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Will the king come, that I may breathe my last In wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth?
Will the king come, so I can give my final advice To his reckless youth?
Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath; For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.
Don’t trouble yourself, don’t waste your breath; For giving advice to him is useless.
O, but they say the tongues of dying men Enforce attention like deep harmony: Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain, For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain. He that no more must say is listen’d more Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose; More are men’s ends mark’d than their lives before: The setting sun, and music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in remembrance more than things long past: Though Richard my life’s counsel would not hear, My death’s sad tale may yet undeaf his ear.
But they say the words of dying men Command attention, like deep, beautiful music: When words are few, they’re rarely wasted, For those who speak in pain speak the truth. People listen more to those who are near death Than to those whose youth and comfort make them flatter; What people do in life matters less than how they end: The setting sun and music at the end, Like the final taste of a sweet treat, are most remembered, Written in memory longer than past events: Though Richard ignored my life’s advice, Maybe my death’s sad story will make him listen.
No; it is stopp’d with other flattering sounds, As praises, of whose taste the wise are fond, Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound The open ear of youth doth always listen; Report of fashions in proud Italy, Whose manners still our tardy apish nation Limps after in base imitation. Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity-- So it be new, there’s no respect how vile-- That is not quickly buzzed into his ears? Then all too late comes counsel to be heard, Where will doth mutiny with wit’s regard. Direct not him whose way himself will choose: ’Tis breath thou lack’st, and that breath wilt thou lose.
No; his ears are filled with other flattering voices, Like praises that the wise are always happy to hear, And shallow songs, whose poisonous words Youth always listens to; Reports of new fashions from proud Italy, Whose manners our slow, imitative country follows. Where in the world does something vain pop up— As long as it’s new, no matter how bad— That doesn’t get quickly buzzed into his ears? Then, only too late, comes advice he might hear, When his will rebels against wisdom. Don’t try to direct someone who wants to choose his own way: You’re short of breath, and you’ll lose that breath soon enough.
Methinks I am a prophet new inspired And thus expiring do foretell of him: His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last, For violent fires soon burn out themselves; Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short; He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes; With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder: Light vanity, insatiate cormorant, Consuming means, soon preys upon itself. This royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall, Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands, This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, Fear’d by their breed and famous by their birth, Renowned for their deeds as far from home, For Christian service and true chivalry, As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry, Of the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s Son, This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land, Dear for her reputation through the world, Is now leased out, I die pronouncing it, Like to a tenement or pelting farm: England, bound in with the triumphant sea Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame, With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds: That England, that was wont to conquer others, Hath made a shameful conquest of itself. Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life, How happy then were my ensuing death!
I feel like a prophet inspired anew, And as I die, I foretell his future: His reckless, fiery life can’t last, Because violent fires burn themselves out quickly; Light showers last longer, but sudden storms are short; He’ll tire quickly if he rushes too fast; Overeating chokes the eater: Light, insatiable greed, Consuming everything, will soon destroy itself. This royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle, This land of majesty, this seat of war, This other Eden, this half-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and war’s hand, This proud breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves as a wall, Or as a moat defending a house, Against the envy of poorer lands, This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, This nurse, this fertile womb of royal kings, Feared by their kind and famous for their birth, Renowned for their deeds far beyond our shores, For Christian service and true chivalry, As famous as the tomb of Jesus in stubborn Judea, This land of such dear souls, this beloved land, Loved for her reputation worldwide, Is now rented out, I die saying it, Like a cheap rental property or shabby farm: England, surrounded by the victorious sea, Whose rocky shores beat back Neptune’s siege, Is now surrounded by shame, With ink stains and rotten paper bonds: That England, once a conqueror of others, Has now shamefully conquered itself. Ah, if the scandal could disappear with my life, How happy my death would be!
The king is come: deal mildly with his youth; For young hot colts being raged do rage the more.
The king has arrived: be gentle with him, For young hot-headed colts rage more when provoked.
How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster?
How is our noble uncle, Lancaster?
What comfort, man? how is’t with aged Gaunt?
How’s he doing, man? How’s aged Gaunt?
O how that name befits my composition! Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old: Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast; And who abstains from meat that is not gaunt? For sleeping England long time have I watch’d; Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt: The pleasure that some fathers feed upon, Is my strict fast; I mean, my children’s looks; And therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt: Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave, Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones.
Oh, how that name suits me now! Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt from being old: Grief has made me waste away; And who doesn’t waste away when they’re grieving? For I’ve watched over England for so long; Watching makes you thin, and thinness is all gaunt: The pleasure some fathers find in their children, Is my only enjoyment; I mean, their faces; And in that, my fasting has made me gaunt: I’m gaunt for the grave, as gaunt as a grave, Whose empty space holds nothing but bones.
Can sick men play so nicely with their names?
Can sick men really play with their names like this?
No, misery makes sport to mock itself: Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me, I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee.
No, misery makes a mockery of itself: Since you’re trying to kill my name within me, I mock my name, great king, to flatter you.
Should dying men flatter with those that live?
Should dying men flatter those who live?
No, no, men living flatter those that die.
No, no, people who are alive flatter those who are dead.
Thou, now a-dying, say’st thou flatterest me.
You, who are dying now, say that you flatter me.
O, no! thou diest, though I the sicker be.
Oh, no! You are the one dying, even though I am the one sick.
I am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill.
I am healthy, I breathe, and I see you’re sick.
Now He that made me knows I see thee ill; Ill in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill. Thy death-bed is no lesser than thy land Wherein thou liest in reputation sick; And thou, too careless patient as thou art, Commit’st thy anointed body to the cure Of those physicians that first wounded thee: A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown, Whose compass is no bigger than thy head; And yet, incaged in so small a verge, The waste is no whit lesser than thy land. O, had thy grandsire with a prophet’s eye Seen how his son’s son should destroy his sons, From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame, Deposing thee before thou wert possess’d, Which art possess’d now to depose thyself. Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world, It were a shame to let this land by lease; But for thy world enjoying but this land, Is it not more than shame to shame it so? Landlord of England art thou now, not king: Thy state of law is bondslave to the law; And thou--
The one who made me knows I see you’re sick; It pains me to see you sick, and to see you in pain. Your deathbed is no smaller than your land Where you lie sick in reputation; And you, too careless in your illness, Entrust your anointed body to the same doctors Who first wounded you: A thousand flatterers sit in your crown, Which is no bigger than your head; And yet, locked in such a small space, The waste is no less than your land. Oh, if your grandfather had seen with a prophet’s eye How his son’s son would destroy his sons, He would have disowned you and taken away your shame Before you even got to take the throne, Which now you hold, but will soon lose yourself. Why, cousin, if you were ruler of the world, It would be a disgrace to let this land go by lease; But for you, who only have this land to rule, Isn’t it more than shameful to dishonor it like this? You’re now the landlord of England, not the king: Your rule is a slave to the law; and you—
A lunatic lean-witted fool, Presuming on an ague’s privilege, Darest with thy frozen admonition Make pale our cheek, chasing the royal blood With fury from his native residence. Now, by my seat’s right royal majesty, Wert thou not brother to great Edward’s son, This tongue that runs so roundly in thy head Should run thy head from thy unreverent shoulders.
A crazy, narrow-minded fool, Taking advantage of a fever’s privilege, Dare you, with your frozen advice, Turn our cheeks pale, driving royal blood Away from its rightful place? Now, by the majesty of my royal seat, If you were not the brother of great Edward’s son, This tongue of yours that speaks so freely Would have already severed your head from your disrespectful shoulders.
O, spare me not, my brother Edward’s son, For that I was his father Edward’s son; That blood already, like the pelican, Hast thou tapp’d out and drunkenly caroused: My brother Gloucester, plain well-meaning soul, Whom fair befal in heaven ’mongst happy souls! May be a precedent and witness good That thou respect’st not spilling Edward’s blood: Join with the present sickness that I have; And thy unkindness be like crooked age, To crop at once a too long wither’d flower. Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee! These words hereafter thy tormentors be! Convey me to my bed, then to my grave: Love they to live that love and honour have.
Oh, don’t spare me, my brother Edward’s son, Just because I was his father Edward’s son; That blood, like the pelican, You’ve already drained and drunkenly enjoyed: My brother Gloucester, a well-meaning soul, May he find peace in heaven among the blessed souls! May he serve as an example and a witness That you don’t care about spilling Edward’s blood: Join with the present sickness that I have; And may your unkindness, like old age, Cut off a long-withered flower all at once. Live with your shame, but don’t die with it! Let these words torment you forever! Take me to my bed, then to my grave: Those who love and honor life, love to live.
And let them die that age and sullens have; For both hast thou, and both become the grave.
Let those who are filled with age and bitterness die; For you have both, and both are leading you to the grave.
I do beseech your majesty, impute his words To wayward sickliness and age in him: He loves you, on my life, and holds you dear As Harry Duke of Hereford, were he here.
I beg your majesty, please attribute his words To his sickness and old age: He loves you, I swear, and holds you dear Just as Harry Duke of Hereford would if he were here.
Right, you say true: as Hereford’s love, so his; As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is.
Yes, you’re right: as Hereford loves you, so does he; As they love you, so do I; and all is as it is.
My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your majesty.
My liege, old Gaunt sends his regards to your majesty.
What says he?
What does he say?
Nay, nothing; all is said His tongue is now a stringless instrument; Words, life and all, old Lancaster hath spent.
Nothing; it’s all been said. His tongue is now like a broken instrument; Words, life, and all, old Lancaster has exhausted.
Be York the next that must be bankrupt so! Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.
Let York be the next to go bankrupt like this! Though death may be poor, it ends a mortal sorrow.
The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth he; His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be. So much for that. Now for our Irish wars: We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns, Which live like venom where no venom else But only they have privilege to live. And for these great affairs do ask some charge, Towards our assistance we do seize to us The plate, corn, revenues and moveables, Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possess’d.
The ripest fruit first falls, and so does he; The best of us dies first, and that’s his time. His time is up, and now it’s our turn to suffer. That’s enough about that. Now, about our Irish wars: We must remove those wild, rough Irish warriors, Who live like poison in a place where no poison else Lives, but they alone have the right to survive. And these serious matters need some funding, So to help, we take all the money, crops, property, and goods, That our uncle Gaunt owned before he died.
How long shall I be patient? ah, how long Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong? Not Gloucester’s death, nor Hereford’s banishment Not Gaunt’s rebukes, nor England’s private wrongs, Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke About his marriage, nor my own disgrace, Have ever made me sour my patient cheek, Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign’s face. I am the last of noble Edward’s sons, Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first: In war was never lion raged more fierce, In peace was never gentle lamb more mild, Than was that young and princely gentleman. His face thou hast, for even so look’d he, Accomplish’d with the number of thy hours; But when he frown’d, it was against the French And not against his friends; his noble hand Did will what he did spend and spent not that Which his triumphant father’s hand had won; His hands were guilty of no kindred blood, But bloody with the enemies of his kin. O Richard! York is too far gone with grief, Or else he never would compare between.
How long must I be patient? How long Must I quietly accept this wrong? Not Gloucester’s death, nor Hereford’s exile, Not Gaunt’s rebukes, nor England’s private wrongs, Nor the way poor Bolingbroke was treated about his marriage, Nor my own disgrace, Have ever made me frown or show anger, Or cause a wrinkle on my king’s face. I’m the last of King Edward’s noble sons, Your father, the Prince of Wales, was the first: In battle, no lion ever raged more fiercely, In peace, no lamb was ever more gentle, Than that young and noble prince. You look like him, because you both have the same face, With the same youth and strength. But when he frowned, it was only against the French, Never against his friends; his noble hand Only spent what it earned, never wasted the wealth That his victorious father had gained; His hands never spilled the blood of family, But were stained with the blood of his enemies. Oh Richard! York has fallen too deep into grief, Or else he would never make such comparisons.
Why, uncle, what’s the matter?
Why, uncle, what’s wrong?
O my liege, Pardon me, if you please; if n ot, I, pleased Not to be pardon’d, am content withal. Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands The royalties and rights of banish’d Hereford? Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford live? Was not Gaunt just, and is not Harry true? Did not the one deserve to have an heir? Is not his heir a well-deserving son? Take Hereford’s rights away, and take from Time His charters and his customary rights; Let not to-morrow then ensue to-day; Be not thyself; for how art thou a king But by fair sequence and succession? Now, afore God--God forbid I say true!-- If you do wrongfully seize Hereford’s rights, Call in the letters patent that he hath By his attorneys-general to sue His livery, and deny his offer’d homage, You pluck a thousand dangers on your head, You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts And prick my tender patience, to those thoughts Which honour and allegiance cannot think.
Oh, my king, Forgive me, if you please; if not, I’m happy To not be forgiven, if that’s what you want. Are you trying to seize and grab into your hands The lands and rights of exiled Hereford? Isn’t Gaunt dead, and isn’t Hereford still alive? Wasn’t Gaunt fair, and isn’t Harry true? Didn’t the one deserve to have a son to inherit? Isn’t his son deserving of it? If you take Hereford’s rights away, you take from Time His laws and his customs; Don’t let tomorrow undo today; Don’t stop being yourself; for how can you be a king Except by rightful succession? Now, by God—God forbid I say this, but if I must— If you wrongly take Hereford’s rights, And reject the documents he has, To reclaim his lands and deny his allegiance, You bring a thousand dangers upon your head, You lose a thousand loyal hearts And stir my patience, to thoughts That honor and loyalty can’t even entertain.
Think what you will, we seize into our hands His plate, his goods, his money and his lands.
Think what you want, we’re taking into our hands His money, his goods, his lands, and his possessions.
I’ll not be by the while: my liege, farewell: What will ensue hereof, there’s none can tell; But by bad courses may be understood That their events can never fall out good.
I won’t stay to see it: my king, farewell: What comes next, none can predict; But by bad actions, we know the outcome Can never be good.
Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire straight: Bid him repair to us to Ely House To see this business. To-morrow next We will for Ireland; and ’tis time, I trow: And we create, in absence of ourself, Our uncle York lord governor of England; For he is just and always loved us well. Come on, our queen: to-morrow must we part; Be merry, for our time of stay is short
Go, Bushy, straight to the Earl of Wiltshire: Tell him to come to us at Ely House To deal with this matter. Tomorrow, we go to Ireland; And it’s time, I think: And we appoint, in our absence, Our uncle York as lord governor of England; For he is fair and has always been loyal to us. Come, queen: tomorrow we must part; Be happy, for our time here is short.
Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.
Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.
And living too; for now his son is duke.
And he’s still living; because now his son is the duke.
Barely in title, not in revenue.
Barely in title, but not in wealth.
Richly in both, if justice had her right.
Rich in both, if justice were served.
My heart is great; but it must break with silence, Ere’t be disburden’d with a liberal tongue.
My heart is heavy, but it must stay silent, Until it breaks from holding back my words.
Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne’er speak more That speaks thy words again to do thee harm!
No, speak your mind; and let no one ever speak again Who says your words to harm you!
Tends that thou wouldst speak to the Duke of Hereford? If it be so, out with it boldly, man; Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him.
Do you mean to speak about the Duke of Hereford? If so, speak up, man; My ears are quick to hear good news about him.
No good at all that I can do for him; Unless you call it good to pity him, Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.
There’s nothing good I can do for him; Unless you think it’s good to feel sorry for him, After he’s been robbed and stripped of his inheritance.
Now, afore God, ’tis shame such wrongs are borne In him, a royal prince, and many moe Of noble blood in this declining land. The king is not himself, but basely led By flatterers; and what they will inform, Merely in hate, ’gainst any of us all, That will the king severely prosecute ’Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.
By God, it’s a disgrace that such wrongs are done To him, a royal prince, and to many others Of noble blood in this declining country. The king is not himself, but is being led By flatterers; and whatever they tell him, Simply out of hatred, against any of us, The king will harshly punish us, Our lives, our children, and our heirs.
The commons hath he pill’d with grievous taxes, And quite lost their hearts: the nobles hath he fined For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts.
He’s drained the common people with heavy taxes, And lost their loyalty completely: the nobles he’s fined For old disputes, and lost their loyalty too.
And daily new exactions are devised, As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what: But what, o’ God’s name, doth become of this?
And every day there are new ways to tax us, Like blanks, benevolences, and I don’t know what else: But what, for God’s sake, is going to come of this?
Wars have not wasted it, for warr’d he hath not, But basely yielded upon compromise That which his noble ancestors achieved with blows: More hath he spent in peace than they in wars.
Wars haven’t drained it, because he hasn’t fought any wars, But he’s cowardly surrendered everything through compromise That his noble ancestors won through battle: He’s spent more on peace than they did on wars.
The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm.
The Earl of Wiltshire has taken control of the kingdom.
The king’s grown bankrupt, like a broken man.
The king’s gone bankrupt, like a ruined man.
Reproach and dissolution hangeth over him.
Shame and destruction are hanging over him.
He hath not money for these Irish wars, His burthenous taxations notwithstanding, But by the robbing of the banish’d duke.
He doesn’t have money for these Irish wars, Despite all his heavy taxes, Except by robbing the banished duke.
His noble kinsman: most degenerate king! But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing, Yet see no shelter to avoid the storm; We see the wind sit sore upon our sails, And yet we strike not, but securely perish.
His noble relative: most degenerate king! But, lords, we hear this terrible storm approaching, Yet we see no shelter from it; We see the wind blowing hard on our sails, And still we don’t act, and we’ll perish quietly.
We see the very wreck that we must suffer; And unavoided is the danger now, For suffering so the causes of our wreck.
We see the shipwreck that we’re about to suffer; And there’s no escaping the danger now, For we’re allowing the causes of our downfall.
Not so; even through the hollow eyes of death I spy life peering; but I dare not say How near the tidings of our comfort is.
Not so; even through the hollow eyes of death I see a glimpse of life; but I dare not say How close the news of our rescue is.
Nay, let us share thy thoughts, as thou dost ours.
No, let us share your thoughts, as you share ours.
Be confident to speak, Northumberland: We three are but thyself; and, speaking so, Thy words are but as thoughts; therefore, be bold.
Speak freely, Northumberland: We three are one with you; and by speaking like this, Your words are like your thoughts; so be bold.
Then thus: I have from Port le Blanc, a bay In Brittany, received intelligence That Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainold Lord Cobham, That late broke from the Duke of Exeter, His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury, Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston, Sir John Norbery, Sir Robert Waterton and Francis Quoint, All these well furnish’d by the Duke of Bretagne With eight tall ships, three thousand men of war, Are making hither with all due expedience And shortly mean to touch our northern shore: Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stay The first departing of the king for Ireland. If then we shall shake off our slavish yoke, Imp out our drooping country’s broken wing, Redeem from broking pawn the blemish’d crown, Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre’s gilt And make high majesty look like itself, Away with me in post to Ravenspurgh; But if you faint, as fearing to do so, Stay and be secret, and myself will go.
Then here it is: I’ve received word from Port le Blanc, a bay In Brittany, that Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainold Lord Cobham, Who recently escaped from the Duke of Exeter, His brother, the Archbishop of Canterbury, Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston, Sir John Norbery, Sir Robert Waterton, and Francis Quoint, All of them well-equipped by the Duke of Brittany With eight large ships, and three thousand men of war, Are coming here quickly And plan to land on our northern shores soon: They might have been here already, if they weren’t waiting For the king to leave for Ireland. If we want to shake off our miserable chains, Help our broken country rise again, Rescue our tarnished crown from pawn, Wipe off the dust that covers our scepter’s gold And make royal power look like it should, Come with me quickly to Ravenspurgh; But if you hesitate, afraid to act, Stay secret, and I’ll go alone.
To horse, to horse! urge doubts to them that fear.
Get on horseback, get on horseback! Send doubts to those who fear.
Hold out my horse, and I will first be there.
Hold my horse, and I’ll be the first to go.