ACT I
SCENE I. London. The Parliament-house.
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[Alarum. Enter YORK, EDWARD, RICHARD, NORFOLK, MONTAGUE, WARWICK, and Soldiers]
Warwick. Neither the king, nor he that loves him best, |
| The proudest he that holds up Lancaster, |
| Dares stir a wing, if Warwick shake his bells. |
| I'll plant Plantagenet, root him up who dares: |
| Resolve thee, Richard; claim the English crown. |
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| [Flourish. Enter KING HENRY VI, CLIFFORD, NORTHUMBERLAND, WESTMORELAND, EXETER, and the rest]
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Queen Margaret. Enforced thee! art thou king, and wilt be forced? |
| I shame to hear thee speak. Ah, timorous wretch! |
| Thou hast undone thyself, thy son and me; |
| And given unto the house of York such head |
| As thou shalt reign but by their sufferance. |
| To entail him and his heirs unto the crown, |
| What is it, but to make thy sepulchre |
| And creep into it far before thy time? |
| Warwick is chancellor and the lord of Calais; |
| Stern Falconbridge commands the narrow seas; |
| The duke is made protector of the realm; |
| And yet shalt thou be safe? such safety finds |
| The trembling lamb environed with wolves. |
| Had I been there, which am a silly woman, |
| The soldiers should have toss'd me on their pikes |
| 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, |
| 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. |
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SCENE II. Sandal Castle.
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[Enter RICHARD, EDWARD, and MONTAGUE]
Richard. An oath is of no moment, being not took |
| Before a true and lawful magistrate, |
| That hath authority over him that swears: |
| Henry had none, but did usurp the place; |
| Then, seeing 'twas he that made you to depose, |
| Your oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous. |
| Therefore, to arms! And, father, do but think |
| How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown; |
| Within whose circuit is Elysium |
| And all that poets feign of bliss and joy. |
| Why do we finger thus? I cannot rest |
| Until the white rose that I wear be dyed |
| Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry's heart. |
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York. Richard, enough; I will be king, or die. |
| Brother, thou shalt to London presently, |
| And whet on Warwick to this enterprise. |
| Thou, Richard, shalt to the Duke of Norfolk, |
| And tell him privily of our intent. |
| You Edward, shall unto my Lord Cobham, |
| With whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise: |
| In them I trust; for they are soldiers, |
| Witty, courteous, liberal, full of spirit. |
| While you are thus employ'd, what resteth more, |
| But that I seek occasion how to rise, |
| And yet the king not privy to my drift, |
| Nor any of the house of Lancaster? |
| [Enter a Messenger]
But, stay: what news? Why comest thou in such post? |
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SCENE III. Field of battle betwixt Sandal Castle and Wakefield.
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[Alarums. Enter RUTLAND and his Tutor]
SCENE IV. Another part of the field.
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[Alarum. Enter YORK]
York. The army of the queen hath got the field: |
| My uncles both are slain in rescuing me; |
| And all my followers to the eager foe |
| Turn back and fly, like ships before the wind |
| Or lambs pursued by hunger-starved wolves. |
| My sons, God knows what hath bechanced them: |
| But this I know, they have demean'd themselves |
| Like men born to renown by life or death. |
| Three times did Richard make a lane to me. |
| And thrice cried 'Courage, father! fight it out!' |
| And full as oft came Edward to my side, |
| With purple falchion, painted to the hilt |
| In blood of those that had 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! |
| A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre!' |
| With this, we charged again: but, out, alas! |
| We bodged again; as I have seen a swan |
| With bootless labour swim against the tide |
| 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: |
| 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, PRINCE EDWARD, and Soldiers]
Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland, |
| I dare your quenchless fury to more rage: |
| I am your butt, and I abide your shot. |
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Queen Margaret. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland, |
| Come, make him stand upon this molehill here, |
| That raught at mountains with outstretched arms, |
| Yet parted but the shadow with his hand. |
| What! was it you that would be England's king? |
| Was't you that revell'd in our parliament, |
| And made a preachment of your high descent? |
| Where are your mess of sons to back you now? |
| The wanton Edward, and the lusty George? |
| And where's that valiant crook-back prodigy, |
| Dicky your boy, that with his grumbling voice |
| Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies? |
| Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland? |
| Look, York: I stain'd this napkin with the blood |
| That valiant Clifford, with his rapier's point, |
| Made issue from the bosom of the boy; |
| And if thine eyes can water for his death, |
| I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal. |
| Alas poor York! but that I hate thee deadly, |
| I should lament thy miserable state. |
| I prithee, grieve, to make me merry, York. |
| What, hath thy fiery heart so parch'd thine entrails |
| That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death? |
| Why art thou patient, man? thou shouldst be mad; |
| And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus. |
| 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. |
| A crown for York! and, lords, bow low to him: |
| Hold you his hands, whilst I do set it on. |
| [Putting a paper crown on his head]
Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king! |
| Ay, this is he that took King Henry's chair, |
| And this is he was his adopted heir. |
| But how is it that great Plantagenet |
| Is crown'd so soon, and broke his solemn oath? |
| As I bethink me, you should not be king |
| Till our King Henry had shook hands with death. |
| And will you pale your head in Henry's glory, |
| And rob his temples of the diadem, |
| Now in his life, against your holy oath? |
| O, '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. |
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York. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France, |
| Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth! |
| How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex |
| To triumph, like an Amazonian trull, |
| Upon their woes whom fortune captivates! |
| But that thy face is, vizard-like, unchanging, |
| Made impudent with use of evil deeds, |
| I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush. |
| To tell thee whence thou camest, of whom derived, |
| Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless. |
| Thy father bears the type of King of Naples, |
| Of both the Sicils and Jerusalem, |
| Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman. |
| Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult? |
| It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen, |
| Unless the adage must be verified, |
| That beggars mounted run their horse to death. |
| 'Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud; |
| But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small: |
| 'Tis virtue that doth make them most admired; |
| The contrary doth make thee wonder'd at: |
| 'Tis government that makes them seem divine; |
| The want thereof makes thee abominable: |
| Thou art as opposite to every good |
| As the Antipodes are unto us, |
| Or as the south to the septentrion. |
| O tiger's heart wrapt in a woman's hide! |
| How couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child, |
| To bid the father wipe his eyes withal, |
| And yet be seen to bear a woman's face? |
| Women are soft, mild, pitiful and flexible; |
| Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. |
| Bids't thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish: |
| Wouldst have me weep? why, now thou hast thy will: |
| For raging wind blows up incessant showers, |
| And when the rage allays, the rain begins. |
| These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies: |
| And every drop cries vengeance for his death, |
| 'Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false |
| Frenchwoman. |
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York. That face of his the hungry cannibals |
| Would not have touch'd, would not have stain'd with blood: |
| But you are more inhuman, more inexorable, |
| O, ten times more, than tigers of Hyrcania. |
| See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears: |
| This cloth thou dip'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: |
| And if thou tell'st the heavy story right, |
| Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears; |
| Yea even my foes will shed fast-falling tears, |
| And say 'Alas, it was a piteous deed!' |
| There, take the crown, and, with the crown, my curse; |
| And in thy need such comfort come to thee |
| As now I reap at thy too cruel hand! |
| Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world: |
| My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads! |
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ACT II
SCENE I. A plain near Mortimer's Cross in Herefordshire.
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[A march. Enter EDWARD, RICHARD, and their power]
Messenger. Environed he was with many foes, |
| And stood against them, as the hope of Troy |
| Against the Greeks that would have enter'd Troy. |
| 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 subdued; |
| 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, |
| The ruthless queen gave him to dry his cheeks |
| A napkin steeped in the harmless blood |
| Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain: |
| And after many scorns, many foul taunts, |
| They took his head, and on the gates of York |
| They set the same; and there it doth remain, |
| The saddest spectacle that e'er I view'd. |
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Edward. Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon, |
| Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay. |
| O Clifford, boisterous Clifford! thou hast slain |
| The flower of Europe for his chivalry; |
| And treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him, |
| 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! |
| For never henceforth shall I joy again, |
| Never, O never shall I see more joy! |
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Warwick. Ten days ago I drown'd these news in tears; |
| And now, to add more measure to your woes, |
| I come to tell you things sith then befall'n. |
| After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought, |
| Where your brave father breathed his latest gasp, |
| Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run, |
| Were brought me of your loss and his depart. |
| I, then in London keeper of the king, |
| Muster'd my soldiers, gather'd flocks of friends, |
| And very well appointed, as I thought, |
| March'd toward Saint Alban's to intercept the queen, |
| Bearing the king in my behalf along; |
| For by my scouts I was advertised |
| That she was coming with a full intent |
| To dash our late decree in parliament |
| Touching King Henry's oath and your succession. |
| Short tale to make, we at Saint Alban's met |
| Our battles join'd, and both sides fiercely fought: |
| But whether 'twas the coldness of the king, |
| Who look'd full gently on his warlike queen, |
| That robb'd my soldiers of their heated spleen; |
| Or whether 'twas report of her success; |
| Or more than common fear of Clifford's rigour, |
| Who thunders to his captives blood and death, |
| I cannot judge: but to conclude with truth, |
| Their weapons like to lightning came and went; |
| Our soldiers', like the night-owl's lazy flight, |
| Or like an idle thresher with a flail, |
| Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends. |
| I cheer'd them up with justice of our cause, |
| With promise of high pay and great rewards: |
| But all in vain; they had no heart to fight, |
| And we in them no hope to win the day; |
| So that we fled; the king unto the queen; |
| Lord George your brother, Norfolk and myself, |
| In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you: |
| For in the marches here we heard you were, |
| Making another head to fight again. |
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Warwick. Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you out; |
| And therefore comes my brother Montague. |
| Attend me, lords. The proud insulting queen, |
| With Clifford and the haught Northumberland, |
| And of their feather many more proud birds, |
| Have wrought the easy-melting king like wax. |
| He swore consent to your succession, |
| His oath enrolled in the parliament; |
| And now to London all the crew are gone, |
| To frustrate both his oath and what beside |
| May make against the house of Lancaster. |
| Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong: |
| Now, if the help of Norfolk and myself, |
| With all the friends that thou, brave Earl of March, |
| Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure, |
| Will but amount to five and twenty thousand, |
| Why, Via! to London will we march amain, |
| And once again bestride our foaming steeds, |
| And once again cry 'Charge upon our foes!' |
| But never once again turn back and fly. |
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SCENE II. Before York.
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[Flourish. Enter KING HENRY VI, QUEEN MARGARET, PRINCE EDWARD, CLIFFORD, and NORTHUMBERLAND, with drum and trumpets]
Clifford. My gracious liege, this too much lenity |
| And harmful pity must be laid aside. |
| To whom do lions cast their gentle looks? |
| Not to the beast that would usurp their den. |
| Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick? |
| Not his that spoils her young before her face. |
| Who 'scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting? |
| Not he that sets his foot upon her back. |
| The smallest worm will turn being trodden on, |
| And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood. |
| Ambitious York doth level at thy crown, |
| Thou smiling while he knit his angry brows: |
| He, but a duke, would have his son a king, |
| And raise his issue, like a loving sire; |
| Thou, being a king, blest with a goodly son, |
| Didst yield consent to disinherit him, |
| Which argued thee a most unloving father. |
| Unreasonable creatures feed their young; |
| And though man's face be fearful to their eyes, |
| Yet, in protection of their tender ones, |
| Who hath not seen them, even with those wings |
| Which sometime they have used with fearful flight, |
| Make war with him that climb'd unto their nest, |
| Offer their own lives in their young's defence? |
| For shame, my liege, make them your precedent! |
| Were it not pity that this goodly boy |
| Should lose his birthright by his father's fault, |
| And long hereafter say unto his child, |
| 'What my great-grandfather and his grandsire got |
| My careless father fondly gave away'? |
| Ah, what a shame were this! Look on the boy; |
| And let his manly face, which promiseth |
| Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart |
| To hold thine own and leave thine own with him. |
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Edward. I am his king, and he should bow his knee; |
| I was adopted heir by his consent: |
| Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear, |
| You, that are king, though he do wear the crown, |
| Have caused him, by new act of parliament, |
| To blot out me, and put his own son in. |
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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 wrong'd |
| By that false woman, as this king by thee. |
| His father revell'd in the heart of France, |
| And tamed the king, and made the dauphin stoop; |
| And had he match'd 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 brew'd a shower for him, |
| 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, |
| Had slipp'd our claim until another age. |
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SCENE III. A field of battle between Towton and Saxton, in
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Yorkshire.
[Alarum. Excursions. Enter WARWICK]
Richard. 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, |
| Like to a dismal clangour heard from far, |
| 'Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death!' |
| So, underneath the belly of their steeds, |
| That stain'd their fetlocks in his smoking blood, |
| The noble gentleman gave up the ghost. |
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Edward. O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine; |
| And in this vow do chain my soul to thine! |
| And, ere my knee rise from the earth's cold face, |
| I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee, |
| Thou setter up and plucker down of kings, |
| Beseeching thee, if with they will it stands |
| That to my foes this body must be prey, |
| Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope, |
| And give sweet passage to my sinful soul! |
| Now, lords, take leave until we meet again, |
| Where'er it be, in heaven or in earth. |
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SCENE IV. Another part of the field.
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[Excursions. Enter RICHARD and CLIFFORD]
SCENE V. Another part of the field.
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[Alarum. Enter KING HENRY VI alone]
King Henry VI. 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 of this fell war. |
| Here on this molehill will I sit me down. |
| To whom God will, there be the victory! |
| For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too, |
| Have chid me from the battle; swearing both |
| They prosper best of all when I am thence. |
| Would I were dead! if God's good will were so; |
| For what is in this world but grief and woe? |
| O God! methinks it were a happy life, |
| To be no better than a homely swain; |
| To sit upon a hill, as I do now, |
| To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, |
| Thereby to see the minutes how they run, |
| How many make the hour full complete; |
| How many hours bring about the day; |
| How many days will finish up the year; |
| How many years a mortal man may live. |
| When this is known, then to divide the times: |
| So many hours must I tend my flock; |
| So many hours must I take my rest; |
| So many hours must I contemplate; |
| So many hours must I sport myself; |
| So many days my ewes have been with young; |
| So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean: |
| So many years ere I shall shear the fleece: |
| So minutes, hours, days, months, and years, |
| Pass'd over to the end they were created, |
| Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. |
| Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely! |
| Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade |
| To shepherds looking on their silly sheep, |
| Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy |
| To kings that fear their subjects' treachery? |
| O, yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth. |
| And to conclude, the shepherd's homely curds, |
| His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle. |
| His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade, |
| All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, |
| Is far beyond a prince's delicates, |
| His viands sparkling in a golden cup, |
| His body couched in a curious bed, |
| When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him. |
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| [Alarum. Enter a Son that has killed his father, dragging in the dead body]
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Son. Ill blows the wind that profits nobody. |
| This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight, |
| May be possessed with some store of crowns; |
| And I, that haply take them from him now, |
| May yet ere night yield both my life and them |
| To some man else, as this dead man doth me. |
| Who's this? O God! it is my father's face, |
| Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill'd. |
| O heavy times, begetting such events! |
| From London by the king was I press'd forth; |
| 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 received my life, him |
| 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 flow'd their fill. |
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Father. Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me, |
| Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold: |
| For I have bought it with an hundred blows. |
| But let me see: is this our foeman's face? |
| Ah, no, no, no, it is mine only son! |
| Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee, |
| Throw up thine eye! see, see what showers arise, |
| Blown with the windy tempest of my heart, |
| Upon thy words, that kill mine eye and heart! |
| O, pity, God, this miserable age! |
| What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly, |
| Erroneous, mutinous and unnatural, |
| This deadly quarrel daily doth beget! |
| O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon, |
| And hath bereft thee of thy life too late! |
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SCENE VI. Another part of the field.
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[A loud alarum. Enter CLIFFORD, wounded]
Clifford. Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies, |
| Which, whiles it lasted, gave King Henry light. |
| O Lancaster, I fear thy overthrow |
| More than my body's parting with my soul! |
| My love and fear glued many friends to thee; |
| And, now I fall, thy tough commixture melts. |
| Impairing Henry, strengthening misproud York, |
| The common people swarm like summer flies; |
| And whither fly the gnats but to the sun? |
| And who shines now but Henry's enemies? |
| O Phoebus, hadst thou never given consent |
| That Phaethon should cheque thy fiery steeds, |
| 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, |
| They never then had sprung like summer flies; |
| I and ten thousand in this luckless realm |
| Had left no mourning widows for our death; |
| And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace. |
| For what doth cherish weeds but gentle air? |
| And what makes robbers bold but too much lenity? |
| Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds; |
| No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight: |
| The foe is merciless, and will not pity; |
| For at their hands I have deserved no pity. |
| The air hath got into my deadly wounds, |
| And much effuse of blood doth make me faint. |
| Come, York and Richard, Warwick and the rest; |
| I stabb'd your fathers' bosoms, split my breast. |
| [He faints]
| [Alarum and retreat. Enter EDWARD, GEORGE, RICHARD, MONTAGUE, WARWICK, and Soldiers]
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ACT III
SCENE I. A forest in the north of England.
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[Enter two Keepers, with cross-bows in their hands]
King Henry VI. From Scotland am I stol'n, even of pure love, |
| To greet mine own land with my wishful sight. |
| No, Harry, Harry, 'tis no land of thine; |
| Thy place is fill'd, thy sceptre wrung from thee, |
| Thy balm wash'd off wherewith thou wast anointed: |
| No bending knee will call thee Caesar now, |
| No humble suitors press to speak for right, |
| No, not a man comes for redress of thee; |
| For how can I help them, and not myself? |
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King Henry VI. My queen and son are gone to France for aid; |
| And, as I hear, the great commanding Warwick |
| Is thither gone, to crave the French king's sister |
| To wife for Edward: if this news be true, |
| Poor queen and son, your labour is but lost; |
| For Warwick is a subtle orator, |
| And Lewis a prince soon won with moving words. |
| By this account then Margaret may win him; |
| For she's a woman to be pitied much: |
| Her sighs will make a 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, |
| To hear and see her plaints, her brinish tears. |
| Ay, but she's come to beg, Warwick to give; |
| She, on his left side, craving aid for Henry, |
| He, on his right, asking a wife for Edward. |
| She weeps, and says her Henry is deposed; |
| He smiles, and says his Edward is install'd; |
| That she, poor wretch, for grief can speak no more; |
| Whiles Warwick tells his title, smooths the wrong, |
| Inferreth arguments of mighty strength, |
| And in conclusion wins the king from her, |
| With promise of his sister, and what else, |
| To strengthen and support King Edward's place. |
| O Margaret, thus 'twill be; and thou, poor soul, |
| Art then forsaken, as thou went'st forlorn! |
|
|
King Henry VI. Why, am I dead? do I not breathe a man? |
| Ah, simple men, you know not what you swear! |
| Look, as I blow this feather from my face, |
| And as the air blows it to me again, |
| Obeying with my wind when I do blow, |
| And yielding to another when it blows, |
| Commanded always by the greater gust; |
| Such is the lightness of you common men. |
| But do not break your oaths; for of that sin |
| My mild entreaty shall not make you guilty. |
| Go where you will, the king shall be commanded; |
| And be you kings, command, and I'll obey. |
|
|
SCENE II. London. The palace.
|
|
[Enter KING EDWARD IV, GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE, and LADY GREY]
Gloucester. Ay, Edward will use women honourably. |
| Would he were wasted, marrow, bones and all, |
| That from his loins no hopeful branch may spring, |
| To cross me from the golden time I look for! |
| And yet, between my soul's desire and me-- |
| The lustful Edward's title buried-- |
| Is Clarence, Henry, and his son young Edward, |
| And all the unlook'd for issue of their bodies, |
| To take their rooms, ere I can place myself: |
| A cold premeditation for my purpose! |
| Why, then, I do but dream on sovereignty; |
| Like one that stands upon a promontory, |
| And spies a far-off shore where he would tread, |
| Wishing his foot were equal with his eye, |
| And chides the sea that sunders him from thence, |
| Saying, he'll lade it dry to have his way: |
| So do I wish the crown, being so far off; |
| And so I chide the means that keeps me from it; |
| And so I say, I'll cut the causes off, |
| Flattering me with impossibilities. |
| My eye's too quick, my heart o'erweens too much, |
| Unless my hand and strength could equal them. |
| Well, say there is no kingdom then for Richard; |
| What other pleasure can the world afford? |
| I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap, |
| And deck my body in gay ornaments, |
| And witch sweet ladies with my words and looks. |
| O miserable thought! and more unlikely |
| Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns! |
| Why, love forswore me in my mother's womb: |
| And, for I should not deal in her soft laws, |
| She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe, |
| To shrink mine arm up like a wither'd shrub; |
| To make an envious mountain on my back, |
| Where sits deformity to mock my body; |
| To shape my legs of an unequal size; |
| To disproportion me in every part, |
| Like to a chaos, or an unlick'd bear-whelp |
| That carries no impression like the dam. |
| And am I then a man to be beloved? |
| O monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought! |
| Then, since this earth affords no joy to me, |
| But to command, to cheque, to o'erbear such |
| As are of better person than myself, |
| I'll make my heaven to dream upon the crown, |
| And, whiles I live, to account this world but hell, |
| Until my mis-shaped trunk that bears this head |
| Be round impaled with a glorious crown. |
| And yet I know not how to get the crown, |
| For many lives stand between me and home: |
| And I,--like one lost in a thorny wood, |
| That rends the thorns and is rent with the thorns, |
| Seeking a way and straying from the way; |
| Not knowing how to find the open air, |
| But toiling desperately to find it out,-- |
| Torment myself to catch the English crown: |
| And from that torment I will free myself, |
| Or hew my way out with a bloody axe. |
| Why, I can smile, and murder whiles I smile, |
| And cry 'Content' to that which grieves my heart, |
| And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, |
| And frame my face to all occasions. |
| I'll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall; |
| I'll slay more gazers than the basilisk; |
| I'll play the orator as well as Nestor, |
| Deceive more slily than Ulysses could, |
| And, like a Sinon, take another Troy. |
| I can add colours to the chameleon, |
| Change shapes with Proteus for advantages, |
| And set the murderous Machiavel to school. |
| Can I do this, and cannot get a crown? |
| Tut, were it farther off, I'll pluck it down. |
| [Exit]
| |
SCENE III. France. KING LEWIS XI's palace.
|
|
[Flourish. Enter KING LEWIS XI, his sister BONA, his Admiral, called BOURBON, PRINCE EDWARD, QUEEN MARGARET, and OXFORD. KING LEWIS XI sits, and riseth up again]
Queen Margaret. Those gracious words revive my drooping thoughts |
| And give my tongue-tied sorrows leave to speak. |
| Now, therefore, be it known to noble Lewis, |
| That Henry, sole possessor of my love, |
| Is of a king become a banish'd man, |
| And forced to live in Scotland a forlorn; |
| While proud ambitious Edward Duke of York |
| Usurps the regal title and the seat |
| Of England's true-anointed lawful king. |
| This is the cause that I, poor Margaret, |
| With this my son, Prince Edward, Henry's heir, |
| Am come to crave thy just and lawful aid; |
| And if thou fail us, all our hope is done: |
| Scotland hath will to help, but cannot help; |
| Our people and our peers are both misled, |
| Our treasures seized, our soldiers put to flight, |
| And, as thou seest, ourselves in heavy plight. |
|
|
Warwick. From worthy Edward, King of Albion, |
| My lord and sovereign, and thy vowed friend, |
| I come, in kindness and unfeigned love, |
| First, to do greetings to thy royal person; |
| And then to crave a league of amity; |
| And lastly, to confirm that amity |
| With a nuptial knot, if thou vouchsafe to grant |
| That virtuous Lady Bona, thy fair sister, |
| To England's king in lawful marriage. |
|
|
Queen Margaret. King Lewis and Lady Bona, hear me speak, |
| Before you answer Warwick. His demand |
| Springs not from Edward's well-meant honest love, |
| But from deceit bred by necessity; |
| For how can tyrants safely govern home, |
| Unless abroad they purchase great alliance? |
| To prove him tyrant this reason may suffice, |
| That Henry liveth still: but were he dead, |
| Yet here Prince Edward stands, King Henry's son. |
| Look, therefore, Lewis, that by this league and marriage |
| Thou draw not on thy danger and dishonour; |
| For though usurpers sway the rule awhile, |
| Yet heavens are just, and time suppresseth wrongs. |
|
|
Warwick. King Lewis, I here protest, in sight of heaven, |
| And by the hope I have of heavenly bliss, |
| That I am clear from this misdeed of Edward's, |
| No more my king, for he dishonours me, |
| But most himself, if he could see his shame. |
| Did I forget that by the house of York |
| My father came untimely to his death? |
| Did I let pass the abuse done to my niece? |
| Did I impale him with the regal crown? |
| Did I put Henry from his native right? |
| And am I guerdon'd at the last with shame? |
| Shame on himself! for my desert is honour: |
| And to repair my honour lost for him, |
| I here renounce him and return to Henry. |
| My noble queen, let former grudges pass, |
| And henceforth I am thy true servitor: |
| I will revenge his wrong to Lady Bona, |
| And replant Henry in his former state. |
|
|
King Lewis XI. But, Warwick, |
| Thou and Oxford, with five thousand men, |
| Shall cross the seas, and bid false Edward battle; |
| And, as occasion serves, this noble queen |
| And prince shall follow with a fresh supply. |
| Yet, ere thou go, but answer me one doubt, |
| What pledge have we of thy firm loyalty? |
|
|
ACT IV
SCENE I. London. The palace.
|
|
[Enter GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE, SOMERSET, and MONTAGUE]
King Edward IV. 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. |
| Pembroke and Stafford, you in our behalf |
| Go levy men, and make prepare for war; |
| They are already, or quickly will be landed: |
| Myself in person will straight follow you. |
| [Exeunt PEMBROKE and STAFFORD]
But, ere I go, Hastings and Montague, |
| Resolve my doubt. You twain, of all the rest, |
| Are near to Warwick by blood and by alliance: |
| Tell me if you love Warwick more than me? |
| If it be so, then both depart to him; |
| I rather wish you foes than hollow friends: |
| But if you mind to hold your true obedience, |
| Give me assurance with some friendly vow, |
| That I may never have you in suspect. |
|
| |
SCENE II. A plain in Warwickshire.
|
|
[Enter WARWICK and OXFORD, with French soldiers]
Warwick. Then, gentle Clarence, welcome unto Warwick; |
| And welcome, Somerset: I hold it cowardice |
| To rest mistrustful where a noble heart |
| 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. |
| 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, |
| We may surprise and take him at our pleasure? |
| Our scouts have found the adventure very easy: |
| That as Ulysses and stout Diomede |
| With sleight and manhood stole to Rhesus' tents, |
| And brought from thence the Thracian fatal steeds, |
| So we, well cover'd with the night's black mantle, |
| At unawares may beat down Edward's guard |
| And seize himself; I say not, slaughter him, |
| For I intend but only to surprise him. |
| You that will follow me to this attempt, |
| Applaud the name of Henry with your leader. |
| [They all cry, 'Henry!']
Why, then, let's on our way in silent sort: |
| For Warwick and his friends, God and Saint George! |
| [Exeunt]
| | |
SCENE III. Edward's camp, near Warwick.
|
|
[Enter three Watchmen, to guard KING EDWARD IV's tent]
Second Watchman. Stay, or thou diest! |
| [WARWICK and the rest cry all, 'Warwick! Warwick!' and set upon the Guard, who fly, crying, 'Arm! arm!' WARWICK and the rest following them]
[The drum playing and trumpet sounding, reenter WARWICK, SOMERSET, and the rest, bringing KING EDWARD IV out in his gown, sitting in a chair. RICHARD and HASTINGS fly over the stage]
| | |
Warwick. Then, for his mind, be Edward England's king: |
| [Takes off his crown]
But Henry now shall wear the English crown, |
| And be true king indeed, thou but the shadow. |
| My Lord of Somerset, at my request, |
| See that forthwith Duke Edward be convey'd |
| Unto my brother, Archbishop of York. |
| When I have fought with Pembroke and his fellows, |
| I'll follow you, and tell what answer |
| Lewis and the Lady Bona send to him. |
| Now, for a while farewell, good Duke of York. |
| [They lead him out forcibly]
| | |
SCENE IV. London. The palace.
|
|
[Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH and RIVERS]
SCENE V. A park near Middleham Castle In Yorkshire.
|
|
[Enter GLOUCESTER, HASTINGS, and STANLEY]
Gloucester. Now, my Lord Hastings and Sir William Stanley, |
| Leave off to wonder why I drew you hither, |
| Into this chiefest thicket of the park. |
| Thus stands the case: you know our king, my brother, |
| Is prisoner to the bishop here, at whose hands |
| He hath good usage and great liberty, |
| And, often but attended with weak guard, |
| Comes hunting this way to disport himself. |
| I have advertised him by secret means |
| That if about this hour he make his way |
| Under the colour of his usual game, |
| He shall here find his friends with horse and men |
| To set him free from his captivity. |
|
| [Enter KING EDWARD IV and a Huntsman with him]
| |
SCENE VI. London. The Tower.
|
|
[Flourish. Enter KING HENRY VI, CLARENCE, WARWICK, SOMERSET, HENRY OF RICHMOND, OXFORD, MONTAGUE, and Lieutenant of the Tower]
King Henry VI. For what, lieutenant? for well using me? |
| Nay, be thou sure I'll well requite thy kindness, |
| For that it made my imprisonment a pleasure; |
| Ay, such a pleasure as incaged birds |
| Conceive when after many moody thoughts |
| At last by notes of household harmony |
| They quite forget their loss of liberty. |
| But, Warwick, after God, thou set'st me free, |
| And chiefly therefore I thank God and thee; |
| He was the author, thou the instrument. |
| Therefore, that I may conquer fortune's spite |
| By living low, where fortune cannot hurt me, |
| And that the people of this blessed land |
| May not be punish'd with my thwarting stars, |
| Warwick, although my head still wear the crown, |
| I here resign my government to thee, |
| For thou art fortunate in all thy deeds. |
|
|
Warwick. Why, then, though loath, yet must I be content: |
| We'll yoke together, like a double shadow |
| To Henry's body, and supply his place; |
| I mean, in bearing weight of government, |
| While he enjoys the honour and his ease. |
| And, Clarence, now then it is more than needful |
| Forthwith that Edward be pronounced a traitor, |
| And all his lands and goods be confiscate. |
|
|
SCENE VII. Before York.
|
|
[Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD IV, GLOUCESTER, HASTINGS, and Soldiers]
King Edward IV. Thanks, brave Montgomery; and thanks unto you all: |
| If fortune serve me, I'll requite this kindness. |
| Now, for this night, let's harbour here in York; |
| And when the morning sun shall raise his car |
| Above the border of this horizon, |
| We'll forward towards Warwick and his mates; |
| For well I wot that Henry is no soldier. |
| Ah, froward Clarence! how evil it beseems thee |
| To flatter Henry and forsake thy brother! |
| Yet, as we may, we'll meet both thee and Warwick. |
| Come on, brave soldiers: doubt not of the day, |
| And, that once gotten, doubt not of large pay. |
| [Exeunt]
| |
SCENE VIII. London. The palace.
|
|
[Flourish. Enter KING HENRY VI, WARWICK, MONTAGUE, CLARENCE, EXETER, and OXFORD]
Warwick. In Warwickshire I have true-hearted friends, |
| Not mutinous in peace, yet bold in war; |
| Those will I muster up: and thou, son Clarence, |
| Shalt stir up in Suffolk, Norfolk, and in Kent, |
| The knights and gentlemen to come with thee: |
| Thou, brother Montague, in Buckingham, |
| Northampton and in Leicestershire, shalt find |
| Men well inclined to hear what thou command'st: |
| And thou, brave Oxford, wondrous well beloved, |
| In Oxfordshire shalt muster up thy friends. |
| My sovereign, with the loving citizens, |
| Like to his island girt in with the ocean, |
| Or modest Dian circled with her nymphs, |
| Shall rest in London till we come to him. |
| Fair lords, take leave and stand not to reply. |
| Farewell, my sovereign. |
|
|
ACT V
SCENE I. Coventry.
|
|
[Enter WARWICK, the Mayor of Coventry, two Messengers, and others upon the walls]
Clarence. Father of Warwick, know you what this means? |
| [Taking his red rose out of his hat]
Look here, I throw my infamy at thee |
| I will not ruinate my father's house, |
| Who gave his blood to lime the stones together, |
| And set up Lancaster. Why, trow'st thou, Warwick, |
| That Clarence is so harsh, so blunt, unnatural, |
| To bend the fatal instruments of war |
| Against his brother and his lawful king? |
| Perhaps thou wilt object my holy oath: |
| To keep that oath were more impiety |
| Than Jephthah's, when he sacrificed his daughter. |
| I am so sorry for my trespass made |
| That, to deserve well at my brother's hands, |
| I here proclaim myself thy mortal foe, |
| With resolution, wheresoe'er I meet thee-- |
| As I will meet thee, if thou stir abroad-- |
| To plague thee for thy foul misleading me. |
| And so, proud-hearted Warwick, I defy thee, |
| And to my brother turn my blushing cheeks. |
| Pardon me, Edward, I will make amends: |
| And, Richard, do not frown upon my faults, |
| For I will henceforth be no more unconstant. |
|
| |
SCENE II. A field of battle near Barnet.
|
|
[Alarum and excursions. Enter KING EDWARD IV, bringing forth WARWICK wounded]
Warwick. Ah, who is nigh? come to me, friend or foe, |
| And tell me who is victor, York or Warwick? |
| Why ask I that? my mangled body shows, |
| My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows. |
| That I must yield my body to the earth |
| And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe. |
| Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge, |
| Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle, |
| Under whose shade the ramping lion slept, |
| Whose top-branch 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, |
| Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun, |
| To search the secret treasons of the world: |
| The wrinkles in my brows, now filled with blood, |
| Were liken'd oft to kingly sepulchres; |
| For who lived king, but I could dig his grave? |
| And who durst mine when Warwick bent his brow? |
| Lo, now my glory smear'd in dust and blood! |
| My parks, my walks, my manors that I had. |
| Even now forsake me, and of all my lands |
| Is nothing left me but my body's length. |
| Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? |
| And, live we how we can, yet die we must. |
|
| [Enter OXFORD and SOMERSET]
| |
Warwick. Why, then I would not fly. Ah, Montague, |
| If thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand. |
| And with thy lips keep in my soul awhile! |
| Thou lovest 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. |
|
|
SCENE III. Another part of the field.
|
|
[Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD IV in triumph; with GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE, and the rest]
King Edward IV. Thus far our fortune keeps an upward course, |
| And we are graced with wreaths of victory. |
| But, in the midst of this bright-shining day, |
| I spy a black, suspicious, threatening cloud, |
| That will encounter with our glorious sun, |
| Ere he attain his easeful western bed: |
| I mean, my lords, those powers that the queen |
| Hath raised in Gallia have arrived our coast |
| And, as we hear, march on to fight with us. |
|
|
SCENE IV. Plains near Tewksbury.
|
|
[March. Enter QUEEN MARGARET, PRINCE EDWARD, SOMERSET, OXFORD, and soldiers]
Queen Margaret. Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss, |
| But cheerly seek how to redress their harms. |
| What though the mast be now blown overboard, |
| The cable broke, the holding-anchor lost, |
| And half our sailors 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 |
| And give more strength to that which hath too much, |
| Whiles, in his moan, the ship splits on the rock, |
| Which industry and courage might have saved? |
| Ah, what a shame! ah, what a fault were this! |
| Say Warwick was our anchor; what of that? |
| And Montague our topmost; what of him? |
| Our slaughter'd friends the tackles; what of these? |
| Why, is not Oxford here another anchor? |
| And Somerset another goodly mast? |
| The friends of France our shrouds and tacklings? |
| And, though unskilful, why not Ned and I |
| For once allow'd the skilful pilot's charge? |
| We will not from the helm to sit and weep, |
| But keep our course, though the rough wind say no, |
| From shelves and rocks that threaten us with wreck. |
| As good to chide the waves as speak them fair. |
| And what is Edward but ruthless sea? |
| What Clarence but a quicksand of deceit? |
| And Richard but a ragged fatal rock? |
| All these the enemies to our poor bark. |
| Say you can swim; alas, '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. |
| This speak I, lords, to let you understand, |
| If case some one of you would fly from us, |
| That there's no hoped-for mercy with the brothers |
| More than with ruthless waves, with sands and rocks. |
| Why, courage then! what cannot be avoided |
| 'Twere childish weakness to lament or fear. |
|
|
Queen Margaret. Lords, knights, and gentlemen, what I should say |
| My tears gainsay; for every word I speak, |
| Ye see, I drink the water of mine eyes. |
| Therefore, no more but this: Henry, your sovereign, |
| 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. |
| You fight in justice: then, in God's name, lords, |
| Be valiant and give signal to the fight. |
| [Alarum. Retreat. Excursions. Exeunt]
| |
SCENE V. Another part of the field.
|
|
[Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD IV, GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE, and soldiers; with QUEEN MARGARET, OXFORD, and SOMERSET, prisoners]
Queen Margaret. O Ned, sweet Ned! speak to thy mother, boy! |
| Canst thou not speak? O traitors! murderers! |
| They that stabb'd Caesar shed no blood at all, |
| Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame, |
| If this foul deed were by to equal it: |
| He was a man; this, in respect, a child: |
| And men ne'er spend their fury on a child. |
| What's worse than murderer, that I may name it? |
| No, no, my heart will burst, and if I speak: |
| And I will speak, that so my heart may burst. |
| Butchers and villains! bloody cannibals! |
| How sweet a plant have you untimely cropp'd! |
| You have no children, butchers! if you had, |
| The thought of them would have stirr'd up remorse: |
| But if you ever chance to have a child, |
| Look in his youth to have him so cut off |
| As, deathmen, you have rid this sweet young prince! |
|
|
SCENE VI. London. The Tower.
|
|
[Enter KING HENRY VI and GLOUCESTER, with the Lieutenant, on the walls]
King Henry VI. Hadst thou been kill'd when first thou didst presume, |
| Thou hadst not lived to kill a son of mine. |
| And thus I prophesy, that many a thousand, |
| Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear, |
| And many an old man's sigh and many a widow's, |
| And many an orphan's water-standing eye-- |
| Men for their sons, wives for their husbands, |
| 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; |
| 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. |
| Thy mother felt more than a mother's pain, |
| And, yet brought forth less than a mother's hope, |
| To wit, an indigested and deformed lump, |
| Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree. |
| Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born, |
| To signify thou camest to bite the world: |
| And, if the rest be true which I have heard, |
| Thou camest-- |
|
|
Gloucester. What, will the aspiring blood of Lancaster |
| Sink in the ground? I thought it would have mounted. |
| See how my sword weeps for the poor king's death! |
| O, may such purple tears be alway shed |
| From those that wish the downfall of our house! |
| If any spark of life be yet remaining, |
| Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither: |
| [Stabs him again]
I, that have neither pity, love, nor fear. |
| Indeed, '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, |
| 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 |
| That I should snarl and bite and play the dog. |
| Then, since the heavens have shaped my body so, |
| Let hell make crook'd my mind to answer it. |
| I have no brother, I am like no brother; |
| And this word 'love,' which graybeards call divine, |
| Be resident in men like one another |
| And not in me: I am myself alone. |
| Clarence, beware; thou keep'st me from the light: |
| But I will sort a pitchy day for thee; |
| For I will buz abroad such prophecies |
| That Edward shall be fearful of his life, |
| And then, to purge his fear, I'll be thy death. |
| King Henry and the prince his son are gone: |
| Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest, |
| Counting myself but bad till I be best. |
| I'll throw thy body in another room |
| And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom. |
| [Exit, with the body]
| | |
SCENE VII. London. The palace.
|
|
[Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD IV, QUEEN ELIZABETH, CLARENCE, GLOUCESTER, HASTINGS, a Nurse with the young Prince, and Attendants]
King Edward IV. Once more we sit in England's royal throne, |
| Re-purchased with the blood of enemies. |
| What valiant foemen, like to autumn's corn, |
| Have we mow'd down, in tops of all their pride! |
| 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 |
| 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. |
| Thus have we swept suspicion from our seat |
| And made our footstool of security. |
| Come hither, Bess, and let me kiss my boy. |
| Young Ned, for thee, thine uncles and myself |
| Have in our armours watch'd the winter's night, |
| Went all afoot in summer's scalding heat, |
| That thou mightst repossess the crown in peace; |
| And of our labours thou shalt reap the gain. |
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