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

by William Shakespeare

  My Lord, get it over with; read these articles.

  KING RICHARD.

  Mine eyes are full of tears; I cannot see.

  And yet salt water blinds them not so much

  But they can see a sort of traitors here.

  Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself,

  I find myself a traitor with the rest;

  For I have given here my soul's consent

  T'undeck the pompous body of a king;

  Made glory base, and sovereignty a slave,

  Proud majesty a subject, state a peasant.

  My eyes are full of tears; I cannot see.

  And yet the salt water does not make them so blind

  that they cannot see this group of traitors here.

  No, if I take a look at myself

  I find I am a traitor with the rest of them;

  for I have here given my agreement

  to take away the ceremonial robes of a king;

  I have made glory low, and royalty a slave,

  proud majesty a subject, my state a peasant.

  NORTHUMBERLAND.

  My lord-

  My lord–

  KING RICHARD.

  No lord of thine, thou haught insulting man,

  Nor no man's lord; I have no name, no tide-

  No, not that name was given me at the font-

  But 'tis usurp'd. Alack the heavy day,

  That I have worn so many winters out,

  And know not now what name to call myself!

  O that I were a mockery king of snow,

  Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke

  To melt myself away in water drops!

  Good king, great king, and yet not greatly good,

  An if my word be sterling yet in England,

  Let it command a mirror hither straight,

  That it may show me what a face I have

  Since it is bankrupt of his majesty.

  No lord of yours, you haughty insulting man;

  no man's lord. I have no name, no title;

  no, not even that name that was given to me at my christening,

  it has been stolen. What a terrible thing,

  that I have reached such an age

  and now don't know what name to call myself!

  I wish I was a fake king made of snow,

  standing under the sun of Bolingbroke,

  so that I could melt away in drops of water!

  Good King, great King, though not greatly good,

  if my words still have any power in England,

  let me order a mirror to be brought here at once,

  so it can show me what my face looks like

  now it has lost its majesty.

  BOLINGBROKE.

  Go some of you and fetch a looking-glass.

  Some of you go and fetch a looking glass.

  Exit an attendant

  NORTHUMBERLAND.

  Read o'er this paper while the glass doth come.

  Read out this paper while we're waiting for the mirror.

  KING RICHARD.

  Fiend, thou torments me ere I come to hell.

  You devil, you torture me before I get to hell.

  BOLINGBROKE.

  Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland.

  Stop asking him, my Lord Northumberland.

  NORTHUMBERLAND.

  The Commons will not, then, be satisfied.

  The Commons will not be satisfied if he doesn't read it.

  KING RICHARD.

  They shall be satisfied. I'll read enough,

  When I do see the very book indeed

  Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself.

  Re-enter attendant with glass

  Give me that glass, and therein will I read.

  No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck

  So many blows upon this face of mine

  And made no deeper wounds? O flatt'ring glass,

  Like to my followers in prosperity,

  Thou dost beguile me! Was this face the face

  That every day under his household roof

  Did keep ten thousand men? Was this the face

  That like the sun did make beholders wink?

  Is this the face which fac'd so many follies

  That was at last out-fac'd by Bolingbroke?

  A brittle glory shineth in this face;

  As brittle as the glory is the face;

  [Dashes the glass against the ground]

  For there it is, crack'd in a hundred shivers.

  Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport-

  How soon my sorrow hath destroy'd my face.

  They will be satisfied. I will read enough

  when I have seen the very book

  where my sins are written, and that is my face.

  Give me that mirror, and I will read from it.

  No deeper wrinkles yet? Has sorrow struck

  so many blows upon my face

  and not made deeper wounds? Oh flattering glass,

  like my followers when I was fortunate,

  you are deceiving me. Was this the face

  that managed to keep ten thousand men as part

  of his household? Was this the face

  that made onlookers squint as if looking at the sun?

  Is this the face which committed so many follies

  and was at last stared down by Bolingbroke?

  There is a brittle glory shining in this face;

  this face is as brittle as glory,

  for there it is, smashed into a hundred splinters.

  Make a note, silent King, of the moral of this–

  see how quickly my sorrow destroyed my face.

  BOLINGBROKE.

  The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy'd

  The shadow of your face.

  The imitation of your sorrow has destroyed

  the imitation of your face.

  KING RICHARD.

  Say that again.

  The shadow of my sorrow? Ha! let's see.

  'Tis very true: my grief lies all within;

  And these external manner of laments

  Are merely shadows to the unseen grief

  That swells with silence in the tortur'd soul.

  There lies the substance; and I thank thee, king,

  For thy great bounty, that not only giv'st

  Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way

  How to lament the cause. I'll beg one boon,

  And then be gone and trouble you no more.

  Shall I obtain it?

  Say that again.

  The imitation of my sorrow? Hah! Let's see.

  It's very true: all my sorrow is within;

  all these external laments

  are just imitations of the unseen sorrow

  that swells in silence inside the tortured soul.

  There is the substance of it; and I thank you, King,

  for your great gift, not only giving me

  reason to be sad, but showing me the way

  to mourn for it. I'll ask you one favour,

  and then I shall be gone and give you no more trouble.

  Will you grant it?

  BOLINGBROKE.

  Name it, fair cousin.

  Name it, fair cousin.

  KING RICHARD.

  Fair cousin! I am greater than a king;

  For when I was a king, my flatterers

  Were then but subjects; being now a subject,

  I have a king here to my flatterer.

  Being so great, I have no need to beg.

  Fair cousin! I am greater than a king;

  for when I was a king, my flatterers

  were just my subjects; now I am a subject,

  I have a king here as my flatterer.

  Being so great, I don't need to beg.

  BOLINGBROKE.

  Yet ask.

  Just ask.

  KING RICHARD.

  And shall I have?

  And shall I have it?

  BOLINGBROKE.
r />   You shall.

  You shall.

  KING RICHARD.

  Then give me leave to go.

  Then let me leave.

  BOLINGBROKE.

  Whither?

  To go where?

  KING RICHARD.

  Whither you will, so I were from your sights.

  Wherever you want, to get me out of your sight.

  BOLINGBROKE.

  Go, some of you convey him to the Tower.

  Go, some of you escort him to the Tower.

  KING RICHARD.

  O, good! Convey! Conveyers are you all,

  That rise thus nimbly by a true king's fall.

  O, good! Escort! You are all escorts,

  all swiftly promoted due to the fall of a true king.

  Exeunt KING RICHARD, some Lords and a Guard

  BOLINGBROKE.

  On Wednesday next we solemnly set down

  Our coronation. Lords, prepare yourselves.

  I set aside next Wednesday for my

  solemn coronation. Lords, make your preparations.

  Exeunt all but the ABBOT OF WESTMINSTER, the

  BISHOP OF CARLISLE, and AUMERLE

  ABBOT.

  A woeful pageant have we here beheld.

  We have seen a sorry sight here.

  CARLISLE.

  The woe's to come; the children yet unborn

  Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn.

  The sorrow is yet to come; children not yet born

  will suffer as a result of today's events.

  AUMERLE.

  You holy clergymen, is there no plot

  To rid the realm of this pernicious blot?

  You holy clergymen, don't you have a way

  to remove this stain from the country?

  ABBOT.

  My lord,

  Before I freely speak my mind herein,

  You shall not only take the sacrament

  To bury mine intents, but also to effect

  Whatever I shall happen to devise.

  I see your brows are full of discontent,

  Your hearts of sorrow, and your eyes of tears.

  Come home with me to supper; I will lay

  A plot shall show us all a merry day.

  My lord,

  before I freely speak my mind about that,

  you will not only swear by the sacrament

  that you will keep my plans secret, but also that

  you will do whatever I invent.

  I see that you are frowning in anger,

  your heart is full of sorrow, and your eyes are full of tears.

  Come home with me to supper; I will outline

  a plot which will make us all happy.

  Exeunt

  London. A street leading to the Tower

  Enter the QUEEN, with her attendants

  QUEEN.

  This way the King will come; this is the way

  To Julius Caesar's ill-erected tower,

  To whose flint bosom my condemned lord

  Is doom'd a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke.

  Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth

  Have any resting for her true King's queen.

  Enter KING RICHARD and Guard

  But soft, but see, or rather do not see,

  My fair rose wither. Yet look up, behold,

  That you in pity may dissolve to dew,

  And wash him fresh again with true-love tears.

  Ah, thou, the model where old Troy did stand;

  Thou map of honour, thou King Richard's tomb,

  And not King Richard; thou most beauteous inn,

  Why should hard-favour'd grief be lodg'd in thee,

  When triumph is become an alehouse guest?

  The king will come this way; this is the way

  to Julius Caesar's evil tower,

  to which my condemned lord

  has been sent as a prisoner by haughty Bolingbroke.

  Let's rest here, if there is any rest anywhere

  on this rebellious earth for the queen of a true King.

  But look, or rather don't look, there

  is my fair rose withered.But look up, look,

  you who dissolve into pity like dew,

  and wash him clean again with the tears of true love.

  Ah, you, you are like the ruins of old Troy;

  you model of honour, you tomb of King Richard,

  you are not King Richard; you beautiful inn,

  why should hard faced grief visit you,

  when triumph visits every common alehouse?

  KING RICHARD.

  Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so,

  To make my end too sudden. Learn, good soul,

  To think our former state a happy dream;

  From which awak'd, the truth of what we are

  Shows us but this: I am sworn brother, sweet,

  To grim Necessity; and he and

  Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to France,

  And cloister thee in some religious house.

  Our holy lives must win a new world's crown,

  Which our profane hours here have thrown down.

  Don't grieve so, fair woman, do not

  write me off so soon. Learn, good soul,

  to think of our former position as a happy dream;

  having woken up, we can see the truth of

  what we are: I am the sworn brother, my sweet,

  of grim necessity; and he and I

  will be together until death. Take yourself to France,

  and retreat into some religious house.

  We must work to win a new crown in heaven,

  as we have lost the one we had on earth.

  QUEEN.

  What, is my Richard both in shape and mind

  Transform'd and weak'ned? Hath Bolingbroke depos'd

  Thine intellect? Hath he been in thy heart?

  The lion dying thrusteth forth his paw

  And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage

  To be o'erpow'r'd; and wilt thou, pupil-like,

  Take the correction mildly, kiss the rod,

  And fawn on rage with base humility,

  Which art a lion and the king of beasts?

  What, has my Richard been transformed and weakened

  both in body and mind? Has Bolingbroke overthrown

  your intellect? Has he been in your heart?

  The dying lion puts out his paw

  and wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage

  at his downfall; are you going to be like a schoolboy,

  taking your punishment mildly, kissing the cane,

  and bow down to rage with low humbleness,

  you who are a lion and the king of beasts?

  KING RICHARD.

  A king of beasts, indeed! If aught but beasts,

  I had been still a happy king of men.

  Good sometimes queen, prepare thee hence for France.

  Think I am dead, and that even here thou takest,

  As from my death-bed, thy last living leave.

  In winter's tedious nights sit by the fire

  With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales

  Of woeful ages long ago betid;

  And ere thou bid good night, to quit their griefs

  Tell thou the lamentable tale of me,

  And send the hearers weeping to their beds;

  For why, the senseless brands will sympathize

  The heavy accent of thy moving tongue,

  And in compassion weep the fire out;

  And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black,

  For the deposing of a rightful king.

  A king of beasts, indeed! If it had only been of beasts,

  I would still be a happy king of men.

  My good once upon a time Queen, go to France.

  Imagine that I am dead, and that even now you are making

  your last living farewell to me, as if you were at my deathbed.

  In thedull nig
hts of winter sit by the fire

  with good old people, and let them tell you stories

  of sad things which happened long ago;

  and before you say good night, to cap their sorry tales

  tell them of my sad story,

  and send the listeners off weeping to their beds;

  because the unfeeling sticks will sympathise

  with the heavy words your tongue shall speak,

  and out of pity they will put out the fire;

  and some will mourn with ashes, black as coal,

  the overthrow of a rightful king.

  Enter NORTHUMBERLAND attended

  NORTHUMBERLAND.

  My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is chang'd;

  You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower.

  And, madam, there is order ta'en for you:

  With all swift speed you must away to France.

  My lord, Bolingbroke has changed his mind;

  you must go to Pomfret, not to the tower.

  And, madam, arrangements have been made for you:

  you must go as quickly as possible to France.

  KING RICHARD.

  Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal

  The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne,

  The time shall not be many hours of age

  More than it is, ere foul sin gathering head

  Shall break into corruption. Thou shalt think

  Though he divide the realm and give thee half

  It is too little, helping him to all;

  And he shall think that thou, which knowest the way

  To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again,

  Being ne'er so little urg'd, another way

  To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne.

  The love of wicked men converts to fear;

  That fear to hate; and hate turns one or both

  To worthy danger and deserved death.