The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated)
Page 61
Fight, gentlemen of England! Fight, bold yeomen!
Drawback your bows as far as they will go, archers!
Drive on your proud forces, and ride through blood!
Frighten the sky with your broken lances!
What does Lord Stanley say? Will he bring his forces?
MESSENGER.
My lord, he doth deny to come.
My lord, he refuses to come.
KING RICHARD.
Off with his son George's head!
Off with the head of his son George!
NORFOLK.
My lord, the enemy is pass'd the marsh.
After the battle let George Stanley die.
My lord, the enemy has crossed over the marshes.
Let George Stanley die after the battle.
KING RICHARD.
A thousand hearts are great within my
bosom.
Advance our standards, set upon our foes;
Our ancient word of courage, fair Saint George,
Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons!
Upon them! Victory sits on our helms.
I have a thousand hearts beating within my chest.
Advance our banners, attack our enemies;
May our ancient example of courage, good St George,
inspire us with the anger of fiery dragons!
Attack them! Victory rides with us.
Exeunt
Another part of the field
Alarum; excursions. Enter NORFOLK and forces; to him CATESBY
CATESBY.
Rescue, my Lord of Norfolk, rescue, rescue!
The King enacts more wonders than a man,
Daring an opposite to every danger.
His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights,
Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death.
Rescue, fair lord, or else the day is lost.
To the rescue, my Lord of Norfolk, rescue, rescue!
The King is fighting as if he were more than a man,
throwing himself against every danger.
His horse has been killed, and he is fighting on foot,
looking for Richmond in the most dangerous places.
To the rescue, fair lord, or we have lost the battle.
Alarums. Enter KING RICHARD
KING RICHARD.
A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!
A horse! A horse! I'll give my kingdom for a horse!
CATESBY.
Withdraw, my lord! I'll help you to a horse.
Retreat, my lord! I'll find you a horse.
KING RICHARD.
Slave, I have set my life upon a cast
And I will stand the hazard of the die.
I think there be six Richmonds in the field;
Five have I slain to-day instead of him.
A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!
Slave, I have chanced my life to luck
and I will risk the roll of the dice.
I think there must be six Richmonds in the field;
I have killed five today instead of him.
A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!
Exeunt
Another part of the field
Alarum. Enter RICHARD and RICHMOND; they fight; RICHARD is slain.
Retreat and flourish. Enter RICHMOND, DERBY bearing the crown,
with other LORDS
RICHMOND.
God and your arms be prais'd, victorious friends;
The day is ours, the bloody dog is dead.
May God and your weapons be praised, victorious friends;
we have won, the bloody dog is dead.
DERBY.
Courageous Richmond, well hast thou acquit thee!
Lo, here, this long-usurped royalty
From the dead temples of this bloody wretch
Have I pluck'd off, to grace thy brows withal.
Wear it, enjoy it, and make much of it.
Brave Richmond, you have acquitted yourself well!
Look, here, I pulled the stolen crown
from the dead forehead of this bloody wretch
to grace your brow.
Wear it, enjoy it, and do your best with it.
RICHMOND.
Great God of heaven, say Amen to all!
But, tell me is young George Stanley living.
Great God of heaven, amen to all that!
But tell me if young George Stanley is still alive.
DERBY.
He is, my lord, and safe in Leicester town,
Whither, if it please you, we may now withdraw us.
He is, my lord, and safe in the town of Leicester,
to which, if it pleases you, we may now withdraw.
RICHMOND.
What men of name are slain on either side?
What notable men have been killed on either side?
DERBY.
John Duke of Norfolk, Walter Lord Ferrers,
Sir Robert Brakenbury, and Sir William Brandon.
John Duke of Norfolk, Walter Lord Ferrers,
Sir Robert Brackenbury and Sir William Brandon.
RICHMOND.
Inter their bodies as becomes their births.
Proclaim a pardon to the soldiers fled
That in submission will return to us.
And then, as we have ta'en the sacrament,
We will unite the white rose and the red.
Smile heaven upon this fair conjunction,
That long have frown'd upon their emnity!
What traitor hears me, and says not Amen?
England hath long been mad, and scarr'd herself;
The brother blindly shed the brother's blood,
The father rashly slaughter'd his own son,
The son, compell'd, been butcher to the sire;
All this divided York and Lancaster,
Divided in their dire division,
O, now let Richmond and Elizabeth,
The true succeeders of each royal house,
By God's fair ordinance conjoin together!
And let their heirs, God, if thy will be so,
Enrich the time to come with smooth-fac'd peace,
With smiling plenty, and fair prosperous days!
Abate the edge of traitors, gracious Lord,
That would reduce these bloody days again
And make poor England weep in streams of blood!
Let them not live to taste this land's increase
That would with treason wound this fair land's peace!
Now civil wounds are stopp'd, peace lives again-
That she may long live here, God say Amen!
Bury their bodies in a way which fits their nobility.
Announce that all the soldiers who fled who
come back under our orders shall be pardoned;
and then, as I've vowed,
I shall unite the houses of Lancaster and York.
Heaven, smile on this fair union,
as you have long scowled at their opposition.
What traitor listens to me and does not say amen?
England has been mad for a long time, and scarred herself:
brother blindly shed the blood of his brother;
a father rashly slaughtered his own son;
the son was forced to murder the father.
All this divided York and Lancaster–
divided in their terrible conflict.
Oh now let Richmond and Elizabeth,
the true successors of each royal house,
join together under the law of God,
and let their heirs, God, if it is your will,
fill the times to come with beautiful peace,
with happy days of prosperity.
Blunt the swords of traitors, gracious Lord,
who would try to take us back to these bloody days
and make poor England weep streams of blood.
Don't let anyone live to enjoy this prosperity
if they want to harm the pea
ce of this fair land with treason.
The wounds of civil war are staunched; peace thrives again.
May God grant that she lives here a long time.
Exeunt
THE END
In Plain and Simple English
King Henry the Fourth.
Henry, Prince of Wales, son to the King.
Prince John of Lancaster, son to the King.
Earl of Westmoreland.
Sir Walter Blunt.
Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester.
Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland.
Henry Percy, surnamed Hotspur, his son.
Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March.
Richard Scroop, Archbishop of York.
Archibald, Earl of Douglas.
Owen Glendower.
Sir Richard Vernon.
Sir John Falstaff.
Sir Michael, a friend to the Archbishop of York.
Poins.
Gadshill
Peto.
Bardolph.
Lady Percy, wife to Hotspur, and sister to Mortimer.
Lady Mortimer, daughter to Glendower, and wife to Mortimer.
Mistress Quickly, hostess of the Boar's Head in Eastcheap.
Lords, Officers, Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, two
Carriers, Travellers, and Attendants.
SCENE.--England and Wales.
London. The Palace.
Enter the King, Lord John of Lancaster, Earl of Westmoreland,
[Sir Walter Blunt,] with others.
King.
So shaken as we are, so wan with care,
Find we a time for frighted peace to pant
And breathe short-winded accents of new broils
To be commenc'd in stronds afar remote.
No more the thirsty entrance of this soil
Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood.
No more shall trenching war channel her fields,
Nor Bruise her flow'rets with the armed hoofs
Of hostile paces. Those opposed eyes
Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven,
All of one nature, of one substance bred,
Did lately meet in the intestine shock
And furious close of civil butchery,
Shall now in mutual well-beseeming ranks
March all one way and be no more oppos'd
Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies.
The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,
No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends,
As far as to the sepulchre of Christ-
Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross
We are impressed and engag'd to fight-
Forthwith a power of English shall we levy,
Whose arms were moulded in their mother's womb
To chase these pagans in those holy fields
Over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet
Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail'd
For our advantage on the bitter cross.
But this our purpose now is twelvemonth old,
And bootless 'tis to tell you we will go.
Therefore we meet not now. Then let me hear
Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland,
What yesternight our Council did decree
In forwarding this dear expedience.
As shaken as we are, so pale with stress,
will find a time in all this chaos to catch our breath,
and, puffing, talk of new battles
to be begun in faraway lands:
no more shall the thirsty mouth of this soil
paint her lips with her own children's blood,
the trenches of war shall no longer score her fields,
and her flowers will no longer be bruised with the armoured hoofs
of enemy horses: those conflicting eyes,
which, like the meteors in a stormy sky,
are all the same, all bread from the same stock,
which recently met in the internal shock
and furious battles of civil war,
will now, in interdependent well ordered ranks,
all march together, and no longer confront
friends, family and allies.
The blade of wars will no longer cut his master
like a carelessly stowed knife. Therefore, friends,
we shall go to the tomb of Christ–
whose soldier we are now, under whose blessed cross
we are conscripted and bound to fight–
we shall raise an English force,
who were born to fight,
to chase these pagans in those holy fields
on which those blessed feet walked
which fourteen hundred years ago were nailed
on the bitter cross for our benefit.
But this plan of ours is now twelve months old,
and it's pointless to tell you we will go;
that's not why we are meeting now. So let me hear
from you, my gentle cousin Westmorland,
what our Council decided last night
to move on this cherished and urgent enterprise.
West.
My liege, this haste was hot in question
And many limits of the charge set down
But yesternight; when all athwart there came
A post from Wales, loaden with heavy news;
Whose worst was that the noble Mortimer,
Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight
Against the irregular and wild Glendower,
Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken,
A thousand of his people butchered;
Upon whose dead corpse there was such misuse,
Such beastly shameless transformation,
By those Welshwomen done as may not be
Without much shame retold or spoken of.
My lord, this urgency was eagerly debated,
and many assignments had been handed out
just yesterday night, when all of a sudden there came
a messenger from Wales, carrying grim news,
the worst of which was that noble Mortimer,
leading the men of Herefordshire to fight
against the wild guerilla bands of Glendower,
was captured by the rough hands of that Welshman,
a thousand of his people were butchered,
whose dead bodies were so abused,
so brutally mutilated
by those Welsh women, that it can't be
spoken of without much shame.
King.
It seems then that the tidings of this broil
Brake off our business for the Holy Land.
So it seems that the news of this battle
means we must suspend our plans for the Holy Land.
West.
This, match'd with other, did, my gracious lord;
For more uneven and unwelcome news
Came from the North, and thus it did import:
On Holy-rood Day the gallant Hotspur there,
Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald,
That ever-valiant and approved Scot,
At Holmedon met,
Where they did spend a sad and bloody hour;
As by discharge of their artillery
And shape of likelihood the news was told;
For he that brought them, in the very heat
And pride of their contention did take horse,
Uncertain of the issue any way.
This, coupled with something else, does, my gracious Lord,
for even more disturbing and unwelcome news
came from the North, telling us this:
on the day of the Holy Cross, gallant Hotspur there,
young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald,
that always courageous and renowned Scott,
met at Holmedon, where they clashed in
a sad and bloody battle;
we were told the news that we
would lose
on the basis of the probable result
based on the way the battle went so far;
for the one who brought it had left
right in the very heat of battle,
so he was uncertain as to the outcome.
King.
Here is a dear, a true-industrious friend,
Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse,
Stain'd with the variation of each soil
Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours,
And he hath brought us smooth and welcome news.
The Earl of Douglas is discomfited;
Ten thousand bold Scots, two-and-twenty knights,
Balk'd in their own blood did Sir Walter see
On Holmedon's plains. Of prisoners, Hotspur took
Mordake Earl of Fife and eldest son
To beaten Douglas, and the Earl of Athol,
Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith.
And is not this an honourable spoil?
A gallant prize? Ha, cousin, is it not?
Here is a dear loyal and zealous friend,
Sir Walter Blunt, newly dismounted from his horse,
stained with every type of soil
that exists between that Holmedon and our palace;
and he has brought us hopeful and welcome news.
The Earl of Douglas has been thwarted;
ten thousand bold Scotsmen, and twenty two knights,
choked with their own blood, Sir Walter saw
on the plains of Holmedon; Hotspur took
Mordrake, Earl of Fife and the oldest son
of beaten Douglas, and the Earl of Athol,
of Murray, Angus and Mentieth, prisoner:
isn't this an honourable haul?
A gallant prize? Ha, cousin, isn't it?