The Illustrated Works of Shakespeare/Illustrated Works of Shakespeare, The (1990)(Animated Pixels)[!][CDTV-PC].iso/shakes/text/06/01_03

Text File | 1991-04-10 | 15KB | 388 lines

The Lists at Coventry.
 Enter LORD MARSHAL and DUKE AUMERLE.

Lord Marshal    My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford armed?

Aumerle    Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in.

Lord Marshal    The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold,
    Stays but the summons of the appellant's trumpet.

Aumerle    Why then, the champions are prepared, and stay
    For nothing but his majesty's approach.

         The trumpets sound, and the KING enters with his NOBLES,
                 (GAUNT, BUSHY, BAGOT, GREEN, and Others)
   When they are set, enter MOWBRAY in arms, defendant, and 1st HERALD.

King Richard    Marshal, demand of yonder champion
    The cause of his arrival here in arms:
    Ask him his name, and orderly proceed
    To swear him in the justice of his cause.

Lord Marshal    In God's name and the king's, say who thou art,
    And why thou com'st thus knightly clad in arms,
    Against what man thou com'st, and what thy quarrel.
    Speak truly on thy knighthood and thy oath,
    As so defend thee heaven and thy valour!

Mowbray    My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
    Who hither come engagd by my oath
    - Which God defend a knight should violate!-
    Both to defend my loyalty and truth
    To God, my king, and my succeeding issue,
    Against the Duke of Hereford that appeals me,
    And, by the grace of God and this mine arm,
    To prove him, in defending of myself,
    A traitor to my God, my king, and me.
    And as I truly fight, defend me heaven!

                           The trumpets sound.
         Enter BOLINGBROKE, appellant, in armour, and 2nd HERALD.

King Richard    Marshal, demand of yonder knight in arms,
    Both who he is, and why he cometh hither
    Thus plated in habiliments of war;
    And formally, according to our law,
    Depose him in the justice of his cause.

Lord Marshal    What is thy name? And wherefore com'st thou hither
    Before King Richard in his royal lists?
    Against whom com'st thou? And what's thy quarrel?
    Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven!

Bolingbroke    Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby
    Am I, who ready here do stand in arms
    To prove, by God's grace and my body's valour,
    In lists, on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
    That he's a traitor foul and dangerous,
    To God of heaven, King Richard, and to me:
    And as I truly fight, defend me heaven!

Lord Marshal    On pain of death, no person be so bold
    Or daring-hardy as to touch the lists,
    Except the marshal and such officers
    Appointed to direct these fair designs.

Bolingbroke    Lord Marshal, let me kiss my sovereign's hand,
    And bow my knee before his majesty;
    For Mowbray and myself are like two men
    That vow a long and weary pilgrimage;
    Then let us take a ceremonious leave
    And loving farewell of our several friends.

Lord Marshal    The appellant in all duty greets your highness,
    And craves to kiss your hand and take his leave.

King Richard    We will descend and fold him in our arms.
    Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right,
    So be thy fortune in this royal fight!
    Farewell, my blood; which, if today thou shed,
    Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.

Bolingbroke    O, let no noble eye profane a tear
    For me, if I be gored with Mowbray's spear.
    As confident as is the falcon's flight
    Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.
    [To LORD MARSHAL.] My loving lord, I take my leave of you;
    Of you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle;
    Not sick, although I have to do with death,
    But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath.
    Lo, as at English feasts, so I regreet
    The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.
    [To GAUNT.] O thou, the earthly author of my blood,
    Whose youthful spirit in me regenerate
    Doth with a two fold vigour lift me up
    To reach at victory above my head,
    Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers,
    And with thy blessings steel my lance's point,
    That it may enter Mowbray's waxen coat,
    And furbish new the name of John a Gaunt,
    Even in the lusty haviour of his son.

Gaunt    God in thy good cause make thee prosperous!
    Be swift like lightning in the execution,
    And let thy blows, doubly redoubled,
    Fall like amazing thunder on the casque
    Of thy adverse pernicious enemy.
    Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant and live.

Bolingbroke    Mine innocence and Saint George to thrive!

Mowbray    However God or Fortune cast my lot,
    There lives or dies true to King Richard's throne,
    A loyal, just, and upright gentleman.
    Never did captive with a freer heart
    Cast off his chains of bondage and embrace
    His golden uncontrolled enfranchisement,
    More than my dancing soul doth celebrate
    This feast of battle with mine adversary.
    Most mighty liege, and my companion peers,
    Take from my mouth the wish of happy years.
    As gentle and as jocund as to jest,
    Go I to fight: truth hath a quiet breast.

King Richard    Farewell, my lord; securely I espy
    Virtue with valour couchd in thine eye.
    Order the trial, Marshal, and begin.

Lord Marshal    Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
    Receive thy lance, and God defend the right!

Bolingbroke    Strong as a tower in hope, I cry 'Amen!'

Lord Marshal    [To an OFFICER.]
    Go bear this lance to Thomas, Duke of Norfolk.

2nd Herald    Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
    Stands here, for God, his sovereign, and himself,
    On pain to be found false and recreant,
    To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray,
    A traitor to his God, his king, and him,
    And dares him to set forward to the fight.

1st Herald    Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
    On pain to be found false and recreant,
    Both to defend himself and to approve
    Henry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
    To God, his sovereign, and to him disloyal,
    Courageously and with a free desire,
    Attending but the signal to begin.

Lord Marshal    Sound trumpets; and set forward, combatants.
                                                    [A charge sounded.
    Stay! The king hath thrown his warder down.

King Richard    Let them lay by their helmets and their spears,
    And both return back to their chairs again.
    Withdraw with us, and let the trumpets sound
    While we return these dukes what we decree.
                                                    [A long flourish.
                                  The KING and his NOBLES confer.

    [To BOLINGBROKE and MOWBRAY.] Draw near,
    And list what with our council we have done.
    For that our kingdom's earth should not be soiled
    With that dear blood which it hath fosterd;
    And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect
    Of civil wounds ploughed up with neighbours' swords;
    And for we think the eagle-wingd pride
    Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts,
    With rival-hating envy, set on you
    To wake our peace, which in our country's cradle
    Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep,
    Which, so roused up with boisterous untuned drums,
    With harsh-resounding trumpets' dreadful bray,
    And grating shock of wrathful iron arms,
    Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace
    And make us wade even in our kindred's blood:
    Therefore we banish you our territories.
    You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life,
    Till twice five summers have enriched our fields,
    Shall not regreet our fair dominions,
    But tread the stranger paths of banishment.

Bolingbroke    Your will be done. This must my comfort be:
    That sun that warms you here shall shine on me,
    And those his golden beams to you here lent
    Shall point on me and gild my banishment.

King Richard    Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom,
    Which I with some unwillingness pronounce:
    The sly slow hours shall not determinate
    The dateless limit of thy dear exile;
    The hopeless word of 'never to return'
    Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.

Mowbray    A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege,
    And all unlooked-for from your highness' mouth:
    A dearer merit, not so deep a maim
    As to be cast forth in the common air,
    Have I deservd at your highness' hands.
    The language I have learnt these forty years,
    My native English, now I must forgo,
    And now my tongue's use is to me no more
    Than an unstringd viol or a harp,
    Or like a cunning instrument cased up,
    Or being open, put into his hands
    That knows no touch to tune the harmony.
    Within my mouth you have engaoled my tongue,
    Doubly portcullised with my teeth and lips,
    And dull unfeeling barren ignorance
    Is made my gaoler to attend on me.
    I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,
    Too far in years to be a pupil now:
    What is thy sentence then but speechless death,
    Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?

King Richard    It boots thee not to be compassionate;
    After our sentence, plaining comes too late.

Mowbray    Then thus I turn me from my country's light,
    To dwell in solemn shades of endless night.

King Richard    Return again, and take an oath with thee.
    Lay on our royal sword your banished hands,
    Swear by the duty that you owe to God
    - Our part therein we banish with yourselves-
    To keep the oath that we administer:
    You never shall, so help you truth and God,
    Embrace each other's love in banishment,
    Nor never look upon each other's face,
    Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile
    This louring tempest of your home-bred hate,
    Nor never by advisd purpose meet
    To plot, contrive, or complot any ill
    'Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land.

Bolingbroke    I swear.

Mowbray    And I, to keep all this.

Bolingbroke    Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy-
    By this time, had the king permitted us,
    One of our souls had wandered in the air,
    Banished this frail sepulchre of our flesh,
    As now our flesh is banished from this land-
    Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm;
    Since thou hast far to go, bear not along
    The clogging burden of a guilty soul.

Mowbray    No, Bolingbroke; if ever I were traitor,
    My name be blotted from the book of life,
    And I from heaven banished as from hence!
    But what thou art, God, thou, and I do know,
    And all too soon, I fear, the king shall rue.
    Farewell, my liege. Now no way can I stray;
    Save back to England, all the world's my way.
                                                    [Exit.
King Richard    Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes
    I see thy grievd heart. Thy sad aspect
    Hath from the number of his banished years
    Plucked four away.
        [To BOLINGBROKE.] Six frozen winters spent,
    Return with welcome home from banishment.

Bolingbroke    How long a time lies in one little word!
    Four lagging winters and four wanton springs
    End in a word: such is the breath of kings.

Gaunt    I thank my liege that in regard of me
    He shortens four years of my son's exile,
    But little vantage shall I reap thereby,
    For, ere the six years that he hath to spend
    Can change their moons and bring their times about,
    My oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light
    Shall be extinct with age and endless night;
    My inch of taper will be burnt and done,
    And blindfold Death not let me see my son.

King Richard    Why, uncle, thou hast many years to live.

Gaunt    But not a minute, king, that thou canst give;
    Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow,
    And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow;
    Thou canst help time to furrow me with age,
    But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage.
    Thy word is current with him for my death,
    But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath.

King Richard    Thy son is banished upon good advice,
    Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave:
    Why at our justice seem'st thou then to lour?

Gaunt    Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour.
    You urged me as a judge, but I had rather
    You would have bid me argue like a father.
    O, had it been a stranger, not my child,
    To smooth his fault I should have been more mild:
    A partial slander sought I to avoid,
    And in the sentence my own life destroyed.
    Alas, I looked when some of you should say
    I was too strict to make mine own away;
    But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue
    Against my will to do myself this wrong.

King Richard    Cousin, farewell; and uncle, bid him so.
    Six years we banish him, and he shall go.
                               [Flourish. Exeunt all but AUMERLE,
                            LORD MARSHAL, GAUNT, and BOLINGBROKE.

Aumerle    Cousin, farewell; what presence must not know,
    From where you do remain let paper show.

Lord Marshal    My lord, no leave take I, for I will ride
    As far as land will let me, by your side.

Gaunt    O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,
    That thou return'st no greeting to thy friends?

Bolingbroke    I have too few to take my leave of you,
    When the tongue's office should be prodigal
    To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart.

Gaunt    Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.

Bolingbroke    Joy absent, grief is present for that time.

Gaunt    What is six winters? They are quickly gone.

Bolingbroke    To men in joy, but grief makes one hour ten.

Gaunt    Call it a travel that thou tak'st for pleasure.

Bolingbroke    My heart will sigh when I miscall it so,
    Which finds it an enforcd pilgrimage.

Gaunt    The sullen passage of thy weary steps
    Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set
    The precious jewel of thy home return.

Bolingbroke    Nay, rather every tedious stride I make
    Will but remember me what a deal of world
    I wander from the jewels that I love.
    Must I not serve a long apprenticehood
    To foreign passages, and in the end,
    Having my freedom, boast of nothing else
    But that I was a journeyman to grief?

Gaunt    All places that the eye of heaven visits
    Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.
    Teach thy necessity to reason thus:
    There is no virtue like necessity.
    Think not the king did banish thee,
    But thou the king. Woe doth the heavier sit
    Where it perceives it is but faintly borne.
    Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour,
    And not the king exiled thee; or suppose
    Devouring pestilence hangs in our air,
    And thou art flying to a fresher clime.
    Look what thy soul holds dear, imagine it
    To lie that way thou go'st, not whence thou com'st.
    Suppose the singing birds musicians,
    The grass whereon thou tread'st the presence strewed,
    The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more
    Than a delightful measure or a dance;
    For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite
    The man that mocks at it and sets it light.

Bolingbroke    O, who can hold a fire in his hand
    By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?
    Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite
    By bare imagination of a feast?
    Or wallow naked in December snow
    By thinking on fantastic summer's heat?
    O no, the apprehension of the good
    Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.
    Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more
    Than when he bites, but lanceth not the sore.

Gaunt    Come, come, my son, I'll bring thee on thy way.
    Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stay.

Bolingbroke    Then, England's ground, farewell; sweet soil, adieu,
    My mother and my nurse that bears me yet!
    Where'er I wander boast of this I can,
    Though banished, yet a true-born Englishman.
                                                    [Exeunt.