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Set down, set down your honourable load, If honour may be shrouded in a hearse, Whilst I awhile obsequiously lament The untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster. Poor key-cold figure of a holy king! Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster! Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood! Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost, To hear the lamentations of Poor Anne, Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughter’d son, Stabb’d by the selfsame hand that made these wounds! Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life, I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes. Cursed be the hand that made these fatal holes! Cursed be the heart that had the heart to do it! Cursed the blood that let this blood from hence! More direful hap betide that hated wretch, That makes us wretched by the death of thee, Than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads, Or any creeping venom’d thing that lives! If ever he have child, abortive be it, Prodigious, and untimely brought to light, Whose ugly and unnatural aspect May fright the hopeful mother at the view; And that be heir to his unhappiness! If ever he have wife, let her he made A miserable by the death of him As I am made by my poor lord and thee! Come, now towards Chertsey with your holy load, Taken from Paul’s to be interred there; And still, as you are weary of the weight, Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry’s corse.
Set down, set down your honorable load, If honor can be hidden in a coffin, While I take a moment to mourn The untimely death of virtuous Lancaster. Poor cold figure of a holy king! Pale ashes of the Lancaster family! You bloodless remains of royal blood! Is it right for me to call upon your ghost, To hear the cries of poor Anne, Wife to your Edward, to your murdered son, Stabbed by the same hand that caused these wounds! Look, through these windows that once held your life, I pour out the useless balm of my poor eyes. Cursed be the hand that made these fatal wounds! Cursed be the heart that had the courage to do it! Cursed be the blood that let this blood flow out! More terrible luck fall on that hated villain, Who makes us miserable by your death, Than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads, Or any creeping venomous thing that lives! If he ever has a child, may it be stillborn, Ugly, and born at the wrong time, Whose unnatural and frightful appearance Will scare the hopeful mother at the sight; And that child will be the heir to his misery! If he ever has a wife, may she be made As miserable by his death As I am made by my poor lord and you! Now, come, take the body towards Chertsey, From Paul’s to be buried there; And while you’re tired from carrying the weight, Rest, while I mourn King Henry’s corpse.
Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it down.
Wait, you who are carrying the body, and put it down.
What black magician conjures up this fiend, To stop devoted charitable deeds?
What dark magician summons this demon, To stop good, charitable actions?
Villains, set down the corse; or, by Saint Paul, I’ll make a corse of him that disobeys.
Criminals, put down the body; or, by Saint Paul, I’ll turn the one who disobeys into a corpse.
My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass.
My lord, step back, and let the coffin go by.
Unmanner’d dog! stand thou, when I command: Advance thy halbert higher than my breast, Or, by Saint Paul, I’ll strike thee to my foot, And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness.
Rude dog! stay where I tell you: Lift your halberd higher than my chest, Or, by Saint Paul, I’ll strike you down to my feet, And kick you, beggar, for your boldness.
What, do you tremble? are you all afraid? Alas, I blame you not; for you are mortal, And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil. Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell! Thou hadst but power over his mortal body, His soul thou canst not have; therefore be gone.
What, are you shaking? are you all scared? Poor thing, I don’t blame you; you’re only human, And human eyes can’t bear the sight of the devil. Get away, you terrible servant of hell! You only had control over his mortal body, You can’t take his soul; so get lost.
Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst.
Sweet lady, for pity’s sake, don’t be so cursed.
Foul devil, for God’s sake, hence, and trouble us not; For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell, Fill’d it with cursing cries and deep exclaims. If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds, Behold this pattern of thy butcheries. O, gentlemen, see, see! dead Henry’s wounds Open their congeal’d mouths and bleed afresh! Blush, Blush, thou lump of foul deformity; For ’tis thy presence that exhales this blood From cold and empty veins, where no blood dwells; Thy deed, inhuman and unnatural, Provokes this deluge most unnatural. O God, which this blood madest, revenge his death! O earth, which this blood drink’st revenge his death! Either heaven with lightning strike the murderer dead, Or earth, gape open wide and eat him quick, As thou dost swallow up this good king’s blood Which his hell-govern’d arm hath butchered!
Wicked devil, for God’s sake, go away and don’t bother us; You’ve turned this beautiful earth into your hell, Filled it with cursing, cries, and deep groans. If you enjoy seeing your wicked deeds, Look at this example of your murders. Oh, gentlemen, look, look! see how Henry’s wounds Open their frozen mouths and bleed again! Blush, blush, you lump of ugly deformity; It’s your presence that makes this blood flow From cold and empty veins where no blood should be; Your evil, unnatural deed, Brings forth this unnatural flood of blood. Oh God, who created this blood, avenge his death! Oh earth, which drinks this blood, avenge his death! Let heaven strike the murderer dead with lightning, Or let the earth open wide and swallow him whole, Just like it swallows up this good king’s blood Which his hellish arm has butchered!
Lady, you know no rules of charity, Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.
Lady, you don’t know the rules of charity, Which teaches us to repay evil with good, curses with blessings.
Villain, thou know’st no law of God nor man: No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.
Villain, you don’t know God’s law or man’s law: No animal is so cruel that it lacks some compassion.
But I know none, and therefore am no beast.
But I know no compassion, and that’s why I’m no animal.
O wonderful, when devils tell the truth!
Oh, it’s amazing, when devils tell the truth!
More wonderful, when angels are so angry. Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman, Of these supposed-evils, to give me leave, By circumstance, but to acquit myself.
Even more amazing, when angels get so angry. Please, perfect woman, have mercy on me, And allow me, by circumstance, to clear myself.
Vouchsafe, defused infection of a man, For these known evils, but to give me leave, By circumstance, to curse thy cursed self.
Please, polluted infection of a man, For these known evils, allow me, by circumstance, To curse your cursed self.
Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me have Some patient leisure to excuse myself.
More beautiful than words can describe, let me have Some time to explain myself.
Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst make No excuse current, but to hang thyself.
You’re more horrible than anyone could imagine, and you can’t make any excuse that would be accepted, except to kill yourself.
By such despair, I should accuse myself.
If I did that, I’d be blaming myself.
And, by despairing, shouldst thou stand excused; For doing worthy vengeance on thyself, Which didst unworthy slaughter upon others.
And if you did blame yourself, that would be okay; Because you’d be getting the justice you deserve, For murdering the innocent while you were the real killer.
Say that I slew them not?
So you say I didn’t kill them?
Why, then they are not dead: But dead they are, and devilish slave, by thee.
Well, if you didn’t, then they’re not really dead: But they are dead, and you’re the devil’s servant for it.
I did not kill your husband.
I didn’t kill your husband.
Why, then he is alive.
Then he must be alive.
Nay, he is dead; and slain by Edward’s hand.
No, he’s dead; and Edward’s the one who killed him.
In thy foul throat thou liest: Queen Margaret saw Thy murderous falchion smoking in his blood; The which thou once didst bend against her breast, But that thy brothers beat aside the point.
You’re lying, you filthy liar: Queen Margaret saw Your bloody sword still dripping with his blood; The same sword you once pointed at her chest, But your brothers pushed it away.
I was provoked by her slanderous tongue, which laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoulders.
I was provoked by her false accusations, which wrongly put the blame on me.
Thou wast provoked by thy bloody mind. Which never dreamt on aught but butcheries: Didst thou not kill this king?
You weren’t provoked by her, you were provoked by your own bloody nature. You only ever think of murder: Didn’t you kill this king?
I grant ye.
I admit it.
Dost grant me, hedgehog? then, God grant me too Thou mayst be damned for that wicked deed! O, he was gentle, mild, and virtuous!
You admit it, you hedgehog? Then, God grant that you may be damned for that evil act! Oh, he was kind, gentle, and virtuous!
The fitter for the King of heaven, that hath him.
That makes him more deserving of heaven, where he is now.
He is in heaven, where thou shalt never come.
He’s in heaven, and you’ll never be there.
Let him thank me, that holp to send him thither; For he was fitter for that place than earth.
He should thank me for helping him get there; Because he was better suited for that place than for this world.
And thou unfit for any place but hell.
And you’re only fit for hell.
Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it.
Yes, one other place, if you’ll let me say it.
Some dungeon.
Some dungeon.
Your bed-chamber.
Your bedroom.
Ill rest betide the chamber where thou liest!
May misfortune fall on the room where you sleep!
So will it, madam till I lie with you.
It will, madam, until I lie with you.
I hope so.
I hope so.
I know so. But, gentle Lady Anne, To leave this keen encounter of our wits, And fall somewhat into a slower method, Is not the causer of the timeless deaths Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward, As blameful as the executioner?
I’m sure of it. But, gentle Lady Anne, To move away from this sharp exchange of words, And switch to something slower, Isn’t the real cause of the endless deaths Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward, Just as guilty as the executioner?
Thou art the cause, and most accursed effect.
You are the cause, and the most cursed result.
Your beauty was the cause of that effect; Your beauty: which did haunt me in my sleep To undertake the death of all the world, So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom.
Your beauty was the cause of that result; Your beauty: which haunted me in my sleep And made me decide to kill everyone, Just so I could live for one hour in your sweet embrace.
If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide, These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks.
If I believed that, I swear, murderer, These nails would tear that beauty from my face.
These eyes could never endure sweet beauty’s wreck; You should not blemish it, if I stood by: As all the world is cheered by the sun, So I by that; it is my day, my life.
These eyes could never bear to see your beauty ruined; You shouldn’t tarnish it, not while I’m standing here: Just as the world is brightened by the sun, So I am by you; it’s my day, my life.
Black night o’ershade thy day, and death thy life!
May dark night cover your day, and death your life!
Curse not thyself, fair creature thou art both.
Don’t curse yourself, fair creature; you are both.
I would I were, to be revenged on thee.
I wish I were, so I could get revenge on you.
It is a quarrel most unnatural, To be revenged on him that loveth you.
That’s an unnatural quarrel, To want revenge on the one who loves you.
It is a quarrel just and reasonable, To be revenged on him that slew my husband.
It’s a fair and just reason, To want revenge on the man who killed my husband.
He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband, Did it to help thee to a better husband.
The man who took your husband from you, Did it to make sure you would have a better husband.
His better doth not breathe upon the earth.
There’s no better man alive.
He lives that loves thee better than he could.
The man who loves you now is better than the one you had.
Name him.
Who is he?
Plantagenet.
Plantagenet.
Why, that was he.
That was him.
The selfsame name, but one of better nature.
The same name, but a man of better character.
Where is he?
Where is he?
Here.
Here.
Why dost thou spit at me?
Why are you spitting at me?
Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake!
I wish it were deadly poison, just for your sake!
Never came poison from so sweet a place.
Never has poison come from such a beautiful place.
Never hung poison on a fouler toad. Out of my sight! thou dost infect my eyes.
Never has poison been on a more disgusting toad. Get out of my sight! You’re making my eyes sick.
Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine.
Your eyes, sweet lady, have made mine sick.
Would they were basilisks, to strike thee dead!
I wish they were poisonous snakes, to kill you!
I would they were, that I might die at once; For now they kill me with a living death. Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears, Shamed their aspect with store of childish drops: These eyes that never shed remorseful tear, No, when my father York and Edward wept, To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made When black-faced Clifford shook his sword at him; Nor when thy warlike father, like a child, Told the sad story of my father’s death, And twenty times made pause to sob and weep, That all the standers-by had wet their cheeks Like trees bedash’d with rain: in that sad time My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear; And what these sorrows could not thence exhale, Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping. I never sued to friend nor enemy; My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing word; But now thy beauty is proposed my fee, My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak.
I wish they were, so I could die right now; Because right now, living like this feels like death. Your eyes have made me cry so much, Embarrassed their beauty with tears like a child’s: These eyes of mine never shed a tear of regret, Not even when my father, York, and Edward cried, Hearing poor Rutland’s cries When the fierce Clifford pointed his sword at him; Nor when your brave father, like a child, Told the sad story of my father’s death, And paused twenty times, sobbing and crying, Until everyone around him had wet cheeks Like trees soaked in rain: during that sad time I scorned to shed even one humble tear; And whatever these sorrows couldn’t make me cry out, Your beauty has done, and made me blind with weeping. I never begged anyone, friend or enemy; My tongue never learned to say sweet words to soothe; But now, because your beauty is my prize, My proud heart begs, and makes my tongue speak.
Teach not thy lips such scorn, for they were made For kissing, lady, not for such contempt. If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive, Lo, here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword; Which if thou please to hide in this true bosom. And let the soul forth that adoreth thee, I lay it naked to the deadly stroke, And humbly beg the death upon my knee.
Don’t teach your lips to show such contempt, for they were made For kissing, lady, not for this hatred. If your heart can’t forgive because of your desire for revenge, Here, I offer you this sharp sword; Which, if you choose to hide in this honest chest, And let my soul escape that worships you, I lay it open to the deadly strike, And humbly beg for death on my knees.
Nay, do not pause; for I did kill King Henry, But ’twas thy beauty that provoked me. Nay, now dispatch; ’twas I that stabb’d young Edward, But ’twas thy heavenly face that set me on.
No, don’t wait; I did kill King Henry, But it was your beauty that made me do it. No, hurry up; I was the one who stabbed young Edward, But it was your heavenly face that led me to it.
Take up the sword again, or take up me.
Pick up the sword again, or pick up me.
Arise, dissembler: though I wish thy death, I will not be the executioner.
Get up, deceiver: though I want you dead, I won’t be the one to kill you.
Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it.
Then tell me to kill myself, and I’ll do it.
I have already.
I already have.
Tush, that was in thy rage: Speak it again, and, even with the word, That hand, which, for thy love, did kill thy love, Shall, for thy love, kill a far truer love; To both their deaths thou shalt be accessary.
Nonsense, that was just in your anger: Say it again, and even with the word, That hand, which, for your love, killed your love, Shall, for your love, kill a much truer love; You will be responsible for both their deaths.
I would I knew thy heart.
I wish I knew what was in your heart.
’Tis figured in my tongue.
It’s written on my tongue.
I fear me both are false.
I fear both of them are lies.
Then never man was true.
Then no man has ever been true.
Well, well, put up your sword.
Alright, alright, put your sword away.
Say, then, my peace is made.
So, does that mean my peace is made?
That shall you know hereafter.
You’ll find out later.
But shall I live in hope?
But will I live in hope?
All men, I hope, live so.
I hope all men live with hope.
Vouchsafe to wear this ring.
Please accept this ring.
To take is not to give.
To take is not the same as giving.
Look, how this ring encompasseth finger. Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart; Wear both of them, for both of them are thine. And if thy poor devoted suppliant may But beg one favour at thy gracious hand, Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever.
Look, see how this ring fits on my finger. Just like that, your heart encloses mine; Wear both of them, because both are yours. And if your humble servant may Ask one favor from your kind hand, You will make him happy forever.
What is it?
What is it?
That it would please thee leave these sad designs To him that hath more cause to be a mourner, And presently repair to Crosby Place; Where, after I have solemnly interr’d At Chertsey monastery this noble king, And wet his grave with my repentant tears, I will with all expedient duty see you: For divers unknown reasons. I beseech you, Grant me this boon.
That it would please you to leave these sad plans To someone who has more reason to mourn, And immediately go to Crosby Place; Where, after I have properly buried This noble king at Chertsey monastery, And wet his grave with my regretful tears, I will come to you as soon as I can: For several unknown reasons. I ask you, Please grant me this favor.
With all my heart; and much it joys me too, To see you are become so penitent. Tressel and Berkeley, go along with me.
With all my heart; and it makes me happy too, To see that you have become so remorseful. Tressel and Berkeley, come with me.
Bid me farewell.
Say goodbye to me.
’Tis more than you deserve; But since you teach me how to flatter you, Imagine I have said farewell already.
It’s more than you deserve; But since you’re teaching me how to flatter you, Just imagine I’ve already said goodbye.
Sirs, take up the corse.
Gentlemen, take up the corpse.
Towards Chertsey, noble lord?
To Chertsey, noble lord?
No, to White-Friars; there attend my coining.
No, to White-Friars; there wait for my coming.
Was ever woman in this humour woo’d? Was ever woman in this humour won? I’ll have her; but I will not keep her long. What! I, that kill’d her husband and his father, To take her in her heart’s extremest hate, With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes, The bleeding witness of her hatred by; Having God, her conscience, and these bars against me, And I nothing to back my suit at all, But the plain devil and dissembling looks, And yet to win her, all the world to nothing! Ha! Hath she forgot already that brave prince, Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months since, Stabb’d in my angry mood at Tewksbury? A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman, Framed in the prodigality of nature, Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right royal, The spacious world cannot again afford And will she yet debase her eyes on me, That cropp’d the golden prime of this sweet prince, And made her widow to a woful bed? On me, whose all not equals Edward’s moiety? On me, that halt and am unshapen thus? My dukedom to a beggarly denier, I do mistake my person all this while: Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot, Myself to be a marvellous proper man. I’ll be at charges for a looking-glass, And entertain some score or two of tailors, To study fashions to adorn my body: Since I am crept in favour with myself, Will maintain it with some little cost. But first I’ll turn yon fellow in his grave; And then return lamenting to my love. Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass, That I may see my shadow as I pass.
Has any woman ever been courted in this way? Has any woman ever been won in this way? I’ll have her, but I won’t keep her for long. What! I, who killed her husband and his father, To take her when she hates me most, With curses on her lips, tears in her eyes, The bleeding proof of her hatred right there; Having God, her conscience, and these prison bars against me, And I have nothing to support my claim, But the plain devil and false appearances, And still, to win her, I’d risk everything! Ha! Has she already forgotten that brave prince, Edward, her lord, whom I, just a few months ago, Stabbed in my anger at Tewkesbury? A sweeter, lovelier man, Made by nature’s generosity, Young, brave, wise, and no doubt, truly royal, The world can’t provide another like him, And will she still lower her gaze to me, The one who cut off the prime of this sweet prince, And made her a widow in a miserable bed? On me, who am nothing compared to Edward? On me, who limp and am deformed this way? My dukedom worth nothing, a mere penny, I’ve been fooling myself all this time: I swear, she’ll find, even though I can’t, That I think I’m quite the handsome man. I’ll pay for a mirror, And hire a couple of tailors, To make clothes that suit my body: Since I’ve come to love myself, I’ll keep up the act with a little expense. But first, I’ll make sure that guy stays in his grave; Then I’ll return, mourning, to my love. Shine on, bright sun, until I buy a mirror, So I can see my shadow as I pass.