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Alas, the part I had in Woodstock’s blood Doth more solicit me than your exclaims, To stir against the butchers of his life! But since correction lieth in those hands Which made the fault that we cannot correct, Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven; Who, when they see the hours ripe on earth, Will rain hot vengeance on offenders’ heads.
Alas, the role I played in Woodstock’s blood Presses more on me than your complaints, To rise up against the killers of his life! But since the correction lies in the hands Of those who made the wrong we can’t undo, Let’s leave our fight to the will of heaven; Who, when the time is right, will bring down vengeance On the heads of those who have wronged us.
Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur? Hath love in thy old blood no living fire? Edward’s seven sons, whereof thyself art one, Were as seven vials of his sacred blood, Or seven fair branches springing from one root: Some of those seven are dried by nature’s course, Some of those branches by the Destinies cut; But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloucester, One vial full of Edward’s sacred blood, One flourishing branch of his most royal root, Is crack’d, and all the precious liquor spilt, Is hack’d down, and his summer leaves all faded, By envy’s hand and murder’s bloody axe. Ah, Gaunt, his blood was thine! that bed, that womb, That metal, that self-mould, that fashion’d thee Made him a man; and though thou livest and breathest, Yet art thou slain in him: thou dost consent In some large measure to thy father’s death, In that thou seest thy wretched brother die, Who was the model of thy father’s life. Call it not patience, Gaunt; it is despair: In suffering thus thy brother to be slaughter’d, Thou showest the naked pathway to thy life, Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee: That which in mean men we intitle patience Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts. What shall I say? to safeguard thine own life, The best way is to venge my Gloucester’s death.
Don’t you feel that brotherhood should spur you more? Does love not burn in your old veins? Edward’s seven sons, of whom you are one, Were like seven vials of his sacred blood, Or seven branches growing from the same root: Some of those branches are withered by nature’s course, Some of them have been cut down by Fate; But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloucester, One vial full of Edward’s sacred blood, One branch of his royal line, Is shattered, and all the precious blood spilled, Is cut down, and his summer leaves have withered, By envy’s hand and murder’s bloody axe. Ah, Gaunt, his blood was yours! That bed, that womb, That very mold, that made you who you are, Made him a man; and though you live and breathe, You are slain in him: you consent, In a large part, to your father’s death, By watching your wretched brother die, Who was the mirror of your father’s life. Don’t call it patience, Gaunt; it’s despair: By letting your brother be slaughtered, You show the path that leads to your own death, Teaching murder how to kill you: What we call patience in common men Is just cowardice in noble hearts. What can I say? To save your own life, The best way is to avenge my Gloucester’s death.
God’s is the quarrel; for God’s substitute, His deputy anointed in His sight, Hath caused his death: the which if wrongfully, Let heaven revenge; for I may never lift An angry arm against His minister.
God is the one who has the right to fight this war; for God’s representative, His chosen deputy, has caused his death: which if wrongfully, Let heaven take revenge; I may never raise A vengeful arm against His chosen minister.
Where then, alas, may I complain myself?
Then where, oh where, can I complain?
To God, the widow’s champion and defence.
To God, the widow’s champion and defender.
Why, then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt. Thou goest to Coventry, there to behold Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight: O, sit my husband’s wrongs on Hereford’s spear, That it may enter butcher Mowbray’s breast! Or, if misfortune miss the first career, Be Mowbray’s sins so heavy in his bosom, They may break his foaming courser’s back, And throw the rider headlong in the lists, A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford! Farewell, old Gaunt: thy sometimes brother’s wife With her companion grief must end her life.
Then I will. Farewell, old Gaunt. You’re going to Coventry, to watch Our cousin Hereford and bold Mowbray fight: Oh, let my husband’s wrongs sit on Hereford’s spear, So it can pierce Mowbray’s heart! Or, if misfortune misses the first strike, Let Mowbray’s sins be so heavy in his chest, That they break his horse’s back, And throw the rider headfirst into the arena, A coward, defeated by my cousin Hereford! Farewell, old Gaunt: your late brother’s wife And her companion, grief, will end her life.
Sister, farewell; I must to Coventry: As much good stay with thee as go with me!
Sister, farewell; I must go to Coventry: May as much good stay with you as goes with me!
Yet one word more: grief boundeth where it falls, Not with the empty hollowness, but weight: I take my leave before I have begun, For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done. Commend me to thy brother, Edmund York. Lo, this is all:--nay, yet depart not so; Though this be all, do not so quickly go; I shall remember more. Bid him--ah, what?-- With all good speed at Plashy visit me. Alack, and what shall good old York there see But empty lodgings and unfurnish’d walls, Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones? And what hear there for welcome but my groans? Therefore commend me; let him not come there, To seek out sorrow that dwells every where. Desolate, desolate, will I hence and die: The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye.
One more word: grief binds where it falls, Not with empty hollowness, but with weight: I take my leave before I’ve even started, For sorrow doesn’t end when it seems done. Give my regards to your brother, Edmund York. That’s all:—no, don’t leave yet; Even though that’s all, don’t go so quickly; I’ll remember more. Tell him—oh, what?— To visit me at Plashy, with all speed. Alas, what will good old York find there But empty rooms and unfurnished walls, Empty offices, untrodden stones? And what will he hear there but my cries? So, send my message; let him not come here, To seek sorrow that’s everywhere. Desolate, desolate, I will go and die: The last look I take of you takes my weeping eye.