The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated)

by William Shakespeare

  Disburs'd I duly to his Highness' soldiers;

  The other part reserv'd I by consent,

  For that my sovereign liege was in my debt

  Upon remainder of a dear account

  Since last I went to France to fetch his queen:

  Now swallow down that lie. For Gloucester's death-

  I slew him not, but to my own disgrace

  Neglected my sworn duty in that case.

  For you, my noble Lord of Lancaster,

  The honourable father to my foe,

  Once did I lay an ambush for your life,

  A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul;

  But ere I last receiv'd the sacrament

  I did confess it, and exactly begg'd

  Your Grace's pardon; and I hope I had it.

  This is my fault. As for the rest appeal'd,

  It issues from the rancour of a villain,

  A recreant and most degenerate traitor;

  Which in myself I boldly will defend,

  And interchangeably hurl down my gage

  Upon this overweening traitor's foot

  To prove myself a loyal gentleman

  Even in the best blood chamber'd in his bosom.

  In haste whereof, most heartily I pray

  Your Highness to assign our trial day.

  Then, Bolingbroke, your lies come through your throat

  from deep down in your heart.

  I paid out three quarters of the money I was given

  for the war at Calais to his Highness' soldiers;

  the other part I kept with permission,

  because my royal lord owed it to me

  as the remainder of the money I spent

  when I went to France for his marriage negotiations:

  now take that lie back. As for the death of Gloucester,

  I did not kill him, but to my shame

  I did neglect my sworn duty in that case.

  My noble Lord of Lancaster,

  the honourable father of my enemy,

  I did once set an ambush to kill you,

  a sin that tormented my sorrowful soul;

  but before I last took the sacrament

  I confessed it, and expressly asked

  for your Grace to pardon me, and I hope you did.

  That is my crime–as for the other accusations,

  they come from the bitterness of a villain,

  a blasphemous and degenerate traitor,

  which I will strongly refute,

  and I reciprocally throw down my glove

  on this terrible traitor's foot,

  to prove that I am a loyal gentleman

  with honest blood running through my veins.

  So that I can prove this I beg that

  your Highness will set a day for us to fight.

  KING RICHARD.

  Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be rul'd by me;

  Let's purge this choler without letting blood-

  This we prescribe, though no physician;

  Deep malice makes too deep incision.

  Forget, forgive; conclude and be agreed:

  Our doctors say this is no month to bleed.

  Good uncle, let this end where it begun;

  We'll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your son.

  Angry gentleman, take my advice;

  Let’s get rid of this fever without letting blood–

  this is my prescription, though I'm not a doctor;

  great hatred cuts too deeply.

  Forgive and forget; stop and be reconciled:

  the doctors say this is not a month for bloodletting.

  Good uncle, let's nip this in the bud;

  I'll calm down the Duke of Norfolk, you calm down your son.

  GAUNT.

  To be a make-peace shall become my age.

  Throw down, my son, the Duke of Norfolk's gage.

  It suits my age to be a peacemaker.

  Throw down the Duke of Norfolk's glove, my son.

  KING RICHARD.

  And, Norfolk, throw down his.

  And, Norfolk, throw down his.

  GAUNT.

  When, Harry, when?

  Obedience bids I should not bid again.

  Come on, Harry, why are you waiting?

  You should obey, I shouldn't have to ask again.

  KING RICHARD.

  Norfolk, throw down; we bid.

  There is no boot.

  Norfolk, throw it down; I order you.

  There is no alternative.

  MOWBRAY.

  Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot;

  My life thou shalt command, but not my shame:

  The one my duty owes; but my fair name,

  Despite of death, that lives upon my grave

  To dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have.

  I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffl'd here;

  Pierc'd to the soul with slander's venom'd spear,

  The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood

  Which breath'd this poison.

  I throw myself, great King, at your feet;

  you have command of my life, but not my honour:

  my duty owes you my life; but my honourable name,

  that will live upon my grave after I'm dead,

  I will not let you have for dishonour.

  I have been disgraced, accused and dishonoured here,

  stabbed to the soul with the poisonous spear of slander,

  and nothing can make this good except for the

  lifeblood of the one who slandered me.

  KING RICHARD.

  Rage must be withstood:

  Give me his gage-lions make leopards tame.

  You must overcome your anger:

  give me his glove–lions rule over leopards.

  MOWBRAY.

  Yea, but not change his spots. Take but my shame,

  And I resign my gage. My dear dear lord,

  The purest treasure mortal times afford

  Is spotless reputation; that away,

  Men are but gilded loam or painted clay.

  A jewel in a ten-times barr'd-up chest

  Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast.

  Mine honour is my life; both grow in one;

  Take honour from me, and my life is done:

  Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try;

  In that I live, and for that will I die.

  Yes, but they can't change his spots. Take away my dishonour,

  and I will give up my glove. My dear dear lord,

  the purest treasure that we have in our life on Earth

  is a spotless reputation; take that away,

  and men are just gilded soil or painted clay.

  A good spirit in a loyal heart is worth

  More than the most precious jewel.

  My honour is my life; they are intertwined;

  if you take my honour from me, my life is ended:

  so, my dear lord, let me test my honour;

  I live for it, and I will die for it.

  KING RICHARD.

  Cousin, throw up your gage; do you begin.

  Cousin, throw me your glove, you start.

  BOLINGBROKE.

  O, God defend my soul from such deep sin!

  Shall I seem crest-fallen in my father's sight?

  Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height

  Before this outdar'd dastard? Ere my tongue

  Shall wound my honour with such feeble wrong

  Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear

  The slavish motive of recanting fear,

  And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace,

  Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray's face.

  May God defend me against committing such a terrible sin!

  Should I surrender in sight of my father?

  Or discredit my noble birth out of cowardice

  in front of this cowardly bastard? Before my tongue

  wounds my honour with such a pathetic insult

  or a
grees to such a dishonourable truce, my teeth shall

  tear it out as a punishment for its cowardice

  and spit it bleeding in disgrace into the place

  were dishonour is hiding, Mowbray's face.

  Exit GAUNT

  KING RICHARD.

  We were not born to sue, but to command;

  Which since we cannot do to make you friends,

  Be ready, as your lives shall answer it,

  At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert's day.

  There shall your swords and lances arbitrate

  The swelling difference of your settled hate;

  Since we can not atone you, we shall see

  Justice design the victor's chivalry.

  Lord Marshal, command our officers-at-arms

  Be ready to direct these home alarms.

  I was not born to ask, but to order;

  since I can't make you be friendly,

  be ready, on pain of death, to appear

  at Coventry, upon St Lambert's day.

  There your swords and lances will decide

  this hateful argument between you;

  since I can't reconcile you, I shall see

  justice decide who will win the knightly combat.

  Lord Marshal, order our officers-at-arms

  to prepare matters for this domestic battle.

  Exeunt

  London. The DUKE OF LANCASTER'S palace

  Enter JOHN OF GAUNT with the DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER

  GAUNT.

  Alas, the part I had in Woodstock's blood

  Doth more solicit me than your exclaims

  To stir against the butchers of his life!

  But since correction lieth in those hands

  Which made the fault that we cannot correct,

  Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven;

  Who, when they see the hours ripe on earth,

  Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.

  Alas, my blood relationship to Woodstock

  is a greater motive for me than your urgings

  to take action against his murderers!

  But since punishment lies in the hands

  of the one who ordered the crime,

  we must leave judgment to the will of heaven,

  which, when it sees the time is right,

  will rain hot punishment down upon the offenders.

  DUCHESS.

  Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?

  Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?

  Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one,

  Were as seven vials of his sacred blood,

  Or seven fair branches springing from one root.

  Some of those seven are dried by nature's course,

  Some of those branches by the Destinies cut;

  But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloucester,

  One vial full of Edward's sacred blood,

  One flourishing branch of his most royal root,

  Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt;

  Is hack'd down, and his summer leaves all faded,

  By envy's hand and murder's bloody axe.

  Ah, Gaunt, his blood was thine! That bed, that womb,

  That mettle, that self mould, that fashion'd thee,

  Made him a man; and though thou livest and breathest,

  Yet art thou slain in him. Thou dost consent

  In some large measure to thy father's death

  In that thou seest thy wretched brother die,

  Who was the model of thy father's life.

  Call it not patience, Gaunt-it is despair;

  In suff'ring thus thy brother to be slaught'red,

  Thou showest the naked pathway to thy life,

  Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee.

  That which in mean men we entitle patience

  Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.

  What shall I say? To safeguard thine own life

  The best way is to venge my Gloucester's death.

  Doesn't the fact that he was your brother spur you on?

  Doesn't any love burn in your old blood?

  Edward's seven sons, of whom you are one,

  were like seven vials of his holy blood,

  or seven sweet branches springing from the same root.

  Some of those seven have dried up through the course of nature,

  some of those branches have been cut by destiny;

  but Thomas my dear Lord, my life, my Gloucester,

  one vial full of Edward's sacred blood,

  a flourishing branch from his royal root,

  has been cracked, and all the precious liquor has been spilt,

  chopped down, his summer leaves are all faded,

  by the hand of envy, and the bloody axe of a murderer.

  Ah, Gaunt, his blood was yours! You were made in the same bed,

  the same womb, from the same material, in the same mould;

  and though you are living and breathing,

  you are killed with him; you are playing

  a large part in your father's death

  if you stand by and watch your wretched brother die,

  who was the image of your father.

  This is not patience, Gaunt, it is despair;

  in allowing your brother to be killed like this

  you are opening the doorway to your own murder,

  showing how you can be butchered too.

  What we call patience in lowborn men

  is pale cold cowardice in the hearts of the noble.

  What can I say? The best way to protect your own life

  is to take revenge for my husband's death.

  GAUNT.

  God's is the quarrel; for God's substitute,

  His deputy anointed in His sight,

  Hath caus'd his death; the which if wrongfully,

  Let heaven revenge; for I may never lift

  An angry arm against His minister.

  The argument is with God; because God's representative,

  his deputy, chosen by him,

  caused his death; if it was wrong to do so,

  let God take revenge; I can never

  attack the minister of God.

  DUCHESS.

  Where then, alas, may I complain myself?

  Alas, then where can I address my complaints?

  GAUNT.

  To God, the widow's champion and defence.

  Address them to God, the defender and champion of widows.

  DUCHESS.

  Why then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt.

  Thou goest to Coventry, there to behold

  Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight.

  O, sit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's spear,

  That it may enter butcher Mowbray's breast!

  Or, if misfortune miss the first career,

  Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom

  That they may break his foaming courser's back

  And throw the rider headlong in the lists,

  A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford!

  Farewell, old Gaunt; thy sometimes brother's wife,

  With her companion, Grief, must end her life.

  Alright, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt.

  You are going to Coventry, to see

  our cousin Hereford and evil Mowbray fight.

  May my husband's wrongs give power to Hereford's spear,

  so that it can pierce the breast of the butcher Mowbray!

  Or, if he is unlucky enough to miss on his first charge,

  may Mowbray's sins lie so heavily upon him

  that the weight breaks the back of his foaming charger,

  and throws the rider headfirst to the ground,

  a helpless coward at the mercy of my cousin Hereford!

  Farewell, old Gaunt; I was once your brother's wife,

  now I must live out my life with grief as my companion.

  GAUNT.

  Sister, farewell; I must to Coventry.

  As much
good stay with thee as go with me!

  Sister, farewell; I must go to Coventry.

  May as much good stay with you as goes with me!

  DUCHESS.

  Yet one word more- grief boundeth where it falls,

  Not with the empty hollowness, but weight.

  I take my leave before I have begun,

  For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done.

  Commend me to thy brother, Edmund York.

  Lo, this is all- nay, yet depart not so;

  Though this be all, do not so quickly go;

  I shall remember more. Bid him- ah, what?-

  With all good speed at Plashy visit me.

  Alack, and what shall good old York there see

  But empty lodgings and unfurnish'd walls,

  Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones?

  And what hear there for welcome but my groans?

  Therefore commend me; let him not come there

  To seek out sorrow that dwells every where.

  Desolate, desolate, will I hence and die;

  The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye.

  Just one more word–grief bounces when it falls,

  not through its empty hollowness, but because of its weight.

  I'm leaving before I have begun,

  for sorrow is not over just because it seems to be.

  Remember me to your brother Edmund York.

  That's all–no, don't go like that,

  though this is all, don't go so quickly;

  I'll remember other things. Tell him–ah, what?–

  To come and see me at Plashy as soon as he can.

  Alas, and what shall good old York see there

  apart from empty rooms and bare walls,

  servants’ quarters without servants, untrodden floors?

  What welcome will he hear there except for my groans?

  So remember him to me; don't let him go

  to that place that is so full of sorrow.

  I will go there all alone, and all alone I shall die;

  this is the last time my weeping eyes shall see you.

  Exeunt

  The lists at Coventry

  Enter the LORD MARSHAL and the DUKE OF AUMERLE

  MARSHAL.

  My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd?