PROLOGUE.

Enter Chorus. CHORUS. O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention, A kingdom for a stage, princes to act, And monarchs to behold the swelling scene! Then should the warlike Harry, like himself, Assume the port of Mars, and at his heels, 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 On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth So great an object. Can this cockpit hold The vasty fields of France? Or may we cram Within this wooden O the very casques That did affright the air at Agincourt? O pardon! since a crooked figure may Attest in little place a million, And let us, ciphers to this great accompt, On your imaginary forces work. Suppose within the girdle of these walls Are now confin’d two mighty monarchies, Whose high upreared and abutting fronts The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder; Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts. Into a thousand parts divide one man, And make imaginary puissance. Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them Printing their proud hoofs i’ th’ receiving earth. For ’tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings, Carry them here and there, jumping o’er times, Turning the accomplishment of many years Into an hour-glass: for the which supply, Admit me Chorus to this history; Who prologue-like your humble patience pray, Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play. [_Exit._] ACT I SCENE I. London. An ante-chamber in the King’s palace. Enter the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Ely. CANTERBURY. My lord, I’ll tell you, that self bill is urg’d Which in the eleventh year of the last king’s reign Was like, and had indeed against us passed But that the scambling and unquiet time Did push it out of farther question. ELY. But how, my lord, shall we resist it now? CANTERBURY. It must be thought on. If it pass against us, We lose the better half of our possession: For all the temporal lands, which men devout By testament have given to the Church, Would they strip from us; being valu’d thus: As much as would maintain, to the King’s honour, Full fifteen earls and fifteen hundred knights, Six thousand and two hundred good esquires; And, to relief of lazars and weak age, Of indigent faint souls past corporal toil, A hundred almshouses right well supplied; And to the coffers of the King beside, A thousand pounds by th’ year. Thus runs the bill. ELY. This would drink deep. CANTERBURY. ’Twould drink the cup and all. ELY. But what prevention? CANTERBURY. The King is full of grace and fair regard. ELY. And a true lover of the holy Church. CANTERBURY. The courses of his youth promis’d it not. The breath no sooner left his father’s body But that his wildness, mortified in him, Seemed to die too; yea, at that very moment Consideration like an angel came And whipped th’ offending Adam out of him, Leaving his body as a paradise T’ envelope and contain celestial spirits. Never was such a sudden scholar made, Never came reformation in a flood With such a heady currance scouring faults, Nor never Hydra-headed wilfulness So soon did lose his seat, and all at once, As in this king. ELY. We are blessed in the change. CANTERBURY. Hear him but reason in divinity And, all-admiring, with an inward wish You would desire the King were made a prelate; Hear him debate of commonwealth affairs, You would say it hath been all in all his study; List his discourse of war, and you shall hear A fearful battle rendered you in music; Turn him to any cause of policy, The Gordian knot of it he will unloose, Familiar as his garter; that, when he speaks, The air, a chartered libertine, is still, And the mute wonder lurketh in men’s ears To steal his sweet and honeyed sentences; So that the art and practic part of life Must be the mistress to this theoric: Which is a wonder how his Grace should glean it, Since his addiction was to courses vain, His companies unlettered, rude, and shallow, His hours filled up with riots, banquets, sports, And never noted in him any study, Any retirement, any sequestration From open haunts and popularity. ELY. The strawberry grows underneath the nettle, And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best Neighboured by fruit of baser quality; And so the Prince obscured his contemplation Under the veil of wildness, which, no doubt, Grew like the summer grass, fastest by night, Unseen, yet crescive in his faculty. CANTERBURY. It must be so, for miracles are ceased, And therefore we must needs admit the means How things are perfected. ELY. But, my good lord, How now for mitigation of this bill Urged by the Commons? Doth his Majesty Incline to it, or no? CANTERBURY. He seems indifferent, Or rather swaying more upon our part Than cherishing th’ exhibitors against us; For I have made an offer to his Majesty, Upon our spiritual convocation And in regard of causes now in hand, Which I have opened to his Grace at large, As touching France, to give a greater sum Than ever at one time the clergy yet Did to his predecessors part withal. ELY. How did this offer seem received, my lord? CANTERBURY. With good acceptance of his Majesty; Save that there was not time enough to hear, As I perceived his Grace would fain have done, The severals and unhidden passages Of his true titles to some certain dukedoms, And generally to the crown and seat of France, Derived from Edward, his great-grandfather. ELY. What was th’ impediment that broke this off? CANTERBURY. The French ambassador upon that instant Craved audience; and the hour, I think, is come To give him hearing. Is it four o’clock? ELY. It is. CANTERBURY. Then go we in, to know his embassy, Which I could with a ready guess declare Before the Frenchman speak a word of it. ELY. I’ll wait upon you, and I long to hear it. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The same. The presence chamber. Enter King Henry, Gloucester, Bedford, Clarence, Warwick, Westmorland, Exeter and Attendants. KING HENRY. Where is my gracious Lord of Canterbury? EXETER. Not here in presence. KING HENRY. Send for him, good uncle. WESTMORLAND. Shall we call in th’ ambassador, my liege? KING HENRY. Not yet, my cousin. We would be resolved, Before we hear him, of some things of weight That task our thoughts concerning us and France. Enter the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Ely. CANTERBURY. God and his angels guard your sacred throne And make you long become it! KING HENRY. Sure, we thank you. My learned lord, we pray you to proceed And justly and religiously unfold Why the law Salic that they have in France Or should or should not bar us in our claim. And God forbid, my dear and faithful lord, That you should fashion, wrest, or bow your reading, Or nicely charge your understanding soul With opening titles miscreate, whose right Suits not in native colours with the truth; For God doth know how many now in health Shall drop their blood in approbation Of what your reverence shall incite us to. Therefore take heed how you impawn our person, How you awake our sleeping sword of war. We charge you in the name of God, take heed; For never two such kingdoms did contend Without much fall of blood, whose guiltless drops Are every one a woe, a sore complaint ’Gainst him whose wrongs gives edge unto the swords That makes such waste in brief mortality. Under this conjuration speak, my lord, For we will hear, note, and believe in heart That what you speak is in your conscience washed As pure as sin with baptism. CANTERBURY. Then hear me, gracious sovereign, and you peers, That owe yourselves, your lives, and services To this imperial throne. There is no bar To make against your Highness’ claim to France But this, which they produce from Pharamond: _In terram Salicam mulieres ne succedant_, “No woman shall succeed in Salic land;” Which Salic land the French unjustly gloze To be the realm of France, and Pharamond The founder of this law and female bar. Yet their own authors faithfully affirm That the land Salic is in Germany, 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 For some dishonest manners of their life, Establish’d then this law, to wit, no female Should be inheritrix in Salic land; Which Salic, as I said, ’twixt Elbe and Sala, Is at this day in Germany call’d Meissen. Then doth it well appear the Salic law Was not devised for the realm of France; Nor did the French possess the Salic land 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 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, Did, as heir general, being descended Of Blithild, which was daughter to King Clothair, Make claim and title to the crown of France. Hugh Capet also, who usurp’d the crown Of Charles the Duke of Lorraine, sole heir male Of the true line and stock of Charles the Great, To find his title with some shows of truth, Though, in pure truth, it was corrupt and naught, Convey’d himself as the heir to the Lady Lingare, Daughter to Charlemain, who was the son To Lewis the Emperor, and Lewis the son Of Charles the Great. Also, King Lewis the Tenth, Who was sole heir to the usurper Capet, Could not keep quiet in his conscience, Wearing the crown of France, till satisfied That fair Queen Isabel, his grandmother, Was lineal of the Lady Ermengare, Daughter to Charles, the foresaid Duke of Lorraine; By the which marriage the line of Charles the Great Was re-united to the crown of France. So that, as clear as is the summer’s sun, King Pepin’s title and Hugh Capet’s claim, King Lewis his satisfaction, all appear To hold in right and title of the female. So do the kings of France unto this day, Howbeit they would hold up this Salic law To bar your Highness claiming from the female, And rather choose to hide them in a net Than amply to imbar their crooked titles Usurp’d from you and your progenitors. KING HENRY. May I with right and conscience make this claim? CANTERBURY. The sin upon my head, dread sovereign! For in the Book of Numbers is it writ, “When the man dies, let the inheritance Descend unto the daughter.” Gracious lord, Stand for your own! Unwind your bloody flag! Look back into your mighty ancestors! Go, my dread lord, to your great-grandsire’s tomb, From whom you claim; invoke his warlike spirit, And your great-uncle’s, Edward the Black Prince, Who on the French ground play’d a tragedy, Making defeat on the full power of France, Whiles his most mighty father on a hill Stood smiling to behold his lion’s whelp Forage in blood of French nobility. O noble English, that could entertain With half their forces the full pride of France And let another half stand laughing by, All out of work and cold for action! ELY. Awake remembrance of these valiant dead, And with your puissant arm renew their feats. You are their heir; you sit upon their throne; The blood and courage that renowned them Runs in your veins; and my thrice-puissant liege Is in the very May-morn of his youth, Ripe for exploits and mighty enterprises. EXETER. Your brother kings and monarchs of the earth Do all expect that you should rouse yourself, As did the former lions of your blood. WESTMORLAND. They know your Grace hath cause and means and might; So hath your Highness. Never King of England Had nobles richer, and more loyal subjects, Whose hearts have left their bodies here in England And lie pavilion’d in the fields of France. CANTERBURY. O, let their bodies follow, my dear liege, With blood and sword and fire to win your right; In aid whereof we of the spiritualty Will raise your Highness such a mighty sum As never did the clergy at one time Bring in to any of your ancestors. KING HENRY. We must not only arm to invade the French, But lay down our proportions to defend Against the Scot, who will make road upon us With all advantages. CANTERBURY. They of those marches, gracious sovereign, Shall be a wall sufficient to defend Our inland from the pilfering borderers. KING HENRY. We do not mean the coursing snatchers only, But fear the main intendment of the Scot, Who hath been still a giddy neighbour to us; For you shall read that my great-grandfather Never went with his forces into France But that the Scot on his unfurnish’d kingdom Came pouring, like the tide into a breach, With ample and brim fullness of his force, Galling the gleaned land with hot assays, Girdling with grievous siege castles and towns; That England, being empty of defence, Hath shook and trembled at the ill neighbourhood. CANTERBURY. She hath been then more fear’d than harm’d, my liege; For hear her but exampl’d by herself: When all her chivalry hath been in France, And she a mourning widow of her nobles, She hath herself not only well defended But taken and impounded as a stray The King of Scots; whom she did send to France To fill King Edward’s fame with prisoner kings, And make her chronicle as rich with praise As is the ooze and bottom of the sea With sunken wreck and sumless treasuries. WESTMORLAND. But there’s a saying very old and true, “If that you will France win, Then with Scotland first begin.” For once the eagle England being in prey, To her unguarded nest the weasel Scot Comes sneaking and so sucks her princely eggs, Playing the mouse in absence of the cat, To tear and havoc more than she can eat. EXETER. It follows then the cat must stay at home; Yet that is but a crush’d necessity, Since we have locks to safeguard necessaries, And pretty traps to catch the petty thieves. While that the armed hand doth fight abroad, The advised head defends itself at home; For government, though high and low and lower, Put into parts, doth keep in one consent, Congreeing in a full and natural close, Like music. CANTERBURY. Therefore doth heaven divide The state of man in divers functions, Setting endeavour in continual motion, To which is fixed, as an aim or butt, Obedience; for so work the honey-bees, Creatures that by a rule in nature teach The act of order to a peopled kingdom. They have a king and officers of sorts, Where some, like magistrates, correct at home, Others like merchants, venture trade abroad, Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, Make boot upon the summer’s velvet buds, Which pillage they with merry march bring home To the tent-royal of their emperor; Who, busied in his majesty, surveys The singing masons building roofs of gold, The civil citizens kneading up the honey, The poor mechanic porters crowding in Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate, The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum, Delivering o’er to executors pale The lazy yawning drone. I this infer, That many things, having full reference To one consent, may work contrariously. As many arrows, loosed several ways, Come to one mark; as many ways meet in one town; As many fresh streams meet in one salt sea; As many lines close in the dial’s centre; So many a thousand actions, once afoot, End in one purpose, and be all well borne Without defeat. Therefore to France, my liege! Divide your happy England into four, Whereof take you one quarter into France, And you withal shall make all Gallia shake. If we, with thrice such powers left at home, Cannot defend our own doors from the dog, Let us be worried and our nation lose The name of hardiness and policy. KING HENRY. Call in the messengers sent from the Dauphin. [_Exeunt some Attendants._] Now are we well 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, Or break it all to pieces. Or there we’ll sit, Ruling in large and ample empery O’er France and all her almost kingly dukedoms, Or lay these bones in an unworthy urn, Tombless, with no remembrance over them. Either our history shall with full mouth Speak freely of our acts, or else our grave, Like Turkish mute, shall have a tongueless mouth, Not 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 AMBASSADOR. May’t please your Majesty to give us leave Freely to render what we have in charge, Or shall we sparingly show you far off The Dauphin’s meaning and our embassy? KING HENRY. We are no tyrant, but a Christian king, Unto whose grace our passion is as subject As is our wretches fett’red in our prisons; Therefore with frank and with uncurbed plainness Tell us the Dauphin’s mind. AMBASSADOR. Thus, then, in few. Your Highness, lately sending into France, Did claim some certain dukedoms, in the right Of your great predecessor, King Edward the Third. In answer of which claim, the prince our master Says that you savour too much of your youth, And bids you be advis’d there’s nought in France That can be with a nimble galliard won. You cannot revel into dukedoms there. He therefore sends you, meeter for your spirit, This tun of treasure; and, in lieu of this, Desires you let the dukedoms that you claim Hear no more of you. This the Dauphin speaks. KING HENRY. What treasure, uncle? EXETER. Tennis-balls, my liege. KING HENRY. We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us. His present and your pains we thank you for. When we have match’d our rackets to these balls, We will, in France, by God’s grace, play a set Shall strike his father’s crown into the hazard. Tell him he hath made a match with such a wrangler That all the courts of France will be 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. 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. But tell the Dauphin I will keep my state, Be like a king, and show my sail of greatness When I do rouse me in my throne of France. For that I have laid by my majesty And plodded like a man for working days, But I will rise there with so full a glory That I will dazzle all the eyes of France, Yea, strike the Dauphin blind to look on us. And tell the pleasant prince this mock of his Hath 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 Shall this his mock mock out of their dear husbands, Mock mothers from their sons, mock castles down; And some are yet ungotten and unborn That shall have cause to curse the Dauphin’s scorn. But this lies all within the will of God, To whom I do appeal; and in whose name Tell you the Dauphin I am coming on To venge me as I may, and to put forth My rightful hand in a well-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.— Convey them with safe conduct.—Fare you well. [_Exeunt Ambassadors._] EXETER. This was a merry message. KING HENRY. We hope to make the sender blush at it. Therefore, my lords, omit no happy hour That may give furtherance to our expedition; For we have now no thought in us but France, Save those to God, that run before our business. Therefore, let our proportions for these wars Be soon collected, and all things thought upon That may with reasonable swiftness add More feathers to our wings; for, God before, We’ll chide this Dauphin at his father’s door. Therefore let every man now task his thought, That this fair action may on foot be brought. [_Exeunt._] ACT II Flourish. Enter Chorus. CHORUS. Now all the youth of England are on fire, And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies. Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s thought Reigns solely in the breast of every man. They sell the pasture now to buy the horse, Following the mirror of all Christian kings, With winged heels, as English Mercuries. For now sits Expectation in the air, And hides a sword from hilts unto the point With crowns imperial, crowns, and coronets, Promis’d to Harry and his followers. The French, advis’d by good intelligence Of this most dreadful preparation, Shake in their fear, and with pale policy Seek to divert the English purposes. O England! model to thy inward greatness, Like little body with a mighty heart, What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do, Were all thy children kind and natural! But see thy fault! France hath in thee found out A nest of hollow bosoms, which he fills With treacherous crowns; and three corrupted men, One, Richard Earl of Cambridge, and the second, Henry Lord Scroop of Masham, and the third, Sir Thomas Grey, knight of Northumberland, Have, for the gilt of France,—O guilt indeed!— Confirm’d conspiracy with fearful France; And by their hands this grace of kings must die, If hell and treason hold their promises, Ere he take ship for France, and in Southampton. Linger your patience on, and we’ll digest The abuse of distance, force a play. The sum is paid; the traitors are agreed; The King is set from London; and the scene Is now transported, gentles, to Southampton. There is the playhouse now, there must you sit; And thence to France shall we convey you safe, And bring you back, charming the narrow seas To give you gentle pass; for, if we may, We’ll not offend one stomach with our play. But, till the King come forth, and not till then, Unto Southampton do we shift our scene. [_Exit._] SCENE I. London. A street. Enter Corporal Nym and Lieutenant Bardolph. BARDOLPH. Well met, Corporal Nym. NYM. Good morrow, Lieutenant Bardolph. BARDOLPH. What, are Ancient Pistol and you friends yet? NYM. For my part, I care not. I say little; but when time shall serve, there shall be smiles; but that shall be as it may. I dare not fight, but I will wink and hold out mine iron. It is a simple one, but what though? It will toast cheese, and it will endure cold as another man’s sword will; and there’s an end. BARDOLPH. I will bestow a breakfast to make you friends; and we’ll be all three sworn brothers to France. Let it be so, good Corporal Nym. NYM. Faith, I will live so long as I may, that’s the certain of it; and when I cannot live any longer, I will do as I may. That is my rest, that is the rendezvous of it. BARDOLPH. It is certain, corporal, that he is married to Nell Quickly; and certainly she did you wrong, for you were troth-plight to her. NYM. I cannot tell. Things must be as they may. Men may sleep, and they may have their throats about them at that time; and some say knives have edges. It must be as it may. Though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod. There must be conclusions. Well, I cannot tell. Enter Pistol and Hostess. BARDOLPH. Here comes Ancient Pistol and his wife. Good Corporal, be patient here. How now, mine host Pistol! PISTOL. Base tike, call’st thou me host? Now, by this hand, I swear I scorn the term; Nor shall my Nell keep lodgers. HOSTESS. No, by my troth, not long; for we cannot lodge and board a dozen or fourteen gentlewomen that live honestly by the prick of their needles, but it will be thought we keep a bawdy house straight. [_Nym and Pistol draw._] O well a day, Lady, if he be not drawn now! We shall see wilful adultery and murder committed. BARDOLPH. Good Lieutenant! good corporal! offer nothing here. NYM. Pish! PISTOL. Pish for thee, Iceland dog! thou prick-ear’d cur of Iceland! HOSTESS. Good Corporal Nym, show thy valour, and put up your sword. NYM. Will you shog off? I would have you _solus_. PISTOL. _Solus_, egregious dog! O viper vile! The _solus_ in thy most mervailous face; The _solus_ in thy teeth, and in thy throat, And in thy hateful lungs, yea, in thy maw, perdy, And, which is worse, within thy nasty mouth! I do retort the _solus_ in thy bowels; For I can take, and Pistol’s cock is up, And flashing fire will follow. NYM. I am not Barbason; you cannot conjure me. I have an humour to knock you indifferently well. If you grow foul with me, Pistol, I will scour you with my rapier, as I may, in fair terms. If you would walk off, I would prick your guts a little, in good terms, as I may; and that’s the humour of it. PISTOL. O braggart vile and damned furious wight! The grave doth gape, and doting death is near, Therefore exhale. BARDOLPH. Hear me, hear me what I say. He that strikes the first stroke I’ll run him up to the hilts, as I am a soldier. [_Draws._] PISTOL. An oath of mickle might; and fury shall abate. Give me thy fist, thy fore-foot to me give. Thy spirits are most tall. NYM. I will cut thy throat, one time or other, in fair terms: that is the humour of it. PISTOL. “Couple a gorge!” That is the word. I thee defy again. O hound of Crete, think’st thou my spouse to get? No! to the spital go, And from the powdering tub of infamy Fetch forth the lazar kite of Cressid’s kind, Doll Tearsheet she by name, and her espouse. I have, and I will hold, the quondam Quickly For the only she; and _pauca_, there’s enough. Go to. Enter the Boy. BOY. Mine host Pistol, you must come to my master, and you, hostess. He is very sick, and would to bed. Good Bardolph, put thy face between his sheets, and do the office of a warming-pan. Faith, he’s very ill. BARDOLPH. Away, you rogue! HOSTESS. By my troth, he’ll yield the crow a pudding one of these days. The King has kill’d his heart. Good husband, come home presently. [_Exeunt Hostess and Boy._] BARDOLPH. Come, shall I make you two friends? We must to France together; why the devil should we keep knives to cut one another’s throats? PISTOL. Let floods o’erswell, and fiends for food howl on! NYM. You’ll pay me the eight shillings I won of you at betting? PISTOL. Base is the slave that pays. NYM. That now I will have: that’s the humour of it. PISTOL. As manhood shall compound. Push home. [_They draw._] BARDOLPH. By this sword, he that makes the first thrust, I’ll kill him; by this sword, I will. PISTOL. Sword is an oath, and oaths must have their course. BARDOLPH. Corporal Nym, and thou wilt be friends, be friends; an thou wilt not, why, then, be enemies with me too. Prithee, put up. NYM. I shall have my eight shillings I won from you at betting? PISTOL. A noble shalt thou have, and present pay; And liquor likewise will I give to thee, And friendship shall combine, and brotherhood. I’ll live by Nym, and Nym shall live by me. Is not this just? For I shall sutler be Unto the camp, and profits will accrue. Give me thy hand. NYM. I shall have my noble? PISTOL. In cash most justly paid. NYM. Well, then, that’s the humour of’t. Enter Hostess. HOSTESS. As ever you come of women, come in quickly to Sir John. Ah, poor heart! he is so shak’d of a burning quotidian tertian, that it is most lamentable to behold. Sweet men, come to him. NYM. The King hath run bad humours on the knight; that’s the even of it. PISTOL. Nym, thou hast spoke the right. His heart is fracted and corroborate. NYM. The King is a good king; but it must be as it may; he passes some humours and careers. PISTOL. Let us condole the knight; for, lambkins, we will live. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Southampton. A council-chamber. Enter Exeter, Bedford and Westmorland. BEDFORD. ’Fore God, his Grace is bold, to trust these traitors. EXETER. They shall be apprehended by and by. WESTMORLAND. How smooth and even they do bear themselves! As if allegiance in their bosoms sat Crowned with faith and constant loyalty. BEDFORD. The King hath note of all that they intend, By interception which they dream not of. EXETER. Nay, but the man that was his bed-fellow, Whom he hath dull’d and cloy’d with gracious favours, That he should, for a foreign purse, so sell His sovereign’s life to death and treachery. Trumpets sound. Enter King Henry, Scroop, Cambridge and Grey. KING HENRY. Now sits the wind fair, and we will aboard. My Lord of Cambridge, and my kind Lord of Masham, And you, my gentle knight, give me your thoughts. Think you not that the powers we bear with us Will cut their passage through the force of France, Doing the execution and the act For which we have in head assembled them? SCROOP. No doubt, my liege, if each man do his best. KING HENRY. I doubt not that, since we are well persuaded We carry not a heart with us from hence That grows not in a fair consent with ours, Nor leave not one behind that doth not wish Success and conquest to attend on us. CAMBRIDGE. Never was monarch better 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. 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. KING HENRY. We therefore have great cause of thankfulness, And shall forget the office of our hand Sooner than quittance of desert and merit According to the weight and worthiness. SCROOP. So service shall with steeled sinews toil, And labour shall refresh itself with hope, To do your Grace incessant services. KING HENRY. We judge no less. Uncle of Exeter, Enlarge the man committed yesterday, That 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 Breed, by his sufferance, more of such a kind. KING HENRY. O, let us yet be merciful. CAMBRIDGE. So may your Highness, and yet punish too. GREY. Sir, You show great mercy if you give him life After the taste of much correction. KING HENRY. Alas, your too much love and care of me Are heavy orisons ’gainst this poor wretch! If little faults, proceeding on distemper, Shall not be wink’d at, how shall we stretch our eye When capital crimes, chew’d, swallow’d, and digested, Appear before us? We’ll yet enlarge that man, Though Cambridge, Scroop, and Grey, in their dear care And tender preservation of our person, Would have him punish’d. And now to our French causes. Who are the late commissioners? CAMBRIDGE. I one, my lord. Your Highness bade me ask for it today. SCROOP. So did you me, my liege. GREY. And I, my royal sovereign. KING HENRY. Then, Richard Earl of Cambridge, there is yours; There yours, Lord Scroop of Masham; and, sir knight, Grey of Northumberland, this same is yours. Read them, and know I know your worthiness. My Lord of Westmorland, and uncle Exeter, We will aboard tonight.—Why, how now, gentlemen! What see you in those papers that you lose So much complexion?—Look ye, how they change! Their cheeks are paper.—Why, what read you there, That have so cowarded and chas’d your blood Out of appearance? CAMBRIDGE. I do confess my fault, And do submit me to your Highness’ mercy. GREY, SCROOP. To which we all appeal. KING HENRY. The mercy that was quick in us but late, By your own counsel is suppress’d and kill’d. You must not dare, for shame, to talk of mercy, For your own reasons turn into your bosoms, As dogs upon their masters, worrying you. See you, my princes and my noble peers, These English monsters! My Lord of Cambridge here, You know how apt our love was to accord To furnish him with an appertinents Belonging to his honour; and this man Hath, for a few light crowns, lightly 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 Than Cambridge is, hath likewise sworn. But, O What shall I say to thee, Lord Scroop? thou cruel, Ingrateful, savage, and inhuman creature! Thou that didst bear the key of all my counsels, That knew’st the very bottom of my soul, That almost mightst have coin’d me into gold, Wouldst thou have practis’d on me for thy use,— May it be possible that foreign hire Could out of thee extract one spark of evil That might annoy my finger? ’Tis so strange, That, though the truth of it stands off as gross As black and white, my eye will scarcely see it. Treason and murder ever kept together, As two yoke-devils sworn to either’s purpose, Working so grossly in a natural cause That admiration did not whoop at them; But thou, ’gainst all proportion, didst bring in Wonder to wait on treason and on murder; And whatsoever cunning fiend it was That wrought upon thee so preposterously Hath got the voice in hell for excellence; And other devils that suggest by treasons Do botch and bungle up damnation With patches, colours, and with forms being fetch’d From glist’ring 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. 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 A soul so easy as that Englishman’s.” O, how hast thou with jealousy infected The sweetness of affiance! Show men dutiful? Why, so didst thou. Seem they grave and learned? Why, so didst thou. Come they of noble family? Why, so didst thou. Seem they religious? Why, so didst thou. Or are they spare in diet, Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger, Constant in spirit, not swerving with the blood, Garnish’d and deck’d in modest complement, Not working with the eye without the ear, And but in purged judgement trusting neither? Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem. And thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot To mark the full-fraught man and best indued With some suspicion. I will weep for thee; For this revolt of thine, methinks, is like Another fall of man. Their faults are open. Arrest them to the answer of the law; And God acquit them of their practices! EXETER. I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Richard Earl of Cambridge. I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Henry Lord Scroop of Masham. I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland. SCROOP. Our purposes God justly hath discover’d, And I repent my fault more than my death, Which I beseech your Highness to forgive, Although my body pay the price of it. CAMBRIDGE. For me, the gold of France did not seduce, Although I did admit it as a motive The sooner to effect what I intended. But God be thanked for prevention, Which I in sufferance heartily will rejoice, Beseeching God and you to pardon me. GREY. Never did faithful subject more rejoice At the discovery of most dangerous treason Than I do at this hour joy o’er myself, Prevented from a damned enterprise. My fault, but not my body, pardon, sovereign. KING HENRY. God quit you in his mercy! Hear your sentence. You have conspir’d against our royal person, Join’d with an enemy proclaim’d, and from his coffers Received the golden earnest of our death; Wherein you would have sold your king to slaughter, His princes and his peers to servitude, His subjects to oppression and contempt, And his whole kingdom into desolation. Touching our person seek we no revenge; But we our kingdom’s safety must so tender, Whose ruin you have sought, that to her laws We do deliver you. Get you therefore hence, Poor miserable wretches, to your death, The taste whereof God of his mercy give You patience to endure, and true repentance Of all your dear offences! Bear them hence. [_Exeunt Cambridge, Scroop and Grey, guarded._] Now, lords, for France; the enterprise whereof Shall be to you, as us, like glorious. We doubt not of a fair and lucky war, Since God so graciously hath brought to light This dangerous treason lurking in our way To hinder our beginnings. We doubt not now But every rub is smoothed on our way. Then forth, dear countrymen! Let us deliver Our puissance into the hand of God, Putting it straight in expedition. Cheerly to sea! The signs of war advance! No king of England, if not king of France! [_Flourish. Exeunt._] SCENE III. London. Before a tavern. Enter Pistol, Nym, Bardolph, Boy and Hostess. HOSTESS. Prithee, honey, sweet husband, let me bring thee to Staines. PISTOL. No; for my manly heart doth yearn. Bardolph, be blithe; Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins; Boy, bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is dead, And we must yearn therefore. BARDOLPH. Would I were with him, wheresome’er he is, either in heaven or in hell! HOSTESS. Nay, sure, he’s not in hell. He’s in Arthur’s bosom, if ever man went to Arthur’s bosom. ’A made a finer end and went away an it had been any christom child. ’A parted even just between twelve and one, even at the turning o’ the tide: for after I saw him fumble with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile upon his fingers’ ends, I knew there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and ’a babbled of green fields. “How now, Sir John!” quoth I; “what, man! be o’ good cheer.” So ’a cried out, “God, God, God!” three or four times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him ’a should not think of God; I hop’d 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. NYM. They say he cried out of sack. HOSTESS. Ay, that ’a did. BARDOLPH. And of women. HOSTESS. Nay, that ’a did not. BOY. Yes, that ’a did; and said they were devils incarnate. HOSTESS. ’A could never abide carnation; ’twas a colour he never liked. BOY. ’A said once, the devil would have him about women. HOSTESS. ’A did in some sort, indeed, handle women; but then he was rheumatic, and talk’d of the whore of Babylon. BOY. Do you not remember, ’a saw a flea stick upon Bardolph’s nose, and ’a said it was a black soul burning in hell-fire? BARDOLPH. Well, the fuel is gone that maintain’d that fire. That’s all the riches I got in his service. NYM. Shall we shog? The King will be gone from Southampton. PISTOL. Come, let’s away. My love, give me thy lips. Look to my chattels and my movables. Let senses rule; the word is “Pitch and Pay.” Trust none; For oaths are straws, men’s faiths are wafer-cakes And hold-fast is the only dog, my duck; Therefore, _Caveto_ be thy counsellor. Go, clear thy crystals. Yoke-fellows in arms, Let us to France; like horse-leeches, my boys, To suck, to suck, the very blood to suck! BOY. And that’s but unwholesome food, they say. PISTOL. Touch her soft mouth, and march. BARDOLPH. Farewell, hostess. [_Kissing her._] NYM. I cannot kiss; that is the humour of it; but, adieu. PISTOL. Let housewifery appear. Keep close, I thee command. HOSTESS. Farewell; adieu. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. France. The King’s palace. Flourish. Enter the French King, the Dauphin, the Dukes of Berry and Brittany, the Constable and others. FRENCH KING. Thus comes the English with full power upon us, And more than carefully it us concerns To answer royally in our defences. Therefore the Dukes of Berry and of Brittany, Of Brabant and of Orleans, shall make forth, And you, Prince Dauphin, with all swift dispatch, To line and new repair our towns of war With men of courage and with means defendant; For England his approaches makes as fierce As waters to the sucking of a gulf. It fits us then to be as provident As fears may teach us out of late examples Left by the fatal and neglected English Upon our fields. DAUPHIN. My most redoubted father, It is most meet we arm us ’gainst the foe; For peace itself should not so dull a kingdom, Though war nor no known quarrel were in question, But that defences, musters, preparations, Should be maintain’d, assembled, and collected, As were a war in expectation. Therefore, I say, ’tis meet we all go forth To view the sick and feeble parts of France. And let us do it with no show of fear; No, with no more than if we heard that England Were busied with a Whitsun morris-dance; For, my good liege, she is so idly king’d, Her sceptre so fantastically borne By a vain, giddy, shallow, humorous youth, That fear attends her not. CONSTABLE. O peace, Prince Dauphin! You are too much mistaken in this king. Question your Grace the late ambassadors With what great state he heard their embassy, How well supplied with noble counsellors, How modest in exception, and withal How terrible in constant resolution, And you shall find his vanities forespent Were but the outside of the Roman Brutus, Covering discretion with a coat of folly; As gardeners do with ordure hide those roots That shall first spring and be most delicate. DAUPHIN. Well, ’tis not so, my Lord High Constable; But though we think it so, it is no matter. In cases of defence ’tis best to weigh The enemy more mighty than he seems, So the proportions of defence are fill’d; Which, of a weak and niggardly projection, Doth, like a miser, spoil his coat with scanting A little cloth. FRENCH KING. Think we King Harry strong; And, Princes, look you strongly arm to meet him. The kindred of him hath been flesh’d upon us; And he is bred out of that bloody strain That haunted us in our familiar paths. Witness our too much memorable shame When Cressy battle fatally was struck, And all our princes captiv’d by the hand Of that black name, Edward, Black Prince of Wales; Whiles that his mountain 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 The patterns that by God and by French fathers Had twenty years been made. This is a stem Of that victorious stock; and let us fear The native mightiness and fate of him. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. Ambassadors from Harry King of England Do crave admittance to your Majesty. FRENCH KING. We’ll give them present audience. Go, and bring them. [_Exeunt Messenger and certain Lords._] You see this chase is hotly follow’d, friends. DAUPHIN. Turn head and stop pursuit; for coward dogs Most spend their mouths when what they seem to threaten Runs far before them. Good my sovereign, Take up the English short, and let them know Of what a monarchy you are the head. Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin As self-neglecting. Enter Exeter. FRENCH KING. From our brother of England? EXETER. From him; and thus he greets your Majesty: He wills you, in the name of God Almighty, That you divest yourself, and lay apart The borrowed glories that by gift of heaven, By law of nature and of nations, ’longs To him and to his heirs; namely, the crown And all wide-stretched honours that pertain By custom and the ordinance of times Unto the crown of France. That you may know ’Tis no sinister nor no awkward claim 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, 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, Edward the Third, he bids you then resign Your crown and kingdom, indirectly held From him, the native and true challenger. FRENCH KING. Or else what follows? EXETER. Bloody constraint; for if you hide the crown Even in your hearts, there will he rake for it. Therefore in fierce tempest is he coming, In thunder and in earthquake, like a Jove, That, if requiring fail, he will compel; And bids you, in the bowels of the Lord, Deliver up the crown, and to take mercy On the poor souls for whom this hungry war Opens his vasty jaws; and on your head Turning the widows’ tears, the orphans’ cries, The dead men’s blood, the pining maidens’ groans, For husbands, fathers, and betrothed lovers, That shall be swallowed in this controversy. This is his claim, his threat’ning, and my message; Unless the Dauphin be in presence here, To whom expressly I bring greeting too. FRENCH KING. For us, we will consider of this further. Tomorrow shall you bear our full intent Back to our brother of England. DAUPHIN. For the Dauphin, I stand here for him. What to him from England? EXETER. Scorn and defiance. Slight regard, contempt, And anything that may not misbecome The mighty sender, doth he prize you at. Thus says my king: an if your father’s Highness Do not, in grant of all demands at large, Sweeten the bitter mock you sent his Majesty, He’ll call you to so hot an answer of it That caves and womby vaultages of France Shall chide your trespass and return your mock In second accent of his ordinance. DAUPHIN. Say, if my father render fair return, It is against my will; for I desire Nothing but odds with England. To that end, As matching to his youth and vanity, I did present him with the Paris balls. EXETER. He’ll make your Paris Louvre shake for it, Were it the mistress-court of mighty Europe; And, be assur’d, you’ll find a difference, As we his subjects have in wonder found, Between the promise of his greener days And these he masters now. Now he weighs time Even to the utmost grain. That you shall read In your own losses, if he stay in France. FRENCH KING. Tomorrow shall you know our mind at full. [_Flourish._] EXETER. Dispatch us with all speed, lest that our king Come here himself to question our delay; For he is footed in this land already. FRENCH KING. You shall be soon dispatch’d with fair conditions. A night is but small breath and little pause To answer matters of this consequence. [_Exeunt._] ACT III Flourish. Enter Chorus. CHORUS. 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 Embark his royalty, and his brave fleet With silken streamers the young Phoebus fanning. Play with your fancies; and in them behold Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing; Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give To sounds confus’d; behold the threaden sails, Borne with the invisible and creeping wind, Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow’d sea, Breasting the lofty surge. O, do but think You stand upon the rivage and behold A city on the inconstant billows dancing; For so appears this fleet majestical, Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow! Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy, And leave your England, as dead midnight still, Guarded with grandsires, babies, and old women, Either past or not arriv’d to pith and puissance. For who is he, whose chin is but enrich’d With one appearing hair, that will not follow These cull’d and choice-drawn cavaliers to France? Work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege; Behold the ordnance on their carriages, With fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur. Suppose the ambassador from the French comes back, Tells Harry that the King doth offer him Katharine his daughter, and with her, to dowry, Some petty and unprofitable dukedoms. The offer likes not; and the nimble gunner With linstock now the devilish cannon touches, [_Alarum, and chambers go off._] And down goes all before them. Still be kind, And eke out our performance with your mind. [_Exit._] SCENE I. France. Before Harfleur. Alarum. Enter King Henry, Exeter, Bedford, Gloucester and Soldiers, with scaling-ladders. KING HENRY. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility; But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; Let it pry through the portage of the head Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it As fearfully as does a galled rock O’erhang and jutty his confounded base, 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. Dishonour not your mothers; now attest That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you. Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot! Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry, “God for Harry! England and Saint George!” [_Exeunt. Alarum, and chambers go off._] SCENE II. The same. Enter Nym, Bardolph, Pistol and Boy. BARDOLPH. On, on, on, on, on! To the breach, to the breach! NYM. Pray thee, corporal, stay. The knocks are too hot; and, for mine own part, I have not a case of lives. The humour of it is too hot; that is the very plain-song of it. PISTOL. The plain-song is most just, for humours do abound. Knocks go and come; God’s vassals drop and die; And sword and shield, In bloody field, Doth win immortal fame. BOY. Would I were in an alehouse in London! I would give all my fame for a pot of ale and safety. PISTOL. And I. If wishes would prevail with me, My purpose should not fail with me, But thither would I hie. BOY. As duly, But not as truly, As bird doth sing on bough. Enter Fluellen. FLUELLEN. Up to the breach, you dogs! Avaunt, you cullions! [_Driving them forward._] PISTOL. Be merciful, great Duke, to men of mould. Abate thy rage, abate thy manly rage, Abate thy rage, great Duke! Good bawcock, bate thy rage; use lenity, sweet chuck! NYM. These be good humours! Your honour wins bad humours. [_Exeunt all but Boy._] BOY. As young as I am, I have observ’d these three swashers. I am boy to them all three; but all they three, though they would serve me, could not be man to me; for indeed three such antics do not amount to a man. For Bardolph, he is white-liver’d and red-fac’d; 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 match’d with as few good deeds; for ’a never broke any man’s head but his own, and that was against a post when he was drunk. They will steal anything, and call it purchase. Bardolph stole a lute-case, bore it twelve leagues, and sold it for three half-pence. Nym and Bardolph are sworn brothers in filching, and in Calais they stole a fire-shovel. I knew by that piece of service the men would carry coals. They would have me as familiar with men’s pockets as their gloves or their handkerchers; which makes much against my manhood, if I should take from another’s pocket to put into mine; for it is plain pocketing up of wrongs. I must leave them, and seek some better service. Their villainy goes against my weak stomach, and therefore I must cast it up. [_Exit._] Enter Gower and Fluellen. GOWER. Captain Fluellen, you must come presently to the mines. The Duke of Gloucester would speak with you. FLUELLEN. To the mines! Tell you the Duke, it is not so good to come to the mines; for, look you, the mines is not according to the disciplines of the war. The concavities of it is not sufficient; for, look you, the athversary, you may discuss unto the Duke, look you, is digt himself four yard under the countermines. By Cheshu, I think ’a will plow up all, if there is not better directions. GOWER. The Duke of Gloucester, to whom the order of the siege is given, is altogether directed by an Irishman, a very valiant gentleman, i’ faith. FLUELLEN. It is Captain Macmorris, is it not? GOWER. I think it be. FLUELLEN. By Cheshu, he is an ass, as in the world. I will verify as much in his beard. He has no more directions in the true disciplines of the wars, look you, of the Roman disciplines, than is a puppy-dog. Enter Macmorris and Captain Jamy. GOWER. Here ’a comes; and the Scots captain, Captain Jamy, with him. FLUELLEN. Captain Jamy is a marvellous falorous gentleman, that is certain; and of great expedition and knowledge in the anchient wars, upon my particular knowledge of his directions. By Cheshu, he will maintain his argument as well as any military man in the world, in the disciplines of the pristine wars of the Romans. JAMY. I say gud-day, Captain Fluellen. FLUELLEN. God-den to your worship, good Captain James. GOWER. How now, Captain Macmorris! have you quit the mines? Have the pioneers given o’er? MACMORRIS. By Chrish, la! ’tish ill done! The work ish give over, the trompet sound the retreat. By my hand I swear, and my father’s soul, the work ish ill done; it ish give over. I would have blowed up the town, so Chrish save me, la! in an hour. O, ’tish ill done, ’tish ill done; by my hand, ’tish ill done! FLUELLEN. Captain Macmorris, I beseech you now, will you voutsafe me, look you, a few disputations with you, as partly touching or concerning the disciplines of the war, the Roman wars, in the way of argument, look you, and friendly communication; partly to satisfy my opinion, and partly for the satisfaction, look you, of my mind, as touching the direction of the military discipline; that is the point. JAMY. It sall be vary gud, gud feith, gud captains bath: and I sall quit you with gud leve, as I may pick occasion; that sall I, marry. MACMORRIS. It is no time to discourse, so Chrish save me. The day is hot, and the weather, and the wars, and the King, and the Dukes. It is no time to discourse. The town is beseech’d, and the trumpet call us to the breach, and we talk, and, be Chrish, do nothing. ’Tis shame for us all. So God sa’ me, ’tis shame to stand still; it is shame, by my hand; and there is throats to be cut, and works to be done; and there ish nothing done, so Chrish sa’ me, la! JAMY. By the mess, ere theise eyes of mine take themselves to slomber, I’ll de gud service, or I’ll lig i’ the grund for it; ay, or go to death; and I’ll pay’t as valorously as I may, that sall I suerly do, that is the breff and the long. Marry, I wad full fain heard some question ’tween you tway. FLUELLEN. Captain Macmorris, I think, look you, under your correction, there is not many of your nation— MACMORRIS. Of my nation! What ish my nation? Ish a villain, and a bastard, and a knave, and a rascal? What ish my nation? Who talks of my nation? FLUELLEN. Look you, if you take the matter otherwise than is meant, Captain Macmorris, peradventure I shall think you do not use me with that affability as in discretion you ought to use me, look you, being as good a man as yourself, both in the disciplines of war, and in the derivation of my birth, and in other particularities. MACMORRIS. I do not know you so good a man as myself. So Chrish save me, I will cut off your head. GOWER. Gentlemen both, you will mistake each other. JAMY. Ah! that’s a foul fault. [_A parley sounded._] GOWER. The town sounds a parley. FLUELLEN. Captain Macmorris, when there is more better opportunity to be required, look you, I will be so bold as to tell you I know the disciplines of war; and there is an end. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Before the gates. The Governor and some citizens on the walls; the English forces below. Enter King Henry and his train. KING HENRY. How yet resolves the governor of the town? This is the latest parle we will admit; Therefore to our best mercy give yourselves, Or like to men proud of destruction Defy us to our worst; for, as I am a soldier, A name that in my thoughts becomes me best, If I begin the battery once again, I will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur Till in her ashes she lie buried. The gates of mercy shall be all shut up, And the flesh’d soldier, rough and hard of heart, In liberty of bloody hand shall range With conscience wide as hell, mowing like grass Your fresh fair virgins and your flow’ring infants. What is it then to me, if impious War, Array’d in flames like to the prince of fiends, 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 Of hot and forcing violation? What rein can hold licentious wickedness When down the hill he holds his fierce career? We may as bootless spend our vain command Upon the enraged soldiers in their spoil As send precepts to the leviathan To come ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur, Take pity of your town and of your people, Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command, Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace O’erblows the filthy and contagious clouds Of heady murder, spoil, and villainy. If not, why, in a moment look to see The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters; Your fathers taken by the silver beards, And their most reverend heads 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. What say you? Will you yield, and this avoid, Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy’d? GOVERNOR. Our expectation hath this day an end. The Dauphin, whom of succours we entreated, Returns us that his powers are yet not ready To raise so great a siege. Therefore, great King, We yield our town and lives to thy soft mercy. Enter our gates; dispose of us and ours; For we no longer are defensible. KING HENRY. Open your gates. Come, uncle Exeter, Go you and enter Harfleur; there remain, And fortify it strongly ’gainst the French. Use mercy to them all. For us, dear uncle, The winter coming on, and sickness growing Upon our soldiers, we will retire to Calais. Tonight in Harfleur will we be your guest; Tomorrow for the march are we addrest. Flourish. The King and his train enter the town. SCENE IV. The French King’s palace. Enter Katharine and Alice, an old Gentlewoman. KATHARINE. _Alice, tu as été en Angleterre, et tu parles bien le langage._ ALICE. _Un peu, madame._ KATHARINE. _Je te prie, m’enseignez; il faut que j’apprenne à parler. Comment appelez-vous la main en anglais?_ ALICE. _La main? Elle est appelée_ de hand. KATHARINE. De hand. _Et les doigts?_ ALICE. _Les doigts? Ma foi, j’oublie les doigts; mais je me souviendrai. Les doigts? Je pense qu’ils sont appelés_ de fingres; _oui_, de fingres. KATHARINE. _La main_, de hand; _les doigts_, de fingres. _Je pense que je suis le bon écolier; j’ai gagné deux mots d’anglais vitement. Comment appelez-vous les ongles?_ ALICE. _Les ongles? Nous les appelons_ de nails. KATHARINE. De nails. _Écoutez; dites-moi, si je parle bien:_ de hand, de fingres, _et_ de nails. ALICE. _C’est bien dit, madame; il est fort bon anglais._ KATHARINE. _Dites-moi l’anglais pour le bras._ ALICE. De arm, _madame._ KATHARINE. _Et le coude?_ ALICE. D’elbow. KATHARINE. D’elbow. _Je m’en fais la répétition de tous les mots que vous m’avez appris dès à présent._ ALICE. _Il est trop difficile, madame, comme je pense._ KATHARINE. _Excusez-moi, Alice. Écoutez:_ d’hand, de fingres, de nails, d’arm, de bilbow. ALICE. D’elbow, _madame._ KATHARINE. _O Seigneur Dieu, je m’en oublie!_ D’elbow. _Comment appelez-vous le col?_ ALICE. De nick, _madame._ KATHARINE. De nick. _Et le menton?_ ALICE. De chin. KATHARINE. De sin. _Le col_, de nick; _le menton_, de sin. ALICE. _Oui. Sauf votre honneur, en vérité, vous prononcez les mots aussi droit que les natifs d’Angleterre._ KATHARINE. _Je ne doute point d’apprendre, par la grâce de Dieu, et en peu de temps._ ALICE. _N’avez-vous pas déjà oublié ce que je vous ai enseigné?_ KATHARINE. _Non, je réciterai à vous promptement:_ d’hand, de fingres, de mails,— ALICE. De nails, _madame._ KATHARINE. De nails, de arm, de ilbow. ALICE. _Sauf votre honneur_, de elbow. KATHARINE. _Ainsi dis-je_, d’elbow, de nick, _et_ de sin. _Comment appelez-vous le pied et la robe?_ ALICE. De foot, _madame; et_ de coun. KATHARINE. De foot _et_ de coun! _O Seigneur Dieu! ils sont les mots de son mauvais, corruptible, gros, et impudique, et non pour les dames d’honneur d’user. Je ne voudrais prononcer ces mots devant les seigneurs de France pour tout le monde. Foh!_ le foot _et_ le coun! _Néanmoins, je réciterai une autre fois ma leçon ensemble:_ d’hand, de fingres, de nails, d’arm, d’elbow, de nick, de sin, de foot, de coun. ALICE. _Excellent, madame!_ KATHARINE. _C’est assez pour une fois. Allons-nous à dîner._ [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. The same. Enter the King of France, the Dauphin, the Duke of Bourbon, the Constable of France and others. FRENCH KING. ’Tis certain he hath pass’d the river Somme. CONSTABLE. And if he be not fought withal, my lord, Let us not live in France; let us quit all And give our vineyards to a barbarous people. DAUPHIN. _O Dieu vivant_! shall a few sprays of us, The emptying of our fathers’ luxury, Our scions put in wild and savage stock, Spirt up so suddenly into the clouds, And overlook their grafters? BOURBON. Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards! _Mort de ma vie_, if they march along Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom, To buy a slobbery and a dirty farm In that nook-shotten isle of Albion. CONSTABLE. _Dieu de batailles_, where have they this mettle? Is not their climate foggy, raw, and dull, On whom, as in despite, the sun looks pale, Killing their fruit with frowns? Can sodden water, A drench for sur-rein’d jades, their barley-broth, Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat? And shall our quick blood, spirited with wine, Seem frosty? O, for honour of our land, Let us not hang like roping icicles Upon our houses’ thatch, whiles a more frosty people Sweat drops of gallant youth in our rich fields! Poor we may call them in their native lords. DAUPHIN. By faith and honour, Our madams mock at us, and plainly say Our mettle is bred out, and they will give Their bodies to the lust of English youth To new-store France with bastard warriors. BOURBON. They bid us to the English dancing-schools, And teach lavoltas high, and swift corantos; Saying our grace is only in our heels, And that we are most lofty runaways. FRENCH KING. Where is Montjoy the herald? Speed him hence. Let him greet England with our sharp defiance. Up, princes! and, with spirit of honour edged More sharper than your swords, hie to the field! Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France; You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and of Berry, Alençon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy; Jacques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont, Beaumont, Grandpré, Roussi, and Fauconbridge, Foix, Lestrale, Boucicault, and Charolois; High dukes, great princes, barons, lords, and knights, For your great seats now quit you of great shames. Bar Harry England, that sweeps through our land With pennons painted in the blood of Harfleur. Rush on his host, as doth the melted snow Upon the valleys, whose low vassal seat The Alps doth spit and void his rheum upon. Go down upon him, you have power enough, And in a captive chariot into Rouen Bring him our prisoner. CONSTABLE. This becomes the great. Sorry am I his numbers are so few, His soldiers sick and 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. FRENCH KING. Therefore, Lord Constable, haste on Montjoy, And let him say to England that we send To know what willing ransom he will give. Prince Dauphin, you shall stay with us in Rouen. DAUPHIN. Not so, I do beseech your Majesty. FRENCH KING. Be patient, for you shall remain with us. Now forth, Lord Constable and princes all, And quickly bring us word of England’s fall. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. The English camp in Picardy. Enter Gower and Fluellen, meeting. GOWER. How now, Captain Fluellen! come you from the bridge? FLUELLEN. I assure you, there is very excellent services committed at the bridge. GOWER. Is the Duke of Exeter safe? FLUELLEN. The Duke of Exeter is as magnanimous as Agamemnon; and a man that I love and honour with my soul, and my heart, and my duty, and my life, and my living, and my uttermost power. He is not—God be praised and blessed!—any hurt in the world; but keeps the bridge most valiantly, with excellent discipline. There is an anchient lieutenant there at the pridge, I think in my very conscience he is as valiant a man as Mark Antony; and he is a man of no estimation in the world, but I did see him do as gallant service. GOWER. What do you call him? FLUELLEN. He is call’d Anchient Pistol. GOWER. I know him not. Enter Pistol. FLUELLEN. Here is the man. PISTOL. Captain, I thee beseech to do me favours. The Duke of Exeter doth love thee well. FLUELLEN. Ay, I praise God; and I have merited some love at his hands. PISTOL. Bardolph, a soldier, firm and sound of heart, And of buxom valour, hath by cruel fate And giddy Fortune’s furious fickle wheel, That goddess blind, That stands upon the rolling restless stone— FLUELLEN. By your patience, Anchient Pistol. Fortune is painted blind, with a muffler afore his eyes, to signify to you that Fortune is blind; and she is painted also with a wheel, to signify to you, which is the moral of it, that she is turning, and inconstant, and mutability, and variation; and her foot, look you, is fixed upon a spherical stone, which rolls, and rolls, and rolls. In good truth, the poet makes a most excellent description of it. Fortune is an excellent moral. PISTOL. Fortune is Bardolph’s foe, and frowns on him; For he hath stolen a pax, and hanged must ’a be,— A damned death! Let gallows gape for dog; let man go free, And let not hemp his windpipe suffocate. But Exeter hath given the doom of death For pax of little price. Therefore, go speak; the Duke will hear thy voice; And let not Bardolph’s vital thread be cut With edge of penny cord and vile reproach. Speak, captain, for his life, and I will thee requite. FLUELLEN. Anchient Pistol, I do partly understand your meaning. PISTOL. Why then, rejoice therefore. FLUELLEN. Certainly, anchient, it is not a thing to rejoice at; for if, look you, he were my brother, I would desire the Duke to use his good pleasure, and put him to execution; for discipline ought to be used. PISTOL. Die and be damn’d! and _fico_ for thy friendship! FLUELLEN. It is well. PISTOL. The fig of Spain. [_Exit._] FLUELLEN. Very good. GOWER. Why, this is an arrant counterfeit rascal. I remember him now; a bawd, a cutpurse. FLUELLEN. I’ll assure you, ’a uttered as prave words at the pridge as you shall see in a summer’s day. But it is very well; what he has spoke to me, that is well, I warrant you, when time is serve. GOWER. Why, ’t is a gull, a fool, a rogue, that now and then goes to the wars, to grace himself at his return into London under the form of a soldier. And such fellows are perfect in the great commanders’ names; and they will learn you by rote where services were done; at such and such a sconce, at such a breach, at such a convoy; who came off bravely, who was shot, who disgrac’d, 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-wash’d wits, is wonderful to be thought on. But you must learn to know such slanders of the age, or else you may be marvellously mistook. FLUELLEN. I tell you what, Captain Gower; I do perceive he is not the man that he would gladly make show to the world he is. If I find a hole in his coat, I will tell him my mind. [_Drum heard._] Hark you, the King is coming, and I must speak with him from the pridge. Drum and colours. Enter King Henry, Gloucester and his poor soldiers. God bless your Majesty! KING HENRY. How now, Fluellen! cam’st thou from the bridge? FLUELLEN. Ay, so please your Majesty. The Duke of Exeter has very gallantly maintain’d the pridge. The French is gone off, look you; and there is gallant and most prave passages. Marry, th’ athversary was have possession of the pridge; but he is enforced to retire, and the Duke of Exeter is master of the pridge. I can tell your Majesty, the Duke is a prave man. KING HENRY. What men have you lost, Fluellen? FLUELLEN. The perdition of the athversary hath been very great, reasonable great. Marry, for my part, I think the Duke hath lost never a man, but one that is like to be executed for robbing a church, one Bardolph, if your Majesty know the man. His face is all bubukles, and whelks, and knobs, and flames o’ fire; and his lips blows at his nose, and it is like a coal of fire, sometimes plue and sometimes red; but his nose is executed, and his fire’s out. KING HENRY. We would have all such offenders so cut off; and we give express charge, that in our marches through the country, there be nothing compell’d from the villages, nothing taken but paid for, none of the French upbraided or abused in disdainful language; for when lenity and cruelty play for a kingdom, the gentler gamester is the soonest winner. Tucket. Enter Montjoy. MONTJOY. You know me by my habit. KING HENRY. Well then I know thee. What shall I know of thee? MONTJOY. My master’s mind. KING HENRY. Unfold it. MONTJOY. Thus says my King: Say thou to Harry of England: Though we seem’d dead, we did but sleep; advantage is a better soldier than rashness. Tell him we could have rebuk’d him at Harfleur, but that we thought not good to bruise an injury till it were full ripe. Now we speak upon our cue, and our voice is imperial. England shall repent his folly, see his weakness, and admire our sufferance. Bid him therefore consider of his ransom; which must proportion the losses we have borne, the subjects we have lost, the disgrace we have digested; which in weight to re-answer, his pettishness would bow under. For our losses, his exchequer is too poor; for the effusion of our blood, the muster of his kingdom too faint a number; and for our disgrace, his own person, kneeling at our feet, but a weak and worthless satisfaction. To this add defiance; and tell him, for conclusion, he hath betrayed his followers, whose condemnation is pronounc’d. So far my King and master; so much my office. KING HENRY. What is thy name? I know thy quality. MONTJOY. Montjoy. KING HENRY. Thou dost thy office fairly. Turn thee back, And tell thy King I do not seek him now, But could be willing to march on to Calais Without impeachment; for, to say the sooth, Though ’tis no wisdom to confess so much Unto an enemy of craft and vantage, My people are with sickness much enfeebled, My numbers lessen’d, and those few I have Almost no better than so many French; Who when they were in health, I tell thee, herald, I thought upon one pair of English legs Did march three Frenchmen. Yet, forgive me, God, That I do brag thus! This your air of France Hath blown that vice in me. I must repent. Go therefore, tell thy master here I am; My ransom is this frail and worthless trunk, My army but a weak and sickly guard; Yet, God before, tell him we will come on, Though France himself and such another neighbour Stand in our way. There’s for thy labour, Montjoy. Go, bid thy master well advise himself. If we may pass, we will; if we be hind’red, We shall your tawny ground with your red blood Discolour; and so, Montjoy, fare you well. The sum of all our answer is but this: We would not seek a battle, as we are; Nor, as we are, we say we will not shun it. So tell your master. MONTJOY. I shall deliver so. Thanks to your Highness. [_Exit._] GLOUCESTER. I hope they will not come upon us now. KING HENRY. We are in God’s hands, brother, not in theirs. March to the bridge; it now draws toward night. Beyond the river we’ll encamp ourselves, And on tomorrow bid them march away. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VII. The French camp, near Agincourt. Enter the Constable of France, the Lord Rambures, Orleans, Dauphin with others. CONSTABLE. Tut! I have the best armour of the world. Would it were day! ORLEANS. You have an excellent armour; but let my horse have his due. CONSTABLE. It is the best horse of Europe. ORLEANS. Will it never be morning? DAUPHIN. My Lord of Orleans, and my Lord High Constable, you talk of horse and armour? ORLEANS. You are as well provided of both as any prince in the world. DAUPHIN. What a long night is this! I will not change my horse with any that treads but on four pasterns. Ch’ha! He bounds from the earth, as if his entrails were hairs; _le cheval volant_, the Pegasus, _qui a les narines de feu!_ When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk. He trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes. ORLEANS. He’s of the colour of the nutmeg. DAUPHIN. And of the heat of the ginger. It is a beast for Perseus. He is pure air and fire; and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him, but only in patient stillness while his rider mounts him. He is indeed a horse, and all other jades you may call beasts. CONSTABLE. Indeed, my lord, it is a most absolute and excellent horse. DAUPHIN. It is the prince of palfreys; his neigh is like the bidding of a monarch, and his countenance enforces homage. ORLEANS. No more, cousin. DAUPHIN. Nay, the man hath no wit that cannot, from the rising of the lark to the lodging of the lamb, vary deserved praise on my palfrey. It is a theme as fluent as the sea; turn the sands into eloquent tongues, and my horse is argument for them all. ’Tis a subject for a sovereign to reason on, and for a sovereign’s sovereign to ride on; and for the world, familiar to us and unknown, to lay apart their particular functions and wonder at him. I once writ a sonnet in his praise and began thus: “Wonder of nature,”— ORLEANS. I have heard a sonnet begin so to one’s mistress. DAUPHIN. Then did they imitate that which I compos’d to my courser, for my horse is my mistress. ORLEANS. Your mistress bears well. DAUPHIN. Me well; which is the prescript praise and perfection of a good and particular mistress. CONSTABLE. Nay, for methought yesterday your mistress shrewdly shook your back. DAUPHIN. So perhaps did yours. CONSTABLE. Mine was not bridled. DAUPHIN. O then belike she was old and gentle; and you rode, like a kern of Ireland, your French hose off, and in your strait strossers. CONSTABLE. You have good judgment in horsemanship. DAUPHIN. Be warn’d by me, then; they that ride so and ride not warily, fall into foul bogs. I had rather have my horse to my mistress. CONSTABLE. I had as lief have my mistress a jade. DAUPHIN. I tell thee, Constable, my mistress wears his own hair. CONSTABLE. I could make as true a boast as that, if I had a sow to my mistress. DAUPHIN. “_Le chien est retourné à son propre vomissement, et la truie lavée au bourbier_.” Thou mak’st use of anything. CONSTABLE. Yet do I not use my horse for my mistress, or any such proverb so little kin to the purpose. RAMBURES. My Lord Constable, the armour that I saw in your tent tonight, are those stars or suns upon it? CONSTABLE. Stars, my lord. DAUPHIN. Some of them will fall tomorrow, I hope. CONSTABLE. And yet my sky shall not want. DAUPHIN. That may be, for you bear a many superfluously, and ’twere more honour some were away. CONSTABLE. Even as your horse bears your praises; who would trot as well, were some of your brags dismounted. DAUPHIN. Would I were able to load him with his desert! Will it never be day? I will trot tomorrow a mile, and my way shall be paved with English faces. CONSTABLE. I will not say so, for fear I should be fac’d out of my way. But I would it were morning; for I would fain be about the ears of the English. RAMBURES. Who will go to hazard with me for twenty prisoners? CONSTABLE. You must first go yourself to hazard, ere you have them. DAUPHIN. ’Tis midnight; I’ll go arm myself. [_Exit._] ORLEANS. The Dauphin longs for morning. RAMBURES. He longs to eat the English. CONSTABLE. I think he will eat all he kills. ORLEANS. By the white hand of my lady, he’s a gallant prince. CONSTABLE. Swear by her foot that she may tread out the oath. ORLEANS. He is simply the most active gentleman of France. CONSTABLE. Doing is activity; and he will still be doing. ORLEANS. He never did harm, that I heard of. CONSTABLE. Nor will do none tomorrow. He will keep that good name still. ORLEANS. I know him to be valiant. CONSTABLE. I was told that by one that knows him better than you. ORLEANS. What’s he? CONSTABLE. Marry, he told me so himself; and he said he car’d not who knew it. ORLEANS. He needs not; it is no hidden virtue in him. CONSTABLE. By my faith, sir, but it is; never anybody saw it but his lackey. ’Tis a hooded valour; and when it appears, it will bate. ORLEANS. “Ill will never said well.” CONSTABLE. I will cap that proverb with “There is flattery in friendship.” ORLEANS. And I will take up that with “Give the devil his due.” CONSTABLE. Well plac’d. There stands your friend for the devil; have at the very eye of that proverb with “A pox of the devil.” ORLEANS. You are the better at proverbs, by how much “A fool’s bolt is soon shot.” CONSTABLE. You have shot over. ORLEANS. ’Tis not the first time you were overshot. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. My Lord High Constable, the English lie within fifteen hundred paces of your tents. CONSTABLE. Who hath measur’d the ground? MESSENGER. The Lord Grandpré. CONSTABLE. A valiant and most expert gentleman. Would it were day! Alas, poor Harry of England, he longs not for the dawning as we do. ORLEANS. What a wretched and peevish fellow is this King of England, to mope with his fat-brain’d followers so far out of his knowledge! CONSTABLE. If the English had any apprehension, they would run away. ORLEANS. That they lack; for if their heads had any intellectual armour, they could never wear such heavy head-pieces. RAMBURES. That island of England breeds very valiant creatures. Their mastiffs are of unmatchable courage. ORLEANS. Foolish curs, that run winking into the mouth of a Russian bear and have their heads crush’d like rotten apples! You may as well say, that’s a valiant flea that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion. CONSTABLE. Just, just; and the men do sympathize with the mastiffs in robustious and rough coming on, leaving their wits with their wives; and then, give them great meals of beef and iron and steel, they will eat like wolves and fight like devils. ORLEANS. Ay, but these English are shrewdly out of beef. CONSTABLE. Then shall we find tomorrow they have only stomachs to eat and none to fight. Now is it time to arm. Come, shall we about it? ORLEANS. It is now two o’clock; but, let me see, by ten We shall have each a hundred Englishmen. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV Enter Chorus. CHORUS. Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe. From camp to camp through the foul womb of night The hum of either army stilly sounds, That the fix’d sentinels almost receive The secret whispers of each other’s watch; Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames Each battle sees the other’s 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, With busy hammers closing rivets up, Give dreadful note of preparation. The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll, And the third hour of drowsy morning name. Proud of their numbers and secure in soul, The confident and over-lusty French Do the low-rated English play at dice; And chide the cripple tardy-gaited Night Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp So tediously away. The poor condemned English, Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires Sit patiently and inly ruminate The morning’s danger; and their gesture sad, Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats, Presented them unto the gazing moon So many horrid ghosts. O now, who will behold The royal captain of this 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, Bids them good morrow with a modest smile, And calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen. Upon his royal face there is no note How dread an army hath enrounded him; Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour Unto the weary and all-watched night, But freshly looks, and over-bears attaint With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty; That every wretch, pining and pale before, Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks. A largess universal like the sun His liberal eye doth give to everyone, Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all Behold, as may unworthiness define, A little touch of Harry in the night. And so our scene must to the battle fly, Where—O for pity!—we shall much disgrace With four or five most vile and ragged foils, Right ill-dispos’d in brawl ridiculous, The name of Agincourt. Yet sit and see, Minding true things by what their mock’ries be. [_Exit._] SCENE I. The English camp at Agincourt. Enter King Henry, Bedford and Gloucester. KING HENRY. Gloucester, ’tis true that we are in great danger; The greater therefore should our courage be. Good morrow, brother Bedford. God Almighty! There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distil it out; For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers, Which is both healthful and good husbandry. Besides, they are our outward consciences, And preachers to us all, admonishing That we should dress us fairly for our end. Thus may we gather honey from the weed, And make a moral of the devil himself. Enter Erpingham. Good morrow, old Sir Thomas Erpingham: A good soft pillow for that good white head Were better than a churlish turf of France. ERPINGHAM. Not so, my liege; this lodging likes me better, Since I may say, “Now lie I like a king.” KING HENRY. ’Tis good for men to love their present pains Upon example; so the spirit is eased; And when the mind is quick’ned, out of doubt, The organs, though defunct and dead before, Break up their drowsy grave and newly move, With casted slough and fresh legerity. Lend me thy cloak, Sir Thomas. Brothers both, Commend me to the princes in our camp; Do my good morrow to them, and anon Desire them all to my pavilion. GLOUCESTER. We shall, my liege. ERPINGHAM. Shall I attend your Grace? KING HENRY. No, my good knight; Go with my brothers to my lords of England. I and my bosom must debate a while, And then I would no other company. ERPINGHAM. The Lord in heaven bless thee, noble Harry! [_Exeunt all but King._] KING HENRY. God-a-mercy, old heart! thou speak’st cheerfully. Enter Pistol. PISTOL. _Qui vous là?_ KING HENRY. A friend. PISTOL. Discuss unto me; art thou officer? Or art thou base, common, and popular? KING HENRY. I am a gentleman of a company. PISTOL. Trail’st thou the puissant pike? KING HENRY. Even so. What are you? PISTOL. As good a gentleman as the Emperor. KING HENRY. Then you are a better than the King. PISTOL. The King’s a bawcock, and a heart of gold, A lad of life, an imp of fame; Of parents good, of fist most valiant. I kiss his dirty shoe, and from heart-string I love the lovely bully. What is thy name? KING HENRY. Harry le Roy. PISTOL. Le Roy! a Cornish name. Art thou of Cornish crew? KING HENRY. No, I am a Welshman. PISTOL. Know’st thou Fluellen? KING HENRY. Yes. PISTOL. Tell him I’ll knock his leek about his pate Upon Saint Davy’s day. KING HENRY. Do not you wear your dagger in your cap that day, lest he knock that about yours. PISTOL. Art thou his friend? KING HENRY. And his kinsman too. PISTOL. The _fico_ for thee, then! KING HENRY. I thank you. God be with you! PISTOL. My name is Pistol call’d. [_Exit._] KING HENRY. It sorts well with your fierceness. Enter Fluellen and Gower. GOWER. Captain Fluellen! FLUELLEN. So! in the name of Jesu Christ, speak lower. It is the greatest admiration in the universal world, when the true and anchient prerogatifes and laws of the wars is not kept. If you would take the pains but to examine the wars of Pompey the Great, you shall find, I warrant you, that there is no tiddle taddle nor pibble pabble in Pompey’s camp. I warrant you, you shall find the ceremonies of the wars, and the cares of it, and the forms of it, and the sobriety of it, and the modesty of it, to be otherwise. GOWER. Why, the enemy is loud; you hear him all night. FLUELLEN. If the enemy is an ass and a fool and a prating coxcomb, is it meet, think you, that we should also, look you, be an ass and a fool and a prating coxcomb? In your own conscience, now? GOWER. I will speak lower. FLUELLEN. I pray you and beseech you that you will. [_Exeunt Gower and Fluellen._] KING HENRY. Though it appear a little out of fashion, There is much care and valour in this Welshman. Enter three soldiers, John Bates, Alexander Court and Michael Williams. COURT. Brother John Bates, is not that the morning which breaks yonder? BATES. I think it be; but we have no great cause to desire the approach of day. WILLIAMS. We see yonder the beginning of the day, but I think we shall never see the end of it. Who goes there? KING HENRY. A friend. WILLIAMS. Under what captain serve you? KING HENRY. Under Sir Thomas Erpingham. WILLIAMS. A good old commander and a most kind gentleman. I pray you, what thinks he of our estate? KING HENRY. Even as men wreck’d upon a sand, that look to be wash’d off the next tide. BATES. He hath not told his thought to the King? KING HENRY. No; nor it is not meet he should. For though I speak it to you, I think the King is but a man as I am. The violet smells to him as it doth to me; the element shows to him as it doth to me; all his senses have but human conditions. His ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man; and though his affections are higher mounted than ours, yet, when they stoop, they stoop with the like wing. Therefore, when he sees reason of fears as we do, his fears, out of doubt, be of the same relish as ours are; yet, in reason, no man should possess him with any appearance of fear, lest he, by showing it, should dishearten his army. BATES. He may show what outward courage he will; but I believe, as cold a night as ’tis, he could wish himself in Thames up to the neck; and so I would he were, and I by him, at all adventures, so we were quit here. KING HENRY. By my troth, I will speak my conscience of the King: I think he would not wish himself anywhere but where he is. BATES. Then I would he were here alone; so should he be sure to be ransomed, and a many poor men’s lives saved. KING HENRY. I dare say you love him not so ill, to wish him here alone, howsoever you speak this to feel other men’s minds. Methinks I could not die anywhere so contented as in the King’s company, his cause being just and his quarrel honourable. WILLIAMS. That’s more than we know. BATES. Ay, or more than we should seek after; for we know enough, if we know we are the King’s subjects. If his cause be wrong, our obedience to the King wipes the crime of it out of us. WILLIAMS. But if the cause be not good, the King himself hath a heavy reckoning to make, when all those legs and arms and heads, chopp’d off in a battle, shall join together at the latter day and cry all, “We died at such a place”; some swearing, some crying for a surgeon, some upon their wives left poor behind them, some upon the debts they owe, some upon their children rawly left. I am afeard there are few die well that die in a battle; for how can they charitably dispose of anything, when blood is their argument? Now, if these men do not die well, it will be a black matter for the King that led them to it; who to disobey were against all proportion of subjection. KING HENRY. So, if a son that is by his father sent about merchandise do sinfully miscarry upon the sea, the imputation of his wickedness, by your rule, should be imposed upon his father that sent him; or if a servant, under his master’s command transporting a sum of money, be assailed by robbers and die in many irreconcil’d 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 punish’d for before-breach of the King’s laws in now the King’s quarrel. Where they feared the death, they have borne life away; and where they would be safe, they perish. Then if they die unprovided, no more is the King guilty of their damnation than he was before guilty of those impieties for the which they are now visited. Every subject’s duty is the King’s; but every subject’s soul is his own. Therefore should every soldier in the wars do as every sick man in his bed, wash every mote out of his conscience; and dying so, death is to him advantage; or not dying, the time was blessedly lost wherein such preparation was gained; and in him that escapes, it were not sin to think that, making God so free an offer, He let him outlive that day to see His greatness and to teach others how they should prepare. WILLIAMS. ’Tis certain, every man that dies ill, the ill upon his own head, the King is not to answer for it. BATES. I do not desire he should answer for me; and yet I determine to fight lustily for him. KING HENRY. I myself heard the King say he would not be ransom’d. WILLIAMS. Ay, he said so, to make us fight cheerfully; but when our throats are cut, he may be ransom’d, and we ne’er the wiser. KING HENRY. If I live to see it, I will never trust his word after. WILLIAMS. You pay him then. That’s a perilous shot out of an elder-gun, that a poor and a private displeasure can do against a monarch! You may as well go about to turn the sun to ice with fanning in his face with a peacock’s feather. You’ll never trust his word after! Come, ’tis a foolish saying. KING HENRY. Your reproof is something too round. I should be angry with you, if the time were convenient. WILLIAMS. Let it be a quarrel between us if you live. KING HENRY. I embrace it. WILLIAMS. How shall I know thee again? KING HENRY. Give me any gage of thine, and I will wear it in my bonnet; then, if ever thou dar’st acknowledge it, I will make it my quarrel. WILLIAMS. Here’s my glove; give me another of thine. KING HENRY. There. WILLIAMS. This will I also wear in my cap. If ever thou come to me and say, after tomorrow, “This is my glove,” by this hand I will take thee a box on the ear. KING HENRY. If ever I live to see it, I will challenge it. WILLIAMS. Thou dar’st as well be hang’d. KING HENRY. Well, I will do it, though I take thee in the King’s company. WILLIAMS. Keep thy word; fare thee well. BATES. Be friends, you English fools, be friends. We have French quarrels enough, if you could tell how to reckon. KING HENRY. Indeed, the French may lay twenty French crowns to one they will beat us, for they bear them on their shoulders; but it is no English treason to cut French crowns, and tomorrow the King himself will be a clipper. [_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! We must bear all. O hard condition, Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath Of every fool, whose sense no more can feel But his own wringing! What infinite heart’s ease Must kings neglect, that private men enjoy! And what have kings, that privates have not too, Save ceremony, save general ceremony? And what art thou, thou idol Ceremony? What kind of god art thou, that suffer’st more Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers? What are thy rents? What are thy comings in? O Ceremony, show me but thy worth! What is thy soul of adoration? Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form, Creating awe and fear in other men? Wherein thou art less happy being fear’d 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! Think’st thou the fiery fever will go out With titles blown from adulation? Will it give place to flexure and low bending? Canst thou, when thou command’st the beggar’s knee, Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream, That play’st so subtly with a king’s repose; I am a king that find thee, and I know ’Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball, The sword, the mace, the crown imperial, The intertissued robe of gold and pearl, The farced title running ’fore the King, The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp That beats upon the high shore of this world, No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous Ceremony,— Not all these, laid in bed majestical, Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave, Who with a body 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 Sweats in the eye of Phoebus, and all night Sleeps in Elysium; next day after dawn, Doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse, And follows so the ever-running year, With profitable labour, to his grave: And, but for ceremony, such a wretch, Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep, Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king. The slave, a member of the country’s peace, Enjoys it, but in gross brain little wots What watch the King keeps to maintain the peace, Whose hours the peasant best advantages. Enter Erpingham. ERPINGHAM. My lord, your nobles, jealous of your absence, Seek through your camp to find you. KING HENRY. Good old knight, Collect them all together at my tent. I’ll be before thee. ERPINGHAM. I shall do’t, my lord. [_Exit._] KING HENRY. O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts. Possess them not with fear. Take from them now The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers Pluck their hearts from them. Not today, O Lord, O, not today, think not upon the fault My father made in compassing the crown! I Richard’s body have interred new, And on it have bestow’d more contrite tears Than from it issued 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 Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests Sing still for Richard’s soul. More will I do; Though all that I can do is nothing worth, Since that my penitence comes after all, Imploring pardon. Enter Gloucester. GLOUCESTER. My liege! KING HENRY. My brother Gloucester’s voice? Ay; I know thy errand, I will go with thee. The day, my friends, and all things stay for me. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The French camp. Enter the Dauphin, Orleans, Rambures and others. ORLEANS. The sun doth gild our armour; up, my lords! DAUPHIN. _Monte à cheval!_ My horse, _varlet! laquais_, ha! ORLEANS. O brave spirit! DAUPHIN. _Via, les eaux et terre!_ ORLEANS. _Rien puis? L’air et feu?_ DAUPHIN. _Cieux_, cousin Orleans. Enter Constable. Now, my Lord Constable! CONSTABLE. Hark, how our steeds for present service neigh! DAUPHIN. Mount them, and make incision in their hides, That their hot blood may spin in English eyes, And dout them with superfluous courage, ha! RAMBURES. What, will you have them weep our horses’ blood? How shall we, then, behold their natural tears? Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. The English are embattl’d, you French peers. CONSTABLE. To horse, you gallant princes! straight to horse! Do but behold yon poor and starved band, And your fair show shall suck away their souls, Leaving them but the shales and husks of men. There is not work enough for all our hands; Scarce blood enough in all their sickly veins To give each naked curtle-axe a stain, That our French gallants shall today draw out, And sheathe for lack of sport. Let us but blow on them, The vapour of our valour will o’erturn them. ’Tis positive ’gainst all exceptions, lords, That our superfluous lackeys and our peasants, Who in unnecessary action swarm About our squares of battle, were enough To purge this field of such a hilding foe, Though we upon this mountain’s basis by Took stand for idle speculation, But that our honours must not. What’s to say? A very little little let us do, And all is done. Then let the trumpets sound The tucket sonance and the note to mount; For our approach shall so much dare the field That England shall crouch down in fear and yield. Enter Grandpré. GRANDPRÉ. Why do you stay so long, my lords of France? Yond island carrions, desperate of their bones, Ill-favouredly become the morning field. Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose, And our air shakes them passing scornfully. Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar’d host, And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps; The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks With torch-staves in their hand; and their poor jades Lob down their heads, drooping the hides and hips, The gum down-roping from their pale-dead eyes, And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal bit Lies foul with chew’d grass, still, and motionless; And their executors, the knavish crows, Fly o’er them, all impatient for their hour. Description cannot suit itself in words To demonstrate the life of such a battle, In life so lifeless as it shows itself. CONSTABLE. They have said their prayers, and they stay for death. DAUPHIN. Shall we go send them dinners and fresh suits And give their fasting horses provender, And after fight with them? CONSTABLE. I stay but for my guard; on to the field! I will the banner from a trumpet take, And use it for my haste. Come, come, away! The sun is high, and we outwear the day. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The English camp. Enter Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham, with all his host: Salisbury and Westmorland. GLOUCESTER. Where is the King? BEDFORD. The King himself is rode to view their battle. WESTMORLAND. Of fighting men they have full three-score thousand. EXETER. There’s five to one; besides, they all are fresh. SALISBURY. God’s arm strike with us! ’tis a fearful odds. God be wi’ you, princes all; I’ll to my charge. If we no more meet till we meet in heaven, Then, joyfully, my noble Lord of Bedford, My dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter, And my kind kinsman, warriors all, adieu! BEDFORD. Farewell, good Salisbury, and good luck go with thee! EXETER. Farewell, kind lord; fight valiantly today! And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, For thou art fram’d of the firm truth of valour. [_Exit Salisbury._] BEDFORD. He is as full of valour as of kindness, Princely in both. Enter the King. WESTMORLAND. O that we now had here But one ten thousand of those men in England That do no work today! KING. What’s he that wishes so? My cousin Westmorland? No, my fair cousin. If we are mark’d to die, we are enough To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear; Such outward things dwell not in my desires; But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive. No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England. God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour As one man more, methinks, would share from me For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more! Rather proclaim it, Westmorland, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart. His passport shall be made, And crowns for convoy put into his purse. We would not die in that man’s company That fears his fellowship to die with us. This day is call’d the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say, “Tomorrow is Saint Crispian.” Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say, “These wounds I had on Crispian’s day.” Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he’ll remember with advantages What feats he did that day. Then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words, Harry the King, Bedford, and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered, We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. For he today 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 abed 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. Enter Salisbury. SALISBURY. My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed. The French are bravely in their battles set, And will with all expedience charge on us. KING HENRY. All things are ready, if our minds be so. WESTMORLAND. Perish the man whose mind is backward now! KING HENRY. Thou dost not wish more help from England, coz? WESTMORLAND. God’s will! my liege, would you and I alone, Without more help, could fight this royal battle! KING HENRY. Why, now thou hast unwish’d five thousand men, Which likes me better than to wish us one. You know your places. God be with you all! Tucket. Enter Montjoy. MONTJOY. Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry, If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound, Before thy most assured overthrow; For certainly thou art so near the gulf, Thou needs must be englutted. Besides, in mercy, The Constable desires thee thou wilt mind Thy followers of repentance; that their souls May make a peaceful and a sweet retire From off these fields, where, wretches, their poor bodies Must lie and fester. KING HENRY. Who hath sent thee now? MONTJOY. The Constable of France. KING HENRY. I pray thee, bear my former answer back: Bid them achieve me and then sell my bones. Good God! why should they mock poor fellows thus? The man that once did sell the lion’s skin While the beast liv’d, was kill’d with hunting him. A many of our bodies shall no doubt Find native graves, upon the which, I trust, Shall witness live in brass of this day’s work; And those that leave their valiant bones in France, Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills, They shall be fam’d; for there the sun shall greet them, And draw their honours reeking up to heaven; Leaving their earthly parts to choke your clime, The smell whereof shall breed a plague in France. Mark then abounding valour in our English, That being dead, like to the bullet’s grazing, Break out into a second course of mischief, Killing in relapse of mortality. Let me speak proudly: tell the Constable We are but warriors for the working-day. Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirch’d With rainy marching in the painful field; There’s not a piece of feather in our host— Good argument, I hope, we will not fly— And time hath worn us into slovenry; But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim; And my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night They’ll be in fresher robes, or they will pluck The gay new coats o’er the French soldiers’ heads And turn them out of service. If they do this— As, if God please, they shall,—my ransom then Will soon be levied. Herald, save thou thy labour. Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald. They shall have none, I swear, but these my joints; Which if they have as I will leave ’em them, Shall yield them little, tell the Constable. MONTJOY. I shall, King Harry. And so fare thee well; Thou never shalt hear herald any more. [_Exit._] KING HENRY. I fear thou’lt once more come again for ransom. Enter York. YORK. My lord, most humbly on my knee I beg The leading of the vaward. KING HENRY. Take it, brave York. Now, soldiers, march away; And how thou pleasest, God, dispose the day! [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. The field of battle. Alarum. Excursions. Enter Pistol, French Soldier and Boy. PISTOL. Yield, cur! FRENCH SOLDIER. _Je pense que vous êtes le gentilhomme de bonne qualité._ PISTOL. _Qualité? Caleno custore me!_ Art thou a gentleman? What is thy name? Discuss. FRENCH SOLDIER. _O Seigneur Dieu!_ PISTOL. O, Signieur Dew should be a gentleman. Perpend my words, O Signieur Dew, and mark: O Signieur Dew, thou diest on point of fox, Except, O signieur, thou do give to me Egregious ransom. FRENCH SOLDIER. _O, prenez miséricorde! Ayez pitié de moi!_ PISTOL. Moy shall not serve; I will have forty moys, Or I will fetch thy rim out at thy throat In drops of crimson blood. FRENCH SOLDIER. _Est-il impossible d’échapper la force de ton bras?_ PISTOL. Brass, cur! Thou damned and luxurious mountain goat, Offer’st me brass? FRENCH SOLDIER. _O pardonnez-moi!_ PISTOL. Say’st thou me so? Is that a ton of moys? Come hither, boy; ask me this slave in French What is his name. BOY. _Écoutez. Comment êtes-vous appelé?_ FRENCH SOLDIER. _Monsieur le Fer._ BOY. He says his name is Master Fer. PISTOL. Master Fer! I’ll fer him, and firk him, and ferret him. Discuss the same in French unto him. BOY. I do not know the French for fer, and ferret, and firk. PISTOL. Bid him prepare; for I will cut his throat. FRENCH SOLDIER. _Que dit-il, monsieur?_ BOY. _Il me commande à vous dire que vous faites vous prêt, car ce soldat ici est disposé tout à cette heure de couper votre gorge._ PISTOL. Owy, cuppele gorge, permafoy, Peasant, unless thou give me crowns, brave crowns; Or mangled shalt thou be by this my sword. FRENCH SOLDIER. _O, je vous supplie, pour l’amour de Dieu, me pardonner! Je suis le gentilhomme de bonne maison; gardez ma vie, et je vous donnerai deux cents écus._ PISTOL. What are his words? BOY. He prays you to save his life. He is a gentleman of a good house; and for his ransom he will give you two hundred crowns. PISTOL. Tell him my fury shall abate, and I The crowns will take. FRENCH SOLDIER. _Petit monsieur, que dit-il?_ BOY. _Encore qu’il est contre son jurement de pardonner aucun prisonnier; néanmoins, pour les écus que vous lui avez promis, il est content à vous donner la liberté, le franchisement._ FRENCH SOLDIER. _Sur mes genoux je vous donne mille remerciements; et je m’estime heureux que je suis tombé entre les mains d’un chevalier, je pense, le plus brave, vaillant, et très distingué seigneur d’Angleterre._ PISTOL. Expound unto me, boy. BOY. He gives you upon his knees, a thousand thanks; and he esteems himself happy that he hath fallen into the hands of one, as he thinks, the most brave, valorous, and thrice-worthy _seigneur_ of England. PISTOL. As I suck blood, I will some mercy show. Follow me! BOY. _Suivez-vous le grand capitaine._ [_Exeunt Pistol and French Soldier._] I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart; but the saying is true, “The empty vessel makes the greatest sound.” Bardolph and Nym had ten times more valour than this roaring devil i’ the old play, that everyone may pare his nails with a wooden dagger; and they are both hang’d; 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. Enter Constable, Orleans, Bourbon, Dauphin and Rambures. CONSTABLE. _O diable!_ ORLEANS. _O Seigneur! le jour est perdu, tout est perdu!_ DAUPHIN. _Mort de ma vie!_ all is confounded, all! Reproach and everlasting shame Sits mocking in our plumes. [_A short alarum._] _O méchante Fortune!_ Do not run away. CONSTABLE. Why, all our ranks are broke. DAUPHIN. O perdurable shame! Let’s stab ourselves, Be these the wretches that we play’d at dice for? ORLEANS. Is this the king we sent to for his ransom? BOURBON. Shame and eternal shame, nothing but shame! Let’s die in honour! Once more back again! And he that will not follow Bourbon now, Let him go hence, and with his cap in hand, Like a base pandar, hold the chamber door Whilst by a slave, no gentler than my dog, His fairest daughter is contaminated. CONSTABLE. Disorder, that hath spoil’d us, friend us now! Let us on heaps go offer up our lives. ORLEANS. We are enough yet living in the field To smother up the English in our throngs, If any order might be thought upon. BOURBON. The devil take order now! I’ll to the throng. Let life be short, else shame will be too long. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. Another part of the field. Alarum. Enter King Henry and his train, with prisoners. KING HENRY. Well have we done, thrice valiant countrymen. But all’s not done; yet keep the French the field. EXETER. The Duke of York commends him to your Majesty. KING HENRY. Lives he, good uncle? Thrice within this hour I saw him down; thrice up again, and fighting. From helmet to the spur all blood he was. EXETER. In which array, brave soldier, doth he lie, Larding the plain; and by his bloody side, Yoke-fellow to his honour-owing wounds, The noble Earl of Suffolk also lies. Suffolk first died; and York, all haggled over, Comes to him, where in gore he lay insteeped, And takes him by the beard; kisses the gashes That bloodily did yawn upon his face. He cries aloud, “Tarry, my cousin Suffolk! My soul shall thine keep company to heaven; Tarry, sweet soul, for mine, then fly abreast, As in this glorious and well-foughten field We kept together in our chivalry.” Upon these words I came and 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 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 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. KING HENRY. I blame you not; For, hearing this, I must perforce compound With mistful eyes, or they will issue too. [_Alarum._] But hark! what new alarum is this same? The French have reinforc’d their scatter’d men. Then every soldier kill his prisoners; Give the word through. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VII. Another part of the field. Enter Fluellen and Gower. FLUELLEN. Kill the poys and the luggage! ’Tis expressly against the law of arms. ’Tis as arrant a piece of knavery, mark you now, as can be offer’t; in your conscience, now, is it not? GOWER. ’Tis certain there’s not a boy left alive; and the cowardly rascals that ran from the battle ha’ done this slaughter. Besides, they have burned and carried away all that was in the King’s tent; wherefore the King, most worthily, hath caus’d every soldier to cut his prisoner’s throat. O, ’tis a gallant king! FLUELLEN. Ay, he was porn at Monmouth, Captain Gower. What call you the town’s name where Alexander the Pig was born? GOWER. Alexander the Great. FLUELLEN. Why, I pray you, is not pig great? The pig, or the great, or the mighty, or the huge, or the magnanimous, are all one reckonings, save the phrase is a little variations. GOWER. I think Alexander the Great was born in Macedon. His father was called Philip of Macedon, as I take it. FLUELLEN. I think it is in Macedon where Alexander is porn. I tell you, Captain, if you look in the maps of the ’orld, I warrant you sall find, in the comparisons between Macedon and Monmouth, that the situations, look you, is both alike. There is a river in Macedon; and there is also moreover a river at Monmouth; it is call’d Wye at Monmouth; but it is out of my prains what is the name of the other river; but ’tis all one, ’tis alike as my fingers is to my fingers, and there is salmons in both. If you mark Alexander’s life well, Harry of Monmouth’s life is come after it indifferent well; for there is figures in all things. Alexander, God knows, and you know, in his rages, and his furies, and his wraths, and his cholers, and his moods, and his displeasures, and his indignations, and also being a little intoxicates in his prains, did, in his ales and his angers, look you, kill his best friend, Cleitus. GOWER. Our King is not like him in that. He never kill’d any of his friends. FLUELLEN. It is not well done, mark you now, to take the tales out of my mouth, ere it is made and finished. I speak but in the figures and comparisons of it. As Alexander kill’d his friend Cleitus, being in his ales and his cups; so also Harry Monmouth, being in his right wits and his good judgements, turn’d away the fat knight with the great belly doublet. He was full of jests, and gipes, and knaveries, and mocks; I have forgot his name. GOWER. Sir John Falstaff. FLUELLEN. That is he. I’ll tell you there is good men porn at Monmouth. GOWER. Here comes his Majesty. Alarum. Enter King Henry and forces; Warwick, Gloucester, Exeter with prisoners. Flourish. KING HENRY. I was not angry since I came to France Until this instant. Take a trumpet, herald; Ride thou unto the horsemen on yond hill. If they will fight with us, bid them come down, Or void the field; they do offend our sight. If they’ll do neither, we will come to them, And make them skirr away, as swift as stones Enforced from the old Assyrian slings. Besides, we’ll cut the throats of those we have, And not a man of them that we shall take Shall taste our mercy. Go and tell them so. Enter Montjoy. EXETER. Here comes the herald of the French, my liege. GLOUCESTER. His eyes are humbler than they us’d to be. KING HENRY. How now! what means this, herald? Know’st thou not That I have fin’d these bones of mine for ransom? Com’st thou again for ransom? MONTJOY. No, great King; I come to thee for charitable license, That we may wander o’er this bloody field To book our dead, and then to bury them; To sort our nobles from our common men. For many of our princes—woe the while!— Lie drown’d and soak’d in mercenary blood; So do our vulgar drench their peasant limbs In blood of princes; and their wounded steeds Fret fetlock deep in gore, and with wild rage Yerk out their armed heels at their dead masters, Killing them twice. O, give us leave, great King, To view the field in safety, and dispose Of their dead bodies! KING HENRY. I tell thee truly, herald, I know not if the day be ours or no; For yet a many of your horsemen peer And gallop o’er the field. MONTJOY. The day is yours. KING HENRY. Praised be God, and not our strength, for it! What is this castle call’d that stands hard by? MONTJOY. They call it Agincourt. KING HENRY. Then call we this the field of Agincourt, Fought on the day of Crispin Crispianus. FLUELLEN. Your grandfather of famous memory, an’t please your Majesty, and your great-uncle Edward the Plack Prince of Wales, as I have read in the chronicles, fought a most prave pattle here in France. KING HENRY. They did, Fluellen. FLUELLEN. Your Majesty says very true. If your Majesties is rememb’red of it, the Welshmen did good service in garden where leeks did grow, wearing leeks in their Monmouth caps; which, your Majesty know, to this hour is an honourable badge of the service; and I do believe your Majesty takes no scorn to wear the leek upon Saint Tavy’s day. KING HENRY. I wear it for a memorable honour; For I am Welsh, you know, good countryman. FLUELLEN. All the water in Wye cannot wash your Majesty’s Welsh plood out of your pody, I can tell you that. Got pless it and preserve it, as long as it pleases His grace, and His majesty too! KING HENRY. Thanks, good my countryman. FLUELLEN. By Jeshu, I am your Majesty’s countryman, I care not who know it. I will confess it to all the ’orld. I need not be asham’d of your Majesty, praised be God, so long as your Majesty is an honest man. KING HENRY. God keep me so! Enter Williams. Our heralds go with him; Bring me just notice of the numbers dead On both our parts. Call yonder fellow hither. [_Exeunt Heralds with Montjoy._] EXETER. Soldier, you must come to the King. KING HENRY. Soldier, why wear’st thou that glove in thy cap? WILLIAMS. An’t please your Majesty, ’tis the gage of one that I should fight withal, if he be alive. KING HENRY. An Englishman? WILLIAMS. An’t please your Majesty, a rascal that swagger’d with me last night; who, if alive and ever dare to challenge this glove, I have sworn to take him a box o’ the ear; or if I can see my glove in his cap, which he swore, as he was a soldier, he would wear if alive, I will strike it out soundly. KING HENRY. What think you, Captain Fluellen, is it fit this soldier keep his oath? FLUELLEN. He is a craven and a villain else, an’t please your Majesty, in my conscience. KING HENRY. It may be his enemy is a gentlemen of great sort, quite from the answer of his degree. FLUELLEN. Though he be as good a gentleman as the devil is, as Lucifier and Belzebub himself, it is necessary, look your Grace, that he keep his vow and his oath. If he be perjur’d, see you now, his reputation is as arrant a villain and a Jacksauce, as ever his black shoe trod upon God’s ground and His earth, in my conscience, la! KING HENRY. Then keep thy vow, sirrah, when thou meet’st the fellow. WILLIAMS. So I will, my liege, as I live. KING HENRY. Who serv’st thou under? WILLIAMS. Under Captain Gower, my liege. FLUELLEN. Gower is a good captain, and is good knowledge and literatured in the wars. KING HENRY. Call him hither to me, soldier. WILLIAMS. I will, my liege. [_Exit._] KING HENRY. Here, Fluellen; wear thou this favour for me and stick it in thy cap. When Alençon and myself were down together, I pluck’d 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. FLUELLEN. Your Grace does me as great honours as can be desir’d in the hearts of his subjects. I would fain see the man, that has but two legs, that shall find himself aggrief’d at this glove; that is all. But I would fain see it once, an please God of His grace that I might see. KING HENRY. Know’st thou Gower? FLUELLEN. He is my dear friend, an please you. KING HENRY. Pray thee, go seek him, and bring him to my tent. FLUELLEN. I will fetch him. [_Exit._] KING HENRY. My Lord of Warwick, and my brother Gloucester, Follow Fluellen closely at the heels. The glove which I have given him for a favour May haply purchase him a box o’ the ear. It is the soldier’s; I by bargain should Wear it myself. Follow, good cousin Warwick. If that the soldier strike him, as I judge By his blunt bearing he will keep his word, Some sudden mischief may arise of it; For I do know Fluellen valiant And, 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. WILLIAMS. I warrant it is to knight you, Captain. Enter Fluellen. FLUELLEN. God’s will and his pleasure, captain, I beseech you now, come apace to the King. There is more good toward you peradventure than is in your knowledge to dream of. WILLIAMS. Sir, know you this glove? FLUELLEN. Know the glove! I know the glove is a glove. WILLIAMS. I know this; and thus I challenge it. [_Strikes him._] FLUELLEN. ’Sblood! an arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in France, or in England! GOWER. How now, sir! you villain! WILLIAMS. Do you think I’ll be forsworn? FLUELLEN. Stand away, Captain Gower. I will give treason his payment into plows, I warrant you. WILLIAMS. I am no traitor. FLUELLEN. That’s a lie in thy throat. I charge you in his Majesty’s name, apprehend him; he’s a friend of the Duke Alençon’s. Enter Warwick and Gloucester. WARWICK. How now, how now! what’s the matter? FLUELLEN. My lord of Warwick, here is—praised be God for it!—a most contagious treason come to light, look you, as you shall desire in a summer’s day. Here is his Majesty. Enter King Henry and Exeter. KING HENRY. How now! what’s the matter? FLUELLEN. My liege, here is a villain and a traitor, that, look your Grace, has struck the glove which your Majesty is take out of the helmet of Alençon. WILLIAMS. My liege, this was my glove; here is the fellow of it; and he that I gave it to in change promis’d to wear it in his cap. I promis’d to strike him, if he did. I met this man with my glove in his cap, and I have been as good as my word. FLUELLEN. Your Majesty hear now, saving your Majesty’s manhood, what an arrant, rascally, beggarly, lousy knave it is. I hope your Majesty is pear me testimony and witness, and will avouchment, that this is the glove of Alençon that your Majesty is give me; in your conscience, now? KING HENRY. Give me thy glove, soldier. Look, here is the fellow of it. ’Twas I, indeed, thou promisedst to strike; And thou hast given me most bitter terms. FLUELLEN. An it please your Majesty, let his neck answer for it, if there is any martial law in the world. KING HENRY. How canst thou make me satisfaction? WILLIAMS. All offences, my lord, come from the heart. Never came any from mine that might offend your Majesty. KING HENRY. It was ourself thou didst abuse. WILLIAMS. Your Majesty came not like yourself. You appear’d to me but as a common man; witness the night, your garments, your lowliness; and what your Highness suffer’d under that shape, I beseech you take it for your own fault and not mine; for had you been as I took you for, I made no offence; therefore, I beseech your Highness, pardon me. KING HENRY. Here, uncle Exeter, fill this glove with crowns, And give it to this fellow. Keep it, fellow; And wear it for an honour in thy cap Till I do challenge it. Give him his crowns; And, captain, you must needs be friends with him. FLUELLEN. By this day and this light, the fellow has mettle enough in his belly. Hold, there is twelve pence for you; and I pray you to serve God, and keep you out of prawls, and prabbles, and quarrels, and dissensions, and, I warrant you, it is the better for you. WILLIAMS. I will none of your money. FLUELLEN. It is with a good will; I can tell you, it will serve you to mend your shoes. Come, wherefore should you be so pashful? Your shoes is not so good. ’Tis a good silling, I warrant you, or I will change it. Enter an English Herald. KING HENRY. Now, herald, are the dead numb’red? HERALD. Here is the number of the slaught’red French. KING HENRY. What prisoners of good sort are taken, uncle? EXETER. Charles Duke of Orleans, nephew to the King; John Duke of Bourbon, and Lord Boucicault: Of other lords and barons, knights and squires, Full fifteen hundred, besides common men. KING HENRY. This note doth tell me of ten thousand French That in the field lie slain; of princes, in this number, And nobles bearing banners, there lie dead One hundred twenty-six; added to these, Of knights, esquires, and gallant gentlemen, Eight thousand and four hundred; of the which, Five hundred were but yesterday dubb’d knights; So that, in these ten thousand they have lost, There are but sixteen hundred mercenaries; The rest are princes, barons, lords, knights, squires, And gentlemen of blood and quality. The names of those their nobles that lie dead: Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France; Jacques of Chatillon, Admiral of France; The master of the Crossbows, Lord Rambures; Great Master of France, the brave Sir Guichard Dauphin, John, Duke of Alençon, Anthony, Duke of Brabant, The brother to the Duke of Burgundy, And Edward, Duke of Bar; of lusty earls, Grandpré and Roussi, Fauconbridge and Foix, Beaumont and Marle, Vaudemont and Lestrale. Here was a royal fellowship of death! Where is the number of our English dead? [_Herald gives him another paper._] Edward the Duke of York, the Earl of Suffolk, Sir Richard Ketly, Davy Gam, esquire; None else of name; and of all other men But five and twenty.—O God, thy arm was here; And not to us, but to thy arm alone, Ascribe we all! When, without stratagem, But in plain shock and even play of battle, Was ever known so great and little loss On one part and on the other? Take it, God, For it is none but thine! EXETER. ’Tis wonderful! KING HENRY. Come, go we in procession to the village; And be it death proclaimed through our host To boast of this or take that praise from God Which is His only. FLUELLEN. Is it not lawful, an please your Majesty, to tell how many is kill’d? KING HENRY. Yes, Captain; but with this acknowledgment, That God fought for us. FLUELLEN. Yes, my conscience, He did us great good. KING HENRY. Do we all holy rites. Let there be sung _Non nobis_ and _Te Deum_, The dead with charity enclos’d in clay, And then to Calais; and to England then, Where ne’er from France arriv’d more happy men. [_Exeunt._] ACT V Enter Chorus. CHORUS. Vouchsafe to those that have not read the story, That I may prompt them; and of such as have, I humbly pray them to admit the excuse Of time, of numbers, and due course of things, Which cannot in their huge and proper life Be here presented. Now we bear the King Toward Calais; grant him there; there seen, Heave him away upon your winged thoughts Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach Pales in the flood with men, with wives and boys, Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouth’d sea, Which like a mighty whiffler ’fore the King Seems to prepare his way. So let him land, And solemnly see him set on to London. So swift a pace hath thought that even now You may imagine him upon Blackheath, Where that his lords desire him to have borne His bruised helmet and his bended sword Before him through the city. He forbids it, Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride; Giving full trophy, signal, and ostent Quite from himself to God. But now behold, In the quick forge and working-house of thought, How London doth pour out her citizens! The mayor and all his brethren in best sort, Like to the senators of th’ antique Rome, With the plebeians swarming at their heels, Go forth and fetch their conquering Caesar in; As, by a lower but loving likelihood, Were now the general of our gracious empress, As in good time he may, from Ireland coming, Bringing rebellion broached on his sword, How many would the peaceful city quit, To welcome him! Much more, and much more cause, Did they this Harry. Now in London place him; As yet the lamentation of the French Invites the King of England’s stay at home, The Emperor’s coming in behalf of France, To order peace between them;—and omit All the occurrences, whatever chanc’d, Till Harry’s back-return again to France. There must we bring him; and myself have play’d The interim, by rememb’ring you ’tis past. Then brook abridgement, and your eyes advance After your thoughts, straight back again to France. [_Exit._] SCENE I. France. The English camp. Enter Fluellen and Gower. GOWER. Nay, that’s right; but why wear you your leek today? Saint Davy’s day is past. FLUELLEN. There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in all things. I will tell you ass my friend, Captain Gower. The rascally, scald, beggarly, lousy, pragging knave, Pistol, which you and yourself and all the world know to be no petter than a fellow, look you now, of no merits, he is come to me and prings me pread and salt yesterday, look you, and bid me eat my leek. It was in a place where I could not breed no contention with him; but I will be so bold as to wear it in my cap till I see him once again, and then I will tell him a little piece of my desires. Enter Pistol. GOWER. Why, here he comes, swelling like a turkey-cock. FLUELLEN. ’Tis no matter for his swellings nor his turkey-cocks. God pless you, Anchient Pistol! you scurvy, lousy knave, God pless you! PISTOL. Ha! art thou bedlam? Dost thou thirst, base Trojan, To have me fold up Parca’s fatal web? Hence! I am qualmish at the smell of leek. FLUELLEN. I peseech you heartily, scurfy, lousy knave, at my desires, and my requests, and my petitions, to eat, look you, this leek. Because, look you, you do not love it, nor your affections and your appetites and your digestions does not agree with it, I would desire you to eat it. PISTOL. Not for Cadwallader and all his goats. FLUELLEN. There is one goat for you. [_Strikes him._] Will you be so good, scald knave, as eat it? PISTOL. Base Trojan, thou shalt die. FLUELLEN. You say very true, scald knave, when God’s will is. I will desire you to live in the mean time, and eat your victuals. Come, there is sauce for it. [_Strikes him._] You call’d me yesterday mountain-squire; but I will make you today a squire of low degree. I pray you, fall to; if you can mock a leek, you can eat a leek. GOWER. Enough, captain; you have astonish’d him. FLUELLEN. I say, I will make him eat some part of my leek, or I will peat his pate four days. Bite, I pray you; it is good for your green wound and your ploody coxcomb. PISTOL. Must I bite? FLUELLEN. Yes, certainly, and out of doubt and out of question too, and ambiguities. PISTOL. By this leek, I will most horribly revenge. I eat and eat, I swear— FLUELLEN. Eat, I pray you. Will you have some more sauce to your leek? There is not enough leek to swear by. PISTOL. Quiet thy cudgel; thou dost see I eat. FLUELLEN. Much good do you, scald knave, heartily. Nay, pray you, throw none away; the skin is good for your broken coxcomb. When you take occasions to see leeks hereafter, I pray you, mock at ’em; that is all. PISTOL. Good. FLUELLEN. Ay, leeks is good. Hold you, there is a groat to heal your pate. PISTOL. Me a groat! FLUELLEN. Yes, verily and in truth you shall take it; or I have another leek in my pocket, which you shall eat. PISTOL. I take thy groat in earnest of revenge. FLUELLEN. If I owe you anything I will pay you in cudgels. You shall be a woodmonger, and buy nothing of me but cudgels. God be wi’ you, and keep you, and heal your pate. [_Exit._] PISTOL. All hell shall stir for this. GOWER. Go, go; you are a couterfeit cowardly knave. Will you mock at an ancient tradition, begun upon an honourable respect, and worn as a memorable trophy of predeceased valour, and dare not avouch in your deeds any of your words? I have seen you gleeking and galling at this gentleman twice or thrice. You thought, because he could not speak English in the native garb, he could not therefore handle an English cudgel. You find it otherwise; and henceforth let a Welsh correction teach you a good English condition. Fare ye well. [_Exit._] PISTOL. Doth Fortune play the huswife with me now? News have I, that my Doll is dead i’ the spital Of malady of France; And there my rendezvous is quite cut off. Old I do wax; and from my weary limbs Honour is cudgell’d. Well, bawd I’ll turn, And something lean to cutpurse of quick hand. To England will I steal, and there I’ll steal; And patches will I get unto these cudgell’d scars, And swear I got them in the Gallia wars. [_Exit._] SCENE II. France. A royal palace. Enter at one door, King Henry, Exeter, Bedford, Warwick, Gloucester, Westmorland, Clarence, Huntingdon and other Lords. At another, Queen Isabel, the French King, the Princess Katharine, Alice, and other Ladies; the Duke of Burgundy and other French. KING HENRY. Peace to this meeting, wherefore we are met! Unto our brother France, and to our sister, Health and fair time of day; joy and good wishes To our most fair and princely cousin Katharine; And, as a branch and member of this royalty, By whom this great assembly is contriv’d, We do salute you, Duke of Burgundy; And, princes French, and peers, health to you all! FRENCH KING. Right joyous are we to behold your face, Most worthy brother England; fairly met! So are you, princes English, every one. QUEEN ISABEL. So happy be the issue, brother England, Of this good day and of this gracious meeting As we are now glad to behold your eyes; Your eyes, which hitherto have borne in them Against the French that met them in their bent The fatal balls of murdering basilisks. The venom of such looks, we fairly hope, Have lost their quality; and that this day Shall change all griefs and quarrels into love. KING HENRY. To cry amen to that, thus we appear. QUEEN ISABEL. You English princes all, I do salute you. BURGUNDY. My duty to you both, on equal love, Great Kings of France and England! That I have labour’d, 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 That, face to face and royal eye to eye, You have congreeted, let it not disgrace me If I demand, before this royal view, What rub or what impediment there is, Why that the naked, poor, and mangled Peace, Dear nurse of arts, plenties, and joyful births, Should not in this best garden of the world, Our fertile France, put up her lovely visage? Alas, she hath from France too long been chas’d, And all her husbandry doth lie on heaps, Corrupting in it own fertility. Her vine, the merry cheerer of the heart, Unpruned dies; her hedges even-pleach’d, Like prisoners wildly overgrown with hair, Put forth disorder’d twigs; her fallow leas The darnel, hemlock, and rank fumitory, Doth root upon, while that the coulter rusts That should deracinate such savagery; The even mead, that erst brought sweetly forth The freckled cowslip, burnet, and green clover, Wanting the scythe, all uncorrected, rank, Conceives by idleness, and nothing teems But hateful docks, rough thistles, 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, The sciences that should become our country; But grow like savages,—as soldiers will That nothing do but meditate on blood,— To swearing and stern looks, diffus’d attire, And everything that seems unnatural. Which to reduce into our former favour You are assembled; and my speech entreats That I may know the let, why gentle Peace Should not expel these inconveniences And bless us with her former qualities. KING HENRY. If, Duke of Burgundy, you would the peace, Whose want gives growth to the imperfections Which you have cited, you must buy that peace With full accord to all our just demands; Whose tenours and particular effects You have enschedul’d briefly in your hands. BURGUNDY. The King hath heard them; to the which as yet There is no answer made. KING HENRY. Well, then, the peace, Which you before so urg’d, lies in his answer. FRENCH 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 To re-survey them, we will suddenly Pass our accept and peremptory answer. KING HENRY. Brother, we shall. Go, uncle Exeter, And brother Clarence, and you, brother Gloucester, Warwick, and Huntington, go with the King; And take with you free power to ratify, Augment, or alter, as your wisdoms best Shall see advantageable for our dignity, Anything in or out of our demands, And we’ll consign thereto. Will you, fair sister, Go with the princes, or stay here with us? QUEEN ISABEL. Our gracious brother, I will go with them. Haply a woman’s voice may do some good, When articles too nicely urg’d be stood on. KING HENRY. Yet leave our cousin Katharine here with us: She is our capital demand, compris’d Within the fore-rank of our articles. QUEEN ISABEL. She hath good leave. [_Exeunt all except Henry, Katharine and Alice._] KING HENRY. Fair Katharine, and most fair, Will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms Such as will enter at a lady’s ear And plead his love-suit to her gentle heart? KATHARINE. Your Majesty shall mock me; I cannot speak your England. KING HENRY. O fair Katharine, if you will love me soundly with your French heart, I will be glad to hear you confess it brokenly with your English tongue. Do you like me, Kate? KATHARINE. _Pardonnez-moi_, I cannot tell wat is “like me.” KING HENRY. An angel is like you, Kate, and you are like an angel. KATHARINE. _Que dit-il? Que je suis semblable à les anges?_ ALICE. _Oui, vraiment, sauf votre Grâce, ainsi dit-il._ KING HENRY. I said so, dear Katharine; and I must not blush to affirm it. KATHARINE. _O bon Dieu! les langues des hommes sont pleines de tromperies._ KING HENRY. What says she, fair one? That the tongues of men are full of deceits? ALICE. _Oui_, dat de tongues of de mans is be full of deceits: dat is de Princess. KING HENRY. The Princess is the better Englishwoman. I’ faith, Kate, my wooing is fit for thy understanding. I am glad thou canst speak no better English; for if thou couldst, thou wouldst find me such a plain king that thou wouldst think I had sold my farm to buy my crown. I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say, “I love you”; then if you urge me farther than to say, “Do you in faith?” I wear out my suit. Give me your answer; i’ faith, do; and so clap hands and a bargain. How say you, lady? KATHARINE. _Sauf votre honneur_, me understand well. KING HENRY. Marry, if you would put me to verses, or to dance for your sake, Kate, why you undid me; for the one, I have neither words nor measure, and for the other I have no strength in measure, yet a reasonable measure in strength. If I could win a lady at leap-frog, or by vaulting into my saddle with my armour on my back, under the correction of bragging be it spoken, I should quickly leap into a wife. Or if I might buffet for my love, or bound my horse for her favours, I could lay on like a butcher and sit like a jack-an-apes, never off. But, before God, Kate, I cannot look greenly, nor gasp out my eloquence, nor I have no cunning in protestation; only downright oaths, which I never use till urg’d, nor never break for urging. If thou canst love a fellow of this temper, Kate, whose face is not worth sunburning, that never looks in his glass for love of anything he sees there, let thine eye be thy cook. I speak to thee plain soldier. If thou canst love me for this, take me; if not, to say to thee that I shall die, is true; but for thy love, by the Lord, no; yet I love thee too. And while thou liv’st, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain and uncoined constancy; for he perforce must do thee right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other places; for these fellows of infinite tongue, that can rhyme themselves into ladies’ favours, they do always reason themselves out again. What! a speaker is but a prater: a rhyme is but a ballad. A good leg will fall; a straight back will stoop; a black beard will turn white; a curl’d pate will grow bald; a fair face will wither; a full eye will wax hollow; but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon; or rather the sun and not the moon; for it shines bright and never changes, but keeps his course truly. If thou would have such a one, take me; and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier, take a king. And what say’st thou then to my love? Speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee. KATHARINE. Is it possible dat I should love de enemy of France? KING HENRY. No; it is not possible you should love the enemy of France, Kate; but, in loving me, you should love the friend of France; for I love France so well that I will not part with a village of it, I will have it all mine; and, Kate, when France is mine and I am yours, then yours is France and you are mine. KATHARINE. I cannot tell wat is dat. KING HENRY. No, Kate? I will tell thee in French; which I am sure will hang upon my tongue like a new-married wife about her husband’s neck, hardly to be shook off. _Je quand sur le possession de France, et quand vous avez le possession de moi_,—let me see, what then? Saint Denis be my speed!—_donc votre est France, et vous êtes mienne._ It is as easy for me, Kate, to conquer the kingdom as to speak so much more French. I shall never move thee in French, unless it be to laugh at me. KATHARINE. _Sauf votre honneur, le français que vous parlez, il est meilleur que l’anglais lequel je parle._ KING HENRY. No, faith, is’t not, Kate; but thy speaking of my tongue, and I thine, most truly-falsely, must needs be granted to be much at one. But, Kate, dost thou understand thus much English: canst thou love me? KATHARINE. I cannot tell. KING HENRY. Can any of your neighbours tell, Kate? I’ll ask them. Come, I know thou lovest me; and at night, when you come into your closet, you’ll question this gentlewoman about me; and I know, Kate, you will to her dispraise those parts in me that you love with your heart. But, good Kate, mock me mercifully; the rather, gentle princess, because I love thee cruelly. If ever thou beest mine, Kate, as I have a saving faith within me tells me thou shalt, I get thee with scambling, and thou must therefore needs prove a good soldier-breeder. Shall not thou and I, between Saint Denis and Saint George, compound a boy, half French, half English, that shall go to Constantinople and take the Turk by the beard? Shall we not? What say’st thou, my fair flower-de-luce? KATHARINE. I do not know dat. KING HENRY. No; ’tis hereafter to know, but now to promise. Do but now promise, Kate, you will endeavour for your French part of such a boy; and for my English moiety, take the word of a king and a bachelor. How answer you, _la plus belle Katherine du monde, mon très cher et divin déesse?_ KATHARINE. Your Majestee ’ave _fausse_ French enough to deceive de most _sage demoiselle_ dat is _en France_. KING HENRY. Now, fie upon my false French! By mine honour, in true English, I love thee, Kate; by which honour I dare not swear thou lovest me; yet my blood begins to flatter me that thou dost, notwithstanding the poor and untempering effect of my visage. Now, beshrew my father’s ambition! He was thinking of civil wars when he got me; therefore was I created with a stubborn outside, with an aspect of iron, that, when I come to woo ladies, I fright them. But, in faith, Kate, the elder I wax, the better I shall appear. My comfort is, that old age, that ill layer up of beauty, can do no more spoil upon my face. Thou hast me, if thou hast me, at the worst; and thou shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better; and therefore tell me, most fair Katharine, will you have me? Put off your maiden blushes; avouch the thoughts of your heart with the looks of an empress; take me by the hand, and say, Harry of England, I am thine; which word thou shalt no sooner bless mine ear withal, but I will tell thee aloud, England is thine, Ireland is thine, France is thine, and Henry Plantagenet is thine; who, though I speak it before his face, if he be not fellow with the best king, thou shalt find the best king of good fellows. Come, your answer in broken music; for thy voice is music and thy English broken; therefore, queen of all, Katharine, break thy mind to me in broken English. Wilt thou have me? KATHARINE. Dat is as it shall please _le roi mon père_. KING HENRY. Nay, it will please him well, Kate; it shall please him, Kate. KATHARINE. Den it sall also content me. KING HENRY. Upon that I kiss your hand, and call you my queen. KATHARINE. _Laissez, mon seigneur, laissez, laissez! Ma foi, je ne veux point que vous abaissiez votre grandeur en baisant la main d’une—Notre Seigneur!—indigne serviteur. Excusez-moi, je vous supplie, mon très-puissant seigneur._ KING HENRY. Then I will kiss your lips, Kate. KATHARINE. _Les dames et demoiselles pour être baisées devant leurs noces, il n’est pas la coutume de France._ KING HENRY. Madame my interpreter, what says she? ALICE. Dat it is not be de fashion _pour les_ ladies of France,—I cannot tell wat is _baiser en_ Anglish. KING HENRY. To kiss. ALICE. Your Majestee _entend_ bettre _que moi_. KING HENRY. It is not a fashion for the maids in France to kiss before they are married, would she say? ALICE. _Oui, vraiment._ KING HENRY. O Kate, nice customs curtsy to great kings. Dear Kate, you and I cannot be confined within the weak list of a country’s fashion. We are the makers of manners, Kate; and the liberty that follows our places stops the mouth of all find-faults, as I will do yours, for upholding the nice fashion of your country in denying me a kiss; therefore, patiently and yielding. [_Kissing her._] You have witchcraft in your lips, Kate; there is more eloquence in a sugar touch of them than in the tongues of the French council; and they should sooner persuade Harry of England than a general petition of monarchs. Here comes your father. Enter the French Power and the English Lords. BURGUNDY. God save your Majesty! My royal cousin, teach you our princess English? KING HENRY. I would have her learn, my fair cousin, how perfectly I love her; and that is good English. BURGUNDY. Is she not apt? KING HENRY. Our tongue is rough, coz, and my condition is not smooth; so that, having neither the voice nor the heart of flattery about me, I cannot so conjure up the spirit of love in her, that he will appear in his true likeness. BURGUNDY. Pardon the frankness of my mirth, if I answer you for that. If you would conjure in her, you must make a circle; if conjure up Love in her in his true likeness, he must appear naked and blind. Can you blame her then, being a maid yet ros’d over with the virgin crimson of modesty, if she deny the appearance of a naked blind boy in her naked seeing self? It were, my lord, a hard condition for a maid to consign to. KING HENRY. Yet they do wink and yield, as love is blind and enforces. BURGUNDY. They are then excus’d, my lord, when they see not what they do. KING HENRY. Then, good my lord, teach your cousin to consent winking. BURGUNDY. I will wink on her to consent, my lord, if you will teach her to know my meaning; for maids, well summer’d and warm kept, are like flies at Bartholomew-tide, blind, though they have their eyes; and then they will endure handling, which before would not abide looking on. KING HENRY. This moral ties me over to time and a hot summer; and so I shall catch the fly, your cousin, in the latter end, and she must be blind too. BURGUNDY. As love is, my lord, before it loves. KING HENRY. It is so; and you may, some of you, thank love for my blindness, who cannot see many a fair French city for one fair French maid that stands in my way. FRENCH KING. Yes, my lord, you see them perspectively, the cities turn’d into a maid; for they are all girdled with maiden walls that no war hath entered. KING HENRY. Shall Kate be my wife? FRENCH KING. So please you. KING HENRY. I am content, so the maiden cities you talk of may wait on her; so the maid that stood in the way for my wish shall show me the way to my will. FRENCH KING. We have consented to all terms of reason. KING HENRY. Is’t so, my lords of England? WESTMORLAND. The king hath granted every article; His daughter first, and then in sequel all, According to their firm proposed natures. EXETER. Only he hath not yet subscribed this: where your Majesty demands, that the King of France, having any occasion to write for matter of grant, shall name your Highness in this form and with this addition, in French, _Notre très-cher fils Henri, Roi d’Angleterre, Héritier de France_; and thus in Latin, _Praeclarissimus filius noster Henricus, rex Angliae et haeres Franciae._ FRENCH KING. Nor this I have not, brother, so denied But our request shall make me let it pass. KING HENRY. I pray you then, in love and dear alliance, Let that one article rank with the rest; And thereupon give me your daughter. FRENCH KING. Take her, fair son, and from her blood raise up Issue to me; that the contending kingdoms Of France and England, whose very shores look pale With envy of each other’s happiness, May cease their hatred; and this dear conjunction Plant neighbourhood and Christian-like accord In their sweet bosoms, that never war advance His bleeding sword ’twixt England and fair France. LORDS. Amen! KING HENRY. Now, welcome, Kate; and bear me witness all, That here I kiss her as my sovereign queen. [_Flourish._] QUEEN ISABEL. God, the best maker of all marriages, Combine your hearts in one, your realms in one! As man and wife, being two, are one in love, So be there ’twixt your kingdoms such a spousal, That never may ill office, or fell jealousy, Which troubles oft the bed of blessed marriage, Thrust in between the paction of these kingdoms, To make divorce of their incorporate league; That English may as French, French Englishmen, Receive each other. God speak this Amen! ALL. Amen! KING HENRY. Prepare we for our marriage; on which day, My Lord of Burgundy, we’ll take your oath, And all the peers’, for surety of our leagues, Then shall I swear to Kate, and you to me; And may our oaths well kept and prosperous be! [_Sennet. Exeunt._] EPILOGUE. Enter Chorus. CHORUS. Thus far, with rough and all-unable pen, Our bending author hath pursu’d the story, In little room confining mighty men, Mangling by starts the full course of their glory. Small time, but in that small most greatly lived This star of England. Fortune made his sword, By which the world’s best garden he achieved, And of it left his son imperial lord. Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crown’d King Of France and England, did this king succeed; Whose state so many had the managing, That they lost France and made his England bleed: Which oft our stage hath shown; and, for their sake, In your fair minds let this acceptance take. [_Exit._] THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH Contents ACT I Scene I. Westminster Abbey Scene II. France. Before Orleans Scene III. London. Before the Tower Scene IV. Orleans Scene V. Before Orleans Scene VI. Orleans ACT II SCENE I. Before Orleans SCENE II. Orleans. Within the town SCENE III. Auvergne. The Countess’s castle SCENE IV. London. The Temple Garden SCENE V. The Tower of London ACT III SCENE I. London. The Parliament House SCENE II. France. Before Rouen SCENE III. The plains near Rouen SCENE IV. Paris. The Palace ACT IV SCENE I. Paris. The Palace SCENE II. Before Bordeaux SCENE III. Plains in Gascony SCENE IV. Other plains in Gascony SCENE V. The English camp near Bordeaux SCENE VI. A field of battle SCENE VII. Another part of the field ACT V SCENE I. London. The Palace SCENE II. France. Plains in Anjou SCENE III. Before Angiers SCENE IV. Camp of the Duke of York in Anjou SCENE V. London. The royal palace Dramatis Personæ KING HENRY the Sixth DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, uncle to the King, and Protector DUKE OF BEDFORD, uncle to the King, and Regent of France DUKE OF EXETER, (Thomas Beaufort), great-uncle to the King BISHOP OF WINCHESTER (Henry Beaufort), great-uncle to the King, afterwards Cardinal DUKE OF SOMERSET (John Beaufort) 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 FASTOLF SIR WILLIAM LUCY SIR WILLIAM GLANSDALE SIR THOMAS GARGRAVE MAYOR of London WOODVILLE, Lieutenant of the Tower VERNON, of the White-Rose or York faction BASSET, of the Red-Rose or Lancaster faction A LAWYER Mortimer’s JAILERS 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 BOY, his son General of the French forces in Bordeaux A French Sergeant. A Porter An old Shepherd, father to Joan la Pucelle MARGARET, daughter to Reignier, afterwards married to King Henry COUNTESS OF AUVERGNE JOAN LA PUCELLE, commonly called Joan of Arc Lords, Warders of the Tower, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and Attendants. Fiends appearing to Joan la Pucelle SCENE: Partly in England and partly in France ACT I SCENE I. Westminster Abbey. Dead March. Enter the funeral of King Henry the Fifth, attended on by the Duke of Bedford, Regent of France; the Duke of Gloucester, Protector; the Duke of Exeter, the Earl of Warwick, the Bishop of Winchester, the Duke of Somerset with Heralds, &c. BEDFORD. Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night! Comets, importing change of times and states, Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky, And with them scourge the bad revolting stars That have consented unto Henry’s death: King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long! England ne’er lost a king of so much worth. GLOUCESTER. England ne’er had a king until his time. Virtue he had, deserving to command; His 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, More dazzled and drove back his enemies Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces. What should I say? His deeds exceed all speech. He ne’er lift up his hand but conquered. EXETER. We mourn in black; why mourn we not in blood? Henry is dead and never shall revive. Upon a wooden coffin we attend, And Death’s dishonourable victory We with our stately presence glorify, Like captives bound to a triumphant car. What! Shall we curse the planets of mishap That plotted thus our glory’s overthrow? Or shall we think the subtle-witted French Conjurers and sorcerers, that, afraid of him, By magic verses have contriv’d his end? WINCHESTER. He was a king bless’d of the King of kings; Unto the French the dreadful judgement-day So dreadful will not be as was his sight. The battles of the Lord of Hosts he fought: The Church’s prayers made him so prosperous. GLOUCESTER. The Church! Where is it? Had not churchmen pray’d, 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 overawe. WINCHESTER. Gloucester, whate’er we like, thou art Protector, And lookest to command the Prince and realm. Thy wife is proud; she holdeth thee in awe More than God or religious churchmen may. GLOUCESTER. Name not religion, for thou lov’st the flesh, And ne’er throughout the year to church thou go’st, Except it be to pray against thy foes. BEDFORD. Cease, cease these jars, and rest your minds in peace; Let’s to the altar; heralds, wait on us. Instead of gold, we’ll offer up our arms, Since arms avail not, now that Henry’s dead. Posterity, await for wretched years, When at their mothers’ moist eyes babes shall suck, Our isle be made a nourish of salt tears, And none but women left to wail the dead. Henry the Fifth, thy ghost I invocate: Prosper this realm, keep it from civil broils, Combat with adverse planets in the heavens. A far more glorious star thy soul will make Than Julius Caesar or bright— Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. My honourable lords, health to you all! Sad tidings bring I to you out of France, Of loss, of slaughter, and discomfiture: Guienne, Champaigne, Rheims, Rouen, Orleans, Paris, Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost. BEDFORD. What say’st thou, man, before dead Henry’s corse? Speak softly, or the loss of those great towns Will make him burst his lead and rise from death. GLOUCESTER. Is Paris lost? Is Rouen yielded up? If Henry were recall’d to life again, These news would cause him once more yield the ghost. EXETER. How were they lost? What treachery was us’d? MESSENGER. No treachery, but want of men and money. Amongst the soldiers this is muttered: That here you maintain several factions And whilst a field should be dispatch’d and fought, You are disputing of your generals. One would have lingering wars with little cost; Another would fly swift, but wanteth wings; A third thinks, without expense at all, By guileful fair words peace may be obtain’d. Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your honours new-begot. Cropp’d are the flower-de-luces in your arms; Of England’s coat one half is cut away. [_He exits._] EXETER. Were our tears wanting to this funeral, These tidings would call forth their flowing tides. BEDFORD. Me they concern; Regent I am of France. Give me my steeled coat. I’ll fight for France. Away with these disgraceful wailing robes! Wounds will I lend the French instead of eyes, To weep their intermissive miseries. Enter to them another Messenger. MESSENGER. Lords, view these letters full of bad mischance. France is revolted from the English quite, Except some petty towns of no import. The Dauphin Charles is crowned king in Rheims; The Bastard of Orleans with him is join’d; Reignier, Duke of Anjou, doth take his part; The Duke of Alençon flieth to his side. [_He exits._] EXETER. The Dauphin crowned king! All fly to him! O, whither shall we fly from this reproach? GLOUCESTER. We will not fly but to our enemies’ throats. Bedford, if thou be slack, I’ll fight it out. BEDFORD. Gloucester, why doubt’st thou of my forwardness? An army have I muster’d in my thoughts, Wherewith already France is overrun. Enter another Messenger. MESSENGER. My gracious lords, to add to your laments, Wherewith you now bedew King Henry’s hearse, I must inform you of a dismal fight Betwixt the stout Lord Talbot and the French. WINCHESTER. What! Wherein Talbot overcame, is’t so? MESSENGER. O no, wherein Lord Talbot was o’erthrown. The circumstance I’ll tell you more at large. The tenth of August last this dreadful lord, Retiring from the siege of Orleans, Having full scarce six thousand in his troop, By three and twenty thousand of the French Was round encompassed and set upon. No leisure had he to enrank his men; He wanted pikes to set before his archers; Instead whereof sharp stakes 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; 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 everywhere, enrag’d he slew. The French exclaim’d the devil was in arms; All the whole army stood agaz’d on him. His soldiers, spying his undaunted spirit, “A Talbot! a Talbot!” cried out amain, And rush’d into the bowels of the battle. Here had the conquest fully been seal’d up If Sir John Fastolf had not play’d the coward. He, being in the vaward, plac’d behind 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. A base Walloon, to win the Dauphin’s grace, Thrust Talbot with a spear into the back, Whom all France, with their chief assembled strength, Durst not presume to look once in the face. BEDFORD. Is Talbot slain? Then I will slay myself, For living idly here, in pomp and ease, Whilst such a worthy leader, wanting aid, Unto his dastard foemen is betray’d. MESSENGER. 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. BEDFORD. His ransom there is none but I shall pay. I’ll hale the Dauphin headlong from his throne; His crown shall be the ransom of my friend; Four of their lords I’ll change for one of ours. Farewell, my masters; to my task will I; Bonfires in France forthwith I am to make To keep our great Saint George’s feast withal. Ten thousand soldiers with me I will take, Whose bloody deeds shall make all Europe quake. MESSENGER. 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, Since they, so few, watch such a multitude. [_He exits._] EXETER. Remember, lords, your oaths to Henry sworn, Either to quell the Dauphin utterly, Or bring him in obedience to your yoke. BEDFORD. I do remember it, and here take my leave To go about my preparation. [_Exit._] GLOUCESTER. I’ll to the Tower with all the haste I can To view th’ artillery and munition; And then I will proclaim young Henry king. [_Exit._] EXETER. 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._] WINCHESTER. Each hath his place and function to attend. I am left out; for me nothing remains. But long I will not be Jack out of office. The King from Eltham I intend to steal, And sit at chiefest stern of public weal. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. France. Before Orleans Sound a Flourish. Enter Charles, Alençon and Reignier, marching with Drum and Soldiers. CHARLES. Mars his true moving, even as in the heavens So in the earth, to this day is not known. Late did he shine upon the English side; Now we are victors; upon us he smiles. What towns of any moment but we have? At pleasure here we lie near Orleans, Otherwhiles the famish’d English, like pale ghosts, Faintly besiege us one hour in a month. ALENÇON. They want their porridge and their fat bull beeves. Either they must be dieted like mules And have their provender tied to their mouths, Or piteous they will look, like drowned mice. REIGNIER. Let’s raise the siege. Why live we idly here? Talbot is taken, whom we wont to fear. Remaineth none but mad-brain’d Salisbury, And he may well in fretting spend his gall; Nor men nor money hath he to make war. CHARLES. Sound, sound alarum! We will rush on them. Now for the honour of the forlorn French! Him I forgive my death that killeth me When he sees me go back one foot or fly. [_Exeunt._] Here alarum; they are beaten back by the English, with great loss. Re-enter Charles, Alençon and Reignier. CHARLES. Who ever saw the like? What men have I! Dogs, cowards, dastards! I would ne’er have fled But that they left me ’midst my enemies. REIGNIER. Salisbury is a desperate homicide; He fighteth as one weary of his life. The other lords, like lions wanting food, Do rush upon us as their hungry prey. ALENÇON. Froissart, a countryman of ours, records, England all Olivers and Rowlands bred During the time Edward the Third did reign. More truly now may this be verified; For none but Samsons and Goliases It sendeth forth to skirmish. One to ten! Lean raw-bon’d rascals! Who would e’er suppose They had such courage and audacity? CHARLES. 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. REIGNIER. I think by some odd gimmers or device Their arms are set like clocks, still to strike on; Else ne’er could they hold out so as they do. By my consent, we’ll even let them alone. ALENÇON. Be it so. Enter the Bastard of Orleans. BASTARD. Where’s the Prince Dauphin? I have news for him. CHARLES. Bastard of Orleans, thrice welcome to us. BASTARD. Methinks your looks are sad, your cheer appall’d. 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 Ordained is to raise this tedious siege And drive the English forth the bounds of France. The spirit of deep prophecy she hath, Exceeding the nine sibyls of old Rome. What’s past and what’s to come she can descry. Speak, shall I call her in? Believe my words, For they are certain and unfallible. CHARLES. Go, call her in. [_Exit Bastard._] But first, to try her skill, Reignier, stand thou as Dauphin in my place; Question her proudly; let thy looks be stern. By this means shall we sound what skill she hath. Re-enter the Bastard of Orleans, with Joan la Pucelle. REIGNIER. Fair maid, is ’t thou wilt do these wondrous feats? PUCELLE. Reignier is ’t thou that thinkest to beguile me? Where is the Dauphin? Come, come from behind; I know thee well, though never seen before. Be not amazed, there’s nothing hid from me. In private will I talk with thee apart. Stand back, you lords, and give us leave awhile. REIGNIER. She takes upon her bravely at first dash. PUCELLE. Dauphin, I am by birth a shepherd’s daughter, My wit untrain’d in any kind of art. Heaven and our Lady gracious hath it pleased To shine on my contemptible estate. Lo, whilst I waited on my tender lambs, And to sun’s parching heat 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 And free my country from calamity. Her aid she promised and assured success. In complete glory she reveal’d herself; And, whereas I was black and swart before, With those clear rays which she infused on me That beauty am I blest with which you may see. Ask me what question thou canst possible, And I will answer unpremeditated. My courage try by combat, if thou dar’st, And thou shalt find that I exceed my sex. Resolve on this; thou shalt be fortunate If thou receive me for thy warlike mate. CHARLES. Thou hast 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; Otherwise I renounce all confidence. PUCELLE. I am prepared. 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, Out of a great deal of old iron I chose forth. CHARLES. Then come, o’ God’s name; I fear no woman. PUCELLE. And while I live, I’ll ne’er fly from a man. [_Here they fight, and Joan la Pucelle overcomes._] CHARLES. Stay, stay thy hands; thou art an Amazon, And fightest with the sword of Deborah. PUCELLE. Christ’s Mother helps me, else I were too weak. CHARLES. Whoe’er helps thee, ’tis thou that must help me. Impatiently I burn with thy desire; My heart and hands thou hast at once subdued. Excellent Pucelle, if thy name be so, Let me thy servant and not sovereign be. ’Tis the French Dauphin sueth to thee thus. PUCELLE. I must not yield to any rites of love, For my profession’s sacred from above. When I have chased all thy foes from hence, Then will I think upon a recompense. CHARLES. Meantime look gracious on thy prostrate thrall. REIGNIER. My lord, methinks, is very long in talk. ALENÇON. Doubtless he shrives this woman to her smock; Else ne’er could he so long protract his speech. REIGNIER. Shall we disturb him, since he keeps no mean? ALENÇON. He may mean more than we poor men do know. These women are shrewd tempters with their tongues. REIGNIER. My lord, where are you? What devise you on? Shall we give over Orleans, or no? PUCELLE. Why, no, I say. Distrustful recreants! Fight till the last gasp; I will be your guard. CHARLES. What she says I’ll confirm. We’ll fight it out. PUCELLE. Assign’d am I to be the English scourge. This night the siege assuredly I’ll raise. Expect Saint Martin’s summer, halcyon’s days, Since I have entered into these wars. Glory is like a circle in the water, Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself Till by broad spreading it disperse to nought. With Henry’s death the English circle ends; Dispersed are the glories it included. Now am I like that proud insulting ship Which Caesar and his fortune bare at once. CHARLES. Was Mahomet inspired with a dove? Thou with an eagle art inspired then. Helen, the mother of great Constantine, Nor yet Saint Philip’s daughters, were like thee. Bright star of Venus, fall’n down on the earth, How may I reverently worship thee enough? ALENÇON. Leave off delays, and let us raise the siege. REIGNIER. Woman, do what thou canst to save our honours; Drive them from Orleans and be immortalized. CHARLES. Presently we’ll try. Come, let’s away about it. No prophet will I trust if she prove false. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. London. Before the Tower. Enter the Duke of Gloucester with his Servingmen in blue coats. GLOUCESTER. I am come to survey the Tower this day. Since Henry’s death, I fear, there is conveyance. Where be these warders that they wait not here? Open the gates; ’tis Gloucester that calls. FIRST WARDER. [_Within_.] Who’s there that knocks so imperiously? FIRST SERVINGMAN. It is the noble Duke of Gloucester. SECOND WARDER. [_Within_.] Whoe’er he be, you may not be let in. FIRST SERVINGMAN. Villains, answer you so the Lord Protector? FIRST WARDER. [_Within_.] The Lord protect him, so we answer him. We do no otherwise than we are will’d. GLOUCESTER. Who willed you? Or whose will stands but mine? There’s none Protector of the realm but I. Break up the gates, I’ll be your warrantize. Shall I be flouted thus by dunghill grooms? [_Gloucester’s men rush at the Tower gates, and Woodville, the Lieutenant, speaks within._] WOODVILLE. What noise is this? What traitors have we here? GLOUCESTER. Lieutenant, is it you whose voice I hear? Open the gates; here’s Gloucester that would enter. WOODVILLE. Have patience, noble Duke; I may not open; The Cardinal of Winchester forbids. From him I have express commandment That thou nor none of thine shall be let in. GLOUCESTER. Faint-hearted Woodville, prizest him ’fore me? Arrogant Winchester, that haughty prelate Whom Henry, our late sovereign, ne’er could brook? Thou art no friend to God or to the King. Open the gates, or I’ll shut thee out shortly. SERVINGMEN. Open the gates unto the Lord Protector, Or we’ll burst them open, if that you come not quickly. Enter to the Protector at the Tower gates Winchester and his men in tawny coats. WINCHESTER. How now, ambitious Humphrey! What means this? GLOUCESTER. Peel’d priest, dost thou command me to be shut out? WINCHESTER. I do, thou most usurping proditor, And not Protector, of the King or realm. GLOUCESTER. Stand back, thou manifest conspirator, Thou that contrived’st to murder our dead lord; Thou that giv’st whores indulgences to sin: I’ll canvass thee in thy broad cardinal’s hat, If thou proceed in this thy insolence. WINCHESTER. Nay, stand thou back; I will not budge a foot. This be Damascus, be thou cursed Cain, To slay thy brother Abel, if thou wilt. GLOUCESTER. I will not slay thee, but I’ll drive thee back. Thy scarlet robes, as a child’s bearing-cloth, I’ll use to carry thee out of this place. WINCHESTER. Do what thou dar’st, I beard thee to thy face. GLOUCESTER. What, am I dared and bearded to my face? Draw, men, for all this privileged place. Blue coats to tawny coats. Priest, beware your beard; I mean to tug it and to cuff you soundly. Under my feet I’ll stamp thy cardinal’s hat; In spite of Pope or dignities of church, Here by the cheeks I’ll drag thee up and down. WINCHESTER. Gloucester, thou wilt answer this before the Pope. GLOUCESTER. Winchester goose, I cry, “a rope, a rope!” Now beat them hence; why do you let them stay? Thee I’ll chase hence, thou wolf in sheep’s array. Out, tawny coats! Out, scarlet hypocrite! Here Gloucester’s men beat out the Cardinal’s men, and enter in the hurly-burly the Mayor of London and his Officers. MAYOR. Fie, lords, that you, being supreme magistrates, Thus contumeliously should break the peace! GLOUCESTER. Peace, Mayor! Thou know’st little of my wrongs. Here’s Beaufort, that regards nor God nor king, Hath here distrain’d the Tower to his use. WINCHESTER. Here’s Gloucester, a foe to citizens, One that still motions war and never peace, O’ercharging your free purses with large fines; That seeks to overthrow religion, Because he is Protector of the realm, And would have armour here out of the Tower, To crown himself king and suppress the Prince. GLOUCESTER. I will not answer thee with words, but blows. [_Here they skirmish again._] MAYOR. Nought rests for me in this tumultuous strife But to make open proclamation. Come, officer, as loud as e’er thou canst, cry. OFFICER. All manner of men assembled here in arms this day against God’s peace and the King’s, we charge and command you, in his Highness’ name, to repair to your several dwelling-places; and not to wear, handle, or use any sword, weapon, or dagger, henceforward, upon pain of death. GLOUCESTER. Cardinal, I’ll be no breaker of the law; But we shall meet and break our minds at large. WINCHESTER. Gloucester, we will meet, to thy cost, be sure; Thy heart-blood I will have for this day’s work. MAYOR. I’ll call for clubs, if you will not away. This Cardinal’s more haughty than the devil. GLOUCESTER. Mayor, farewell. Thou dost but what thou mayst. WINCHESTER. Abominable Gloucester, guard thy head, For I intend to have it ere long. [_Exeunt, severally, Gloucester and Winchester with their Servingmen._] MAYOR. See the coast clear’d, and then we will depart. Good God, these nobles should such stomachs bear! I myself fight not once in forty year. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Orleans. Enter, on the walls, a Master Gunner and his Boy. MASTER GUNNER. Sirrah, thou know’st how Orleans is besieged, And how the English have the suburbs won. BOY. Father, I know; and oft have shot at them, Howe’er unfortunate I miss’d my aim. MASTER GUNNER. But now thou shalt not. Be thou ruled by me. Chief master-gunner am I of this town; Something I must do to procure me grace. The Prince’s espials have informed me How the English, in the suburbs close intrench’d, Wont, through a secret grate of iron bars In yonder tower, to overpeer the city, And thence discover how with most advantage They may vex us with shot or with assault. To intercept this inconvenience, A piece of ordnance ’gainst it I have placed And even these three days have I watch’d, If I could see them. Now do thou watch, for I can stay no longer. If thou spy’st any, run and bring me word; And thou shalt find me at the Governor’s. [_Exit._] BOY. Father, I warrant you; take you no care; I’ll never trouble you if I may spy them. [_Exit._] Enter, on the turrets, Salisbury and Talbot, Sir William Glansdale, Sir Thomas Gargrave and others. SALISBURY. Talbot, my life, my joy, again return’d! How wert thou handled, being prisoner? Or by what means got’st thou to be releas’d? Discourse, I prithee, on this turret’s top. TALBOT. The Duke of Bedford had a prisoner Call’d the brave Lord Ponton de Santrailles; For him was I exchanged and ransomed. But with a baser man of arms by far Once in contempt they would have barter’d me, Which I disdaining scorn’d, and craved death Rather than I would be so vile-esteem’d. In fine, redeem’d I was as I desired. But O, the treacherous Fastolf wounds my heart, Whom with my bare fists I would execute If I now had him brought into my power. SALISBURY. Yet tell’st thou not how thou wert entertain’d. TALBOT. With scoffs and scorns and contumelious taunts. In open market-place produced they me To be a public spectacle to all. Here, said they, is the terror of the French, The scarecrow that affrights our children so. Then broke I from the officers that led me, And with my nails 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; So great fear of my name ’mongst them were spread That they supposed I could rend bars of steel And spurn in pieces posts of adamant. Wherefore a guard of chosen shot I had, That 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. Enter the Boy with a linstock. SALISBURY. I grieve to hear what torments you endured, But we will be revenged sufficiently. Now it is supper-time in Orleans. Here, through this grate, I count each one And view the Frenchmen how they fortify. Let us look in; the sight will much delight thee. Sir Thomas Gargrave and Sir William Glansdale, Let me have your express opinions Where is best place to make our battery next. GARGRAVE. I think, at the north gate, for there stand lords. GLANSDALE. And I, here, at the bulwark of the bridge. TALBOT. For aught I see, this city must be famish’d, Or with light skirmishes enfeebled. Here they shoot, and Salisbury and Gargrave fall down. SALISBURY. O Lord, have mercy on us, wretched sinners! GARGRAVE. O Lord, have mercy on me, woeful man! TALBOT. What chance is this that suddenly hath cross’d us? 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 That hath contrived 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, His sword did ne’er leave striking in the field. Yet liv’st thou, Salisbury? Though thy speech doth fail, One eye thou hast to look to heaven for grace. The sun with one eye vieweth all the world. Heaven, be thou gracious to none alive, If Salisbury wants mercy at thy hands! Sir Thomas Gargrave, hast thou any life? Speak unto Talbot; nay, look up to him. Bear hence his body; I will help to bury it. [_Exeunt some with the body of Gargrave._] Salisbury, cheer thy spirit with this comfort, Thou shalt not die whiles— He beckons with his hand and smiles on me, As who should say “When I am dead and gone, Remember to avenge me on the French.” Plantagenet, I will; and, like thee, Nero, Play on the lute, beholding the towns burn. Wretched shall France be only in thy name. [_Here an alarum, and it thunders and lightens._] What stir is this? What tumult’s in the heavens? Whence cometh this alarum and the noise? Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. My lord, my lord, the French have gather’d head. 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._] TALBOT. Hear, hear how dying Salisbury doth groan; It irks his heart he cannot be revenged. Frenchmen, I’ll be a Salisbury to you. Pucelle or puzel, dolphin or dogfish, Your hearts I’ll stamp out with my horse’s heels And make a quagmire of your mingled brains. Convey we Salisbury into his tent, And then we’ll try what these dastard Frenchmen dare. [_Alarum. Exeunt._] SCENE V. Before Orleans. Here an alarum again, and Talbot pursueth the Dauphin and driveth him; then enter Joan la Pucelle, driving Englishmen before her, and exit after them. Then re-enter Talbot. TALBOT. Where is my strength, my valour, and my force? Our English troops retire, I cannot stay them. A woman clad in armour chaseth them. Enter La Pucelle. Here, here she comes. I’ll have a bout with thee; Devil or devil’s dam, I’ll conjure thee. Blood will I draw on thee, thou art a witch, And straightway give thy soul to him thou serv’st. PUCELLE. Come, come, ’tis only I that must disgrace thee. [_Here they fight._] TALBOT. Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail? My breast I’ll burst with straining of my courage, And from my shoulders crack my arms asunder, But I will chastise this high-minded strumpet. [_They fight again._] PUCELLE. Talbot, farewell; thy hour is not yet come. I must go victual Orleans forthwith. [_A short alarum. Then enter the town with soldiers._] O’ertake me, if thou canst. I scorn thy strength. Go, go, cheer up thy hungry-starved men; Help Salisbury to make his testament. This day is ours, as many more shall be. [_Exit._] TALBOT. My thoughts are whirled like a potter’s wheel; I know not where I am, nor what I do. A witch by fear, not force, like Hannibal, Drives back our troops and conquers as she lists. So bees with smoke and doves with noisome stench Are from their hives and houses driven away. They 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; Renounce your soil, give sheep in lions’ stead. Sheep run not half so treacherous from the wolf, Or horse or oxen from the leopard, As you fly from your oft-subdued slaves. [_Alarum. Here another skirmish._] 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 enter’d into Orleans, In spite of us or aught that we could do. O, would I were to die with Salisbury! The shame hereof will make me hide my head. [_Exit Talbot. Alarum; retreat._] SCENE VI. Orleans. Flourish. Enter on the walls La Pucelle, Charles, Reignier, Alençon and Soldiers. PUCELLE. Advance our waving colours on the walls; Rescued is Orleans from the English. Thus Joan la Pucelle hath perform’d her word. CHARLES. Divinest creature, Astraea’s daughter, How shall I honour thee for this success? Thy promises are like Adonis’ gardens That one day bloom’d and fruitful were the next. France, triumph in thy glorious prophetess! Recover’d is the town of Orleans. More blessed hap did ne’er befall our state. REIGNIER. Why ring not bells aloud throughout the town? Dauphin, command the citizens make bonfires And feast and banquet in the open streets To celebrate the joy that God hath given us. ALENÇON. All France will be replete with mirth and joy When they shall hear how we have play’d the men. CHARLES. ’Tis Joan, not we, by whom the day is won; For which I will divide my crown with her, And all the priests and friars in my realm Shall in procession sing her endless praise. A statelier pyramis to her I’ll rear Than Rhodope’s of Memphis ever was; In memory of her when she is dead, Her ashes, in an urn more precious Than the rich-jewel’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, 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 a Sergeant of a band, with two Sentinels. SERGEANT. Sirs, take your places and be vigilant. If any noise or soldier you perceive Near to the walls, by some apparent sign Let us have knowledge at the court of guard. FIRST SENTINEL. Sergeant, you shall. [_Exit Sergeant._] Thus are poor servitors, When others sleep upon their quiet beds, Constrain’d to watch in darkness, rain, and cold. Enter Talbot, Bedford, Burgundy, and forces, with scaling-ladders. TALBOT. Lord Regent, and redoubted Burgundy, By whose approach the regions of Artois, Walloon and Picardy are friends to us, This happy night the Frenchmen are secure, Having all day caroused and banqueted. Embrace we then this opportunity, As fitting best to quittance their deceit Contriv’d by art and baleful sorcery. BEDFORD. Coward of France, how much he wrongs his fame, Despairing of his own arm’s fortitude, To join with witches and the help of hell! BURGUNDY. Traitors have never other company. But what’s that Pucelle whom they term so pure? TALBOT. A maid, they say. BEDFORD. A maid! And be so martial! BURGUNDY. Pray God she prove not masculine ere long, If underneath the standard of the French She carry armour as she hath begun. TALBOT. Well, let them practice and converse with spirits. God is our fortress, in whose conquering name Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks. BEDFORD. Ascend, brave Talbot; we will follow thee. TALBOT. Not all together. Better far, I guess, That we do make our entrance several ways, That if it chance the one of us do fail, The other yet may rise against their force. BEDFORD. Agreed. I’ll to yond corner. BURGUNDY. And I to this. TALBOT. And here will Talbot mount, or make his grave. Now, Salisbury, for thee, and for the right Of English Henry, shall this night appear How much in duty I am bound to both. SENTINEL. Arm! Arm! The enemy doth make assault! [_Cry: “St George,” “A Talbot!”_] The French leap over the walls in their shirts. Enter several ways the Bastard of Orleans, Alençon and Reignier, half ready and half unready. ALENÇON. How now, my lords? What, all unready so? BASTARD. Unready! Ay, and glad we ’scap’d so well. REIGNIER. ’Twas time, I trow, to wake and leave our beds, Hearing alarums at our chamber-doors. ALENÇON. Of all exploits since first I follow’d arms Ne’er heard I of a warlike enterprise More venturous or desperate than this. BASTARD. I think this Talbot be a fiend of hell. REIGNIER. If not of hell, the heavens, sure, favour him. ALENÇON. Here cometh Charles. I marvel how he sped. Enter Charles and La Pucelle. BASTARD. Tut, holy Joan was his defensive guard. CHARLES. Is this thy cunning, thou deceitful dame? Didst thou at first, to flatter us withal, Make us partakers of a little gain, That now our loss might be ten times so much? PUCELLE. Wherefore is Charles impatient with his friend? At all times will you have my power alike? Sleeping or waking, must I still prevail, Or will you blame and lay the fault on me? Improvident soldiers, had your watch been good, This sudden mischief never could have fall’n. CHARLES. Duke of Alençon, this was your default, That, being captain of the watch tonight, Did look no better to that weighty charge. ALENÇON. Had all your quarters been as safely kept As that whereof I had the government, We had not been thus shamefully surprised. BASTARD. Mine was secure. REIGNIER. And so was mine, my lord. CHARLES. And for myself, most part of all this night, Within her quarter and mine own precinct I was employ’d in passing to and fro About relieving of the sentinels. Then how or which way should they first break in? PUCELLE. Question, my lords, no further of the case, How or which way; ’tis sure they found some place But weakly guarded, where the breach was made. And now there rests no other shift but this: To gather our soldiers, scattered and dispersed, And lay new platforms to endamage them. Alarum. Enter an English Soldier, crying “A Talbot! A Talbot!” They fly, leaving their clothes behind. SOLDIER. I’ll be so bold to take what they have left. The cry of “Talbot” serves me for a sword; For I have loaden me with many spoils, Using no other weapon but his name. [_Exit._] SCENE II. Orleans. Within the town. Enter Talbot, Bedford, Burgundy, a Captain and others. BEDFORD. The day begins to break, and night is fled, Whose pitchy mantle over-veil’d the earth. Here sound retreat and cease our hot pursuit. [_Retreat sounded._] TALBOT. Bring forth the body of old Salisbury, And here advance it in the market-place, The middle centre of this cursed town. Dead March. Enter with the body of Salisbury. Now have I paid my vow unto his soul; For every drop of blood was drawn from him There hath at least five Frenchmen died tonight. And that hereafter ages may behold What ruin happen’d in revenge of him, Within their chiefest temple I’ll erect A tomb, wherein his corpse shall be interr’d; Upon the which, that everyone may read, Shall be engraved the sack of Orleans, The treacherous manner of his mournful death And what a terror he had been to France. [_Exit Funeral._] But, lords, in all our bloody massacre, I muse we met not with the Dauphin’s grace, His new-come champion, virtuous Joan of Arc, Nor any of his false confederates. BEDFORD. ’Tis thought, Lord Talbot, when the fight began, Rous’d on the sudden from their drowsy beds, They did amongst the troops of armed men Leap o’er the walls for refuge in the field. BURGUNDY. Myself, as far as I could well discern For smoke and dusky vapors of the night, Am sure I scared the Dauphin and his trull, When arm in arm they both came swiftly running, Like to a pair of loving turtle-doves That could not live asunder day or night. After that things are set in order here, We’ll follow them with all the power we have. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. All hail, my lords! Which of this princely train Call ye the warlike Talbot, for his acts So much applauded through the realm of France? TALBOT. Here is the Talbot. Who would speak with him? MESSENGER. The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne, With modesty admiring thy renown, By me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe To visit her poor castle where she lies, That she may boast she hath beheld the man Whose glory fills the world with loud report. BURGUNDY. Is it even so? Nay, then I see our wars Will turn unto a peaceful comic sport, When ladies crave to be encounter’d with. You may not, my lord, despise her gentle suit. TALBOT. Ne’er trust me then; for when a world of men Could not prevail with all their oratory, Yet hath a woman’s kindness over-ruled. And therefore tell her I return great thanks, And in submission will attend on her. Will not your honours bear me company? BEDFORD. No, truly, it is more than manners will; And I have heard it said, unbidden guests Are often welcomest when they are gone. TALBOT. Well then, alone, since there’s no remedy, I mean to prove this lady’s courtesy. Come hither, Captain. [_Whispers_.] You perceive my mind? CAPTAIN. I do, my lord, and mean accordingly. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Auvergne. The Countess’s castle. Enter the Countess and her Porter. COUNTESS. Porter, remember what I gave in charge; And when you have done so, bring the keys to me. PORTER. Madam, I will. [_Exit._] COUNTESS. The plot is laid. If all things fall out right, I shall as famous be by this exploit As Scythian Tomyris by Cyrus’ death. Great is the rumour of this dreadful knight, And his achievements of no less account. Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears, To give their censure of these rare reports. Enter Messenger and Talbot. MESSENGER. Madam, according as your ladyship desired, By message craved, so is Lord Talbot come. COUNTESS. And he is welcome. What, is this the man? MESSENGER. Madam, it is. COUNTESS. Is this the scourge of France? Is this the Talbot, so much fear’d abroad That with his name the mothers still their babes? I see report is fabulous and false. I thought I should have seen some Hercules, A second Hector, for his grim aspect, And large proportion of his strong-knit limbs. Alas, this is a child, a silly dwarf! It cannot be this weak and writhled shrimp Should strike such terror to his enemies. TALBOT. Madam, I have been bold to trouble you; But since your ladyship is not at leisure, I’ll sort some other time to visit you. COUNTESS. What means he now? Go ask him whither he goes. MESSENGER. Stay, my Lord Talbot, for my lady craves To know the cause of your abrupt departure. TALBOT. Marry, for that she’s in a wrong belief, I go to certify her Talbot’s here. Enter Porter with keys. COUNTESS. If thou be he, then art thou prisoner. TALBOT. Prisoner! To whom? COUNTESS. To me, blood-thirsty lord; And for that cause I train’d thee to my house. Long time thy shadow hath been thrall to me, For in my gallery thy picture hangs. But now the substance shall endure the like, And I will chain these legs and arms of thine, That hast by tyranny these many years Wasted our country, slain our citizens, And sent our sons and husbands captivate. TALBOT. Ha, ha, ha! COUNTESS. Laughest thou, wretch? Thy mirth shall turn to moan. TALBOT. I laugh to see your ladyship so fond To think that you have aught but Talbot’s shadow Whereon to practice your severity. COUNTESS. Why, art not thou the man? TALBOT. I am indeed. COUNTESS. Then have I substance too. TALBOT. No, no, I am but shadow of myself. You are deceived, my substance is not here; For what you see is but the smallest part And least proportion of humanity. I tell you, madam, were the whole frame here, It is of such a spacious lofty pitch Your roof were not sufficient to contain ’t. COUNTESS. This is a riddling merchant for the nonce; He will be here, and yet he is not here. How can these contrarieties agree? TALBOT. That will I show you presently. Winds his horn. Drums strike up; a peal of ordnance. Enter Soldiers. How say you, madam? Are you now persuaded That Talbot is but shadow of himself? These are his substance, sinews, arms and strength, With which he yoketh your rebellious necks, Razeth your cities and subverts your towns, And in a moment makes them desolate. COUNTESS. Victorious Talbot, pardon my abuse. I find thou art no less than fame hath bruited, And more than may be 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. TALBOT. 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; Nor other satisfaction do I crave But only, with your patience, that we may Taste of your wine and see what cates you have, For soldiers’ stomachs always serve them well. COUNTESS. With all my heart, and think me honoured 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 another Lawyer. PLANTAGENET. Great lords and gentlemen, what means this silence? Dare no man answer in a case of truth? SUFFOLK. Within the Temple Hall we were too loud; The garden here is more convenient. PLANTAGENET. Then say at once if I maintain’d the truth; Or else was wrangling Somerset in th’ error? SUFFOLK. Faith, I have been a truant in the law And never yet could frame my will to it; And therefore frame the law unto my will. SOMERSET. Judge you, my Lord of Warwick, then, between us. WARWICK. Between two hawks, which flies the higher pitch; Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth; Between two blades, which bears the better temper; Between two horses, which doth bear him best; Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye; I have perhaps some shallow spirit of judgement; But in these nice sharp quillets of the law, Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw. PLANTAGENET. Tut, tut, here is a mannerly forbearance! The truth appears so naked on my side That any purblind eye may find it out. SOMERSET. And on my side it is so well apparell’d, So clear, so shining and so evident, That it will glimmer through a blind man’s eye. PLANTAGENET. Since you are tongue-tied and so loath to speak, In dumb significants proclaim your thoughts: Let him that is a true-born gentleman And stands upon the honour of his birth, If he suppose that I have pleaded truth, From off this brier pluck a white rose with me. SOMERSET. Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer, But dare maintain the party of the truth, Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me. WARWICK. I love no colours, and without all colour Of base insinuating flattery I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet. SUFFOLK. I pluck this red rose with young Somerset, And say withal I think he held the right. VERNON. Stay, lords and gentlemen, and pluck no more Till you conclude that he upon whose side The fewest roses are cropp’d from the tree Shall yield the other in the right opinion. SOMERSET. Good Master Vernon, it is well objected: If I have fewest, I subscribe in silence. PLANTAGENET. And I. VERNON. Then for the truth and plainness of the case, I pluck this pale and maiden blossom here, Giving my verdict on the white rose side. SOMERSET. Prick not your finger as you pluck it off, Lest, bleeding, you do paint the white rose red, And fall on my side so against your will. VERNON. If I, my lord, for my opinion bleed, Opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt And keep me on the side where still I am. SOMERSET. Well, well, come on, who else? LAWYER. Unless my study and my books be false, [_To Somerset._] The argument you held was wrong in law; In sign whereof I pluck a white rose too. PLANTAGENET. Now, Somerset, where is your argument? SOMERSET. Here in my scabbard, meditating that Shall dye your white rose in a bloody red. PLANTAGENET. Meantime your cheeks do counterfeit our roses; For pale they look with fear, as witnessing The truth on our side. SOMERSET. No, Plantagenet, ’Tis not for fear but anger that thy cheeks Blush for pure shame to counterfeit our roses, And yet thy tongue will not confess thy error. PLANTAGENET. Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset? SOMERSET. Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet? PLANTAGENET. Ay, sharp and piercing, to maintain his truth; Whiles thy consuming canker eats his falsehood. SOMERSET. Well, I’ll find friends to wear my bleeding roses, That shall maintain what I have said is true, Where false Plantagenet dare not be seen. PLANTAGENET. Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand, I scorn thee and thy fashion, peevish boy. SUFFOLK. Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet. PLANTAGENET. Proud Pole, I will, and scorn both him and thee. SUFFOLK. I’ll turn my part thereof into thy throat. SOMERSET. Away, away, good William de la Pole! We grace the yeoman by conversing with him. WARWICK. Now, by God’s will, thou wrong’st him, Somerset; His grandfather was Lionel Duke of Clarence, Third son to the third Edward King of England. Spring crestless yeomen from so deep a root? PLANTAGENET. He bears him on the place’s privilege, Or durst not for his craven heart, say thus. SOMERSET. By Him that made me, I’ll maintain my words On any plot of ground in Christendom. Was not thy father, Richard Earl of Cambridge, For treason executed in our late king’s days? And, by his treason, stand’st not thou attainted, Corrupted, and exempt from ancient gentry? His trespass yet lives guilty in thy blood; And, till thou be restored, thou art a yeoman. PLANTAGENET. My father was attached, not attainted, 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, 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. SOMERSET. Ah, thou shalt find us ready for thee still; And know us by these colours for thy foes, For these my friends in spite of thee shall wear. PLANTAGENET. And, by my soul, this pale and angry rose, As cognizance of my blood-drinking hate, Will I for ever and my faction wear, Until it wither with me to my grave, Or flourish to the height of my degree. SUFFOLK. Go forward, and be chok’d with thy ambition! And so farewell until I meet thee next. [_Exit._] SOMERSET. Have with thee, Pole. Farewell, ambitious Richard. [_Exit._] PLANTAGENET. How I am braved and must perforce endure it! WARWICK. This blot that they object against your house Shall be wiped out in the next parliament 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. 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 today, Grown to this faction in the Temple Garden, Shall send between the Red Rose and the White A thousand souls to death and deadly night. PLANTAGENET. Good Master Vernon, I am bound to you, That you on my behalf would pluck a flower. VERNON. In your behalf still will I wear the same. LAWYER. And so will I. PLANTAGENET. Thanks, gentlemen. Come, let us four to dinner. I dare say This quarrel will drink blood another day. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. The Tower of London. Enter Mortimer, brought in a chair, and Jailers. MORTIMER. Kind keepers of my weak decaying age, Let dying Mortimer here rest himself. Even like a man new haled from the rack, So fare my limbs with long imprisonment; And these gray locks, the pursuivants of death, Nestor-like aged in an age of care, Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer. These eyes, like lamps whose wasting oil is spent, Wax dim, as drawing to their exigent; Weak shoulders, overborne with burdening grief, And pithless arms, like to a wither’d vine That droops his sapless branches to the ground. Yet are these feet, whose strengthless stay is numb, Unable to support this lump of clay, Swift-winged with desire to get a grave, As witting I no other comfort have. But tell me, keeper, will my nephew come? FIRST JAILER. Richard Plantagenet, my lord, will come. We sent unto the Temple, unto his chamber, And answer was return’d that he will come. MORTIMER. Enough. My soul shall then be satisfied. Poor gentleman, his wrong doth equal mine. Since Henry Monmouth first began to reign, Before whose glory I was great in arms, This loathsome sequestration have I had; And even since then hath Richard been obscured, Deprived of honour and inheritance. But now the arbitrator of despairs, Just Death, kind umpire of men’s miseries, With sweet enlargement doth dismiss me hence. I would his troubles likewise were expired, That so he might recover what was lost. Enter Richard Plantagenet. FIRST JAILER. My lord, your loving nephew now is come. MORTIMER. Richard Plantagenet, my friend, is he come? PLANTAGENET. Ay, noble uncle, thus ignobly used, Your nephew, late despised Richard, comes. MORTIMER. Direct mine arms I may embrace his neck And in his bosom spend my latter gasp. O, tell me when my lips do touch his cheeks, That I may kindly give one fainting kiss. And now declare, sweet stem from York’s great stock, Why didst thou say of late thou wert despised? PLANTAGENET. First, lean thine aged back against mine arm, And, in that ease, I’ll tell thee my disease. This day, in argument upon a case, Some words there grew ’twixt Somerset and me; Among which terms he used his lavish tongue And did upbraid me with my father’s death; Which obloquy set bars before my tongue, Else with the like I had requited him. Therefore, good uncle, for my father’s sake, In honour of a true Plantagenet, And for alliance’ sake, declare the cause My father, Earl of Cambridge, lost his head. MORTIMER. That cause, fair nephew, that imprison’d me And hath detain’d me all my flowering youth Within a loathsome dungeon, there to pine, Was cursed instrument of his decease. PLANTAGENET. Discover more at large what cause that was, For I am ignorant and cannot guess. MORTIMER. I will, if that my fading breath permit And death approach not ere my tale be done. Henry the Fourth, grandfather to this king, Deposed his nephew Richard, Edward’s son, The first-begotten and the lawful heir Of Edward king, the third of that descent; During whose reign the Percies of the north, Finding his usurpation most unjust, Endeavour’d my advancement to the throne. The reason moved these warlike lords to this Was, for that—young King Richard thus removed, Leaving no heir begotten of his body— I was the next by birth and parentage; For by my mother I derived am From Lionel Duke of Clarence, third son To King Edward the Third; whereas he From John of Gaunt doth bring his pedigree, Being but fourth of that heroic line. But mark: as in this haughty great attempt They labored to plant the rightful heir, I lost my liberty and they their lives. Long after this, when Henry the Fifth, Succeeding his father Bolingbroke, did reign, Thy father, Earl of Cambridge then, derived From famous Edmund Langley, Duke of York, Marrying my sister that thy mother was, Again, in pity of my hard distress. Levied an army, weening to redeem And have 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. PLANTAGENET. Of which, my lord, your honour is the last. MORTIMER. True; and thou seest that I no issue have, And that my fainting words do warrant death. Thou art my heir; the rest I wish thee gather. But yet be wary in thy studious care. PLANTAGENET. Thy grave admonishments prevail with me. But yet methinks, my father’s execution Was nothing less than bloody tyranny. MORTIMER. With silence, nephew, be thou politic; Strong-fixed is the house of Lancaster, And like a mountain, not to be removed. But now thy uncle is removing hence, As princes do their courts when they are cloy’d With long continuance in a settled place. PLANTAGENET. O uncle, would some part of my young years Might but redeem the passage of your age! MORTIMER. Thou dost then wrong me, as that slaughterer doth Which giveth many wounds when one will kill. Mourn not, except thou sorrow for my good; Only give order for my funeral. And so farewell, and fair be all thy hopes, And prosperous be thy life in peace and war! [_Dies._] PLANTAGENET. And peace, no war, befall thy parting soul! In prison hast thou spent a pilgrimage, And like a hermit 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 Will see his burial better than his life. [_Exeunt Jailers, bearing out the body of Mortimer._] Here dies the dusky torch of Mortimer, Choked with ambition of the meaner sort. And for those wrongs, those bitter injuries, Which Somerset hath 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, Or make mine ill th’ advantage of my good. [_Exit._] ACT III SCENE I. London. The Parliament House. Flourish. Enter King, Exeter, Gloucester, the Bishop of Winchester, Richard Plantagenet, Warwick, and Somerset, Suffolk, and others. Gloucester offers to put up a bill. Winchester snatches it, tears it. WINCHESTER. Com’st thou with deep premeditated lines, With written pamphlets studiously devised, Humphrey of Gloucester? If thou canst accuse Or aught intend’st to lay unto my charge, Do it without invention, suddenly; As I with sudden and extemporal speech Purpose to answer what thou canst object. GLOUCESTER. Presumptuous priest, this place commands my patience, Or thou shouldst find thou hast dishonour’d me. Think not, although in writing I preferr’d The manner of thy vile outrageous crimes, That therefore I have forged, or am not able Verbatim to rehearse the method of my pen. No, prelate; such is thy audacious wickedness, Thy lewd, pestiferous, and dissentious pranks, As very infants prattle of thy pride. Thou art a most pernicious usurer, Froward by nature, enemy to peace; Lascivious, wanton, more than well beseems A man of thy profession and degree; And for thy treachery, what’s more manifest, In that thou laid’st a trap to take my life, As well at London Bridge as at the Tower? Beside, I fear me, if thy thoughts are sifted, The King, thy sovereign, is not quite exempt From envious malice of thy swelling heart. WINCHESTER. Gloucester, I do defy thee. Lords, vouchsafe To give me hearing what I shall reply. If I were covetous, ambitious, or perverse, As he will have me, how am I so poor? Or how haps it I seek not to advance Or raise myself, but keep my wonted calling? And for dissension, who preferreth peace More than I do, except I be provoked? No, my good lords, it is not that offends; It is not that that hath incensed the Duke. It is because no one should sway but he, No one but he should be about the King; And that engenders thunder in his breast And makes him roar these accusations forth. But he shall know I am as good— GLOUCESTER. As good! Thou bastard of my grandfather! WINCHESTER. Ay, lordly sir; for what are you, I pray, But one imperious in another’s throne? GLOUCESTER. Am I not Protector, saucy priest? WINCHESTER. And am not I a prelate of the church? GLOUCESTER. Yes, as an outlaw in a castle keeps, And useth it to patronage his theft. WINCHESTER. Unreverent Gloucester! GLOUCESTER. Thou art reverend Touching thy spiritual function, not thy life. WINCHESTER. Rome shall remedy this. GLOUCESTER. Roam thither, then. WARWICK. My lord, it were your duty to forbear. SOMERSET. Ay, so the bishop be not overborne. Methinks my lord should be religious, And know the office that belongs to such. WARWICK. Methinks his lordship should be humbler; It fitteth not a prelate so to plead. SOMERSET. Yes, when his holy state is touch’d so near. WARWICK. State holy or unhallow’d, what of that? Is not his Grace Protector to the King? PLANTAGENET. [_Aside_.] Plantagenet, I see, must hold his tongue, Lest it be said, “Speak, sirrah, when you should; Must your bold verdict enter talk with lords?” Else would I have a fling at Winchester. KING HENRY. Uncles of Gloucester and of Winchester, The special watchmen of our English weal, I would prevail, if prayers might prevail, To join your hearts in love and amity. O, what a scandal is it to our crown That two such noble peers as ye should jar! Believe me, lords, my tender years can tell Civil dissension is a viperous worm That gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth. [_A noise within, “Down with the tawny-coats!”._] What tumult’s this? WARWICK. An uproar, I dare warrant, Begun through malice of the Bishop’s men. [_A noise again, “Stones! stones!”_] Enter Mayor. MAYOR. O, my good lords, and virtuous Henry, Pity the city of London, pity us! The Bishop and the Duke of Gloucester’s men, Forbidden late to carry any weapon, Have fill’d their pockets full of pebble stones And, banding themselves in contrary parts, Do pelt so fast at one another’s pate That many have their giddy brains knock’d out; Our windows are broke down in every street, And we for fear compell’d to shut our shops. Enter Servingmen in skirmish with bloody pates. KING HENRY. We charge you, on allegiance to ourself, To hold your slaughtering hands and keep the peace. Pray, uncle Gloucester, mitigate this strife. FIRST SERVINGMAN. Nay, if we be forbidden stones, we’ll fall to it with our teeth. SECOND SERVINGMAN. Do what ye dare, we are as resolute. [_Skirmish again._] GLOUCESTER. You of my household, leave this peevish broil, And set this unaccustom’d fight aside. THIRD SERVINGMAN. My lord, we know your Grace to be a man Just and upright, and, for your royal birth, Inferior to none but to his Majesty; And ere that we will suffer such a prince, So kind a father of the commonweal, To be disgraced by an inkhorn mate, We and our wives and children all will fight And have our bodies slaughter’d by thy foes. FIRST SERVINGMAN. Ay, and the very parings of our nails Shall pitch a field when we are dead. [_Begin again._] GLOUCESTER. Stay, stay, I say! And if you love me, as you say you do, Let me persuade you to forbear awhile. KING HENRY. O, how this discord doth afflict my soul! Can you, my Lord of Winchester, behold My sighs and tears, and will not once relent? Who should be pitiful, if you be not? Or who should study to prefer a peace If holy churchmen take delight in broils? WARWICK. Yield, my Lord Protector; yield, Winchester; Except you mean with obstinate repulse To slay your sovereign and destroy the realm. You see what mischief and what murder too, Hath been enacted through your enmity; Then be at peace, except ye thirst for blood. WINCHESTER. He shall submit, or I will never yield. GLOUCESTER. Compassion on the King commands me stoop, Or I would see his heart out, ere the priest Should ever get that privilege of me. WARWICK. Behold, my Lord of Winchester, the Duke Hath banish’d moody discontented fury, As by his smoothed brows it doth appear. Why look you still so stern and tragical? GLOUCESTER. Here, Winchester, I offer thee my hand. KING HENRY. Fie, uncle Beaufort! I have heard you preach That malice was a great and grievous sin; And will not you maintain the thing you teach, But prove a chief offender in the same? WARWICK. Sweet King! The bishop hath a kindly gird. For shame, my Lord of Winchester, relent! What, shall a child instruct you what to do? WINCHESTER. Well, Duke of Gloucester, I will yield to thee; Love for thy love and hand for hand I give. GLOUCESTER. [_Aside_.] Ay, but, I fear me, with a hollow heart.— See here, my friends and loving countrymen, This token serveth for a flag of truce Betwixt ourselves and all our followers, So help me God, as I dissemble not! WINCHESTER. [_Aside_.] So help me God, as I intend it not! KING HENRY. O loving uncle, kind Duke of Gloucester, How joyful am I made by this contract! Away, my masters, trouble us no more, But join in friendship, as your lords have done. FIRST SERVINGMAN. Content. I’ll to the surgeon’s. SECOND SERVINGMAN. And so will I. THIRD SERVINGMAN. And I will see what physic the tavern affords. [_Exeunt Servingmen, Mayor, &c._] WARWICK. Accept this scroll, most gracious sovereign, Which in the right of Richard Plantagenet We do exhibit to your Majesty. GLOUCESTER. Well urged, my Lord of Warwick. For, sweet prince, An if your Grace mark every circumstance, You have great reason to do Richard right, Especially for those occasions At Eltham Place I told your Majesty. KING HENRY. And those occasions, uncle, were of force; Therefore, my loving lords, our pleasure is That Richard be restored to his blood. WARWICK. Let Richard be restored to his blood; So shall his father’s wrongs be recompensed. WINCHESTER. As will the rest, so willeth Winchester. KING HENRY. If Richard will be true, not that alone But all the whole inheritance I give That doth belong unto the house of York, From whence you spring by lineal descent. PLANTAGENET. Thy humble servant vows obedience And humble service till the point of death. KING HENRY. Stoop then and set your knee against my foot; And in reguerdon of that duty done I girt thee with the valiant sword of York. Rise, Richard, like a true Plantagenet, And rise created princely Duke of York. PLANTAGENET. And so thrive Richard as thy foes may fall! And as my duty springs, so perish they That grudge one thought against your Majesty! ALL. Welcome, high prince, the mighty Duke of York! SOMERSET. [_Aside_.] Perish, base prince, ignoble Duke of York! GLOUCESTER. Now will it best avail your Majesty To cross the seas and to be crown’d in France. The presence of a king engenders love Amongst his subjects and his loyal friends, As it disanimates his enemies. KING HENRY. When Gloucester says the word, King Henry goes; For friendly counsel cuts off many foes. GLOUCESTER. Your ships already are in readiness. [_Sennet. Flourish. Exeunt all but Exeter._] EXETER. Ay, we may march in England or in France, Not seeing what is likely to ensue. This late dissension grown betwixt the peers Burns under feigned ashes of forged love, And will at last break out into a flame; As festered members rot but by degree Till bones and flesh and sinews fall away, So will this base and envious discord breed. And now I fear that fatal prophecy Which in the time of Henry named the Fifth Was in the mouth of every sucking babe: That Henry born at Monmouth should win all, And Henry born at Windsor lose all, Which is so plain that Exeter doth wish His days may finish ere that hapless time. [_Exit._] SCENE II. France. Before Rouen. Enter La Pucelle with four Soldiers with sacks upon their backs. PUCELLE. These are the city gates, the gates of Rouen, Through which our policy must make a breach. Take heed, be wary how you place your words; Talk like the vulgar sort of market men That come to gather money for their corn. If we have entrance, as I hope we shall, And that we find the slothful watch but weak, I’ll by a sign give notice to our friends, That Charles the Dauphin may encounter them. FIRST SOLDIER. Our sacks shall be a mean to sack the city, And we be lords and rulers over Rouen; Therefore we’ll knock. [_Knocks._] WATCH. [_Within_.] _Qui est la?_ PUCELLE. _Paysans, la pauvres gens de France:_ Poor market folks that come to sell their corn. WATCH. Enter, go in; the market bell is rung. PUCELLE. Now, Rouen, I’ll shake thy bulwarks to the ground. [_Exeunt._] Enter Charles, the Bastard of Orleans, Alençon, Reignier and forces. CHARLES. Saint Denis bless this happy stratagem, And once again we’ll sleep secure in Rouen. BASTARD. Here enter’d Pucelle and her practisants; Now she is there, how will she specify Here is the best and safest passage in? REIGNIER. By thrusting out a torch from yonder tower, Which, once discern’d, shows that her meaning is: No way to that, for weakness, which she enter’d. Enter La Pucelle, on the top, thrusting out a torch burning. PUCELLE. Behold, this is the happy wedding torch That joineth Rouen unto her countrymen, But burning fatal to the Talbonites. [_Exit._] BASTARD. See, noble Charles, the beacon of our friend; The burning torch, in yonder turret stands. CHARLES. Now shine it like a comet of revenge, A prophet to the fall of all our foes! REIGNIER. Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends; Enter and cry, “The Dauphin!” presently, And then do execution on the watch. [_Alarum. Exeunt._] An alarum. Enter Talbot in an excursion. TALBOT. France, thou shalt rue this treason with thy tears, If Talbot but survive thy treachery. Pucelle, that witch, that damned sorceress, Hath wrought this hellish mischief unawares, That hardly we escaped the pride of France. [_Exit._] An alarum. Excursions. Bedford, brought in sick in a chair. Enter Talbot and Burgundy without: within, La Pucelle, Charles, Bastard, Alençon, and Reignier on the walls. PUCELLE. Good morrow, gallants! Want ye corn for bread? I think the Duke of Burgundy will fast Before he’ll buy again at such a rate. ’Twas full of darnel. Do you like the taste? BURGUNDY. Scoff on, vile fiend and shameless courtezan! I trust ere long to choke thee with thine own, And make thee curse the harvest of that corn. CHARLES. Your Grace may starve, perhaps, before that time. BEDFORD. O, let no words, but deeds, revenge this treason! PUCELLE. What will you do, good graybeard? Break a lance And run a tilt at Death within a chair? TALBOT. Foul fiend of France and hag of all despite, 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, Or else let Talbot perish with this shame. PUCELLE. Are ye so hot? Yet, Pucelle, hold thy peace; If Talbot do but thunder, rain will follow. [_The English whisper together in council._] God speed the Parliament! Who shall be the Speaker? TALBOT. Dare ye come forth and meet us in the field? PUCELLE. Belike your lordship takes us then for fools, To try if that our own be ours or no. TALBOT. I speak not to that railing Hecate, But unto thee, Alençon, and the rest; Will ye, like soldiers, come and fight it out? ALENÇON. Seignieur, no. TALBOT. Seignieur, hang! Base muleteers of France! Like peasant foot-boys do they keep the walls, And dare not take up arms like gentlemen. PUCELLE. Away, captains! Let’s get us from the walls, For Talbot means no goodness by his looks. Goodbye, my lord; we came but to tell you That we are here. [_Exeunt from the walls._] TALBOT. And there will we be too, ere it be long, Or else reproach be Talbot’s greatest fame! Vow, Burgundy, by 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, And as his father here was conqueror, As sure as in this late-betrayed town Great Coeur-de-lion’s heart was buried, So sure I swear to get the town or die. BURGUNDY. My vows are equal partners with thy vows. TALBOT. But, ere we go, regard this dying prince, The valiant Duke of Bedford. Come, my lord, We will bestow you in some better place, Fitter for sickness and for crazy age. BEDFORD. Lord Talbot, do not so dishonour me. Here will I sit before the walls of Rouen, And will be partner of your weal or woe. BURGUNDY. Courageous Bedford, let us now persuade you. BEDFORD. Not to be gone from hence; for once I read That stout Pendragon in his litter sick Came to the field and vanquished his foes. Methinks I should revive the soldiers’ hearts, Because I ever found them as myself. TALBOT. Undaunted spirit in a dying breast! Then be it so. Heavens keep old Bedford safe! And now no more ado, brave Burgundy, But gather we our forces out of hand And set upon our boasting enemy. [_Exeunt all but Bedford and Attendants._] An alarum. Excursions. Enter Sir John Fastolf and a Captain. CAPTAIN. Whither away, Sir John Fastolf, in such haste? FASTOLF. Whither away? To save myself by flight. We are like to have the overthrow again. CAPTAIN. What! Will you fly, and leave Lord Talbot? FASTOLF. Ay, All the Talbots in the world, to save my life. [_Exit._] CAPTAIN. Cowardly knight, ill fortune follow thee! [_Exit._] Retreat. Excursions. La Pucelle, Alençon and Charles fly. BEDFORD. Now, quiet soul, depart when heaven please, For I have seen our enemies’ overthrow. What is the trust or strength of foolish man? They that of late were daring with their scoffs Are glad and fain by flight to save themselves. [_Bedford dies, and is carried in by two in his chair._] An alarum. Enter Talbot, Burgundy and the rest. TALBOT. Lost, and recover’d in a day again! This is a double honour, Burgundy. Yet heavens have glory for this victory! BURGUNDY. Warlike and martial Talbot, Burgundy Enshrines thee in his heart, and there erects Thy noble deeds as valour’s monuments. TALBOT. Thanks, gentle Duke. But where is Pucelle now? I think her old familiar is asleep. Now where’s the Bastard’s braves, and Charles his gleeks? What, all amort? Rouen hangs her head for grief That such a valiant company are fled. Now will we take some order in the town, Placing therein some expert officers, And then depart to Paris to the King, For there young Henry with his nobles lie. BURGUNDY. What wills Lord Talbot pleaseth Burgundy. TALBOT. But yet, before we go, let’s not forget The noble Duke of Bedford late deceased, But see his exequies fulfill’d in Rouen. A braver soldier never couched lance, A gentler heart did never sway in court; But kings and mightiest potentates must die, For that’s the end of human misery. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The plains near Rouen. Enter Charles, the Bastard of Orleans, Alençon, La Pucelle and forces. PUCELLE. Dismay not, princes, at this accident, Nor grieve that Rouen is so recovered. Care is no cure, but rather corrosive, For things that are not to be remedied. Let frantic Talbot triumph for a while And like a peacock sweep along his tail; We’ll pull his plumes and take away his train, If Dauphin and the rest will be but ruled. CHARLES. We have been guided by thee hitherto, And of thy cunning had no diffidence. One sudden foil shall never breed distrust BASTARD. Search out thy wit for secret policies, And we will make thee famous through the world. ALENÇON. We’ll set thy statue in some holy place, And have thee reverenced like a blessed saint. Employ thee then, sweet virgin, for our good. PUCELLE. Then thus it must be; this doth Joan devise: By fair persuasions mix’d with sugar’d words We will entice the Duke of Burgundy To leave the Talbot and to follow us. CHARLES. 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. ALENÇON. For ever should they be expulsed from France, And not have title of an earldom here. PUCELLE. Your honours shall perceive how I will work To bring this matter to the wished end. [_Drum sounds afar off._] Hark! By the sound of drum you may perceive Their powers are marching unto Paris-ward. [_Here sound an English march._] There goes the Talbot, with his colours spread, And all the troops of English after him. [_French march._] Now in the rearward comes the Duke and his. Fortune in favour makes him lag behind. Summon a parley; we will talk with him. [_Trumpets sound a parley._] CHARLES. A parley with the Duke of Burgundy! Enter Burgundy. BURGUNDY. Who craves a parley with the Burgundy? PUCELLE. The princely Charles of France, thy countryman. BURGUNDY. What say’st thou, Charles? for I am marching hence. CHARLES. Speak, Pucelle, and enchant him with thy words. PUCELLE. Brave Burgundy, undoubted hope of France, Stay, let thy humble handmaid speak to thee. BURGUNDY. Speak on, but be not over-tedious. PUCELLE. Look on thy country, look on fertile France, And see the cities and the towns defaced By wasting ruin of the cruel foe. As looks the mother on her lowly babe When death doth close his tender dying eyes, See, see the pining malady of France; Behold the wounds, the most unnatural wounds, Which thou thyself hast given her woeful breast. O, turn thy edged sword another way; Strike those that hurt, and hurt not those that help. One drop of blood drawn from thy country’s bosom Should grieve thee more than streams of foreign gore. Return thee therefore with a flood of tears, And wash away thy country’s stained spots. BURGUNDY. Either she hath bewitch’d me with her words, Or nature makes me suddenly relent. PUCELLE. Besides, all French and France exclaims on thee, Doubting thy birth and lawful progeny. Who join’st thou with but with a lordly nation That will not trust thee but for profit’s sake? When Talbot hath set footing once in France, And 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: Was not the Duke of Orleans thy foe? And was he not in England prisoner? But when they heard he was thine enemy, They set him free without his ransom paid, In spite of Burgundy and all his friends. See then, thou fight’st against thy countrymen, And join’st with them will be thy slaughtermen. Come, come, return; return, thou wandering lord; Charles and the rest will take thee in their arms. BURGUNDY. I am vanquished; these haughty words of hers Have batter’d me like roaring cannon-shot, And made me almost yield upon my knees. Forgive me, country, and sweet countrymen! And, lords, accept this hearty kind embrace. My forces and my power of men are yours. So, farewell, Talbot; I’ll no longer trust thee. PUCELLE. [_Aside_.] Done like a Frenchman: turn and turn again. CHARLES. Welcome, brave Duke! Thy friendship makes us fresh. BASTARD. And doth beget new courage in our breasts. ALENÇON. Pucelle hath bravely play’d her part in this, And doth deserve a coronet of gold. CHARLES. Now let us on, my lords, and join our powers, And seek how we may prejudice the foe. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Paris. The Palace. Enter the King, Gloucester, Bishop of Winchester, Exeter, York, Warwick and Vernon; Suffolk, Somerset, Basset and others. To them, with his soldiers, Talbot. TALBOT. My gracious Prince, and honourable peers, Hearing of your arrival in this realm, I have awhile given truce unto my wars To do my duty to my sovereign; In sign whereof, this arm, that hath reclaim’d To your obedience fifty fortresses, Twelve cities and seven walled towns of strength, Beside five hundred prisoners of esteem, Lets fall his sword before your Highness’ feet, And with submissive loyalty of heart Ascribes the glory of his conquest got First to my God, and next unto your Grace. [_Kneels_.] KING HENRY. Is this the Lord Talbot, uncle Gloucester, That hath so long been resident in France? GLOUCESTER. Yes, if it please your Majesty, my liege. KING HENRY. Welcome, brave captain and victorious lord! When I was young, as yet I am not old, I do remember how my father said A stouter champion never handled sword. Long since we were resolved of your truth, Your faithful service, and your toil in war; Yet never have you tasted our reward, Or been reguerdon’d with so much as thanks. Because till now we never saw your face. Therefore, stand up; and for these good deserts We here create you Earl of Shrewsbury; And in our coronation take your place. [_Sennet. Flourish. Exeunt all but Vernon and Basset._] VERNON. Now, sir, to you that were so hot at sea, Disgracing of these colours that I wear In honour of my noble Lord of York, Dar’st thou maintain the former words thou spak’st? BASSET. Yes, sir, as well as you dare patronage The envious barking of your saucy tongue Against my lord the Duke of Somerset. VERNON. Sirrah, thy lord I honour as he is. BASSET. Why, what is he? As good a man as York. VERNON. Hark ye; not so: in witness, take ye that. [_Strikes him._] BASSET. Villain, thou knowest the law of arms is such That whoso draws a sword, ’tis present death, Or else this blow should broach thy dearest blood. But I’ll unto his Majesty, and crave I may have liberty to venge this wrong; When thou shalt see I’ll meet thee to thy cost. VERNON. Well, miscreant, I’ll be there as soon as you; And, after, meet you sooner than you would. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. Paris. The Palace. Enter the King, Gloucester, Bishop of Winchester, Talbot, Exeter, York, and Warwick; Suffolk, Somerset, the Governor of Paris, and others. GLOUCESTER. Lord bishop, set the crown upon his head. WINCHESTER. God save King Henry, of that name the Sixth! GLOUCESTER. Now, Governor of Paris, take your oath, That you elect no other king but him; Esteem none friends but such as are his friends, And none your foes but such as shall pretend Malicious practices against his state: This shall ye do, so help you righteous God! Enter Sir John Fastolf. FASTOLF. 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 th’ Duke of Burgundy. TALBOT. Shame to the Duke of Burgundy and thee! 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 Thou wast installed in that high degree. Pardon me, princely Henry, and the rest. This dastard, at the battle of Patay, When but in all I was six thousand strong And that the French were almost ten to one, Before we met or that a stroke was given, Like to a trusty squire did run away; In which assault we lost twelve hundred men; Myself and divers gentlemen beside Were there surprised and taken prisoners. Then judge, great lords, if I have done amiss, Or whether that such cowards ought to wear This ornament of knighthood, yea or no? GLOUCESTER. To say the truth, this fact was infamous And ill beseeming any common man, Much more a knight, a captain, and a leader. TALBOT. When first this Order was 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; 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, 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. KING HENRY. 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 Fastolf._] And now, my Lord Protector, view the letter Sent from our uncle, Duke of Burgundy. GLOUCESTER. What means his Grace, that he hath changed his style? No more but, plain and bluntly, “To the King”! Hath he forgot he is his sovereign? Or doth this churlish superscription Pretend some alteration in good will? What’s here? [_Reads_] “I have, upon especial cause, Moved with compassion of my country’s wrack, Together with the pitiful complaints Of such as your oppression feeds upon, Forsaken your pernicious faction And join’d with Charles, the rightful King of France.” O monstrous treachery! Can this be so, That in alliance, amity, and oaths, There should be found such false dissembling guile? KING HENRY. What! Doth my uncle Burgundy revolt? GLOUCESTER. He doth, my lord, and is become your foe. KING HENRY. Is that the worst this letter doth contain? GLOUCESTER. It is the worst, and all, my lord, he writes. KING HENRY. Why, then, Lord Talbot there shall talk with him And give him chastisement for this abuse. How say you, my lord, are you not content? TALBOT. Content, my liege! Yes, but that I am prevented, I should have begg’d I might have been employ’d. KING HENRY. Then gather strength and march unto him straight; Let him perceive how ill we brook his treason, And what offence it is to flout his friends. TALBOT. I go, my lord, in heart desiring still You may behold confusion of your foes. [_Exit._] Enter Vernon and Basset. VERNON. Grant me the combat, gracious sovereign. BASSET. And me, my lord, grant me the combat too. YORK. This is my servant; hear him, noble prince. SOMERSET. And this is mine, sweet Henry, favour him. KING HENRY. Be patient, lords, and give them leave to speak. Say, gentlemen, what makes you thus exclaim, And wherefore crave you combat, or with whom? VERNON. With him, my lord, for he hath done me wrong. BASSET. And I with him, for he hath done me wrong. KING HENRY. What is that wrong whereof you both complain? First let me know, and then I’ll answer you. BASSET. Crossing the sea from England into France, This fellow here, with envious carping tongue, Upbraided me about the rose I wear, Saying the sanguine colour of the leaves Did represent my master’s blushing cheeks When stubbornly he did repugn the truth About a certain question in the law Argued betwixt the Duke of York and him; With other vile and ignominious terms. In confutation of which rude reproach, And in defence of my lord’s worthiness, I crave the benefit of law of arms. VERNON. And that is my petition, noble lord; For though he seem with forged quaint conceit To set a gloss upon his bold intent, Yet know, my lord, I was provoked by him, And he first took exceptions at this badge, Pronouncing that the paleness of this flower Bewray’d the faintness of my master’s heart. YORK. Will not this malice, Somerset, be left? SOMERSET. Your private grudge, my Lord of York, will out, Though ne’er so cunningly you smother it. KING HENRY. Good Lord, what madness rules in brainsick men, When for so slight and frivolous a cause Such factious emulations shall arise! Good cousins both, of York and Somerset, Quiet yourselves, I pray, and be at peace. YORK. Let this dissension first be tried by fight, And then your Highness shall command a peace. SOMERSET. The quarrel toucheth none but us alone; Betwixt ourselves let us decide it then. YORK. There is my pledge; accept it, Somerset. VERNON. Nay, let it rest where it began at first. BASSET. Confirm it so, mine honourable lord. GLOUCESTER. Confirm it so! Confounded be your strife! And perish ye, with your audacious prate! Presumptuous vassals, are you not ashamed With this immodest clamorous outrage To trouble and disturb the King and us? And you, my lords, methinks you do not well To bear with their perverse objections, Much less to take occasion from their mouths To raise a mutiny betwixt yourselves. Let me persuade you take a better course. EXETER. It grieves his Highness. Good my lords, be friends. KING HENRY. Come hither, you that would be combatants: Henceforth I charge you, as you love our favour, Quite to forget this quarrel and the cause. And you, my lords, remember where we are: In France, amongst a fickle wavering nation; If they perceive dissension in our looks, And that within ourselves we disagree, How will their grudging stomachs be provoked To willful disobedience, and rebel! Beside, what infamy will there arise When foreign princes shall be certified That for a toy, a thing of no regard, King Henry’s peers and chief nobility Destroy’d themselves and lost the realm of France! O, think upon the conquest of my father, My tender years, and let us not forgo That for a trifle that was bought with blood! Let me be umpire in this doubtful strife. I see no reason if I wear this rose, [_Putting on a red rose._] That anyone 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, So let us still continue peace and love. Cousin of York, we institute your Grace To be our Regent in these parts of France; And, good my Lord of Somerset, unite Your troops of horsemen with his bands of foot; And like true subjects, sons of your progenitors, Go cheerfully together and digest Your angry choler on your enemies. Ourself, my Lord Protector, and the rest After some respite will return to Calais; From thence to England, where I hope ere long To be presented, by your victories, With Charles, Alençon, and that traitorous rout. [_Flourish. Exeunt all but York, Warwick, Exeter and Vernon._] WARWICK. My Lord of York, I promise you the King Prettily, methought, did play the orator. YORK. And so he did; but yet I like it not, In that he wears the badge of Somerset. WARWICK. Tush, that was but his fancy; blame him not; I dare presume, sweet prince, he thought no harm. YORK. An if I wist he did—but let it rest; Other affairs must now be managed. [_Exeunt all but Exeter._] EXETER. Well didst thou, Richard, to suppress thy voice; For, had the passions of thy heart burst out, I fear we should have seen decipher’d there More rancorous spite, more furious raging broils, Than yet can be imagined or supposed. But howsoe’er, no simple man that sees This jarring discord of nobility, This shouldering of each other in the court, This factious bandying of their favourites, But sees it doth presage some ill event. ’Tis much when scepters are in children’s hands; But more when envy breeds unkind division: There comes the ruin, there begins confusion. [_Exit._] SCENE II. Before Bordeaux. Enter Talbot with trump and drum. TALBOT. Go to the gates of Bordeaux, trumpeter. Summon their general unto the wall. Trumpet sounds. Enter General and others aloft. English John Talbot, captains, calls you forth, Servant in arms to Harry King of England; And thus he would: Open your city gates, Be humble to us, call my sovereign yours, And do him homage as obedient subjects, And I’ll withdraw me and my bloody power. But if you frown upon this 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 Shall lay your stately and air-braving towers, If you forsake the offer of their love. GENERAL. Thou ominous and fearful owl of death, Our nation’s terror and their bloody scourge! The period of thy tyranny approacheth. On us thou canst not enter but by death; For, I protest, we are well fortified And strong enough to issue out and fight. If thou retire, the Dauphin, well appointed, Stands with the snares of war to tangle thee. On either hand thee there are squadrons pitch’d To wall thee from the liberty of flight; And no way canst thou turn thee for redress But Death doth front thee with apparent spoil, And pale Destruction meets thee in the face. Ten thousand French have ta’en the sacrament To rive their dangerous artillery Upon no Christian soul but English Talbot. Lo, there thou stand’st, a breathing valiant man Of an invincible unconquer’d spirit. This is the latest glory of thy praise That I, thy enemy, due thee withal; For ere the glass, that now begins to run, Finish the process of his sandy hour, These eyes, that see thee now well 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, And mine shall ring thy dire departure out. [_Exeunt General, etc._] TALBOT. He fables not; I hear the enemy. Out, some light horsemen, and peruse their wings. O, negligent and heedless discipline! How are we park’d and bounded in a pale, A little herd of England’s timorous deer, Mazed with a yelping kennel of French curs! If we be English deer, be then in blood; Not rascal-like, to fall down with a pinch, But rather, moody-mad and desperate stags, Turn on the bloody hounds with heads of steel And make the cowards stand aloof at bay. Sell every man his life as dear as mine, And they shall find dear deer of us, my friends. God and Saint George, Talbot and England’s right, Prosper our colours in this dangerous fight! [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Plains in Gascony. Enter a Messenger that meets York. Enter York with trumpet and many soldiers YORK. Are not the speedy scouts return’d again That dogg’d the mighty army of the Dauphin? MESSENGER. They are return’d, my lord, and give it out That he is march’d to Bordeaux with his power, To fight with Talbot. As he march’d along, By your espials were discovered Two mightier troops than that the Dauphin led, Which join’d with him and made their march for Bordeaux. [_Exit._] YORK. A plague upon that villain Somerset That thus delays my promised supply Of horsemen that were levied for this siege! Renowned Talbot doth expect my aid, And I am louted by a traitor villain And cannot help the noble chevalier. God comfort him in this necessity! If he miscarry, farewell wars in France. Enter Sir William Lucy. LUCY. Thou princely leader of our English strength, Never so needful on the earth of France, Spur to the rescue of the noble Talbot, Who now is girdled with a waist of iron, And hemm’d about with grim destruction. To Bordeaux, warlike Duke! To Bordeaux, York! Else farewell, Talbot, France, and England’s honour. YORK. O God, that Somerset, who in proud heart Doth stop my cornets, were in Talbot’s place! So should we save a valiant gentleman By forfeiting a traitor and a coward. Mad ire and wrathful fury makes me weep That thus we die while remiss traitors sleep. LUCY. O, send some succour to the distress’d lord! YORK. He dies, we lose; I break my warlike word; We mourn, France smiles; we lose, they daily get, All long of this vile traitor Somerset. LUCY. Then God take mercy on brave Talbot’s soul, And on his son young John, who two hours since I met in travel toward his warlike father. This seven years did not Talbot see his son; And now they meet where both their lives are done. YORK. Alas, what joy shall noble Talbot have To bid his young son welcome to his grave? Away! Vexation almost stops my breath, That 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. Maine, Blois, Poictiers, and Tours, are won away, Long all of Somerset and his delay. [_Exit, with his soldiers._] LUCY. Thus, while the vulture of sedition Feeds in the bosom of such great commanders, Sleeping neglection doth betray to loss The conquest of our scarce-cold conqueror, That ever-living man of memory, Henry the Fifth. Whiles they each other cross, Lives, honours, lands, and all hurry to loss. [_Exit._] SCENE IV. Other plains in Gascony. Enter Somerset with his army; a Captain of Talbot’s with him. SOMERSET. It is too late; I cannot send them now. This expedition was by York and Talbot Too rashly plotted. All our general force Might with a sally of the very town Be buckled with. The over-daring Talbot Hath sullied all his gloss of former honour By this unheedful, desperate, wild adventure. York set him on to fight and die in shame That, Talbot dead, great York might bear the name. CAPTAIN. Here is Sir William Lucy, who with me Set from our o’er-match’d forces forth for aid. Enter Sir William Lucy. SOMERSET. How now, Sir William, whither were you sent? LUCY. Whither, my lord? From bought and sold Lord Talbot, Who, 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 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, 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, Yield up his life unto a world of odds. Orleans the Bastard, Charles, Burgundy, Alençon, Reignier, compass him about, And Talbot perisheth by your default. SOMERSET. York set him on; York should have sent him aid. LUCY. And York as fast upon your Grace exclaims, Swearing that you withhold his levied host Collected for this expedition. SOMERSET. York lies; he might have sent and had the horse. I owe him little duty, and less love, And take foul scorn to fawn on him by sending. LUCY. The fraud of England, not the force of France, Hath now entrapp’d the noble-minded Talbot. Never to England shall he bear his life, But dies betray’d to fortune by your strife. SOMERSET. Come, go; I will dispatch the horsemen straight. Within six hours they will be at his aid. LUCY. Too late comes rescue; he is ta’en or slain, For fly he could not if he would have fled; And fly would Talbot never, though he might. SOMERSET. If he be dead, brave Talbot, then adieu! LUCY. His fame lives in the world, his shame in you. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. The English camp near Bordeaux. Enter Talbot and John his son. TALBOT. O young John Talbot, I did send for thee To tutor thee in stratagems of war, That Talbot’s name might be in thee revived When sapless age and weak unable limbs Should bring thy father to his drooping chair. But—O malignant and ill-boding stars!— Now thou art come unto a feast of death, A terrible and unavoided danger. Therefore, dear boy, mount on my swiftest horse, And I’ll direct thee how thou shalt escape By sudden flight. Come, dally not, be gone. JOHN TALBOT. Is my name Talbot? And am I your son? 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, That basely fled when noble Talbot stood. TALBOT. Fly, to revenge my death if I be slain. JOHN TALBOT. He that flies so will ne’er return again. TALBOT. If we both stay, we both are sure to die. JOHN TALBOT. Then let me stay and, father, do you fly. Your loss is great, so your regard should be; My worth unknown, no loss is known in me. Upon my death the French can little boast; In yours they will, in you all hopes are lost. Flight cannot stain the honour you have won; But mine it will, that no exploit have done. You fled for vantage, everyone will swear; But if I bow, they’ll say it was for fear. There is no hope that ever I will stay If the first hour I shrink and run away. Here on my knee I beg mortality, Rather than life preserved with infamy. TALBOT. Shall all thy mother’s hopes lie in one tomb? JOHN TALBOT. Ay, rather than I’ll shame my mother’s womb. TALBOT. Upon my blessing, I command thee go. JOHN TALBOT. To fight I will, but not to fly the foe. TALBOT. Part of thy father may be saved in thee. JOHN TALBOT. No part of him but will be shame in me. TALBOT. Thou never hadst renown, nor canst not lose it. JOHN TALBOT. Yes, your renowned name; shall flight abuse it? TALBOT. Thy father’s charge shall clear thee from that stain. JOHN TALBOT. You cannot witness for me, being slain. If death be so apparent, then both fly. TALBOT. And leave my followers here to fight and die? My age was never tainted with such shame. JOHN TALBOT. And shall my youth be guilty of such blame? No more can I be sever’d from your side Than can yourself yourself in twain divide. Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I; For live I will not, if my father die. TALBOT. Then here I take my leave of thee, fair son, Born to eclipse thy life this afternoon. Come, side by side together live and die, And soul with soul from France to heaven fly. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. A field of battle. Alarum. Excursions, wherein Talbot’s son is hemmed about, and Talbot rescues him. TALBOT. Saint George and victory! Fight, soldiers, fight! The Regent hath with Talbot broke his word, And left us to the rage of France his sword. Where is John Talbot? Pause, and take thy breath; I gave thee life and rescued thee from death. JOHN TALBOT. O, twice my father, twice am I thy son! The life thou gav’st me first was lost and done, Till with thy warlike sword, despite of fate, To my determined time thou gav’st new date. TALBOT. When from the Dauphin’s crest thy sword struck fire, It warm’d thy father’s heart with proud desire Of bold-faced victory. Then leaden age, Quicken’d with youthful spleen and warlike rage, Beat down Alençon, Orleans, Burgundy, And from the pride of Gallia rescued thee. The ireful Bastard Orleans, that drew blood From thee, my boy, and had the maidenhood Of thy first fight, I soon encountered, And, interchanging blows, I quickly shed Some of his bastard blood, and in disgrace Bespoke him thus: “Contaminated, base, And misbegotten blood I spill of thine, Mean and right poor, for that pure blood of mine, Which thou didst force from Talbot, my brave boy.” Here, purposing the Bastard to destroy, Came in strong rescue. Speak, thy father’s care, Art thou not weary, John? How dost thou fare? Wilt thou yet leave the battle, boy, and fly, Now thou art 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, To hazard all our lives in one small boat! If I today die not with Frenchmen’s rage, Tomorrow I shall die with mickle age. By me they nothing gain an if I stay; ’Tis but the short’ning of my life one day. In thee thy mother dies, our household’s name, My death’s revenge, thy youth, and England’s fame. All these and more we hazard by thy stay; All these are saved if thou wilt fly away. JOHN TALBOT. The sword of Orleans hath not made me smart; These words of yours draw life-blood from my heart. On that advantage, bought with such a shame, To save a paltry life and slay bright fame, Before young Talbot from old Talbot fly, The coward horse that bears me fall and die! And like me to the peasant boys of France, To be shame’s scorn and subject of mischance! Surely, by all the glory you have won, An if I fly, I am not Talbot’s son. Then talk no more of flight, it is no boot; If son to Talbot, die at Talbot’s foot. TALBOT. Then follow thou thy desperate sire of Crete, Thou Icarus; thy life to me is sweet. If thou wilt fight, fight by thy father’s side, And, commendable proved, let’s die in pride. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VII. Another part of the field. Alarum. Excursions. Enter old Talbot led by a Servant. TALBOT. Where is my other life? Mine own is gone. O, where’s young Talbot? Where is valiant John? Triumphant Death, smear’d with captivity, Young Talbot’s valour makes me smile at thee. When he perceived 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; 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 Into the clustering battle of the French; And in that sea of blood my boy did drench His over-mounting spirit; and there died My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride. SERVANT. O my dear lord, lo where your son is borne! Enter soldiers, with the body of young Talbot. TALBOT. Thou antic Death, which laugh’st us here to scorn, Anon, from thy insulting tyranny, Coupled in bonds of perpetuity, Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky, In thy despite shall scape mortality. O thou whose wounds become hard-favour’d Death, Speak to thy father ere thou yield thy breath! Brave Death by speaking, whether he will or no; Imagine him a Frenchman and thy foe. Poor boy, he smiles, methinks, as who should say, Had Death been French, then Death had died today. Come, come, and lay him in his father’s arms; My spirit can no longer bear these harms. Soldiers, adieu! I have what I would have, Now my old arms are young John Talbot’s grave. [_Dies._] Enter Charles, Alençon, Burgundy, Bastard, La Pucelle and forces. CHARLES. Had York and Somerset brought rescue in, We should have found a bloody day of this. BASTARD. How the young whelp of Talbot’s, raging-wood, Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen’s blood! PUCELLE. Once I 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.” So, rushing in the bowels of the French, He left me proudly, as unworthy fight. BURGUNDY. Doubtless he would have made a noble knight. See, where he lies inhearsed in the arms Of the most bloody nurser of his harms. BASTARD. Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asunder, Whose life was England’s glory, Gallia’s wonder. CHARLES. O, no, forbear! For that which we have fled During the life, let us not wrong it dead. Enter Sir William Lucy and a French Herald. LUCY. Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin’s tent, To know who hath obtain’d the glory of the day. CHARLES. On what submissive message art thou sent? LUCY. Submission, Dauphin! ’Tis a mere French word. We English warriors wot not what it means. I come to know what prisoners thou hast ta’en, And to survey the bodies of the dead. CHARLES. For prisoners ask’st thou? Hell our prison is. But tell me whom thou seek’st. LUCY. But where’s the great Alcides of the field, Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, Created for his rare success in arms Great Earl of Washford, Waterford, and Valence, Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield, Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of Alton, Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffield, The thrice victorious Lord of Falconbridge, Knight of the noble Order of Saint George, Worthy Saint Michael, and the Golden Fleece, Great Marshal to Henry the Sixth Of all his wars within the realm of France? PUCELLE. Here’s a silly stately style indeed! The Turk, that two and fifty kingdoms hath, Writes not so tedious a style as this. Him that thou magnifiest with all these titles Stinking and fly-blown lies here at our feet. LUCY. Is Talbot slain, the Frenchman’s only scourge, Your kingdom’s terror and black Nemesis? O, were mine eye-balls into bullets turn’d, That I in rage might shoot them at your faces! O, that I could but call these dead to life! It were enough to fright the realm of France. Were but his picture left amongst you here, It would amaze the proudest of you all. Give me their bodies, that I may bear them hence And give them burial as beseems their worth. PUCELLE. I think this upstart is old Talbot’s ghost, He speaks with such a proud commanding spirit. For God’s sake, let him have them; to keep them here, They would but stink and putrify the air. CHARLES. Go, take their bodies hence. LUCY. I’ll bear them hence; But from their ashes shall be rear’d A phoenix that shall make all France afeard. CHARLES. So we be rid of them, do with them what thou wilt. And now to Paris in this conquering vein. All will be ours, now bloody Talbot’s slain. [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. London. The Palace. Sennet. Enter King, Gloucester and Exeter. KING HENRY. Have you perused the letters from the Pope, The Emperor, and the Earl of Armagnac? GLOUCESTER. I have, my lord; and their intent is this: They humbly sue unto your Excellence To have a godly peace concluded of Between the realms of England and of France. KING HENRY. How doth your Grace affect their motion? GLOUCESTER. Well, my good lord, and as the only means To stop effusion of our Christian blood And stablish quietness on every side. KING HENRY. Ay, marry, uncle, for I always thought It was both impious and unnatural That such immanity and bloody strife Should reign among professors of one faith. GLOUCESTER. Beside, my lord, the sooner to effect And surer bind this knot of amity, The Earl of Armagnac, near knit to Charles, A man of great authority in France, Proffers his only daughter to your Grace In marriage, with a large and sumptuous dowry. KING HENRY. Marriage, uncle! Alas, my years are young! And fitter is my study and my books Than wanton dalliance with a paramour. Yet call th’ ambassadors; and, as you please, So let them have their answers every one. I shall be well content with any choice Tends to God’s glory and my country’s weal. Enter Winchester in Cardinal’s habit, a Legate and two Ambassadors. EXETER. What, is my Lord of Winchester install’d 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, He’ll make his cap co-equal with the crown.” KING HENRY. My Lords Ambassadors, your several suits Have been consider’d and debated on. Your purpose is both good and reasonable; And therefore are we certainly resolved To draw conditions of a friendly peace, Which by my Lord of Winchester we mean Shall be transported presently to France. GLOUCESTER. 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, He doth intend she shall be England’s Queen. KING HENRY. In argument and proof of which contract, Bear her this jewel, pledge of my affection. And so, my Lord Protector, see them guarded And safely brought to Dover; where inshipp’d, Commit them to the fortune of the sea. [_Exeunt all but Winchester and Legate._] WINCHESTER. Stay my lord legate; you shall first receive The sum of money which I promised Should be deliver’d to his Holiness For clothing me in these grave ornaments. LEGATE. I will attend upon your lordship’s leisure. WINCHESTER. [_Aside_.] Now Winchester will not submit, I trow, Or be inferior to the proudest peer. Humphrey of Gloucester, thou shalt well perceive That neither in birth or for authority, The Bishop will be overborne by thee. I’ll either make thee stoop and bend thy knee, Or sack this country with a mutiny. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. France. Plains in Anjou. Enter Charles, Burgundy, Alençon, Bastard, Reignier, La Pucelle and forces. CHARLES. These news, my lords, may cheer our drooping spirits: ’Tis said the stout Parisians do revolt And turn again unto the warlike French. ALENÇON. Then march to Paris, royal Charles of France, And keep not back your powers in dalliance. PUCELLE. Peace be amongst them, if they turn to us; Else ruin combat with their palaces! Enter Scout. SCOUT. Success unto our valiant general, And happiness to his accomplices! CHARLES. What tidings send our scouts? I prithee, speak. SCOUT. The English army, that divided was Into two parties, is now conjoin’d in one, And means to give you battle presently. CHARLES. Somewhat too sudden, sirs, the warning is; But we will presently provide for them. BURGUNDY. I trust the ghost of Talbot is not there. Now he is gone, my lord, you need not fear. PUCELLE. Of all base passions, fear is most accursed. Command the conquest, Charles, it shall be thine; Let Henry fret and all the world repine. CHARLES. Then on, my lords; and France be fortunate! [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Before Angiers. Alarum. Excursions. Enter La Pucelle. PUCELLE. The Regent conquers, and the Frenchmen fly. Now help, ye charming spells and periapts; And ye choice spirits that admonish me, And give me signs of future accidents. [_Thunder_] You speedy helpers, that are substitutes Under the lordly monarch of the north, Appear and aid me in this enterprise. Enter Fiends. This speed and quick appearance argues proof Of your accustom’d diligence to me. 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! Where I was wont to feed you with my blood, I’ll lop a member off and give it you In earnest of a further benefit, So you do condescend to help me now. [_They hang their heads._] No hope to have redress? My body shall Pay recompense if you will grant my suit. [_They shake their heads._] Cannot my body nor blood-sacrifice Entreat you to your wonted furtherance? Then take my soul; my body, soul and all, Before that England give the French the foil. [_They depart._] See, they forsake me. Now the time is come That France must vail her lofty-plumed crest And let her head fall into England’s lap. My ancient incantations are too weak, And hell too strong for me to buckle with. Now, France, thy glory droopeth to the dust. [_Exit._] Excursions. Burgundy and York fight hand to hand. The French fly. La Pucelle is taken. YORK. Damsel of France, I think I have you fast. Unchain your spirits now with spelling charms, And try if they can gain your liberty. A goodly prize, fit for the devil’s grace! See, how the ugly witch doth bend her brows, As if with Circe she would change my shape! PUCELLE. Chang’d to a worser shape thou canst not be. YORK. O, Charles the Dauphin is a proper man; No shape but his can please your dainty eye. PUCELLE. A plaguing mischief light on Charles and thee! And may ye both be suddenly surprised By bloody hands, in sleeping on your beds! YORK. Fell banning hag, enchantress, hold thy tongue! PUCELLE. I prithee, give me leave to curse awhile. YORK. Curse, miscreant, when thou com’st to the stake. [_Exeunt._] Alarum. Enter Suffolk with Margaret in his hand. SUFFOLK. Be what thou wilt, thou art my prisoner. [_Gazes on her._] O fairest beauty, do not fear nor fly! For I will touch thee but with reverent hands, I kiss these fingers for eternal peace, And lay them gently on thy tender side. Who art thou? Say, that I may honour thee. MARGARET. Margaret my name, and daughter to a king, The King of Naples, whosoe’er thou art. SUFFOLK. An earl I am, and Suffolk am I 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, Keeping them prisoner underneath her wings. Yet, if this servile usage once offend, Go and be free again as Suffolk’s friend. [_She is going._] O, stay! I have no power to let her pass; My hand would free her, but my heart says no. As plays the sun upon the glassy streams, Twinkling another counterfeited beam, So seems this gorgeous beauty to mine eyes. Fain would I woo her, yet I dare not speak. I’ll call for pen and ink, and write my mind. Fie, de la Pole, disable not thyself; Hast not a tongue? Is she not here? Wilt thou be daunted at a woman’s sight? Ay, beauty’s princely majesty is such Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough. MARGARET. Say, Earl of Suffolk, if thy name be so, What ransom must I pay before I pass? For I perceive I am thy prisoner. SUFFOLK. How canst thou tell she will deny thy suit, Before thou make a trial of her love? MARGARET. Why speak’st thou not? What ransom must I pay? SUFFOLK. She’s beautiful, and therefore to be woo’d; She is a woman, therefore to be won. MARGARET. Wilt thou accept of ransom, yea, or no? SUFFOLK. Fond man, remember that thou hast a wife; Then how can Margaret be thy paramour? MARGARET. I were best leave him, for he will not hear. SUFFOLK. There all is marr’d; there lies a cooling card. MARGARET. He talks at random; sure, the man is mad. SUFFOLK. And yet a dispensation may be had. MARGARET. And yet I would that you would answer me. SUFFOLK. I’ll win this Lady Margaret. For whom? Why, for my king. Tush, that’s a wooden thing! MARGARET. He talks of wood. It is some carpenter. SUFFOLK. Yet so my fancy may be satisfied, And peace established between these realms. But there remains a scruple in that too; For though her father be the King of Naples, Duke of Anjou and Maine, yet is he poor, And our nobility will scorn the match. MARGARET. Hear ye, captain, are you not at leisure? SUFFOLK. It shall be so, disdain they ne’er so much. Henry is youthful and will quickly yield. Madam, I have a secret to reveal. MARGARET. What though I be enthrall’d? He seems a knight, And will not any way dishonour me. SUFFOLK. Lady, vouchsafe to listen what I say. MARGARET. Perhaps I shall be rescued by the French; And then I need not crave his courtesy. SUFFOLK. Sweet madam, give me hearing in a cause. MARGARET. Tush, women have been captivate ere now. SUFFOLK. Lady, wherefore talk you so? MARGARET. I cry you mercy, ’tis but _quid_ for _quo_. SUFFOLK. Say, gentle princess, would you not suppose Your bondage happy, to be made a queen? MARGARET. To be a queen in bondage is more vile Than is a slave in base servility; For princes should be free. SUFFOLK. And so shall you, If happy England’s royal king be free. MARGARET. Why, what concerns his freedom unto me? SUFFOLK. I’ll undertake to make thee Henry’s queen, To put a golden scepter in thy hand And set a precious crown upon thy head, If thou wilt condescend to be my— MARGARET. What? SUFFOLK. His love. MARGARET. I am unworthy to be Henry’s wife. SUFFOLK. No, gentle madam, I unworthy am To woo so fair a dame to be his wife, And have no portion in the choice myself. How say you, madam, are ye so content? MARGARET. An if my father please, I am content. SUFFOLK. Then call our captains and our colours forth. And, madam, at your father’s castle walls We’ll crave a parley, to confer with him. A parley sounded. Enter Reignier on the walls. See, Reignier, see, thy daughter prisoner! REIGNIER. To whom? SUFFOLK. To me. REIGNIER. Suffolk, what remedy? I am a soldier, and unapt to weep Or to exclaim on fortune’s fickleness. SUFFOLK. Yes, there is remedy enough, my lord: Consent, and for thy honour give consent, Thy daughter shall be wedded to my king, Whom I with pain have woo’d and won thereto; And this her easy-held imprisonment Hath gain’d thy daughter princely liberty. REIGNIER. Speaks Suffolk as he thinks? SUFFOLK. Fair Margaret knows That Suffolk doth not flatter, face, or feign. REIGNIER. Upon thy princely warrant, I descend To give thee answer of thy just demand. [_Exit from the walls._] SUFFOLK. And here I will expect thy coming. Trumpets sound. Enter Reignier, below. REIGNIER. Welcome, brave earl, into our territories. Command in Anjou what your honour pleases. SUFFOLK. Thanks, Reignier, happy for so sweet a child, Fit to be made companion with a king. What answer makes your Grace unto my suit? REIGNIER. Since thou dost deign to woo her little worth To be the princely bride of such a lord, Upon condition I may quietly Enjoy mine own, the country Maine and Anjou, Free from oppression or the stroke of war, My daughter shall be Henry’s, if he please. SUFFOLK. That is her ransom; I deliver her; And those two counties I will undertake Your Grace shall well and quietly enjoy. REIGNIER. And I again, in Henry’s royal name, As deputy unto that gracious king, Give thee her hand for sign of plighted faith. SUFFOLK. Reignier of France, I give thee kingly thanks, Because this is in traffic of a king. [_Aside_.] And yet, methinks, I could be well content To be mine own attorney in this case. I’ll over then to England with this news, And make this marriage to be solemnized. So, farewell, Reignier; set this diamond safe In golden palaces, as it becomes. REIGNIER. I do embrace thee as I would embrace The Christian prince, King Henry, were he here. MARGARET. Farewell, my lord; good wishes, praise, and prayers Shall Suffolk ever have of Margaret. [_Going_]. SUFFOLK. Farewell, sweet madam; but hark you, Margaret, No princely commendations to my king? MARGARET. Such commendations as becomes a maid, A virgin and his servant, say to him. SUFFOLK. Words sweetly placed and modestly directed. But, madam, I must trouble you again: No loving token to his Majesty? MARGARET. Yes, my good lord; a pure unspotted heart, Never yet taint with love, I send the King. SUFFOLK. And this withal. [_Kisses her_.] MARGARET. That for thyself. I will not so presume To send such peevish tokens to a king. [_Exeunt Reignier and Margaret._] SUFFOLK. O, wert thou for myself! But, Suffolk, stay; Thou mayst not wander in that labyrinth. There Minotaurs and ugly treasons lurk. Solicit Henry with her wondrous praise. Bethink thee on her virtues that surmount, And natural graces that extinguish art; Repeat their semblance often on the seas, That, when thou 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 La Pucelle, guarded, and a Shepherd. SHEPHERD. Ah, Joan, this kills thy father’s heart outright! Have I sought every country far and near, And, now it is my chance to find thee out, Must I behold thy timeless cruel death? Ah, Joan, sweet daughter Joan, I’ll die with thee! PUCELLE. Decrepit miser, base ignoble wretch! I am descended of a gentler blood. Thou art no father nor no friend of mine. SHEPHERD. Out, out! My lords, as please you, ’tis not so; I did beget her, all the parish knows. Her mother liveth yet, can testify She was the first fruit of my bachelorship. WARWICK. Graceless, wilt thou deny thy parentage? YORK. This argues what her kind of life hath been, Wicked and vile; and so her death concludes. SHEPHERD. Fie, Joan, that thou wilt be so obstacle! God knows thou art a collop of my flesh; And for thy sake have I shed many a tear. Deny me not, I prithee, gentle Joan. PUCELLE. Peasant, avaunt! You have suborn’d this man Of purpose to obscure my noble birth. SHEPHERD. ’Tis true, I gave a noble to the priest The morn that I was wedded to her mother. Kneel down and take my blessing, good my girl. Wilt thou not stoop? Now cursed be the time Of thy nativity! I would the milk Thy mother gave thee when thou suck’dst her breast Had been a little ratsbane for thy sake! Or else, when thou didst keep my lambs a-field, I wish some ravenous wolf had eaten thee! Dost thou deny thy father, cursed drab? O, burn her, burn her! Hanging is too good. [_Exit._] YORK. Take her away, for she hath lived too long, To fill the world with vicious qualities. PUCELLE. First, let me tell you whom you have condemn’d: Not one begotten of a shepherd swain, But issued from the progeny of kings; Virtuous and holy, chosen from above, By inspiration of celestial grace, To work exceeding miracles on earth. I never had to do with wicked spirits. But you, that are polluted with your lusts, Stain’d with the guiltless blood of innocents, Corrupt and tainted with a thousand vices, Because you want the grace that others have, You judge it straight a thing impossible To compass wonders but by help of devils. No, misconceived! Joan of Arc hath been A virgin from her tender infancy, Chaste and immaculate in very thought; Whose maiden blood, thus rigorously effused, Will cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven. YORK. Ay, ay; away with her to execution! WARWICK. And hark ye, sirs; because she is a maid, Spare for no faggots, let there be enow. Place barrels of pitch upon the fatal stake, That so her torture may be shortened. PUCELLE. Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts? Then, Joan, discover thine infirmity, That warranteth by law to be thy privilege: I am with child, ye bloody homicides. Murder not then the fruit within my womb, Although ye hale me to a violent death. YORK. Now heaven forfend! The holy maid with child? WARWICK. The greatest miracle that e’er ye wrought! Is all your strict preciseness come to this? YORK. She and the Dauphin have been juggling. I did imagine what would be her refuge. WARWICK. Well, go to; we’ll have no bastards live, Especially since Charles must father it. PUCELLE. You are deceived; my child is none of his. It was Alençon that enjoy’d my love. YORK. Alençon, that notorious Machiavel! It dies and if it had a thousand lives. PUCELLE. O, give me leave, I have deluded you. ’Twas neither Charles nor yet the Duke I named, But Reignier, King of Naples, that prevail’d. WARWICK. A married man! That’s most intolerable. YORK. Why, here’s a girl! I think she knows not well— There were so many—whom she may accuse. WARWICK. It’s sign she hath been liberal and free. YORK. And yet, forsooth, she is a virgin pure! Strumpet, thy words condemn thy brat and thee. Use no entreaty, for it is in vain. PUCELLE. Then lead me hence, with whom I leave my curse: May never glorious sun reflex his beams Upon the country where you make abode; But darkness and the gloomy shade of death Environ you, till mischief and despair Drive you to break your necks or hang yourselves! [_Exit, guarded._] YORK. Break thou in pieces and consume to ashes, Thou foul accursed minister of hell! Enter Bishop of Winchester as Cardinal, attended. WINCHESTER. Lord Regent, I do greet your Excellence With letters of commission from the King. For know, my lords, the states of Christendom, Moved with remorse of these outrageous broils, Have earnestly implored a general peace Betwixt our nation and the aspiring French; And here at hand the Dauphin and his train Approacheth to confer about some matter. YORK. Is all our travail turn’d to this effect? After the slaughter of so many peers, So many captains, gentlemen and soldiers, That in this quarrel have been overthrown And sold their bodies for their country’s benefit, Shall we at last conclude effeminate peace? Have we not lost most part of all the towns, By treason, falsehood, and by treachery, Our great progenitors had conquered? O, Warwick, Warwick! I foresee with grief The utter loss of all the realm of France. WARWICK. Be patient, York; if we conclude a peace, It shall be with such strict and severe covenants As little shall the Frenchmen gain thereby. Enter Charles, Alençon, Bastard, Reignier and others. CHARLES. Since, lords of England, it is thus agreed 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 The hollow passage of my poison’d voice By sight of these our baleful enemies. WINCHESTER. Charles, and the rest, it is enacted thus: That, in regard King Henry gives consent, Of mere compassion and of lenity, To ease your country of distressful war, And suffer you to breathe in fruitful peace, You shall become true liegemen to his crown. And, Charles, upon condition thou wilt swear To pay him tribute and submit thyself, Thou shalt be placed as viceroy under him, And still enjoy the regal dignity. ALENÇON. Must he be then as shadow of himself? Adorn his temples with a coronet, And yet, in substance and authority, Retain but privilege of a private man? This proffer is absurd and reasonless. CHARLES. ’Tis known already that I am possess’d With more than half the Gallian territories, And therein reverenced for their lawful king. 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 That which I have than, coveting for more, Be cast from possibility of all. YORK. Insulting Charles! Hast thou by secret means Used intercession to obtain a league, And, now the matter grows to compromise, Stand’st thou aloof upon comparison? Either accept the title thou usurp’st, Of benefit proceeding from our king And not of any challenge of desert, Or we will plague thee with incessant wars. REIGNIER. My lord, you do not well in obstinacy To cavil in the course of this contract. If once it be neglected, ten to one We shall not find like opportunity. ALENÇON. To say the truth, it is your policy To save your subjects from such massacre And ruthless slaughters as are daily seen By our proceeding in hostility; And therefore take this compact of a truce, Although you break it when your pleasure serves. WARWICK. How say’st thou, Charles? Shall our condition stand? CHARLES. It shall; only reserv’d you claim no interest In any of our towns of garrison. YORK. Then swear allegiance to his Majesty, As thou art knight, never to disobey Nor be rebellious to the crown of England, Thou, nor thy nobles, to the crown of England. [_Charles and the rest 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. The royal palace. Enter Suffolk in conference with the King, Gloucester and Exeter. KING HENRY. 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, And like as rigor of tempestuous gusts Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide, So am I driven by breath of her renown Either to suffer shipwreck or arrive Where I may have fruition of her love. SUFFOLK. Tush, my good lord, this superficial tale Is but a preface of her worthy praise; The chief perfections of that lovely dame, Had I sufficient skill to utter them, Would make a volume of enticing lines, Able to ravish any dull conceit; And, which is more, she is not so divine, So full replete with choice of all delights, But with as humble lowliness of mind She is content to be at your command; Command, I mean, of virtuous chaste intents, To love and honour Henry as her lord. KING HENRY. And otherwise will Henry ne’er presume. Therefore, my Lord Protector, give consent That Margaret may be England’s royal queen. GLOUCESTER. So should I give consent to flatter sin. You know, my lord, your Highness is betroth’d Unto another lady of esteem. How shall we then dispense with that contract, And not deface your honour with reproach? SUFFOLK. As doth a ruler with unlawful oaths; Or one that, at a triumph having vow’d To try his strength, forsaketh yet the lists By reason of his adversary’s odds. A poor earl’s daughter is unequal odds, And therefore may be broke without offence. GLOUCESTER. Why, what, I pray, is Margaret more than that? Her father is no better than an earl, Although in glorious titles he excel. SUFFOLK. Yes, my lord, her father is a king, The King of Naples and Jerusalem; And of such great authority in France As his alliance will confirm our peace, And keep the Frenchmen in allegiance. GLOUCESTER. And so the Earl of Armagnac may do, Because he is near kinsman unto Charles. EXETER. Beside, his wealth doth warrant a liberal dower, Where Reignier sooner will receive than give. SUFFOLK. A dower, my lords? Disgrace not so your king, That he should be so abject, base, and poor, To choose for wealth and not for perfect love. Henry is able to enrich his queen, And not to seek a queen to make him rich; So worthless peasants bargain for their wives, As market-men for oxen, sheep, or horse. Marriage is a matter of more worth Than to be dealt in by attorneyship; Not whom we will, but whom his Grace affects, Must be companion of his nuptial bed. And therefore, lords, since he affects her most, Most of all these reasons bindeth us 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, And is a pattern of celestial peace. Whom should we match with Henry, being a king, But Margaret, that is daughter to a king? Her peerless feature, joined with her birth, Approves her fit for none but for a king; Her valiant courage and undaunted spirit, More than in women commonly is seen, Will answer our hope in issue of a king; For Henry, son unto a conqueror, Is likely to beget more conquerors, If with a lady of so high resolve As is fair Margaret he be link’d in love. Then yield, my lords; and here conclude with me That Margaret shall be queen, and none but she. KING HENRY. Whether it be through force of your report, My noble Lord of Suffolk, or for that My tender youth was never yet attaint With any passion of inflaming love, I cannot tell; but this I am assured, I feel such sharp dissension in my breast, Such fierce alarums both of hope and fear, As I am sick with working of my thoughts. Take therefore shipping; post, my lord, to France; Agree to any covenants, and procure That Lady Margaret do vouchsafe to come To cross the seas to England and be crown’d King Henry’s faithful and anointed queen. For your expenses and sufficient charge, Among the people gather up a tenth. Be gone, I say; for till you do return, I rest perplexed with a thousand cares. And you, good uncle, banish all offence. If you do censure me by what you were, Not what you are, I know it will excuse This sudden execution of my will. And so conduct me where, from company, I may revolve and ruminate my grief. [_Exit._] GLOUCESTER. Ay, grief, I fear me, both at first and last. [_Exeunt Gloucester and Exeter._] SUFFOLK. Thus Suffolk hath prevail’d; and thus he goes, As did the youthful Paris once to Greece, With hope to find the like event in love, But prosper better than the Troyan did. Margaret shall now be queen, and rule the King; But I will rule both her, the King, and realm. [_Exit._] THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH Contents ACT I Scene I. London. The palace Scene II. The Duke of Gloucester’s House Scene III. London. The palace Scene IV. Gloucester’s Garden ACT II SCENE I. Saint Albans SCENE II. London. The Duke of York’s Garden SCENE III. A Hall of Justice SCENE IV. A Street ACT III SCENE I. The Abbey at Bury St. Edmund’s SCENE II. Bury St. Edmund’s. A Room of State SCENE III. A Bedchamber ACT IV SCENE I. The Coast of Kent SCENE II. Blackheath SCENE III. Another part of Blackheath SCENE IV. London. The Palace SCENE V. London. The Tower SCENE VI. London. Cannon Street SCENE VII. London. Smithfield SCENE VIII. Southwark SCENE IX. Kenilworth Castle SCENE X. Kent. Iden’s Garden ACT V SCENE I. Fields between Dartford and Blackheath SCENE II. Saint Albans SCENE III. Fields near Saint Albans Dramatis Personæ KING HENRY THE SIXTH MARGARET, Queen to King Henry Humphrey, Duke of GLOUCESTER, his uncle ELEANOR, Duchess of Gloucester CARDINAL Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, great-uncle to the King DUKE OF SOMERSET DUKE OF SUFFOLK DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM LORD CLIFFORD YOUNG CLIFFORD, his son VAUX Richard Plantagenet, Duke of YORK EDWARD and RICHARD, his sons EARL OF SALISBURY EARL OF WARWICK THOMAS HORNER, an armourer PETER THUMP, his man JOHN HUME, a priest JOHN SOUTHWELL, a priest Margery JOURDAIN, a witch ROGER BOLINGBROKE, a conjurer SIMPCOX, an impostor Wife to Simpcox Mayor of Saint Albans SIR JOHN STANLEY Two Murderers A LIEUTENANT MASTER Master’s-Mate Walter WHITMORE Two Gentlemen, prisoners with Suffolk Jack CADE, a rebel George BEVIS John HOLLAND DICK the butcher SMITH the weaver MICHAEL, etc., followers of Cade CLERK of Chartham SIR HUMPHREY STAFFORD WILLIAM STAFFORD, his brother LORD SCALES LORD SAYE MATTHEW GOUGH Alexander IDEN, a Kentish gentleman Lords, Ladies, and Attendants, Petitioners, Aldermen, a Herald, a Beadle, Sheriff, and Officers, Citizens, Prentices, Falconers, Guards, Soldiers, Messengers, &c. A Spirit SCENE: England. ACT I SCENE I. London. The palace Flourish of trumpets, then hautboys. Enter the King, Gloucester, Salisbury, Warwick, and Cardinal Beaufort on the one side; the Queen, Suffolk, York, Somerset and Buckingham on the other. SUFFOLK. As by your high imperial Majesty I had in charge at my depart for France, As procurator to your excellence, To marry Princess Margaret for your grace, So, in the famous ancient city Tours, In presence of the Kings of France and Sicil, The Dukes of Orleans, Calaber, Bretagne, and Alençon, Seven earls, twelve barons, and twenty reverend bishops, I have performed my task and was espoused, And humbly now upon my bended knee, In sight of England and her lordly peers, Deliver up my title in the Queen To your most gracious hands, that are the substance Of that great shadow I did represent: The happiest gift that ever marquess gave, The fairest queen that ever king received. KING HENRY. 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! For Thou hast given me in this beauteous face A world of earthly blessings to my soul, If sympathy of love unite our thoughts. QUEEN MARGARET. Great King of England and my gracious lord, The mutual conference that my mind hath had By day, by night, waking and in my dreams, In courtly company or at my beads, With you, mine alderliefest sovereign, Makes me the bolder to salute my King With ruder terms, such as my wit affords And overjoy of heart doth minister. KING HENRY. Her sight did ravish, but her grace in speech, Her words yclad with wisdom’s majesty, Makes me from wondering fall to weeping joys, Such is the fulness of my heart’s content. Lords, with one cheerful voice welcome my love. ALL. [_Kneeling_.] Long live Queen Margaret, England’s happiness! QUEEN MARGARET. We thank you all. [_Flourish._] SUFFOLK. My Lord Protector, so it please your grace, Here are the articles of contracted peace Between our sovereign and the French king Charles, For eighteen months concluded by consent. GLOUCESTER. [_Reads_.] Imprimis, _it is agreed between the French king Charles and William de la Pole, Marquess of Suffolk, ambassador for Henry, King of England, that the said Henry shall espouse the Lady Margaret, daughter unto Reignier King of Naples, Sicilia, and Jerusalem, and crown her Queen of England ere the thirtieth of May next ensuing._ Item, _that the duchy of Anjou and the county of Maine shall be released and delivered to the King her father_— [_Lets the paper fall._] KING HENRY. Uncle, how now? GLOUCESTER. Pardon me, gracious lord. Some sudden qualm hath struck me at the heart And dimmed mine eyes, that I can read no further. KING HENRY. Uncle of Winchester, I pray read on. CARDINAL. [_Reads_.] Item, _it is further agreed between them, that the duchies of Anjou and Maine shall be released and delivered to the King her father, and she sent over of the King of England’s own proper cost and charges, without having any dowry._ KING HENRY. They please us well.—Lord Marquess, kneel down. 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’ th’ parts of France, till term of eighteen months Be full expired.—Thanks, uncle Winchester, Gloucester, York, Buckingham, Somerset, Salisbury, and Warwick; We thank you all for this great favour done In entertainment to my princely Queen. Come, let us in, and with all speed provide To see her coronation be performed. [_Exeunt King, Queen and Suffolk._] GLOUCESTER. Brave peers of England, pillars of the state, To you Duke Humphrey must unload his grief, Your grief, the common grief of all the land. What! Did my brother Henry spend his youth, His valour, coin, and people, in the wars? Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter’s cold and summer’s parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance? And did my brother Bedford toil his wits To keep by policy what Henry got? Have you yourselves, Somerset, Buckingham, Brave York, Salisbury, and victorious Warwick, Received deep scars in France and Normandy? Or hath mine uncle Beaufort and myself, With all the learned council of the realm, Studied so long, sat in the council house Early and late, debating to and fro How France and Frenchmen might be kept in awe, And had his highness in his infancy Crowned in Paris in despite of foes? And shall these labours and these honours die? Shall Henry’s conquest, Bedford’s vigilance, Your deeds of war, and all our counsel die? O peers of England, shameful is this league! Fatal this marriage, cancelling your fame, Blotting your names from books of memory, Razing the characters of your renown, Defacing monuments of conquered France, Undoing all, as all had never been! CARDINAL. Nephew, what means this passionate discourse, This peroration with such circumstance? For France, ’tis ours; and we will keep it still. GLOUCESTER. Ay, uncle, we will keep it if we can, But now it is impossible we should. Suffolk, the new-made duke that rules the roast, Hath given the duchy of Anjou and Maine Unto the poor King Reignier, whose large style Agrees not with the leanness of his purse. SALISBURY. Now, by the death of Him that died for all, These counties were the keys of Normandy! But wherefore weeps Warwick, my valiant son? WARWICK. For grief that they are past recovery; For, were there hope to conquer them again, My sword should shed hot blood, mine eyes no tears. Anjou and Maine! Myself did win them both, Those provinces these arms of mine did conquer; And are the cities that I got with wounds Delivered up again with peaceful words? _Mort Dieu!_ YORK. For Suffolk’s duke, may he be suffocate, That dims the honour of this warlike isle! France should have torn and rent my very heart Before I would have yielded to this league. I never read but England’s kings have had Large sums of gold and dowries with their wives; And our King Henry gives away his own, To match with her that brings no vantages. GLOUCESTER. A proper jest, and never heard before, That Suffolk should demand a whole fifteenth For costs and charges in transporting her! She should have staid in France, and starved in France, Before— CARDINAL. My Lord of Gloucester, now ye grow too hot. It was the pleasure of my lord the King. GLOUCESTER. My Lord of Winchester, I know your mind. ’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, We shall begin our ancient bickerings.— Lordings, farewell; and say, when I am gone, I prophesied France will be lost ere long. [_Exit._] CARDINAL. So, there goes our Protector in a rage. ’Tis known to you he is mine enemy, Nay, more, an enemy unto you all, And no great friend, I fear me, to the King. Consider, lords, he is the next of blood And heir apparent to the English crown. Had Henry got an empire by his marriage, And all the wealthy kingdoms of the west, There’s reason he should be displeased at it. Look to it, lords. Let not his smoothing words Bewitch your hearts; be wise and circumspect. What though the common people favour him, Calling him “Humphrey, the good Duke of Gloucester,” Clapping their hands, and crying with loud voice, “Jesu maintain your royal excellence!” With “God preserve the good Duke Humphrey!” I fear me, lords, for all this flattering gloss, He will be found a dangerous Protector. BUCKINGHAM. Why should he, then, protect our sovereign, He being of age to govern of himself? Cousin of Somerset, join you with me, And all together, with the Duke of Suffolk, We’ll quickly hoist Duke Humphrey from his seat. CARDINAL. This weighty business will not brook delay; I’ll to the Duke of Suffolk presently. [_Exit._] SOMERSET. Cousin of Buckingham, though Humphrey’s pride And greatness of his place be grief to us, Yet let us watch the haughty cardinal; His insolence is more intolerable Than all the princes’ in the land beside. If Gloucester be displaced, he’ll be Protector. BUCKINGHAM. Or thou or I, Somerset, will be Protector, Despite Duke Humphrey or the Cardinal. [_Exeunt Buckingham and Somerset._] SALISBURY. Pride went before; Ambition follows him. While these do labour for their own preferment, Behoves it us to labour for the realm. I never saw but Humphrey Duke of Gloucester, Did bear him like a noble gentleman. Oft have I seen the haughty Cardinal, More like a soldier than a man o’ th’ church, As stout and proud as he were lord of all, Swear like a ruffian and demean himself Unlike the ruler of a commonweal.— Warwick my son, the comfort of my age, Thy deeds, thy plainness, and thy housekeeping, Hath won the greatest favour of the commons, Excepting none but good Duke Humphrey.— And, brother York, thy acts in Ireland, In bringing them to civil discipline, Thy late exploits done in the heart of France, When thou wert regent for our sovereign, Have made thee feared and honoured of the people. Join we together for the public good, In what we can to bridle and suppress The pride of Suffolk and the Cardinal, With Somerset’s and Buckingham’s ambition; And, as we may, cherish Duke Humphrey’s deeds While they do tend the profit of the land. WARWICK. So God help Warwick, as he loves the land And common profit of his country! YORK. And so says York, [_Aside_.] for he hath greatest cause. SALISBURY. Then let’s make haste away and look unto the main. WARWICK. Unto the main! O father, Maine is lost, That Maine which by main force Warwick did win, And would have kept so long as breath did last! Main chance, father, you meant; but I meant Maine, Which I will win from France, or else be slain. [_Exeunt Warwick and Salisbury._] YORK. Anjou and Maine are given to the French; Paris is lost; the state of Normandy Stands on a tickle point now they are gone. Suffolk concluded on the articles, The peers agreed, and Henry was well pleased To change two dukedoms for a duke’s fair daughter. 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 courtesans, Still revelling like lords till all be gone; Whileas the silly owner of the goods Weeps over them, and wrings his hapless hands, And shakes his head, and trembling stands aloof, While all is shared and all is borne away, Ready to starve and dare not touch his own. So York must sit and fret and bite his tongue, While his own lands are bargained for and sold. Methinks the realms of England, France, and Ireland Bear that proportion to my flesh and blood As did the fatal brand Althaea burnt Unto the prince’s heart of Calydon. Anjou and Maine both given unto the French! Cold news for me, for I had hope of France, Even as I have of fertile England’s soil. A day will come when York shall claim his own; And therefore I will take the Nevilles’ parts, And make a show of love to proud Duke Humphrey, And when I spy advantage, claim the crown, For that’s the golden mark I seek to hit. Nor shall proud Lancaster usurp my right, Nor hold the sceptre in his childish fist, Nor wear the diadem upon his head, Whose church-like humours fits not for a crown. Then, York, be still awhile till time do serve. Watch thou and wake when others be asleep, To pry into the secrets of the state; Till Henry, surfeiting in joys of love With his new bride and England’s dear-bought Queen, And Humphrey with the peers be fallen at jars. Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose, With whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed, And in my standard bear the arms of York, To grapple with the house of Lancaster; And force perforce I’ll make him yield the crown, Whose bookish rule hath pulled fair England down. [_Exit._] SCENE II. The Duke of Gloucester’s House Enter Duke Humphrey of Gloucester and his wife Eleanor. ELEANOR. Why droops my lord, like over-ripened corn Hanging the head at Ceres’ plenteous load? Why doth the great Duke Humphrey knit his brows, As frowning at the favours of the world? Why are thine eyes fixed to the sullen earth, Gazing on that which seems to dim thy sight? What seest thou there? King Henry’s diadem, Enchased with all the honours of the world? If so, gaze on, and grovel on thy face, Until thy head be circled with the same. Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold. What, is’t too short? I’ll lengthen it with mine; And, having both together heaved it up, We’ll both together lift our heads to heaven, And never more abase our sight so low As to vouchsafe one glance unto the ground. GLOUCESTER. O Nell, sweet Nell, if thou dost love thy lord, Banish the canker of ambitious thoughts. And may that hour when I imagine ill Against my King and nephew, virtuous Henry, Be my last breathing in this mortal world! My troublous dreams this night doth make me sad. ELEANOR. What dreamed my lord? Tell me, and I’ll requite it With sweet rehearsal of my morning’s dream. GLOUCESTER. Methought this staff, mine office-badge in court, Was broke in twain; by whom I have forgot, But, as I think, it was by th’ Cardinal, And on the pieces of the broken wand Were placed the heads of Edmund, Duke of Somerset And William de la Pole, first Duke of Suffolk. This was my dream; what it doth bode, God knows. ELEANOR. Tut, this was nothing but an argument 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 In the cathedral church of Westminster And in that chair where kings and queens are crowned, Where Henry and Dame Margaret kneeled to me And on my head did set the diadem. GLOUCESTER. Nay, Eleanor, then must I chide outright. Presumptuous dame, ill-nurtured Eleanor, Art thou not second woman in the realm, And the Protector’s wife, beloved of him? Hast thou not worldly pleasure at command, Above the reach or compass of thy thought? And wilt thou still be hammering treachery To tumble down thy husband and thyself From top of honour to disgrace’s feet? Away from me, and let me hear no more! ELEANOR. What, what, my lord! Are you so choleric With Eleanor for telling but her dream? Next time I’ll keep my dreams unto myself, And not be checked. GLOUCESTER. Nay, be not angry, I am pleased again. Enter Messenger. MESSENGER. My Lord Protector, ’tis his highness’ pleasure You do prepare to ride unto Saint Albans, Whereas the King and Queen do mean to hawk. GLOUCESTER. I go. Come, Nell, thou wilt ride with us? ELEANOR. Yes, my good lord, I’ll follow presently. [_Exeunt Gloucester and Messenger._] Follow I must; I cannot go before While Gloucester bears this base and humble mind. Were I a man, a duke, and next of blood, I would remove these tedious stumbling-blocks And smooth my way upon their headless necks; And, being a woman, I will not be slack To play my part in Fortune’s pageant.— Where are you there? Sir John! Nay, fear not, man, We are alone; here’s none but thee and I. Enter Hume. HUME. Jesus preserve your royal majesty! ELEANOR. What sayst thou? Majesty! I am but grace. HUME. But, by the grace of God, and Hume’s advice, Your grace’s title shall be multiplied. ELEANOR. What sayst thou, man? Hast thou as yet conferred With Margery Jourdain, the cunning witch, With Roger Bolingbroke, the conjurer? And will they undertake to do me good? HUME. This they have promised, to show your highness A spirit raised from depth of underground, That shall make answer to such questions As by your Grace shall be propounded him. ELEANOR. It is enough, I’ll think upon the questions. When from Saint Albans we do make return, We’ll see these things effected to the full. Here, Hume, take this reward; make merry, man, With thy confederates in this weighty cause. [_Exit._] HUME. Hume must make merry with the Duchess’ gold. Marry, and shall. But, how now, Sir John Hume! Seal up your lips, and give no words but mum; The business asketh silent secrecy. Dame Eleanor gives gold to bring the witch; Gold cannot come amiss, were she a devil. Yet have I gold flies from another coast. I dare not say, from the rich cardinal And from the great and new-made Duke of Suffolk, Yet I do find it so. For, to be plain, They, knowing Dame Eleanor’s aspiring humour, Have hired me to undermine the Duchess And buzz these conjurations in her brain. They say “A crafty knave does need no broker”, Yet am I Suffolk and the cardinal’s broker. Hume, if you take not heed, you shall go near To call them both a pair of crafty knaves. Well, so its stands; and thus, I fear, at last Hume’s knavery will be the Duchess’ wrack, And her attainture will be Humphrey’s fall. Sort how it will, I shall have gold for all. [_Exit._] SCENE III. London. The palace Enter Peter and Petitioners. 1 PETITIONER. My masters, let’s stand close. My Lord Protector will come this way by and by, and then we may deliver our supplications in the quill. 2 PETITIONER. Marry, the Lord protect him, for he’s a good man! Jesu bless him! Enter Suffolk and Queen. 1 PETITIONER. Here he comes, methinks, and the Queen with him. I’ll be the first, sure. 2 PETITIONER. Come back, fool! This is the Duke of Suffolk and not my Lord Protector. SUFFOLK. How now, fellow; wouldst anything with me? 1 PETITIONER. I pray, my lord, pardon me, I took ye for my Lord Protector. QUEEN MARGARET. [_Reading_.] “To my Lord Protector.” Are your supplications to his lordship? Let me see them. What is thine? 1 PETITIONER. Mine is, an ’t please your grace, against John Goodman, my Lord Cardinal’s man, for keeping my house and lands, and wife and all, from me. SUFFOLK. Thy wife too! That’s some wrong, indeed.—What’s yours?—What’s here! [_Reads_.] _Against the Duke of Suffolk for enclosing the commons of Melford._ How now, sir knave! 2 PETITIONER. Alas, sir, I am but a poor petitioner of our whole township. PETER. [_Giving his petition_.] Against my master, Thomas Horner, for saying that the Duke of York was rightful heir to the crown. QUEEN MARGARET. What sayst thou? Did the Duke of York say he was rightful heir to the crown? PETER. That my master was? No, forsooth, my master said that he was, and that the King was an usurper. SUFFOLK. Who is there? Enter Servant. Take this fellow in, and send for his master with a pursuivant presently.—We’ll hear more of your matter before the King. [_Exit Servant with Peter._] QUEEN MARGARET. And as for you, that love to be protected Under the wings of our Protector’s grace, Begin your suits anew, and sue to him. [_Tears the supplications._] Away, base cullions!—Suffolk, let them go. ALL. Come, let’s be gone. [_Exeunt._] QUEEN MARGARET. My Lord of Suffolk, say, is this the guise, Is this the fashion in the court of England? Is this the government of Britain’s isle, And this the royalty of Albion’s king? What, shall King Henry be a pupil still Under the surly Gloucester’s governance? Am I a queen in title and in style, And must be made a subject to a duke? I tell thee, Pole, when in the city Tours Thou ran’st atilt in honour of my love And stol’st away the ladies’ hearts of France, I thought King Henry had resembled thee In courage, courtship, and proportion. But all his mind is bent to holiness, To number Ave-Maries on his beads. His champions are the prophets and apostles, His weapons holy saws of sacred writ, His study is his tilt-yard, and his loves Are brazen images of canonized saints. I would the college of the cardinals Would choose him pope and carry him to Rome And set the triple crown upon his head! That were a state fit for his holiness. SUFFOLK. Madam, be patient. As I was cause Your highness came to England, so will I In England work your grace’s full content. QUEEN MARGARET. Beside the haughty Protector, have we Beaufort The imperious churchman, Somerset, Buckingham, And grumbling York; and not the least of these But can do more in England than the King. SUFFOLK. And he of these that can do most of all Cannot do more in England than the Nevilles; Salisbury and Warwick are no simple peers. QUEEN MARGARET. Not all these lords do vex me half so much As that proud dame, the Lord Protector’s wife. She sweeps it through the court with troops of ladies, More like an empress than Duke Humphrey’s wife. Strangers in court do take her for the Queen. She bears a duke’s revenues on her back, And in her heart she scorns our poverty. Shall I not live to be avenged on her? Contemptuous base-born callet as she is, She vaunted ’mongst her minions t’ other day The very train of her worst wearing gown Was better worth than all my father’s lands Till Suffolk gave two dukedoms for his daughter. SUFFOLK. Madam, myself have limed a bush for her And placed a quire of such enticing birds That she will light to listen to the lays And never mount to trouble you again. So let her rest; and, madam, list to me, For I am bold to counsel you in this: Although we fancy not the Cardinal, Yet must we join with him and with the lords Till we have brought Duke Humphrey in disgrace. As for the Duke of York, this late complaint Will make but little for his benefit. So, one by one, we’ll weed them all at last, And you yourself shall steer the happy helm. Sound a sennet. Enter the King, Gloucester, Cardinal Beaufort, Somerset, Buckingham, Salisbury, York, Warwick and the Duchess of Gloucester. KING HENRY. For my part, noble lords, I care not which; Or Somerset or York, all’s one to me. YORK. If York have ill demeaned himself in France, Then let him be denied the regentship. SOMERSET. If Somerset be unworthy of the place, Let York be regent; I will yield to him. WARWICK. Whether your Grace be worthy, yea or no, Dispute not that; York is the worthier. CARDINAL. Ambitious Warwick, let thy betters speak. WARWICK. The Cardinal’s not my better in the field. BUCKINGHAM. All in this presence are thy betters, Warwick. WARWICK. Warwick may live to be the best of all. SALISBURY. Peace, son!—And show some reason, Buckingham, Why Somerset should be preferred in this. QUEEN MARGARET. Because the King, forsooth, will have it so. GLOUCESTER. Madam, the King is old enough himself To give his censure. These are no women’s matters. QUEEN MARGARET. If he be old enough, what needs your grace To be Protector of his excellence? GLOUCESTER. Madam, I am Protector of the realm, And at his pleasure will resign my place. SUFFOLK. Resign it then, and leave thine insolence. Since thou wert king—as who is king but thou?— The commonwealth hath daily run to wrack, The Dauphin hath prevailed beyond the seas, And all the peers and nobles of the realm Have been as bondmen to thy sovereignty. CARDINAL. The commons hast thou racked; the clergy’s bags Are lank and lean with thy extortions. SOMERSET. Thy sumptuous buildings and thy wife’s attire Have cost a mass of public treasury. BUCKINGHAM. Thy cruelty in execution Upon offenders hath exceeded law, And left thee to the mercy of the law. QUEEN MARGARET. Thy sale of offices and towns in France, If they were known, as the suspect is great, Would make thee quickly hop without thy head. [_Exit Gloucester. The Queen drops her fan._] Give me my fan. What minion! Can ye not? [_She gives the Duchess a box on the ear._] I cry your mercy, madam; was it you? ELEANOR. Was’t I! Yea, I it was, proud Frenchwoman. Could I come near your beauty with my nails, I’d set my ten commandments in your face. KING HENRY. Sweet aunt, be quiet; ’twas against her will. ELEANOR. Against her will! Good King, look to ’t in time; She’ll hamper thee and dandle thee like a baby. Though in this place most master wear no breeches, She shall not strike Dame Eleanor unrevenged. [_Exit._] BUCKINGHAM. Lord Cardinal, I will follow Eleanor, And listen after Humphrey, how he proceeds. She’s tickled now; her fume needs no spurs, She’ll gallop far enough to her destruction. [_Exit._] Enter Gloucester. GLOUCESTER. Now, lords, my choler being overblown With walking once about the quadrangle, I come to talk of commonwealth affairs. As for your spiteful false objections, Prove them, and I lie open to the law; But God in mercy so deal with my soul As I in duty love my king and country! But, to the matter that we have in hand: I say, my sovereign, York is meetest man To be your regent in the realm of France. SUFFOLK. Before we make election, give me leave To show some reason, of no little force, That York is most unmeet of any man. YORK. I’ll tell thee, Suffolk, why I am unmeet: First, for I cannot flatter thee in pride; Next, if I be appointed for the place, My Lord of Somerset will keep me here Without discharge, money, or furniture, Till France be won into the Dauphin’s hands. Last time, I danced attendance on his will Till Paris was besieged, famished, and lost. WARWICK. That can I witness, and a fouler fact Did never traitor in the land commit. SUFFOLK. Peace, headstrong Warwick! WARWICK. Image of pride, why should I hold my peace? Enter Horner the armourer and his man Peter, guarded. SUFFOLK. Because here is a man accused of treason. Pray God the Duke of York excuse himself! YORK. Doth anyone accuse York for a traitor? KING HENRY. What mean’st thou, Suffolk? Tell me, what are these? SUFFOLK. Please it your majesty, this is the man That doth accuse his master of high treason. His words were these: that Richard, Duke of York Was rightful heir unto the English crown, And that your majesty was an usurper. KING HENRY. Say, man, were these thy words? HORNER. An ’t shall please your majesty, I never said nor thought any such matter. God is my witness, I am falsely accused by the villain. PETER. By these ten bones, my lords, he did speak them to me in the garret one night as we were scouring my Lord of York’s armour. YORK. Base dunghill villain and mechanical, I’ll have thy head for this thy traitor’s speech!— I do beseech your royal majesty, Let him have all the rigour of the law. HORNER. Alas, my lord, hang me if ever I spake the words. My accuser is my prentice; and when I did correct him for his fault the other day, he did vow upon his knees he would be even with me. I have good witness of this, therefore I beseech your majesty, do not cast away an honest man for a villain’s accusation. KING HENRY. Uncle, what shall we say to this in law? GLOUCESTER. This doom, my lord, if I may judge: Let Somerset be regent o’er the French, Because in York this breeds suspicion; And let these have a day appointed them For single combat in convenient place, For he hath witness of his servant’s malice. This is the law, and this Duke Humphrey’s doom. SOMERSET. I humbly thank your royal Majesty. HORNER. And I accept the combat willingly. PETER. Alas, my lord, I cannot fight; for God’s sake, pity my case! The spite of man prevaileth against me. O Lord, have mercy upon me! I shall never be able to fight a blow. O Lord, my heart! GLOUCESTER. Sirrah, or you must fight or else be hanged. KING HENRY. Away with them to prison; and the day Of combat shall be the last of the next month. Come, Somerset, we’ll see thee sent away. [_Flourish. Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Gloucester’s Garden Enter the Witch Margery Jourdain, the two Priests, Hume, Southwell and Bolingbroke. HUME. Come, my masters. The duchess, I tell you, expects performance of your promises. BOLINGBROKE. Master Hume, we are therefore provided. Will her ladyship behold and hear our exorcisms? HUME. Ay, what else? Fear you not her courage. BOLINGBROKE. I have heard her reported to be a woman of an invincible spirit. But it shall be convenient, Master Hume, that you be by her aloft while we be busy below; and so, I pray you go, in God’s name, and leave us. [_Exit Hume._] Mother Jourdain, be you prostrate and grovel on the earth. John Southwell, read you; and let us to our work. Enter Duchess aloft, Hume following. ELEANOR. Well said, my masters; and welcome all. To this gear, the sooner the better. BOLINGBROKE. Patience, good lady; wizards know their times. Deep night, dark night, the silent of the night, The time of night when Troy was set on fire, The time when screech-owls cry and ban-dogs howl, And spirits walk and ghosts break up their graves; That time best fits the work we have in hand. Madam, sit you and fear not. Whom we raise We will make fast within a hallowed verge. [_Here they do the ceremonies belonging, and make the circle; Bolingbroke or Southwell reads_ “Conjuro te”, _etc. It thunders and lightens terribly; then the Spirit riseth._] SPIRIT. _Adsum_. M. JOURDAIN. Asnath, By the eternal God, whose name and power Thou tremblest at, answer that I shall ask; For till thou speak thou shalt not pass from hence. SPIRIT. Ask what thou wilt. That I had said and done! BOLINGBROKE. [_Reads_.] _First of the King: what shall of him become?_ SPIRIT. The duke yet lives that Henry shall depose, But him outlive and die a violent death. [_As the Spirit speaks, Southwell writes the answer._] BOLINGBROKE. [_Reads_.] _What fates await the Duke of Suffolk?_ SPIRIT. By water shall he die and take his end. BOLINGBROKE. [_Reads_.] _What shall befall the Duke of Somerset?_ SPIRIT. Let him shun castles. Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains Than where castles mounted stand. Have done, for more I hardly can endure. BOLINGBROKE. Descend to darkness and the burning lake! False fiend, avoid! [_Thunder and lightning. Exit Spirit._] Enter the Duke of York and the Duke of Buckingham with their Guard, and Sir Humphrey Stafford, and break in. YORK. Lay hands upon these traitors and their trash. Beldam, I think we watched you at an inch. What, madam, are you there? The King and commonweal Are deeply indebted for this piece of pains. My Lord Protector will, I doubt it not, See you well guerdoned for these good deserts. ELEANOR. Not half so bad as thine to England’s king, Injurious duke, that threatest where’s no cause. BUCKINGHAM. True, madam, none at all. What call you this? Away with them! Let them be clapped up close And kept asunder.—You, madam, shall with us.— Stafford, take her to thee. [_Exit Stafford._] [_Exeunt above, Duchess and Hume, guarded._] We’ll see your trinkets here all forthcoming. All, away! [_Exeunt guard with Jourdain, Southwell, Bolingbroke, etc._] YORK. Lord Buckingham, methinks you watched her well. A pretty plot, well chosen to build upon! Now, pray, my lord, let’s see the devil’s writ. What have we here? [_Reads_.] _The duke yet lives that Henry shall depose. But him outlive and die a violent death._ Why, this is just _Aio te, Aeacida, Romanos vincere posse._ Well, to the rest: _Tell me what fate awaits the Duke of Suffolk? By water shall he die and take his end. What shall betide the Duke of Somerset? Let him shun castles; Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains Than where castles mounted stand._ Come, come, my lords, these oracles Are hardly attained, and hardly understood. The King is now in progress towards Saint Albans, With him the husband of this lovely lady. Thither go these news as fast as horse can carry them. A sorry breakfast for my Lord Protector. BUCKINGHAM. Your Grace shall give me leave, my Lord of York, To be the post, in hope of his reward. YORK. At your pleasure, my good lord. [_Exit Buckingham._] Who’s within there, ho! Enter a Servingman. Invite my Lords of Salisbury and Warwick To sup with me tomorrow night. Away! [_Exeunt._] ACT II SCENE I. Saint Albans Enter the King, Queen, Gloucester, Cardinal and Suffolk with Falconers hallooing. QUEEN MARGARET. Believe me, lords, for flying at the brook I saw not better sport these seven years’ day; Yet, by your leave, the wind was very high, And, ten to one, old Joan had not gone out. KING HENRY. But what a point, my lord, your falcon made, And what a pitch she flew above the rest! To see how God in all His creatures works! Yea, man and birds are fain of climbing high. SUFFOLK. No marvel, an it like your majesty, My Lord Protector’s hawks do tower so well; They know their master loves to be aloft, And bears his thoughts above his falcon’s pitch. GLOUCESTER. My lord, ’tis but a base ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar. CARDINAL. I thought as much. He would be above the clouds. GLOUCESTER. Ay, my Lord Cardinal, how think you by that? Were it not good your grace could fly to heaven? KING HENRY. The treasury of everlasting joy. CARDINAL. Thy heaven is on earth; thine eyes and thoughts Beat on a crown, the treasure of thy heart, Pernicious Protector, dangerous peer, That smooth’st it so with king and commonweal! GLOUCESTER. What, cardinal, is your priesthood grown peremptory? _Tantaene animis coelestibus irae?_ Churchmen so hot? Good uncle, hide such malice. With such holiness can you do it? SUFFOLK. No malice, sir; no more than well becomes So good a quarrel and so bad a peer. GLOUCESTER. As who, my lord? SUFFOLK. Why, as you, my lord, An ’t like your lordly Lord Protectorship. GLOUCESTER. Why, Suffolk, England knows thine insolence. QUEEN MARGARET. And thy ambition, Gloucester. KING HENRY. I prithee, peace, good queen, And whet not on these furious peers; For blessed are the peacemakers on earth. CARDINAL. Let me be blessed for the peace I make Against this proud Protector, with my sword! GLOUCESTER. [_Aside to Cardinal_.] Faith, holy uncle, would ’twere come to that! CARDINAL. [_Aside to Gloucester_.] Marry, when thou dar’st. GLOUCESTER. [_Aside to Cardinal_.] Make up no factious numbers for the matter, In thine own person answer thy abuse. CARDINAL. [_Aside to Gloucester_.] Ay, where thou dar’st not peep; an if thou dar’st, This evening, on the east side of the grove. KING HENRY. How now, my lords? CARDINAL. Believe me, cousin Gloucester, Had not your man put up the fowl so suddenly, We had had more sport.—[_Aside to Gloucester_.] Come with thy two-hand sword. GLOUCESTER. True, uncle. [_Aside to Cardinal_.] Are ye advised? The east side of the grove? CARDINAL. [_Aside to Gloucester_.] I am with you. KING HENRY. Why, how now, uncle Gloucester? GLOUCESTER. Talking of hawking; nothing else, my lord. [_Aside to Cardinal_.] Now, by God’s mother, priest, I’ll shave your crown for this, Or all my fence shall fail. CARDINAL. [_Aside to Gloucester_.] _Medice, teipsum._— Protector, see to ’t well, protect yourself. KING HENRY. The winds grow high; so do your stomachs, lords. How irksome is this music to my heart! When such strings jar, what hope of harmony? I pray, my lords, let me compound this strife. Enter a Townsman of Saint Albans, crying, “A miracle!” GLOUCESTER. What means this noise? Fellow, what miracle dost thou proclaim? TOWNSMAN. A miracle! A miracle! SUFFOLK. Come to the King, and tell him what miracle. TOWNSMAN. Forsooth, a blind man at Saint Alban’s shrine, Within this half hour, hath received his sight, A man that ne’er saw in his life before. KING HENRY. Now, God be praised, that to believing souls Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair! Enter the Mayor of Saint Albans and his brethren, bearing Simpcox between two in a chair, Simpcox’s Wife following. CARDINAL. Here comes the townsmen on procession, To present your highness with the man. KING HENRY. Great is his comfort in this earthly vale, Although by his sight his sin be multiplied. GLOUCESTER. Stand by, my masters. Bring him near the King. His highness’ pleasure is to talk with him. KING HENRY. Good fellow, tell us here the circumstance, That we for thee may glorify the Lord. What, hast thou been long blind and now restored? SIMPCOX. Born blind, an ’t please your grace. WIFE. Ay, indeed, was he. SUFFOLK. What woman is this? WIFE. His wife, an ’t like your worship. GLOUCESTER. Hadst thou been his mother, thou couldst have better told. KING HENRY. Where wert thou born? SIMPCOX. At Berwick in the north, an ’t like your grace. KING HENRY. Poor soul, God’s goodness hath been great to thee. Let never day nor night unhallowed pass, But still remember what the Lord hath done. QUEEN MARGARET. Tell me, good fellow, cam’st thou here by chance, Or of devotion, to this holy shrine? SIMPCOX. God knows, of pure devotion; being called A hundred times and oftener, in my sleep, By good Saint Alban, who said “Simpcox, come, Come, offer at my shrine, and I will help thee.” WIFE. Most true, forsooth; and many time and oft Myself have heard a voice to call him so. CARDINAL. What, art thou lame? SIMPCOX. Ay, God Almighty help me! SUFFOLK. How cam’st thou so? SIMPCOX. A fall off of a tree. WIFE. A plum-tree, master. GLOUCESTER. How long hast thou been blind? SIMPCOX. O, born so, master. GLOUCESTER. What, and wouldst climb a tree? SIMPCOX. But that in all my life, when I was a youth. WIFE. Too true; and bought his climbing very dear. GLOUCESTER. Mass, thou lov’dst plums well, that wouldst venture so. SIMPCOX. Alas, good master, my wife desired some damsons, And made me climb, with danger of my life. GLOUCESTER. A subtle knave! But yet it shall not serve.— Let me see thine eyes. Wink now. Now open them. In my opinion yet thou seest not well. SIMPCOX. Yes, master, clear as day, I thank God and Saint Alban. GLOUCESTER. Sayst thou me so? What colour is this cloak of? SIMPCOX. Red, master, red as blood. GLOUCESTER. Why, that’s well said. What colour is my gown of? SIMPCOX. Black, forsooth, coal-black as jet. KING HENRY. Why, then, thou know’st what colour jet is of? SUFFOLK. And yet, I think, jet did he never see. GLOUCESTER. But cloaks and gowns before this day, a many. WIFE. Never before this day in all his life. GLOUCESTER. Tell me, sirrah, what’s my name? SIMPCOX. Alas, master, I know not. GLOUCESTER. What’s his name? SIMPCOX. I know not. GLOUCESTER. Nor his? SIMPCOX. No, indeed, master. GLOUCESTER. What’s thine own name? SIMPCOX. Sander Simpcox, an if it please you, master. GLOUCESTER. Then, Sander, sit there, the lyingest knave in Christendom. If thou hadst been born blind, thou mightst as well have known all our names as thus to name the several colours we do wear. Sight may distinguish of colours; but suddenly to nominate them all, it is impossible.—My lords, Saint Alban here hath done a miracle; and would ye not think his cunning to be great that could restore this cripple to his legs again? SIMPCOX. O master, that you could! GLOUCESTER. My masters of Saint Albans, have you not beadles in your town, and things called whips? MAYOR. Yes, my lord, if it please your grace. GLOUCESTER. Then send for one presently. MAYOR. Sirrah, go fetch the beadle hither straight. [_Exit a Townsman._] GLOUCESTER. Now fetch me a stool hither by and by.—Now, sirrah, if you mean to save yourself from whipping, leap me over this stool and run away. SIMPCOX. Alas, master, I am not able to stand alone. You go about to torture me in vain. Enter a Beadle with whips. GLOUCESTER. Well, sir, we must have you find your legs. Sirrah beadle, whip him till he leap over that same stool. BEADLE. I will, my lord.—Come on, sirrah; off with your doublet quickly. SIMPCOX. Alas, master, what shall I do? I am not able to stand. [_After the Beadle hath hit him once, he leaps over the stool and runs away; and they follow and cry, “A miracle!”_] KING HENRY. O God, seest Thou this, and bearest so long? QUEEN MARGARET. It made me laugh to see the villain run. GLOUCESTER. Follow the knave, and take this drab away. WIFE. Alas, sir, we did it for pure need. GLOUCESTER. Let them be whipped through every market town Till they come to Berwick, from whence they came. [_Exeunt Wife, Beadle, Mayor, etc._] CARDINAL. Duke Humphrey has done a miracle today. SUFFOLK. True, made the lame to leap and fly away. GLOUCESTER. But you have done more miracles than I. You made in a day, my lord, whole towns to fly. Enter Buckingham. KING HENRY. What tidings with our cousin Buckingham? BUCKINGHAM. Such as my heart doth tremble to unfold. A sort of naughty persons, lewdly bent, Under the countenance and confederacy Of Lady Eleanor, the Protector’s wife, The ringleader and head of all this rout, Have practised dangerously against your state, Dealing with witches and with conjurers, Whom we have apprehended in the fact, Raising up wicked spirits from under ground, Demanding of King Henry’s life and death, And other of your highness’ Privy Council, As more at large your Grace shall understand. CARDINAL. [_Aside to Gloucester_.] And so, my Lord Protector, by this means Your lady is forthcoming yet at London. This news, I think, hath turned your weapon’s edge; ’Tis like, my lord, you will not keep your hour. GLOUCESTER. Ambitious churchman, leave to afflict my heart. Sorrow and grief have vanquished all my powers, And, vanquished as I am, I yield to thee, Or to the meanest groom. KING HENRY. O God, what mischiefs work the wicked ones, Heaping confusion on their own heads thereby! QUEEN MARGARET. Gloucester, see here the tainture of thy nest, And look thyself be faultless, thou wert best. GLOUCESTER. Madam, for myself, to heaven I do appeal How I have loved my king and commonweal; And, for my wife, I know not how it stands. Sorry I am to hear what I have heard. Noble she is; but if she have forgot Honour and virtue, and conversed with such As like to pitch defile nobility, I banish her my bed and company And give her as a prey to law and shame That hath dishonoured Gloucester’s honest name. KING HENRY. Well, for this night we will repose us here; Tomorrow toward London back again, To look into this business thoroughly, And call these foul offenders to their answers, And poise the cause in Justice’ equal scales, Whose beam stands sure, whose rightful cause prevails. [_Flourish. Exeunt._] SCENE II. London. The Duke of York’s Garden Enter York, Salisbury and Warwick. YORK. Now, my good Lords of Salisbury and Warwick, Our simple supper ended, give me leave In this close walk to satisfy myself In craving your opinion of my title, Which is infallible, to England’s crown. SALISBURY. My lord, I long to hear it at full. WARWICK. Sweet York, begin; and if thy claim be good, The Nevilles are thy subjects to command. YORK. Then thus: Edward the Third, my lords, had seven sons: The first, Edward the Black Prince, Prince of Wales; The second, William of Hatfield; and the third, Lionel, Duke of Clarence; next to whom Was John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster; The fifth was Edmund Langley, Duke of York; The sixth was Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester; William of Windsor was the seventh and last. Edward the Black Prince died before his father And left behind him Richard, his only son, Who after Edward the Third’s death reigned as king, Till Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster, The eldest son and heir of John of Gaunt, Crowned by the name of Henry the Fourth, Seized on the realm, deposed the rightful king, Sent his poor queen to France, from whence she came, And him to Pomfret; where, as all you know, Harmless Richard was murdered traitorously. WARWICK. Father, the Duke hath told the truth; Thus got the house of Lancaster the crown. YORK. Which now they hold by force and not by right; For Richard, the first son’s heir, being dead, The issue of the next son should have reigned. SALISBURY. But William of Hatfield died without an heir. YORK. The third son, Duke of Clarence, from whose line I claim the crown, had issue, Philippa, a daughter, Who married Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March. Edmund had issue, Roger, Earl of March; Roger had issue, Edmund, Anne, and Eleanor. SALISBURY. This Edmund, in the reign of Bolingbroke, As I have read, laid claim unto the crown And, but for Owen Glendower, had been king, Who kept him in captivity till he died. But to the rest. YORK. His eldest sister, Anne, My mother, being heir unto the crown, Married Richard Earl of Cambridge, who was son To Edmund Langley, Edward the Third’s fifth son. By her I claim the kingdom; she was heir To Roger, Earl of March, who was the son Of Edmund Mortimer, who married Philippa, Sole daughter unto Lionel, Duke of Clarence. So, if the issue of the elder son Succeed before the younger, I am king. WARWICK. What plain proceeding is more plain than this? Henry doth claim the crown from John of Gaunt, The fourth son; York claims it from the third. Till Lionel’s issue fails, his should not reign; It fails not yet, but flourishes in thee And in thy sons, fair slips of such a stock. Then, father Salisbury, kneel we together, And in this private plot be we the first That shall salute our rightful sovereign With honour of his birthright to the crown. BOTH. Long live our sovereign Richard, England’s king! YORK. We thank you, lords. But I am not your king Till I be crowned, and that my sword be stained With heart-blood of the house of Lancaster; And that’s not suddenly to be performed, But with advice and silent secrecy. Do you as I do in these dangerous days— Wink at the Duke of Suffolk’s insolence, At Beaufort’s pride, at Somerset’s ambition, At Buckingham, and all the crew of them, Till they have snared the shepherd of the flock, That virtuous prince, the good Duke Humphrey. ’Tis that they seek; and they, in seeking that, Shall find their deaths, if York can prophesy. SALISBURY. My lord, break we off; we know your mind at full. WARWICK. My heart assures me that the Earl of Warwick Shall one day make the Duke of York a king. YORK. And, Neville, this I do assure myself: Richard shall live to make the Earl of Warwick The greatest man in England but the king. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. A Hall of Justice Sound trumpets. Enter the King, the Queen, Gloucester, York, Suffolk and Salisbury; the Duchess of Gloucester, Margery Jourdain, Southwell, Hume and Bolingbroke under guard. KING HENRY. 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 adjudged to death. You four, from hence to prison back again; From thence unto the place of execution. The witch in Smithfield shall be burnt to ashes, And you three shall be strangled on the gallows. You, madam, for you are more nobly born, Despoiled of your honour in your life, Shall, after three days’ open penance done, Live in your country here in banishment, With Sir John Stanley in the Isle of Man. ELEANOR. Welcome is banishment; welcome were my death. GLOUCESTER. Eleanor, the law, thou seest, hath judged thee. I cannot justify whom the law condemns. [_Exeunt Duchess and the other prisoners, guarded._] Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief. Ah, Humphrey, this dishonour in thine age Will bring thy head with sorrow to the ground!— I beseech your majesty, give me leave to go; Sorrow would solace, and mine age would ease. KING HENRY. Stay, Humphrey Duke of Gloucester. Ere thou go, Give up thy staff. Henry will to himself Protector be; and God shall be my hope, My stay, my guide, and lantern to my feet. And go in peace, Humphrey, no less beloved Than when thou wert Protector to thy king. QUEEN MARGARET. I see no reason why a king of years Should be to be protected like a child. God and King Henry govern England’s realm! Give up your staff, sir, and the King his realm. GLOUCESTER. My staff? Here, noble Henry, is my staff. As willingly do I the same resign As e’er thy father Henry made it mine; And even as willingly at thy feet I leave it As others would ambitiously receive it. Farewell, good King. When I am dead and gone, May honourable peace attend thy throne. [_Exit._] QUEEN MARGARET. Why, now is Henry King and Margaret Queen, And Humphrey Duke of Gloucester scarce himself, That bears so shrewd a maim. Two pulls at once; His lady banished, and a limb lopped off. This staff of honour raught, there let it stand Where it best fits to be, in Henry’s hand. SUFFOLK. Thus droops this lofty pine and hangs his sprays; Thus Eleanor’s pride dies in her youngest days. YORK. Lords, let him go.—Please it your majesty, This is the day appointed for the combat, And ready are the appellant and defendant, The armourer and his man, to enter the lists, So please your highness to behold the fight. QUEEN MARGARET. Ay, good my lord; for purposely therefore Left I the court to see this quarrel tried. KING HENRY. I’ God’s name, see the lists and all things fit. Here let them end it, and God defend the right! YORK. I never saw a fellow worse bested, Or more afraid to fight, than is the appellant, The servant of his armourer, my lords. Enter at one door Horner the armourer, and his Neighbours, drinking to him so much that he is drunk; and he enters with a drum before him and his staff with a sandbag fastened to it; and at the other door Peter, his man, with a drum and sandbag, and Prentices drinking to him. 1 NEIGHBOUR. Here, neighbour Horner, I drink to you in a cup of sack; and fear not, neighbour, you shall do well enough. 2 NEIGHBOUR. And here, neighbour, here’s a cup of charneco. 3 NEIGHBOUR. And here’s a pot of good double beer, neighbour. Drink, and fear not your man. HORNER. Let it come, i’ faith, and I’ll pledge you all; and a fig for Peter! 1 PRENTICE. Here, Peter, I drink to thee, and be not afraid. 2 PRENTICE. Be merry, Peter, and fear not thy master. Fight for credit of the prentices. PETER. I thank you all. Drink, and pray for me, I pray you, for I think I have taken my last draught in this world. Here, Robin, an if I die, I give thee my apron; and, Will, thou shalt have my hammer; and here, Tom, take all the money that I have. O Lord bless me! I pray God, for I am never able to deal with my master, he hath learnt so much fence already. SALISBURY. Come, leave your drinking and fall to blows. Sirrah, what’s thy name? PETER. Peter, forsooth. SALISBURY. Peter? What more? PETER. Thump. SALISBURY. Thump! Then see thou thump thy master well. HORNER. Masters, I am come hither, as it were, upon my man’s instigation, to prove him a knave and myself an honest man; and touching the Duke of York, I will take my death I never meant him any ill, nor the King, nor the Queen; and therefore, Peter, have at thee with a downright blow! YORK. Dispatch! This knave’s tongue begins to double. Sound, trumpets. Alarum to the combatants! [_They fight, and Peter strikes him down._] HORNER. Hold, Peter, hold! I confess, I confess treason. [_Dies._] YORK. Take away his weapon.—Fellow, thank God and the good wine in thy master’s way. PETER. O God, have I overcome mine enemies in this presence? O Peter, thou hast prevailed in right! KING HENRY. Go, take hence that traitor from our sight, For by his death we do perceive his guilt. And God in justice hath revealed to us The truth and innocence of this poor fellow, Which he had thought to have murdered wrongfully. Come, fellow, follow us for thy reward. [_Sound a flourish. Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A Street Enter Gloucester and his Servingmen in mourning cloaks. GLOUCESTER. Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud, And after summer evermore succeeds Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold; So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet. Sirs, what’s o’clock? SERVINGMEN. Ten, my lord. GLOUCESTER. Ten is the hour that was appointed me To watch the coming of my punished duchess. Uneath may she endure the flinty streets, To tread them with her tender-feeling feet. Sweet Nell, ill can thy noble mind abrook The abject people gazing on thy face With envious looks, laughing at thy shame, That erst did follow thy proud chariot wheels When thou didst ride in triumph through the streets. But, soft! I think she comes; and I’ll prepare My tear-stained eyes to see her miseries. Enter the Duchess of Gloucester in a white sheet, and a taper burning in her hand; with Sir John Stanley, the Sheriff, and Officers. SERVINGMEN. So please your Grace, we’ll take her from the sheriff. GLOUCESTER. No, stir not for your lives; let her pass by. ELEANOR. Come you, my lord, to see my open shame? Now thou dost penance too. Look how they gaze! See how the giddy multitude do point, And nod their heads, and throw their eyes on thee. Ah, Gloucester, hide thee from their hateful looks, And, in thy closet pent up, rue my shame, And ban thine enemies, both mine and thine! GLOUCESTER. Be patient, gentle Nell, forget this grief. ELEANOR. Ah, Gloucester, teach me to forget myself! For whilst I think I am thy married wife And thou a prince, Protector of this land, Methinks I should not thus be led along, Mailed up in shame, with papers on my back, And followed with a rabble that rejoice To see my tears and hear my deep-fet groans. The ruthless flint doth cut my tender feet, And when I start, the envious people laugh And bid me be advised how I tread. Ah, Humphrey, can I bear this shameful yoke? Trowest thou that e’er I’ll look upon the world, Or count them happy that enjoy the sun? No, dark shall be my light and night my day; To think upon my pomp shall be my hell. Sometimes I’ll say, I am Duke Humphrey’s wife, And he a prince and ruler of the land; Yet so he ruled and such a prince he was As he stood by whilst I, his forlorn duchess, Was made a wonder and a pointing-stock To every idle rascal follower. But be thou mild and blush not at my shame, Nor stir at nothing till the axe of death Hang over thee, as, sure, it shortly will. For Suffolk, he that can do all in all With her that hateth thee and hates us all, And York and impious Beaufort, that false priest, Have all limed bushes to betray thy wings; And fly thou how thou canst, they’ll tangle thee. But fear not thou until thy foot be snared, Nor never seek prevention of thy foes. GLOUCESTER. Ah, Nell, forbear! Thou aimest all awry. I must offend before I be attainted; And had I twenty times so many foes, And each of them had twenty times their power, All these could not procure me any scathe So long as I am loyal, true, and crimeless. Wouldst have me rescue thee from this reproach? Why, yet thy scandal were not wiped away, But I in danger for the breach of law. Thy greatest help is quiet, gentle Nell. I pray thee, sort thy heart to patience; These few days’ wonder will be quickly worn. Enter a Herald. HERALD. I summon your grace to his majesty’s parliament, Holden at Bury the first of this next month. GLOUCESTER. And my consent ne’er asked herein before? This is close dealing. Well, I will be there. [_Exit Herald._] My Nell, I take my leave; and, master sheriff, Let not her penance exceed the King’s commission. SHERIFF. An ’t please your grace, here my commission stays, And Sir John Stanley is appointed now To take her with him to the Isle of Man. GLOUCESTER. Must you, Sir John, protect my lady here? STANLEY. So am I given in charge, may ’t please your grace. GLOUCESTER. Entreat her not the worse in that I pray You use her well. The world may laugh again, And I may live to do you kindness if You do it her. And so, Sir John, farewell. ELEANOR. What, gone, my lord, and bid me not farewell? GLOUCESTER. Witness my tears, I cannot stay to speak. [_Exeunt Gloucester and Servingmen._] ELEANOR. Art thou gone too? All comfort go with thee, For none abides with me; my joy is death; Death, at whose name I oft have been afeard, Because I wished this world’s eternity. Stanley, I prithee, go, and take me hence, I care not whither, for I beg no favour, Only convey me where thou art commanded. STANLEY. Why, madam, that is to the Isle of Man, There to be used according to your state. ELEANOR. That’s bad enough, for I am but reproach; And shall I then be used reproachfully? STANLEY. Like to a duchess, and Duke Humphrey’s lady; According to that state you shall be used. ELEANOR. Sheriff, farewell, and better than I fare, Although thou hast been conduct of my shame. SHERIFF. It is my office; and, madam, pardon me. ELEANOR. Ay, ay, farewell; thy office is discharged. Come, Stanley, shall we go? STANLEY. Madam, your penance done, throw off this sheet, And go we to attire you for our journey. ELEANOR. My shame will not be shifted with my sheet, No, it will hang upon my richest robes And show itself, attire me how I can. Go, lead the way, I long to see my prison. [_Exeunt._] ACT III SCENE I. The Abbey at Bury St. Edmund’s Sound a sennet. Enter the King, the Queen, Cardinal Beaufort, Suffolk, York, Buckingham, Salisbury and Warwick to the Parliament. KING HENRY. I muse my Lord of Gloucester is not come. ’Tis not his wont to be the hindmost man, Whate’er occasion keeps him from us now. QUEEN MARGARET. Can you not see, or will ye not observe The strangeness of his altered countenance? With what a majesty he bears himself, How insolent of late he is become, How proud, how peremptory, and unlike himself? We know the time since he was mild and affable; And if we did but glance a far-off look, Immediately he was upon his knee, That all the court admired him for submission. But meet him now, and be it in the morn When everyone will give the time of day, He knits his brow and shows an angry eye And passeth by with stiff unbowed knee, Disdaining duty that to us belongs. Small curs are not regarded when they grin, But great men tremble when the lion roars; And Humphrey is no little man in England. First note that he is near you in descent, And should you fall, he is the next will mount. Me seemeth then it is no policy, Respecting what a rancorous mind he bears And his advantage following your decease, That he should come about your royal person Or be admitted to your Highness’ Council. By flattery hath he won the commons’ hearts; And when he please to make commotion, ’Tis to be feared they all will follow him. Now ’tis the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now, and they’ll o’ergrow the garden And choke the herbs for want of husbandry. The reverent care I bear unto my lord Made me collect these dangers in the Duke. If it be fond, can it a woman’s fear; Which fear if better reasons can supplant, I will subscribe and say I wronged the Duke. My Lord of Suffolk, Buckingham, and York, Reprove my allegation if you can, Or else conclude my words effectual. SUFFOLK. Well hath your highness seen into this Duke; And, had I first been put to speak my mind, I think I should have told your grace’s tale. The Duchess by his subornation, Upon my life, began her devilish practices; Or, if he were not privy to those faults, Yet, by reputing of his high descent, As next the King he was successive heir, And such high vaunts of his nobility— Did instigate the bedlam brain-sick Duchess By wicked means to frame our sovereign’s fall. Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep, And in his simple show he harbours treason. The fox barks not when he would steal the lamb. No, no, my sovereign, Gloucester is a man Unsounded yet and full of deep deceit. CARDINAL. Did he not, contrary to form of law, Devise strange deaths for small offences done? YORK. And did he not, in his protectorship, Levy great sums of money through the realm For soldiers’ pay in France, and never sent it? By means whereof the towns each day revolted. BUCKINGHAM. Tut, these are petty faults to faults unknown, Which time will bring to light in smooth Duke Humphrey. KING HENRY. My lords, at once: the care you have of us To mow down thorns that would annoy our foot Is worthy praise; but, shall I speak my conscience, Our kinsman Gloucester is as innocent From meaning treason to our royal person As is the sucking lamb or harmless dove. The Duke is virtuous, mild, and too well given To dream on evil or to work my downfall. QUEEN MARGARET. Ah, what’s more dangerous than this fond affiance? Seems he a dove? His feathers are but borrowed, For he’s disposed as the hateful raven. Is he a lamb? His skin is surely lent him, For he’s inclined as is the ravenous wolves. Who cannot steal a shape that means deceit? Take heed, my lord; the welfare of us all Hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man. Enter Somerset. SOMERSET. All health unto my gracious sovereign! KING HENRY. Welcome, Lord Somerset. What news from France? SOMERSET. That all your interest in those territories Is utterly bereft you; all is lost. KING HENRY. Cold news, Lord Somerset; but God’s will be done. YORK. [_Aside_.] Cold news for me, for I had hope of France As firmly as I hope for fertile England. Thus are my blossoms blasted in the bud, And caterpillars eat my leaves away; But I will remedy this gear ere long, Or sell my title for a glorious grave. Enter Gloucester. GLOUCESTER. All happiness unto my lord the King! Pardon, my liege, that I have staid so long. SUFFOLK. Nay, Gloucester, know that thou art come too soon, Unless thou wert more loyal than thou art. I do arrest thee of high treason here. GLOUCESTER. Well, Suffolk, thou shalt not see me blush, Nor change my countenance for this arrest. A heart unspotted is not easily daunted. The purest spring is not so free from mud As I am clear from treason to my sovereign. Who can accuse me? Wherein am I guilty? YORK. ’Tis thought, my lord, that you took bribes of France, And, being Protector, stayed the soldiers’ pay, By means whereof his highness hath lost France. GLOUCESTER. Is it but thought so? What are they that think it? I never robbed the soldiers of their pay, Nor ever had one penny bribe from France. So help me God, as I have watched the night, Ay, night by night, in studying good for England! That doit that e’er I wrested from the King, Or any groat I hoarded to my use, Be brought against me at my trial day! No, many a pound of mine own proper store, Because I would not tax the needy commons, Have I dispursed to the garrisons And never asked for restitution. CARDINAL. It serves you well, my lord, to say so much. GLOUCESTER. I say no more than truth, so help me God! YORK. In your protectorship you did devise Strange tortures for offenders never heard of, That England was defamed by tyranny. GLOUCESTER. Why, ’tis well known that, whiles I was Protector, Pity was all the fault that was in me; For I should melt at an offender’s tears, And lowly words were ransom for their fault. Unless it were a bloody murderer, Or foul felonious thief that fleeced poor passengers, I never gave them condign punishment. Murder indeed, that bloody sin, I tortured Above the felon or what trespass else. SUFFOLK. My lord, these faults are easy, quickly answered; But mightier crimes are laid unto your charge Whereof you cannot easily purge yourself. I do arrest you in his highness’ name, And here commit you to my Lord Cardinal To keep until your further time of trial. KING HENRY. My Lord of Gloucester, ’tis my special hope That you will clear yourself from all suspense. My conscience tells me you are innocent. GLOUCESTER. Ah, gracious lord, these days are dangerous. Virtue is choked with foul ambition, And charity chased hence by rancour’s hand; Foul subornation is predominant, And equity exiled your highness’ land. I know their complot is to have my life; And if my death might make this island happy And prove the period of their tyranny, I would expend it with all willingness. But mine is made the prologue to their play; For thousands more, that yet suspect no peril, Will not conclude their plotted tragedy. Beaufort’s red sparkling eyes blab his heart’s malice, And Suffolk’s cloudy brow his stormy hate; Sharp Buckingham unburdens with his tongue The envious load that lies upon his heart; And dogged York, that reaches at the moon, Whose overweening arm I have plucked back, By false accuse doth level at my life. And you, my sovereign lady, with the rest, Causeless have laid disgraces on my head And with your best endeavour have stirred up My liefest liege to be mine enemy. Ay, all of you have laid your heads together— Myself had notice of your conventicles— And all to make away my guiltless life. I shall not want false witness to condemn me, Nor store of treasons to augment my guilt. The ancient proverb will be well effected: “A staff is quickly found to beat a dog.” CARDINAL. My liege, his railing is intolerable. If those that care to keep your royal person From treason’s secret knife and traitor’s rage Be thus upbraided, chid, and rated at, And the offender granted scope of speech, ’Twill make them cool in zeal unto your grace. SUFFOLK. Hath he not twit our sovereign lady here With ignominious words, though clerkly couched, As if she had suborned some to swear False allegations to o’erthrow his state? QUEEN MARGARET. But I can give the loser leave to chide. GLOUCESTER. Far truer spoke than meant. I lose, indeed. Beshrew the winners, for they played me false! And well such losers may have leave to speak. BUCKINGHAM. He’ll wrest the sense and hold us here all day. Lord Cardinal, he is your prisoner. CARDINAL. Sirs, take away the Duke, and guard him sure. GLOUCESTER. Ah, thus King Henry throws away his crutch Before his legs be firm to bear his body. Thus is the shepherd beaten from thy side, And wolves are gnarling who shall gnaw thee first. Ah, that my fear were false; ah, that it were! For, good King Henry, thy decay I fear. [_Exit Gloucester, guarded._] KING HENRY. My lords, what to your wisdoms seemeth best Do, or undo, as if ourself were here. QUEEN MARGARET. What, will your highness leave the parliament? KING HENRY. Ay, Margaret; my heart is drowned with grief, Whose flood begins to flow within mine eyes, My body round engirt with misery; For what’s more miserable than discontent? Ah, uncle Humphrey, in thy face I see The map of honour, truth, and loyalty; And yet, good Humphrey, is the hour to come That e’er I proved thee false or feared thy faith. What louring star now envies thy estate That these great lords and Margaret our Queen Do seek subversion of thy harmless life? Thou never didst them wrong nor no man wrong. And as the butcher takes away the calf And binds the wretch and beats it when it strains, Bearing it to the bloody slaughterhouse, 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 naught but wail her darling’s loss, Even so myself bewails good Gloucester’s case With sad unhelpful tears, and with dimmed eyes Look after him, and cannot do him good, So mighty are his vowed enemies. His fortunes I will weep and ’twixt each groan Say “Who’s a traitor? Gloucester he is none.” [_Exeunt all but Queen, Cardinal Beaufort, Suffolk and York; Somerset remains apart._] QUEEN MARGARET. Free lords, cold snow melts with the sun’s hot beams. Henry my lord is cold in great affairs, Too full of foolish pity; and Gloucester’s show Beguiles him, as the mournful crocodile With sorrow snares relenting passengers, Or as the snake, rolled in a flowering bank, With shining checkered slough, doth sting a child That for the beauty thinks it excellent. Believe me, lords, were none more wise than I— And yet herein I judge mine own wit good— This Gloucester should be quickly rid the world, To rid us from the fear we have of him. CARDINAL. That he should die is worthy policy, But yet we want a colour for his death. ’Tis meet he be condemned by course of law. SUFFOLK. But, in my mind, that were no policy. The King will labour still to save his life, The commons haply rise to save his life, And yet we have but trivial argument, More than mistrust, that shows him worthy death. YORK. So that, by this, you would not have him die. SUFFOLK. Ah, York, no man alive so fain as I! YORK. ’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 To guard the chicken from a hungry kite, As place Duke Humphrey for the King’s Protector? QUEEN MARGARET. So the poor chicken should be sure of death. SUFFOLK. Madam, ’tis true; and were ’t not madness then To make the fox surveyor of the fold, Who being accused a crafty murderer, His guilt should be but idly posted over Because his purpose is not executed? No, let him die in that he is a fox, By nature proved an enemy to the flock, Before his chaps be stained with crimson blood, As Humphrey, proved by reasons, to my liege. And do not stand on quillets how to slay him; Be it by gins, by snares, by subtlety, Sleeping or waking, ’tis no matter how, So he be dead; for that is good deceit Which mates him first that first intends deceit. QUEEN MARGARET. Thrice-noble Suffolk, ’tis resolutely spoke. SUFFOLK. Not resolute, except so much were done, For things are often spoke and seldom meant; But that my heart accordeth with my tongue, Seeing the deed is meritorious, And to preserve my sovereign from his foe, Say but the word, and I will be his priest. CARDINAL. But I would have him dead, my Lord of Suffolk, Ere you can take due orders for a priest. Say you consent and censure well the deed, And I’ll provide his executioner. I tender so the safety of my liege. SUFFOLK. Here is my hand, the deed is worthy doing. QUEEN MARGARET. And so say I. YORK. And I. And now we three have spoke it, It skills not greatly who impugns our doom. Enter a Post. POST. Great lords, from Ireland am I come amain To signify that rebels there are up And put the Englishmen unto the sword. Send succours, lords, and stop the rage betime, Before the wound do grow uncurable; For, being green, there is great hope of help. CARDINAL. A breach that craves a quick expedient stop! What counsel give you in this weighty cause? YORK. That Somerset be sent as regent thither. ’Tis meet that lucky ruler be employed; Witness the fortune he hath had in France. SOMERSET. If York, with all his far-fet policy, Had been the regent there instead of me, He never would have stayed in France so long. YORK. No, not to lose it all as thou hast done. I rather would have lost my life betimes Than bring a burden of dishonour home By staying there so long till all were lost. Show me one scar charactered on thy skin; Men’s flesh preserved so whole do seldom win. QUEEN MARGARET. Nay then, this spark will prove a raging fire If wind and fuel be brought to feed it with. No more, good York. Sweet Somerset, be still. Thy fortune, York, hadst thou been regent there, Might happily have proved far worse than his. YORK. What, worse than naught? Nay, then a shame take all! SOMERSET. And, in the number, thee that wishest shame! CARDINAL. My Lord of York, try what your fortune is. Th’ uncivil kerns of Ireland are in arms And temper clay with blood of Englishmen. To Ireland will you lead a band of men, Collected choicely, from each county some, And try your hap against the Irishmen? YORK. I will, my lord, so please his majesty. SUFFOLK. Why, our authority is his consent, And what we do establish he confirms. Then, noble York, take thou this task in hand. YORK. I am content. Provide me soldiers, lords, Whiles I take order for mine own affairs. SUFFOLK. A charge, Lord York, that I will see performed. But now return we to the false Duke Humphrey. CARDINAL. No more of him; for I will deal with him That henceforth he shall trouble us no more. And so break off; the day is almost spent. Lord Suffolk, you and I must talk of that event. YORK. My Lord of Suffolk, within fourteen days At Bristol I expect my soldiers; For there I’ll ship them all for Ireland. SUFFOLK. I’ll see it truly done, my Lord of York. [_Exeunt all but York._] YORK. Now, York, or never, steel thy fearful thoughts, And change misdoubt to resolution. Be that thou hop’st to be, or what thou art Resign to death; it is not worth th’ enjoying. Let pale-faced fear keep with the mean-born man And find no harbour in a royal heart. Faster than springtime showers comes thought on thought, And not a thought but thinks on dignity. My brain, more busy than the labouring spider Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies. Well, nobles, well, ’tis politicly done, To send me packing with an host of men; I fear me you but warm the starved snake, Who, cherished in your breasts, will sting your hearts. ’Twas men I lacked, and you will give them me; I take it kindly, yet be well assured You put sharp weapons in a madman’s hands. Whiles I in Ireland nourish a mighty band, I will stir up in England some black storm Shall blow ten thousand souls to heaven or hell; And this fell tempest shall not cease to rage Until the golden circuit on my head, Like to the glorious sun’s transparent beams, Do calm the fury of this mad-bred flaw. And for a minister of my intent, I have seduced a headstrong Kentishman, John Cade of Ashford, To make commotion, as full well he can, Under the title of John Mortimer. In Ireland have I seen this stubborn Cade Oppose himself against a troop of kerns, And fought so long till that his thighs with darts Were almost like a sharp-quilled porpentine; And in the end being rescued, I have seen Him caper upright like a wild Morisco, Shaking the bloody darts as he his bells. Full often, like a shag-haired crafty kern, Hath he conversed with the enemy, And undiscovered come to me again And given me notice of their villainies. This devil here shall be my substitute; For that John Mortimer, which now is dead, In face, in gait, in speech, he doth resemble. By this I shall perceive the commons’ mind, How they affect the house and claim of York. Say he be taken, racked, and tortured, I know no pain they can inflict upon him Will make him say I moved him to those arms. Say that he thrive, as ’tis great like he will, Why then from Ireland come I with my strength And reap the harvest which that rascal sowed. For Humphrey being dead, as he shall be, And Henry put apart, the next for me. [_Exit._] SCENE II. Bury St. Edmund’s. A Room of State Enter two or three Murderers running over the stage, from the murder of Duke Humphrey. 1 MURDERER. Run to my Lord of Suffolk; let him know We have dispatched the Duke as he commanded. 2 MURDERER. O that it were to do! What have we done? Didst ever hear a man so penitent? Enter Suffolk. 1 MURDERER. Here comes my lord. SUFFOLK. Now, sirs, have you dispatched this thing? 1 MURDERER. Ay, my good lord, he’s dead. SUFFOLK. Why, that’s well said. Go, get you to my house; I will reward you for this venturous deed. The King and all the peers are here at hand. Have you laid fair the bed? Is all things well, According as I gave directions? 1 MURDERER. ’Tis, my good lord. SUFFOLK. Away, be gone! [_Exeunt Murderers._] Sound trumpets. Enter the King, the Queen, Cardinal Beaufort, Somerset with attendants. KING HENRY. Go, call our uncle to our presence straight; Say we intend to try his grace today If he be guilty, as ’tis published. SUFFOLK. I’ll call him presently, my noble lord. [_Exit._] KING HENRY. Lords, take your places; and, I pray you all, Proceed no straiter ’gainst our uncle Gloucester Than from true evidence of good esteem He be approved in practice culpable. QUEEN MARGARET. God forbid any malice should prevail That faultless may condemn a nobleman! Pray God he may acquit him of suspicion! KING HENRY. I thank thee, Meg; these words content me much. Enter Suffolk. How now? Why look’st thou pale? Why tremblest thou? Where is our uncle? What’s the matter, Suffolk? SUFFOLK. Dead in his bed, my lord; Gloucester is dead. QUEEN MARGARET. Marry, God forfend! CARDINAL. God’s secret judgment! I did dream tonight The Duke was dumb and could not speak a word. [_The King swoons._] QUEEN MARGARET. How fares my lord? Help, lords! the King is dead. SOMERSET. Rear up his body; wring him by the nose. QUEEN MARGARET. Run, go, help, help! O Henry, ope thine eyes! SUFFOLK. He doth revive again. Madam, be patient. KING HENRY. O heavenly God! QUEEN MARGARET. How fares my gracious lord? SUFFOLK. Comfort, my sovereign! Gracious Henry, comfort! KING HENRY. What, doth my Lord of Suffolk comfort me? Came he right now to sing a raven’s note, Whose dismal tune bereft my vital powers, And thinks he that the chirping of a wren, By crying comfort from a hollow breast, Can chase away the first-conceived sound? Hide not thy poison with such sugared words; Lay not thy hands on me. Forbear, I say! Their touch affrights me as a serpent’s sting. Thou baleful messenger, out of my sight! Upon thy 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, 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. QUEEN MARGARET. Why do you rate my Lord of Suffolk thus? Although the Duke was enemy to him, Yet he most Christian-like laments his death. And for myself, foe as he was to me, Might liquid tears or heart-offending groans Or blood-consuming sighs recall his life, I would be blind with weeping, sick with groans, Look pale as primrose with blood-drinking sighs, And all to have the noble Duke alive. What know I how the world may deem of me? For it is known we were but hollow friends. It may be judged I made the Duke away; So shall my name with slander’s tongue be wounded And princes’ courts be filled with my reproach. This get I by his death. Ay me, unhappy! To be a queen, and crowned with infamy! KING HENRY. Ah, woe is me for Gloucester, wretched man! QUEEN MARGARET. Be woe for me, more wretched than he is. What, dost thou turn away and hide thy face? I am no loathsome leper. Look on me. What, art thou, like the adder, waxen deaf? Be poisonous too and kill thy forlorn Queen. Is all thy comfort shut in Gloucester’s tomb? Why, then, Dame Margaret was ne’er thy joy. Erect his statue and worship it, And make my image but an alehouse sign. Was I for this nigh wracked upon the sea And twice by awkward wind from England’s bank Drove back again unto my native clime? What boded this, but well forewarning wind Did seem to say “Seek not a scorpion’s nest, Nor set no footing on this unkind shore?” What did I then, but cursed the gentle gusts And he that loosed them forth their brazen caves And bid them blow towards England’s blessed shore Or turn our stern upon a dreadful rock? Yet Aeolus would not be a murderer, But left that hateful office unto thee. The pretty-vaulting sea refused to drown me, Knowing that thou wouldst have me drowned on shore With tears as salt as sea, through thy unkindness. The splitting rocks cowered in the sinking sands And would not dash me with their ragged sides, Because thy flinty heart, more hard than they, Might in thy palace perish Margaret. As far as I could ken thy chalky cliffs, When from thy shore the tempest beat us back, I stood upon the hatches in the storm, And when the dusky sky began to rob My earnest-gaping sight of thy land’s view, I took a costly jewel from my neck— A heart it was, bound in with diamonds— And threw it towards thy land. The sea received it, And so I wished thy body might my heart. And even with this I lost fair England’s view, And bid mine eyes be packing with my heart, And called them blind and dusky spectacles, For losing ken of Albion’s wished coast. How often have I tempted Suffolk’s tongue, The agent of thy foul inconstancy, To sit and witch me, as Ascanius did When he to madding Dido would unfold His father’s acts commenced in burning Troy! Am I not witched like her? Or thou not false like him? Ay me, I can no more! Die, Margaret, For Henry weeps that thou dost live so long. Noise within. Enter Warwick, Salisbury and many Commons. WARWICK. It is reported, mighty sovereign, That good Duke Humphrey traitorously is murdered By Suffolk and the Cardinal Beaufort’s means. The commons, like an angry hive of bees That want their leader, scatter up and down And care not who they sting in his revenge. Myself have calmed their spleenful mutiny, Until they hear the order of his death. KING HENRY. 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. WARWICK. That shall I do, my liege.—Stay, Salisbury, With the rude multitude till I return. [_Warwick exits through one door; Salisbury and Commons exit through another._] KING HENRY. O Thou that judgest all things, stay my thoughts, My thoughts that labour to persuade my soul Some violent hands were laid on Humphrey’s life. If my suspect be false, forgive me, God, For judgment only doth belong to Thee. Fain would I go to chafe his paly lips With twenty thousand kisses, and to drain Upon his face an ocean of salt tears, To tell my love unto his dumb deaf trunk, And with my fingers feel his hand unfeeling; But all in vain are these mean obsequies. And to survey his dead and earthy image, What were it but to make my sorrow greater? Enter Warwick and others, bearing Gloucester’s body on a bed. WARWICK. Come hither, gracious sovereign, view this body. KING HENRY. That is to see how deep my grave is made, For with his soul fled all my worldly solace; For seeing him, I see my life in death. WARWICK. As surely as my soul intends to live With that dread King that took our state upon Him To free us from His Father’s wrathful curse, I do believe that violent hands were laid Upon the life of this thrice-famed duke. SUFFOLK. A dreadful oath, sworn with a solemn tongue! What instance gives Lord Warwick for his vow? WARWICK. See how the blood is settled in his face. Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost, Of ashy semblance, meagre, pale, and bloodless, Being all descended to the labouring heart, Who, in the conflict that it holds with death, Attracts the same for aidance ’gainst the enemy, Which with the heart there cools and ne’er returneth To blush and beautify the cheek again. But see, his face is black and full of blood, His eyeballs further out than when he lived, Staring full ghastly like a strangled man; His hair upreared, his nostrils stretched with struggling, His hands abroad displayed, as one that grasped And tugged for life and was by strength subdued. Look, on the sheets his hair, you see, is sticking; His well-proportioned beard made rough and rugged, Like to the summer’s corn by tempest lodged. It cannot be but he was murdered here; The least of all these signs were probable. SUFFOLK. Why, Warwick, who should do the Duke to death? Myself and Beaufort had him in protection, And we, I hope, sir, are no murderers. WARWICK. But both of you were vowed 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. QUEEN MARGARET. Then you, belike, suspect these noblemen As guilty of Duke Humphrey’s timeless death. WARWICK. Who finds the heifer dead and bleeding fresh And sees fast by a butcher with an axe, But will suspect ’twas he that made the slaughter? Who finds the partridge in the puttock’s nest But may imagine how the bird was dead, Although the kite soar with unbloodied beak? Even so suspicious is this tragedy. QUEEN MARGARET. Are you the butcher, Suffolk? Where’s your knife? Is Beaufort termed a kite? Where are his talons? SUFFOLK. I wear no knife to slaughter sleeping men, But here’s a vengeful sword, rusted with ease, That shall be scoured in his rancorous heart That slanders me with murder’s crimson badge. Say, if thou dar’st, proud Lord of Warwickshire, That I am faulty in Duke Humphrey’s death. [_Exeunt Cardinal, Somerset and others._] WARWICK. What dares not Warwick, if false Suffolk dare him? QUEEN MARGARET. He dares not calm his contumelious spirit, Nor cease to be an arrogant controller, Though Suffolk dare him twenty thousand times. WARWICK. Madam, be still, with reverence may I say; For every word you speak in his behalf Is slander to your royal dignity. SUFFOLK. Blunt-witted lord, ignoble in demeanour! If ever lady wronged her lord so much, Thy mother took into her blameful bed Some stern untutored churl, and noble stock Was graft with crab-tree slip, whose fruit thou art, And never of the Nevilles’ noble race. WARWICK. But that the guilt of murder bucklers thee And I should rob the deathsman of his fee, Quitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames, And that my sovereign’s presence makes me mild, I would, false murderous coward, on thy knee Make thee beg pardon for thy passed speech And say it was thy mother that thou meant’st, That thou thyself wast born in bastardy; And after all this fearful homage done, Give thee thy hire and send thy soul to hell, Pernicious blood-sucker of sleeping men! SUFFOLK. Thou shalt be waking while I shed thy blood, If from this presence thou dar’st go with me. WARWICK. Away even now, or I will drag thee hence. Unworthy though thou art, I’ll cope with thee And do some service to Duke Humphrey’s ghost. [_Exeunt Suffolk and Warwick._] KING HENRY. What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted? Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just, And he but naked, though locked up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted. [_A noise within._] QUEEN MARGARET. What noise is this? Enter Suffolk and Warwick with their weapons drawn. KING HENRY. Why, how now, lords? Your wrathful weapons drawn Here in our presence? Dare you be so bold? Why, what tumultuous clamour have we here? SUFFOLK. The traitorous Warwick with the men of Bury Set all upon me, mighty sovereign. Enter Salisbury. SALISBURY. [_To the Commons, entering_.] Sirs, stand apart; the King shall know your mind.— Dread lord, the commons send you word by me, Unless Lord Suffolk straight be done to death, Or banished fair England’s territories, They will by violence tear him from your palace And torture him with grievous lingering death. They say, by him the good Duke Humphrey died; They say, in him they fear your highness’ death; And mere instinct of love and loyalty, Free from a stubborn opposite intent, As being thought to contradict your liking, Makes them thus forward in his banishment. They say, in care of your most royal person, That if your highness should intend to sleep And charge that no man should disturb your rest, In pain of your dislike or pain of death, Yet, notwithstanding such a strait edict, Were there a serpent seen, with forked tongue, That slyly glided towards your majesty, It were but necessary you were waked, Lest, being suffered in that harmful slumber, The mortal worm might make the sleep eternal. And therefore do they cry, though you forbid, That they will guard you, whe’er you will or no, From such fell serpents as false Suffolk is, With whose envenomed and fatal sting Your loving uncle, twenty times his worth, They say, is shamefully bereft of life. COMMONS. [_Within_.] An answer from the King, my Lord of Salisbury! SUFFOLK. ’Tis like the commons, rude unpolished hinds, Could send such message to their sovereign. But you, my lord, were glad to be employed, To show how quaint an orator you are. But all the honour Salisbury hath won Is that he was the lord ambassador Sent from a sort of tinkers to the King. COMMONS. [_Within_.] An answer from the King, or we will all break in! KING HENRY. Go, Salisbury, and tell them all from me, I thank them for their tender loving care; And had I not been cited so by them, Yet did I purpose as they do entreat. For, sure, my thoughts do hourly prophesy Mischance unto my state by Suffolk’s means. And therefore, by His majesty I swear, Whose far unworthy deputy I am, He shall not breathe infection in this air But three days longer, on the pain of death. [_Exit Salisbury._] QUEEN MARGARET. O Henry, let me plead for gentle Suffolk! KING HENRY. Ungentle Queen, to call him gentle Suffolk! No more, I say; if thou dost plead for him, Thou wilt but add increase unto my wrath. Had I but said, I would have kept my word; But when I swear, it is irrevocable. If, after three days’ space, thou here be’st found On any ground that I am ruler of, The world shall not be ransom for thy life. Come, Warwick, come, good Warwick, go with me; I have great matters to impart to thee. [_Exeunt all but Queen and Suffolk._] QUEEN MARGARET. Mischance and sorrow go along with you! Heart’s discontent and sour affliction Be playfellows to keep you company! There’s two of you; the devil make a third! And threefold vengeance tend upon your steps! SUFFOLK. Cease, gentle Queen, these execrations, And let thy Suffolk take his heavy leave. QUEEN MARGARET. Fie, coward woman and soft-hearted wretch! Has thou not spirit to curse thine enemies? SUFFOLK. A plague upon them! Wherefore should I curse them? Could curses kill, as doth the mandrake’s groan, I would invent as bitter searching terms, As curst, as harsh and horrible to hear, Delivered strongly through my fixed teeth, With full as many signs of deadly hate, As lean-faced Envy in her loathsome cave. My tongue should stumble in mine earnest words; Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint; Mine hair be fixed on end, as one distract; Ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban; And even now my burdened 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; Their softest touch as smart as lizards’ stings! Their music frightful as the serpent’s hiss, And boding screech-owls make the consort full! All the foul terrors in dark-seated hell— QUEEN MARGARET. Enough, sweet Suffolk; thou torment’st thyself, And these dread curses, like the sun ’gainst glass, Or like an overcharged gun, recoil And turns the force of them upon thyself. SUFFOLK. You bade me ban, and will you bid me leave? Now, by the ground that I am banished from, Well could I curse away a winter’s night, Though standing naked on a mountain top Where biting cold would never let grass grow, And think it but a minute spent in sport. QUEEN MARGARET. O, let me entreat thee cease. Give me thy hand, That I may dew it with my mournful tears; Nor let the rain of heaven wet this place To wash away my woeful monuments. O, could this kiss be printed in thy hand, That thou mightst think upon these by the seal, Through whom a thousand sighs are breathed for thee! So, get thee gone, that I may know my grief; ’Tis but surmised whiles thou art standing by, As one that surfeits thinking on a want. I will repeal thee, or, be well assured, Adventure to be banished myself; And banished I am, if but from thee. Go; speak not to me, even now be gone! O, go not yet! Even thus two friends condemned Embrace and kiss and take ten thousand leaves, Loather a hundred times to part than die. Yet now farewell, and farewell life with thee. SUFFOLK. Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished, Once by the King, and three times thrice by thee. ’Tis not the land I care for, wert thou thence. A wilderness is populous enough, So Suffolk had thy heavenly company; For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world; And where thou art not, desolation. I can no more. Live thou to joy thy life, Myself no joy in nought but that thou liv’st. Enter Vaux. QUEEN MARGARET. Whither goes Vaux so fast? What news, I prithee? VAUX. To signify unto his majesty That Cardinal Beaufort is at point of death; For suddenly a grievous sickness took him, That makes him gasp and stare and catch the air, Blaspheming God and cursing men on earth. Sometime he talks as if Duke Humphrey’s ghost Were by his side; sometime he calls the King And whispers to his pillow, as to him, The secrets of his overcharged soul. And I am sent to tell his majesty That even now he cries aloud for him. QUEEN MARGARET. Go tell this heavy message to the King. [_Exit Vaux._] Ay me! What is this world? What news are these! But wherefore grieve I at an hour’s poor loss, Omitting Suffolk’s exile, my soul’s treasure? Why only, Suffolk, mourn I not for thee, And with the southern clouds contend in tears, Theirs for the earth’s increase, mine for my sorrows’? Now get thee hence. The King, thou know’st, is coming; If thou be found by me thou art but dead. SUFFOLK. If I depart from thee, I cannot live; And in thy sight to die, what were it else But like a pleasant slumber in thy lap? Here could I breathe my soul into the air, As mild and gentle as the cradle-babe Dying with mother’s dug between its lips; Where, from thy sight, I should be raging mad And cry out for thee to close up mine eyes, To have thee with thy lips to stop my mouth. So shouldst thou either turn my flying soul, Or I should breathe it so into thy body, And then it lived in sweet Elysium. To die by thee were but to die in jest; From thee to die were torture more than death. O, let me stay, befall what may befall! QUEEN MARGARET. Away! Though parting be a fretful corrosive, It is applied to a deathful wound. To France, sweet Suffolk! Let me hear from thee, For whereso’er thou art in this world’s globe I’ll have an Iris that shall find thee out. SUFFOLK. I go. QUEEN MARGARET. And take my heart with thee. SUFFOLK. A jewel, locked 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. QUEEN MARGARET. This way for me. [_Exeunt severally._] SCENE III. A Bedchamber Enter the King, Salisbury and Warwick, to the Cardinal in bed. KING HENRY. How fares my lord? Speak, Beaufort, to thy sovereign. CARDINAL. If thou be’st Death, I’ll give thee England’s treasure, Enough to purchase such another island, So thou wilt let me live and feel no pain. KING HENRY. Ah, what a sign it is of evil life Where death’s approach is seen so terrible! WARWICK. Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks to thee. CARDINAL. Bring me unto my trial when you will. Died he not in his bed? Where should he die? Can I make men live, whe’er they will or no? O, torture me no more! I will confess. Alive again? Then show me where he is. I’ll give a thousand pound to look upon him. He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them. Comb down his hair; look, look, it stands upright, Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul. Give me some drink, and bid the apothecary Bring the strong poison that I bought of him. KING HENRY. O Thou eternal mover of the heavens, Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch! O, beat away the busy meddling fiend That lays strong siege unto this wretch’s soul, And from his bosom purge this black despair! WARWICK. See how the pangs of death do make him grin! SALISBURY. Disturb him not; let him pass peaceably. KING HENRY. Peace to his soul, if God’s good pleasure be! Lord Cardinal, if thou think’st on heaven’s bliss, Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope. He dies and makes no sign. O God, forgive him! WARWICK. So bad a death argues a monstrous life. KING HENRY. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all. Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close, And let us all to meditation. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. The Coast of Kent Alarum. Fight at sea. Ordnance goes off. Enter a Lieutenant, Suffolk, disguised, a prisoner. The Master, a Master’s Mate, Walter Whitmore, and prisoners. LIEUTENANT. The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea; And now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades That drag the tragic melancholy night, Who, with their drowsy, slow, and flagging wings Clip dead men’s graves and from their misty jaws Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air. Therefore bring forth the soldiers of our prize; For, whilst our pinnace anchors in the Downs, Here shall they make their ransom on the sand, Or with their blood stain this discoloured shore. Master, this prisoner freely give I thee, And thou that art his mate, make boot of this; The other, Walter Whitmore, is thy share. 1 GENTLEMAN. What is my ransom, master? Let me know. MASTER. A thousand crowns, or else lay down your head. MATE. And so much shall you give, or off goes yours. LIEUTENANT. 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 Be counterpoised with such a petty sum! 1 GENTLEMAN. I’ll give it, sir, and therefore spare my life. 2 GENTLEMAN. And so will I, and write home for it straight. WHITMORE. [_To Suffolk_.] I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboard, And therefore to revenge it shalt thou die; And so should these, if I might have my will. LIEUTENANT. Be not so rash; take ransom, let him live. SUFFOLK. Look on my George; I am a gentleman. Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid. WHITMORE. And so am I; my name is Walter Whitmore. How now! Why starts thou? What, doth death affright? SUFFOLK. Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is death. A cunning man did calculate my birth And told me that by water I should die. Yet let not this make thee be bloody-minded; Thy name is Gaultier, being rightly sounded. WHITMORE. Gaultier or Walter, which it is, I care not. Never yet did base dishonour blur our name But with our sword we wiped away the blot. Therefore, when merchant-like I sell revenge, Broke be my sword, my arms torn and defaced, And I proclaimed a coward through the world! SUFFOLK. Stay, Whitmore, for thy prisoner is a prince, The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Pole. WHITMORE. The Duke of Suffolk, muffled up in rags? SUFFOLK. Ay, but these rags are no part of the Duke. Jove sometime went disguised, and why not I? LIEUTENANT. But Jove was never slain, as thou shalt be. SUFFOLK. Obscure and lowly swain, King Henry’s blood, The honourable blood of Lancaster, Must not be shed by such a jaded groom. Hast thou not kissed thy hand and held my stirrup? Bareheaded plodded by my foot-cloth mule, And thought thee happy when I shook my head? How often hast thou waited at my cup, Fed from my trencher, kneeled down at the board, When I have feasted with Queen Margaret? Remember it, and let it make thee crestfallen, Ay, and allay thus thy abortive pride. How in our voiding lobby hast thou stood And duly waited for my coming forth? This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf, And therefore shall it charm thy riotous tongue. WHITMORE. Speak, captain, shall I stab the forlorn swain? LIEUTENANT. First let my words stab him, as he hath me. SUFFOLK. Base slave, thy words are blunt, and so art thou. LIEUTENANT. Convey him hence, and on our longboat’s side Strike off his head. SUFFOLK. Thou dar’st not, for thy own. LIEUTENANT. Yes, poll! SUFFOLK. Pole! LIEUTENANT. Pool! Sir Pool! Lord! Ay, kennel, puddle, sink, whose filth and dirt Troubles the silver spring where England drinks; Now will I dam up this thy yawning mouth For swallowing the treasure of the realm. Thy lips that kissed the Queen shall sweep the ground; And thou that smiledst at good Duke Humphrey’s death Against the senseless winds shalt grin in vain, Who in contempt shall hiss at thee again. And wedded be thou to the hags of hell, For daring to affy a mighty lord Unto the daughter of a worthless king, Having neither subject, wealth, nor diadem. By devilish policy art thou grown great And, like ambitious Sylla, overgorged With gobbets of thy mother’s bleeding heart. By thee Anjou and Maine were sold to France, The false revolting Normans thorough thee Disdain to call us lord, and Picardy Hath slain their governors, surprised our forts, And sent the ragged soldiers wounded home. The princely Warwick, and the Nevilles all, Whose dreadful swords were never drawn in vain, As hating thee are rising up in arms. And now the house of York, thrust from the crown By shameful murder of a guiltless king And lofty, proud, encroaching tyranny, Burns with revenging fire, whose hopeful colours Advance our half-faced sun, striving to shine, Under the which is writ “_Invitis nubibus_.” The commons here in Kent are up in arms; And, to conclude, reproach and beggary Is crept into the palace of our King, And all by thee.—Away! Convey him hence. SUFFOLK. O that I were a god, to shoot forth thunder Upon these paltry, servile, abject drudges! Small things make base men proud. This villain here, Being captain of a pinnace, threatens more Than Bargulus the strong Illyrian pirate. Drones suck not eagles’ blood but rob 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; I charge thee waft me safely ’cross the Channel. LIEUTENANT. Walter. WHITMORE. Come, Suffolk, I must waft thee to thy death. SUFFOLK. _Pene gelidus timor occupat artus_. It is thee I fear. WHITMORE. Thou shalt have cause to fear before I leave thee. What, are ye daunted now? Now will ye stoop? 1 GENTLEMAN. My gracious lord, entreat him, speak him fair. SUFFOLK. Suffolk’s imperial tongue is stern and rough, Used to command, untaught to plead for favour. Far be it we should honour such as these With humble suit. No, rather let my head Stoop to the block than these knees bow to any Save to the God of heaven and to my King; And sooner dance upon a bloody pole Than stand uncovered to the vulgar groom. True nobility is exempt from fear; More can I bear than you dare execute. LIEUTENANT. Hale him away, and let him talk no more. SUFFOLK. Come, soldiers, show what cruelty ye can, That this my death may never be forgot! Great men oft die by vile Bezonians. A Roman sworder and banditto slave Murdered sweet Tully; Brutus’ bastard hand Stabbed Julius Caesar; savage islanders Pompey the Great; and Suffolk dies by pirates. [_Exeunt Whitmore and others with Suffolk._] LIEUTENANT. And as for these whose ransom we have set, It is our pleasure one of them depart. Therefore come you with us, and let him go. [_Exeunt all but the 1 Gentleman._] Enter Whitmore with Suffolk’s body and head. WHITMORE. There let his head and lifeless body lie, Until the Queen his mistress bury it. [_Exit._] 1 GENTLEMAN. O barbarous and bloody spectacle! His body will I bear unto the King. If he revenge it not, yet will his friends; So will the Queen, that living held him dear. [_Exit with the body._] SCENE II. Blackheath Enter George Bevis and John Holland. BEVIS. Come, and get thee a sword, though made of a lath; they have been up these two days. HOLLAND. They have the more need to sleep now, then. BEVIS. I tell thee, Jack Cade the clothier means to dress the commonwealth, and turn it, and set a new nap upon it. HOLLAND. So he had need, for ’tis threadbare. Well, I say it was never merry world in England since gentlemen came up. BEVIS. O miserable age! Virtue is not regarded in handicraftsmen. HOLLAND. The nobility think scorn to go in leather aprons. BEVIS. Nay, more, the King’s Council are no good workmen. HOLLAND. True; and yet it is said, “Labour in thy vocation,” which is as much to say as, “Let the magistrates be labouring men;” and therefore should we be magistrates. BEVIS. Thou hast hit it; for there’s no better sign of a brave mind than a hard hand. HOLLAND. I see them! I see them! There’s Best’s son, the tanner of Wingham. BEVIS. He shall have the skin of our enemies, to make dog’s leather of. HOLLAND. And Dick the butcher. BEVIS. Then is sin struck down like an ox, and iniquity’s throat cut like a calf. HOLLAND. And Smith the weaver. BEVIS. Argo, their thread of life is spun. HOLLAND. Come, come, let’s fall in with them. Drum. Enter Cade, Dick the Butcher, Smith the Weaver and a Sawyer with infinite numbers carrying long staves. CADE. We, John Cade, so termed of our supposed father— DICK. [_Aside_.] Or rather, of stealing a cade of herrings. CADE. For our enemies shall fall before us, inspired with the spirit of putting down kings and princes. Command silence. DICK. Silence! CADE. My father was a Mortimer— DICK. [_Aside_.] He was an honest man and a good bricklayer. CADE. My mother a Plantagenet— DICK. [_Aside_.] I knew her well; she was a midwife. CADE. My wife descended of the Lacies— DICK. [_Aside_.] She was indeed a pedler’s daughter, and sold many laces. SMITH. [_Aside_.] But now of late, not able to travel with her furred pack, she washes bucks here at home. CADE. Therefore am I of an honourable house. DICK. [_Aside_.] Ay, by my faith, the field is honourable; and there was he born, under a hedge, for his father had never a house but the cage. CADE. Valiant I am. SMITH. [_Aside_.] He must needs; for beggary is valiant. CADE. I am able to endure much. DICK. [_Aside_.] No question of that; for I have seen him whipped three market-days together. CADE. I fear neither sword nor fire. SMITH. [_Aside_.] He need not fear the sword, for his coat is of proof. DICK. [_Aside_.] But methinks he should stand in fear of fire, being burnt i’ th’ 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! CADE. I thank you, good people.—There shall be no money; all shall eat and drink on my score, and I will apparel them all in one livery, that they may agree like brothers and worship me their lord. DICK. The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers. CADE. Nay, that I mean to do. Is not this a lamentable thing, that of the skin of an innocent lamb should be made parchment; that parchment, being scribbled o’er, should undo a man? Some say the bee stings, but I say ’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? Enter some, bringing in the Clerk of Chartham. SMITH. The clerk of Chartham. He can write and read and cast account. CADE. O, monstrous! SMITH. We took him setting of boys’ copies. CADE. Here’s a villain! SMITH. H’as a book in his pocket with red letters in ’t. CADE. Nay, then, he is a conjurer. DICK. Nay, he can make obligations and write court-hand. CADE. I am sorry for ’t. The man is a proper man, of mine honour; unless I find him guilty, he shall not die.—Come hither, sirrah, I must examine thee. What is thy name? CLERK. Emmanuel. DICK. They use to write it on the top of letters. ’Twill go hard with you. CADE. Let me alone. Dost thou use to write thy name? Or hast thou a mark to thyself, like a honest, plain-dealing man? CLERK. Sir, I thank God, I have been so well brought up that I can write my name. ALL. He hath confessed. Away with him! He’s a villain and a traitor. CADE. Away with him, I say! Hang him with his pen and inkhorn about his neck. [_Exit one with the Clerk._] Enter Michael. MICHAEL. Where’s our general? CADE. Here I am, thou particular fellow. MICHAEL. Fly, fly, fly! Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother are hard by, with the King’s forces. CADE. Stand, villain, stand, or I’ll fell thee down. He shall be encountered with a man as good as himself. He is but a knight, is he? MICHAEL. No. CADE. To equal him, I will make myself a knight presently. [_Kneels_.] Rise up Sir John Mortimer. [_Rises_.] Now have at him! Enter Sir Humphrey Stafford and his Brother with Drum and soldiers. STAFFORD. Rebellious hinds, the filth and scum of Kent, Marked for the gallows, lay your weapons down; Home to your cottages, forsake this groom. The King is merciful, if you revolt. BROTHER. But angry, wrathful, and inclined to blood, If you go forward. Therefore yield, or die. CADE. As for these silken-coated slaves, I pass not. It is to you, good people, that I speak, Over whom, in time to come, I hope to reign, For I am rightful heir unto the crown. STAFFORD. Villain, thy father was a plasterer, And thou thyself a shearman, art thou not? CADE. And Adam was a gardener. BROTHER. And what of that? CADE. Marry, this: Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, Married the Duke of Clarence’ daughter, did he not? STAFFORD. Ay, sir. CADE. By her he had two children at one birth. BROTHER. That’s false. CADE. Ay, there’s the question; but I say ’tis true. The elder of them, being put to nurse, Was by a beggar-woman stolen away, And, ignorant of his birth and parentage, Became a bricklayer when he came to age. His son am I; deny it if you can. DICK. Nay, ’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. STAFFORD. And will you credit this base drudge’s words, That speaks he knows not what? ALL. Ay, marry, will we; therefore get ye gone. BROTHER. Jack Cade, the Duke of York hath taught you this. CADE. [_Aside_.] He lies, for I invented it myself.—Go to, sirrah, tell the King from me that, for his father’s sake, Henry the Fifth, in whose time boys went to span-counter for French crowns, I am content he shall reign, but I’ll be Protector over him. DICK. And furthermore, we’ll have the Lord Saye’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 Saye hath gelded the commonwealth and made it an eunuch; and more than that, he can speak French, and therefore he is a traitor. STAFFORD. O gross and miserable ignorance! CADE. Nay, answer if you can. The Frenchmen are our enemies; go to, then, I ask but this: can he that speaks with the tongue of an enemy be a good counsellor, or no? ALL. No, no, and therefore we’ll have his head. BROTHER. Well, seeing gentle words will not prevail, Assail them with the army of the King. STAFFORD. Herald, away, and throughout every town Proclaim them traitors that are up with Cade; That those which fly before the battle ends May, even in their wives’ and children’s sight, Be hanged up for example at their doors. And you that be the King’s friends, follow me. [_Exeunt the two Staffords and soldiers._] CADE. And you that love the commons follow me. Now show yourselves men; ’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 As would, but that they dare not, take our parts. DICK. They are all in order and march toward us. CADE. But then are we in order when we are most out of order. Come, march forward. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Another part of Blackheath [Alarums to the fight, wherein both the Staffords are slain. Enter Cade and the rest. CADE. Where’s Dick, the butcher of Ashford? DICK. Here, sir. CADE. They fell before thee like sheep and oxen, and thou behaved’st thyself as if thou hadst been in thine own slaughterhouse. Therefore thus will I reward thee: the Lent shall be as long again as it is, and thou shalt have a licence to kill for a hundred lacking one. DICK. I desire no more. CADE. And, to speak truth, thou deservest no less. This monument of the victory will I bear. [_putting on Sir Humphrey’s brigandine_] And the bodies shall be dragged at my horse heels till I do come to London, where we will have the Mayor’s sword borne before us. DICK. If we mean to thrive and do good, break open the gaols and let out the prisoners. CADE. Fear not that, I warrant thee. Come, let’s march towards London. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. London. The Palace Enter the King with a supplication, and the Queen with Suffolk’s head, the Duke of Buckingham and the Lord Saye. QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside_.] Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind And makes it fearful and degenerate; Think therefore on revenge and cease to weep. But who can cease to weep and look on this? Here may his head lie on my throbbing breast; But where’s the body that I should embrace? BUCKINGHAM. What answer makes your grace to the rebels’ supplication? KING HENRY. I’ll send some holy bishop to entreat, For God forbid so many simple souls Should perish by the sword! And I myself, Rather than bloody war shall cut them short, Will parley with Jack Cade their general. But stay, I’ll read it over once again. QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside_.] Ah, barbarous villains! Hath this lovely face Ruled, like a wandering planet, over me, And could it not enforce them to relent That were unworthy to behold the same? KING HENRY. Lord Saye, Jack Cade hath sworn to have thy head. SAYE. Ay, but I hope your highness shall have his. KING HENRY. How now, madam? Still lamenting and mourning for Suffolk’s death? I fear me, love, if that I had been dead, Thou wouldst not have mourned so much for me. QUEEN MARGARET. No, my love, I should not mourn, but die for thee. Enter a Messenger. KING HENRY. How now, what news? Why com’st thou in such haste? MESSENGER. The rebels are in Southwark; fly, my lord! Jack Cade proclaims himself Lord Mortimer, Descended from the Duke of Clarence’ house, And calls your grace usurper openly, And vows to crown himself in Westminster. His army is a ragged multitude Of hinds and peasants, rude and merciless. Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother’s death Hath given them heart and courage to proceed. All scholars, lawyers, courtiers, gentlemen, They call false caterpillars, and intend their death. KING HENRY. O graceless men! They know not what they do. BUCKINGHAM. My gracious lord, retire to Killingworth Until a power be raised to put them down. QUEEN MARGARET. Ah, were the Duke of Suffolk now alive, These Kentish rebels would be soon appeased! KING HENRY. Lord Saye, the traitors hate thee; Therefore away with us to Killingworth. SAYE. So might your grace’s person be in danger. The sight of me is odious in their eyes; And therefore in this city will I stay And live alone as secret as I may. Enter another Messenger. MESSENGER. Jack Cade hath gotten London Bridge; The citizens fly and forsake their houses. The rascal people, thirsting after prey, Join with the traitor, and they jointly swear To spoil the city and your royal court. BUCKINGHAM. Then linger not, my lord; away, take horse! KING HENRY. Come, Margaret. God, our hope, will succour us. QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside_.] My hope is gone, now Suffolk is deceased. KING HENRY. Farewell, my lord. Trust not the Kentish rebels. BUCKINGHAM. Trust nobody, for fear you be betrayed. SAYE. The trust I have is in mine innocence, And therefore am I bold and resolute. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. London. The Tower Enter Lord Scales upon the Tower, walking. Then enter two or three Citizens below. SCALES. How now? Is Jack Cade slain? 1 CITIZEN. No, my lord, nor likely to be slain; for they have won the Bridge, killing all those that withstand them. The Lord Mayor craves aid of your honour from the Tower to defend the city from the rebels. SCALES. Such aid as I can spare you shall command, But I am troubled here with them myself; The rebels have assayed to win the Tower. But get you to Smithfield and gather head, And thither I will send you Matthew Gough. Fight for your king, your country, and your lives! And so farewell, for I must hence again. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. London. Cannon Street Enter Jack Cade and the rest, and strikes his staff on London Stone. CADE. Now is Mortimer lord of this city. And here, sitting upon London Stone, I charge and command that, of the city’s cost, the 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. SOLDIER. Jack Cade! Jack Cade! CADE. Knock him down there. [_They kill him._] DICK. If this fellow be wise, he’ll never call ye Jack Cade more. I think he hath a very fair warning. 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. London. Smithfield Alarums. Matthew Gough is slain, and all the rest. Then enter Jack Cade with his company. CADE. So, sirs. Now go some and pull down the Savoy; others to th’ Inns of Court; down with them all. DICK. I have a suit unto your lordship. CADE. Be it a lordship, thou shalt have it for that word. DICK. Only that the laws of England may come out of your mouth. HOLLAND. [_Aside_.] Mass, ’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. CADE. I have thought upon it, it shall be so. Away, burn all the records of the realm. My mouth shall be the parliament of England. HOLLAND. [_Aside_.] Then we are like to have biting statutes, unless his teeth be pulled out. CADE. And henceforward all things shall be in common. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. My lord, a prize, a prize! Here’s the Lord Saye, which sold the towns in France; he that made us pay one-and-twenty fifteens, and one shilling to the pound, the last subsidy. Enter George Bevis with the Lord Saye. CADE. Well, he shall be beheaded for it ten times. Ah, thou say, thou serge, nay, thou buckram lord! Now art thou within point-blank of our jurisdiction regal. What canst thou answer to my majesty for giving up of Normandy unto Mounsieur Basimecu, the Dauphin of France? Be it known unto thee by these presence, even the presence of Lord Mortimer, that I am the besom that must sweep the court clean of such filth as thou art. Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school; and whereas, before, our forefathers had no other books but the score and the tally, thou hast caused printing to be used, and, contrary to the King, his crown, and dignity, thou hast built a paper-mill. It will be proved to thy face that thou hast men about thee that usually talk of a noun and a verb, and such abominable words as no Christian ear can endure to hear. Thou hast appointed justices of peace, to call poor men before them about matters they were not able to answer. Moreover, thou hast put them in prison, and because they could not read, thou hast hanged them, when indeed only for that cause they have been most worthy to live. Thou dost ride on a foot-cloth, dost thou not? SAYE. What of that? CADE. Marry, thou ought’st not to let thy horse wear a cloak when honester men than thou go in their hose and doublets. DICK. And work in their shirt too; as myself, for example, that am a butcher. SAYE. You men of Kent— DICK. What say you of Kent? SAYE. Nothing but this; ’tis _bona terra, mala gens_. CADE. Away with him, away with him! He speaks Latin. SAYE. Hear me but speak, and bear me where you will. Kent, in the Commentaries Caesar writ, Is termed the civil’st place of all this isle. Sweet is the country, because full of riches; The people liberal, valiant, active, wealthy; Which makes me hope you are not void of pity. I sold not Maine, I lost not Normandy, Yet to recover them would lose my life. Justice with favour have I always done; Prayers and tears have moved me, gifts could never. When have I aught exacted at your hands Kent to maintain the King, the realm, and you? Large gifts have I bestowed on learned clerks, Because my book preferred me to the King. And seeing ignorance is the curse of God, Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven, Unless you be possessed with devilish spirits, You cannot but forbear to murder me. This tongue hath parleyed unto foreign kings For your behoof— CADE. Tut, when struck’st thou one blow in the field? SAYE. Great men have reaching hands; oft have I struck Those that I never saw, and struck them dead. GEORGE. O monstrous coward! What, to come behind folks? SAYE. These cheeks are pale for watching for your good. CADE. Give him a box o’ th’ ear, and that will make ’em red again. SAYE. Long sitting to determine poor men’s causes Hath made me full of sickness and diseases. CADE. Ye shall have a hempen caudle then, and the help of hatchet. DICK. Why dost thou quiver, man? SAYE. 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. SAYE. Tell me, wherein have I offended most? Have I affected wealth or honour? Speak. Are my chests filled up with extorted gold? Is my apparel sumptuous to behold? Whom have I injured, that ye seek my death? These hands are free from guiltless bloodshedding, This breast from harbouring foul deceitful thoughts. O, let me live! CADE. [_Aside_.] I feel remorse in myself with his words, but I’ll bridle it. He shall die, an it be but for pleading so well for his life. Away with him! He has a familiar under his tongue; he speaks not i’ God’s name. Go, take him away, I say, and strike off his head presently; and then break into his son-in-law’s house, Sir James Cromer, and strike off his head, and bring them both upon two poles hither. ALL. It shall be done. SAYE. Ah, countrymen, if when you make your prayers, God should be so obdurate as yourselves, How would it fare with your departed souls? And therefore yet relent, and save my life. CADE. Away with him! And do as I command ye. [_Exeunt some with Lord Saye._] The proudest peer in the realm shall not wear a head on his shoulders unless he pay me tribute; there shall not a maid be married but she shall pay to me her maidenhead ere they have it. Men shall hold of me _in capite;_ and we charge and command that their wives be as free as heart can wish or tongue can tell. DICK. My lord, when shall we go to Cheapside and take up commodities upon our bills? CADE. Marry, presently. ALL. O, brave! Enter one with the heads. CADE. But is not this braver? Let them kiss one another, for they loved well when they were alive. Now part them again, lest they consult about the giving up of some more towns in France. Soldiers, defer the spoil of the city until night; for with these borne before us instead of maces will we ride through the streets, and at every corner have them kiss. Away! [_Exeunt._] SCENE VIII. Southwark Alarum and retreat. Enter Cade and all his rabblement. CADE. Up Fish Street! Down Saint Magnus’ Corner! Kill and knock down! Throw them into Thames! [_Sound a parley_.] What noise is this I hear? Dare any be so bold to sound retreat or parley when I command them kill? Enter Buckingham and old Clifford attended. BUCKINGHAM. Ay, here they be that dare and will disturb thee. Know, Cade, we come ambassadors from the King Unto the commons, whom thou hast misled, And here pronounce free pardon to them all That will forsake thee and go home in peace. CLIFFORD. What say ye, countrymen? Will ye relent And yield to mercy whilst ’tis offered you, Or let a rebel lead you to your deaths? Who loves the King and will embrace his pardon, Fling up his cap, and say “God save his Majesty!” Who hateth him and honours not his father, Henry the Fifth, that made all France to quake, Shake he his weapon at us and pass by. ALL. God save the King! God save the King! CADE. What, Buckingham and Clifford, are ye so brave? And you, base peasants, do ye believe him? Will you needs be hanged with your 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! CLIFFORD. Is Cade the son of Henry the Fifth, That thus you do exclaim you’ll go with him? Will he conduct you through the heart of France And make the meanest of you earls and dukes? Alas, he hath no home, no place to fly to, Nor knows he how to live but by the spoil, Unless by robbing of your friends and us. Were ’t not a shame that whilst you live at jar The fearful French, whom you late vanquished, Should make a start o’er seas and vanquish you? Methinks already in this civil broil I see them lording it in London streets, Crying “_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! Spare England, for it is your native coast. Henry hath money, you are strong and manly; God on our side, doubt not of victory. ALL. A Clifford! A Clifford! We’ll follow the King and Clifford. CADE. Was ever feather so lightly blown to and fro as this multitude? The name of Henry the Fifth hales them to an hundred mischiefs and makes them leave me desolate. I see them lay their heads together to surprise me. My sword make way for me, for here is no staying.—In despite of the devils and hell, have through the very middest of you! And heavens and honour be witness that no want of resolution in me, but only my followers’ base and ignominious treasons, makes me betake me to my heels. [_Exit._] BUCKINGHAM. What, is he fled? Go some, and follow him; And he that brings his head unto the King Shall have a thousand crowns for his reward. [_Exeunt some of them._] Follow me, soldiers; we’ll devise a mean To reconcile you all unto the King. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IX. Kenilworth Castle Sound trumpets. Enter King, Queen and Somerset on the terrace, aloft. KING HENRY. Was ever king that joyed an earthly throne And could command no more content than I? No sooner was I crept out of my cradle But I was made a king at nine months old. Was never subject longed to be a king As I do long and wish to be a subject. Enter Buckingham and old Clifford. BUCKINGHAM. Health and glad tidings to your majesty! KING HENRY. Why, Buckingham, is the traitor Cade surprised? Or is he but retired to make him strong? Enter below multitudes with halters about their necks. CLIFFORD. He is fled, my lord, and all his powers do yield, And humbly thus, with halters on their necks, Expect your highness’ doom of life or death. KING HENRY. Then, heaven, set ope thy everlasting gates To entertain my vows of thanks and praise! Soldiers, this day have you redeemed your lives And showed how well you love your prince and country. Continue still in this so good a mind, And Henry, though he be infortunate, Assure yourselves, will never be unkind. And so, with thanks and pardon to you all, I do dismiss you to your several countries. ALL. God save the King! God save the King! Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. Please it your grace to be advertised The Duke of York is newly come from Ireland, And with a puissant and a mighty power Of gallowglasses and stout kerns Is marching hitherward in proud array, And still proclaimeth, as he comes along, His arms are only to remove from thee The Duke of Somerset, whom he terms a traitor. KING HENRY. Thus stands my state, ’twixt Cade and York distressed, Like to a ship that, having scaped a tempest, Is straightway calmed and boarded with a pirate. But now is Cade driven back, his men dispersed, And now is York in arms to second him. I pray thee, Buckingham, go and meet him, And ask him 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 dismissed from him. SOMERSET. My lord, I’ll yield myself to prison willingly, Or unto death, to do my country good. KING HENRY. In any case, be not too rough in terms, For he is fierce and cannot brook hard language. BUCKINGHAM. I will, my lord, and doubt not so to deal As all things shall redound unto your good. KING HENRY. Come, wife, let’s in, and learn to govern better; For yet may England curse my wretched reign. [_Flourish. Exeunt._] SCENE X. Kent. Iden’s Garden Enter Cade. CADE. Fie on ambitions! Fie on myself, that have a sword and yet am ready to famish! These five days have I hid me in these woods and durst not peep out, for all the country is laid for me; but now am I so hungry that if I might have a lease of my life for a thousand years, I could stay no longer. Wherefore, o’er 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. Enter Iden and his men. IDEN. Lord, who would live turmoiled in the court And may enjoy such quiet walks as these? This small inheritance my father left me Contenteth me, and worth a monarchy. I seek not to wax great by others’ waning, Or gather wealth, I care not with what envy; Sufficeth that I have maintains my state And sends the poor well pleased from my gate. CADE. Here’s the lord of the soil come to seize me for a stray, for entering his fee-simple without leave.—Ah, villain, thou wilt betray me and get a thousand crowns of the King by carrying my head to him; but I’ll make thee eat iron like an ostrich, and swallow my sword like a great pin, ere thou and I part. IDEN. Why, rude companion, whatsoe’er thou be, I know thee not; why, then, should I betray thee? Is ’t not enough to break into my garden And, like a thief, to come to rob my grounds, Climbing my walls in spite of me the owner, But thou wilt brave me with these saucy terms? CADE. Brave thee? Ay, by the best blood that ever was broached, and beard thee too. Look on me well: I have eat no meat these five days, yet come thou and thy five men, and if I do not leave you all as dead as a doornail, I pray God I may never eat grass more. IDEN. Nay, it shall ne’er be said, while England stands, That Alexander Iden, an esquire of Kent, Took odds to combat a poor famished man. Oppose thy steadfast-gazing eyes to mine, See if thou canst outface me with thy looks. Set limb to limb and thou art far the lesser; Thy hand is but a finger to my fist, Thy leg a stick compared with this truncheon. My foot shall fight with all the strength thou hast; And if mine arm be heaved in the air, Thy grave is digged already in the earth. As for words, whose greatness answers words, Let this my sword report what speech forbears. CADE. By my valour, the most complete champion that ever I heard! Steel, if thou turn the edge, or cut not out the burly-boned clown in chines of beef ere thou sleep in thy sheath, I beseech God on my knees thou mayst be turned to hobnails. [_Here they fight and Cade falls._] O, I am slain! Famine and no other hath slain me. Let ten thousand devils come against me, and give me but the ten meals I have lost, and I’d defy them all. Wither, garden; and be henceforth a burying place to all that do dwell in this house, because the unconquered soul of Cade is fled. IDEN. Is’t Cade that I have slain, that monstrous traitor? Sword, I will hallow thee for this thy deed, And hang thee o’er my tomb when I am dead. Ne’er shall this blood be wiped from thy point, But thou shalt wear it as a herald’s coat To emblaze the honour that thy master got. CADE. Iden, farewell, and be proud of thy victory. Tell Kent from me she hath lost her best man, and exhort all the world to be cowards; for I, that never feared any, am vanquished by famine, not by valour. [_Dies._] IDEN. How much thou wrong’st me, heaven be my judge. Die, damned wretch, the curse of her that bare thee! And as I thrust thy body in with my sword, So wish I, I might thrust thy soul to hell. Hence will I drag thee headlong by the heels Unto a dunghill, which shall be thy grave, And there cut off thy most ungracious head, Which I will bear in triumph to the King, Leaving thy trunk for crows to feed upon. [_Exit._] ACT V SCENE I. Fields between Dartford and Blackheath Enter York and his army of Irish, with drum and colours. YORK. From Ireland thus comes York to claim his right And pluck the crown from feeble Henry’s head. Ring, bells, aloud; burn, bonfires, clear and bright, To entertain great England’s lawful king. Ah, _sancta majestas_, who would not buy thee dear? Let them obey that knows not how to rule. This hand was made to handle nought but gold. I cannot give due action to my words Except a sword or sceptre balance it. A sceptre shall it have, have I a soul, On which I’ll toss the fleur-de-luce of France. Enter Buckingham. Whom have we here? Buckingham, to disturb me? The King hath sent him, sure. I must dissemble. BUCKINGHAM. York, if thou meanest well, I greet thee well. YORK. Humphrey of Buckingham, I accept thy greeting. Art thou a messenger, or come of pleasure? BUCKINGHAM. A messenger from Henry, our dread liege, To know the reason of these arms in peace; Or why thou, being a subject as I am, Against thy oath and true allegiance sworn, Should raise so great a power without his leave, Or dare to bring thy force so near the court. YORK. [_Aside_.] Scarce can I speak, my choler is so great. O, I could hew up rocks and fight with flint, I am so angry at these abject terms; And now, like Ajax Telamonius, On sheep or oxen could I spend my fury. I am far better born than is the King, More like a king, more kingly in my thoughts. But I must make fair weather yet awhile, Till Henry be more weak and I more strong.— Buckingham, I prithee, pardon me, That I have given no answer all this while; My mind was troubled with deep melancholy. The cause why I have brought this army hither Is to remove proud Somerset from the King, Seditious to his grace and to the state. BUCKINGHAM. That is too much presumption on thy part; But if thy arms be to no other end, The King hath yielded unto thy demand: The Duke of Somerset is in the Tower. YORK. Upon thine honour, is he prisoner? BUCKINGHAM. Upon mine honour, he is prisoner. YORK. Then, Buckingham, I do dismiss my powers. Soldiers, I thank you all; disperse yourselves; Meet me tomorrow in Saint George’s field, You shall have pay and everything you wish. [_Exeunt Soldiers._] And let my sovereign, virtuous Henry, Command my eldest son, nay, all my sons, As pledges of my fealty and love, I’ll send them all as willing as I live. Lands, goods, horse, armour, anything I have Is his to use, so Somerset may die. BUCKINGHAM. York, I commend this kind submission. We twain will go into his highness’ tent. Enter King and Attendants. KING HENRY. Buckingham, doth York intend no harm to us That thus he marcheth with thee arm in arm? YORK. In all submission and humility York doth present himself unto your highness. KING HENRY. Then what intends these forces thou dost bring? YORK. To heave the traitor Somerset from hence And fight against that monstrous rebel Cade, Who since I heard to be discomfited. Enter Iden with Cade’s head. IDEN. If one so rude and of so mean condition May pass into the presence of a king, Lo, I present your grace a traitor’s head, The head of Cade, whom I in combat slew. KING HENRY. The head of Cade! Great God, how just art Thou! O, let me view his visage, being dead, That living wrought me such exceeding trouble. Tell me, my friend, art thou the man that slew him? IDEN. I was, an ’t like your majesty. KING HENRY. How art thou called? And what is thy degree? IDEN. Alexander Iden, that’s my name; A poor esquire of Kent, that loves his King. BUCKINGHAM. So please it you, my lord, ’twere not amiss He were created knight for his good service. KING HENRY. 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. IDEN. May Iden live to merit such a bounty, And never live but true unto his liege! [_Rises._] Enter Queen and Somerset. KING HENRY. See, Buckingham, Somerset comes with the Queen. Go, bid her hide him quickly from the Duke. QUEEN MARGARET. For thousand Yorks he shall not hide his head, But boldly stand and front him to his face. YORK. How now? Is Somerset at liberty? Then, York, unloose thy long-imprisoned thoughts, And let thy tongue be equal with thy heart. Shall I endure the sight of Somerset? False king, why hast thou broken faith with me, Knowing how hardly I can brook abuse? “King” did I call thee? No, thou art not king, Not fit to govern and rule multitudes, Which dar’st not, no, nor canst not rule a traitor. That head of thine doth not become a crown; Thy hand is made to grasp a palmer’s staff, And not to grace an awful princely sceptre. That gold must round engirt these brows of mine, Whose smile and frown, like to Achilles’ spear, Is able with the change to kill and cure. Here is a hand to hold a sceptre up And with the same to act controlling laws. Give place! By heaven, thou shalt rule no more O’er him whom heaven created for thy ruler. SOMERSET. O monstrous traitor! I arrest thee, York, Of capital treason ’gainst the King and crown. Obey, audacious traitor, kneel for grace. YORK. Wouldst have me kneel? First let me ask of these If they can brook I bow a knee to man. Sirrah, call in my sons to be my bail. [_Exit Attendant._] I know, ere they will have me go to ward, They’ll pawn their swords for my enfranchisement. QUEEN MARGARET. Call hither Clifford; bid him come amain, To say if that the bastard boys of York Shall be the surety for their traitor father. [_Exit Buckingham._] YORK. O blood-bespotted Neapolitan, Outcast of Naples, England’s bloody scourge! The sons of York, thy betters in their birth, Shall be their father’s bail; and bane to those That for my surety will refuse the boys! Enter Edward and Richard. See where they come; I’ll warrant they’ll make it good. Enter old Clifford and his Son. QUEEN MARGARET. And here comes Clifford to deny their bail. CLIFFORD. Health and all happiness to my lord the King. [_Rises._] YORK. I thank thee, Clifford. Say, what news with thee? Nay, do not fright us with an angry look. We are thy sovereign, Clifford, kneel again. For thy mistaking so, we pardon thee. CLIFFORD. This is my king, York, I do not mistake; But thou mistakes me much to think I do. To Bedlam with him! Is the man grown mad? KING HENRY. Ay, Clifford; a bedlam and ambitious humour Makes him oppose himself against his king. CLIFFORD. He is a traitor; let him to the Tower, And chop away that factious pate of his. QUEEN MARGARET. He is arrested, but will not obey; His sons, he says, shall give their words for him. YORK. Will you not, sons? EDWARD. Ay, noble father, if our words will serve. RICHARD. And if words will not, then our weapons shall. CLIFFORD. Why, what a brood of traitors have we here! YORK. Look in a glass, and call thy image so. I am thy king, and thou a false-heart traitor. Call hither to the stake my two brave bears, That with the very shaking of their chains They may astonish these fell-lurking curs. Bid Salisbury and Warwick come to me. Enter the Earls of Warwick and Salisbury. CLIFFORD. Are these thy bears? We’ll bait thy bears to death And manacle the bearherd in their chains, If thou dar’st bring them to the baiting-place. RICHARD. Oft have I seen a hot o’erweening cur Run back and bite because he was withheld, Who, being suffered with the bear’s fell paw, Hath clapped his tail between his legs and cried; And such a piece of service will you do If you oppose yourselves to match Lord Warwick. CLIFFORD. Hence, heap of wrath, foul indigested lump, As crooked in thy manners as thy shape! YORK. Nay, we shall heat you thoroughly anon. CLIFFORD. Take heed, lest by your heat you burn yourselves. KING HENRY. Why, Warwick, hath thy knee forgot to bow? Old Salisbury, shame to thy silver hair, Thou mad misleader of thy brainsick son! What, wilt thou on thy deathbed play the ruffian, And seek for sorrow with thy spectacles? O, where is faith? O, where is loyalty? If it be banished from the frosty head, Where shall it find a harbour in the earth? Wilt thou go dig a grave to find out war, And shame thine honourable age with blood? Why art thou old, and want’st experience? Or wherefore dost abuse it, if thou hast it? For shame, in duty bend thy knee to me That bows unto the grave with mickle age. SALISBURY. My lord, I have considered with myself The title of this most renowned duke, And in my conscience do repute his grace The rightful heir to England’s royal seat. KING HENRY. Hast thou not sworn allegiance unto me? SALISBURY. I have. KING HENRY. Canst thou dispense with heaven for such an oath? SALISBURY. It is great sin to swear unto a sin, But greater sin to keep a sinful oath. Who can be bound by any solemn vow To do a 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 customed right, And have no other reason for this wrong But that he was bound by a solemn oath? QUEEN MARGARET. A subtle traitor needs no sophister. KING HENRY. Call Buckingham, and bid him arm himself. YORK. Call Buckingham, and all the friends thou hast, I am resolved for death or dignity. CLIFFORD. The first I warrant thee, if dreams prove true. WARWICK. You were best to go to bed and dream again, To keep thee from the tempest of the field. CLIFFORD. I am resolved to bear a greater storm Than any thou canst conjure up today; And that I’ll write upon thy burgonet, Might I but know thee by thy household badge. WARWICK. Now, by my father’s badge, old Neville’s crest, The rampant bear chained to the ragged staff, This day I’ll wear aloft my burgonet, As on a mountain top the cedar shows That keeps his leaves in spite of any storm, Even to affright thee with the view thereof. CLIFFORD. And from thy burgonet I’ll rend thy bear And tread it under foot with all contempt, Despite the bearherd that protects the bear. YOUNG CLIFFORD. And so to arms, victorious father, To quell the rebels and their complices. RICHARD. Fie, charity, for shame! Speak not in spite, For you shall sup with Jesu Christ tonight. YOUNG CLIFFORD. Foul stigmatic, that’s more than thou canst tell. RICHARD. If not in heaven, you’ll surely sup in hell. [_Exeunt severally._] SCENE II. Saint Albans The sign of the Castle Inn is displayed. Alarums to the battle. Enter Warwick. WARWICK. Clifford of Cumberland, ’tis Warwick calls; An if thou dost not hide thee from the bear, Now, when the angry trumpet sounds alarum And dead men’s cries do fill the empty air, Clifford, I say, come forth and fight with me! Proud northern lord, Clifford of Cumberland, Warwick is hoarse with calling thee to arms. Enter York. How now, my noble lord? What, all afoot? YORK. The deadly-handed Clifford slew my steed, But match to match I have encountered him And made a prey for carrion kites and crows Even of the bonny beast he loved so well. Enter old Clifford. WARWICK. Of one or both of us the time is come. YORK. Hold, Warwick, seek thee out some other chase, For I myself must hunt this deer to death. WARWICK. Then, nobly, York; ’tis for a crown thou fight’st. As I intend, Clifford, to thrive today, It grieves my soul to leave thee unassailed. [_Exit._] CLIFFORD. What seest thou in me, York? Why dost thou pause? YORK. With thy brave bearing should I be in love, But that thou art so fast mine enemy. CLIFFORD. Nor should thy prowess want praise and esteem, But that ’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! CLIFFORD. My soul and body on the action both! YORK. A dreadful lay! Address thee instantly. [_They fight and Clifford falls._] CLIFFORD. _La fin couronne les oeuvres._ [_Dies._] YORK. Thus war hath given thee peace, for thou art still. Peace with his soul, heaven, if it be thy will! [_Exit._] Enter young Clifford. YOUNG CLIFFORD. Shame and confusion! All is on the rout, Fear frames disorder, and disorder wounds Where it should guard. O war, thou son of hell, Whom angry heavens do make their minister, Throw in the frozen bosoms of our part Hot coals of vengeance! Let no soldier fly. He that is truly dedicate to war Hath no self-love; nor he that loves himself Hath not essentially but by circumstance, The name of valour. [_Sees his dead father_.] O, let the vile world end And the premised flames of the last day Knit earth and heaven together! Now let the general trumpet blow his blast, Particularities and petty sounds To cease! Wast thou ordained, dear father, To lose thy youth in peace, and to achieve The silver livery of advised age, And, in thy reverence and thy chair-days, thus To die in ruffian battle? Even at this sight My heart is turned to stone, and while ’tis mine It shall be stony. York not our old men spares; No more will I their babes; tears virginal Shall be to me even as the dew to fire, And beauty, that the tyrant oft reclaims, Shall to my flaming wrath be oil and flax. Henceforth I will not have to do with pity. Meet I an infant of the house of York, Into as many gobbets will I cut it As wild Medea young Absyrtus did. In cruelty will I seek out my fame. [_He takes him up on his back._] Come, thou new ruin of old Clifford’s house; As did Aeneas old Anchises bear, So bear I thee upon my manly shoulders; But then Aeneas bare a living load, Nothing so heavy as these woes of mine. [_Exit, bearing off his father._] Enter Richard and Somerset to fight. Somerset is killed. RICHARD. So, lie thou there; For underneath an alehouse’ paltry sign, The Castle in Saint Albans, Somerset Hath made the wizard famous in his death. Sword, hold thy temper; heart, be wrathful still! Priests pray for enemies, but princes kill. [_Exit._] Fight. Excursions. Enter King, Queen and others. QUEEN MARGARET. Away, my lord! You are slow, for shame, away! KING HENRY. Can we outrun the heavens? Good Margaret, stay. QUEEN MARGARET. What are you made of? You’ll nor fight nor fly. Now is it manhood, wisdom, and defence To give the enemy way, and to secure us By what we can, which can no more but fly. [_Alarum afar off._] If you be ta’en, we then should see the bottom Of all our fortunes; but if we haply scape, As well we may, if not through your neglect, We shall to London get, where you are loved And where this breach now in our fortunes made May readily be stopped. Enter young Clifford. YOUNG CLIFFORD. But that my heart’s on future mischief set, I would speak blasphemy ere bid you fly; But fly you must; uncurable discomfit Reigns in the hearts of all our present parts. Away, for your relief! And we will live To see their day and them our fortune give. Away, my lord, away! [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Fields near Saint Albans Alarum. Retreat. Enter York, Richard, Warwick and Soldiers with drum and colours. YORK. Of Salisbury, who can report of him, That winter lion, who in rage forgets Aged contusions and all brush of time, And, like a gallant in the brow of youth, Repairs him with occasion? This happy day Is not itself, nor have we won one foot, If Salisbury be lost. RICHARD. My noble father, Three times today I holp him to his horse, Three times bestrid him; thrice I led him off, Persuaded him from any further act; But still, where danger was, still there I met him, And like rich hangings in a homely house, So was his will in his old feeble body. But, noble as he is, look where he comes. Enter Salisbury. Now, by my sword, well hast thou fought today. SALISBURY. By th’ mass, so did we all. I thank you, Richard. God knows how long it is I have to live, And it hath pleased him that three times today You have defended me from imminent death. Well, lords, we have not got that which we have; ’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 To call a present court of parliament. Let us pursue him ere the writs go forth. What says Lord Warwick? Shall we after them? WARWICK. After them? Nay, before them, if we can. Now, by my hand, lords, ’twas a glorious day. Saint Albans battle won by famous York Shall be eternized in all age to come. Sound drums and trumpets, and to London all; And more such days as these to us befall! [_Exeunt._] THE THIRD PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH Contents ACT I Scene I. London. The Parliament House Scene II. Sandal Castle Scene III. Plains near Sandal Castle Scene IV. The Same ACT II Scene I. A plain near Mortimer’s Cross in Herefordshire Scene II. Before York Scene III. A field of battle between Towton and Saxton, in Yorkshire Scene IV. Another Part of the Field Scene V. Another Part of the Field Scene VI. Another Part of the Field ACT III Scene I. A Forest in the North of England Scene II. The Palace Scene III. France. The King’s Palace ACT IV Scene I. London. The Palace Scene II. A Plain in Warwickshire Scene III. Edward’s Camp near Warwick Scene IV. London. The Palace Scene V. A park near Middleham Castle in Yorkshire Scene VI. London. The Tower Scene VII. Before York Scene VIII. London. The Palace ACT V Scene I. Coventry Scene II. A Field of Battle near Barnet Scene III. Another Part of the Field Scene IV. Plains near Tewkesbury Scene V. Another part of the Field Scene VI. London. The Tower Scene VII. London. The Palace Dramatis Personæ KING HENRY the Sixth QUEEN MARGARET PRINCE EDWARD, Prince of Wales, his son DUKE OF SOMERSET DUKE OF EXETER EARL OF OXFORD EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND EARL OF WESTMORELAND LORD CLIFFORD RICHARD PLANTAGENET, Duke of York EDWARD, Earl of March, afterwards King Edward IV., his son GEORGE, afterwards Duke of Clarence, his son RICHARD, afterwards Duke of Gloucester, his son EDMUND, Earl of Rutland, his son DUKE OF NORFOLK MARQUESS OF MONTAGUE EARL OF WARWICK EARL OF PEMBROKE LORD HASTINGS LORD STAFFORD SIR JOHN MORTIMER, uncle to the Duke of York SIR HUGH MORTIMER, uncle to the Duke of York LADY GREY, afterwards Queen Elizabeth to Edward IV EARL RIVERS, brother to Lady Grey HENRY, Earl of Richmond, a youth SIR WILLIAM STANLEY SIR JOHN MONTGOMERY SIR JOHN SOMERVILLE KING LEWIS the Eleventh, King of France BONA, sister to the French Queen 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 Soldiers, Attendants, Messengers, Watchmen, etc. SCENE: England and France ACT I SCENE I. London. The Parliament House Alarum. Enter Duke of York, Edward, Richard, Norfolk, Montague, Warwick and Soldiers, all wearing the white rose. WARWICK. I wonder how the King escaped our hands. YORK. While we pursued the horsemen of the north, He slyly stole away and left his men; Whereat the great Lord of Northumberland, Whose warlike ears could never brook retreat, Cheered up the drooping army; and himself, Lord Clifford, and Lord Stafford, all abreast, Charged our main battle’s front, and breaking in, Were by the swords of common soldiers slain. EDWARD. Lord Stafford’s father, Duke of Buckingham, Is either slain or wounded dangerous; I cleft his beaver with a downright blow. That this is true, father, behold his blood. [_Showing his bloody sword._] MONTAGUE. And, brother, here’s the Earl of Wiltshire’s blood, [_To York, showing his._] Whom I encountered as the battles joined. RICHARD. Speak thou for me, and tell them what I did. [_Throwing down the Duke of Somerset’s head._] YORK. Richard hath best deserved of all my sons. But is your Grace dead, my Lord of Somerset? NORFOLK. Such hope have all the line of John of Gaunt! RICHARD. Thus do I hope to shake King Henry’s head. WARWICK. And so do I. Victorious Prince of York, Before I see thee seated in that throne Which now the house of Lancaster usurps, I vow by heaven these eyes shall never close. This is the palace of the fearful king, And this the regal seat. Possess it, York, For this is thine, and not King Henry’s heirs’. YORK. Assist me, then, sweet Warwick, and I will; For hither we have broken in by force. NORFOLK. We’ll all assist you; he that flies shall die. YORK. Thanks, gentle Norfolk. Stay by me, my lords; And, soldiers, stay and lodge by me this night. WARWICK. And when the King comes, offer him no violence, Unless he seek to thrust you out perforce. [_They retire._] YORK. The Queen this day here holds her parliament, But little thinks we shall be of her council. By words or blows here let us win our right. RICHARD. Armed as we are, let’s stay within this house. WARWICK. The bloody parliament shall this be called, Unless Plantagenet, Duke of York, be king, And bashful Henry deposed, whose cowardice Hath made us bywords to our enemies. YORK. Then leave me not, my lords; be resolute. I mean to take possession of my right. WARWICK. Neither the King, nor he that loves him best, The proudest he that holds up Lancaster, Dares stir a wing if Warwick shake his bells. I’ll plant Plantagenet, root him up who dares. Resolve thee, Richard; claim the English crown. [_Warwick leads York to the throne, who seats himself._] Flourish. Enter King Henry, Clifford, Northumberland, Westmoreland, Exeter and the rest, all wearing the red rose. KING HENRY. My lords, look where the sturdy rebel sits, Even in the chair of state! Belike he means, Backed by the power of Warwick, that false peer, To aspire unto the crown and reign as king. Earl of Northumberland, he slew thy father, And thine, Lord Clifford; and you both have vowed revenge On him, his sons, his favourites, and his friends. NORTHUMBERLAND. If I be not, heavens be revenged on me! CLIFFORD. The hope thereof makes Clifford mourn in steel. WESTMORELAND. What, shall we suffer this? Let’s pluck him down. My heart for anger burns. I cannot brook it. KING HENRY. Be patient, gentle Earl of Westmoreland. CLIFFORD. Patience is for poltroons, such as he. He durst not sit there had your father lived. My gracious lord, here in the parliament Let us assail the family of York. NORTHUMBERLAND. Well hast thou spoken, cousin. Be it so. KING HENRY. Ah, know you not the city favours them, And they have troops of soldiers at their beck? EXETER. But when the Duke is slain, they’ll quickly fly. KING HENRY. Far be the thought of this from Henry’s heart, To make a shambles of the Parliament House! Cousin of Exeter, frowns, words, and threats Shall be the war that Henry means to use. [_They advance to the Duke._] Thou factious Duke of York, descend my throne, And kneel for grace and mercy at my feet; I am thy sovereign. YORK. I am thine. EXETER. For shame, come down. He made thee Duke of York. YORK. ’Twas my inheritance, as the earldom was. EXETER. Thy father was a traitor to the crown. WARWICK. Exeter, thou art a traitor to the crown In following this usurping Henry. CLIFFORD. Whom should he follow but his natural king? WARWICK. True, Clifford, that’s Richard, Duke of York. KING HENRY. And shall I stand, and thou sit in my throne? YORK. It must and shall be so. Content thyself. WARWICK. Be Duke of Lancaster. Let him be king. WESTMORELAND. He is both King and Duke of Lancaster; And that the Lord of Westmoreland shall maintain. WARWICK. And Warwick shall disprove it. You forget That we are those which chased you from the field And slew your fathers, and with colours spread Marched through the city to the palace gates. NORTHUMBERLAND. Yes, Warwick, I remember it to my grief; And, by his soul, thou and thy house shall rue it. WESTMORELAND. Plantagenet, of thee and these thy sons, Thy kinsmen, and thy friends, I’ll have more lives Than drops of blood were in my father’s veins. CLIFFORD. Urge it no more; lest that, instead of words, I send thee, Warwick, such a messenger As shall revenge his death before I stir. WARWICK. Poor Clifford, how I scorn his worthless threats! YORK. Will you we show our title to the crown? If not, our swords shall plead it in the field. KING HENRY. What title hast thou, traitor, to the crown? Thy father was, as thou art, Duke of York; Thy grandfather, Roger Mortimer, Earl of March. I am the son of Henry the Fifth, Who made the Dauphin and the French to stoop, And seized upon their towns and provinces. WARWICK. Talk not of France, sith thou hast lost it all. KING HENRY. The Lord Protector lost it, and not I. When I was crowned I was but nine months old. RICHARD. You are old enough now, and yet, methinks, you lose. Father, tear the crown from the usurper’s head. EDWARD. Sweet father, do so; set it on your head. MONTAGUE. Good brother, as thou lov’st and honourest arms, Let’s fight it out and not stand cavilling thus. RICHARD. Sound drums and trumpets, and the King will fly. YORK. Sons, peace! KING HENRY. Peace thou, and give King Henry leave to speak. WARWICK. Plantagenet shall speak first. Hear him, lords, And be you silent and attentive too, For he that interrupts him shall not live. KING HENRY. Think’st thou that I will leave my kingly throne, Wherein my grandsire and my father sat? No. First shall war unpeople this my realm; Ay, and their colours, often borne in France, And now in England, to our heart’s great sorrow, Shall be my winding-sheet. Why faint you, lords? My title’s good, and better far than his. WARWICK. Prove it, Henry, and thou shalt be king. KING HENRY. Henry the Fourth by conquest got the crown. YORK. ’Twas by rebellion against his king. KING HENRY. [_Aside_.] I know not what to say; my title’s weak. Tell me, may not a king adopt an heir? YORK. What then? KING HENRY. An if he may, then am I lawful king; For Richard, in the view of many lords, Resigned the crown to Henry the Fourth, Whose heir my father was, and I am his. YORK. He rose against him, being his sovereign, And made him to resign his crown perforce. WARWICK. Suppose, my lords, he did it unconstrained, Think you ’twere prejudicial to his crown? EXETER. No, for he could not so resign his crown But that the next heir should succeed and reign. KING HENRY. Art thou against us, Duke of Exeter? EXETER. His is the right, and therefore pardon me. YORK. Why whisper you, my lords, and answer not? EXETER. My conscience tells me he is lawful king. KING HENRY. [_Aside_.] All will revolt from me and turn to him. NORTHUMBERLAND. Plantagenet, for all the claim thou lay’st, Think not that Henry shall be so deposed. WARWICK. Deposed he shall be, in despite of all. NORTHUMBERLAND. Thou art deceived. ’Tis not thy southern power, Of Essex, Norfolk, Suffolk, nor of Kent, Which makes thee thus presumptuous and proud, Can set the Duke up in despite of me. CLIFFORD. King Henry, be thy title right or wrong, Lord Clifford vows to fight in thy defence. May that ground gape and swallow me alive, Where I shall kneel to him that slew my father! KING HENRY. O Clifford, how thy words revive my heart! YORK. Henry of Lancaster, resign thy crown. What mutter you, or what conspire you, lords? WARWICK. Do right unto this princely Duke of York, Or I will fill the house with armed men, And over the chair of state where now he sits, Write up his title with usurping blood. [_He stamps with his foot, and the Soldiers show themselves._] KING HENRY. My Lord of Warwick, hear but one word: Let me for this my lifetime reign as king. YORK. Confirm the crown to me, and to mine heirs, And thou shalt reign in quiet while thou liv’st. KING HENRY. I am content. Richard Plantagenet, Enjoy the kingdom after my decease. CLIFFORD. What wrong is this unto the Prince your son! WARWICK. What good is this to England and himself! WESTMORELAND. Base, fearful, and despairing Henry! CLIFFORD. How hast thou injured both thyself and us! WESTMORELAND. I cannot stay to hear these articles. NORTHUMBERLAND. Nor I. CLIFFORD. Come, cousin, let us tell the Queen these news. WESTMORELAND. Farewell, faint-hearted and degenerate king, In whose cold blood no spark of honour bides. NORTHUMBERLAND. Be thou a prey unto the house of York, And die in bands for this unmanly deed! CLIFFORD. In dreadful war mayst thou be overcome, Or live in peace abandoned and despised! [_Exeunt Westmoreland, Northumberland and Clifford._] WARWICK. Turn this way, Henry, and regard them not. EXETER. They seek revenge, and therefore will not yield. KING HENRY. Ah, Exeter! WARWICK. Why should you sigh, my lord? KING HENRY. Not for myself, Lord Warwick, but my son, Whom I unnaturally shall disinherit. But be it as it may, [_To York._] I here entail The crown to thee and to thine heirs for ever; Conditionally, that here thou take an oath To cease this civil war, and whilst I live, To honour me as thy king and sovereign, And neither by treason nor hostility To seek to put me down and reign thyself. YORK. This oath I willingly take and will perform. [_Coming from the throne._] WARWICK. Long live King Henry! Plantagenet, embrace him. KING HENRY. And long live thou, and these thy forward sons! YORK. Now York and Lancaster are reconciled. EXETER. Accursed be he that seeks to make them foes! Sennet. Here they come down. YORK. Farewell, my gracious lord. I’ll to my castle. WARWICK. And I’ll keep London with my soldiers. NORFOLK. And I to Norfolk with my followers. MONTAGUE. And I unto the sea from whence I came. [_Exeunt York and his Sons, Warwick, Norfolk, Montague and their Soldiers._] KING HENRY. And I with grief and sorrow to the court. Enter Queen Margaret and the Prince of Wales. EXETER. Here comes the Queen, whose looks bewray her anger. I’ll steal away. KING HENRY. Exeter, so will I. [_Going._] QUEEN MARGARET. Nay, go not from me; I will follow thee. KING HENRY. Be patient, gentle Queen, and I will stay. QUEEN MARGARET. Who can be patient in such extremes? Ah, wretched man, would I had died a maid, And never seen thee, never borne thee son, Seeing thou hast proved so unnatural a father. Hath he deserved to lose his birthright thus? Hadst thou but loved him half so well as I, Or felt that pain which I did for him once, Or nourished him as I did with my blood, Thou wouldst have left thy dearest heart-blood there, Rather than have made that savage duke thine heir And disinherited thine only son. PRINCE EDWARD. Father, you cannot disinherit me. If you be king, why should not I succeed? KING HENRY. Pardon me, Margaret; pardon me, sweet son. The Earl of Warwick and the Duke enforced me. QUEEN MARGARET. Enforced thee! Art thou King, and wilt be forced? I shame to hear thee speak. Ah, timorous wretch, Thou hast undone thyself, thy son, and me, And given unto the house of York such head As thou shalt reign but by their sufferance. To entail him and his heirs unto the crown, What is it but to make thy sepulchre And creep into it far before thy time? Warwick is Chancellor and the lord of Calais; Stern Falconbridge commands the narrow seas; The Duke is made Protector of the realm; And yet shalt thou be safe? Such safety finds The trembling lamb environed with wolves. Had I been there, which am a silly woman, The soldiers should have tossed me on their pikes Before I would have granted to that act. But thou prefer’st thy life before thine honour. And seeing thou dost, I here divorce myself Both from thy table, Henry, and thy bed, Until that act of parliament be repealed Whereby my son is disinherited. The northern lords that have forsworn thy colours Will follow mine if once they see them spread; And spread they shall be, to thy foul disgrace And utter ruin of the house of York. Thus do I leave thee. Come, son, let’s away: Our army is ready; come, we’ll after them. KING HENRY. Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me speak. QUEEN MARGARET. Thou hast spoke too much already. Get thee gone. KING HENRY. Gentle son Edward, thou wilt stay with me? QUEEN MARGARET. Ay, to be murdered by his enemies. PRINCE EDWARD. When I return with victory from the field I’ll see your Grace. Till then I’ll follow her. QUEEN MARGARET. Come, son, away; we may not linger thus. [_Exeunt Queen Margaret and the Prince._] KING HENRY. Poor queen! How love to me and to her son Hath made her break out into terms of rage! Revenged may she be on that hateful Duke, Whose haughty spirit, winged with desire, Will cost my crown, and like an empty eagle Tire on the flesh of me and of my son. The loss of those three lords torments my heart. I’ll write unto them and entreat them fair. Come, cousin, you shall be the messenger. EXETER. And I, I hope, shall reconcile them all. [_Flourish. Exeunt._] SCENE II. Sandal Castle Enter Edward, Richard and Montague. RICHARD. Brother, though I be youngest, give me leave. EDWARD. No, I can better play the orator. MONTAGUE. But I have reasons strong and forcible. Enter the Duke of York. YORK. Why, how now, sons and brother, at a strife? What is your quarrel? How began it first? EDWARD. No quarrel, but a slight contention. YORK. About what? RICHARD. About that which concerns your Grace and us: The crown of England, father, which is yours. YORK. Mine, boy? Not till King Henry be dead. RICHARD. Your right depends not on his life or death. EDWARD. Now you are heir, therefore enjoy it now. By giving the house of Lancaster leave to breathe, It will outrun you, father, in the end. YORK. I took an oath that he should quietly reign. EDWARD. But for a kingdom any oath may be broken. I would break a thousand oaths to reign one year. RICHARD. No; God forbid your Grace should be forsworn. YORK. I shall be, if I claim by open war. RICHARD. I’ll prove the contrary if you’ll hear me speak. YORK. Thou canst not, son; it is impossible. RICHARD. An oath is of no moment, being not took Before a true and lawful magistrate That hath authority over him that swears. Henry had none, but did usurp the place; Then, seeing ’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 linger thus? I cannot rest Until the white rose that I wear be dyed Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry’s heart. YORK. Richard, enough; I will be king, or die. Brother, thou shalt to London presently, And whet on Warwick to this enterprise. Thou, Richard, shalt to the Duke of Norfolk And tell him privily of our intent. You, Edward, shall unto my Lord Cobham, With whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise. In them I trust; for they are soldiers, Witty, courteous, liberal, full of spirit. While you are thus employed, what resteth more But that I seek occasion how to rise, And yet the King not privy to my drift, Nor any of the house of Lancaster? Enter a Messenger. But stay. What news? Why com’st thou in such post? MESSENGER. The Queen, with all the northern earls and lords Intend here to besiege you in your castle. She is hard by with twenty thousand men; And therefore fortify your hold, my lord. YORK. Ay, with my sword. What, think’st thou that we fear them? Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me; My brother Montague shall post to London. Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest, Whom we have left protectors of the King, With powerful policy strengthen themselves, And trust not simple Henry nor his oaths. MONTAGUE. Brother, I go; I’ll win them, fear it not. And thus most humbly I do take my leave. [_Exit._] Enter Sir John and Sir Hugh Mortimer. YORK. Sir John and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles, You are come to Sandal in a happy hour; The army of the Queen mean to besiege us. SIR JOHN. She shall not need; we’ll meet her in the field. YORK. What, with five thousand men? RICHARD. Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need. A woman’s general; what should we fear? [_A march afar off._] EDWARD. I hear their drums. Let’s set our men in order, And issue forth and bid them battle straight. YORK. Five men to twenty! Though the odds be great, I doubt not, uncle, of our victory. Many a battle have I won in France Whenas the enemy hath been ten to one. Why should I not now have the like success? [_Alarum. Exeunt._] SCENE III. Plains near Sandal Castle Alarums. Enter Rutland and his Tutor. RUTLAND. Ah, whither shall I fly to scape their hands? Ah, tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes. Enter Clifford and Soldiers. CLIFFORD. Chaplain, away! Thy priesthood saves thy life. As for the brat of this accursed duke Whose father slew my father, he shall die. TUTOR. And I, my lord, will bear him company. CLIFFORD. Soldiers, away with him! TUTOR. Ah, Clifford, murder not this innocent child, Lest thou be hated both of God and man. [_Exit, dragged off by Soldiers._] CLIFFORD. How now? Is he dead already? Or is it fear That makes him close his eyes? I’ll open them. RUTLAND. So looks the pent-up lion o’er the wretch That trembles under his devouring paws; And so he walks, insulting o’er his prey, And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder. Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword, And not with such a cruel threat’ning look. Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die. I am too mean a subject for thy wrath; Be thou revenged on men, and let me live. CLIFFORD. In vain thou speak’st, poor boy; my father’s blood Hath stopped the passage where thy words should enter. RUTLAND. Then let my father’s blood open it again; He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him. CLIFFORD. Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine Were not revenge sufficient for me. No, if I digged up thy forefathers’ graves And hung their rotten coffins up in chains, It could not slake mine ire nor ease my heart. The sight of any of the house of York Is as a fury to torment my soul; And till I root out their accursed line And leave not one alive, I live in hell. Therefore— [_Lifting his hand._] RUTLAND. O, let me pray before I take my death! To thee I pray; sweet Clifford, pity me! CLIFFORD. Such pity as my rapier’s point affords. RUTLAND. I never did thee harm; why wilt thou slay me? CLIFFORD. Thy father hath. RUTLAND. But ’twas ere I was born. Thou hast one son; for his sake pity me, Lest in revenge thereof, sith God is just, He be as miserably slain as I. Ah, let me live in prison all my days, And when I give occasion of offence Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause. CLIFFORD. No cause? Thy father slew my father; therefore die. [_Clifford stabs him._] RUTLAND. _Di faciant laudis summa sit ista tuae!_ [_Dies._] CLIFFORD. Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet! And this thy son’s blood cleaving to my blade Shall rust upon my weapon till thy blood, Congealed with this, do make me wipe off both. [_Exit._] SCENE IV. The Same Alarum. Enter Richard, Duke of York. YORK. The army of the Queen hath got the field. My uncles both are slain in rescuing me; And all my followers to the eager foe Turn back and fly like ships before the wind, Or lambs pursued by hunger-starved wolves. My sons, God knows what hath bechanced them; But this I know, they have demeaned themselves Like men born to renown by life or death. Three times did Richard make a lane to me, And thrice cried “Courage, father, fight it out!” And full as oft came Edward to my side With purple falchion painted to the hilt In blood of those that had encountered him; And when the hardiest warriors did retire, Richard cried “Charge, and give no foot of ground!” And cried “A crown, or else a glorious tomb! A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre!” With this we charged again; but, out, alas! We budged again, as I have seen a swan With bootless labour swim against the tide And spend her strength with 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 numbered that makes up my life; Here must I stay, and here my life must end. Enter Queen Margaret, Clifford, Northumberland, the young 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. NORTHUMBERLAND. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet. CLIFFORD. Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm With downright payment showed unto my father. Now Phaëthon hath tumbled from his car, And made an evening at the noontide prick. YORK. My ashes, as the phoenix, may bring forth A bird that will revenge upon you all; And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heaven, Scorning whate’er you can afflict me with. Why come you not? What, multitudes, and fear? CLIFFORD. So cowards fight when they can fly no further; So doves do peck the falcon’s piercing talons; So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives, Breathe out invectives ’gainst the officers. YORK. O Clifford, but bethink thee once again, And in thy thought o’errun my former time; And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face, And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with cowardice Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this. CLIFFORD. I will not bandy with thee word for word, But buckle with thee blows twice two for one. QUEEN MARGARET. Hold, valiant Clifford; for a thousand causes I would prolong awhile the traitor’s life. Wrath makes him deaf; speak thou, Northumberland. NORTHUMBERLAND. Hold, Clifford, do not honour him so much To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart. What valour were it, when a cur doth grin, For one to thrust his hand between his teeth, When he might spurn him with his foot away? It is war’s prize to take all vantages, And ten to one is no impeach of valour. [_They lay hands on York, who struggles._] CLIFFORD. Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin. NORTHUMBERLAND. So doth the cony struggle in the net. [_York is taken prisoner._] YORK. So triumph thieves upon their conquered booty; So true men yield, with robbers so o’ermatched. NORTHUMBERLAND. What would your Grace have done unto him now? QUEEN MARGARET. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland, Come, make him stand upon this molehill here, That raught at mountains with outstretched arms, Yet parted but the shadow with his hand. What, was it you that would be England’s king? Was ’t you that revelled in our parliament And made a preachment of your high descent? Where are your mess of sons to back you now, The wanton Edward and the lusty George? And where’s that valiant crook-back prodigy, Dicky your boy, that with his grumbling voice Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies? Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland? Look, York, I stained this napkin with the blood That valiant Clifford with his rapier’s point Made issue from the bosom of the boy; And if thine eyes can water for his death, I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal. Alas, poor York, but that I hate thee deadly I should lament thy miserable state. I prithee grieve to make me merry, York; Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance. What, hath thy fiery heart so parched thine entrails That not a tear can fall for Rutland’s death? Why art thou patient, man? Thou shouldst be mad; And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus. Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance. Thou would’st 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 crowned so soon and broke his solemn oath? As I bethink me, you should not be king Till our King Henry had shook hands with Death. And will you pale your head in Henry’s glory, And rob his temples of the diadem, Now in his life, against your holy oath? O, ’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. CLIFFORD. That is my office, for my father’s sake. QUEEN MARGARET. Nay, stay; let’s hear the orisons he makes. YORK. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France, Whose tongue more poisons than the adder’s tooth! How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex To triumph like an Amazonian trull Upon their woes whom Fortune captivates! But that thy face is vizard-like, unchanging, Made impudent with use of evil deeds, I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush. To tell thee whence thou cam’st, of whom derived, Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless. Thy father bears the type of King of Naples, Of both the Sicils, and Jerusalem, Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman. Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult? It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen; Unless the adage must be verified, That beggars mounted run their horse to death. ’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 wondered 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 wrapped in a woman’s hide! How couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child, To bid the father wipe his eyes withal, And yet be seen to bear a woman’s face? Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible; Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. Bid’st thou me rage? Why, now thou hast thy wish: Wouldst have me weep? Why, now thou hast thy will; For raging wind blows up incessant showers, And when the rage allays, the rain begins. These tears are my sweet Rutland’s obsequies, And every drop cries vengeance for his death ’Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false Frenchwoman. NORTHUMBERLAND. Beshrew me, but his passion moves me so That hardly can I check my eyes from tears. YORK. That face of his the hungry cannibals Would not have touched, would not have stained with blood; But you are more inhuman, more inexorable, O, ten times more than tigers of Hyrcania. See, ruthless queen, a hapless father’s tears. This cloth thou dipped’st in blood of my sweet boy, And I with tears do wash the blood away. Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this; And if thou tell’st the heavy story right, Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears; Yea, even my foes will shed fast-falling tears And say “Alas, it was a piteous deed.” There, take the crown, and with the crown my curse; And in thy need such comfort come to thee As now I reap at thy too cruel hand! Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world, My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads! NORTHUMBERLAND. Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin, I should not for my life but weep with him, To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul. QUEEN MARGARET. What, weeping-ripe, my Lord Northumberland? Think but upon the wrong he did us all, And that will quickly dry thy melting tears. CLIFFORD. Here’s for my oath, here’s for my father’s death. [_Stabbing him._] QUEEN MARGARET. And here’s to right our gentle-hearted king. [_Stabbing him._] YORK. Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God! My soul flies through these wounds to seek out Thee. [_Dies._] QUEEN MARGARET. Off with his head, and set it on York gates; So York may overlook the town of York. [_Flourish. Exeunt._] ACT II SCENE I. A plain near Mortimer’s Cross in Herefordshire A march. Enter Edward and Richard and their power. EDWARD. I wonder how our princely father scaped, Or whether he be scaped away or no From Clifford’s and Northumberland’s pursuit. Had he been ta’en, we should have heard the news; Had he been slain, we should have heard the news; Or had he scaped, methinks we should have heard The happy tidings of his good escape. How fares my brother? Why is he so sad? RICHARD. I cannot joy until I be resolved Where our right valiant father is become. I saw him in the battle range about, And watched him how he singled Clifford forth. Methought he bore him in the thickest troop As doth a lion in a herd of neat; Or as a bear, encompassed round with dogs, Who having pinched a few and made them cry, The rest stand all aloof and bark at him. So fared our father with his enemies; So fled his enemies my warlike father. Methinks ’tis pride enough to be his son. See how the morning opes her golden gates And takes her farewell of the glorious sun. How well resembles it the prime of youth, Trimmed like a younker prancing to his love! EDWARD. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns? RICHARD. Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun; Not separated with the racking clouds, But severed in a pale clear-shining sky. See, see, they join, embrace, and seem to kiss, As if they vowed some league inviolable. Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun. In this the heaven figures some event. EDWARD. ’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, Should notwithstanding join our lights together, And overshine the earth, as this the world. Whate’er it bodes, henceforward will I bear Upon my target three fair shining suns. RICHARD. Nay, bear three daughters: by your leave I speak it, You love the breeder better than the male. Enter a Messenger, blowing. But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue? MESSENGER. Ah, one that was a woeful looker-on When as the noble Duke of York was slain, Your princely father and my loving lord. EDWARD. O, speak no more, for I have heard too much! RICHARD. Say how he died, for I will hear it all. MESSENGER. Environed he was with many foes, And stood against them as the hope of Troy Against the Greeks that would have entered Troy. But Hercules himself must yield to odds; And many strokes, though with a little axe, Hews down and fell the hardest-timbered oak. By many hands your father was subdued, But only slaughtered by the ireful arm Of unrelenting Clifford and the Queen, Who crowned the gracious duke in high despite, Laughed in his face; and when with grief he wept, The ruthless Queen gave him to dry his cheeks A napkin steeped in the harmless blood Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain. And after many scorns, many foul taunts, They took his head, and on the gates of York They set the same; and there it doth remain, The saddest spectacle that e’er I viewed. EDWARD. Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon, Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay. O Clifford, boisterous Clifford, thou hast slain The flower of Europe for his chivalry; And treacherously hast thou vanquished him, For hand to hand he would have vanquished thee. Now my soul’s palace is become a prison. Ah, would she break from hence, that this my body Might in the ground be closed up in rest! For never henceforth shall I joy again; Never, O, never, shall I see more joy! RICHARD. I cannot weep, for all my body’s moisture Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart; Nor can my tongue unload my heart’s great burthen, For selfsame wind that I should speak withal Is kindling coals that fires all my breast And burns me up with flames that tears would quench. To weep is to make less the depth of grief: Tears, then, for babes; blows and revenge for me! Richard, I bear thy name; I’ll venge thy death, Or die renowned by attempting it. EDWARD. His name that valiant duke hath left with thee; His dukedom and his chair with me is left. RICHARD. Nay, if thou be that princely eagle’s bird, Show thy descent by gazing ’gainst the sun; For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say, Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his. March. Enter Warwick, Marquess Montague and their army. WARWICK. How now, fair lords! What fare? What news abroad? RICHARD. Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount Our baleful news, and at each word’s deliverance Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told, The words would add more anguish than the wounds. O valiant lord, the Duke of York is slain! EDWARD. O, Warwick, Warwick, that Plantagenet Which held thee dearly as his soul’s redemption Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death. WARWICK. Ten days ago I drowned these news in tears, And now, to add more measure to your woes, I come to tell you things sith then 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, Mustered my soldiers, gathered flocks of friends, And very well appointed, as I thought, Marched toward Saint Albans 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 Albans met, Our battles joined, and both sides fiercely fought. But, whether ’twas the coldness of the King, Who looked full gently on his warlike Queen, That robbed 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 cheered them up with justice of our cause, With promise of high pay and great rewards, But all in vain; they had no heart to fight, And we in them no hope to win the day; So that we fled: the King unto the Queen; Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and myself, In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you; For in the Marches here we heard you were, Making another head to fight again. EDWARD. Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick? And when came George from Burgundy to England? WARWICK. Some six miles off the Duke is with the soldiers; And for your brother, he was lately sent From your kind aunt, Duchess of Burgundy, With aid of soldiers to this needful war. RICHARD. ’Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled. Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit, But ne’er till now his scandal of retire. WARWICK. Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou hear; For thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry’s head And wring the awful sceptre from his fist, Were he as famous and as bold in war As he is famed for mildness, peace, and prayer. RICHARD. I know it well, Lord Warwick; blame me not. ’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 And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns, Numbering our Ave-Maries with our beads? Or shall we on the helmets of our foes Tell our devotion with revengeful arms? If for the last, say ay, and to it, lords. WARWICK. Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you out, And therefore comes my brother Montague. Attend me, lords. The proud insulting Queen, With Clifford and the haught Northumberland, And of their feather many moe proud birds, Have wrought the easy-melting King like wax. He swore consent to your succession, His oath enrolled in the Parliament; And now to London all the crew are gone, To frustrate both his oath and what beside May make against the house of Lancaster. Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong. Now, if the help of Norfolk and myself, With all the friends that thou, brave Earl of March, Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure, Will but amount to five and twenty thousand, Why, _via_, to London will we march amain, And once again bestride our foaming steeds, And once again cry “Charge upon our foes!” But never once again turn back and fly. RICHARD. Ay, now methinks I hear great Warwick speak. Ne’er may he live to see a sunshine day That cries “Retire,” if Warwick bid him stay. EDWARD. Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean; And when thou fail’st—as God forbid the hour!— Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forfend! WARWICK. No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York. The next degree is England’s royal throne; For King of England shalt thou be proclaimed In every borough as we pass along, And he that throws not up his cap for joy Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head. King Edward, valiant Richard, Montague, Stay we no longer dreaming of renown, But sound the trumpets and about our task. RICHARD. Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as steel, As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds, I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine. EDWARD. Then strike up, drums! God and Saint George for us! Enter a Messenger. WARWICK. How now, what news? MESSENGER. The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me, The Queen is coming with a puissant host, And craves your company for speedy counsel. WARWICK. Why then it sorts; brave warriors, let’s away. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Before York Flourish. Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret, the Prince of Wales, Clifford and Northumberland with drums and trumpets. QUEEN MARGARET. Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York. Yonder’s the head of that arch-enemy That sought to be encompassed with your crown. Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord? KING HENRY. Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their wrack! To see this sight, it irks my very soul. Withhold revenge, dear God! ’Tis not my fault, Nor wittingly have I infringed my vow. CLIFFORD. My gracious liege, this too much lenity And harmful pity must be laid aside. To whom do lions cast their gentle looks? Not to the beast that would usurp their den. Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick? Not his that spoils her young before her face. Who scapes the lurking serpent’s mortal sting? Not he that sets his foot upon her back. The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on, And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood. Ambitious York did level at thy crown, Thou smiling while he knit his angry brows. He, but a duke, would have his son a king, And raise his issue like a loving sire; Thou, being a king, blest with a goodly son, Didst yield consent to disinherit him, Which argued thee a most unloving father. Unreasonable creatures feed their young; And though man’s face be fearful to their eyes, Yet, in protection of their tender ones, Who hath not seen them, even with those wings Which sometime they have used with fearful flight, Make war with him that climbed unto their nest, Offering their own lives in their young’s defence? For shame, my liege, make them your precedent. Were it not pity that this goodly boy Should lose his birthright by his father’s fault, And long hereafter say unto his child, “What my great-grandfather and grandsire got, My careless father fondly gave away?” Ah, what a shame were this! Look on the boy, And let his manly face, which promiseth Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart To hold thine own and leave thine own with him. KING HENRY. Full well hath Clifford played the orator, Inferring arguments of mighty force. But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear That things ill got had ever bad success? And happy always was it for that son Whose father for his hoarding went to hell? I’ll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind, And would my father had left me no more; For all the rest is held at such a rate As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep Than in possession any jot of pleasure. Ah, cousin York, would thy best friends did know How it doth grieve me that thy head is here! QUEEN MARGARET. My lord, cheer up your spirits; our foes are nigh, And this soft courage makes your followers faint. You promised knighthood to our forward son. Unsheathe your sword and dub him presently.— Edward, kneel down. KING HENRY. Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight; And learn this lesson: draw thy sword in right. PRINCE EDWARD. My gracious father, by your kingly leave, I’ll draw it as apparent to the crown, And in that quarrel use it to the death. CLIFFORD. Why, that is spoken like a toward prince. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. Royal commanders, be in readiness; For with a band of thirty thousand men Comes Warwick, backing of the Duke of York, And in the towns, as they do march along, Proclaims him king, and many fly to him. Darraign your battle, for they are at hand. CLIFFORD. I would your highness would depart the field. The Queen hath best success when you are absent. QUEEN MARGARET. Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fortune. KING HENRY. Why, that’s my fortune too; therefore I’ll stay. NORTHUMBERLAND. Be it with resolution then to fight. PRINCE EDWARD. My royal father, cheer these noble lords, And hearten those that fight in your defence. Unsheathe your sword, good father; cry “Saint George!” March. Enter Edward, George, Richard, Warwick, Norfolk, Montague and Soldiers. EDWARD. Now, perjured Henry, wilt thou kneel for grace And set thy diadem upon my head, Or bide the mortal fortune of the field? QUEEN MARGARET. Go rate thy minions, proud insulting boy! Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms Before thy sovereign and thy lawful king? EDWARD. I am his king, and he should bow his knee. I was adopted heir by his consent. Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear, You that are king, though he do wear the crown, Have caused him by new act of Parliament To blot out me and put his own son in. CLIFFORD. And reason too: Who should succeed the father but the son? RICHARD. Are you there, butcher? O, I cannot speak! CLIFFORD. Ay, crook-back; here I stand, to answer thee, Or any he, the proudest of thy sort. RICHARD. ’Twas you that killed young Rutland, was it not? CLIFFORD. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied. RICHARD. For God’s sake, lords, give signal to the fight. WARWICK. What 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. 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-swoln heart Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer. CLIFFORD. I slew thy father; call’st thou him a child? RICHARD. Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward, As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland, But ere sunset I’ll make thee curse the deed. KING HENRY. Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak. QUEEN MARGARET. Defy them then, or else hold close thy lips. KING HENRY. I prithee, give no limits to my tongue. I am a king, and privileged to speak. CLIFFORD. My liege, the wound that bred this meeting here Cannot be cured by words; therefore be still. RICHARD. Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword. By Him that made us all, I am resolved That Clifford’s manhood lies upon his tongue. EDWARD. Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or no? A thousand men have broke their fasts today That ne’er shall dine unless thou yield the crown. WARWICK. If thou deny, their blood upon thy head; For York in justice puts his armour on. PRINCE EDWARD. If that be right which Warwick says 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. QUEEN MARGARET. But thou art neither like thy sire nor dam, But like a foul misshapen stigmatic, Marked by the Destinies to be avoided, As venom toads or lizards’ dreadful stings. RICHARD. Iron of Naples, hid with English gilt, Whose father bears the title of a king, As if a channel should be called the sea, Sham’st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught, To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart? EDWARD. A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns To make this shameless 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. But when we saw our sunshine made thy spring, And that thy summer bred us no increase, We set the axe to thy usurping root; And though the edge hath something hit ourselves, Yet know thou, since we have begun to strike, We’ll never leave till we have hewn thee down Or bathed thy growing with our heated bloods. EDWARD. And in this resolution I defy thee; Not willing any longer conference, Since thou deniest the gentle King to speak. Sound trumpets! Let our bloody colours wave; And either victory or else a grave! QUEEN MARGARET. Stay, Edward. EDWARD. No, wrangling woman, we’ll no longer stay. These words will cost ten thousand lives this day. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. A field of battle between Towton and Saxton, in Yorkshire Alarums. Excursions. Enter Warwick. WARWICK. Forspent with toil, as runners with a race, I lay me down a little while to breathe; For strokes received, and many blows repaid, Have robbed my strong-knit sinews of their strength, And spite of spite, needs must I rest awhile. Enter Edward, running. EDWARD. Smile, gentle heaven, or strike, ungentle death; For this world frowns and Edward’s sun is clouded. WARWICK. How now, my lord, what hap? What hope of good? Enter George. GEORGE. Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair; Our ranks are broke and ruin follows us. What counsel give you? Whither shall we fly? EDWARD. Bootless is flight, they follow us with wings; And weak we are and cannot shun pursuit. Enter Richard. RICHARD. Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself? Thy brother’s blood the thirsty earth hath drunk, Broached with the steely point of Clifford’s lance; And in the very pangs of death he cried, Like to a dismal clangor heard from far, “Warwick, revenge! Brother, revenge my death!” So, underneath the belly of their steeds, That stained their fetlocks in his smoking blood, The noble gentleman gave up the ghost. WARWICK. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood; I’ll kill my horse because I will not fly. Why stand we like soft-hearted women here, Wailing our losses whiles the foe doth rage, And look upon, as if the tragedy Were played in jest by counterfeiting actors? Here on my knee I vow to God above I’ll never pause again, never stand still, Till either death hath closed these eyes of mine, Or Fortune given me measure of revenge. EDWARD. O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine, And in this vow do chain my soul to thine! And, ere my knee rise from the earth’s cold face, I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to Thee, Thou setter up and plucker down of kings, Beseeching Thee, if with Thy will it stands That to my foes this body must be prey, Yet that Thy brazen gates of heaven may ope, And give sweet passage to my sinful soul. Now, lords, take leave until we meet again, Where’er it be, in heaven or in earth. RICHARD. Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle Warwick, Let me embrace thee in my weary arms. I, that did never weep, now melt with woe That winter should cut off our spring-time so. WARWICK. Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell. GEORGE. Yet let us all together to our troops, And give them leave to fly that will not stay, And call them pillars that will stand to us; And if we thrive, promise them such rewards As victors wear at the Olympian games. This may plant courage in their quailing breasts, For yet is hope of life and victory. Forslow no longer; make we hence amain. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Another Part of the Field Excursions. Enter Richard and Clifford. RICHARD. Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone. Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York, And this for Rutland; both bound to revenge, Wert thou environed with a brazen wall. CLIFFORD. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone. This is the hand that stabbed thy father York, And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland; And here’s the heart that triumphs in their death And cheers these hands that slew thy sire and brother To execute the like upon thyself; And so have at thee! They fight. Warwick comes; Clifford flies. RICHARD. Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase; For I myself will hunt this wolf to death. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. Another Part of the Field Enter King Henry. KING HENRY. This battle fares like to the morning’s war, When dying clouds contend with growing light, What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails, Can neither call it perfect day nor night. Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea Forced by the tide to combat with the wind; Now sways it that way, like the selfsame sea Forced to retire by fury of the wind. Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind; Now one the better, then another best, Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, Yet neither conqueror nor conquered. So is the equal poise of this fell war. Here on this molehill will I sit me down. To whom God will, there be the victory! For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too, Have chid me from the battle, swearing both They prosper best of all when I am thence. Would I were dead, if God’s good will were so; For what is in this world but grief and woe? O God! Methinks it were a happy life To be no better than a homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run: How many make the hour full complete, How many hours brings about the day, How many days will finish up the year, How many years a mortal man may live. When this is known, then to divide the times: So many hours must I tend my flock; So many hours must I take my rest; So many hours must I contemplate; So many hours must I sport myself; So many days my ewes have been with young; So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean; So many years ere I shall shear the fleece. So minutes, hours, days, months, and years, Passed over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this! How sweet, how lovely! Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds looking on their silly sheep Than doth a rich embroidered canopy To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery? O, yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth. And to conclude, the shepherd’s homely curds, His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, His wonted sleep under a fresh tree’s shade, All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, Is far beyond a prince’s delicates— His viands sparkling in a golden cup, His body couched in a curious bed, When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him. Alarum. Enter a Son that hath killed his father, bringing in the dead body. SON. Ill blows the wind that profits nobody. This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight, May be possessed with some store of crowns; And I, that haply take them from him now, May yet ere night yield both my life and them To some man else, as this dead man doth me. Who’s this? O God! It is my father’s face, Whom in this conflict I unwares have killed. O heavy times, begetting such events! From London by the King was I pressed forth; My father, being the Earl of Warwick’s man, Came on the part of York, pressed by his master; And I, who at his hands received my life, Have by my hands of life bereaved him. Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did; And pardon, father, for I knew not thee. My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks, And no more words till they have flowed their fill. KING HENRY. O piteous spectacle! O bloody times! Whiles lions war and battle for their dens, Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity. Weep, wretched man, I’ll aid thee tear for tear; And let our hearts and eyes, like civil war, Be blind with tears and break o’ercharged with grief. Enter a Father who has killed his son, with the body in his arms. FATHER. Thou that so stoutly hath resisted me, Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold, For I have bought it with an hundred blows. But let me see: is this our foeman’s face? Ah, no, no, no; it is mine only son! Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee, Throw up thine eye! See, see what showers arise, Blown with the windy tempest of my heart Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart! O, pity, God, this miserable age! What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly, Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural, This deadly quarrel daily doth beget! O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon, And hath bereft thee of thy life too late! KING HENRY. Woe above woe, grief more than common grief! O that my death would stay these ruthful deeds! O pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity! The red rose and the white are on his face, The fatal colours of our striving houses; The one his purple blood right well resembles, The other his pale cheeks, methinks, presenteth. Wither one rose, and let the other flourish! If you contend, a thousand lives must wither. SON. How will my mother for a father’s death Take on with me and ne’er be satisfied! FATHER. How will my wife for slaughter of my son Shed seas of tears and ne’er be satisfied! KING HENRY. How will the country for these woeful chances Misthink the King and not be satisfied! SON. Was ever son so rued a father’s death? FATHER. Was ever father so bemoaned his son? KING HENRY. Was ever king so grieved for subjects’ woe? Much is your sorrow, mine ten times so much. SON. I’ll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill. [_Exit with the body._] FATHER. These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet; My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre, For from my heart thine image ne’er shall go. My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell; And so obsequious will thy father be, Even for the loss of thee, having no more, As Priam was for all his valiant sons. I’ll bear thee hence; and let them fight that will, For I have murdered where I should not kill. [_Exit with the body._] KING HENRY. Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care, Here sits a king more woeful than you are. Alarums. Excursions. Enter Queen Margaret, Prince of Wales and Exeter. PRINCE EDWARD. Fly, father, fly, for all your friends are fled, And Warwick rages like a chafed bull. Away, for death doth hold us in pursuit. QUEEN MARGARET. Mount you, my lord; towards Berwick post amain. Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds Having the fearful flying hare in sight, With fiery eyes sparkling for very wrath, And bloody steel grasped in their ireful hands, Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain. EXETER. Away, for vengeance comes along with them. Nay, stay not to expostulate; make speed, Or else come after; I’ll away before. KING HENRY. Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exeter; Not that I fear to stay, but love to go Whither the Queen intends. Forward; away! [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. Another Part of the Field A loud alarum. Enter Clifford, wounded. CLIFFORD. Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies, Which whiles it lasted gave King Henry light. O Lancaster, I fear thy overthrow More than my body’s parting with my soul! My love and fear glued many friends to thee; And, now I fall, thy tough commixtures 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 Phaëthon should check thy fiery steeds, Thy burning car never had scorched the earth! And, Henry, hadst thou swayed as kings should do, Or as thy father and his father did, Giving no ground unto the house of York, They never then had sprung like summer flies; I, and ten thousand in this luckless realm Had left no mourning widows for our death, And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace. For what doth cherish weeds but gentle air? And what makes robbers bold but too much lenity? Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds; No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight. The foe is merciless and will not pity, For at their hands I have deserved no pity. The air hath got into my deadly wounds, And much effuse of blood doth make me faint. Come, York and Richard, Warwick, and the rest; I stabbed your fathers’ bosoms, split my breast. [_He faints._] Alarum and retreat. Enter Edward, George, Richard, Montague, Warwick and Soldiers. EDWARD. Now breathe we, lords. Good fortune bids us pause And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks. Some troops pursue the bloody-minded Queen That led calm Henry, though he were a king, As doth a sail, filled with a fretting gust, Command an argosy to stem the waves. But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them? WARWICK. No, ’tis impossible he should escape; For, though before his face I speak the words, Your brother Richard marked him for the grave, And whereso’er he is, he’s surely dead. [_Clifford groans and dies._] RICHARD. Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave? A deadly groan, like life and death’s departing. EDWARD. See who it is; and, now the battle’s ended, If friend or foe, let him be gently used. RICHARD. Revoke that doom of mercy, for ’tis Clifford, Who, not contented that he lopped the branch In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth, But set his murdering knife unto the root From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring, I mean our princely father, Duke of York. WARWICK. From off the gates of York fetch down the head, Your father’s head, which Clifford placed there; Instead whereof let this supply the room. Measure for measure must be answered. EDWARD. Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house, That nothing sung but death to us and ours; Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound, And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak. [_Soldiers bring the body forward._] WARWICK. I think his understanding is bereft. Speak, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee? Dark cloudy death o’ershades his beams of life, And he nor sees nor hears us, what we say. RICHARD. O, would he did, and so, perhaps, he doth! ’Tis but his policy to counterfeit, Because he would avoid such bitter taunts Which in the time of death he gave our father. GEORGE. If so thou think’st, vex him with eager words. RICHARD. Clifford, ask mercy, and obtain no grace. EDWARD. Clifford, repent in bootless penitence. WARWICK. Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults. GEORGE. While we devise fell tortures for thy faults. RICHARD. Thou didst love York, and I am son to York. EDWARD. Thou pitied’st Rutland, I will pity thee. GEORGE. Where’s Captain Margaret to fence you now? WARWICK. They mock thee, Clifford; swear as thou wast wont. RICHARD. What, not an oath? Nay then, the world goes hard When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath. I know by that he’s dead; and, by my soul, If this right hand would buy but two hours’ life, That I in all despite might rail at him, This hand should chop it off, and with the issuing blood Stifle the villain whose unstaunched thirst York and young Rutland could not satisfy. WARWICK. Ay, but he’s dead. Off with the traitor’s head, And rear it in the place your father’s stands. And now to London with triumphant march, There to be crowned England’s royal king; From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France, And ask the Lady Bona for thy queen. So shalt thou sinew both these lands together, And, having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread The scattered foe that hopes to rise again; For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt, Yet look to have them buzz to offend thine ears. First will I see the coronation, And then to Brittany I’ll cross the sea To effect this marriage, so it please my lord. EDWARD. Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be; For in thy shoulder do I build my seat, And never will I undertake the thing Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting. Richard, I will create thee Duke of Gloucester; And George, of Clarence. Warwick, as ourself, Shall do and undo as him pleaseth best. RICHARD. Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloucester, For Gloucester’s dukedom is too ominous. WARWICK. Tut, that’s a foolish observation. Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London, To see these honours in possession. [_Exeunt._] ACT III SCENE I. A Forest in the North of England Enter two Keepers with crossbows in their hands. 1 KEEPER. Under this thick-grown brake we’ll shroud ourselves, For through this laund anon the deer will come; And in this covert will we make our stand, Culling the principal of all the deer. 2 KEEPER. I’ll stay above the hill, so both may shoot. 1 KEEPER. That cannot be; the noise of thy crossbow Will scare the herd, and so my shoot is lost. Here stand we both, and aim we at the best; And, for the time shall not seem tedious, I’ll tell thee what befell me on a day In this self place where now we mean to stand. 2 KEEPER. Here comes a man; let’s stay till he be past. Enter King Henry, disguised, with a prayer-book. KING HENRY. From Scotland am I stolen, even of pure love, To greet mine own land with my wishful sight. No, Harry, Harry, ’tis no land of thine; Thy place is filled, thy sceptre wrung from thee, Thy balm washed off wherewith thou wast anointed. No bending knee will call thee Caesar now, No humble suitors press to speak for right, No, not a man comes for redress of thee; For how can I help them and not myself? 1 KEEPER. Ay, here’s a deer whose skin’s a keeper’s fee. This is the quondam king; let’s seize upon him. KING HENRY. Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, For wise men say it is the wisest course. 2 KEEPER. Why linger we? Let us lay hands upon him. 1 KEEPER. Forbear awhile; we’ll hear a little more. KING HENRY. My queen and son are gone to France for aid; And, as I hear, the great commanding Warwick Is thither gone to crave the French King’s sister To wife for Edward. If this news be true, Poor queen and son, your labour is but lost, For Warwick is a subtle orator, And Lewis a prince soon won with moving words. By this account, then, Margaret may win him, For she’s a woman to be pitied much. Her sighs will make a batt’ry in his breast, Her tears will pierce into a marble heart; The tiger will be mild whiles she doth mourn, And Nero will be tainted with remorse To hear and see her plaints, her brinish tears. Ay, but she’s come to beg, Warwick to give; She on his left side craving aid for Henry; He on his right asking a wife for Edward. She weeps and says her Henry is deposed; He smiles and says his Edward is installed; That she, poor wretch, for grief can speak no more; Whiles Warwick tells his title, smooths the wrong, Inferreth arguments of mighty strength, And in conclusion wins the King from her With promise of his sister, and what else, To strengthen and support King Edward’s place. O Margaret, thus ’twill be; and thou, poor soul, Art then forsaken, as thou went’st forlorn. 2 KEEPER. Say, what art thou, that talk’st of kings and queens? KING HENRY. More than I seem, and less than I was born to: A man at least, for less I should not be; And men may talk of kings, and why not I? 2 KEEPER. Ay, but thou talk’st as if thou wert a king. KING HENRY. Why, so I am, in mind; and that’s enough. 2 KEEPER. But, if thou be a king, where is thy crown? KING HENRY. My crown is in my heart, not on my head; Not decked with diamonds and Indian stones, Not to be seen. My crown is called content; A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy. 2 KEEPER. Well, if you be a king crowned with content, Your crown content and you must be contented To go along with us; for, as we think, You are the king King Edward hath deposed; And we his subjects, sworn in all allegiance, Will apprehend you as his enemy. KING HENRY. But did you never swear, and break an oath? 2 KEEPER. No, never such an oath; nor will not now. KING HENRY. Where did you dwell when I was King of England? 2 KEEPER. Here in this country, where we now remain. KING HENRY. I was anointed king at nine months old; My father and my grandfather were kings, And you were sworn true subjects unto me. And tell me, then, have you not broke your oaths? 1 KEEPER. No, for we were subjects but while you were king. KING HENRY. Why, am I dead? Do I not breathe a man? Ah, simple men, you know not what you swear. Look, as I blow this feather from my face, And as the air blows it to me again, Obeying with my wind when I do blow, And yielding to another when it blows, Commanded always by the greater gust, Such is the lightness of you common men. But do not break your oaths; for of that sin My mild entreaty shall not make you guilty. Go where you will, the King shall be commanded; And be you kings; command, and I’ll obey. 1 KEEPER. We are true subjects to the King, King Edward. KING HENRY. So would you be again to Henry If he were seated as King Edward is. 1 KEEPER. We charge you, in God’s name and the King’s To go with us unto the officers. KING HENRY. In God’s name, lead; your king’s name be obeyed, And what God will, that let your king perform; And what he will, I humbly yield unto. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The Palace Enter King Edward, Richard (Duke of Gloucester), George (Duke of Clarence) and Lady Grey. KING EDWARD. Brother of Gloucester, at Saint Albans field This lady’s husband, Sir John Grey, was slain, His land then seized on by the conqueror. Her suit is now to repossess those lands, Which we in justice cannot well deny, Because in quarrel of the house of York The worthy gentleman did lose his life. RICHARD. Your Highness shall do well to grant her suit; It were dishonour to deny it her. KING EDWARD. It were no less; but yet I’ll make a pause. RICHARD. [_Aside to George_.] Yea, is it so? I see the lady hath a thing to grant Before the King will grant her humble suit. GEORGE. [_Aside to Richard_.] He knows the game; how true he keeps the wind! RICHARD. [_Aside to George_.] Silence! KING EDWARD. Widow, we will consider of your suit, And come some other time to know our mind. LADY GREY. Right gracious lord, I cannot brook delay. May it please your Highness to resolve me now, And what your pleasure is shall satisfy me. RICHARD. [_Aside to George_.] 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. GEORGE. [_Aside to Richard_.] I fear her not, unless she chance to fall. RICHARD. [_Aside to George_.] God forbid that, for he’ll take vantages. KING EDWARD. How many children hast thou, widow? Tell me. GEORGE. [_Aside to Richard_.] I think he means to beg a child of her. RICHARD. [_Aside to George_.] Nay, whip me then; he’ll rather give her two. LADY GREY. Three, my most gracious lord. RICHARD. [_Aside to George_.] You shall have four if you’ll be ruled by him. KING EDWARD. ’Twere pity they should lose their father’s lands. LADY GREY. Be pitiful, dread lord, and grant it then. KING EDWARD. Lords, give us leave; I’ll try this widow’s wit. RICHARD. [_Aside to George_.] Ay, good leave have you; for you will have leave Till youth take leave and leave you to the crutch. [_Richard and George stand aside._] KING EDWARD. Now tell me, madam, do you love your children? LADY GREY. Ay, full as dearly as I love myself. KING EDWARD. And would you not do much to do them good? LADY GREY. To do them good I would sustain some harm. KING EDWARD. Then get your husband’s lands to do them good. LADY GREY. Therefore I came unto your majesty. KING EDWARD. I’ll tell you how these lands are to be got. LADY GREY. So shall you bind me to your Highness’ service. KING EDWARD. What service wilt thou do me if I give them? LADY GREY. What you command that rests in me to do. KING EDWARD. But you will take exceptions to my boon. LADY GREY. No, gracious lord, except I cannot do it. KING EDWARD. Ay, but thou canst do what I mean to ask. LADY GREY. Why, then, I will do what your Grace commands. RICHARD. [_Aside to George_.] He plies her hard; and much rain wears the marble. GEORGE. [_Aside to Richard_.] As red as fire! Nay, then her wax must melt. LADY GREY. Why stops my lord? Shall I not hear my task? KING EDWARD. An easy task; ’tis but to love a king. LADY GREY. That’s soon performed, because I am a subject. KING EDWARD. Why, then, thy husband’s lands I freely give thee. LADY GREY. I take my leave with many thousand thanks. RICHARD. [_Aside to George_.] The match is made; she seals it with a curtsy. KING EDWARD. But stay thee; ’tis the fruits of love I mean. LADY GREY. The fruits of love I mean, my loving liege. KING EDWARD. Ay, but, I fear me, in another sense. What love, thinkst thou, I sue so much to get? LADY GREY. My love till death, my humble thanks, my prayers; That love which virtue begs, and virtue grants. KING EDWARD. No, by my troth, I did not mean such love. LADY GREY. Why, then, you mean not as I thought you did. KING EDWARD. But now you partly may perceive my mind. LADY GREY. My mind will never grant what I perceive Your Highness aims at, if I aim aright. KING EDWARD. To tell thee plain, I aim to lie with thee. LADY GREY. To tell you plain, I had rather lie in prison. KING EDWARD. Why, then thou shalt not have thy husband’s lands. LADY GREY. Why, then mine honesty shall be my dower, For by that loss I will not purchase them. KING EDWARD. Therein thou wrong’st thy children mightily. LADY GREY. Herein your Highness wrongs both them and me. But, mighty lord, this merry inclination Accords not with the sadness of my suit. Please you dismiss me either with ay or no. KING EDWARD. Ay, if thou wilt say ay to my request; No, if thou dost say no to my demand. LADY GREY. Then no, my lord. My suit is at an end. RICHARD. [_Aside to George_.] The widow likes him not, she knits her brows. GEORGE. [_Aside to Richard_.] He is the bluntest wooer in Christendom. KING EDWARD. [_Aside_.] Her looks doth argue her replete with modesty; Her words doth show her wit incomparable; All her perfections challenge sovereignty. One way or other, she is for a king, And she shall be my love, or else my queen.— Say that King Edward take thee for his queen? LADY GREY. ’Tis better said than done, my gracious lord. I am a subject fit to jest withal, But far unfit to be a sovereign. KING EDWARD. Sweet widow, by my state I swear to thee, I speak no more than what my soul intends; And that is to enjoy thee for my love. LADY GREY. And that is more than I will yield unto. I know I am too mean to be your queen, And yet too good to be your concubine. KING EDWARD. You cavil, widow; I did mean my queen. LADY GREY. ’Twill grieve your Grace my sons should call you father. KING EDWARD. No more than when my daughters call thee mother. Thou art a widow, and thou hast some children; And, by God’s mother, I, being but a bachelor, Have other some. Why, ’tis a happy thing To be the father unto many sons. Answer no more, for thou shalt be my queen. RICHARD. [_Aside to George_.] The ghostly father now hath done his shrift. GEORGE. [_Aside to Richard_.] When he was made a shriver, ’twas for shift. KING EDWARD. Brothers, you muse what chat we two have had. Richard and George come forward. RICHARD. The widow likes it not, for she looks very sad. KING EDWARD. You’d think it strange if I should marry her. GEORGE. To whom, my lord? KING EDWARD. Why, Clarence, to myself. RICHARD. That would be ten days’ wonder at the least. GEORGE. That’s a day longer than a wonder lasts. RICHARD. By so much is the wonder in extremes. KING EDWARD. Well, jest on, brothers. I can tell you both Her suit is granted for her husband’s lands. Enter a Nobleman. NOBLEMAN. My gracious lord, Henry your foe is taken, And brought your prisoner to your palace gate. KING EDWARD. See that he be conveyed unto the Tower. And go we, brothers, to the man that took him, To question of his apprehension. Widow, go you along. Lords, use her honourably. [_Exeunt all but Richard._] RICHARD. Ay, Edward will use women honourably. Would he were wasted, marrow, bones, and all, That from his loins no hopeful branch may spring, To cross me from the golden time I look for! And yet, between my soul’s desire and me— The lustful Edward’s title buried— Is Clarence, Henry, and his son young Edward, And all the unlooked-for issue of their bodies, To take their rooms ere I can place myself. A cold premeditation for my purpose! Why then I do but dream on sovereignty; Like one that stands upon a promontory And spies a far-off shore where he would tread, Wishing his foot were equal with his eye, And chides the sea that sunders him from thence, Saying he’ll lade it dry to have his way. So do I wish the crown, being so far off, And so I chide the means that keeps me from it; And so I say I’ll cut the causes off, Flattering me with impossibilities. My eye’s too quick, my heart o’erweens too much, Unless my hand and strength could equal them. Well, say there is no kingdom then for Richard, What other pleasure can the world afford? I’ll make my heaven in a lady’s lap, And deck my body in gay ornaments, And ’witch sweet ladies with my words and looks. O miserable thought, and more unlikely Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns. Why, Love forswore me in my mother’s womb, And, for I should not deal in her soft laws, She did corrupt frail Nature with some bribe To shrink mine arm up like a withered shrub; To make an envious mountain on my back, Where sits Deformity to mock my body; To shape my legs of an unequal size; To disproportion me in every part, Like to a chaos, or an unlicked bear-whelp That carries no impression like the dam. And am I then a man to be beloved? O monstrous fault to harbour such a thought! Then, since this earth affords no joy to me But to command, to check, to o’erbear such As are of better person than myself, I’ll make my heaven to dream upon the crown, And, whiles I live, t’ account this world but hell Until my misshaped trunk that bear this head Be round impaled with a glorious crown. And yet I know not how to get the crown, For many lives stand between me and home; And I, like one lost in a thorny wood, That rents 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 while I smile, And cry “Content!” to that which grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face to all occasions. I’ll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall, I’ll slay more gazers than the basilisk; I’ll play the orator as well as Nestor, Deceive more slyly than Ulysses could, And, like a Sinon, take another Troy. I can add colours to the chameleon, Change shapes with 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. The King’s Palace Flourish. Enter Lewis, the French King, his sister the Lady Bona, his Admiral called Bourbon, Prince Edward, Queen Margaret, and the Earl of Oxford. Lewis sits, and riseth up again. KING LEWIS. Fair Queen of England, worthy Margaret, Sit down with us. It ill befits thy state And birth that thou shouldst stand while Lewis doth sit. QUEEN MARGARET. No, mighty King of France. Now Margaret Must strike her sail and learn awhile to serve Where kings command. I was, I must confess, Great Albion’s queen in former golden days; But now mischance hath trod my title down And with dishonour laid me on the ground, Where I must take like seat unto my fortune And to my humble seat conform myself. KING LEWIS. Why, say, fair queen, whence springs this deep despair? QUEEN MARGARET. From such a cause as fills mine eyes with tears And stops my tongue, while heart is drowned in cares. KING LEWIS. Whate’er it be, be thou still like thyself, And sit thee by our side. Yield not thy neck [_Seats her by him._] To Fortune’s yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance. Be plain, Queen Margaret, and tell thy grief; It shall be eased if France can yield relief. QUEEN MARGARET. Those gracious words revive my drooping thoughts And give my tongue-tied sorrows leave to speak. Now, therefore, be it known to noble Lewis That Henry, sole possessor of my love, Is, of a king, become a banished man And forced to live in Scotland a forlorn; While proud ambitious Edward, Duke of York, Usurps the regal title and the seat Of England’s true-anointed lawful king. This is the cause that I, poor Margaret, With this my son, Prince Edward, Henry’s heir, Am come to crave thy just and lawful aid; And if thou fail us, all our hope is done. Scotland hath will to help, but cannot help; Our people and our peers are both misled, Our treasure seized, our soldiers put to flight, And, as thou seest, ourselves in heavy plight. KING LEWIS. Renowned queen, with patience calm the storm While we bethink a means to break it off. QUEEN MARGARET. The more we stay, the stronger grows our foe. KING LEWIS. The more I stay, the more I’ll succour thee. QUEEN MARGARET. O, but impatience waiteth on true sorrow. And see where comes the breeder of my sorrow. Enter Warwick. KING LEWIS. What’s he approacheth boldly to our presence? QUEEN MARGARET. Our Earl of Warwick, Edward’s greatest friend. KING LEWIS. Welcome, brave Warwick. What brings thee to France? [_He descends. Queen Margaret rises._] QUEEN MARGARET. Ay, now begins a second storm to rise, For this is he that moves both wind and tide. WARWICK. From worthy Edward, king of Albion, My lord and sovereign, and thy vowed friend, I come, in kindness and unfeigned love, First, to do greetings to thy royal person, And then to crave a league of amity, And lastly, to confirm that amity With nuptial knot, if thou vouchsafe to grant That virtuous Lady Bona, thy fair sister, To England’s king in lawful marriage. QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside_.] If that go forward, Henry’s hope is done. WARWICK. [_To Bona_.] And, gracious madam, in our king’s behalf, I am commanded, with your leave and favour, Humbly to kiss your hand, and with my tongue To tell the passion of my sovereign’s heart, Where fame, late entering at his heedful ears, Hath placed thy beauty’s image and thy virtue. QUEEN MARGARET. King Lewis and Lady Bona, hear me speak Before you answer Warwick. His demand Springs not from Edward’s well-meant honest love, But from deceit, bred by necessity; For how can tyrants safely govern home Unless abroad they purchase great alliance? To prove him tyrant this reason may suffice, That Henry liveth still; but were he dead, Yet here Prince Edward stands, King Henry’s son. Look therefore, Lewis, that by this league and marriage Thou draw not on thy danger and dishonour; For though usurpers sway the rule awhile, Yet heavens are just, and time suppresseth wrongs. WARWICK. Injurious Margaret! PRINCE EDWARD. And why not Queen? WARWICK. Because thy father Henry did usurp, And thou no more art prince than she is queen. OXFORD. Then Warwick disannuls great John of Gaunt, Which did subdue the greatest part of Spain; And after John of Gaunt, Henry the Fourth, Whose wisdom was a mirror to the wisest; And after that wise prince, Henry the Fifth, Who by his prowess conquered all France. From these our Henry lineally descends. WARWICK. Oxford, how haps it in this smooth discourse You told not how Henry the Sixth hath lost All that which Henry the Fifth had gotten? Methinks these peers of France should smile at that. But for the rest: you tell a pedigree Of threescore and two years, a silly time To make prescription for a kingdom’s worth. OXFORD. Why, Warwick, canst thou speak against thy liege, Whom thou obeyed’st thirty and six years, And not bewray thy treason with a blush? WARWICK. Can Oxford, that did ever fence the right, Now buckler falsehood with a pedigree? For shame! Leave Henry, and call Edward king. OXFORD. Call him my king by whose injurious doom My elder brother, the Lord Aubrey Vere, Was done to death? And more than so, my father, Even in the downfall of his mellowed years, When nature brought him to the door of death? No, Warwick, no; while life upholds this arm, This arm upholds the house of Lancaster. WARWICK. And I the house of York. KING LEWIS. Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, and Oxford, Vouchsafe at our request to stand aside While I use further conference with Warwick. [_They stand aloof._] QUEEN MARGARET. Heavens grant that Warwick’s words bewitch him not! KING LEWIS. Now, Warwick, tell me, even upon thy conscience, Is Edward your true king? For I were loath To link with him that were not lawful chosen. WARWICK. Thereon I pawn my credit and mine honour. KING LEWIS. But is he gracious in the people’s eye? WARWICK. The more that Henry was unfortunate. KING LEWIS. Then further, all dissembling set aside, Tell me for truth the measure of his love Unto our sister Bona. WARWICK. Such it seems As may beseem a monarch like himself. Myself have often heard him say and swear That this his love was an eternal plant, Whereof the root was fixed in virtue’s ground, The leaves and fruit maintained with beauty’s sun, Exempt from envy, but not from disdain, Unless the Lady Bona quit his pain. KING LEWIS. 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. KING LEWIS. Then, Warwick, thus: our sister shall be Edward’s. And now forthwith shall articles be drawn Touching the jointure that your king must make, Which with her dowry shall be counterpoised. Draw near, Queen Margaret, and be a witness That Bona shall be wife to the English king. PRINCE EDWARD. To Edward, but not to the English king. QUEEN MARGARET. Deceitful Warwick, it was thy device By this alliance to make void my suit. Before thy coming Lewis was Henry’s friend. KING LEWIS. And still is friend to him and Margaret. But if your title to the crown be weak, As may appear by Edward’s good success, Then ’tis but reason that I be released From giving aid which late I promised. Yet shall you have all kindness at my hand That your estate requires and mine can yield. WARWICK. Henry now lives in Scotland, at his ease, Where, having nothing, nothing can he lose. And as for you yourself, our quondam queen, You have a father able to maintain you, And better ’twere you troubled him than France. QUEEN MARGARET. Peace, impudent and shameless Warwick, Proud setter up and puller down of kings! I will not hence till with my talk and tears, Both full of truth, I make King Lewis behold Thy sly conveyance and thy lord’s false love; For both of you are birds of selfsame feather. [_Post blowing a horn within._] KING LEWIS. Warwick, this is some post to us or thee. Enter the Post. POST. My lord ambassador, these letters are for you. Sent from your brother, Marquess Montague. These from our king unto your Majesty. And, madam, these for you, from whom I know not. [_They all read their letters._] OXFORD. I like it well that our fair Queen and mistress Smiles at her news while Warwick frowns at his. PRINCE EDWARD. Nay, mark how Lewis stamps as he were nettled. I hope all’s for the best. KING LEWIS. Warwick, what are thy news? And yours, fair Queen? QUEEN MARGARET. Mine, such as fill my heart with unhoped joys. WARWICK. Mine, full of sorrow and heart’s discontent. KING LEWIS. What, has your king married the Lady Grey, And now, to soothe your forgery and his, Sends me a paper to persuade me patience? Is this th’ alliance that he seeks with France? Dare he presume to scorn us in this manner? QUEEN MARGARET. I told your majesty as much before; This proveth Edward’s love and Warwick’s honesty. WARWICK. King Lewis, I here protest in sight of heaven, And by the hope I have of heavenly bliss, That I am clear from this misdeed of Edward’s— No more my king, for he dishonours me, But most himself, if he could see his shame. Did I forget that by the house of York My father came untimely to his death? Did I let pass th’ abuse done to my niece? Did I impale him with the regal crown? Did I put Henry from his native right? And am I guerdoned at the last with shame? Shame on himself, for my desert is honour; And to repair my honour lost for him, I here renounce him and return to Henry. My noble Queen, let former grudges pass, And henceforth I am thy true servitor. I will revenge his wrong to Lady Bona, And replant Henry in his former state. QUEEN MARGARET. Warwick, these words have turned my hate to love; And I forgive and quite forget old faults, And joy that thou becom’st King Henry’s friend. WARWICK. So much his friend, ay, his unfeigned friend, That if King Lewis vouchsafe to furnish us With some few bands of chosen soldiers, I’ll undertake to land them on our coast And force the tyrant from his seat by war. ’Tis not his new-made bride shall succour him; And as for Clarence, as my letters tell me, He’s very likely now to fall from him For matching more for wanton lust than honour, Or than for strength and safety of our country. BONA. Dear brother, how shall Bona be revenged But by thy help to this distressed queen? QUEEN MARGARET. Renowned prince, how shall poor Henry live Unless thou rescue him from foul despair? BONA. My quarrel and this English queen’s are one. WARWICK. And mine, fair Lady Bona, joins with yours. KING LEWIS. And mine with hers, and thine, and Margaret’s. Therefore, at last I firmly am resolved You shall have aid. QUEEN MARGARET. Let me give humble thanks for all at once. KING LEWIS. Then, England’s messenger, return in post And tell false Edward, thy supposed king, That Lewis of France is sending over maskers To revel it with him and his new bride. Thou seest what’s past; go fear thy king withal. BONA. Tell him, in hope he’ll prove a widower shortly, I’ll wear the willow garland for his sake. QUEEN MARGARET. Tell him my mourning weeds are laid aside, And I am ready to put armour on. WARWICK. Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong, And therefore I’ll uncrown him ere ’t be long. There’s thy reward; be gone. [_Exit Post._] KING LEWIS. But, Warwick, Thou and Oxford, with five thousand men, Shall cross the seas and bid false Edward battle; And, as occasion serves, this noble Queen And prince shall follow with a fresh supply. Yet, ere thou go, but answer me one doubt: What pledge have we of thy firm loyalty? WARWICK. This shall assure my constant loyalty: That if our Queen and this young prince agree, I’ll join mine eldest daughter and my joy To him forthwith in holy wedlock bands. QUEEN MARGARET. Yes, I agree, and thank you for your motion. Son Edward, she is fair and virtuous, Therefore delay not, give thy hand to Warwick, And with thy hand thy faith irrevocable That only Warwick’s daughter shall be thine. PRINCE EDWARD. Yes, I accept her, for she well deserves it; And here, to pledge my vow, I give my hand. [_He gives his hand to Warwick._] KING LEWIS. Why stay we now? These soldiers shall be levied, And thou, Lord Bourbon, our High Admiral, Shall waft them over with our royal fleet. I long till Edward fall by war’s mischance For mocking marriage with a dame of France. [_Exeunt all but Warwick._] WARWICK. I came from Edward as ambassador, But I return his sworn and mortal foe. Matter of marriage was the charge he gave me, But dreadful war shall answer his demand. Had he none else to make a stale but me? Then none but I shall turn his jest to sorrow. I was the chief that raised him to the crown, And I’ll be chief to bring him down again: Not that I pity Henry’s misery, But seek revenge on Edward’s mockery. [_Exit._] ACT IV SCENE I. London. The Palace Enter Richard (Duke of Gloucester), George (Duke of Clarence), Somerset and Montague. RICHARD. Now tell me, brother Clarence, what think you Of this new marriage with the Lady Grey? Hath not our brother made a worthy choice? GEORGE. Alas, you know ’tis far from hence to France! How could he stay till Warwick made return? SOMERSET. My lords, forbear this talk; here comes the King. Flourish. Enter King Edward, attended; Lady Grey as Queen Elizabeth; Pembroke, Stafford, Hastings and others. Four stand on one side, and four on the other. RICHARD. And his well-chosen bride. GEORGE. I mind to tell him plainly what I think. KING EDWARD. Now, brother of Clarence, how like you our choice, That you stand pensive as half malcontent? GEORGE. As well as Lewis of France or the Earl of Warwick, Which are so weak of courage and in judgment That they’ll take no offence at our abuse. KING EDWARD. Suppose they take offence without a cause, They are but Lewis and Warwick; I am Edward, Your King and Warwick’s, and must have my will. RICHARD. And shall have your will, because our King. Yet hasty marriage seldom proveth well. KING EDWARD. Yea, brother Richard, are you offended too? RICHARD. Not I. No, God forbid that I should wish them severed Whom God hath joined together. Ay, and ’twere pity To sunder them that yoke so well together. KING EDWARD. Setting your scorns and your mislike aside, Tell me some reason why the Lady Grey Should not become my wife and England’s queen. And you too, Somerset and Montague, Speak freely what you think. GEORGE. Then this is mine opinion: that King Lewis Becomes your enemy for mocking him About the marriage of the Lady Bona. RICHARD. And Warwick, doing what you gave in charge, Is now dishonoured by this new marriage. KING EDWARD. What if both Lewis and Warwick be appeased By such invention as I can devise? MONTAGUE. Yet to have joined with France in such alliance Would more have strengthened this our commonwealth ’Gainst foreign storms than any home-bred marriage. HASTINGS. Why, knows not Montague that of itself England is safe, if true within itself? MONTAGUE. But the safer when ’tis backed with France. HASTINGS. ’Tis better using France than trusting France. Let us be backed with God and with the seas Which He hath giv’n for fence impregnable, And with their helps only defend ourselves. In them and in ourselves our safety lies. GEORGE. For this one speech Lord Hastings well deserves To have the heir of the Lord Hungerford. KING EDWARD. Ay, what of that? It was my will and grant; And for this once my will shall stand for law. RICHARD. And yet, methinks, your Grace hath not done well To give the heir and daughter of Lord Scales Unto the brother of your loving bride. She better would have fitted me or Clarence; But in your bride you bury brotherhood. GEORGE. Or else you would not have bestowed the heir Of the Lord Bonville on your new wife’s son, And leave your brothers to go speed elsewhere. KING EDWARD. Alas, poor Clarence, is it for a wife That thou art malcontent? I will provide thee. GEORGE. In choosing for yourself you showed your judgment, Which being shallow, you shall give me leave To play the broker in mine own behalf; And to that end I shortly mind to leave you. KING EDWARD. Leave me or tarry, Edward will be king, And not be tied unto his brother’s will. QUEEN ELIZABETH. My lords, before it pleased his Majesty To raise my state to title of a queen, Do me but right, and you must all confess That I was not ignoble of descent, And meaner than myself have had like fortune. But as this title honours me and mine, So your dislikes, to whom I would be pleasing, Doth cloud my joys with danger and with sorrow. KING EDWARD. My love, forbear to fawn upon their frowns. What danger or what sorrow can befall thee So long as Edward is thy constant friend And their true sovereign, whom they must obey? Nay, whom they shall obey, and love thee too, Unless they seek for hatred at my hands; Which if they do, yet will I keep thee safe, And they shall feel the vengeance of my wrath. RICHARD. [_Aside_.] I hear, yet say not much, but think the more. Enter a Post. KING EDWARD. Now, messenger, what letters or what news From France? POST. My sovereign liege, no letters, and few words, But such as I, without your special pardon, Dare not relate. KING EDWARD. Go to, we pardon thee. Therefore, in brief, Tell me their words as near as thou canst guess them. What answer makes King Lewis unto our letters? POST. At my depart these were his very words: “Go tell false Edward, thy supposed king, That Lewis of France is sending over maskers To revel it with him and his new bride.” KING EDWARD. Is Lewis so brave? Belike he thinks me Henry. But what said Lady Bona to my marriage? POST. These were her words, uttered with mild disdain: “Tell him, in hope he’ll prove a widower shortly, I’ll wear the willow garland for his sake.” KING EDWARD. I blame not her; she could say little less; She had the wrong. But what said Henry’s queen? For I have heard that she was there in place. POST. “Tell him,” quoth she “my mourning weeds are done, And I am ready to put armour on.” KING EDWARD. Belike she minds to play the Amazon. But what said Warwick to these injuries? POST. He, more incensed against your Majesty Than all the rest, discharged me with these words: “Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong, And therefore I’ll uncrown him ere ’t be long.” KING EDWARD. Ha! Durst the traitor breathe out so proud words? Well, I will arm me, being thus forewarned. They shall have wars and pay for their presumption. But say, is Warwick friends with Margaret? POST. Ay, gracious sovereign, they are so linked in friendship That young Prince Edward marries Warwick’s daughter. GEORGE. 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 George and Somerset follows._] RICHARD. [_Aside_.] Not I. My thoughts aim at a further matter; I stay not for the love of Edward, but the crown. KING EDWARD. Clarence and Somerset both gone to Warwick! Yet am I armed against the worst can happen, And haste is needful in this desperate case. Pembroke and Stafford, you in our behalf Go levy men and make prepare for war; They are already, or quickly will be, landed. Myself in person will straight follow you. [_Exeunt Pembroke and Stafford._] But, ere I go, Hastings and Montague, Resolve my doubt. You twain, of all the rest, Are near to Warwick by blood and by alliance. Tell me if you love Warwick more than me. If it be so, then both depart to him. I rather wish you foes than hollow friends. But if you mind to hold your true obedience, Give me assurance with some friendly vow, That I may never have you in suspect. MONTAGUE. So God help Montague as he proves true! HASTINGS. And Hastings as he favours Edward’s cause! KING EDWARD. Now, brother Richard, will you stand by us? RICHARD. Ay, in despite of all that shall withstand you. KING EDWARD. Why, so! Then am I sure of victory. Now, therefore, let us hence, and lose no hour Till we meet Warwick with his foreign power. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A Plain in Warwickshire Enter Warwick and Oxford in England, with French Soldiers. WARWICK. Trust me, my lord, all hitherto goes well; The common people by numbers swarm to us. Enter George (Duke of Clarence) and Somerset. But see where Somerset and Clarence comes. Speak suddenly, my lords: are we all friends? GEORGE. Fear not that, my lord. WARWICK. Then, gentle Clarence, welcome unto Warwick; And welcome, Somerset. I hold it cowardice To rest mistrustful where a noble heart Hath pawned an open hand in sign of love; Else might I think that Clarence, Edward’s brother, Were but a feigned friend to our proceedings. But welcome, sweet Clarence; my daughter shall be thine. And now what rests but, in night’s coverture, Thy brother being carelessly encamped, His soldiers lurking in the towns about, And but attended by a simple guard, We may surprise and take him at our pleasure? Our scouts have found the adventure very easy; That, as Ulysses and stout Diomede With sleight and manhood stole to Rhesus’ tents, And brought from thence the Thracian fatal steeds, So we, well covered with the night’s black mantle, At unawares may beat down Edward’s guard, And seize himself. I say not, slaughter him, For I intend but only to surprise him. You that will follow me to this attempt, Applaud the name of Henry with your leader. [_They all cry “Henry!”_] Why then, let’s on our way in silent sort, For Warwick and his friends, God and Saint George! [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Edward’s Camp near Warwick Enter three Watchmen to guard the King’s tent. 1 WATCHMAN. Come on, my masters, each man take his stand. The King by this is set him down to sleep. 2 WATCHMAN. What, will he not to bed? 1 WATCHMAN. Why, no; for he hath made a solemn vow Never to lie and take his natural rest Till Warwick or himself be quite suppressed. 2 WATCHMAN. Tomorrow, then, belike shall be the day, If Warwick be so near as men report. 3 WATCHMAN. But say, I pray, what nobleman is that That with the King here resteth in his tent? 1 WATCHMAN. ’Tis the Lord Hastings, the King’s chiefest friend. 3 WATCHMAN. O, is it so? But why commands the King That his chief followers lodge in towns about him, While he himself keeps in the cold field? 2 WATCHMAN. ’Tis the more honour, because more dangerous. 3 WATCHMAN. Ay, but give me worship and quietness; I like it better than dangerous honour. If Warwick knew in what estate he stands, ’Tis to be doubted he would waken him. 1 WATCHMAN. Unless our halberds did shut up his passage. 2 WATCHMAN. Ay, wherefore else guard we his royal tent But to defend his person from night-foes? Enter Warwick, George (Duke of Clarence), Oxford, Somerset and French Soldiers, silent all. WARWICK. This is his tent; and see where stand his guard. Courage, my masters! Honour now or never! But follow me, and Edward shall be ours. 1 WATCHMAN. Who goes there? 2 WATCHMAN. Stay, or thou diest. [_Warwick and the rest cry all, “Warwick! Warwick!” and set upon the guard, who fly, crying “Arm! Arm!” Warwick and the rest following them._] The drum playing and trumpet sounding, enter Warwick, Somerset, and the rest, bringing the King out in his gown, sitting in a chair. Richard (Duke of Gloucester) and Hastings fly over the stage. SOMERSET. What are they that fly there? WARWICK. Richard and Hastings. Let them go. Here is the Duke. KING EDWARD. The Duke? Why, Warwick, when we parted, Thou call’dst me king? WARWICK. Ay, but the case is altered. When you disgraced me in my embassade, Then I degraded you from being king, And come now to create you Duke of York. Alas, how should you govern any kingdom That know not how to use ambassadors, Nor how to be contented with one wife, Nor how to use your brothers brotherly, Nor how to study for the people’s welfare, Nor how to shroud yourself from enemies? KING EDWARD. Yea, brother of Clarence, art thou here too? Nay, then I see that Edward needs must down. Yet, Warwick, in despite of all mischance Of thee thyself and all thy complices, Edward will always bear himself as king. Though Fortune’s malice overthrow my state, My mind exceeds the compass of her wheel. WARWICK. Then for his mind be Edward England’s king; [_Takes off his crown._] But Henry now shall wear the English crown And be true king indeed, thou but the shadow. My lord of Somerset, at my request, See that forthwith Duke Edward be conveyed Unto my brother, Archbishop of York. When I have fought with Pembroke and his fellows, I’ll follow you and tell what answer Lewis and the Lady Bona send to him. Now, for a while farewell, good Duke of York. [_They begin to lead him out forcibly._] KING EDWARD. What fates impose, that men must needs abide; It boots not to resist both wind and tide. [_Exit King Edward, led out; Somerset with him._] OXFORD. What now remains, my lords, for us to do, But march to London with our soldiers? WARWICK. Ay, that’s the first thing that we have to do, To free King Henry from imprisonment And see him seated in the regal throne. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. London. The Palace Enter Queen Elizabeth and Rivers. RIVERS. Madam, what makes you in this sudden change? QUEEN ELIZABETH. Why, brother Rivers, are you yet to learn What late misfortune is befall’n King Edward? RIVERS. What, loss of some pitched battle against Warwick? QUEEN ELIZABETH. No, but the loss of his own royal person. RIVERS. Then is my sovereign slain? QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ay, almost slain, for he is taken prisoner, Either betrayed by falsehood of his guard Or by his foe surprised at unawares; And, as I further have to understand, Is new committed to the Bishop of York, Fell Warwick’s brother and by that our foe. RIVERS. These news, I must confess, are full of grief; Yet, gracious madam, bear it as you may. Warwick may lose that now hath won the day. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Till then, fair hope must hinder life’s decay; And I the rather wean me from despair For love of Edward’s offspring in my womb. This is it that makes me bridle passion And bear with mildness my misfortune’s cross, Ay, ay, for this I draw in many a tear And stop the rising of blood-sucking sighs, Lest with my sighs or tears I blast or drown King Edward’s fruit, true heir to th’ English crown. RIVERS. But, madam, where is Warwick then become? QUEEN ELIZABETH. I am informed that he comes towards London To set the crown once more on Henry’s head. Guess thou the rest: King Edward’s friends must down. But to prevent the tyrant’s violence— For trust not him that hath once broken faith— I’ll hence forthwith unto the sanctuary To save at least the heir of Edward’s right. There shall I rest secure from force and fraud. Come, therefore, let us fly while we may fly. If Warwick take us, we are sure to die. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. A park near Middleham Castle in Yorkshire Enter Richard (Duke of Gloucester), Lord Hastings, Sir William Stanley and others. RICHARD. Now, my Lord Hastings and Sir William Stanley, Leave off to wonder why I drew you hither Into this chiefest thicket of the park. Thus stands the case: you know our King, my brother, Is prisoner to the Bishop here, at whose hands He hath good usage and great liberty, And often but attended with weak guard, Comes hunting this way to disport himself. I have advertised him by secret means That if about this hour he make this way, Under the colour of his usual game, He shall here find his friends with horse and men To set him free from his captivity. Enter King Edward and a Huntsman with him. HUNTSMAN. This way, my lord, for this way lies the game. KING EDWARD. Nay, this way, man. See where the huntsmen stand. Now, brother of Gloucester, Lord Hastings, and the rest, Stand you thus close to steal the Bishop’s deer? RICHARD. Brother, the time and case requireth haste; Your horse stands ready at the park corner. KING EDWARD. But whither shall we then? HASTINGS. To Lynn, my lord, and shipped from thence to Flanders. RICHARD. Well guessed, believe me, for that was my meaning. KING EDWARD. Stanley, I will requite thy forwardness. RICHARD. But wherefore stay we? ’Tis no time to talk. KING EDWARD. Huntsman, what sayst thou? Wilt thou go along? HUNTSMAN. Better do so than tarry and be hanged. RICHARD. Come then, away! Let’s ha’ no more ado. KING EDWARD. Bishop, farewell; shield thee from Warwick’s frown, And pray that I may repossess the crown. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. London. The Tower Enter King Henry, George (Duke of Clarence), Warwick, Somerset, young Richmond, Oxford, Montague, and Lieutenant of the Tower. KING HENRY. Master Lieutenant, now that God and friends Have shaken Edward from the regal seat And turned my captive state to liberty, My fear to hope, my sorrows unto joys, At our enlargement what are thy due fees? LIEUTENANT. Subjects may challenge nothing of their sovereigns; But if an humble prayer may prevail, I then crave pardon of your Majesty. KING HENRY. For what, lieutenant? For well using me? Nay, be thou sure I’ll well requite thy kindness, For that it made my imprisonment a pleasure; Ay, such a pleasure as incaged birds Conceive when, after many moody thoughts, At last by notes of household harmony They quite forget their loss of liberty. But, Warwick, after God thou sett’st me free, And chiefly therefore I thank God and thee; He was the author, thou the instrument. Therefore, that I may conquer Fortune’s spite, By living low where Fortune cannot hurt me, And that the people of this blessed land May not be punished with my thwarting stars, Warwick, although my head still wear the crown, I here resign my government to thee, For thou art fortunate in all thy deeds. WARWICK. Your Grace hath still been famed for virtuous, And now may seem as wise as virtuous By spying and avoiding Fortune’s malice, For few men rightly temper with the stars; Yet in this one thing let me blame your Grace, For choosing me when Clarence is in place. GEORGE. No, Warwick, thou art worthy of the sway, To whom the heavens in thy nativity Adjudged an olive branch and laurel crown, As likely to be blest in peace and war; And therefore I yield thee my free consent. WARWICK. And I choose Clarence only for Protector. KING HENRY. Warwick and Clarence, give me both your hands. Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts, That no dissension hinder government. I make you both Protectors of this land, While I myself will lead a private life And in devotion spend my latter days, To sin’s rebuke and my Creator’s praise. WARWICK. What answers Clarence to his sovereign’s will? GEORGE. That he consents, if Warwick yield consent, For on thy fortune I repose myself. WARWICK. Why, then, though loath, yet I must be content. We’ll yoke together, like a double shadow To Henry’s body, and supply his place; I mean, in bearing weight of government, While he enjoys the honour and his ease. And, Clarence, now then it is more than needful Forthwith that Edward be pronounced a traitor And all his lands and goods be confiscate. GEORGE. What else? And that succession be determined. WARWICK. Ay, therein Clarence shall not want his part. KING HENRY. But with the first of all your chief affairs Let me entreat—for I command no more— That Margaret your Queen and my son Edward Be sent for to return from France with speed; For till I see them here, by doubtful fear My joy of liberty is half eclipsed. GEORGE. It shall be done, my sovereign, with all speed. KING HENRY. My Lord of Somerset, what youth is that Of whom you seem to have so tender care? SOMERSET. My liege, it is young Henry, Earl of Richmond. KING HENRY. Come hither, England’s hope. If secret powers [_Lays his hand on his head._] Suggest but truth to my divining thoughts, This pretty lad will prove our country’s bliss. His looks are full of peaceful majesty, His head by nature framed to wear a crown, His hand to wield a sceptre, and himself Likely in time to bless a regal throne. Make much of him, my lords, for this is he Must help you more than you are hurt by me. Enter a Post. WARWICK. What news, my friend? POST. That Edward is escaped from your brother And fled, as he hears since, to Burgundy. WARWICK. Unsavoury news! But how made he escape? POST. He was conveyed by Richard, Duke of Gloucester And the Lord Hastings, who attended him In secret ambush on the forest side And from the Bishop’s huntsmen rescued him, For hunting was his daily exercise. WARWICK. My brother was too careless of his charge. But let us hence, my sovereign, to provide A salve for any sore that may betide. [_Exeunt all but Somerset, Richmond and Oxford._] SOMERSET. My lord, I like not of this flight of Edward’s, For doubtless Burgundy will yield him help, And we shall have more wars before ’t be long. As Henry’s late presaging prophecy Did glad my heart with hope of this young Richmond, So doth my heart misgive me, in these conflicts What may befall him, to his harm and ours. Therefore, Lord Oxford, to prevent the worst, Forthwith we’ll send him hence to Brittany Till storms be past of civil enmity. OXFORD. Ay, for if Edward repossess the crown, ’Tis like that Richmond with the rest shall down. SOMERSET. It shall be so. He shall to Brittany. Come therefore, let’s about it speedily. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VII. Before York Flourish. Enter King Edward, Richard (Duke of Gloucester), Hastings and Soldiers. KING EDWARD. Now, brother Richard, Lord Hastings, and the rest, Yet thus far Fortune maketh us amends, And says that once more I shall interchange My waned state for Henry’s regal crown. Well have we passed and now repassed the seas, And brought desired help from Burgundy. What then remains, we being thus arrived From Ravenspurgh haven before the gates of York, But that we enter as into our dukedom? RICHARD. The gates made fast! Brother, I like not this; For many men that stumble at the threshold Are well foretold that danger lurks within. KING EDWARD. Tush, man, abodements must not now affright us. By fair or foul means we must enter in, For hither will our friends repair to us. HASTINGS. My liege, I’ll knock once more to summon them. Enter on the walls, the Mayor of York and his Brethren. MAYOR. My lords, we were forewarned of your coming And shut the gates for safety of ourselves, For now we owe allegiance unto Henry. KING EDWARD. But, master Mayor, if Henry be your king, Yet Edward, at the least, is Duke of York. MAYOR. True, my good lord, I know you for no less. KING EDWARD. Why, and I challenge nothing but my dukedom, As being well content with that alone. RICHARD. [_Aside_.] But when the fox hath once got in his nose, He’ll soon find means to make the body follow. HASTINGS. Why, master Mayor, why stand you in a doubt? Open the gates; we are King Henry’s friends. MAYOR. Ay, say you so? The gates shall then be opened. [_He descends._] RICHARD. A wise, stout captain, and soon persuaded. HASTINGS. The good old man would fain that all were well, So ’twere not long of him; but, being entered, I doubt not, I, but we shall soon persuade Both him and all his brothers unto reason. Enter the Mayor and two Aldermen below. KING EDWARD. So, master Mayor, these gates must not be shut But in the night or in the time of war. What, fear not, man, but yield me up the keys; [_Takes his keys._] For Edward will defend the town and thee And all those friends that deign to follow me. March. Enter Montgomery with drum and Soldiers. RICHARD. Brother, this is Sir John Montgomery, Our trusty friend unless I be deceived. KING EDWARD. Welcome, Sir John! But why come you in arms? MONTGOMERY. To help King Edward in his time of storm, As every loyal subject ought to do. KING EDWARD. Thanks, good Montgomery; but we now forget Our title to the crown, and only claim Our dukedom till God please to send the rest. MONTGOMERY. Then fare you well, for I will hence again. I came to serve a king, and not a duke. Drummer, strike up, and let us march away. [_The drum begins to march._] KING EDWARD. Nay, stay, Sir John, a while, and we’ll debate By what safe means the crown may be recovered. MONTGOMERY. What talk you of debating? In few words, If you’ll not here proclaim yourself our king, I’ll leave you to your fortune and be gone To keep them back that come to succour you. Why shall we fight if you pretend no title? RICHARD. Why, brother, wherefore stand you on nice points? KING EDWARD. When we grow stronger, then we’ll make our claim. Till then ’tis wisdom to conceal our meaning. HASTINGS. Away with scrupulous wit! Now arms must rule. RICHARD. And fearless minds climb soonest unto crowns. Brother, we will proclaim you out of hand; The bruit thereof will bring you many friends. KING EDWARD. Then be it as you will; for ’tis my right, And Henry but usurps the diadem. MONTGOMERY. Ay, now my sovereign speaketh like himself, And now will I be Edward’s champion. HASTINGS. Sound, trumpet; Edward shall be here proclaimed. Come, fellow soldier, make thou proclamation. [_Gives him a paper. Flourish._] SOLDIER. [_Reads_.] _Edward the Fourth, by the Grace of God, King of England and France, and Lord of Ireland, etc._ MONTGOMERY. And whoso’er gainsays King Edward’s right, By this I challenge him to single fight. [_Throws down his gauntlet._] ALL. Long live Edward the Fourth! KING EDWARD. Thanks, brave Montgomery, and thanks unto you all. If Fortune serve me, I’ll requite this kindness. Now for this night let’s harbour here in York, And when the morning sun shall raise his car Above the border of this horizon We’ll forward towards Warwick and his mates; For well I wot that Henry is no soldier. Ah, froward Clarence, how evil it beseems thee To flatter Henry and forsake thy brother! Yet, as we may, we’ll meet both thee and Warwick. Come on, brave soldiers; doubt not of the day, And, that once gotten, doubt not of large pay. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VIII. London. The Palace Flourish. Enter King Henry, Warwick, Montague, George (Duke of Clarence), Oxford and Exeter. WARWICK. What counsel, lords? Edward from Belgia, With hasty Germans and blunt Hollanders, Hath passed in safety through the Narrow Seas, And with his troops doth march amain to London; And many giddy people flock to him. KING HENRY. Let’s levy men and beat him back again. GEORGE. A little fire is quickly trodden out, Which, being suffered, rivers cannot quench. WARWICK. In Warwickshire I have true-hearted friends, Not mutinous in peace, yet bold in war. Those will I muster up; and thou, son Clarence, Shalt stir up in Suffolk, Norfolk, and in Kent The knights and gentlemen to come with thee. Thou, brother Montague, in Buckingham, Northampton, and in Leicestershire shalt find Men well inclined to hear what thou command’st. And thou, brave Oxford, wondrous well beloved, In Oxfordshire shalt muster up thy friends. My sovereign, with the loving citizens, Like to his island girt in with the ocean, Or modest Dian circled with her nymphs, Shall rest in London till we come to him. Fair lords, take leave and stand not to reply. Farewell, my sovereign. KING HENRY. Farewell, my Hector, and my Troy’s true hope. GEORGE. In sign of truth, I kiss your Highness’ hand. KING HENRY. Well-minded Clarence, be thou fortunate. MONTAGUE. Comfort, my lord; and so I take my leave. OXFORD. And thus [_kissing Henry’s hand_] I seal my truth, and bid adieu. KING HENRY. Sweet Oxford, and my loving Montague, And all at once, once more a happy farewell. WARWICK. Farewell, sweet lords; let’s meet at Coventry. [_Exeunt all but King Henry and Exeter._] KING HENRY. Here at the palace will I rest a while. Cousin of Exeter, what thinks your lordship? Methinks the power that Edward hath in field Should not be able to encounter mine. EXETER. The doubt is that he will seduce the rest. KING HENRY. That’s not my fear; my meed hath got me fame. I have not stopped mine ears to their demands, Nor posted off their suits with slow delays; My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds, My mildness hath allayed their swelling griefs, My mercy dried their water-flowing tears. I have not been desirous of their wealth Nor much oppressed them with great subsidies, Nor forward of revenge, though they much erred. Then why should they love Edward more than me? No, Exeter, these graces challenge grace; And when the lion fawns upon the lamb, The lamb will never cease to follow him. [_Shout within “A York! A York!”_] EXETER. Hark, hark, my lord, what shouts are these? Enter King Edward, Richard (Duke of Gloucester) and Soldiers. KING EDWARD. Seize on the shame-faced Henry, bear him hence, And once again proclaim us King of England. You are the fount that makes small brooks to flow. Now stops thy spring; my sea shall suck them dry And swell so much the higher by their ebb. Hence with him to the Tower. Let him not speak. [_Exeunt some with King Henry._] And, lords, towards Coventry bend we our course, Where peremptory Warwick now remains. The sun shines hot, and, if we use delay, Cold biting winter mars our hoped-for hay. RICHARD. 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, Warwick, the Mayor of Coventry, two Messengers and others, upon the walls. WARWICK. Where is the post that came from valiant Oxford? How far hence is thy lord, mine honest fellow? 1 MESSENGER. By this at Dunsmore, marching hitherward. WARWICK. How far off is our brother Montague? Where is the post that came from Montague? 2 MESSENGER. By this at Daintry, with a puissant troop. Enter Sir John Somerville. WARWICK. Say, Somerville, what says my loving son? And, by thy guess, how nigh is Clarence now? SOMERVILLE. At Southam I did leave him with his forces And do expect him here some two hours hence. [_Drum heard._] WARWICK. Then Clarence is at hand; I hear his drum. SOMERVILLE. It is not his, my lord; here Southam lies. The drum your honour hears marcheth from Warwick. WARWICK. Who should that be? Belike, unlooked-for friends. SOMERVILLE. They are at hand, and you shall quickly know. March. Flourish. Enter King Edward, Richard (Duke of Gloucester) and Soldiers. KING EDWARD. Go, trumpet, to the walls and sound a parle. RICHARD. See how the surly Warwick mans the wall. WARWICK. O, unbid spite! Is sportful Edward come? Where slept our scouts, or how are they seduced, That we could hear no news of his repair? KING EDWARD. Now, Warwick, wilt thou ope the city gates, Speak gentle words and humbly bend thy knee? Call Edward King and at his hands beg mercy, And he shall pardon thee these outrages. WARWICK. Nay, rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence, Confess who set thee up and plucked thee down, Call Warwick patron and be penitent, And thou shalt still remain the Duke of York. RICHARD. I thought, at least, he would have said the King; Or did he make the jest against his will? WARWICK. Is not a dukedom, sir, a goodly gift? RICHARD. Ay, by my faith, for a poor earl to give; I’ll do thee service for so good a gift. WARWICK. ’Twas I that gave the kingdom to thy brother. KING EDWARD. Why, then, ’tis mine, if but by Warwick’s gift. WARWICK. Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight; And, weakling, Warwick takes his gift again; And Henry is my King, Warwick his subject. KING EDWARD. But Warwick’s king is Edward’s prisoner; And, gallant Warwick, do but answer this: What is the body when the head is off? RICHARD. Alas, that Warwick had no more forecast, But, whiles he thought to steal the single ten, The king was slily fingered from the deck! You left poor Henry at the Bishop’s palace, And ten to one you’ll meet him in the Tower. KING EDWARD. ’Tis even so; yet you are Warwick still. RICHARD. Come, Warwick, take the time; kneel down, kneel down. Nay, when? Strike now, or else the iron cools. WARWICK. I had rather chop this hand off at a blow And with the other fling it at thy face, Than bear so low a sail to strike to thee. KING EDWARD. Sail how thou canst, have wind and tide thy friend, This hand, fast wound about thy coal-black hair, Shall, whiles thy head is warm and new cut off, Write in the dust this sentence with thy blood: “Wind-changing Warwick now can change no more.” Enter Oxford with drum and colours. WARWICK. O cheerful colours! See where Oxford comes! OXFORD. Oxford, Oxford, for Lancaster! [_He and his forces enter the city._] RICHARD. The gates are open; let us enter too. KING EDWARD. So other foes may set upon our backs. Stand we in good array, for they no doubt Will issue out again and bid us battle; If not, the city being but of small defence, We’ll quietly rouse the traitors in the same. WARWICK. O, welcome, Oxford, for we want thy help. Enter Montague with drum and colours. MONTAGUE. Montague, Montague, for Lancaster! [_He and his forces enter the city._] RICHARD. Thou and thy brother both shall buy this treason Even with the dearest blood your bodies bear. KING EDWARD. The harder matched, the greater victory. My mind presageth happy gain and conquest. Enter Somerset with drum and colours. SOMERSET. Somerset, Somerset, for Lancaster! [_He and his forces enter the city._] RICHARD. 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 George (Duke of Clarence) with drum and colours. WARWICK. And lo, where George of Clarence sweeps along, Of force enough to bid his brother battle; With whom an upright zeal to right prevails More than the nature of a brother’s love. [_Richard and George whisper._] Come, Clarence, come; thou wilt if Warwick call. GEORGE. Father of Warwick, know you what this means? [_Taking the red rose from his hat and throws the rose at Warwick._] 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, trowest 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, whereso’er I meet thee— As I will meet thee if thou stir abroad— To plague thee for thy foul misleading me. And so, proud-hearted Warwick, I defy thee, And to my brother turn my blushing cheeks. Pardon me, Edward, I will make amends. And, Richard, do not frown upon my faults, For I will henceforth be no more unconstant. KING EDWARD. Now, welcome more, and ten times more beloved, Than if thou never hadst deserved our hate. RICHARD. Welcome, good Clarence; this is brother-like. WARWICK. O passing traitor, perjured and unjust! KING EDWARD. What, Warwick, wilt thou leave the town and fight? Or shall we beat the stones about thine ears? WARWICK. Alas! I am not cooped here for defence! I will away towards Barnet presently And bid thee battle, Edward, if thou dar’st. KING EDWARD. Yes, Warwick, Edward dares, and leads the way. Lords, to the field! Saint George and victory! [_Exeunt. March. Warwick and his company follows._] SCENE II. A Field of Battle near Barnet Alarum and excursions. Enter King Edward bringing forth Warwick wounded. KING EDWARD. So, lie thou there. Die thou, and die our fear, For Warwick was a bug that feared us all. Now, Montague, sit fast; I seek for thee, That Warwick’s bones may keep thine company. [_Exit._] WARWICK. Ah, who is nigh? Come to me, friend or foe, And tell me who is victor, York or Warwick? Why ask I that? My mangled body shows, My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows That I must yield my body to the earth And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe. Thus yields the cedar to the axe’s edge, Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle, Under whose shade the ramping lion slept, Whose top branch overpeered Jove’s spreading tree, And kept low shrubs from winter’s pow’rful wind. These eyes, that now are dimmed with death’s black veil, Have been as piercing as the midday sun, To search the secret treasons of the world; The wrinkles in my brows, now filled with blood, Were likened oft to kingly sepulchres, For who lived King but I could dig his grave? And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow? Lo, now my glory smeared in dust and blood! My parks, my walks, my manors that I had, Even now forsake me; and of all my lands Is nothing left me but my body’s length. Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? And live we how we can, yet die we must. Enter Oxford and Somerset. SOMERSET. Ah, Warwick, Warwick, wert thou as we are, We might recover all our loss again. The Queen from France hath brought a puissant power; Even now we heard the news. Ah, couldst thou fly! WARWICK. Why, then I would not fly. Ah, Montague! If thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand And with thy lips keep in my soul awhile. Thou lov’st me not; for, brother, if thou 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. SOMERSET. Ah, Warwick, Montague hath breathed his last, And to the latest gasp cried out for Warwick, And said “Commend me to my valiant brother.” And more he would have said, and more he spoke, Which sounded like a cannon in a vault, That mought not be distinguished; but at last I well might hear, delivered with a groan, “O farewell, Warwick!” WARWICK. Sweet rest his soul! Fly, lords, and save yourselves, For Warwick bids you all farewell, to meet in heaven. [_He dies._] OXFORD. Away, away, to meet the Queen’s great power! [_Here they bear away his body. Exeunt._] SCENE III. Another Part of the Field Flourish. Enter King Edward in triumph, with Richard, George and the rest. KING EDWARD. Thus far our fortune keeps an upward course, And we are graced with wreaths of victory. But in the midst of this bright-shining day, I spy a black, suspicious, threat’ning 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. GEORGE. A little gale will soon disperse that cloud And blow it to the source from whence it came; Thy very beams will dry those vapours up, For every cloud engenders not a storm. RICHARD. The Queen is valued thirty thousand strong, And Somerset, with Oxford, fled to her. If she have time to breathe, be well assured Her faction will be full as strong as ours. KING EDWARD. We are advertised by our loving friends That they do hold their course toward Tewkesbury. We, having now the best at Barnet field, Will thither straight, for willingness rids way; And, as we march, our strength will be augmented In every county as we go along. Strike up the drum! cry “Courage!” and away. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Plains near Tewkesbury Flourish. March. Enter Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, Somerset, Oxford and Soldiers. QUEEN MARGARET. Great lords, wise men ne’er sit and wail their loss, But cheerly seek how to redress their harms. What though the mast be now blown overboard, The cable broke, the holding-anchor lost, And half our sailors swallowed in the flood? Yet lives our pilot still. Is ’t meet that he Should leave the helm and, like a fearful lad, With tearful eyes add water to the sea And give more strength to that which hath too much, Whiles in his moan the ship splits on the rock, Which industry and courage might have saved? Ah, what a shame, ah, what a fault were this! Say Warwick was our anchor; what of that? And Montague our topmast; what of him? Our slaughtered friends the tackles; what of these? Why, is not Oxford here another anchor? And Somerset another goodly mast? The friends of France our shrouds and tacklings? And, though unskilful, why not Ned and I For once allowed the skilful pilot’s charge? We will not from the helm to sit and weep, But keep our course, though the rough wind say no, From shelves and rocks that threaten us with wrack. As good to chide the waves as speak them fair. And what is Edward but a ruthless sea? What Clarence but a quicksand of deceit? And Richard but a ragged fatal rock? All these the enemies to our poor bark? Say you can swim: alas, ’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. PRINCE EDWARD. Methinks a woman of this valiant spirit Should, if a coward heard her speak these words, Infuse his breast with magnanimity And make him, naked, foil a man at arms. I speak not this as doubting any here; For did I but suspect a fearful man, He should have leave to go away betimes, Lest in our need he might infect another And make him of the like spirit to himself. If any such be here, as God forbid! Let him depart before we need his help. OXFORD. Women and children of so high a courage, And warriors faint! Why, ’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! SOMERSET. And he that will not fight for such a hope, Go home to bed and, like the owl by day, If he arise, be mocked and wondered at. QUEEN MARGARET. Thanks, gentle Somerset. Sweet Oxford, thanks. PRINCE EDWARD. And take his thanks that yet hath nothing else. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. Prepare you, lords, for Edward is at hand Ready to fight; therefore be resolute. OXFORD. I thought no less. It is his policy To haste thus fast, to find us unprovided. SOMERSET. But he’s deceived; we are in readiness. QUEEN MARGARET. This cheers my heart, to see your forwardness. OXFORD. Here pitch our battle; hence we will not budge. Flourish and march. Enter King Edward, Richard, George and Soldiers. KING EDWARD. Brave followers, yonder stands the thorny wood Which by the heaven’s assistance and your strength Must by the roots be hewn up yet ere night. I need not add more fuel to your fire, For, well I wot, ye blaze to burn them out. Give signal to the fight, and to it, lords! QUEEN MARGARET. Lords, knights, and gentlemen, what I should say My tears gainsay; for every word I speak Ye see I drink the water of my eye. Therefore, no more but this: Henry, your sovereign, Is prisoner to the foe, his state usurped, His realm a slaughter-house, his subjects slain, His statutes cancelled, and his treasure spent; And yonder is the wolf that makes this spoil. You fight in justice. Then, in God’s name, lords, Be valiant and give signal to the fight. [_Alarum, retreat, excursions. Exeunt both armies_] SCENE V. Another part of the Field Flourish. Enter King Edward, Richard, George and Soldiers; with Queen Margaret, Oxford and Somerset as prisoners. KING EDWARD. Now here a period of tumultuous broils. Away with Oxford to Hames Castle straight. For Somerset, off with his guilty head. Go, bear them hence; I will not hear them speak. OXFORD. For my part, I’ll not trouble thee with words. SOMERSET. Nor I, but stoop with patience to my fortune. [_Exeunt Oxford and Somerset, guarded._] QUEEN MARGARET. So part we sadly in this troublous world, To meet with joy in sweet Jerusalem. KING EDWARD. Is proclamation made that who finds Edward Shall have a high reward, and he his life? RICHARD. It is, and lo where youthful Edward comes. Enter soldiers with Prince Edward. KING EDWARD. Bring forth the gallant; let us hear him speak. What, can so young a man begin to prick? Edward, what satisfaction canst thou make For bearing arms, for stirring up my subjects, And all the trouble thou hast turned me to? PRINCE EDWARD. Speak like a subject, proud, ambitious York. Suppose that I am now my father’s mouth; Resign thy chair, and where I stand kneel thou, Whilst I propose the selfsame words to thee Which, traitor, thou wouldst have me answer to. QUEEN MARGARET. Ah, thy father had been so resolved! RICHARD. That you might still have worn the petticoat And ne’er have stol’n the breech from Lancaster. PRINCE EDWARD. Let Aesop fable in a winter’s night; His currish riddle sorts not with this place. RICHARD. By heaven, brat, I’ll plague you for that word. QUEEN MARGARET. Ay, thou wast born to be a plague to men. RICHARD. For God’s sake, take away this captive scold. PRINCE EDWARD. Nay, take away this scolding crookback rather. KING EDWARD. Peace, wilful boy, or I will charm your tongue. GEORGE. Untutored lad, thou art too malapert. PRINCE EDWARD. I know my duty; you are all undutiful. Lascivious Edward, and thou perjured George, And thou misshapen Dick, I tell ye all I am your better, traitors as ye are, And thou usurp’st my father’s right and mine. KING EDWARD. Take that, the likeness of this railer here. [_Stabs him._] RICHARD. Sprawl’st thou? Take that to end thy agony. [_Stabs him._] GEORGE. And there’s for twitting me with perjury. [_Stabs him._] QUEEN MARGARET. O, kill me too! RICHARD. Marry, and shall. [_Offers to kill her._] KING EDWARD. Hold, Richard, hold; for we have done too much. RICHARD. Why should she live to fill the world with words? KING EDWARD. What, doth she swoon? Use means for her recovery. RICHARD. 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. GEORGE. What? What? RICHARD. The Tower, the Tower! [_Exit._] QUEEN MARGARET. O Ned, sweet Ned, speak to thy mother, boy. Canst thou not speak? O traitors, murderers! They that stabbed Caesar shed no blood at all, Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame, If this foul deed were by to equal it. He was a man; this, in respect, a child, And men ne’er spend their fury on a child. What’s worse than 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. Butchers and villains, bloody cannibals! How sweet a plant have you untimely cropped! You have no children, butchers; if you had, The thought of them would have stirred up remorse. But if you ever chance to have a child, Look in his youth to have him so cut off As, deathsmen, you have rid this sweet young prince! KING EDWARD. Away with her; go bear her hence perforce. QUEEN MARGARET. Nay, never bear me hence, dispatch me here. Here sheathe thy sword; I’ll pardon thee my death. What, wilt thou not? Then, Clarence, do it thou. GEORGE. By heaven, I will not do thee so much ease. QUEEN MARGARET. Good Clarence, do; sweet Clarence, do thou do it. GEORGE. Didst thou not hear me swear I would not do it? QUEEN MARGARET. Ay, but thou usest to forswear thyself. ’Twas sin before, but now ’tis charity. What, wilt thou not? Where is that devil’s butcher, Richard, Hard-favoured Richard? Richard, where art thou? Thou art not here. Murder is thy alms-deed; Petitioners for blood thou ne’er putt’st back. KING EDWARD. Away, I say! I charge ye, bear her hence. QUEEN MARGARET. So come to you and yours as to this prince! [_She is taken out._] KING EDWARD. Where’s Richard gone? GEORGE. To London all in post, and, as I guess, To make a bloody supper in the Tower. KING EDWARD. He’s sudden if a thing comes in his head. Now march we hence. Discharge the common sort With pay and thanks, and let’s away to London And see our gentle Queen how well she fares. By this, I hope, she hath a son for me. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. London. The Tower Enter King Henry and Richard, with the Lieutenant on the walls. RICHARD. Good day, my lord. What, at your book so hard? KING HENRY. 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, And both preposterous; therefore, not “good lord”. RICHARD. Sirrah, leave us to ourselves; we must confer. [_Exit Lieutenant._] KING HENRY. So flies the reckless shepherd from the wolf; So first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece, And next his throat unto the butcher’s knife. What scene of death hath Roscius now to act? RICHARD. Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; The thief doth fear each bush an officer. KING HENRY. The bird that hath been limed in a bush With trembling wings misdoubteth every bush; And I, the hapless male to one sweet bird, Have now the fatal object in my eye Where my poor young was limed, was caught, and killed. RICHARD. Why, what a peevish fool was that of Crete That taught his son the office of a fowl! And yet, for all his wings, the fool was drowned. KING HENRY. I, Daedalus; my poor boy, Icarus; Thy father, Minos, that denied our course; The sun that seared the wings of my sweet boy, Thy brother Edward; and thyself, the sea Whose envious gulf did swallow up his life. Ah, kill me with thy weapon, not with words! My breast can better brook thy dagger’s point Than can my ears that tragic history. But wherefore dost thou come? Is ’t for my life? RICHARD. Think’st thou I am an executioner? KING HENRY. A persecutor I am sure thou art. If murdering innocents be executing, Why, then thou art an executioner. RICHARD. Thy son I killed for his presumption. KING HENRY. Hadst thou been killed when first thou didst presume, Thou hadst not lived to kill a son of mine. And thus I prophesy: that many a thousand Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear, And many an old man’s sigh, and many a widow’s, And many an orphan’s water-standing eye, Men for their sons’, wives for their husbands’, Orphans for their parents’ timeless death, Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born. The owl shrieked at thy birth, an evil sign; The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time; Dogs howled, and hideous tempest shook down trees; The raven rooked her on the chimney’s top, And chatt’ring pies in dismal discord sung; Thy mother felt more than a mother’s pain, And yet brought forth less than a mother’s hope, 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 cam’st to bite the world; And, if the rest be true which I have heard, Thou cam’st— RICHARD. I’ll hear no more. Die, prophet, in thy speech. [_Stabs him._] For this, amongst the rest, was I ordained. KING HENRY. Ay, and for much more slaughter after this. O God, forgive my sins, and pardon thee! [_Dies._] RICHARD. What, will the aspiring blood of Lancaster Sink in the ground? I thought it would have mounted. See how my sword weeps for the poor King’s death. O, may such purple tears be always shed From those that wish the downfall of our house! If any spark of life be yet remaining, Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither— [_Stabs him again._] I that have neither pity, love, nor fear. Indeed, ’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 usurped our right? The midwife wondered, and the women cried “O, Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth!” And so I was, which plainly signified That I should snarl, and bite, and play the dog. Then, since the heavens have shaped my body so, Let hell make crooked my mind to answer it. I have no brother, I am like no brother; And this word “love,” which greybeards call divine, Be resident in men like one another, And not in me. I am myself alone. Clarence, beware; thou keep’st me from the light, But I will sort a pitchy day for thee; For I will buzz abroad such prophecies That Edward shall be fearful of his life; And then, to purge his fear, I’ll be thy death. King Henry and the Prince his son are gone; Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest, Counting myself but bad till I be best. I’ll throw thy body in another room, And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom. [_Exit with the body._] SCENE VII. London. The Palace Flourish. Enter King Edward, Queen Elizabeth, George, Richard, Hastings, Nurse, carrying infant Prince Edward, and Attendants. KING EDWARD. Once more we sit in England’s royal throne, Repurchased with the blood of enemies. What valiant foemen, like to autumn’s corn, Have we mowed down in tops of all their pride! Three Dukes of Somerset, threefold renowned For hardy and undoubted champions; Two Cliffords, as the father and the son; And two Northumberlands; two braver men Ne’er spurred their coursers at the trumpet’s sound; With them the two brave bears, Warwick and Montague, That in their chains fettered the kingly lion And made the forest tremble when they roared. Thus have we swept suspicion from our seat And made our footstool of security. Come hither, Bess, and let me kiss my boy. Young Ned, for thee thine uncles and myself Have in our armours watched the winter’s night, Went all afoot in summer’s scalding heat, That thou mightst repossess the crown in peace; And of our labours thou shalt reap the gain. RICHARD. [_Aside_.] I’ll blast his harvest, if your head were laid; For yet I am not looked on in the world. This shoulder was ordained so thick to heave, And heave it shall some weight or break my back. Work thou the way, and that shall execute. KING EDWARD. Clarence and Gloucester, love my lovely Queen; And kiss your princely nephew, brothers both. GEORGE. The duty that I owe unto your Majesty I seal upon the lips of this sweet babe. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Thanks, noble Clarence; worthy brother, thanks. RICHARD. And, that I love the tree from whence thou sprang’st, Witness the loving kiss I give the fruit. [_Aside_.] To say the truth, so Judas kissed his master And cried “All hail!” when as he meant all harm. KING EDWARD. Now am I seated as my soul delights, Having my country’s peace and brothers’ loves. GEORGE. What will your Grace have done with Margaret? Reignier, her father, to the King of France Hath pawned the Sicils and Jerusalem, And hither have they sent it for her ransom. KING EDWARD. Away with her and waft her hence to France. And now what rests but that we spend the time With stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows, Such as befits the pleasure of the court? Sound drums and trumpets! Farewell, sour annoy! For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy. [_Exeunt._] KING HENRY THE EIGHTH Contents ACT I