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Thus have you heard our cause and known our means; And, my most noble friends, I pray you all, Speak plainly your opinions of our hopes: And first, lord marshal, what say you to it?
You’ve heard our case and know our resources; And, my most noble friends, I ask you all, Speak plainly about your thoughts on our hopes: And first, Lord Marshal, what do you think about it?
I well allow the occasion of our arms; But gladly would be better satisfied How in our means we should advance ourselves To look with forehead bold and big enough Upon the power and puissance of the king.
I fully agree with the reason for our army; But I’d be happier if I knew better How we can advance ourselves To face the king with enough confidence To match his power and strength.
Our present musters grow upon the file To five and twenty thousand men of choice; And our supplies live largely in the hope Of great Northumberland, whose bosom burns With an incensed fire of injuries.
Our current forces number about twenty-five thousand strong men; And our reinforcements rely heavily on the hope of great Northumberland, whose heart burns with rage over past wrongs.
The question then, Lord Hastings, standeth thus; Whether our present five and twenty thousand May hold up head without Northumberland?
So the question is, Lord Hastings: Can our present twenty-five thousand stand up without Northumberland?
With him, we may.
With him, we can.
Yea, marry, there’s the point: But if without him we be thought too feeble, My judgment is, we should not step too far Till we had his assistance by the hand; For in a theme so bloody-faced as this Conjecture, expectation, and surmise Of aids incertain should not be admitted.
Yes, that’s the point: But if we’re seen as too weak without him, My opinion is, we shouldn’t go too far Until we have his help in hand; Because in something as dangerous as this Guessing, hoping, and speculation about uncertain help should not be trusted.
’Tis very true, Lord Bardolph; for indeed It was young Hotspur’s case at Shrewsbury.
That’s true, Lord Bardolph; it’s exactly what happened to young Hotspur at Shrewsbury.
It was, my lord; who lined himself with hope, Eating the air on promise of supply, Flattering himself in project of a power Much smaller than the smallest of his thoughts: And so, with great imagination Proper to madmen, led his powers to death And winking leap’d into destruction.
It is, my lord; he built his hopes on false promises, Imagining help was coming when it wasn’t, Fooling himself into thinking he had a great army much bigger than it actually was: And so, driven by wild imagination proper to madmen, he led his forces to their death and blindly rushed into disaster.
But, by your leave, it never yet did hurt To lay down likelihoods and forms of hope.
But, with all due respect, it hasn’t hurt yet to consider possibilities and hopes.
Yes, if this present quality of war, Indeed the instant action: a cause on foot Lives so in hope as in an early spring We see the appearing buds; which to prove fruit, Hope gives not so much warrant as despair That frosts will bite them. When we mean to build, We first survey the plot, then draw the model; And when we see the figure of the house, Then must we rate the cost of the erection; Which if we find outweighs ability, What do we then but draw anew the model In fewer offices, or at last desist To build at all? Much more, in this great work, Which is almost to pluck a kingdom down And set another up, should we survey The plot of situation and the model, Consent upon a sure foundation, Question surveyors, know our own estate, How able such a work to undergo, To weigh against his opposite; or else We fortify in paper and in figures, Using the names of men instead of men: Like one that draws the model of a house Beyond his power to build it; who, half through, Gives o’er and leaves his part-created cost A naked subject to the weeping clouds And waste for churlish winter’s tyranny.
Yes, but this war we’re in, this immediate action, works differently: a cause in progress lives on hope just as early spring shows the first buds; but to turn them into fruit, hope doesn’t have as much guarantee as despair that frost might kill them. When we plan to build, we first check the land, then design the plan; and when we see the outline of the house, we then estimate the cost of building it; and if we find the cost too high, what do we do but redraw the plan with fewer rooms, or stop building entirely? Much more, in this huge task, which is almost like tearing down a kingdom and creating a new one, we should carefully check the land and the design, agree on a solid foundation, consult the experts, know our own resources, and see if we are capable of taking on such a job, comparing it to what the king can do; or else we just make plans on paper and with figures, using names of men instead of real men: like someone who draws up plans for a house that he can’t afford to build; and halfway through, he gives up, leaving the unfinished work exposed to the rain and ruined by the harsh winter.
Grant that our hopes, yet likely of fair birth, Should be still-born, and that we now possess’d The utmost man of expectation, I think we are a body strong enough, Even as we are, to equal with the king.
Let’s assume that our hopes, though they seem likely, end up being empty, and that we’re now left with the very best man we could hope for, I still think we are strong enough, just as we are, to challenge the king.
What, is the king but five and twenty thousand?
What, is the king only five and twenty thousand?
To us no more; nay, not so much, Lord Bardolph. For his divisions, as the times do brawl, Are in three heads: one power against the French, And one against Glendower; perforce a third Must take up us: so is the unfirm king In three divided; and his coffers sound With hollow poverty and emptiness.
Not anymore for us; no, not even that much, Lord Bardolph. Because his troubles, as the times get worse, Are split into three parts: one army fighting the French, Another fighting Glendower; and a third, By necessity, must fight us: so the unstable king Is divided into three; and his coffers echo With empty poverty and nothingness.
That he should draw his several strengths together And come against us in full puissance, Need not be dreaded.
He shouldn’t need to gather his forces together And come at us with full strength, That’s nothing to fear.
If he should do so, He leaves his back unarm’d, the French and Welsh Baying him at the heels: never fear that.
If he does that, He’ll leave his back unprotected, with the French and the Welsh Nipping at his heels: don’t worry about that.
Who is it like should lead his forces hither?
Who do you think should lead his army here?
The Duke of Lancaster and Westmoreland; Against the Welsh, himself and Harry Monmouth: But who is substituted ’gainst the French, I have no certain notice.
The Duke of Lancaster and Westmoreland; Against the Welsh, it will be him and Harry Monmouth: But I’m not sure who has been chosen to lead against the French, I don’t know for sure.
Let us on, And publish the occasion of our arms. The commonwealth is sick of their own choice; Their over-greedy love hath surfeited: An habitation giddy and unsure Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart. O thou fond many, with what loud applause Didst thou beat heaven with blessing Bolingbroke, Before he was what thou wouldst have him be! And being now trimm’d in thine own desires, Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of him, That thou provokest thyself to cast him up. So, so, thou common dog, didst thou disgorge Thy glutton bosom of the royal Richard; And now thou wouldst eat thy dead vomit up, And howl’st to find it. What trust is in these times? They that, when Richard lived, would have him die, Are now become enamour’d on his grave: Thou, that threw’st dust upon his goodly head When through proud London he came sighing on After the admired heels of Bolingbroke, Criest now ’O earth, yield us that king again, And take thou this!’ O thoughts of men accursed! Past and to come seems best; things present worst.
Let’s move forward, And announce the reason for our war. The country is sick of the choices it made; Their greedy love has overfed itself: Whoever builds on the common people’s heart Will find their foundation unstable and shaky. Oh, you foolish crowd, with what loud cheers Did you praise heaven for Bolingbroke, Before he became what you wanted him to be! And now, having shaped him to fit your desires, You, mindless fools, are so full of him, That you’re about to throw him up. So, so, you common dog, you threw up The royal Richard from your greedy chest; And now you want to eat your own vomit again, And howl when you find it. What trust is there In these times? Those who, when Richard was alive, wanted him dead, Now fall in love with his grave: You, who threw dust on his noble head When he was walking through proud London, Sighing after the admired Bolingbroke, Now cry, ’Oh earth, give us that king again, And take this one instead!’ Oh cursed thoughts of men! What’s past and what’s to come seems better; what’s present is the worst.
Shall we go draw our numbers and set on?
Shall we go gather our forces and attack?
We are time’s subjects, and time bids be gone.
We are slaves to time, and time says we must go.