William Shakespeare: The Complete Works 2nd Edition (63 page)
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Authors: William Shakespeare
Tags: #Drama, #Literary Criticism, #Shakespeare
BOOK: William Shakespeare: The Complete Works 2nd Edition
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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.
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
⌈
at another door
⌉
another Soldier with a dead man
⌈
in his arms
⌉
SECOND SOLDIER
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.
Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold—
For I have bought it with an hundred blows.
⌈
He removes the dead man’s helmet
⌉
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! (
Weeping
) See, see, what showers
arise,
Blown with the windy tempest of my heart,
Upon thy wounds, that kills 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!
Ah, no, no, no—it is mine only son!
Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee,
Throw up thine eye! (
Weeping
) See, see, what showers
arise,
Blown with the windy tempest of my heart,
Upon thy wounds, that kills 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.
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.
FIRST SOLDIER
How will my mother for a father’s death
Take on with me, and ne’er be satisfied!
Take on with me, and ne’er be satisfied!
SECOND SOLDIER
How will my wife for slaughter of my son
Shed seas of tears, and ne’er be satisfied!
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!
Misthink the King, and not be satisfied!
FIRST SOLDIER
Was ever son so rued a father’s death?
SECOND SOLDIER
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.
Much is your sorrow, mine ten times so much.
FIRST SOLDIER (
to his father’s body
)
to his father’s body
)
I’ll bear thee hence where I may weep my fill.
Exit
⌈
at one door
⌉
with the body of his father
SECOND SOLDIER (
to his son’s body)
to his son’s body)
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,
E’en 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.
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,
E’en 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
⌈
at another door
⌉
with the body of his son
KING HENRY
Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care,
Here sits a king more woeful than you are.
Here sits a king more woeful than you are.
Alarums. Excursions. Enter Prince Edward
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!
And Warwick rages like a chafed bull!
Away—for death doth hold us in pursuit!
⌈
Enter Queen Margaret
⌉
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.
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.
⌈
Enter Exeter
⌉
EXETER
Away—for vengeance comes along with them!
Nay—stay not to expostulate—make speed—
Or else come after. I’ll away before.
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
2.6Not that I fear to stay, but love to go
Whither the Queen intends. Forward, away. Exeunt
A loud alarum. Enter Lord Clifford, wounded
⌈
with an arrow in his neck
⌉
CLIFFORD
Here burns my candle out—ay, here it dies,
Which, whiles it lasted, gave King Henry light.
O Lancaster, I fear thy overthrow
More than my body’s parting with my soul!
My love and fear glued many friends to thee—
And, now I fall, thy tough commixture melts,
Impairing Henry, strength’ning 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 Phaeton 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.
Which, whiles it lasted, gave King Henry light.
O Lancaster, I fear thy overthrow
More than my body’s parting with my soul!
My love and fear glued many friends to thee—
And, now I fall, thy tough commixture melts,
Impairing Henry, strength’ning 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 Phaeton 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 Duke of York,
his brothers George and Richard, the Earl of
Warwick,
⌈
the Marquis of Montague,
⌉
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?
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.
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
⌈EDWARD⌉
Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave?
⌈RICHARD⌉
A deadly groan, like life and death’s departing.
⌈EDWARD⌉ ⌈
to Richard
⌉
to Richard
⌉
See who it is.
⌈
Richard goes to Clifford
⌉
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 murd’ring knife unto the root
From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring—
I mean our princely father, Duke of York.
Who not contented that he lopped the branch
In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth,
But set his murd’ring knife unto the root
From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring—
I mean our princely father, Duke of York.
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 answerèd.
Your father’s head, which Clifford placed there.
Instead whereof let this supply the room—
Measure for measure must be answerèd.
EDWARD
Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house,
That nothing sung but death to us and ours.
That nothing sung but death to us and ours.
⌈
Clifford is dragged forward
⌉
Now death shall stop his dismal threat’ning sound
And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.
And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.
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.
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.
’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 unstanchèd thirst
York and young Rutland could not satisfy.
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 unstanchèd 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.
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.
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.
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.
Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London
To see these honours in possession.
Exeunt.
⌈
York’s head is removed
⌉
Enter two Gamekeepers, with crossbows in their hands
FIRST GAMEKEEPER
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.
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.
SECOND GAMEKEEPER
I’ll stay above the hill, so both may shoot.
FIRST GAMEKEEPER
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.
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.
FIRST GAMEKEEPER
Here comes a man—let’s stay till he be past.
They stand apart. Enter King Henry, disguised, carrying 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?
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?
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