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Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York. Yonder’s the head of that arch-enemy That sought to be encompass’d with your crown: Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?
Welcome, my lord, to this great town of York. There’s the head of that arch-enemy Who wanted to take your crown: Doesn’t seeing it make you feel good, my lord?
Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their wreck: To see this sight, it irks my very soul. Withhold revenge, dear God! ’tis not my fault, Nor wittingly have I infringed my vow.
Yes, like the rocks cheer those who fear their shipwreck: Seeing this makes my soul uneasy. God, withhold my desire for revenge! It’s not my fault, Nor did I knowingly break my vow.
My gracious liege, this too much lenity And harmful pity must be laid aside. To whom do lions cast their gentle looks? Not to the beast that would usurp their den. Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick? Not his that spoils her young before her face. Who ’scapes the lurking serpent’s mortal sting? Not he that sets his foot upon her back. The smallest worm will turn being trodden on, And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood. Ambitious York doth level at thy crown, Thou smiling while he knit his angry brows: He, but a duke, would have his son a king, And raise his issue, like a loving sire; Thou, being a king, blest with a goodly son, Didst yield consent to disinherit him, Which argued thee a most unloving father. Unreasonable creatures feed their young; And though man’s face be fearful to their eyes, Yet, in protection of their tender ones, Who hath not seen them, even with those wings Which sometime they have used with fearful flight, Make war with him that climb’d unto their nest, Offer their own lives in their young’s defence? For shame, my liege, make them your precedent! Were it not pity that this goodly boy Should lose his birthright by his father’s fault, And long hereafter say unto his child, ’What my great-grandfather and his grandsire got My careless father fondly gave away’? Ah, what a shame were this! Look on the boy; And let his manly face, which promiseth Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart To hold thine own and leave thine own with him.
My lord, your kindness and pity are too much. You must set them aside. To whom do lions show mercy? Not to the animal that tries to take over their den. Who does the forest bear lick? Not the one who harms her young right in front of her. Who escapes the deadly sting of a serpent? Not the one who steps on her. The smallest worm will fight back if stepped on, And doves will peck to protect their young. Ambitious York is aiming for your crown, And you smile while he frowns with anger. He, just a duke, wants his son to be king, And to raise his family, like a loving father; You, as a king, blessed with a fine son, Agreed to disinherit him, Which shows you’re not a loving father. Even wild animals feed their young; And though humans might scare them, Have you never seen them, even with their wings, Which once made them fly away in fear, Fight to protect their nests, Willing to risk their lives for their young? Shame on you, my lord, let them be your example! Wouldn’t it be a pity if this fine boy Lost his birthright because of his father’s mistake, And later told his child, ’What my great-grandfather and his grandfather fought for My careless father foolishly gave up’? Oh, what a disgrace that would be! Look at the boy; And let his brave face, which promises Great fortune, harden your soft heart To keep what’s yours and leave it to him.
Full well hath Clifford play’d the orator, Inferring arguments of mighty force. 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? I’ll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind; And would my father had left me no more! For all the rest is held at such a rate As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep Than in possession and jot of pleasure. Ah, cousin York! would thy best friends did know How it doth grieve me that thy head is here!
Clifford has spoken well, Using powerful arguments. But tell me, Clifford, didn’t you ever hear That ill-gotten things always end badly? And it’s always lucky for the son Whose father went to hell for his greed? I’ll leave my son my good deeds; And I wish my father had left me nothing more! Because all the rest comes with such burdens That it brings a thousand times more worry to keep Than it ever brought pleasure. Ah, cousin York! I only wish your best friends knew How it grieves me to see your head here!
My lord, cheer up your spirits: our foes are nigh, And this soft courage makes your followers faint. You promised knighthood to our forward son: Unsheathe your sword, and dub him presently. Edward, kneel down.
My lord, lift your spirits: our enemies are close, And this weak courage makes your followers hesitant. You promised to knight our son: Draw your sword and make him a knight right now. Edward, kneel down.
Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight; And learn this lesson, draw thy sword in right.
Edward Plantagenet, rise as a knight; And remember this lesson, draw your sword for what’s right.
My gracious father, by your kingly leave, I’ll draw it as apparent to the crown, And in that quarrel use it to the death.
My dear father, with your royal permission, I’ll take action that clearly benefits the crown, And in that cause, I’ll fight to the death.
Why, that is spoken like a toward prince.
That’s how a true prince speaks.
Royal commanders, be in readiness: For with a band of thirty thousand men Comes Warwick, backing of the Duke of York; And in the towns, as they do march along, Proclaims him king, and many fly to him: Darraign your battle, for they are at hand.
Royal leaders, get ready: For Warwick is coming with thirty thousand men, Backing the Duke of York; And in the towns they march through, They’re calling him king, and many are joining him: Get ready for battle, they’re almost here.
I would your highness would depart the field: The queen hath best success when you are absent.
I wish your highness would leave the battlefield: The queen does better when you’re not around.
Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fortune.
Yes, my lord, please leave us to our fate.
Why, that’s my fortune too; therefore I’ll stay.
Well, that’s my fate too; so I’ll stay.
Be it with resolution then to fight.
Then let’s resolve to fight.
My royal father, cheer these noble lords And hearten those that fight in your defence: Unsheathe your sword, good father; cry ’Saint George!’
My noble father, encourage these brave lords And inspire those who fight for you: Draw your sword, good father; shout ‘Saint George!’
Now, perjured Henry! wilt thou kneel for grace, And set thy diadem upon my head; Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?
Now, lying Henry! Will you kneel for mercy, And place your crown on my head; Or face the deadly outcome of the battle?
Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting boy! Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms Before thy sovereign and thy lawful king?
Go, insult your followers, you arrogant boy! How dare you speak so boldly In front of your ruler and your rightful king?
I am his king, and he should bow his knee; I was adopted heir by his consent: Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear, You, that are king, though he do wear the crown, Have caused him, by new act of parliament, To blot out me, and put his own son in.
I’m his king, and he should kneel to me; I was made heir by his own permission: Since then, he’s broken his oath; because, as I hear, You, who are king, though you wear the crown, Have passed a new law that erases me, and puts your own son in my place.
And reason too: Who should succeed the father but the son?
And it makes sense: Who should inherit from the father if not the son?
Are you there, butcher? O, I cannot speak!
Are you there, butcher? Oh, I can’t speak!
Ay, crook-back, here I stand to answer thee, Or any he the proudest of thy sort.
Yes, hunchback, here I am, ready to answer you, Or anyone else who’s the proudest of your kind.
’Twas you that kill’d young Rutland, was it not?
It was you who killed young Rutland, wasn’t it?
Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied.
Yes, and old York too, and still I’m not satisfied.
For God’s sake, lords, give signal to the fight.
For God’s sake, lords, signal for the fight to start.
What say’st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown?
What do you say, Henry, will you give up the crown?
Why, how now, long-tongued Warwick! dare you speak? When you and I met at Saint Alban’s last, Your legs did better service than your hands.
What’s this, long-winded Warwick! Do you dare speak? When we met last at Saint Alban’s, Your legs did more work than your hands.
Then ’twas my turn to fly, and now ’tis thine.
Then it was my turn to run, and now it’s yours.
You said so much before, and yet you fled.
You said that before, but you still ran.
’Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence.
It wasn’t your bravery, Clifford, that made me run.
No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay.
No, and it wasn’t your manhood that kept you there.
Northumberland, I hold thee reverently. Break off the parley; for scarce I can refrain The execution of my big-swoln heart Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.
Northumberland, I respect you deeply. Stop the talk now; I can barely hold back The anger in my chest Against that Clifford, that brutal child-killer.
I slew thy father, call’st thou him a child?
I killed your father; do you call him a child?
Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward, As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland; But ere sunset I’ll make thee curse the deed.
Yes, like a cowardly traitor, Just as you killed our young brother Rutland. But before sunset, I’ll make you regret it.
Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak.
Enough with the words, my lords, and listen to me.
Defy them then, or else hold close thy lips.
Then defy them, or keep quiet.
I prithee, give no limits to my tongue: I am a king, and privileged to speak.
Please, don’t limit what I say: I am a king, and I have the right to speak.
My liege, the wound that bred this meeting here Cannot be cured by words; therefore be still.
My king, the wound that caused this conflict Can’t be healed with words; so be quiet.
Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword: By him that made us all, I am resolved that Clifford’s manhood lies upon his tongue.
Then, executioner, draw your sword: By the one who made us all, I’ve made up my mind that Clifford’s courage is only in his words.
Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or no? A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day, That ne’er shall dine unless thou yield the crown.
Tell me, Henry, will I get my rightful place, or not? A thousand men have skipped their meals today, who will never eat again unless you give up the crown.
If thou deny, their blood upon thy head; For York in justice puts his armour on.
If you refuse, their blood will be on your head; For York, in fairness, puts on his armor.
If that be right which Warwick says is right, There is no wrong, but every thing is right.
If what Warwick says is right, then there is no wrong, everything is right.
Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands; For, well I wot, thou hast thy mother’s tongue.
Whoever gave birth to you, there your mother stands; For, as I know well, you have your mother’s sharp tongue.
But thou art neither like thy sire nor dam; But like a foul mis-shapen stigmatic, Mark’d by the destinies to be avoided, As venom toads, or lizards’ dreadful stings.
But you’re neither like your father nor your mother; You’re like a twisted, ugly mark, Doomed by fate to be avoided, Like venomous toads, or terrifying lizard stings.
Iron of Naples hid with English gilt, Whose father bears the title of a king,-- As if a channel should be call’d the sea,-- Shamest thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught, To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?
A sword from Naples covered in English gold, Whose father has the title of king,-- Like calling a river the sea,-- Aren’t you ashamed, knowing where you came from, to let your words reveal your low-born heart?
A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns, To make this shameless callet know herself. Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou, Although thy husband may be Menelaus; And ne’er was Agamemnon’s brother wrong’d By that false woman, as this king by thee. His father revell’d in the heart of France, And tamed the king, and made the dauphin stoop; And had he match’d according to his state, He might have kept that glory to this day; But when he took a beggar to his bed, And graced thy poor sire with his bridal-day, Even then that sunshine brew’d a shower for him, That wash’d his father’s fortunes forth of France, And heap’d sedition on his crown at home. For what hath broach’d this tumult but thy pride? Hadst thou been meek, our title still had slept; And we, in pity of the gentle king, Had slipp’d our claim until another age.
A piece of straw would be worth more than a thousand crowns, to make this shameless woman realize who she really is. Helen of Greece was far more beautiful than you, even though your husband might be Menelaus; And never was Agamemnon’s brother wronged by that deceitful woman as this king has been by you. His father celebrated in the heart of France, and conquered the king, making the dauphin bow; And had he married someone of his own rank, he might have kept that glory until today; But when he took a beggar to his bed, and honored your poor father with his wedding day, even then that sunlight brought a storm for him, that washed away his father’s fortune from France, and brought rebellion to his crown back home. For what caused this chaos but your pride? Had you been humble, our claim would still be dormant; And out of pity for the gentle king, we would have let our claim rest until another time.
But when we saw our sunshine made thy spring, And that thy summer bred us no increase, We set the axe to thy usurping root; And though the edge hath something hit ourselves, Yet, know thou, since we have begun to strike, We’ll never leave till we have hewn thee down, Or bathed thy growing with our heated bloods.
But when we saw that our bright future made your rise, and your summer didn’t bring us any benefit, we chopped at the root of your wrongful rule; And though it has hurt us a bit, know this: since we’ve started striking, we won’t stop until we’ve cut you down, or drenched your growth with our heated blood.
And, in this resolution, I defy thee; Not willing any longer conference, Since thou deniest the gentle king to speak. Sound trumpets! let our bloody colours wave! And either victory, or else a grave.
And, with this determination, I challenge you; I won’t have any more talks with you, since you refuse to let the gentle king speak. Sound the trumpets! Let our bloody banners fly! And either we win, or we die.
Stay, Edward.
Wait, Edward.
No, wrangling woman, we’ll no longer stay: These words will cost ten thousand lives this day.
No, quarrelling woman, we won’t stay any longer: These words will cost ten thousand lives today.