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Barkloughly castle call they this at hand?
Is this Barkloughly castle I see ahead?
Yea, my lord. How brooks your grace the air, After your late tossing on the breaking seas?
Yes, my lord. How does the air feel to you, After your recent tossing on the rough seas?
Needs must I like it well: I weep for joy To stand upon my kingdom once again. Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand, Though rebels wound thee with their horses’ hoofs: As a long-parted mother with her child Plays fondly with her tears and smiles in meeting, So, weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth, And do thee favours with my royal hands. Feed not thy sovereign’s foe, my gentle earth, Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense; But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom, And heavy-gaited toads lie in their way, Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet Which with usurping steps do trample thee: Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies; And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower, Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch Throw death upon thy sovereign’s enemies. Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords: This earth shall have a feeling and these stones Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king Shall falter under foul rebellion’s arms.
I must admit I like it a lot: I’m crying with happiness To stand in my kingdom once again. Dear earth, I salute you with my hand, Even though rebels hurt you with their horses’ hooves: Like a mother who’s been apart from her child for a long time Plays with her tears and smiles when they’re reunited, So, crying and smiling, I greet you, my earth, And offer you favours with my royal hands. Don’t feed my enemy, gentle earth, Nor comfort his cruel senses with your sweetness; Instead, let your spiders, who suck up your poison, And slow-moving toads lie in his path, Annoying the treacherous feet That with their usurping steps trample on you: Give stinging nettles to my enemies; And when they pull a flower from your breast, Protect it, I beg you, with a hidden snake Whose double tongue can, with a deadly touch, Bring death upon my enemies. Don’t mock my pointless spell, lords: This earth will feel, and these stones Will become armed soldiers, before her rightful king Falls under the arms of foul rebellion.
Fear not, my lord: that Power that made you king Hath power to keep you king in spite of all. The means that heaven yields must be embraced, And not neglected; else, if heaven would, And we will not, heaven’s offer we refuse, The proffer’d means of succor and redress.
Don’t worry, my lord: the power that made you king Has the power to keep you king, no matter what. The help heaven offers must be accepted, And not ignored; otherwise, if heaven offers, And we refuse, then we reject heaven’s help and remedy.
He means, my lord, that we are too remiss; Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security, Grows strong and great in substance and in power.
He means, my lord, that we’ve been too careless; While Bolingbroke, taking advantage of our security, Is growing stronger and more powerful.
Discomfortable cousin! know’st thou not That when the searching eye of heaven is hid, Behind the globe, that lights the lower world, Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen In murders and in outrage, boldly here; But when from under this terrestrial ball He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines And darts his light through every guilty hole, Then murders, treasons and detested sins, The cloak of night being pluck’d from off their backs, Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves? So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke, Who all this while hath revell’d in the night Whilst we were wandering with the antipodes, Shall see us rising in our throne, the east, His treasons will sit blushing in his face, Not able to endure the sight of day, But self-affrighted tremble at his sin. Not all the water in the rough rude sea Can wash the balm off from an anointed king; The breath of worldly men cannot depose The deputy elected by the Lord: For every man that Bolingbroke hath press’d To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown, God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay A glorious angel: then, if angels fight, Weak men must fall, for heaven still guards the right.
Unhelpful cousin! don’t you know That when heaven’s watchful eye is hidden, Behind the globe that lights the lower world, Thieves and robbers roam around unseen In murder and outrage, boldly here; But when the sun rises in the east And shoots his light through every dark corner, Then murders, treasons, and vile sins, Which had been hidden in the dark, stand exposed, Trembling with guilt? So when this thief, this traitor Bolingbroke, Who has been enjoying the cover of darkness While we were wandering far away, Sees us rising on our throne in the east, His treasons will turn red with shame, Not able to bear the light of day, But trembling with fear at his own sin. Not all the water in the rough sea Can wash the sacred oil off an anointed king; The breath of worldly men can’t remove The deputy chosen by God: For every man that Bolingbroke has pressured To raise cruel steel against our golden crown, God has for Richard a glorious angel in heaven: And if angels fight, Weak men must fall, for heaven always protects the just.
Welcome, my lord how far off lies your power?
Welcome, my lord, how far away is your army?
Nor near nor farther off, my gracious lord, Than this weak arm: discomfort guides my tongue And bids me speak of nothing but despair. One day too late, I fear me, noble lord, Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth: O, call back yesterday, bid time return, And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men! To-day, to-day, unhappy day, too late, O’erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune and thy state: For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead. Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispersed and fled.
Not closer or farther, my gracious lord, Than this weak arm: sadness guides my tongue And forces me to speak nothing but despair. One day too late, I fear, noble lord, Has clouded all your happy days on earth: Oh, if only we could go back to yesterday, if only time could return, You’d have twelve thousand soldiers ready! But today, today, this miserable day, too late, Has destroyed your joy, your friends, your fortune, and your kingdom: For when all the Welshmen heard you were dead, They’ve gone to Bolingbroke, scattered and fled.
Comfort, my liege; why looks your grace so pale?
Don’t worry, my liege; why do you look so pale?
But now the blood of twenty thousand men Did triumph in my face, and they are fled; And, till so much blood thither come again, Have I not reason to look pale and dead? All souls that will be safe fly from my side, For time hath set a blot upon my pride.
But just now, the blood of twenty thousand men Triumphed in my face, and now they’ve all fled; And until that blood returns, Don’t I have reason to look pale and dead? All souls that wish to be safe should leave me, For time has placed a stain on my pride.
Comfort, my liege; remember who you are.
Don’t worry, my liege; remember who you are.
I had forgot myself; am I not king? Awake, thou coward majesty! thou sleepest. Is not the king’s name twenty thousand names? Arm, arm, my name! a puny subject strikes At thy great glory. Look not to the ground, Ye favourites of a king: are we not high? High be our thoughts: I know my uncle York Hath power enough to serve our turn. But who comes here?
I had forgotten myself; am I not the king? Wake up, you cowardly majesty! You’re asleep. Isn’t the king’s name worth twenty thousand names? Arm, arm, my name! A weak subject strikes At your great glory. Don’t look down, You favourites of the king: aren’t we high? Our thoughts should be high: I know my uncle York Has enough power to help us. But who is this?
More health and happiness betide my liege Than can my care-tuned tongue deliver him!
May my lord have more health and happiness Than my words can ever wish for him!
Mine ear is open and my heart prepared; The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold. Say, is my kingdom lost? why, ’twas my care And what loss is it to be rid of care? Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we? Greater he shall not be; if he serve God, We’ll serve Him too and be his fellow so: Revolt our subjects? that we cannot mend; They break their faith to God as well as us: Cry woe, destruction, ruin and decay: The worst is death, and death will have his day.
My ears are open and my heart is ready; The worst that could happen is the loss of my kingdom. Say, is my kingdom lost? Well, it was my concern, And what’s the loss in being rid of concern? Is Bolingbroke trying to be as great as me? He won’t be greater; if he serves God, We’ll serve Him too and be his equal: Will our subjects revolt? We can’t fix that; They’ve broken their faith to God as much as to us: Cry woe, destruction, ruin, and decay: The worst is death, and death will come in time.
Glad am I that your highness is so arm’d To bear the tidings of calamity. Like an unseasonable stormy day, Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores, As if the world were all dissolved to tears, So high above his limits swells the rage Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land With hard bright steel and hearts harder than steel. White-beards have arm’d their thin and hairless scalps Against thy majesty; boys, with women’s voices, Strive to speak big and clap their female joints In stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown: The very beadsmen learn to bend their bows Of double-fatal yew against thy state; Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills Against thy seat: both young and old rebel, And all goes worse than I have power to tell.
I’m glad to see your highness is ready To hear the news of disaster. Like an untimely stormy day, Which makes the silver rivers flood their banks, As if the world was drowning in tears, So the anger of Bolingbroke rises above his limits, Covering your frightened land With harsh bright steel and hearts even harder than steel. Old men have armed their thin, hairless scalps Against your majesty; boys, with women’s voices, Try to sound strong and beat their untrained arms In stiff, awkward gestures against your crown: Even the beggars have learned to bend their bows Of deadly yew against your state; Yes, even women working with distaffs Manage rusty bills against your throne: Both young and old rebel, And everything is worse than I can say.
Too well, too well thou tell’st a tale so ill. Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot? What is become of Bushy? where is Green? That they have let the dangerous enemy Measure our confines with such peaceful steps? If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it: I warrant they have made peace with Bolingbroke.
You tell the story too well, too well. Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? Where is Bagot? What happened to Bushy? Where is Green? How could they let the dangerous enemy Take such peaceful steps on our land? If we win, their heads will pay for it: I’m sure they’ve made peace with Bolingbroke.
Peace have they made with him indeed, my lord.
They have really made peace with him, my lord.
O villains, vipers, damn’d without redemption! Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man! Snakes, in my heart-blood warm’d, that sting my heart! Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas! Would they make peace? terrible hell make war Upon their spotted souls for this offence!
Oh, traitors, snakes, damned forever with no chance of redemption! Dogs, quick to flatter anyone they meet! Snakes, that burn in my heart and sting me! Three Judases, each one worse than the original Judas! They want to make peace? Let hell unleash war On their tainted souls for this betrayal!
Sweet love, I see, changing his property, Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate: Again uncurse their souls; their peace is made With heads, and not with hands; those whom you curse Have felt the worst of death’s destroying wound And lie full low, graved in the hollow ground.
Look at how love, I see, changes its nature, Turning into the bitterest and most dangerous hate: But stop cursing them; their peace is made With their heads, not their hands. Those you curse Have already received death’s worst blow And lie buried deep in the earth.
Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead?
Are Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead?
Ay, all of them at Bristol lost their heads.
Yes, all of them lost their heads in Bristol.
Where is the duke my father with his power?
Where is my father, the duke, with his army?
No matter where; of comfort no man speak: Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth, Let’s choose executors and talk of wills: And yet not so, for what can we bequeath Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives and all are Bolingbroke’s, And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings; How some have been deposed; some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed; Some poison’d by their wives: some sleeping kill’d; All murder’d: for within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp, Allowing him a breath, a little scene, To monarchize, be fear’d and kill with looks, Infusing him with self and vain conceit, As if this flesh which walls about our life, Were brass impregnable, and humour’d thus Comes at the last and with a little pin Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king! Cover your heads and mock not flesh and blood With solemn reverence: throw away respect, Tradition, form and ceremonious duty, For you have but mistook me all this while: I live with bread like you, feel want, Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus, How can you say to me, I am a king?
It doesn’t matter where; don’t speak of comfort: Let’s talk about graves, worms, and tombstones; Let’s make dust our paper and with teary eyes Write sadness on the earth’s surface, Let’s choose executors and discuss wills: But even then, what can we leave behind Except our bodies to be buried in the ground? Our lands, our lives, and everything else belong to Bolingbroke, And the only thing we truly own is death, And that tiny piece of barren earth That serves as cover for our bones. For heaven’s sake, let’s sit on the ground And tell sad stories about the death of kings; How some have been overthrown; some killed in battle, Some haunted by the ghosts of those they deposed; Some poisoned by their wives; some killed in their sleep; All murdered: because within the hollow crown That encircles the mortal head of a king Death keeps court, and the fool sits there, Mocking his state and grinning at his power, Allowing him only a brief moment to rule, To be feared and kill with a glance, Filling him with arrogance and pride, As if this flesh that surrounds our life, Were made of solid brass, unbreakable, But in the end, a tiny pin Pierces the castle walls, and the king falls! Cover your heads and don’t mock humanity With solemn respect: discard all reverence, Tradition, ceremony, and duty, For you’ve misunderstood me all this time: I live on bread like you, feel hunger, Suffer grief, need friends: in this condition, How can you still call me a king?
My lord, wise men ne’er sit and wail their woes, But presently prevent the ways to wail. To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength, Gives in your weakness strength unto your foe, And so your follies fight against yourself. Fear and be slain; no worse can come to fight: And fight and die is death destroying death; Where fearing dying pays death servile breath.
My lord, wise men never just sit and mourn, But quickly find ways to prevent more sorrow. To fear the enemy, since fear weakens strength, Actually gives your enemy strength against you, And so your own foolishness works against you. Fear and be killed; nothing worse can happen in battle: Fight and die, and death will destroy death; But fearing death makes you weak and easy to kill.
My father hath a power; inquire of him And learn to make a body of a limb.
My father has an army; ask him, And learn how to turn a weak man into a strong one.
Thou chidest me well: proud Bolingbroke, I come To change blows with thee for our day of doom. This ague fit of fear is over-blown; An easy task it is to win our own. Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power? Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sour.
You scold me well: proud Bolingbroke, I’m coming To fight you for our final day. This fever of fear is gone; It’s easy to take back what is ours. Say, Scroop, where is our uncle with his army? Speak kindly, man, even if your face looks grim.
Men judge by the complexion of the sky The state and inclination of the day: So may you by my dull and heavy eye, My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say. I play the torturer, by small and small To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken: Your uncle York is join’d with Bolingbroke, And all your northern castles yielded up, And all your southern gentlemen in arms Upon his party.
People judge the weather by the sky’s color, And the mood of the day by the sky’s look: So you can tell by my dull, heavy eyes, My tongue has an even darker message to deliver. I play the torturer, stretching out The worst news that must be told: Your uncle York has joined Bolingbroke, And all your northern castles have surrendered, And all your southern supporters are now fighting On his side.
Thou hast said enough. Beshrew thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth
You’ve said enough. Damn you, cousin, for leading me down
Of that sweet way I was in to despair! What say you now? what comfort have we now? By heaven, I’ll hate him everlastingly That bids me be of comfort any more. Go to Flint castle: there I’ll pine away; A king, woe’s slave, shall kingly woe obey. That power I have, discharge; and let them go To ear the land that hath some hope to grow, For I have none: let no man speak again To alter this, for counsel is but vain.
That hopeless path to despair! What do you say now? What comfort is there left? By heaven, I will hate anyone forever Who tells me to be comforted again. Go to Flint castle: that’s where I’ll waste away; A king, a slave to grief, must obey his sorrow. Let me discharge my power, and let them go To tend the land that has some hope of recovery, For I have none: let no one speak again To change my mind, for advice is useless.
My liege, one word.
My lord, just one word.
He does me double wrong That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue. Discharge my followers: let them hence away, From Richard’s night to Bolingbroke’s fair day.
He wrongs me twice Who wounds me with the flattery of his tongue. Discharge my followers: let them go, From Richard’s night to Bolingbroke’s bright day.