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I have been studying how I may compare This prison where I live unto the world: And for because the world is populous And here is not a creature but myself, I cannot do it; yet I’ll hammer it out. My brain I’ll prove the female to my soul, My soul the father; and these two beget A generation of still-breeding thoughts, And these same thoughts people this little world, In humours like the people of this world, For no thought is contented. The better sort, As thoughts of things divine, are intermix’d With scruples and do set the word itself Against the word: As thus, ’Come, little ones,’ and then again, ’It is as hard to come as for a camel To thread the postern of a small needle’s eye.’ Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot Unlikely wonders; how these vain weak nails May tear a passage through the flinty ribs Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls, And, for they cannot, die in their own pride. Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves That they are not the first of fortune’s slaves, Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars Who sitting in the stocks refuge their shame, That many have and others must sit there; And in this thought they find a kind of ease, Bearing their own misfortunes on the back Of such as have before endured the like. Thus play I in one person many people, And none contented: sometimes am I king; Then treasons make me wish myself a beggar, And so I am: then crushing penury Persuades me I was better when a king; Then am I king’d again: and by and by Think that I am unking’d by Bolingbroke, And straight am nothing: but whate’er I be, Nor I nor any man that but man is With nothing shall be pleased, till he be eased With being nothing. Music do I hear?
I’ve been thinking about how I can compare This prison where I live to the world outside: And because the world is full of people And here I’m the only one, I can’t really do it, but I’ll try anyway. My brain, I’ll say, is the female part of me, And my soul is the father; and together they create A generation of constantly growing thoughts, And these thoughts fill up this little world of mine, With moods like those of the people in this world, Because no thought is satisfied. The higher thoughts, Like those about divine things, are mixed With doubts, and cause the words themselves To contradict each other: For example, "Come, little ones," and then again, "It’s as hard to come as for a camel To pass through the small eye of a needle." Thoughts that lead to ambition plot Impossible feats; how these weak, foolish dreams Might break through the tough walls Of this hard world, my crumbling prison walls, And when they can’t, they die in their own arrogance. Thoughts that seek contentment flatter themselves Into thinking they are not the first to be slaves of fortune, And they won’t be the last; like foolish beggars Who, sitting in the stocks, try to hide their shame, Many people have sat there, and others must; And in thinking this, they find some comfort, Carrying their misfortunes on the backs Of those who have suffered the same before. In this way, I play many roles in one body, And none are happy: sometimes I am king; Then, when treason strikes, I wish I were a beggar, And in that case, I am: then crushing poverty Makes me think I was better off as king; Then I am king again: and soon after I think I’ve been unkinged by Bolingbroke, And then I am nothing: but no matter what I am, Neither I nor any man who is only human Will be happy with nothing, until he is relieved By becoming nothing. Do I hear music?
Ha, ha! keep time: how sour sweet music is, When time is broke and no proportion kept! So is it in the music of men’s lives. And here have I the daintiness of ear To cheque time broke in a disorder’d string; But for the concord of my state and time Had not an ear to hear my true time broke. I wasted time, and now doth time waste me; For now hath time made me his numbering clock: My thoughts are minutes; and with sighs they jar Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch, Whereto my finger, like a dial’s point, Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears. Now sir, the sound that tells what hour it is Are clamorous groans, which strike upon my heart, Which is the bell: so sighs and tears and groans Show minutes, times, and hours: but my time Runs posting on in Bolingbroke’s proud joy, While I stand fooling here, his Jack o’ the clock. This music mads me; let it sound no more; For though it have holp madmen to their wits, In me it seems it will make wise men mad. Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me! For ’tis a sign of love; and love to Richard Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.
Ha, ha! Keep the rhythm: how sour sweet music is, When the timing is off and no harmony is kept! So it is in the music of human lives. And here I have the sensitivity of hearing To correct the broken rhythm of a disordered string; But for the harmony between my state and time, I had no ear to hear my true timing break. I wasted time, and now time wastes me; For now time has made me its ticking clock: My thoughts are minutes; and with sighs they strike Their clocks against my eyes, the external watch, To which my finger, like a clock’s hand, Continues pointing, wiping away my tears. Now, sir, the sound that tells what time it is Are loud groans, which strike my heart, Which is the bell: so sighs, tears, and groans Mark minutes, times, and hours: but my time Moves quickly in Bolingbroke’s proud joy, While I stand here as a fool, his Jack-o’-the-clock. This music drives me mad; let it stop; For though it has helped madmen find their senses, To me, it seems it will drive wise men mad. Yet blessings on the heart of the one who gives it to me! For it is a sign of love; and love for Richard Is a rare thing in this world that hates all.
Hail, royal prince!
Hail, royal prince!
Thanks, noble peer; The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear. What art thou? and how comest thou hither, Where no man never comes but that sad dog That brings me food to make misfortune live?
Thank you, noble friend; The least of us is still worth more than ten groats. Who are you? and how did you get here, Where no one comes except that sad dog Who brings me food to keep misfortune alive?
I was a poor groom of thy stable, king, When thou wert king; who, travelling towards York, With much ado at length have gotten leave To look upon my sometimes royal master’s face. O, how it yearn’d my heart when I beheld In London streets, that coronation-day, When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary, That horse that thou so often hast bestrid, That horse that I so carefully have dress’d!
I was a poor groom in your stable, my king, When you were king; and traveling toward York, After much effort, I’ve finally gotten permission To look upon the face of my once-royal master. Oh, how my heart ached when I saw On London streets, that coronation day, When Bolingbroke rode that roan Barbary horse, The same horse you so often rode, The horse I so carefully groomed!
Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend, How went he under him?
Did he ride Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend, How did he fare beneath him?
So proudly as if he disdain’d the ground.
He walks so arrogantly, as if he hated the ground beneath him.
So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back! That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand; This hand hath made him proud with clapping him. Would he not stumble? would he not fall down, Since pride must have a fall, and break the neck Of that proud man that did usurp his back? Forgiveness, horse! why do I rail on thee, Since thou, created to be awed by man, Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse; And yet I bear a burthen like an ass, Spurr’d, gall’d and tired by jouncing Bolingbroke.
He’s so proud that Bolingbroke is riding him! That worthless beast has eaten food from my royal hand; This hand made him proud by patting him. Would he not trip? Would he not fall down, Since pride always leads to a fall, and breaks the neck Of the arrogant man who stole his position? Forgive me, horse! Why am I angry at you, Since you, created to be controlled by humans, Were born to carry burdens? I wasn’t made to be a horse; And yet I carry a load like a donkey, Whipped, irritated, and exhausted by Bolingbroke’s riding.
Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay.
Fellow, step aside; you can’t stay here any longer.
If thou love me, ’tis time thou wert away.
If you love me, it’s time for you to leave.
What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall say.
What my mouth can’t say, my heart will express.
My lord, will’t please you to fall to?
My lord, would you like to eat now?
Taste of it first, as thou art wont to do.
Taste it first, as you usually do.
My lord, I dare not: Sir Pierce of Exton, who lately came from the king, commands the contrary.
My lord, I can’t: Sir Pierce of Exton, who just came from the king, has ordered otherwise.
The devil take Henry of Lancaster and thee! Patience is stale, and I am weary of it.
Damn Henry of Lancaster and you too! I’m tired of patience, and I’ve had enough of it.
Help, help, help!
Help, help, help!
How now! what means death in this rude assault? Villain, thy own hand yields thy death’s instrument.
What’s going on! What does death mean in this violent attack? Villain, your own hand is the weapon of your death.
Go thou, and fill another room in hell.
Go, and take your place in another part of hell.
That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire That staggers thus my person. Exton, thy fierce hand Hath with the king’s blood stain’d the king’s own land. Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high; Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die.
That hand will burn in a fire that never goes out That shakes my body like this. Exton, your brutal hand Has stained the king’s land with the king’s own blood. Rise, rise, my soul! Your place is up above; While my heavy body sinks down here, to die.
As full of valour as of royal blood: Both have I spill’d; O would the deed were good! For now the devil, that told me I did well, Says that this deed is chronicled in hell. This dead king to the living king I’ll bear Take hence the rest, and give them burial here.
As full of courage as of royal blood: Both have I spilled; I wish the act had been for good! For now the devil, who told me I did right, Says that this action is recorded in hell. This dead king I’ll take to the living king Take the rest away, and bury them here.