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My blood hath been too cold and temperate, Unapt to stir at these indignities, And you have found me; for accordingly You tread upon my patience: but be sure I will from henceforth rather be myself, Mighty and to be fear’d, than my condition; Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down, And therefore lost that title of respect Which the proud soul ne’er pays but to the proud.
My blood has been too cold and controlled, Not quick to react to these insults, And you’ve found me out; for now You’ve tested my patience: but be sure From now on, I’ll be more like myself, Powerful and to be feared, than my usual state; Which has been smooth and soft, like young down, And so I’ve lost that respect Which only the proud give to the proud.
Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves The scourge of greatness to be used on it; And that same greatness too which our own hands Have holp to make so portly.
Our family, my lord, doesn’t deserve The harsh punishment of greatness being used against it; And that greatness, too, which our own hands Have helped to create.
My lord.--
My lord.--
Worcester, get thee gone; for I do see Danger and disobedience in thine eye: O, sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory, And majesty might never yet endure The moody frontier of a servant brow. You have good leave to leave us: when we need Your use and counsel, we shall send for you.
Worcester, go away; for I see Danger and defiance in your eyes: Oh, sir, your presence is too bold and forceful, And majesty has never tolerated The angry frown of a servant. You are free to leave us: when we need Your help and advice, we will call for you.
You were about to speak.
You were about to speak.
Yea, my good lord. Those prisoners in your highness’ name demanded, Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took, Were, as he says, not with such strength denied As is deliver’d to your majesty: Either envy, therefore, or misprison Is guilty of this fault and not my son.
Yes, my good lord. Those prisoners that your highness asked for, Which Harry Percy captured at Holmedon, Were, as he claims, not refused with such force As it has been reported to your majesty: Either jealousy or misunderstanding Is responsible for this mistake, not my son.
My liege, I did deny no prisoners. But I remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, Came there a certain lord, neat, and trimly dress’d, Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin new reap’d Show’d like a stubble-land at harvest-home; He was perfumed like a milliner; And ’twixt his finger and his thumb he held A pouncet-box, which ever and anon He gave his nose and took’t away again; Who therewith angry, when it next came there, Took it in snuff; and still he smiled and talk’d, And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, He call’d them untaught knaves, unmannerly, To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse Betwixt the wind and his nobility. With many holiday and lady terms He question’d me; amongst the rest, demanded My prisoners in your majesty’s behalf. I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold, To be so pester’d with a popinjay, Out of my grief and my impatience, Answer’d neglectingly I know not what, He should or he should not; for he made me mad To see him shine so brisk and smell so sweet And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman Of guns and drums and wounds,--God save the mark!-- And telling me the sovereign’st thing on earth Was parmaceti for an inward bruise; And that it was great pity, so it was, This villanous salt-petre should be digg’d Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, Which many a good tall fellow had destroy’d So cowardly; and but for these vile guns, He would himself have been a soldier. This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord, I answer’d indirectly, as I said; And I beseech you, let not his report Come current for an accusation Betwixt my love and your high majesty.
My lord, I didn’t refuse any prisoners. But I remember, when the fight was over, When I was exhausted with rage and hard work, Out of breath and weak, leaning on my sword, A certain lord came by, neat, and well-dressed, Fresh like a groom; and his chin freshly shaved Looked like a field of stubble at harvest time; He smelled like a perfumer; And between his finger and thumb he held A scent box, which every now and then He sniffed and then took it away again; Who, annoyed, when it came back to him, Took another sniff; and still he smiled and talked, And as the soldiers carried dead bodies by, He called them untrained fools, rude, For bringing a messy, ugly corpse Between the wind and his nobility. With many fancy and polite phrases He questioned me; among other things, asked For my prisoners on your behalf. I then, still aching from my wounds and cold, To be bothered by such a show-off, Out of my frustration and impatience, Answered carelessly, I don’t know what, Whether he should or shouldn’t; for he made me mad To see him look so fresh and smell so sweet And talk like a lady-in-waiting About guns and drums and wounds,—God help us!— And telling me that the best thing on earth Was whale oil for an internal bruise; And that it was a shame, which it was, That this wicked gunpowder should be dug Out of the harmless earth, Which many brave men had destroyed So cowardly; and but for these wicked guns, He would have been a soldier himself. This silly, disconnected chatter of his, my lord, I answered indirectly, as I said; And I ask you, let not his report Be taken as an accusation Between my loyalty and your majesty.
The circumstance consider’d, good my lord, Whate’er Lord Harry Percy then had said To such a person and in such a place, At such a time, with all the rest retold, May reasonably die and never rise To do him wrong or any way impeach What then he said, so he unsay it now.
Considering the circumstances, my lord, Whatever Lord Harry Percy said then To such a person and in such a place, At such a time, with all the details retold, It can reasonably be forgotten and never rise To harm him or accuse him Of anything he said, as long as he denies it now.
Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners, But with proviso and exception, That we at our own charge shall ransom straight His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer; Who, on my soul, hath wilfully betray’d The lives of those that he did lead to fight Against that great magician, damn’d Glendower, Whose daughter, as we hear, the Earl of March Hath lately married. Shall our coffers, then, Be emptied to redeem a traitor home? Shall we but treason? and indent with fears, When they have lost and forfeited themselves? No, on the barren mountains let him starve; For I shall never hold that man my friend Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost To ransom home revolted Mortimer.
But still, he denies his prisoners, But with the condition and exception, That we at our own cost shall immediately ransom His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer; Who, I swear, has willfully betrayed The lives of those he led into battle Against that great sorcerer, damned Glendower, Whose daughter, as we hear, the Earl of March Has lately married. Shall we then empty our coffers To bring a traitor back home? Shall we just accept treason? and make deals out of fear, When they’ve already lost and forfeited themselves? No, let him starve on the barren mountains; For I will never consider that man my friend Whose tongue asks me for a single penny To ransom the traitor Mortimer.
Revolted Mortimer! He never did fall off, my sovereign liege, But by the chance of war; to prove that true Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds, Those mouthed wounds, which valiantly he took When on the gentle Severn’s sedgy bank, In single opposition, hand to hand, He did confound the best part of an hour In changing hardiment with great Glendower: Three times they breathed and three times did they drink, Upon agreement, of swift Severn’s flood; Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks, Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds, And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank, Bloodstained with these valiant combatants. Never did base and rotten policy Colour her working with such deadly wounds; Nor could the noble Mortimer Receive so many, and all willingly: Then let not him be slander’d with revolt.
Traitor Mortimer! He never turned traitor, my sovereign lord, But by the accident of war; to prove that true Only one thing is needed: the story of all his wounds, Those open wounds, which bravely he endured When on the gentle Severn’s muddy bank, In single combat, hand to hand, He fought for more than an hour With great Glendower: Three times they stopped to rest, and three times they drank, By agreement, on the swift Severn’s river; Who, then, frightened by their bloody looks, Ran away among the trembling reeds, And hid his curly head in the hollow bank, Bloodstained by these brave fighters. Never did base and corrupt politics Cover up such deadly wounds; Nor could the noble Mortimer Take so many wounds, and all willingly: So let him not be accused of treason.
Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost belie him; He never did encounter with Glendower: I tell thee, He durst as well have met the devil alone As Owen Glendower for an enemy. Art thou not ashamed? But, sirrah, henceforth Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer: Send me your prisoners with the speediest means, Or you shall hear in such a kind from me As will displease you. My Lord Northumberland, We licence your departure with your son. Send us your prisoners, or you will hear of it.
You lie about him, Percy, you lie about him; He never fought Glendower: I tell you, He’d rather have faced the devil alone Than Owen Glendower as an enemy. Aren’t you ashamed? But, listen, from now on Don’t talk to me about Mortimer: Send me your prisoners with the fastest means, Or you’ll hear from me in a way That will upset you. My Lord Northumberland, You have permission to leave with your son. Send us your prisoners, or you will hear of it.
An if the devil come and roar for them, I will not send them: I will after straight And tell him so; for I will ease my heart, Albeit I make a hazard of my head.
And if the devil comes and demands them, I won’t send them: I’ll go after him straight And tell him so; for I’ll ease my heart, Even if it risks my life.
What, drunk with choler? stay and pause awhile: Here comes your uncle.
What, drunk with rage? wait and pause for a moment: Here comes your uncle.
Speak of Mortimer! ’Zounds, I will speak of him; and let my soul Want mercy, if I do not join with him: Yea, on his part I’ll empty all these veins, And shed my dear blood drop by drop in the dust, But I will lift the down-trod Mortimer As high in the air as this unthankful king, As this ingrate and canker’d Bolingbroke.
Talk about Mortimer! Damn it, I will talk about him; and let my soul Be damned, if I don’t side with him: Yes, I’ll spill all my blood, And shed my precious blood drop by drop in the dirt, But I will raise the downtrodden Mortimer As high as this ungrateful king, As high as this ungrateful and decaying Bolingbroke.
Brother, the king hath made your nephew mad.
Brother, the king has made your nephew mad.
Who struck this heat up after I was gone?
Who stirred up this anger after I left?
He will, forsooth, have all my prisoners; And when I urged the ransom once again Of my wife’s brother, then his cheek look’d pale, And on my face he turn’d an eye of death, Trembling even at the name of Mortimer.
He wants, indeed, all my prisoners; And when I brought up the ransom for my wife’s brother, His face turned pale, And he gave me a deadly look, Trembling even at the name of Mortimer.
I cannot blame him: was not he proclaim’d By Richard that dead is the next of blood?
I can’t blame him: wasn’t he proclaimed By Richard, who is dead, as the next in line?
He was; I heard the proclamation: And then it was when the unhappy king, --Whose wrongs in us God pardon!--did set forth Upon his Irish expedition; From whence he intercepted did return To be deposed and shortly murdered.
He was; I heard the proclamation: And it was then, when the unfortunate king, --May God forgive us for his wrongs!--set out On his Irish campaign; From where he was intercepted and returned To be deposed and soon murdered.
And for whose death we in the world’s wide mouth Live scandalized and foully spoken of.
And for whose death we are now scandalized And spoken of badly throughout the world.
But soft, I pray you; did King Richard then Proclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer Heir to the crown?
Wait, please; did King Richard then Announce my brother Edmund Mortimer As heir to the throne?
He did; myself did hear it.
He did; I heard it myself.
Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin king, That wished him on the barren mountains starve. But shall it be that you, that set the crown Upon the head of this forgetful man And for his sake wear the detested blot Of murderous subornation, shall it be, That you a world of curses undergo, Being the agents, or base second means, The cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather? O, pardon me that I descend so low, To show the line and the predicament Wherein you range under this subtle king; Shall it for shame be spoken in these days, Or fill up chronicles in time to come, That men of your nobility and power Did gage them both in an unjust behalf, As both of you--God pardon it!--have done, To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose, An plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke? And shall it in more shame be further spoken, That you are fool’d, discarded and shook off By him for whom these shames ye underwent? No; yet time serves wherein you may redeem Your banish’d honours and restore yourselves Into the good thoughts of the world again, Revenge the jeering and disdain’d contempt Of this proud king, who studies day and night To answer all the debt he owes to you Even with the bloody payment of your deaths: Therefore, I say--
Well, then I can’t blame his cousin the king, Who wanted him to starve on the barren mountains. But is it true that you, who placed the crown On the head of this ungrateful man, And for his sake bear the hated stain Of aiding his murder, is it true, That you, the ones who made this happen, Will endure a world of curses, Being the ones who helped, or the ones who did it? The cords, the ladder, or the hangman even? Oh, forgive me for lowering myself To show you the place you hold under this tricky king; Is it something to be ashamed of in these days, Or to fill the history books in the future, That men of your rank and power Staked everything for an unjust cause, As both of you—God forgive it!—did, To overthrow Richard, that sweet, beautiful rose, And plant this thorn, this blight, Bolingbroke? And will it be spoken of with even more shame, That you were deceived, discarded, and cast aside By the very man for whom you suffered these shames? No; yet there is still time for you to redeem Your lost honour and restore yourselves In the good opinion of the world again, To take revenge on the mocking and scornful contempt Of this proud king, who spends day and night Trying to repay all the debt he owes you Even with the bloody price of your deaths: Therefore, I say—
Peace, cousin, say no more: And now I will unclasp a secret book, And to your quick-conceiving discontents I’ll read you matter deep and dangerous, As full of peril and adventurous spirit As to o’er-walk a current roaring loud On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.
Quiet, cousin, say no more: Now I will open a secret book, And to your quick-to-anger discontent I’ll reveal matters deep and dangerous, Full of peril and adventure, As risky as walking across a fast-moving river On the shaky point of a spear.
If he fall in, good night! or sink or swim: Send danger from the east unto the west, So honour cross it from the north to south, And let them grapple: O, the blood more stirs To rouse a lion than to start a hare!
If he falls in, good night! Whether he sinks or swims, Let danger come from the east to the west, And let honour cross from the north to the south, And let them fight: Oh, blood stirs more To awaken a lion than to scare a rabbit!
Imagination of some great exploit Drives him beyond the bounds of patience.
The thought of some great action Drives him beyond the limits of patience.
By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap, To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon, Or dive into the bottom of the deep, Where fathom-line could never touch the ground, And pluck up drowned honour by the locks; So he that doth redeem her thence might wear Without corrival, all her dignities: But out upon this half-faced fellowship!
By heaven, I think it would be an easy jump, To snatch bright honour from the pale moon, Or dive to the bottom of the deep sea, Where no line could ever touch the bottom, And pull up drowned honour by the hair; So the one who rescues her from there might wear All her honours without any competition: But away with this shallow fellowship!
He apprehends a world of figures here, But not the form of what he should attend. Good cousin, give me audience for a while.
He imagines a world of things here, But not the true nature of what he should focus on. Good cousin, let me speak for a moment.
I cry you mercy.
I beg your pardon.
Those same noble Scots That are your prisoners,--
Those same noble Scots That are your prisoners,--
I’ll keep them all; By God, he shall not have a Scot of them; No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not: I’ll keep them, by this hand.
I’ll keep them all; By God, he shall not get a single Scot from me; No, even if a Scot could save his soul, he shall not: I’ll keep them, by this hand.
You start away And lend no ear unto my purposes. Those prisoners you shall keep.
You jump ahead And pay no attention to my plans. You shall keep those prisoners.
Nay, I will; that’s flat: He said he would not ransom Mortimer; Forbad my tongue to speak of Mortimer; But I will find him when he lies asleep, And in his ear I’ll holla ’Mortimer!’ Nay, I’ll have a starling shall be taught to speak Nothing but ’Mortimer,’ and give it him To keep his anger still in motion.
No, I will; that’s settled: He said he wouldn’t ransom Mortimer; He forbade me to speak of Mortimer; But I will find him when he’s asleep, And whisper in his ear ’Mortimer!’ No, I’ll have a starling taught to say Nothing but ’Mortimer,’ and I’ll give it to him To keep his anger stirred up.
Hear you, cousin; a word.
Listen, cousin; one word.
All studies here I solemnly defy, Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke: And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales, But that I think his father loves him not And would be glad he met with some mischance, I would have him poison’d with a pot of ale.
I reject all ideas here Except how to hurt and annoy this Bolingbroke: And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales, If I didn’t think his father didn’t care about him And would be glad to see him come to harm, I would have him poisoned with a pint of ale.
Farewell, kinsman: I’ll talk to you When you are better temper’d to attend.
Farewell, kinsman: I’ll talk to you When you are in a better frame of mind.
Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient fool Art thou to break into this woman’s mood, Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own!
Why, what an angry, impatient fool Are you to break into this woman’s mood, Listening to nothing but your own thoughts!
Why, look you, I am whipp’d and scourged with rods, Nettled and stung with pismires, when I hear Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke. In Richard’s time,--what do you call the place?-- A plague upon it, it is in Gloucestershire; ’Twas where the madcap duke his uncle kept, His uncle York; where I first bow’d my knee Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke,-- ’Sblood!-- When you and he came back from Ravenspurgh.
Why, look, I am beaten and whipped with sticks, Stung and irritated by ants, when I hear Of this awful politician, Bolingbroke. In Richard’s time, what do you call the place? Damn it, it’s in Gloucestershire; That’s where the crazy Duke, his uncle, lived, His uncle York; where I first knelt down To this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke,-- Damn it!-- When you and he returned from Ravenspurgh.
At Berkley castle.
At Berkley Castle.
You say true: Why, what a candy deal of courtesy This fawning greyhound then did proffer me! Look,’when his infant fortune came to age,’ And ’gentle Harry Percy,’ and ’kind cousin;’ O, the devil take such cozeners! God forgive me! Good uncle, tell your tale; I have done.
You’re right: Why, what a load of fake courtesy This fawning dog offered me then! Look, when his luck started to rise, And "gentle Harry Percy," and "kind cousin"; Oh, the devil take such cheats! God forgive me! Good uncle, tell your story; I’m done.
Nay, if you have not, to it again; We will stay your leisure.
No, if you’re not finished, go on; We’ll wait for you to finish.
I have done, i’ faith.
I’m done, truly.
Then once more to your Scottish prisoners. Deliver them up without their ransom straight, And make the Douglas’ son your only mean For powers in Scotland; which, for divers reasons Which I shall send you written, be assured, Will easily be granted. You, my lord,
Then once more to your Scottish prisoners. Release them without their ransom immediately, And make the Douglas’ son your main way For support in Scotland; which, for various reasons Which I’ll send you in writing, you can trust, Will easily be granted. You, my lord,
Your son in Scotland being thus employ’d, Shall secretly into the bosom creep Of that same noble prelate, well beloved, The archbishop.
Your son in Scotland being thus employed, Shall secretly approach the noble archbishop, Well loved by all.
Of York, is it not?
Of York, isn’t it?
True; who bears hard His brother’s death at Bristol, the Lord Scroop. I speak not this in estimation, As what I think might be, but what I know Is ruminated, plotted and set down, And only stays but to behold the face Of that occasion that shall bring it on.
Yes; he’s deeply affected By his brother’s death at Bristol, Lord Scroop. I’m not just guessing, I speak from what I know Has been planned, plotted, and written down, And only waits for the right moment to act.
I smell it: upon my life, it will do well.
I sense it: I swear, it will go well.
Before the game is afoot, thou still let’st slip.
Before the action starts, you always miss it.
Why, it cannot choose but be a noble plot; And then the power of Scotland and of York, To join with Mortimer, ha?
Why, it must be a noble plot; And then the power of Scotland and of York, To join with Mortimer, huh?
And so they shall.
And so they will.
In faith, it is exceedingly well aim’d.
Truly, it’s a very well thought-out plan.
And ’tis no little reason bids us speed, To save our heads by raising of a head; For, bear ourselves as even as we can, The king will always think him in our debt, And think we think ourselves unsatisfied, Till he hath found a time to pay us home: And see already how he doth begin To make us strangers to his looks of love.
And it’s not without good reason that we hurry, To save ourselves by putting our leader in charge; Because, no matter how we try to be fair, The king will always feel like he owes us, And he’ll think that we feel unsatisfied, Until he finds a time to repay us: And already, you can see how he’s starting To make us feel like strangers to his affection.
He does, he does: we’ll be revenged on him.
He is, he is: we’ll get our revenge on him.
Cousin, farewell: no further go in this Than I by letters shall direct your course. When time is ripe, which will be suddenly, I’ll steal to Glendower and Lord Mortimer; Where you and Douglas and our powers at once, As I will fashion it, shall happily meet, To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms, Which now we hold at much uncertainty.
Cousin, goodbye: don’t go any further than this Than I will tell you in my letters. When the time is right, which will be soon, I’ll sneak off to meet Glendower and Lord Mortimer; Where you, Douglas, and our forces all together, As I’ll plan it, will meet happily, To take control of our fate with our own hands, Which we now hold with much uncertainty.
Farewell, good brother: we shall thrive, I trust.
Goodbye, good brother: I trust we’ll succeed.
Uncle, Adieu: O, let the hours be short Till fields and blows and groans applaud our sport!
Uncle, farewell: oh, let the time pass quickly Until fields, fighting, and groans celebrate our victory!