William Shakespeare: The Complete Works 2nd Edition (62 page)
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Authors: William Shakespeare
Tags: #Drama, #Literary Criticism, #Shakespeare
BOOK: William Shakespeare: The Complete Works 2nd Edition
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Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied.
RICHARD
For God’s sake, lords, give signal to the fight.
WARWICK
What sayst thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown?
QUEEN MARGARET
Why, how now, long-tongued Warwick, dare you
speak?
When you and I met at Saint Albans last,
Your legs did better service than your hands.
speak?
When you and I met at Saint Albans last,
Your legs did better service than your hands.
WARWICK
Then ‘twas my turn to fly—and now ‘tis thine.
CLIFFORD
You said so much before, and yet you fled.
WARWICK
’Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence.
NORTHUMBERLAND
No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay.
RICHARD
Northumberland, I hold thee reverently.
Break off the parley, for scarce I can refrain
The execution of my big-swoll’n heart
Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.
Break off the parley, for scarce I can refrain
The execution of my big-swoll’n heart
Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.
CLIFFORD
I slew thy father—call’st thou him a child?
RICHARD
Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward,
As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland.
But ere sun set I’ll make thee curse the deed.
As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland.
But ere sun set I’ll make thee curse the deed.
KING HENRY
Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak.
QUEEN MARGARET
Defy them, then, or else hold close thy lips.
KING HENRY
I prithee give no limits to my tongue—
I am a king, and privileged to speak.
I am a king, and privileged to speak.
CLIFFORD
My liege, the wound that bred this meeting here
Cannot be cured by words—therefore be still.
Cannot be cured by words—therefore be still.
RICHARD
Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword.
By him that made us all, I am resolved
That Clifford’s manhood lies upon his tongue.
By him that made us all, I am resolved
That Clifford’s manhood lies upon his tongue.
EDWARD
Say, Henry, shall I have my right or no?
A thousand men have broke their fasts today
That ne’er shall dine unless thou yield the crown.
A thousand men have broke their fasts today
That ne’er shall dine unless thou yield the crown.
WARWICK (
to King Henry
)
to King Henry
)
If thou deny, their blood upon thy head;
For York in justice puts his armour on.
For York in justice puts his armour on.
PRINCE EDWARD
If that be right which Warwick says is right,
There is no wrong, but everything is right.
There is no wrong, but everything is right.
RICHARD
Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands—
For, well I wot, thou hast thy mother’s tongue.
For, well I wot, thou hast thy mother’s tongue.
QUEEN MARGARET
But thou art neither like thy sire nor dam,
But like a foul misshapen stigmatic,
Marked by the destinies to be avoided,
As venom toads or lizards’ dreadful stings.
But like a foul misshapen stigmatic,
Marked by the destinies to be avoided,
As venom toads or lizards’ dreadful stings.
RICHARD
Iron of Naples, hid with English gilt,
Whose father bears the title of a king—
As if a channel should be called the sea—
Sham’st thou not, knowing whence thou art
extraught,
To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?
Whose father bears the title of a king—
As if a channel should be called the sea—
Sham’st thou not, knowing whence thou art
extraught,
To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?
EDWARD
A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns
To make this shameless callet know herself.
Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,
Although thy husband may be Menelaus;
And ne’er was Agamemnon’s brother wronged
By that false woman, as this king by thee.
His father revelled in the heart of France,
And tamed the King, and made the Dauphin stoop;
And had he matched according to his state,
He might have kept that glory to this day.
But when he took a beggar to his bed,
And graced thy poor sire with his bridal day,
Even then that sunshine brewed a shower for him
That washed his father’s fortunes forth of France,
And heaped sedition on his crown at home.
For what hath broached this tumult but thy pride?
Hadst thou been meek, our title still had slept,
And we, in pity of the gentle King,
Had slipped our claim until another age.
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 wronged
By that false woman, as this king by thee.
His father revelled in the heart of France,
And tamed the King, and made the Dauphin stoop;
And had he matched according to his state,
He might have kept that glory to this day.
But when he took a beggar to his bed,
And graced thy poor sire with his bridal day,
Even then that sunshine brewed a shower for him
That washed his father’s fortunes forth of France,
And heaped sedition on his crown at home.
For what hath broached this tumult but thy pride?
Hadst thou been meek, our title still had slept,
And we, in pity of the gentle King,
Had slipped our claim until another age.
GEORGE (
to Queen Margaret
)
to Queen Margaret
)
But when we saw our sunshine made thy spring,
And that thy summer bred us no increase,
We set the axe to thy usurping root.
And though the edge hath something hit ourselves,
Yet know thou, since we have begun to strike,
We’ll never leave till we have hewn thee down,
Or bathed thy growing with our heated bloods.
And that thy summer bred us no increase,
We set the axe to thy usurping root.
And though the edge hath something hit ourselves,
Yet know thou, since we have begun to strike,
We’ll never leave till we have hewn thee down,
Or bathed thy growing with our heated bloods.
EDWARD (
to Queen Margaret
)
to Queen Margaret
)
And in this resolution I defy thee,
Not willing any longer conference
Since thou deniest the gentle King to speak.
Sound trumpets—let our bloody colours wave!
And either victory, or else a grave!
Not willing any longer conference
Since thou deniest the gentle King to speak.
Sound trumpets—let our bloody colours wave!
And either victory, or else a grave!
QUEEN MARGARET Stay, Edward.
EDWARD
No, wrangling woman, we’ll no longer stay—
These words will cost ten thousand lives this day.
These words will cost ten thousand lives this day.
⌈
Flourish. March. Exeunt Edward and his men at one door and Queen Margaret and her men at another door
⌉
Alarum. Excursions. Enter the Earl of Warwick
WARWICK
Forespent with toil, as runners with a race,
I lay me down a little while to breathe;
For strokes received, and many blows repaid,
Have robbed my strong-knit sinews of their strength,
And, spite of spite, needs must I rest a while.
I lay me down a little while to breathe;
For strokes received, and many blows repaid,
Have robbed my strong-knit sinews of their strength,
And, spite of spite, needs must I rest a while.
Enter Edward, the Duke of York, running
EDWARD
Smile, gentle heaven, or strike, ungentle death!
For this world frowns, and Edward’s sun is clouded.
For this world frowns, and Edward’s sun is clouded.
WARWICK
How now, my lord, what hap? What hope of good?
Enter George,
⌈
running
⌉
GEORGE
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?
Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us.
What counsel give you? Whither shall we fly?
EDWARD
Bootless is flight—they follow us with wings,
And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit.
And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit.
Enter Richard,
⌈
running
⌉
RICHARD
Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?
Thy brother’s blood the thirsty earth hath drunk,
Broached with the steely point of Clifford’s lance.
And in the very pangs of death he cried,
Like to a dismal clangour heard from far,
‘Warwick, revenge—brother, revenge my death!’
So, underneath the belly of their steeds
That stained their fetlocks in his smoking blood,
The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.
Thy brother’s blood the thirsty earth hath drunk,
Broached with the steely point of Clifford’s lance.
And in the very pangs of death he cried,
Like to a dismal clangour heard from far,
‘Warwick, revenge—brother, revenge my death!’
So, underneath the belly of their steeds
That stained their fetlocks in his smoking blood,
The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.
WARWICK
Then let the earth be drunken with our blood.
I’ll kill my horse, because I will not fly.
Why stand we like soft-hearted women here,
Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage;
And look upon, as if the tragedy
Were played in jest by counterfeiting actors?
(
Kneeling
) Here, on my knee, I vow to God above
I’ll never pause again, never stand still,
Till either death hath closed these eyes of mine
Or fortune given me measure of revenge.
I’ll kill my horse, because I will not fly.
Why stand we like soft-hearted women here,
Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage;
And look upon, as if the tragedy
Were played in jest by counterfeiting actors?
(
Kneeling
) Here, on my knee, I vow to God above
I’ll never pause again, never stand still,
Till either death hath closed these eyes of mine
Or fortune given me measure of revenge.
EDWARD
(kneeling)
(kneeling)
O, Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine,
And in this vow do chain my soul to thine.
And, ere my knee rise from the earth’s cold face,
I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to Thee,
Thou setter up and plucker down of kings,
Beseeching Thee, if with Thy will it stands
That to my foes this body must be prey,
Yet that Thy brazen gates of heaven may ope
And give sweet passage to my sinful soul.
And in this vow do chain my soul to thine.
And, ere my knee rise from the earth’s cold face,
I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to Thee,
Thou setter up and plucker down of kings,
Beseeching Thee, if with Thy will it stands
That to my foes this body must be prey,
Yet that Thy brazen gates of heaven may ope
And give sweet passage to my sinful soul.
⌈
They rise
⌉
Now, lords, take leave until we meet again,
Where’er it be, in heaven or in earth.
Where’er it be, in heaven or in earth.
ICHARD
Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle Warwick,
Let me embrace thee in my weary arms.
I, that did never weep, now melt with woe
That winter should cut off our springtime so.
Let me embrace thee in my weary arms.
I, that did never weep, now melt with woe
That winter should cut off our springtime so.
WARWICK
Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell.
GEORGE
Yet let us all together to our troops,
And give them leave to fly that will not stay;
And call them pillars that will stand to us;
And, if we thrive, promise them such rewards
As victors wear at the Olympian games.
This may plant courage in their quailing breasts,
For yet is hope of life and victory.
Forslow no longer—make we hence amain.
Exeunt
2.4And give them leave to fly that will not stay;
And call them pillars that will stand to us;
And, if we thrive, promise them such rewards
As victors wear at the Olympian games.
This may plant courage in their quailing breasts,
For yet is hope of life and victory.
Forslow no longer—make we hence amain.
Exeunt
⌈
Alarums.
⌉
Excursions. Enter Richard
⌈
at one door
⌉
and Lord Clifford
⌈
at the other
⌉
RICHARD
Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone.
Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York,
And this for Rutland, both bound to revenge,
Wert thou environed with a brazen wall.
Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York,
And this for Rutland, both bound to revenge,
Wert thou environed with a brazen wall.
CLIFFORD
Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone.
This is the hand that stabbed thy father York,
And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland,
And here’s the heart that triumphs in their death
And cheers these hands that slew thy sire and brother
To execute the like upon thyself—
And so, have at thee!
This is the hand that stabbed thy father York,
And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland,
And here’s the heart that triumphs in their death
And cheers these hands that slew thy sire and brother
To execute the like upon thyself—
And so, have at thee!
They fight. The Earl of Warwick comes and rescues Richard. Lord Clifford flies
RICHARD
Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase—
For I myself will hunt this wolf to death.
Exeunt
2.5For I myself will hunt this wolf to death.
Exeunt
Alarum. Enter King Henry
KING HENRY
This battle fares like to the morning’s war,
When dying clouds contend with growing light,
What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day nor night.
Now sways it this way like a mighty sea
Forced by the tide to combat with the wind,
Now sways it that way like the selfsame sea
Forced to retire by fury of the wind.
Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind;
Now one the better, then another best—
Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,
Yet neither conqueror nor conquered.
So is the equal poise of this fell war.
Here on this molehill will I sit me down.
To whom God will, there be the victory.
For Margaret my queen, and Clifford, too,
Have chid me from the battle, swearing both
They prosper best of all when I am thence.
Would I were dead, if God’s good will were so—
For what is in this world but grief and woe?
O God! Methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain.
To sit upon a hill, as I do now;
To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run:
How many makes the hour full complete,
How many hours brings about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the times:
So many hours must I tend my flock,
So many hours must I take my rest,
So many hours must I contemplate,
So many hours must I sport myself,
So many days my ewes have been with young,
So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean,
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece.
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Passed over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah, what a life were this! How sweet! How lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds looking on their seely sheep
Than doth a rich embroidered canopy
To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery?
O yes, it doth—a thousandfold it doth.
And to conclude, the shepherd’s homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree’s shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince’s delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,
When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him.
When dying clouds contend with growing light,
What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day nor night.
Now sways it this way like a mighty sea
Forced by the tide to combat with the wind,
Now sways it that way like the selfsame sea
Forced to retire by fury of the wind.
Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind;
Now one the better, then another best—
Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,
Yet neither conqueror nor conquered.
So is the equal poise of this fell war.
Here on this molehill will I sit me down.
To whom God will, there be the victory.
For Margaret my queen, and Clifford, too,
Have chid me from the battle, swearing both
They prosper best of all when I am thence.
Would I were dead, if God’s good will were so—
For what is in this world but grief and woe?
O God! Methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain.
To sit upon a hill, as I do now;
To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run:
How many makes the hour full complete,
How many hours brings about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the times:
So many hours must I tend my flock,
So many hours must I take my rest,
So many hours must I contemplate,
So many hours must I sport myself,
So many days my ewes have been with young,
So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean,
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece.
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Passed over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah, what a life were this! How sweet! How lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds looking on their seely sheep
Than doth a rich embroidered canopy
To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery?
O yes, it doth—a thousandfold it doth.
And to conclude, the shepherd’s homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree’s shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince’s delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,
When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him.
Alarum. Enter
⌈
at one door
⌉
a Soldier with a dead man in his arms. King Henry stands apart
SOLDIER
Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.
This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight,
May be possessed with some store of crowns;
And I, that haply take them from him now,
May yet ere night yield both my life and them
To some man else, as this dead man doth me.
This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight,
May be possessed with some store of crowns;
And I, that haply take them from him now,
May yet ere night yield both my life and them
To some man else, as this dead man doth me.
⌈
He removes the dead man’s helmet
⌉
Who’s this? O God! It is my father’s face
Whom in this conflict I, unwares, have killed.
O, heavy times, begetting such events!
From London by the King was I pressed forth;
My father, being the Earl of Warwick’s man,
Came on the part of York, pressed by his master;
And I, who at his hands received my life,
Have by my hands of life bereaved him.
Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did;
And pardon, father, for I knew not thee.
My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks,
And no more words till they have flowed their fill.
He weeps
Whom in this conflict I, unwares, have killed.
O, heavy times, begetting such events!
From London by the King was I pressed forth;
My father, being the Earl of Warwick’s man,
Came on the part of York, pressed by his master;
And I, who at his hands received my life,
Have by my hands of life bereaved him.
Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did;
And pardon, father, for I knew not thee.
My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks,
And no more words till they have flowed their fill.
He weeps
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