Henry VI Part 3

A little gale will soon disperse that cloud, And blow it to the source from whence it came; Thy very beams will dry those vapors up, For every cloud engenders not a storm.

Ah, kill me with thy weapon, not with words! My breast can better brook thy dagger’s point Than can my ears that tragic history. But wherefore dost thou come? Is’t for my life?

Ah, would she break from hence, that this my body Might in the ground be closed up in rest! For never henceforth shall I joy again, Never, O never, shall I see more joy!

Alas, how should you govern any kingdom, That know not how to use ambassadors, Nor how to be contented with one wife, Nor how to use your brothers brotherly, Nor how to study for the people’s welfare, Nor how to shroud yourself from enemies?

And I, who at his hands receiv’d my life, Have by my hands of life bereaved him.

And he that throws not up his cap for joy Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head. King Edward, valiant Richard, Montague, Stay we no longer, dreaming of renown, But sound the trumpets, and about our task.

And if thine eyes can water for his death, I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal.

And now what rests but that we spend the time With stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows, Such as befits the pleasure of the court? Sound drums and trumpets! Farewell sour annoy! For here I hope begins our lasting joy.

And that is more than I will yield unto. I know I am too mean to be your queen, And yet too good to be your concubine.

And thus I prophesy, that many a thousand Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear, And many an old man’s sigh and many a widow’s, And many an orphan’s water-standing eye— Men for their sons, wives for their husbands, Orphans for their parents’ timeless death— Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born.

And, lords, towards Coventry bend we our course, Where peremptory Warwick now remains. The sun shines hot, and, if we use delay, Cold biting winter mars our hop’d-for hay.

As well as Lewis of France or the Earl of Warwick, Which are so weak of courage and in judgment That they’ll take no offense at our abuse.

Aside to Clarence. He plies her hard, and much rain wears the marble. CLAR. Aside to Gloucester As red as fire? Nay then, her wax must melt.

Away with scrupulous wit! Now arms must rule.

Ay, good leave have you, for you will have leave Till youth take leave and leave you to the crutch.

Ay, if thou wilt say ay to my request; No, if thou dost say no to my demand.

Ay, now begins a second storm to rise, For this is he that moves both wind and tide.

Ay, now methinks I hear great Warwick speak. Ne’er may he live to see a sunshine day That cries “Retire!” if Warwick bid him stay.

Ay, such a pleasure as incaged birds Conceive, when, after many moody thoughts, At last by notes of household harmony They quite forget their loss of liberty.

Be thou a prey unto the house of York, And die in bands for this unmanly deed!

Beshrew me, but his passions moves me so That hardly can I check my eyes from tears.

Bishop, farewell! Shield thee from Warwick’s frown, And pray that I may repossess the crown.

Brother, I like not this; For many men that stumble at the threshold Are well foretold that danger lurks within.

But Hercules himself must yield to odds; And many strokes, though with a little axe, Hews down and fells the hardest-timber’d oak.

But all in vain, they had no heart to fight, And we, in them, no hope to win the day,

But if your title to the crown be weak, As may appear by Edward’s good success, Then ’tis but reason that I be releas’d From giving aid which late I promised.

But thou art neither like thy sire nor dam, But like a foul misshapen stigmatic, Mark’d by the destinies to be avoided, As venom toads, or lizards’ dreadful stings.

But when the fox hath once got in his nose, He’ll soon find means to make the body follow.

But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear That things ill got had ever bad success? And happy always was it for that son Whose father for his hoarding went to hell?

By giving the house of Lancaster leave to breathe, It will outrun you, father, in the end.

Can I do this, and cannot get a crown? Tut, were it farther off, I’ll pluck it down.

Come on, brave soldiers; doubt not of the day, And that once gotten, doubt not of large pay.

D. SOM. But he’s deceiv’d, we are in readiness. Q. MAR. This cheers my heart, to see your forwardness.

Five men to twenty! Though the odds be great, I doubt not, uncle, of our victory

For thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry’s head, And wring the aweful sceptre from his fist, Were he as famous and as bold in war As he is fam’d for mildness, peace, and prayer.

For what doth cherish weeds but gentle air? And what makes robbers bold but too much lenity? Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds; No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight.

For yet is hope of life and victory. Foreslow no longer, make we hence amain.

Forespent 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.

From off the gates of York fetch down the head, Your father’s head, which Clifford placed there; In stead whereof let this supply the room: Measure for measure must be answered.

From such a cause as fills mine eyes with tears And stops my tongue, while heart is drown’d in cares.

GLOU. That would be ten days’ wonder at the least. CLAR. That’s a day longer than a wonder lasts.

Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recompt Our baleful news, and at each word’s deliverance Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told, The words would add more anguish than the wounds.

Ha? Durst the traitor breathe out so proud words? Well, I will arm me, being thus forewarn’d. They shall have wars, and pay for their presumption.

Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin, I should not for my life but weep with him, To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul.

Had he none else to make a stale but me? Then none but I shall turn his jest to sorrow.

Henry now lives in Scotland at his ease; Where having nothing, nothing can he lose.

Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies, Which whiles it lasted, gave King Henry light. O Lancaster! I fear thy overthrow More than my body’s parting with my soul.

Here on my knee I vow to God above I’ll never pause again, never stand still, Till either death hath clos’d these eyes of mine Or fortune given me measure of revenge.

Here stand we both and aim we at the best; And for the time shall not seem tedious, I’ll tell thee what befell me on a day In this self place where now we mean to stand.

His demand Springs not from Edward’s well-meant honest love, But from deceit bred by necessity; For how can tyrants safely govern home, Unless abroad they purchase great alliance?

How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex To triumph like an Amazonian trull Upon their woes whom fortune captivates! But that thy face is vizard-like, unchanging, Made impudent with use of evil deeds, I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush.

I can add colors to the chameleon, Change shapes with Proteus for advantages, And set the murderous Machevil to school.

I hold it cowardice To rest mistrustful where a noble heart Hath pawn’d an open hand in sign of love; Else might I think that Clarence, Edward’s brother, Were but a feigned friend to our proceedings.

I long till Edward fall by war’s mischance, For mocking marriage with a dame of France

I rather wish you foes than hollow friends. But if you mind to hold your true obedience, Give me assurance with some friendly vow, That I may never have you in suspect.

I will not hence, till with my talk and tears (Both full of truth) I make King Lewis behold Thy sly conveyance and thy lord’s false love, For both of you are birds of self-same feather.

If secret powers Suggest but truth to my divining thoughts, This pretty lad will prove our country’s bliss. His looks are full of peaceful majesty, His head by nature fram’d to wear a crown, His hand to wield a sceptre, and himself Likely in time to bless a regal throne.

I’ll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall, I’ll slay more gazers than the basilisk, I’ll play the orator as well as Nestor, Deceive more slily than Ulysses could, And like a Sinon, take another Troy.

I’ll hence forthwith unto the sanctuary, To save, at least, the heir of Edward’s right; There shall I rest secure from force and fraud. Come therefore, let us fly while we may fly, If Warwick take us we are sure to die.

King Henry and the Prince his son are gone; Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest, Counting myself but bad till I be best.

Let Aesop fable in a winter’s night, His currish riddles sorts not with this place.

Let me embrace thee, sour adversities, For wise men say it is the wisest course.

Master Lieutenant, now that God and friends Have shaken Edward from the regal seat, And turn’d my captive state to liberty, My fear to hope, my sorrows unto joys, At our enlargement what are thy due fees?

More than I seem, and less than I was born to; A man at least, for less I should not be; And men may talk of kings, and why not I?

My eye’s too quick, my heart o’erweens too much, Unless my hand and strength could equal them. Well, say there is no kingdom then for Richard; What other pleasure can the world afford?

My love, forbear to fawn upon their frowns. What danger or what sorrow can befall thee So long as Edward is thy constant friend And their true sovereign whom they must obey?

My parks, my walks, my manors that I had, Even now forsake me; and of all my lands Is nothing left me but my body’s length. Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? And live we how we can, yet die we must.

My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks; And no more words till they have flow’d their fill.

Myself have often heard him say, and swear, That this his love was an eternal plant, Whereof the root was fix’d in virtue’s ground, The leaves and fruit maintain’d with beauty’s sun, Exempt from envy, but not from disdain, Unless the Lady Bona quit his pain.

No, Exeter, these graces challenge grace; And when the lion fawns upon the lamb, The lamb will never cease to follow him.

No, Warwick, no; while life upholds this arm, This arm upholds the house of Lancaster.

No, Warwick, thou art worthy of the sway, To whom the heav’ns in thy nativity Adjudg’d an olive branch and laurel crown, As likely to be blest in peace and war; And therefore I yield thee my free consent.

No, mighty King of France; now Margaret Must strike her sail and learn a while to serve Where kings command. I was, I must confess, Great Albion’s queen in former golden days; But now mischance hath trod my title down, And with dishonor laid me on the ground, Where I must take like seat unto my fortune, And to my humble seat conform myself.

No, wrangling woman, we’ll no longer stay, These words will cost ten thousand lives this day.

No; God forbid that I should wish them sever’d Whom God hath join’d together; ay, and ’twere pity To sunder them that yoke so well together.

Now Phaëton hath tumbled from his car, And made an evening at the noontide prick.

Now one the better, then another best; Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, Yet neither conqueror nor conquered; So is the equal poise of this fell war.

Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea 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.

O boy! Thy father gave thee life too soon, And hath bereft thee of thy life too late.

Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God! My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee.

Plantagenet, of thee and these thy sons, Thy kinsmen and thy friends, I’ll have more lives Than drops of blood were in my father’s veins.

Right gracious lord, I cannot brook delay. May it please your Highness to resolve me now, And what your pleasure is shall satisfy me.

See how the morning opes her golden gates, And takes her farewell of the glorious sun! How well resembles it the prime of youth, Trimm’d like a younker prancing to his love!

Seeking a way, and straying from the way, Not knowing how to find the open air, But toiling desperately to find it out— Torment myself to catch the English crown;

So cowards fight when they can fly no further, So doves do peck the falcon’s piercing talons, So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives, Breathe out invectives ’gainst the officers.

So flies the reakless shepherd from the wolf; So first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece, And next his throat unto the butcher’s knife. What scene of death hath Roscius now to act?

So looks the pent-up lion o’er the wretch That trembles under his devouring paws; And so he walks, insulting o’er his prey, And so he comes, to rend his limbs asunder.

So minutes, hours, days, months, and years, Pass’d over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.

So triumph thieves upon their conquer’d booty, So true men yield, with robbers so o’ermatch’d.

So we, well cover’d with the night’s black mantle, At unawares may beat down Edward’s guard, And seize himself; I say not, slaughter him, For I intend but only to surprise him.

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; The thief doth fear each bush an officer.

Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong, And therefore I’ll uncrown him ere’t be long. There’s thy reward, be gone.

“Tell him,” quoth she, “my mourning weeds are done, And I am ready to put armor on.”

Ten days ago I drown’d these news in tears; And now, to add more measure to your woes, I come to tell you things sith then befall’n.

That face of his the hungry cannibals Would not have touch’d, would not have stain’d with blood;

That if our queen and this young prince agree, I’ll join mine eldest daughter, and my joy, To him forthwith in holy wedlock bands.

Therefore that I may conquer fortune’s spite By living low, where fortune cannot hurt me, And that the people of this blessed land May not be punish’d with my thwarting stars,

Therefore to arms! And, father, do but think How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown, Within whose circuit is Elysium And all that poets feign of bliss and joy.

Therefore, Lord Oxford, to prevent the worst, Forthwith we’ll send him hence to Brittany, Till storms be past of civil enmity

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.

This speak I, lords, to let you understand, If case some one of you would fly from us, That there’s no hop’d-for mercy with the brothers More than with ruthless waves, with sands and rocks. Why, courage then! What cannot be avoided, ’Twere childish weakness to lament or fear.

Though Fortune’s malice overthrow my state, My mind exceeds the compass of her wheel.

Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun, Not separated with the racking clouds, But sever’d in a pale clear-shining sky.

Thy mother felt more than a mother’s pain, And yet brought forth less than a mother’s hope, To wit, an indigested and deformed lump, Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree.

Till then fair hope must hinder live’s decay; And I the rather wain me from despair For love of Edward’s offspring in my womb.

’Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud, But God he knows thy share thereof is small. ’Tis virtue that doth make them most admir’d, The contrary doth make thee wond’red at. ’Tis government that makes them seem divine, The want thereof makes thee abominable.

’Tis sin to flatter, “good” was little better: ‘Good Gloucester’ and “good devil” were alike, And both preposterous; therefore, not “good lord.”

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run: 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.

To see this sight, it irks my very soul. Withhold revenge, dear God! ’Tis not my fault, Nor wittingly have I infring’d my vow.

To weep is to make less the depth of grief: Tears then for babes; blows and revenge for me. Richard, I bear thy name, I’ll venge thy death, Or die renowned by attempting it.

True, my good lord, I know you for no less.

’Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled: Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit, But ne’er till now his scandal of retire

Under this thick-grown brake we’ll shroud ourselves, For through this laund anon the deer will come, And in this covert will we make our stand, Culling the principal of all the deer.

We will not from the helm to sit and weep, But keep our course (though the rough wind say no) From shelves and rocks that threaten us with wrack.

We, having now the best at Barnet field, Will thither straight, for willingness rids way, And as we march, our strength will be augmented In every county as we go along.

Well have we pass’d and now repass’d the seas, And brought desired help from Burgundy.

What fates impose, that men must needs abide; It boots not to resist both wind and tide.

What valiant foemen, like to autumn’s corn, Have we mow’d down in tops of all their pride!

What valor were it, when a cur doth grin, For one to thrust his hand between his teeth, When he might spurn him with his foot away? It is war’s prize to take all vantages, And ten to one is no impeach of valor.

When you and I met at Saint Albons last, Your legs did better service than your hands.

Why, via! To London will we march, And once again bestride our foaming steeds, And once again cry “Charge!” upon our foes, But never once again turn back and fly.

Would he were wasted, marrow, bones, and all, That from his loins no hopeful branch may spring, To cross me from the golden time I look for!

Yet let us all together to our troops, And give them leave to fly that will not stay; And call them pillars that will stand to us; And if we thrive, promise them such rewards As victors wear at the Olympian games.

Yet shall you have all kindness at my hand That your estate requires and mine can yield.

Yield not thy neck To fortune’s yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance.

Young Ned, for thee, thine uncles and myself Have in our armors watch’d the winter’s night, Went all afoot in summer’s scalding heat, That thou mightst repossess the crown in peace, And of our labors thou shalt reap the gain.