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Before Angiers well met, brave Austria. Arthur, that great forerunner of thy blood, Richard, that robb’d the lion of his heart And fought the holy wars in Palestine, By this brave duke came early to his grave: And for amends to his posterity, At our importance hither is he come, To spread his colours, boy, in thy behalf, And to rebuke the usurpation Of thy unnatural uncle, English John: Embrace him, love him, give him welcome hither.
Before Angiers, it’s good to see you, brave Austria. Arthur, the great precursor of your blood, Richard, who took the lion’s heart from him And fought in the holy wars in Palestine, This brave duke died young because of him: And to make up for that loss to his family, He has come here at our request, To carry your colors, boy, and fight for you, And to challenge the wrongful rule Of your unnatural uncle, King John of England: Embrace him, love him, give him a warm welcome here.
God shall forgive you Coeur-de-lion’s death The rather that you give his offspring life, Shadowing their right under your wings of war: I give you welcome with a powerless hand, But with a heart full of unstained love: Welcome before the gates of Angiers, duke.
God will forgive you for killing Coeur-de-lion, Especially since you’re giving his son a chance to live, Shielding his right under your wings of war: I welcome you with a weak hand, But with a heart full of pure love: Welcome to Angiers, Duke.
A noble boy! Who would not do thee right?
A noble boy! Who wouldn’t want to fight for you?
Upon thy cheek lay I this zealous kiss, As seal to this indenture of my love, That to my home I will no more return, Till Angiers and the right thou hast in France, Together with that pale, that white-faced shore, Whose foot spurns back the ocean’s roaring tides And coops from other lands her islanders, Even till that England, hedged in with the main, That water-walled bulwark, still secure And confident from foreign purposes, Even till that utmost corner of the west Salute thee for her king: till then, fair boy, Will I not think of home, but follow arms.
On your cheek I lay this passionate kiss, As a seal of my love for you, And I swear I won’t return home Until Angiers and your rightful place in France, Along with that pale, white-faced shore, Which keeps the ocean’s waves at bay And protects her islanders from foreign lands, Even until England, surrounded by the sea, That water-bound wall, secure and safe From foreign threats, Even until that farthest edge of the west Salutes you as her king: until then, fair boy, I will not think of home, but only of war.
O, take his mother’s thanks, a widow’s thanks, Till your strong hand shall help to give him strength To make a more requital to your love!
Oh, accept this widow’s thanks, A mother’s gratitude, Until your strong hand helps give him strength To repay your love in the future!
The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords In such a just and charitable war.
The peace of heaven belongs to those who raise their swords In such a just and charitable cause.
Well then, to work: our cannon shall be bent Against the brows of this resisting town. Call for our chiefest men of discipline, To cull the plots of best advantages: We’ll lay before this town our royal bones, Wade to the market-place in Frenchmen’s blood, But we will make it subject to this boy.
Well then, let’s get to work: we’ll turn our cannons Against the walls of this defiant town. Call for our best military men, To choose the best strategies: We’ll lay our royal bodies before this town, Wade through the marketplace in French blood, But we will make this boy the ruler here.
Stay for an answer to your embassy, Lest unadvised you stain your swords with blood: My Lord Chatillon may from England bring, That right in peace which here we urge in war, And then we shall repent each drop of blood That hot rash haste so indirectly shed.
Wait for a response to your message, Lest you hastily stain your swords with blood: My Lord Chatillon may bring from England, That right in peace which we now demand in war, And then we’ll regret every drop of blood That was shed in this rash, impulsive rush.
A wonder, lady! lo, upon thy wish, Our messenger Chatillon is arrived! What England says, say briefly, gentle lord; We coldly pause for thee; Chatillon, speak.
A miracle, lady! Look, just as you wished, Our messenger Chatillon has arrived! What does England say? Speak quickly, good lord; We’ve been waiting for you; Chatillon, speak.
Then turn your forces from this paltry siege And stir them up against a mightier task. England, impatient of your just demands, Hath put himself in arms: the adverse winds, Whose leisure I have stay’d, have given him time To land his legions all as soon as I; His marches are expedient to this town, His forces strong, his soldiers confident. With him along is come the mother-queen, An Ate, stirring him to blood and strife; With her her niece, the Lady Blanch of Spain; With them a bastard of the king’s deceased, And all the unsettled humours of the land, Rash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries, With ladies’ faces and fierce dragons’ spleens, Have sold their fortunes at their native homes, Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs, To make hazard of new fortunes here: In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits Than now the English bottoms have waft o’er Did nearer float upon the swelling tide, To do offence and scath in Christendom.
Then take your forces away from this small siege And move them against a bigger challenge. England, impatient with your rightful demands, Has put herself in arms: the contrary winds, Which I’ve been waiting for, have given him time To land his armies just as quickly as I did; His forces are ready, his soldiers confident. Along with him has come the Queen Mother, A force stirring him to bloodshed and conflict; With her is her niece, Lady Blanch of Spain; Along with them a bastard of the dead king, And all the restless, hot-headed people of the land, Rash, thoughtless, fiery volunteers, With ladies’ faces and the temper of dragons, Have sold their homes and left for new fortunes here: In short, a braver, more daring group of spirits Than the English forces currently crossing the sea Have ever faced before.
The interruption of their churlish drums Cuts off more circumstance: they are at hand, To parley or to fight; therefore prepare.
The interruption of their noisy drums Cuts off further details: they are at the gates, Ready to talk or fight; so get ready.
How much unlook’d for is this expedition!
This attack is so unexpected!
By how much unexpected, by so much We must awake endavour for defence; For courage mounteth with occasion: Let them be welcome then: we are prepared.
The more unexpected it is, the more We must prepare ourselves for defense; Courage rises with the challenge: Let them come then; we are ready.
Peace be to France, if France in peace permit Our just and lineal entrance to our own; If not, bleed France, and peace ascend to heaven, Whiles we, God’s wrathful agent, do correct Their proud contempt that beats His peace to heaven.
Peace to France, if France lets us peacefully enter And claim what is rightfully ours; But if not, let France bleed, and peace rise to heaven, While we, as God’s agents, correct Their proud defiance that disturbs His peace.
Peace be to England, if that war return From France to England, there to live in peace. England we love; and for that England’s sake With burden of our armour here we sweat. This toil of ours should be a work of thine; But thou from loving England art so far, That thou hast under-wrought his lawful king Cut off the sequence of posterity, Out-faced infant state and done a rape Upon the maiden virtue of the crown. Look here upon thy brother Geffrey’s face; These eyes, these brows, were moulded out of his: This little abstract doth contain that large Which died in Geffrey, and the hand of time Shall draw this brief into as huge a volume. That Geffrey was thy elder brother born, And this his son; England was Geffrey’s right And this is Geffrey’s: in the name of God How comes it then that thou art call’d a king, When living blood doth in these temples beat, Which owe the crown that thou o’ermasterest?
Peace to England, if war doesn’t come back From France to England, so we can live in peace. We love England, and for its sake We sweat under the weight of our armor here. This burden should be yours, But you are so far from loving England That you have betrayed its lawful king, Cutting off the line of succession, Overthrowing the rightful heir, and raping The innocent virtue of the crown. Look here at your brother Geoffrey’s face; These eyes, these brows, are his: This small part contains the greatness That died with Geoffrey, and time’s hand Will turn this brief moment into a vast story. Geoffrey was your older brother, And this boy is his son; England was Geoffrey’s right, And this is Geoffrey’s too: in God’s name, How is it that you are called a king, When living blood beats in these temples, Which should belong to the crown you have stolen?
From whom hast thou this great commission, France, To draw my answer from thy articles?
From whom do you have this authority, France, To demand an answer from me?
From that supernal judge, that stirs good thoughts In any breast of strong authority, To look into the blots and stains of right: That judge hath made me guardian to this boy: Under whose warrant I impeach thy wrong And by whose help I mean to chastise it.
From that higher judge, who stirs good thoughts In any person of strong authority, To look into the flaws and errors of justice: That judge has made me guardian of this boy: Under His authority, I accuse your wrong, And with His help, I intend to punish it.
Alack, thou dost usurp authority.
Alas, you are taking authority that isn’t yours.
Excuse; it is to beat usurping down.
I’m only using authority to remove usurpation.
Who is it thou dost call usurper, France?
Who do you call usurper, France?
Let me make answer; thy usurping son.
Let me answer: your usurping son.
Out, insolent! thy bastard shall be king, That thou mayst be a queen, and cheque the world!
Out, you insolent woman! Your bastard shall be king, So that you can be a queen, and challenge the world!
My bed was ever to thy son as true As thine was to thy husband; and this boy Liker in feature to his father Geffrey Than thou and John in manners; being as like As rain to water, or devil to his dam. My boy a bastard! By my soul, I think His father never was so true begot: It cannot be, an if thou wert his mother.
My bed was always as true to your son As yours was to your husband; and this boy Looks more like his father Geoffrey Than you and John in character; as much like As rain is like water, or the devil to his mother. My boy a bastard! By my soul, I think His father was never so truly conceived: It can’t be, even if you were his mother.
There’s a good mother, boy, that blots thy father.
There’s a good mother, boy, who defiles your father.
There’s a good grandam, boy, that would blot thee.
There’s a good grandmother, boy, who would disgrace you.
Peace!
Enough!
Hear the crier.
Listen to the crier.
What the devil art thou?
What the hell are you?
One that will play the devil, sir, with you, An a’ may catch your hide and you alone: You are the hare of whom the proverb goes, Whose valour plucks dead lions by the beard; I’ll smoke your skin-coat, an I catch you right; Sirrah, look to’t; i’ faith, I will, i’ faith.
One who will act like the devil, sir, with you, If I catch you alone and can grab your skin: You’re the fool the proverb talks about, Who thinks he’s brave enough to fight dead lions; I’ll roast your hide if I catch you right; Look out, boy; I swear I will, I swear.
O, well did he become that lion’s robe That did disrobe the lion of that robe!
Oh, how well he wore that lion’s robe, The one who stripped the lion of it!
It lies as sightly on the back of him As great Alcides’ shows upon an ass: But, ass, I’ll take that burthen from your back, Or lay on that shall make your shoulders crack.
It fits him about as well As Hercules’ lion skin fits on a donkey: But, donkey, I’ll take that weight off your back, Or I’ll make you wish you hadn’t worn it.
What craker is this same that deafs our ears With this abundance of superfluous breath?
What fool is this, deafening us With all this useless talking?
Lewis, determine what we shall do straight.
Lewis, decide what we’re going to do right now.
Women and fools, break off your conference. King John, this is the very sum of all; England and Ireland, Anjou, Touraine, Maine, In right of Arthur do I claim of thee: Wilt thou resign them and lay down thy arms?
Women and fools, stop talking. King John, this is the bottom line: I claim England and Ireland, Anjou, Touraine, and Maine, In right of Arthur: Will you give them up and lay down your arms?
My life as soon: I do defy thee, France. Arthur of Bretagne, yield thee to my hand; And out of my dear love I’ll give thee more Than e’er the coward hand of France can win: Submit thee, boy.
I’d give my life first: I defy you, France. Arthur of Brittany, surrender to me; And out of my great love, I’ll give you more Than the cowardly hand of France could ever win: Submit, boy.
Come to thy grandam, child.
Come to your grandmother, child.
Do, child, go to it grandam, child: Give grandam kingdom, and it grandam will Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig: There’s a good grandam.
Yes, child, go to your grandmother, child: Give grandma the kingdom, and she’ll Give you a plum, a cherry, and a fig: There’s a good grandmother.
Good my mother, peace! I would that I were low laid in my grave: I am not worth this coil that’s made for me.
Please, mother, stop! I wish I were already in my grave: I’m not worth all this trouble they’re causing me.
His mother shames him so, poor boy, he weeps.
His mother makes him so ashamed, poor boy, he’s crying.
Now shame upon you, whether she does or no! His grandam’s wrongs, and not his mother’s shames, Draws those heaven-moving pearls from his poor eyes, Which heaven shall take in nature of a fee; Ay, with these crystal beads heaven shall be bribed To do him justice and revenge on you.
Shame on you, whether she makes him cry or not! It’s his grandmother’s wrongs, not his mother’s shame, That brings these tears from his poor eyes, Which heaven will take as payment; Yes, with these crystal beads, heaven will be bribed To do him justice and take revenge on you.
Thou monstrous slanderer of heaven and earth!
You monstrous liar, accusing both heaven and earth!
Thou monstrous injurer of heaven and earth! Call not me slanderer; thou and thine usurp The dominations, royalties and rights Of this oppressed boy: this is thy eld’st son’s son, Infortunate in nothing but in thee: Thy sins are visited in this poor child; The canon of the law is laid on him, Being but the second generation Removed from thy sin-conceiving womb.
You monstrous wrongdoer, accusing both heaven and earth! Don’t call me a liar; you and your people have stolen The power, authority, and rights From this oppressed boy: he’s your oldest son’s son, Unlucky in everything except being born to you: Your sins are passed down onto this poor child; The law condemns him, Just because he’s the second generation From your sinful womb.
Bedlam, have done.
Enough, Bedlam.
I have but this to say, That he is not only plagued for her sin, But God hath made her sin and her the plague On this removed issue, plague for her And with her plague; her sin his injury, Her injury the beadle to her sin, All punish’d in the person of this child, And all for her; a plague upon her!
I have just this to say, That he is not only cursed for her sin, But God has made her sin and her the curse On this removed heir, curse for her And with her curse; her sin his harm, Her harm the messenger to her sin, All punished in the person of this child, And all for her; a curse upon her!
Thou unadvised scold, I can produce A will that bars the title of thy son.
You foolish woman, I can show A will that denies your son’s claim.
Ay, who doubts that? a will! a wicked will: A woman’s will; a canker’d grandam’s will!
Yes, who doubts that? a will! a wicked will: A woman’s will; a sick old grandmother’s will!
Peace, lady! pause, or be more temperate: It ill beseems this presence to cry aim To these ill-tuned repetitions. Some trumpet summon hither to the walls These men of Angiers: let us hear them speak Whose title they admit, Arthur’s or John’s.
Quiet, lady! pause, or calm down: It does not suit this gathering to shout At these poorly-timed repetitions. Some trumpet, call to the walls These people of Angiers: let’s hear them decide Whose title they accept, Arthur’s or John’s.
Who is it that hath warn’d us to the walls?
Who called us to the walls?
’Tis France, for England.
It’s France, on behalf of England.
England, for itself. You men of Angiers, and my loving subjects--
England, for itself. You men of Angiers, and my loyal subjects—
You loving men of Angiers, Arthur’s subjects, Our trumpet call’d you to this gentle parle--
You loyal men of Angiers, Arthur’s people, Our trumpet called you to this peaceful meeting—
For our advantage; therefore hear us first. These flags of France, that are advanced here Before the eye and prospect of your town, Have hither march’d to your endamagement: The cannons have their bowels full of wrath, And ready mounted are they to spit forth Their iron indignation ’gainst your walls: All preparation for a bloody siege All merciless proceeding by these French Confronts your city’s eyes, your winking gates; And but for our approach those sleeping stones, That as a waist doth girdle you about, By the compulsion of their ordinance By this time from their fixed beds of lime Had been dishabited, and wide havoc made For bloody power to rush upon your peace. But on the sight of us your lawful king, Who painfully with much expedient march Have brought a countercheque before your gates, To save unscratch’d your city’s threatened cheeks, Behold, the French amazed vouchsafe a parle; And now, instead of bullets wrapp’d in fire, To make a shaking fever in your walls, They shoot but calm words folded up in smoke, To make a faithless error in your ears: Which trust accordingly, kind citizens, And let us in, your king, whose labour’d spirits, Forwearied in this action of swift speed, Crave harbourage within your city walls.
For our benefit; so listen to us first. These flags of France, raised here Before the view and sight of your town, Have marched here to harm you: The cannons are ready to explode with anger, And aimed to unleash their fiery wrath Upon your walls: All preparations for a bloody siege And ruthless actions by these French Face your city’s eyes, your closed gates; And if not for our arrival, those sleeping stones, That encircle you like a waist, By force of their cannon’s power By now would have been knocked loose, and wide destruction made For brutal force to rush upon your peace. But seeing us, your lawful king, Who with great effort and quick march Have brought a counter-check before your gates, To protect your city’s threatened walls, Look, the French, stunned, agree to talk; And now, instead of bullets wrapped in fire, To shake your walls with fear, They fire only calm words wrapped in smoke, To mislead you: trust them not, dear citizens, And let us in, your king, whose weary spirit, Exhausted by this swift campaign, Seeks refuge within your city walls.
When I have said, make answer to us both. Lo, in this right hand, whose protection Is most divinely vow’d upon the right Of him it holds, stands young Plantagenet, Son to the elder brother of this man, And king o’er him and all that he enjoys: For this down-trodden equity, we tread In warlike march these greens before your town, Being no further enemy to you Than the constraint of hospitable zeal In the relief of this oppressed child Religiously provokes. Be pleased then To pay that duty which you truly owe To that owes it, namely this young prince: And then our arms, like to a muzzled bear, Save in aspect, hath all offence seal’d up; Our cannons’ malice vainly shall be spent Against the invulnerable clouds of heaven; And with a blessed and unvex’d retire, With unhack’d swords and helmets all unbruised, We will bear home that lusty blood again Which here we came to spout against your town, And leave your children, wives and you in peace. But if you fondly pass our proffer’d offer, ’Tis not the roundure of your old-faced walls Can hide you from our messengers of war, Though all these English and their discipline Were harbour’d in their rude circumference. Then tell us, shall your city call us lord, In that behalf which we have challenged it? Or shall we give the signal to our rage And stalk in blood to our possession?
When I finish, answer both of us. Look, in this right hand, whose protection Is divinely promised to the right Of him it holds, stands young Plantagenet, Son to the elder brother of this man, And king over him and all that he holds: For this wronged justice, we march In military formation before your town, Being no further threat to you Than the urgency of hospitality In helping this oppressed child Faithfully drives us. So please Pay the duty you owe To the one who holds it, namely this young prince: And then our army, like a muzzled bear, Save in appearance, has all aggression sealed off; Our cannons’ anger will be wasted Against the unreachable heavens; And with a peaceful and untroubled retreat, With clean swords and undamaged helmets, We will take home that hearty blood again Which we came to spill against your town, Leaving your children, wives, and you in peace. But if you foolishly reject our offer, It is not the roundness of your old walls That can protect you from our war messengers, Even if all these English and their discipline Were hidden within their rough circumference. So tell us, will your city call us lord, In the matter we have challenged? Or should we signal our fury And march in blood to take what is ours?
In brief, we are the king of England’s subjects: For him, and in his right, we hold this town.
In short, we are the king of England’s subjects: For him, and in his name, we hold this town.
Acknowledge then the king, and let me in.
Then acknowledge the king, and let me in.
That can we not; but he that proves the king, To him will we prove loyal: till that time Have we ramm’d up our gates against the world.
We cannot do that; but whoever proves to be king, To him will we pledge loyalty: until then We have shut our gates against the world.
Doth not the crown of England prove the king? And if not that, I bring you witnesses, Twice fifteen thousand hearts of England’s breed,--
Does not the crown of England prove the king? And if not that, I bring you witnesses, Twice fifteen thousand hearts of England’s blood,--
Bastards, and else.
Bastards, and other people like them.
To verify our title with their lives.
To prove our claim by making them fight for it.
As many and as well-born bloods as those,--
As many well-born men as those,
Some bastards too.
Some bastards too.
Stand in his face to contradict his claim.
Stand in front of him to argue against his claim.
Till you compound whose right is worthiest, We for the worthiest hold the right from both.
Until you decide whose right is the strongest, We’ll stick with the one who has the strongest claim.
Then God forgive the sin of all those souls That to their everlasting residence, Before the dew of evening fall, shall fleet, In dreadful trial of our kingdom’s king!
Then may God forgive the sins of those souls Who, before the evening falls, Will leave us, dying in this terrible battle for our kingdom’s throne!
Amen, amen! Mount, chevaliers! to arms!
Amen, amen! Get ready, knights! To arms!
Saint George, that swinged the dragon, and e’er since Sits on his horseback at mine hostess’ door, Teach us some fence!
Saint George, who killed the dragon, and ever since Has been pictured on horseback at my inn’s door, Teach us how to fight!
Sirrah, were I at home, At your den, sirrah, with your lioness I would set an ox-head to your lion’s hide, And make a monster of you.
Sir, if I were home, In your den, with your lioness, I’d put an ox’s head on your lion’s body, And make you a monster.
Peace! no more.
Quiet! No more.
O tremble, for you hear the lion roar.
Oh, tremble, because you can hear the lion roar.
Up higher to the plain; where we’ll set forth In best appointment all our regiments.
Move up to the higher ground; we’ll arrange our troops there, In the best possible formation.
Speed then, to take advantage of the field.
Hurry, then, to take advantage of the field.
It shall be so; and at the other hill Command the rest to stand. God and our right!
It will be done; and on the other hill, We’ll command the rest to stay. God and our right!
You men of Angiers, open wide your gates, And let young Arthur, Duke of Bretagne, in, Who by the hand of France this day hath made Much work for tears in many an English mother, Whose sons lie scattered on the bleeding ground; Many a widow’s husband grovelling lies, Coldly embracing the discolour’d earth; And victory, with little loss, doth play Upon the dancing banners of the French, Who are at hand, triumphantly display’d, To enter conquerors and to proclaim Arthur of Bretagne England’s king and yours.
People of Angiers, open your gates wide, And let young Arthur, Duke of Brittany, enter, Who, by the hand of France, has caused Many English mothers to cry today, Whose sons are scattered on the bloody ground; Many widows’ husbands lie in the dirt, Coldly embracing the stained earth; And victory, with little loss, shines On the waving banners of the French, Who are close by, proudly displayed, Ready to enter as conquerors and proclaim Arthur of Brittany as England’s king and yours.
Rejoice, you men of Angiers, ring your bells: King John, your king and England’s doth approach, Commander of this hot malicious day: Their armours, that march’d hence so silver-bright, Hither return all gilt with Frenchmen’s blood; There stuck no plume in any English crest That is removed by a staff of France; Our colours do return in those same hands That did display them when we first march’d forth; And, like a troop of jolly huntsmen, come Our lusty English, all with purpled hands, Dyed in the dying slaughter of their foes: Open your gates and gives the victors way.
Rejoice, people of Angiers, ring your bells: King John, your king and England’s, is coming, Commander of this fierce and evil day: Their armor, which once shone so bright, Returns here covered in Frenchmen’s blood; No plume was removed from any English crest By a blow from France; Our colors return in those same hands That carried them when we first marched out; And like a group of cheerful hunters, come Our strong English, all with bloodied hands, Stained by the death of their enemies: Open your gates and give way to the victors.
Heralds, from off our towers we might behold, From first to last, the onset and retire Of both your armies; whose equality By our best eyes cannot be censured: Blood hath bought blood and blows have answered blows; Strength match’d with strength, and power confronted power: Both are alike; and both alike we like. One must prove greatest: while they weigh so even, We hold our town for neither, yet for both.
Heralds, from our towers we watched, From beginning to end, the charge and retreat Of both your armies; their equality Cannot be criticized by our best eyes: Blood has been exchanged for blood, and blows for blows; Strength matched with strength, and power faced with power: Both are the same; and we approve of both. One must be the greatest: while they are so even, We hold our town for neither side, but for both.
France, hast thou yet more blood to cast away? Say, shall the current of our right run on? Whose passage, vex’d with thy impediment, Shall leave his native channel and o’erswell With course disturb’d even thy confining shores, Unless thou let his silver water keep A peaceful progress to the ocean.
France, do you have more blood to spill? Tell me, will our right continue to flow? Whose passage, blocked by your obstacles, Will overflow its natural course And disturb even your own shores, Unless you let it flow peacefully to the sea.
England, thou hast not saved one drop of blood, In this hot trial, more than we of France; Rather, lost more. And by this hand I swear, That sways the earth this climate overlooks, Before we will lay down our just-borne arms, We’ll put thee down, ’gainst whom these arms we bear, Or add a royal number to the dead, Gracing the scroll that tells of this war’s loss With slaughter coupled to the name of kings.
England, you haven’t saved a single drop of blood, In this fierce battle, more than we of France; In fact, you’ve lost more. And by this hand I swear, The hand that rules this land we stand on, Before we lay down our just-born arms, We’ll defeat you, against whom we carry these arms, Or add a royal death to the list, Honoring the record of this war’s losses With the death of kings.
Ha, majesty! how high thy glory towers, When the rich blood of kings is set on fire! O, now doth Death line his dead chaps with steel; The swords of soldiers are his teeth, his fangs; And now he feasts, mousing the flesh of men, In undetermined differences of kings. Why stand these royal fronts amazed thus? Cry, ’havoc!’ kings; back to the stained field, You equal potents, fiery kindled spirits! Then let confusion of one part confirm The other’s peace: till then, blows, blood and death!
Ha, majesty! How high your glory rises, When the rich blood of kings is spilled! Now Death sharpens his teeth with steel; The swords of soldiers are his fangs; And now he feasts, devouring men’s flesh, In the unresolved battles of kings. Why are these royal leaders so amazed? Cry out, ‘havoc!’ kings; back to the bloody field, You equal forces, fiery spirits! Let the chaos of one side confirm The peace of the other: until then, blows, blood, and death!
Whose party do the townsmen yet admit?
Which side do the townspeople support?
Speak, citizens, for England; who’s your king?
Speak, citizens, for England; who is your king?
The king of England; when we know the king.
The king of England; once we know who the king is.
Know him in us, that here hold up his right.
Know him in us, who here uphold his right.
In us, that are our own great deputy And bear possession of our person here, Lord of our presence, Angiers, and of you.
Know him in us, who are his representatives And hold his power here, Lord of our presence, of Angiers, and of you.
A greater power then we denies all this; And till it be undoubted, we do lock Our former scruple in our strong-barr’d gates; King’d of our fears, until our fears, resolved, Be by some certain king purged and deposed.
A greater power than we denies all this; And until it is certain, we will keep Our previous doubts locked behind strong gates; Kings of our fears, until our fears, resolved, Are purged and removed by some true king.
By heaven, these scroyles of Angiers flout you, kings, And stand securely on their battlements, As in a theatre, whence they gape and point At your industrious scenes and acts of death. Your royal presences be ruled by me: Do like the mutines of Jerusalem, Be friends awhile and both conjointly bend Your sharpest deeds of malice on this town: By east and west let France and England mount Their battering cannon charged to the mouths, Till their soul-fearing clamours have brawl’d down The flinty ribs of this contemptuous city: I’ld play incessantly upon these jades, Even till unfenced desolation Leave them as naked as the vulgar air. That done, dissever your united strengths, And part your mingled colours once again; Turn face to face and bloody point to point; Then, in a moment, Fortune shall cull forth Out of one side her happy minion, To whom in favour she shall give the day, And kiss him with a glorious victory. How like you this wild counsel, mighty states? Smacks it not something of the policy?
By God, these people of Angiers mock you, kings, And stand safely on their city walls, Like they’re in a theater, where they gape and point At your busy actions and acts of death. Let me, your royal selves, be ruled by me: Do like the rebels of Jerusalem, Be friends for a while and then both together turn Your sharpest acts of hatred on this town: Let France and England attack from east and west, With their cannons aimed straight at the city, Until their terrifying noise has knocked down The hard walls of this insulting city: I’d keep attacking these fools, Until total ruin leaves them as bare as the air. After that, break up your joined forces, And separate your mixed banners once again; Face each other and fight fiercely; Then, in a moment, Fortune will pick One side to be victorious, And kiss them with a glorious victory. What do you think of this wild advice, great kings? Doesn’t it sound like a good strategy?
Now, by the sky that hangs above our heads, I like it well. France, shall we knit our powers And lay this Angiers even to the ground; Then after fight who shall be king of it?
By the sky above us, I like it. France, shall we join our forces And destroy Angiers? Then after, we’ll fight to see who gets to rule it?
An if thou hast the mettle of a king, Being wronged as we are by this peevish town, Turn thou the mouth of thy artillery, As we will ours, against these saucy walls; And when that we have dash’d them to the ground, Why then defy each other and pell-mell Make work upon ourselves, for heaven or hell.
If you’ve got the heart of a king, And we’ve been wronged by this annoying city, Turn your cannons on them, As we will turn ours on these cheeky walls; And when we’ve knocked them down, Then we can fight each other, all for heaven or hell.
Let it be so. Say, where will you assault?
Let it be. Where shall we attack?
We from the west will send destruction Into this city’s bosom.
We’ll attack from the west and destroy this city.
I from the north.
I’ll attack from the north.
Our thunder from the south Shall rain their drift of bullets on this town.
Our thunder from the south Shall rain down bullets on this city.
O prudent discipline! From north to south: Austria and France shoot in each other’s mouth: I’ll stir them to it. Come, away, away!
Oh, what clever strategy! From north to south: Austria and France will shoot at each other’s mouths: I’ll get them to do it. Come, let’s go!
Hear us, great kings: vouchsafe awhile to stay, And I shall show you peace and fair-faced league; Win you this city without stroke or wound; Rescue those breathing lives to die in beds, That here come sacrifices for the field: Persever not, but hear me, mighty kings.
Listen, great kings: please stay for a while, And I’ll show you peace and a fair alliance; Win this city without bloodshed or injury; Save these lives so they can die in their beds, Instead of dying in battle: Don’t rush, just listen to me, mighty kings.
Speak on with favour; we are bent to hear.
Speak on, with our favor; we’re ready to listen.
That daughter there of Spain, the Lady Blanch, Is niece to England: look upon the years Of Lewis the Dauphin and that lovely maid: If lusty love should go in quest of beauty, Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch? If zealous love should go in search of virtue, Where should he find it purer than in Blanch? If love ambitious sought a match of birth, Whose veins bound richer blood than Lady Blanch? Such as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth, Is the young Dauphin every way complete: If not complete of, say he is not she; And she again wants nothing, to name want, If want it be not that she is not he: He is the half part of a blessed man, Left to be finished by such as she; And she a fair divided excellence, Whose fulness of perfection lies in him. O, two such silver currents, when they join, Do glorify the banks that bound them in; And two such shores to two such streams made one, Two such controlling bounds shall you be, kings, To these two princes, if you marry them. This union shall do more than battery can To our fast-closed gates; for at this match, With swifter spleen than powder can enforce, The mouth of passage shall we fling wide ope, And give you entrance: but without this match, The sea enraged is not half so deaf, Lions more confident, mountains and rocks More free from motion, no, not Death himself In moral fury half so peremptory, As we to keep this city.
That daughter of Spain, Lady Blanch, Is the niece of England: look at the ages Of Lewis the Dauphin and that lovely lady: If passionate love went searching for beauty, Where could it find anyone fairer than Blanch? If zealous love went looking for virtue, Where could it find anyone purer than Blanch? If ambitious love sought a match of high birth, Whose family has richer blood than Lady Blanch? She’s perfect in beauty, virtue, and birth, And the young Dauphin is a match for her in every way: If he’s not, then say he’s not as perfect as she; And she too is missing nothing, if we can call it missing, Except that she’s not him: He is the other half of a blessed man, Waiting to be completed by someone like her; And she is a perfect part of greatness, Whose full perfection lies in him. Oh, when two such rivers join, They glorify the banks that hold them; And two such shores, when they become one, Will make you, kings, control both of these two princes, If you marry them. This union will do more than any siege To bring down our closed gates; for with this match, With more speed than gunpowder can deliver, We’ll open the gates wide for you; But without this match, The sea enraged is less deaf, Lions more bold, mountains and rocks More unmoving, no, not even Death itself In his fury, is as certain As we are to keep this city.
Here’s a stay That shakes the rotten carcass of old Death Out of his rags! Here’s a large mouth, indeed, That spits forth death and mountains, rocks and seas, Talks as familiarly of roaring lions As maids of thirteen do of puppy-dogs! What cannoneer begot this lusty blood? He speaks plain cannon fire, and smoke and bounce; He gives the bastinado with his tongue: Our ears are cudgell’d; not a word of his But buffets better than a fist of France: Zounds! I was never so bethump’d with words Since I first call’d my brother’s father dad.
Here’s a hold-up That shakes the very bones of old Death Out of his rags! Here’s a big mouth, indeed, That spits out death and mountains, rocks, and seas, Talks about roaring lions As casually as young girls talk about puppies! Who’s the cannon-maker who created this fiery blood? He talks plain cannon fire, smoke, and explosions; He’s more brutal with his words than any fist from France: Zounds! I’ve never been so hit with words Since I first called my brother’s father "dad."
Son, list to this conjunction, make this match; Give with our niece a dowry large enough: For by this knot thou shalt so surely tie Thy now unsured assurance to the crown, That yon green boy shall have no sun to ripe The bloom that promiseth a mighty fruit. I see a yielding in the looks of France; Mark, how they whisper: urge them while their souls Are capable of this ambition, Lest zeal, now melted by the windy breath Of soft petitions, pity and remorse, Cool and congeal again to what it was.
Son, listen to this advice, make this match; Give her a big dowry: For with this union you’ll tie Your shaky claim to the crown so tightly, That this young boy won’t have time to ripen The bloom that promises greatness. I see France is starting to give in; Watch how they whisper: push them while they’re still Open to this idea, Before their enthusiasm, melted by gentle requests, Turns cold and stiff again.
Why answer not the double majesties This friendly treaty of our threaten’d town?
Why don’t you answer the double majesties Of this friendly proposal for our threatened town?
Speak England first, that hath been forward first To speak unto this city: what say you?
Speak, England first, since you’ve been the first To speak to this city: what do you say?
If that the Dauphin there, thy princely son, Can in this book of beauty read ’I love,’ Her dowry shall weigh equal with a queen: For Anjou and fair Touraine, Maine, Poictiers, And all that we upon this side the sea, Except this city now by us besieged, Find liable to our crown and dignity, Shall gild her bridal bed and make her rich In titles, honours and promotions, As she in beauty, education, blood, Holds hand with any princess of the world.
If the Dauphin, your princely son, Can read ‘I love’ in this book of beauty, Her dowry will match that of a queen: For Anjou, fair Touraine, Maine, Poictiers, And everything we control on this side of the sea, Except this city, which we’re now besieging, Will be part of her royal inheritance, And make her rich in titles, honours, and promotions, Just as she, in beauty, education, and blood, Stands equal to any princess in the world.
What say’st thou, boy? look in the lady’s face.
What do you say, boy? Look at the lady’s face.
I do, my lord; and in her eye I find A wonder, or a wondrous miracle, The shadow of myself form’d in her eye: Which being but the shadow of your son, Becomes a sun and makes your son a shadow: I do protest I never loved myself Till now infixed I beheld myself Drawn in the flattering table of her eye.
I do, my lord; and in her eye I find A wonder, or a miraculous sight, The reflection of myself in her eye: Which, being just the reflection of your son, Becomes a sun and turns your son into a shadow: I swear I never loved myself Until now, when I saw myself In the flattering mirror of her eye.
Drawn in the flattering table of her eye! Hang’d in the frowning wrinkle of her brow! And quarter’d in her heart! he doth espy Himself love’s traitor: this is pity now, That hang’d and drawn and quartered, there should be In such a love so vile a lout as he.
Reflected in the flattering mirror of her eye! Hanged in the frown on her brow! And split into pieces in her heart! He sees Himself as love’s betrayer: it’s a shame now, That someone so disgraceful as he should be So caught up in such a love.
My uncle’s will in this respect is mine: If he see aught in you that makes him like, That any thing he sees, which moves his liking, I can with ease translate it to my will; Or if you will, to speak more properly, I will enforce it easily to my love. Further I will not flatter you, my lord, That all I see in you is worthy love, Than this; that nothing do I see in you, Though churlish thoughts themselves should be your judge, That I can find should merit any hate.
My uncle’s will in this matter is my own: If he sees anything in you that he likes, Anything that moves his affection, I can easily make it fit with my own desires; Or, to put it more clearly, I will easily turn it into something I love. I won’t flatter you, my lord, By saying everything I see in you is worthy of love, But this: that nothing I see in you, Even if harsh thoughts were to judge you, Deserves any hate.
What say these young ones? What say you my niece?
What are these young ones saying? What about you, my niece?
That she is bound in honour still to do What you in wisdom still vouchsafe to say.
She is still bound by honor to do Whatever you, in wisdom, decide to say.
Speak then, prince Dauphin; can you love this lady?
Speak then, Prince Dauphin; can you love this lady?
Nay, ask me if I can refrain from love; For I do love her most unfeignedly.
No, ask me if I can stop loving her; Because I love her most sincerely.
Then do I give Volquessen, Touraine, Maine, Poictiers and Anjou, these five provinces, With her to thee; and this addition more, Full thirty thousand marks of English coin. Philip of France, if thou be pleased withal, Command thy son and daughter to join hands.
Then I give you Volquessen, Touraine, Maine, Poictiers and Anjou, these five provinces, Along with her; and this extra gift, Thirty thousand marks of English coin. Philip of France, if you are happy with this, Order your son and daughter to join hands.
It likes us well; young princes, close your hands.
We like it well; young princes, join your hands.
And your lips too; for I am well assured That I did so when I was first assured.
And your lips too; because I am sure That I did the same when I was first sure.
Now, citizens of Angiers, ope your gates, Let in that amity which you have made; For at Saint Mary’s chapel presently The rites of marriage shall be solemnized. Is not the Lady Constance in this troop? I know she is not, for this match made up Her presence would have interrupted much: Where is she and her son? tell me, who knows.
Now, citizens of Angiers, open your gates, Let in the peace you’ve just agreed upon; For at Saint Mary’s chapel right now The marriage ceremony will be held. Is the Lady Constance here with us? I know she is not, because if she were, This match would have been disrupted: Where is she and her son? Who knows where they are?
She is sad and passionate at your highness’ tent.
She is upset and emotional at your highness’ tent.
And, by my faith, this league that we have made Will give her sadness very little cure. Brother of England, how may we content This widow lady? In her right we came; Which we, God knows, have turn’d another way, To our own vantage.
And, by my faith, this peace we’ve made Will do very little to ease her sadness. Brother of England, how can we satisfy This grieving lady? We came here in her name; Which, God knows, we’ve twisted to our own advantage.
We will heal up all; For we’ll create young Arthur Duke of Bretagne And Earl of Richmond; and this rich fair town We make him lord of. Call the Lady Constance; Some speedy messenger bid her repair To our solemnity: I trust we shall, If not fill up the measure of her will, Yet in some measure satisfy her so That we shall stop her exclamation. Go we, as well as haste will suffer us, To this unlook’d for, unprepared pomp.
We will fix everything; For we’ll make young Arthur Duke of Bretagne And Earl of Richmond; and this rich, beautiful town We’ll make him lord of. Call Lady Constance; Send a quick messenger to tell her to come To our ceremony: I hope we will, If not fulfill her every wish, At least do enough to satisfy her So that we can stop her complaints. Let’s go, as quickly as we can, To this unexpected and unprepared celebration.
Mad world! mad kings! mad composition! John, to stop Arthur’s title in the whole, Hath willingly departed with a part, And France, whose armour conscience buckled on, Whom zeal and charity brought to the field As God’s own soldier, rounded in the ear With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil, That broker, that still breaks the pate of faith, That daily break-vow, he that wins of all, Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids, Who, having no external thing to lose But the word ’maid,’ cheats the poor maid of that, That smooth-faced gentleman, tickling Commodity, Commodity, the bias of the world, The world, who of itself is peised well, Made to run even upon even ground, Till this advantage, this vile-drawing bias, This sway of motion, this Commodity, Makes it take head from all indifferency, From all direction, purpose, course, intent: And this same bias, this Commodity, This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word, Clapp’d on the outward eye of fickle France, Hath drawn him from his own determined aid, From a resolved and honourable war, To a most base and vile-concluded peace. And why rail I on this Commodity? But for because he hath not woo’d me yet: Not that I have the power to clutch my hand, When his fair angels would salute my palm; But for my hand, as unattempted yet, Like a poor beggar, raileth on the rich. Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail And say there is no sin but to be rich; And being rich, my virtue then shall be To say there is no vice but beggary. Since kings break faith upon commodity, Gain, be my lord, for I will worship thee.
Crazy world! Crazy kings! Crazy decisions! John, to stop Arthur from taking the throne, Has gladly given up part of it, And France, whose conscience put on armor, Whom passion and charity brought to the battle As if he were God’s own soldier, whispered in the ear By that same opportunist, that sly devil, That middleman, who always breaks the promise of faith, That daily betrays vows, the one who wins from everyone, From kings, from beggars, from old men, young men, and maids, Who, having nothing to lose but the title ’maid,’ Cheats the poor girl of that too, That smooth-faced gentleman, flirting with Profit, Profit, the force that tilts the world, The world, which on its own is balanced just right, Made to run smoothly and evenly, Until this advantage, this crooked force, This push of power, this Profit, Makes it stray from fairness, From all purpose, direction, course, and intention: And this same force, this Profit, This pimp, this middleman, this ever-changing idea, Forced onto the blind eye of fickle France, Has pulled him away from his own loyal support, From a firm and honorable war, To a most shameful and dishonorable peace. And why am I complaining about Profit? Because it hasn’t tried to seduce me yet: Not that I have the power to grab my hand, When his angels would kiss my palm; But because my hand, still untouched, Like a poor beggar, criticizes the rich. Well, as long as I’m a beggar, I’ll complain And say that the only sin is to be rich; And if I were rich, my virtue would then be To say the only evil is being a beggar. Since kings break their promises for profit, Profit, be my master, for I will worship you.