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This way the king will come; this is the way To Julius Caesar’s ill-erected tower, To whose flint bosom my condemned lord Is doom’d a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke: Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth Have any resting for her true king’s queen.
This way the king will come; this is the way To Julius Caesar’s poorly built tower, To which my condemned husband is sent As a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke: Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth Has any place where a true king’s queen can rest.
But soft, but see, or rather do not see, My fair rose wither: yet look up, behold, That you in pity may dissolve to dew, And wash him fresh again with true-love tears. Ah, thou, the model where old Troy did stand, Thou map of honour, thou King Richard’s tomb, And not King Richard; thou most beauteous inn, Why should hard-favour’d grief be lodged in thee, When triumph is become an alehouse guest?
But wait, but see, or better yet, don’t see, My beautiful rose fading: yet look up, see, So you may pity and weep for him, And wash him fresh again with loving tears. Ah, you, the place where old Troy once stood, You map of honor, you King Richard’s tomb, And not King Richard; you most beautiful inn, Why should hard, sorrowful grief stay with you, When victory is now just a drunk in a tavern?
Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so, To make my end too sudden: learn, good soul, To think our former state a happy dream; From which awaked, the truth of what we are Shows us but this: I am sworn brother, sweet, To grim Necessity, and he and I Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to France And cloister thee in some religious house: Our holy lives must win a new world’s crown, Which our profane hours here have stricken down.
Don’t join me in grief, dear woman, don’t do that, Or it will make my end come too soon: understand, good soul, To think of our past life as a happy dream; From which, when we wake, the truth of what we are Shows us only this: I am sworn brother, dear, To grim Necessity, and he and I Will stay together until death. Go to France And hide yourself in some holy place: Our holy lives must win a new world’s crown, Which our sinful hours here have brought down.
What, is my Richard both in shape and mind Transform’d and weaken’d? hath Bolingbroke deposed Thine intellect? hath he been in thy heart? The lion dying thrusteth forth his paw, And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage To be o’erpower’d; and wilt thou, pupil-like, Take thy correction mildly, kiss the rod, And fawn on rage with base humility, Which art a lion and a king of beasts?
What, is my Richard both in body and mind Changed and weakened? has Bolingbroke taken away Your intellect? has he gotten into your heart? The lion, when dying, stretches out his paw, And tears the earth, if nothing else, with anger To show he is overpowered; and will you, like a student, Accept your punishment quietly, kiss the rod, And fawn on anger with low humility, When you are a lion and a king of beasts?
A king of beasts, indeed; if aught but beasts, I had been still a happy king of men. Good sometime queen, prepare thee hence for France: Think I am dead and that even here thou takest, As from my death-bed, thy last living leave. In winter’s tedious nights sit by the fire With good old folks and let them tell thee tales Of woeful ages long ago betid; And ere thou bid good night, to quit their griefs, Tell thou the lamentable tale of me And send the hearers weeping to their beds: For why, the senseless brands will sympathize The heavy accent of thy moving tongue And in compassion weep the fire out; And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black, For the deposing of a rightful king.
A king of beasts, yes; if only I had been anything but beasts, I would have remained a happy king of men. Good former queen, prepare yourself to go to France: Think of me as dead and that even here you are taking, As from my deathbed, your last farewell. On winter’s long nights, sit by the fire With good old people and let them tell you stories Of sad times long ago; And before you say good night, to ease their grief, Tell them the sorrowful story of me And send them to their beds in tears: For the lifeless logs will feel The heavy sound of your sorrowful voice And in pity, weep the fire out; And some will mourn in ashes, some in coal-black, For the downfall of a rightful king.
My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is changed: You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower. And, madam, there is order ta’en for you; With all swift speed you must away to France.
My lord, Bolingbroke has changed his mind: You must go to Pomfret, not the Tower. And, madam, orders have been made for you; You must quickly go to France.
Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne, The time shall not be many hours of age More than it is ere foul sin gathering head Shalt break into corruption: thou shalt think, Though he divide the realm and give thee half, It is too little, helping him to all; And he shall think that thou, which know’st the way To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again, Being ne’er so little urged, another way To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne. The love of wicked men converts to fear; That fear to hate, and hate turns one or both To worthy danger and deserved death.
Northumberland, you’re the ladder by which Bolingbroke climbs to take my throne, The time won’t be many hours from now Before your bad deeds grow and break into corruption: You’ll think, Even if he divides the kingdom and gives you half, It’s still too little, helping him take everything; And he’ll think that you, who know how To put unjust kings on the throne, will know again, Even if you’re not pushed too hard, another way To throw him off the usurped throne. The love of bad men turns to fear; That fear turns to hate, and hate changes one or both Into dangerous and deserved death.
My guilt be on my head, and there an end. Take leave and part; for you must part forthwith.
My guilt is mine to bear, and that’s the end of it. Farewell and part now; you must leave immediately.
Doubly divorced! Bad men, you violate A twofold marriage, ’twixt my crown and me, And then betwixt me and my married wife. Let me unkiss the oath ’twixt thee and me; And yet not so, for with a kiss ’twas made. Part us, Northumberland; I toward the north, Where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime; My wife to France: from whence, set forth in pomp, She came adorned hither like sweet May, Sent back like Hallowmas or short’st of day.
Divorced twice! Bad men, you break A twofold bond, between my crown and me, And between me and my wife. Let me take back the oath I swore to you; But not exactly, since it was made with a kiss. Separate us, Northumberland; I’ll head to the north, Where the cold and sickness plague the land; My wife will go to France: from there, arriving in style, She came here looking like beautiful May, Sent back like Halloween or the shortest day of the year.
And must we be divided? must we part?
And must we be separated? must we part?
Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart from heart.
Yes, hand from hand, my love, and heart from heart.
Banish us both and send the king with me.
Banishing us both and sending the king with me
That were some love but little policy.
That would show some love, but little sense.
Then whither he goes, thither let me go.
Then wherever he goes, let me go too.
So two, together weeping, make one woe. Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here; Better far off than near, be ne’er the near. Go, count thy way with sighs; I mine with groans.
So, two people weeping together create one sorrow. Weep for me in France, I’ll weep for you here; It’s better to be far away than close by, never close. Go, count your path with sighs; I’ll count mine with groans.
So longest way shall have the longest moans.
So the longest path will have the longest sighs.
Twice for one step I’ll groan, the way being short, And piece the way out with a heavy heart. Come, come, in wooing sorrow let’s be brief, Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief; One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part; Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart.
For every step I take, I’ll groan, though the way is short, And fill the path with a heavy heart. Come, come, let’s make our sorrow brief, Since, in marriage, grief feels endless; One kiss will stop our mouths, and we’ll part silently; So I give you mine, and I take your heart.
Give me mine own again; ’twere no good part To take on me to keep and kill thy heart. So, now I have mine own again, be gone, That I might strive to kill it with a groan.
Give me back what’s mine; it wouldn’t be right For me to keep and break your heart. So, now I have what’s mine again, go away, So I can try to kill it with a sigh.
We make woe wanton with this fond delay: Once more, adieu; the rest let sorrow say.
We make our sadness worse by this foolish delay: Once more, goodbye; let sorrow say the rest.