The Arden Shakespeare Complete Works
Page 235
RICHARD Iron of Naples, hid with English gilt,
Whose father bears the title of a king
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As if a channel should be call’d the sea –
Sham’st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,
To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?
EDWARD
A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns
To make this shameless callet know herself.
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Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,
Although thy husband may be Menelaus;
And ne’er was Agamemnon’s brother wrong’d
By that false woman as this king by thee.
His father revell’d in the heart of France,
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And tam’d the King, and made the Dauphin stoop;
And had he match’d according to his state,
He might have kept that glory to this day;
But when he took a beggar to his bed
And grac’d thy poor sire with his bridal day,
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Even then that sunshine brew’d a shower for him
That wash’d his father’s fortunes forth of France
And heap’d sedition on his crown at home.
For what hath broach’d this tumult but thy pride?
Hadst thou been meek, our title still had slept;
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And we, in pity of the gentle King,
Had slipp’d 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;
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And though the edge have something hit ourselves,
Yet know thou, since we have begun to strike,
We’ll never leave till we have hewn thee down,
Or bath’d thy growing with our heated bloods.
EDWARD And in this resolution I defy thee;
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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.
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EDWARD No wrangling woman, we’ll no longer stay:
These words will cost ten thousand lives this day.
Exeunt.
2.3 Alarum. Excursions. Enter WARWICK.
WARWICK Forspent with toil, as runners with a race,
I lay me down a little while to breathe;
For strokes receiv’d, and many blows repaid,
Have robb’d my strong-knit sinews of their strength,
And spite of spite needs must I rest awhile.
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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.
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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,
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Broach’d 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,
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That stain’d 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,
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Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage;
And look upon, as if the tragedy
Were play’d in jest by counterfeiting actors?
Here on my knee I vow to God above
I’ll never pause again, never stand still,
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Till either death hath clos’d 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,
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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,
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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:
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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,
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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.
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Forslow no longer; make we hence amain. Exeunt.
2.4 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 environ’d with a brazen wall.
CLIFFORD Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone.
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This is the hand that stabb’d thy father York,
And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland;
And here’s the heart that triumphs in their death
And cheers these hands, that slew thy sire and brother,
To execute the like upon thyself;
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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.
2.5 Alarum. Enter KING HENRY alone.
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
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Forc’d by the tide to combat with the wind;
Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea
Forc’d to retire by fury of the wind.
Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind;
Now one the better, then another best;
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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!
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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?
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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 –
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How many makes the hour full complete,
How many hours brings about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the times –
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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;
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So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean;
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Pass’d over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
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Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider’d canopy
To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery?
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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,
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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 kill’d his father, with the body in his arms.
SON Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.
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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.
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Who’s this? O God! it is my father’s face,
Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill’d.
O heavy times, begetting such events!
From London by the King was I press’d forth;
My father, being the Earl of Warwick’s man,
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Came on the part of York, press’d by his master;
And I, who at his hands receiv’d my life,
Have by my hands of life bereaved him.
Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did:
And pardon, father, for I knew not thee.
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My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks;
And no more words till they have flow’d their fill.
KING HENRY O piteous spectacle! O bloody times!
Whilst lions war and battle for their dens,
Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity.
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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’ercharg’d with grief.
Enter a Father that hath kill’d 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,
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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,
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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,
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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!
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O pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity!