in’s tongue.

Nor.

O! fear him not;

His spell in that is out: the king hath found 20

Matter against him that for ever mars

The honey of his language. No, he’s settled,

Not to come off, in his displeasure.

Sur.

Sir,

I should be glad to hear such news as this 24

Once every hour.

Nor.

Believe it, this is true:

In the divorce his contrary proceedings

Are all unfolded; wherein he appears

As I would wish mine enemy.

Sur.

How came 28

His practices to light?

Suf.

Most strangely.

Sur.

O! how? how?

Suf.

The cardinal’s letter to the pope miscarried,

And came to the eye o’ the king; wherein was read,

That the cardinal did entreat his holiness 32

To stay the judgment 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.’ 36

Sur.

Has the king this?

Suf.

Believe it.

Sur.

Will this work?

Cham.

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 41

Hath married the fair lady.

Sur.

Would he had!

Suf.

May you be happy in your wish, my lord!

For I profess, you have it.

Sur.

Now all my joy 44

Trace the conjunction!

Suf.

My amen to’t!

Nor.

All men’s.

Suf.

There’s order given for her coronation:

Marry, this is yet but young, and may be left

To some ears unrecounted. But, my lords, 48

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 memoriz’d.

Sur.

But will the king 52

Digest this letter of the cardinal’s?

The Lord forbid!

Nor.

Marry, amen!

Suf.

No, no;

There be moe wasps that buzz about his nose

Will make this sting the sooner. Cardinal Campeius 56

Is stol’n away to Rome; hath ta’en no leave;

Has 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 60

The king cried Ha! at this.

Cham.

Now, God incense him,

And let him cry Ha! louder.

Nor.

But, my lord,

When returns Cranmer?

Suf.

He is return’d in his opinions, which 64

Have satisfied the king for his divorce,

Together with all famous colleges

Almost in Christendom. Shortly, I believe,

His second marriage shall be publish’d, and 68

Her coronation. Katharine no more

Shall be call’d queen, but princess dowager,

And widow to Prince Arthur.

Nor.

This same Cranmer’s

A worthy fellow, and hath ta’en much pain 72

In the king’s business.

Suf.

He has; and we shall see him

For it an archbishop.

Nor.

So I hear.

Suf.

’Tis so.

The cardinal!

Enter Wolsey and Cromwell.

Nor.

Observe, observe; he’s moody.

Wol.

The packet, Cromwell, 76

Gave’t you the king?

Crom.

To his own hand, in his bedchamber.

Wol.

Look’d he o’ the inside of the paper?

Crom.

Presently

He did unseal them; and the first he view’d, 80

He did it with a serious mind; a heed

Was in his countenance. You he bade

Attend him here this morning.

Wol.

Is he ready

To come abroad?

Crom.

I think, by this he is. 84

Wol.

Leave me awhile.

[Exit Cromwell.

[Aside.] It shall be to the Duchess of Alençon,

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! 89

No, we’ll no Bullens. Speedily I wish

To hear from Rome. The Marchioness of Pembroke!

Nor.

He’s discontented.

Suf.

May be he hears the king

Does whet his anger to him.

Sur.

Sharp enough, 93

Lord, for thy justice!

Wol.

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 100

Our cause, that she should lie i’ the bosom of

Our hard-rul’d king. Again, there is sprung up

A heretic, an arch one, Cranmer; one

Hath crawl’d into the favour of the king, 104

And is his oracle.

Nor.

He is vex’d at something.

Sur.

I would ’twere something that would fret the string,

The master-cord on’s heart!

Enter the King, reading a schedule; and Lovell.

Suf.

The king, the king!

K. Hen.

What piles of wealth hath he accumulated 108

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?

Nor.

My lord, we have 112

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 116

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.

K. Hen.

It may well be: 120

There is a mutiny in ’s mind. This morning

Papers of state he sent me to peruse,

As I requir’d; and wot you what I found

There, on my conscience, put unwittingly? 124

Forsooth, an inventory, thus importing;

The several parcels of his plate, his treasure,

Rich stuffs and ornaments of household, which

I find at such a proud rate that it out-speaks

Possession of a subject.

Nor.

It’s heaven’s will: 129

Some spirit put this paper in the packet

To bless your eye withal.

K. Hen.

If we did think

His contemplation were above the earth, 132

And fix’d 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.

[He takes his seat, and whispers Lovell, who goes to Wolsey.

Wol.

Heaven forgive me! 136

Ever God bless your highness!

K. Hen.

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 140

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.

Wol.

Sir, 144

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 148

I, her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal,

Must give my tendance to.

K. Hen.

You have said well.

Wol.

And ever may your highness yoke together,

As I will lend you cause, my doing well 152

With my well saying!

K. Hen.

’Tis well said again;

And ’tis a kind of good deed to say well:

And yet words are no deeds. My father lov’d you:

He said he did; and with his deed did crown 156

His word upon you. Since I had my office,

I have kept you next my heart; have not alone

Employ’d you where high profits might come home,

But par’d my present havings, to bestow 160

My bounties upon you.

Wol.

[Aside.] What should this mean?

Sur.

[Aside.] The Lord increase this business!

K. Hen.

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, 165

If you are bound to us or no. What say you?

Wol.

My sovereign, I confess your royal graces,

Shower’d on me daily, have been more than could 168

My studied purposes requite; which went

Beyond all man’s endeavours: my endeavours

Have ever come too short of my desires,

Yet fil’d with my abilities. Mine own ends 172

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

Heap’d upon me, poor undeserver, I 176

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.

K. Hen.

Fairly answer’d; 180

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 184

That as my hand has open’d bounty to you,

My heart dropp’d love, my power rain’d 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.

Wol.

I do profess, 191

That for your highness’ good I ever labour’d

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, 197

As doth a rock against the chiding flood,

Should the approach of this wild river break,

And stand unshaken yours.

K. Hen.

’Tis nobly spoken. 200

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.

Wol.

What should this mean? 204

What sudden anger’s this? how have I reap’d it?

He parted frowning from me, as if ruin

Leap’d from his eyes: so looks the chafed lion

Upon the daring huntsman that has gall’d him;

Then makes him nothing. I must read this paper; 209

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 216

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 220

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 touch’d the highest point of all my greatness; 224

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. 228

Re-enter the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, the Earl of Surrey, and the Lord Chamberlain.

Nor.

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, 232

Till you hear further from his highness.

Wol.

Stay,

Where’s your commission, lord? words cannot carry

Authority so weighty.

Suf.

Who dare cross ’em,

Bearing the king’s will from his mouth expressly?

Wol.

Till I find more than will or words to do it, 237

I mean your malice, know, officious lords,

I dare and must deny it. Now I feel

Of what coarse metal ye are moulded, envy: 240

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; 244

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; 248

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?

Sur.

The king, that gave it.

Wol.

It must be himself then. 252

Sur.

Thou art a proud traitor, priest.

Wol.

Proud lord, thou liest:

Within these forty hours Surrey durst better

Have burnt that tongue than said so.

Sur.

Thy ambition,

Thou scarlet sin, robb’d this bewailing land 256

Of noble Buckingham, my father-in-law:

The heads of all thy brother cardinals—

With thee and all thy best parts bound together—

Weigh’d not a hair of his. Plague of your policy! 260

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; 263

Whilst your great goodness, out of holy pity,

Absolv’d him with an axe.

Wol.

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 268

From any private malice in his end,

His noble jury and foul cause can witness.

If I lov’d many words, lord, I should tell you,

You have as little honesty as honour, 272

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.

Sur.

By my soul, 276

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, 281

Farewell nobility; let his Grace go forward,

And dare us with his cap like larks.

Wol.

All goodness

Is poison to thy stomach.

Sur.

Yes, that goodness 284

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, 288

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 despis’d nobility, our issues, 292

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 296

Lay kissing in your arms, Lord Cardinal.

Wol.

How much, methinks, I could despise this man,

But that I am bound in charity against it!

Nor.

Those articles, my lord, are in the king’s hand; 300

But, thus much, they are foul ones.

Wol.

So much fairer

And spotless shall mine innocence arise

When the king knows my truth.

Sur.

This cannot save you:

I thank my memory, I yet remember 304

Some of these articles; and out they shall.

Now, if you can blush, and cry ‘guilty,’ cardinal,

You’ll show a little honesty.

Wol.

Speak on, sir;

I dare your worst objections; if I blush, 308

It is to see a nobleman want manners.

Sur.

I had rather want those than my head. Have at you!

First, that, without the king’s assent or know ledge,

You wrought to be a legate; by which power

You maim’d the jurisdiction of all bishops. 313

Nor.

Then, that in all you writ to Rome, or else

To foreign princes, Ego et Rex meus

Was still inscrib’d; in which you brought the king

To be your servant.

Suf.

Then, that without the knowledge 317

Either of king or council, when you went

Ambassador to the emperor, you made bold

To carry into Flanders the great seal. 320

Sur.

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. 324

Suf.

That, out of mere ambition, you have caus’d

Your holy hat to be stamp’d on the king’s coin.

Sur.

Then, that you have sent innumerable substance,—

By what means got I leave to your own conscience,— 328

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, 332

I will not taint my mouth with.

Cham.

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 336

So little of his great self.

Sur.

I forgive him.

Suf.

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 præmunire, 341

That therefore such a writ be su’d against you;

To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements,

Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be 344

Out of the king’s protection. This is my charge.

Nor.

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, 348

The king shall know it, and, no doubt, shall thank you.

So fare you well, my little good Lord Cardinal.

[Exeunt all except Wolsey.

Wol.

So farewell to the little good you bear me. 351

Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!

This is the state of man: to-day be 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; 356

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 ventur’d,

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,

This many summers in a sea of glory, 361

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 364

Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate yo:

I feel my heart new open’d. 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, 372

Never to hope again.

Enter Cromwell, and stands amazed.

Why, how now, Cromwell!

Crom.

I have no power to speak, sir.

Wol.

What! amaz’d

At my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder

A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep,

I am fall’n indeed.

Crom.

How does your Grace?

Wol.

Why, well; 377

Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.

I know myself now; and I feel within me

A peace above all earthly dignities, 380

A still and quiet conscience. The king has cur’d me,

I humbly thank his Grace; and from these shoulders,

These ruin’d pillars, out of pity taken

A load would sink a navy, too much honour: 384

O! ’tis a burden, Cromwell, ’tis a burden

Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven.

Crom.

I am glad your Grace has made that right use of it.

Wol.

I hope I have: I am able now, methinks,—

Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,— 389

To endure more miseries and greater far

Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.

What news abroad?

Crom.

The heaviest and the worst,

Is your displeasure with the king.

Wol.

God bless him! 393

Crom.

The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen

Lord Chancellor in your place.

Wol.

That’s somewhat sudden:

But he’s a learned man. May he continue 396

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? 401

Crom.

That Cranmer is return’d with welcome,

Install’d Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.

Wol.

That’s news indeed.

Crom.

Last, that the Lady Anne,

Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,

This day was view’d in open, as his queen, 405

Going to chapel; and the voice is now

Only about her coronation.

Wol.

There was the weight that pull’d me down. O Cromwell! 408

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 412

Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell;

I am a poor fall’n man, unworthy now

To be thy lord and master: seek the king;—

That sun, I pray, may never set!—I have told him 416

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.

Crom.

O my lord!

Must I then, leave you? must I needs forego

So good, so noble, and so true a master? 424

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. 428

Wol.

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear

In all my miseries; but thou hast forc’d me,

Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.

Let’s dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell; 432

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, 437

Found thee a way, out of his wrack, to rise in;

A sure and safe one, though thy master miss’d it.

Mark but my fall, and that that ruin’d me. 440

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’t?

Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee; 444

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! 449

Thou fall’st a blessed martyr. Serve the king;

And,—prithee, lead me in:

There take an inventory of all I have, 452

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 serv’d my God with half the zeal 456

I serv’d my king, he would not in mine age

Have left me naked to mine enemies.

Crom.

Good sir, have patience.

Wol.

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.

First Gen.

You’re well met once again.

Sec. Gen.

So are you.

First Gen.

You come to take your stand here, and behold

The Lady Anne pass from her coronation?

Sec. Gen.

’Tis all my business. At our last encounter 4

The Duke of Buckingham came from his trial.

First Gen.

’Tis very true: but that time offer’d sorrow;

This, general joy.

Sec. Gen.

’Tis well: the citizens,

I am sure, have shown at full their royal minds,

As, let ’em have their rights, they are ever forward, 9

In celebration of this day with shows,

Pageants, and sights of honour.

First Gen.

Never greater;

Nor, I’ll assure you, better taken, sir. 12

Sec. Gen.

May I be bold to ask what that contains,

That paper in your hand?

First Gen.

Yes; ’tis the list

Of those that claim their offices this day

By custom of the coronation. 16

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.

Sec. Gen.

I thank you, sir: had I not known those customs, 20

I should have been beholding to your paper.

But, I beseech you, what’s become of Katharine,

The princess dowager? how goes her business?

First Gen.

That I can tell you too. The Archbishop 24

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 28

She was often cited by them, but appear’d 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 divorc’d, 32

And the late marriage made of none effect:

Since which she was remov’d to Kimbolton,

Where she remains now sick.

Sec. Gen.

Alas! good lady!

[Trumpets.

The trumpets sound: stand close, the queen is coming.

[Hautboys.

The Order of the Coronation.

A lively flourish of trumpets.

1. Two Judges.
2 Lord Chancellor, with the purse and mace before him.
3. Choristers, singing. [Music.
4. Mayor of London, bearing the mace. Then Garter, in his coat of arms, and on his head a gilt copper crown.
5. 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 SS.
6. 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 SS.
7. 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 of her, the Bishops of London and Winchester.
8. The old Duchess of Norfolk, in a coronal of gold, wrought with flowers, bearing the Queen’s train.
9. Certain Ladies or Countesses, with plain circlets of gold without flowers.
They pass over the stage in order and state.

Sec. Gen.

A royal train, believe me. These I know; 37

Who’s that that bears the sceptre?

First Gen.

Marquess Dorset:

And that the Earl of Surrey with the rod.

Sec. Gen.

A bold brave gentleman. That should be 40

The Duke of Suffolk?

First Gen.

’Tis the same; high-steward.

Sec. Gen.

And that my Lord of Norfolk?

First Gen.

Yes.

Sec. Gen.

[Looking on the Queen.] Heaven bless thee!

Thou hast the sweetest face I ever look’d on.

Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel; 44

Our king has all the Indies in his arms,

And more and richer, when he strains that lady:

I cannot blame his conscience.

First Gen.

They that bear

The cloth of honour over her, are four barons 48

Of the Cinque-ports.

Sec. Gen.

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. 52

First Gen.

It is; and all the rest are countesses.

Sec. Gen.

Their coronets say so. These are stars indeed;

And sometimes falling ones.

First Gen.

No more of that.

[Exit Procession, with a great flourish of trumpets.

Enter a third Gentleman.

God save you, sir! Where have you been broiling? 56

Third Gen.

Among the crowd i’ the Abbey; where a finger

Could not be wedg’d in more: I am stifled

With the mere rankness of their joy.

Sec. Gen.

You saw

The ceremony?

Third Gen.

That I did.

First Gen.

How was it? 60

Third Gen

Well worth the seeing.

Sec. Gen.

Good sir, speak it to us.

Third Gen.

As well as I am able. The rich stream

Of lords and ladies, having brought the queen

To a prepar’d place in the choir, fell off 64

A distance from her; while her Grace sat down

To rest awhile, some half an hour or so,

In a rich chair of state, opposing freely

The beauty of her person to the people. 68

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, 72

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, 76

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 them. No man living

Could say, ‘This is my wife,’ there; all were woven 80

So strangely in one piece.

Sec. Gen.

But, what follow’d?

Third Gen.

At length her Grace rose, and with modest paces

Came to the altar; where she kneel’d, and, saint-like,

Cast her fair eyes to heaven and pray’d devoutly. 84

Then rose again and bow’d 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, 88

The rod, and bird of peace, and all such emblems

Laid nobly on her: which perform’d, the choir,

With all the choicest music of the kingdom,

Together sung Te Deum. So she parted, 92

And with the same full state pac’d back again

To York-place, where the feast is held.

First Gen.

Sir,

You must no more call it York-place, that’s past;

For, since the cardinal fell, that title’s lost: 96

’Tis now the king’s, and call’d Whitehall.

Third Gen.

I know it;

But ’tis so lately alter’d that the old name

Is fresh about me.

Sec. Gen.

What two reverend bishops

Were those that went on each side of the queen? 100

Third Gen.

Stokesly and Gardiner; the one of Winchester,—

Newly preferr’d from the king’s secretary,—

The other, London.

Sec. Gen.

He of Winchester

Is held no great good lover of the archbishop’s,

The virtuous Cranmer.

Third Gen.

All the land knows that:

However, yet there’s no great breach; when it comes, 106

Cranmer will find a friend will not shrink from him.

Sec. Gen.

Who may that be, I pray you?

Third Gen.

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. 112

Sec. Gen.

He will deserve more.

Third Gen.

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. 117

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Kimbolton.

Enter Katharine, Dowager, sick: led between Griffith and Patience.

Grif.

How does your Grace?

Kath.

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. 4

Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou ledd’st me,

That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolsey,

Was dead?

Grif.

Yes, madam; but I think your Grace,

Out of the pain you suffer’d, gave no ear to’t. 8

Kath.

Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he died:

If well, he stepp’d before me, happily,

For my example.

Grif.

Well, the voice goes, madam:

For after the stout Earl Northumberland 12

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.

Kath.

Alas! poor man. 16

Grif.

At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester;

Lodg’d in the abbey, where the reverend abbot,

With all his covent, honourably receiv’d him:

To whom he gave these words: ‘O! father abbot, 20

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 24

Pursu’d 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, 28

He gave his honours to the world again,

His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.

Kath.

So may he rest; his faults lie gently on him!

Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him, 32

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; 36

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; 40

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.

Grif.

Noble madam, 44

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?

Kath.

Yes, good Griffith,

I were malicious else.

Grif.

This cardinal, 48

Though from a humble stock, undoubtedly

Was fashion’d to much honour from his cradle.

He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one;

Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading; 52

Lofty and sour to them that lov’d 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, 56

He was most princely. Ever witness for him

Those twins of learning that he rais’d in you,

Ipswich, and Oxford! one of which fell with him,

Unwilling to outlive the good that did it; 60

The other, though unfinish’d, yet so famous,

So excellent in art, and still so rising,

That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue.

His overthrow heap’d happiness upon him; 64

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.

Kath.

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. 72

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: 76

I have not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith,

Cause the musicians play me that sad note

I nam’d my knell, whilst I sit meditating

On that celestial harmony I go to. 80

[Sad and solemn music.

Grif.

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 reverend 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 they vanish, carrying the garland with them. The music continues.

Kath.

Spirits of peace, where are ye? Are ye all gone,

And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye?

Grif.

Madam, we are here.

Kath.

It is not you I call for: 85

Saw ye none enter since I slept?

Grif.

None, madam.

Kath.

No? Saw you not, even now, a blessed troop

Invite me to a banquet; whose bright faces 88

Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun?

They promis’d me eternal happiness,

And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel

I am not worthy yet to wear: I shall assuredly.

Grif.

I am most joyful, madam, such good dreams 93

Possess your fancy.

Kath.

Bid the music leave,

They are harsh and heavy to me.

[Musicceases.

Pat.

Do you note

How much her Grace is alter’d on the sudden?

How long her face is drawn? How pale she looks, 97

And of an earthy cold? Mark her eyes!

Grif.

She is going, wench. Pray, pray.

Pat.

Heaven comfort her! 100

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

An’t like your Grace,—

Kath.

You are a saucy fellow:

Deserve we no more reverence?

Grif.

You are to blame,

Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness,

To use so rude behaviour; go to, kneel. 104

Mess.

I humbly do entreat your highness pardon;

My haste made me unmannerly. There is staying

A gentleman, sent from the king, to see you.

Kath.

Admit him entrance, Griffith: but this fellow 108

Let me ne’er see again.

[Exeunt Griffith and Messenger.

Re-enter Griffith, with Capucius.

If my sight fail not,

You should be lord ambassador from the emperor,

My royal nephew, and your name Capucius.

Cap

Madam, the same; your servant.

Kath.

O my lord! 112

The times and titles now are alter’d strangely

With me since first you knew me. But, I pray you,

What is your pleasure with me?

Cap.

Noble lady,

First, mine own service to your Grace; the next, 116

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. 120

Kath.

O! my good lord, that comfort comes too late;

’Tis like a pardon after execution:

That gentle physic, given in time, had cur’d me;

But now I am past all comforts here but prayers.

How does his highness?

Cap.

Madam, in good health. 125

Kath.

So may he ever do! and ever flourish,

When I shall dwell with worms, and my poor name

Banish’d the kingdom. Patience, is that letter

I caus’d you write, yet sent away?

Pat.

No, madam. 129

[Giving it to Katharine.

Kath.

Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver

This to my lord the king.

Cap.

Most willing, madam.

Kath.

In which I have commended to his goodness 132

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, 136

I hope she will deserve well,—and a little

To love her for her mother’s sake, that lov’d 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 141

Have follow’d both my fortunes faithfully:

Of which there is not one, I dare avow,—

And now I should not lie,—but will deserve, 144

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. 148

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: 152

If heaven had pleas’d 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, 156

As you wish Christian peace to souls departed,

Stand these poor people’s friend, and urge the king

To do me this last right.

Cap.

By heaven, I will,

Or let me lose the fashion of a man! 160

Kath.

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 bless’d him; 164

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, 168

Let me be us’d 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 unqueen’d, yet like 172

A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me.

I can no more.

[Exeunt, leading Katharine.

ACT V.

Scene I.— London. A Gallery in the Palace.

Enter Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, a Page with a torch before him, met by Sir Thomas Lovell.

Gar.

It’s one o’clock, boy, is’t not?

Boy.

It hath struck.

Gar.

These should be hours for necessities,

Not for delights; times to repair our nature

With comforting repose, and not for us 4

To waste these times. Good hour of night, Sir Thomas!

Whither so late?

Lov.

Came you from the king, my lord?

Gar.

I did, Sir Thomas; and left him at primero

With the Duke of Suffolk.

Lov.

I must to him too, 8

Before he go to bed. I’ll take my leave.

Gar.

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— 13

As they say spirits do—at midnight, have

In them a wilder nature than the business

That seeks dispatch by day.

Lov.

My lord, I love you, 16

And durst commend a secret to your ear

Much weightier than this work. The queen’s in labour,

They say, in great extremity; and fear’d

She’ll with the labour end.

Gar.

The fruit she goes with 20

I pray for heartily, that it may find

Good time, and live: but for the stock, Sir Thomas,

I wish it grubb’d up now.

Lov.

Methinks I could

Cry the amen; and yet my conscience says 24

She’s a good creature, and, sweet lady, does

Deserve our better wishes.

Gar.

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, 29

’Twill not, Sir Thomas Lovell, take ’t of me,

Till Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she,

Sleep in their graves.

Lov.

Now, sir, you speak of two 32

The most remark’d 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 37

Is the king’s hand and tongue; and who dare speak

One syllable against him?

Gar.

Yes, yes, Sir Thomas,

There are that dare; and I myself have ventur’d

To speak my mind of him: and indeed this day,

Sir,—I may tell it you,—I think I have

Incens’d the lords o’ the council that he is—

For so I know he is, they know he is— 44

A most arch heretic, a pestilence

That does infect the land: with which they mov’d

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 51

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!

Lov.

Many good-nights, my lord. I rest your servant.

[Exeunt Gardiner and Page.

Enter the King and Suffolk.

K. Hen.

Charles, I will play no more to-night; 56

My mind’s not on’t; you are too hard for me.

Suf.

Sir, I did never win of you before.

K. Hen.

But little, Charles;

Nor shall not when my fancy’s on my play. 60

Now, Lovell, from the queen what is the news?

Lov.

I could not personally deliver to her

What you commanded me, but by her woman

I sent your message; who return’d her thanks 64

In the great’st humbleness, and desir’d your highness

Most heartily to pray for her.

K Hen.

What sayst thou, ha?

To pray for her? what! is she crying out?

Lov.

So said her woman; and that her sufferance made 68

Almost each pang a death.

K. Hen.

Alas! good lady.

Suf.

God safely quit her of her burden, and

With gentle travail, to the gladding of

Your highness with an heir!

K. Hen.

’Tis midnight, Charles; 72

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

Would not be friendly to.

Suf.

I wish your highness 76

A quiet night; and my good mistress will

Remember in my prayers.

K. Hen.

Charles, good-night.

[Exit Suffolk.

Enter Sir Anthony Denny.

Well, Sir, what follows?

Den.

Sir, I have brought my lord the archbishop, 80

As you commanded me.

K. Hen.

Ha! Canterbury?

Den.

Ay, my good lord.

K. Hen.

’Tis true: where is he, Denny?

Den.

He attends your highness’ pleasure.

K. Hen.

Bring him to us.

[Exit Denny.

Lov.

[Aside.] This is about that which the bishop spake: 84

I am happily come hither.

Re-enter Denny, with Cranmer.

K. Hen.

Avoid the gallery.

[Lovell seems to stay.

Ha! I have said. Begone.

What!—

[Exeunt Lovell and Denny.

Cran.

I am fearful. Wherefore frowns he thus? 88

’Tis his aspect of terror: all’s not well.

K. Hen.

How now, my lord! You do desire to know

Wherefore I sent for you.

Cran.

[Kneeling.] It is my duty

To attend your highness’ pleasure.

K. Hen.

Pray you, arise,

My good and gracious Lord of Canterbury. 93

Come, you and I must walk a turn together;

I have news to tell you: come, come, give me your hand.

Ah! my good lord, I grieve at what I speak, 96

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 consider’d, 100

Have mov’d 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 104

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 108

Would come against you.

Cran.

[Kneeling.] I humbly thank your highness;

And am right glad to catch this good occasion

Most throughly to be winnow’d, where my chaff

And corn shall fly asunder; for I know 112

There’s none stands under more calumnious tongues

Than I myself, poor man.

K. Hen.

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, 117

What manner of man are you? My lord, I look’d

You would have given me your petition, that

I should have ta’en some pains to bring together 120

Yourself and your accusers; and to have heard you,

Without indurance, further.

Cran.

Most dread liege,

The good I stand on is my truth and honesty:

If they shall fail, I, with mine enemies, 124

Will triumph o’er my person; which I weigh not,

Being of those virtues vacant. I fear nothing

What can be said against me.

K. Hen.

Know you not

How your state stands i’ the world, with the whole world? 128

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 132

Might corrupt minds procure knaves as corrupt

To swear against you? such things have been done.

You are potently oppos’d, and with a malice

Of as great size. Ween you of better luck, 136

I mean in perjur’d witness, than your master,

Whose minister you are, whiles here he liv’d

Upon this naughty earth? Go to, go to;

You take a precipice for no leap of danger, 140

And woo your own destruction.

Cran.

God and your majesty

Protect mine innocence! or I fall into

The trap is laid for me!

K. Hen.

Be of good cheer;

They shall no more prevail than we give way to. 144

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 148

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 152

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, 156

And do as I have bid you. [Exit Cranmer.] He has strangled

His language in his tears.

Enter an Old Lady.

Gent.

[Within.] Come back: what mean you?

Old L.

I’ll not come back; the tidings that I bring 160

Will make my boldness manners. Now, good angels

Fly o’er thy royal head, and shade thy person

Under their blessed wings!

K. Hen.

Now, by thy looks

I guess thy message. Is the queen deliver’d?

Say, ay; and of a boy.

Old L.

Ay, ay, my liege; 165

And of a lovely boy: the God of heaven

Both now and ever bless her! ’tis a girl,

Promises boys hereafter. Sir, your queen 168

Desires your visitation, and to be

Acquainted with this stranger: ’tis as like you

As cherry is to cherry.

K. Hen.

Lovell!

Re-enter Lovell.

Lov.

Sir!

K. Hen.

Give her a hundred marks. I’ll to the queen.

[Exit.

Old L.

A hundred marks! By this light, I’ll ha’ more. 173

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? 176

I will have more, or else unsay’t; and now,

While it is hot, I’ll put it to the issue.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Lobby before the Council-Chamber.

Enter Cranmer; Pursuivants, Pages, &c., attending.

Cran.

I hope I am not too late; and yet the gentleman,

That was sent to me from the council, pray’d me

To make great haste. All fast? what means this? Ho!

Who waits there?

Enter Keeper.

Sure, you know me?

Keep.

Yes, my lord; 4

But yet I cannot help you.

Cran.

Why?

Keep.

Your Grace must wait till you be call’d for.

Enter Doctor Butts.

Cran.

So.

Butts.

[Aside.] This is a piece of malice. I am glad

I came this way so happily: the king 8

Shall understand it presently.

Cran.

[Aside.] ’Tis Butts,

The king’s physician. As he past along,

How earnestly he cast his eyes upon me.

Pray heaven he sound not my disgrace! For certain, 12

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, 16

’Mong boys, grooms, and lackeys. But their pleasures

Must be fulfill’d, and I attend with patience.

Enter, at a window above, the King and Butts.

Butts.

I’ll show your Grace the strangest sight,—

K. Hen.

What’s that, Butts?

Butts.

I think your highness saw this many a day. 20

K. Hen.

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.

K. Hen.

Ha! ’Tis he, indeed: 24

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 28

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: 32

Let ’em alone, and draw the curtain close;

We shall hear more anon.

[Exeunt above.

Scene III.— The Council-Chamber.

Enter the Lord Chancellor, the Duke of Suffolk, the Duke of Norfolk, Earl of Surrey, Lord Chamberlain, Gardiner, and Cromwell. The Chancellor places himself at the upper end of the table on the left hand; a seat being left void above him, as for the Archbishop of Canterbury. The rest seat themselves in order on each side. Cromwell at the lower end as secretary. Keeper at the door.

Chan.

Speak to the business, Master secretary:

Why are we met in council?

Crom.

Please your honours,

The chief cause concerns his Grace of Canterbury.

Gar.

Has he had knowledge of it?

Crom.

Yes.

Nor.

Who waits there? 4

Keep.

Without, my noble lords?

Gar.

Yes.

Keep.

My lord archbishop:

And has done half-an-hour, to know your pleasures.

Chan.

Let him come in.

Keep.

Your Grace may enter now.

[Cranmer enters and approaches the council-table.

Chan.

My good lord archbishop, I’m very sorry 8

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, 13

Have misdemean’d yourself, and not a little,

Toward the king first, then his laws, in filling

The whole realm, by your teaching and your chaplains,— 16

For so we are inform’d,—with new opinions,

Divers and dangerous; which are heresies,

And, not reform’d, may prove pernicious.

Gar.

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 mouths with stubborn bits, and spur ’em,

Till they obey the manage. If we suffer— 24

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 28

Of the whole state: as, of late days, our neighbours,

The upper Germany, can dearly witness,

Yet freshly pitied in our memories.

Cran.

My good lords, hitherto in all the progress 32

Both of my life and office, I have labour’d,

And with no little study, that my teaching

And the strong course of my authority

Might go one way, and safely; and the end 36

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, 40

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 44

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.

Suf.

Nay, my lord, 48

That cannot be: you are a counsellor,

And by that virtue no man dare accuse you.

Gar.

My lord, because we have business of more moment,

We will be short with you. ’Tis his highness’ pleasure, 52

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. 57

Cran.

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; 61

’Tis my undoing: love and meekness, lord,

Become a churchman better than ambition:

Win straying souls with modesty again, 64

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, 68

But reverence to your calling makes me modest.

Gar.

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. 72

Crom.

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 76

To load a falling man.

Gar.

Good Master secretary,

I cry your honour mercy, you may, worst

Of all this table, say so.

Crom.

Why, my lord?

Gar.

Do not I know you for a favourer 80

Of this new sect? ye are not sound.

Crom.

Not sound?

Gar.

Not sound, I say.

Crom.

Would you were half so honest!

Men’s prayers then would seek you, not their fears.

Gar.

I shall remember this bold language.

Crom.

Do. 84

Remember your bold life too.

Chan.

This is too much;

Forbear, for shame, my lords.

Gar.

I have done.

Crom.

And I.

Chan.

Then thus for you, my lord: it stands agreed,

I take it, by all voices, that forthwith 88

You be convey’d 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.

Cran.

Is there no other way of mercy,

But I must needs to the Tower, my lords?

Gar.

What other 93

Would you expect? You are strangely troublesome.

Let some o’ the guard be ready there.

Enter Guard.

Cran.

For me?

Must I go like a traitor thither?

Gar.

Receive him, 96

And see him safe i’ the Tower.

Cran.

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 100

To a most noble judge, the king my master.

Chan.

This is the king’s ring.

Sur.

’Tis no counterfeit.

Suf.

’Tis the right ring, by heaven! I told ye all,

When we first put this dangerous stone a-rolling,

’Twould fall upon ourselves.

Nor.

Do you think, my lords, 105

The king will suffer but the little finger

Of this man to be vex’d?

Cham.

’Tis now too certain:

How much more is his life in value with him?

Would I were fairly out on’t.

Crom.

My mind gave me, 109

In seeking tales and informations

Against this man—whose honesty the devil

And his disciples only envy at— 112

Ye blew the fire that burns ye: now have at ye!

Enter the King, frowning on them: he takes his seat.

Gar.

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: 116

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 judgment comes to hear 120

The cause betwixt her and this great offender.

K. Hen.

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. 125

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 128

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 132

Than but once think this place becomes thee not.

Sur.

May it please your Grace,—

K. Hen.

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. 136

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 141

Bid ye so far forget yourselves? I gave ye

Power as he was a counsellor to try him,

Not as a groom. There’s some of ye, I see, 144

More out of malice than integrity,

Would try him to the utmost, had ye mean;

Which ye shall never have while I live.

Chan.

Thus far,

My most dread sov’reign, may it like your Grace 148

To let my tongue excuse all. What was purpos’d

Concerning his imprisonment, was rather—

If there be faith in men—meant for his trial

And fair purgation to the world, than malice, 152

I’m sure, in me.

K. Hen.

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 156

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; 160

That is, a fair young maid that yet wants baptism,

You must be godfather, and answer for her.

Cran.

The greatest monarch now alive may glory

In such an honour: how may I deserve it, 164

That am a poor and humble subject to you?

K. Hen.

Come, come, my lord, you’d spare your spoons: you shall have two noble partners with you; the old Duchess of Norfolk, and Lady Marquess Dorset: will these please you? 169

Once more, my Lord of Winchester, I charge you,

Embrace and love this man.

Gar.

With a true heart

And brother-love I do it.

Cran.

And let heaven 172

Witness, how dear I hold this confirmation.

K. Hen.

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 176

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; 180

So I grow stronger, you more honour gain.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Palace-Yard.

Noise and tumult within. Enter Porter and his Man.

Port.

You’ll leave your noise anon, ye rascals.

Do you take the court for Paris-garden? ye rude slaves, leave your gaping.

[Within.] Good Master porter, I belong to the larder. 5

Port.

Belong to the gallows, and be hanged, you 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? 12

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. 16

We may as well push against Paul’s as stir ’em.

Port.

How got they in, and be hang’d?

Man.

Alas, I know not; how gets the tide in?

As much as one sound cudgel of four foot— 20

You see the poor remainder—could distribute,

I made no spare, sir.

Port.

You did nothing, sir.

Man.

I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand,

To mow ’em down before me; but if I spar’d any

That had a head to hit, either young or old, 25

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!

[Within.] Do you hear, Master porter? 29

Port.

I shall be with you presently, good

Master puppy. Keep the door close, sirrah.

Man.

What would you have me do? 32

Port.

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. 40

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. 64

Port.

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. 72

Enter the Lord Chamberlain.

Cham.

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: 76

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.

Port.

An’t please your honour, 80

We are but men; and what so many may do,

Not being torn a-pieces, we have done:

An army cannot rule ’em.

Cham.

As I live,

If the king blame me for’t, I’ll lay ye all 84

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; 88

They’re come already from the christening.

Go, break among the press, and find a way out

To let the troop pass fairly, or I’ll find

A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months. 92

Port.

Make way there for the princess.

Man.

You great fellow,

Stand close up, or I’ll make your head ache.

Port.

You i’ the camlet, get up o’ the rail:

I’ll pick you o’er the pales else.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— 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, &c., train borne by a Lady; then follows the Marchioness of Dorset, the other godmother, and Ladies. The troop pass once about the stage, and Garter speaks.

Gart.

Heaven, from thy endless goodness, send prosperous life, long, and ever happy, to the high and mighty Princess of England, Elizabeth! 4

Flourish. Enter King and Train.

Cran.

[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, 8

May hourly fall upon ye!

K. Hen.

Thank you, good lord archbishop:

What is her name?

Cran.

Elizabeth.

K. Hen.

Stand up, lord.

[The King kisses the Child.

With this kiss take my blessing; God protect thee!

Into whose hand I give thy life.

Cran.

Amen. 12

K. Hen.

My noble gossips, ye have been too prodigal:

I thank ye heartily: so shall this lady

When she has so much English.

Cran.

Let me speak, sir,

For heaven now bids me; and the words I utter 16

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 24

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, 28

Shall still be doubled on her; truth shall nurse her;

Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her;

She shall be lov’d and fear’d; her own shall bless her;

Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn, 32

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 phœnix, 41

Her ashes new-create another heir

As great in admiration as herself,

So shall she leave her blessedness to one,— 44

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 fix’d. Peace, plenty, love, truth, terror, 48

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 52

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.

K. Hen.

Thou speakest wonders.

Cran.

She shall be, to the happiness of England, 57

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.

K. Hen.

O lord archbishop! 64

Thou hast made me now a man: never, before

This happy child, did I get any thing.

This oracle of comfort has so pleas’d me,

That when I am in heaven, I shall desire 68

To see what this child does, and praise my Maker.

I thank ye all. To you, my good Lord Mayor,

And your good brethren, I am much beholding;

I have receiv’d much honour by your presence,

And ye shall find me thankful. Lead the way, lords: 73

Ye must all see the queen, and she must thank ye;

She will be sick else. This day, no man think

He 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’ve frighted with our trumpets; so, ’tis clear

They’ll say ’tis naught: others, to hear the city

Abus’d 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 8

For this play at this time, is only in

The merciful construction of good women;

For such a one we show’d ’em: if they smile,

And say ’twill do, I know, within a while 12

All the best men are ours; for ’tis ill hap

If they hold when their ladies bid ’em clap.