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

by William Shakespeare

  I can see right through this Justice Shallow. Lord,

  Lord, how much we old men lie!

  This skinny justice has done nothing

  but chatted to me about how wild he was as a youth,

  and the things he got up to round Turnbull Street,

  and every third word is a lie, he is more rigourous in lying

  than a Turk is in paying tribute. I can remember him at Clement's

  Inn, like a man who was full after he'd had a bit of cheese rind.

  When he was naked, he was for all the world

  like a split radish, with a weird head carved on it

  with a knife. He was so skinny that anyone with

  bad eyesight couldn't see him; he was

  the absolute example of famine, but as lecherous as a monkey,

  and the whores called him a mandrake. He was always

  behind the times, and sung tunes to

  those worn out tarts that he had heard the

  carters whistle, and swore that he had made them up.

  And now this dirty old man has

  become a squire, and talks as familiarly about John of

  Gaunt as if he had been his brother, and

  I'll swear he only ever saw him once at the

  jousting, and then he got beaten on the head for

  trying to push in the crowd. I saw what happened and told John of

  Gaunt that he was beating his own name, for one could have

  fitted him and all his clothes into an eel skin–the

  case of a treble oboe was a mansion for him, a

  court; and now he has land and cattle. Well, I'll

  get to know him if I come back, and I'll be surprised

  if I can't make him a source of great wealth for me.

  If by the laws of nature the great ones gobble up

  the little, I see no reason why I can't snap him up:

  we'll see what happens, and that's the end of it.

  [Exit.]

  [Enter the Archbishop of York, Mowbray, Hastings, and others.]

  ARCHBISHOP.

  What is this forest call'd?

  What's the name of this forest?

  HASTINGS.

  'Tis Gaultree Forest, an 't shall please your grace.

  This is Gaultree Forest, if your grace pleases.

  ARCHBISHOP.

  Here stand, my lords; and send discoverers forth

  To know the numbers of our enemies.

  Wait here, my lords; send out spies

  to find the numbers of the enemy forces.

  HASTINGS.

  We have sent forth already.

  We've already sent them out.

  ARCHBISHOP.

  'Tis well done.

  My friends and brethren in these great affairs,

  I must acquaint you that I have received

  New-dated letters from Northumberland;

  Their cold intent, tenour and substance, thus:

  Here doth he wish his person, with such powers

  As might hold sortance with his quality,

  The which he could not levy; whereupon

  He is retired, to ripe his growing fortunes,

  To Scotland: and concludes in hearty prayers

  That your attempts may overlive the hazard

  And fearful meeting of their opposite.

  That's good.

  My friends and brothers in these great matters,

  I must let you know that I have received

  fresh letters from Northumberland;

  their chilly meaning, tone and substance is this:

  he wishes that he was here with forces

  which would match his nobility,

  which he could not raise; so

  he has retreated to Scotland until his

  fortunes improve: he ends with hearty prayers

  that your efforts might overcome the dangers

  and fearful challenges of your enemies.

  MOWBRAY.

  Thus do the hopes we have in him touch ground

  And dash themselves to pieces.

  So the hopes we had in him hit the ground

  and smash themselves to pieces.

  [Enter a Messenger.]

  HASTINGS.

  Now, what news?

  Now, what's the news?

  MESSENGER.

  West of this forest, scarcely off a mile,

  In goodly form comes on the enemy;

  And, by the ground they hide, I judge their number

  Upon or near the rate of thirty thousand.

  West of this forest, hardly a mile off,

  the enemy is advancing in good order;

  and, from the ground they cover, I judge there are

  somewhere near thirty thousand of them.

  MOWBRAY.

  The just proportion that we gave them out.

  Let us sway on and face them in the field.

  The exact number that we expected.

  Let's advance and face them on the battlefield.

  ARCHBISHOP.

  What well-appointed leader fronts us here?

  Who is commanding their forces?

  [Enter Westmoreland.]

  MOWBRAY.

  I think it is my Lord of Westmoreland.

  I think it is my Lord of Westmorland.

  WESTMORELAND.

  Health and fair greeting from our general,

  The prince, Lord John and Duke of Lancaster.

  Fair greetings and good health from our general,

  the Prince, Lord John and Duke of Lancaster.

  ARCHBISHOP.

  Say on, my Lord of Westmoreland, in peace:

  What doth concern your coming?

  Speak on, my Lord Westmorland, peacefully:

  why have you come here?

  WESTMORELAND.

  Then, my lord,

  Unto your grace do I in chief address

  The substance of my speech. If that rebellion

  Came like itself, in base and abject routs,

  Led on by bloody youth, guarded with rags,

  And countenanced by boys and beggary,

  I say, if damn'd commotion so appear'd,

  In his true, native, and most proper shape,

  You, reverend father, and these noble lords

  Had not been here, to dress the ugly form

  Of base and bloody insurrection

  With your fair honours. You, lord archbishop,

  Whose see is by a civil peace maintain'd,

  Whose beard the silver hand of peace hath touch'd,

  Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutor'd,

  Whose white investments figure innocence,

  The dove and very blessed spirit of peace,

  Wherefore you do so ill translate yourself

  Out of the speech of peace that bears such grace,

  Into the harsh and boisterous tongue of war;

  Turning your books to graves, your ink to blood,

  Your pens to lances and your tongue divine

  To a loud trumpet and a point of war?

  Then, my lord,

  I shall make your Grace the person

  I am chiefly speaking to. If rebellion

  came undisguised, in low and ugly riots,

  led on by bloodthirsty youths, dressed in rags,

  supported by boys and beggars,

  if, as I say, the dammed disturbances looked like that,

  if they took their proper undisguised shape,

  you, reverend father, and these noble Lords

  would not be here, lending the ugly shape

  of low and bloody rebellion the dignity

  of your honours. You, Lord Archbishop,

  whose position is upheld by civil peace,

  who has been allowed to grow old in peace,

  who taught peace in his writings,

  whose white robes represent innocence,

  the Dove and the very blessed spirit of peace,

  why have you changed your ways from<
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  the peaceful ones that had such grace

  into the harsh and rowdy ways of war;

  turning your books into graves, your ink to blood,

  your pens to spears and your God guided tongue

  into a loud trumpet, ordering battle?

  ARCHBISHOP.

  Wherefore do I this? so the question stands.

  Briefly to this end: we are all diseased,

  And with our surfeiting and wanton hours

  Have brought ourselves into a burning fever,

  And we must bleed for it; of which disease

  Our late king, Richard, being infected, died.

  But, my most noble Lord of Westmoreland,

  I take not on me here as a physician,

  Nor do I as an enemy to peace

  Troop in the throngs of military men;

  But rather show awhile like fearful war,

  To diet rank minds sick of happiness,

  And purge the obstructions which begin to stop

  Our very veins of life. Hear me more plainly.

  I have in equal balance justly weigh'd

  What wrongs our arms may do, what wrongs we suffer,

  And find our griefs heavier than our offences.

  We see which way the stream of time doth run,

  And are enforced from our most quiet there

  By the rough torrent of occasion;

  And have the summary of all our griefs,

  When time shall serve, to show in articles;

  Which long ere this we offer'd to the king,

  And might by no suit gain our audience:

  When we are wrong'd and would unfold our griefs,

  We are denied access unto his person

  Even by those men that most have done us wrong.

  The dangers of the days but newly gone,

  Whose memory is written on the earth

  With yet appearing blood, and the examples

  Of every minute's instance, present now,

  Hath put us in these ill-beseeming arms,

  Not to break peace or any branch of it,

  But to establish here a peace indeed,

  Concurring, both in name and quality.

  Why have I done this? That's what you ask.

  I'll answer briefly: we are all diseased,

  and through our greed and improper behaviour

  we have caused ourselves a burning fever,

  and we must let blood to cure it; our late King Richard

  was infected by this disease and died.

  But, my most noble Lord Westmorland,

  I am not here as a physician,

  nor do I join the ranks of military men

  as an enemy to peace,

  but I want to show the country war for a while

  as a purgative for minds bloated with luxury,

  to flush out the obstructions which are blocking up

  the veins of our national life. Let me speak more plainly.

  I have carefully weighed up

  the damage our fighting might do alongside the wrongs we have suffered,

  and I find that our wrongs outweigh the wrong we are doing.

  We can see which way things are going,

  and that has made us leave our quiet retreats,

  forced by the rough torrent of events,

  and we have a list of all our grievances,

  to show everyone when the time is right,

  which long ago we offered to the King,

  but he refused to listen to us.

  When we had been wronged, and wanted to speak of our grievances,

  we were denied access to him,

  by the very men who have most harmed us.

  The dangers of the days which have only just passed,

  the memory of which is written on the Earth

  in still visible blood, and the examples

  which we can see every minute in the present

  has made us take up these seemingly unsuitable weapons,

  not to break the peace, or indeed any part of it,

  but to establish a true peace,

  that's actually worthy of the name.

  WESTMORELAND.

  When ever yet was your appeal denied?

  Wherein have you been galled by the king?

  What peer hath been suborn'd to grate on you,

  That you should seal this lawless bloody book

  Of forged rebellion with a seal divine

  And consecrate commotion's bitter edge?

  When was your appeal ever denied?

  When have you been injured by the King?

  What peer was secretly engaged to harass you,

  badly enough to make you give your divine seal

  of approval to this lawless bloody illegitimate

  rebellion, and give heavenly approval

  for these chaotic riots?

  ARCHBISHOP.

  My brother general, the commonwealth,

  To brother born an household cruelty,

  I make my quarrel in particular.

  I am fighting on behalf of my brothers,

  the common people, and also my brother

  who was particularly cruelly treated.

  WESTMORELAND.

  There is no need of any such redress;

  Or if there were, it not belongs to you.

  No compensation is owed in these matters;

  even if there was, it would not belong to you.

  MOWBRAY.

  Why not to him in part, and to us all

  That feel the bruises of the days before,

  And suffer the condition of these times

  To lay a heavy and unequal hand

  Upon our honours?

  Why should he not get a share, and all of us

  who have been harmed by the events leading up to this,

  who are suffering at this time from having

  a heavy and unjust imposition placed

  upon our honours?

  WESTMORELAND.

  O, my good Lord Mowbray,

  Construe the times to their necessities,

  And you shall say indeed, it is the time,

  And not the king, that doth you injuries.

  Yet for your part, it not appears to me

  Either from the king or in the present time

  That you should have an inch of any ground

  To build a grief on: were you not restored

  To all the Duke of Norfolk's signories,

  Your noble and right well rememb'red father's?

  Oh, my good Lord Mowbray,

  if you see how necessary the events were,

  you will certainly say it is the events,

  and not the King, which have injured you.

  But for you, it doesn't seem to me

  that either the king or the current events

  give you the slightest excuse to have

  any grievances: were you not given back

  all of the Duke of Norfolk's estates and honours,

  those of your noble and rightly respected father?

  MOWBRAY.

  What thing, in honour, had my father lost,

  That need to be revived and breathed in me?

  The king that loved him, as the state stood then,

  Was force perforce compell'd to banish him:

  And then that Henry Bolingbroke and he,

  Being mounted and both roused in their seats,

  Their neighing coursers daring of the spur,

  Their armed staves in charge, their beavers down,

  Their eyes of fire sparkling through sights of steel,

  And the loud trumpet blowing them together,

  Then, then, when there was nothing could have stay'd

  My father from the breast of Bolingbroke,

  O, when the king did throw his warder down,

  His own life hung upon the staff he threw;

  Then threw he down himself and all their lives

  That by indictment and by dint of sword

/>   Have since miscarried under Bolingbroke.

  What honourable thing had my father lost,

  that needed to be revitalised through me?

  The king who loved him, because of the situation then,

  was compelled by force to banish them:

  it was then that Henry Bolingbroke and he,

  both mounted and ready for action,

  spurring on their neighing warhorses,

  their lances held ready for the charge, their face guards down,

  their fiery eyes sparkling through the steel slits,

  with the loud trumpet calling them to begin,

  then, then, when there was nothing which could have stopped

  my father from attacking Bolingbroke,

  the King called a halt to proceedings,

  and in doing so called a halt to his own life;

  as he abandoned the fight he abandoned the lives

  of everyone who has through war or the law

  suffered under Bolingbroke.

  WESTMORELAND.

  You speak, Lord Mowbray, now you know not what.

  The Earl of Hereford was reputed then

  In England the most valiant gentleman:

  Who knows on whom fortune would then have smiled?

  But if your father had been victor there,

  He ne'er had borne it out of Coventry:

  For all the country in a general voice

  Cried hate upon him; and all their prayers and love

  Were set on Hereford, whom they doted on

  And bless'd and graced indeed, more than the king.

  But this is mere digression from my purpose.

  Here come I from our princely general

  To know your griefs; to tell you from his grace

  That he will give you audience; and wherein

  It shall appear that your demands are just,

  You shall enjoy them, everything set off

  That might so much as think you enemies.

  You speak, Lord Mowbray, of things you don't understand.

  The Earl of Hereford was then thought of

  as the most valiant gentleman in England:

  who knows whom fortune would have favoured?

  But if your father had won that joust

  his victory wouldn't have lasted outside Coventry: