The Illustrated Works of Shakespeare/Illustrated Works of Shakespeare, The (1990)(Animated Pixels)[!][CDTV-PC].iso/shakes/text/06/03_02

Text File | 1991-04-10 | 11KB | 260 lines

Near a Castle on the Coast of Wales.
 Drums. Flourish and Colours.
 Enter the KING, AUMERLE, the Bishop of CARLISLE, and SOLDIERS.

King Richard    Barkloughly Castle call they this at hand?

Aumerle    Yea, my lord. How brooks your grace the air,
    After your late tossing on the breaking seas?

King Richard    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 armd soldiers, ere her native king
    Shall falter under foul rebellion's arms.

Carlisle    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 proffered means of succour and redress.

Aumerle    He means, my lord, that we are too remiss,
    Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security,
    Grows strong and great in substance and in friends.

King Richard    Discomfortable cousin! Know'st thou not
    That when the searching eye of heaven is hid
    Behind the globe and 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 plucked from off their backs,
    Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves?
    So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke,
    Who all this while hath revelled 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 pressed
    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.

                             Enter SALISBURY.

    Welcome, my lord. How far off lies your power?

Salisbury    Nor near nor further 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!
    Today, today, 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.

Aumerle    Comfort, my liege. Why looks your grace so pale?

King Richard    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.

Aumerle    Comfort, my liege, remember who you are.

King Richard    I had forgot myself. Am I not king?
    Awake, thou sluggard 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?

                              Enter SCROOP.

Scroop    More health and happiness betide my liege
    Than can my care-tuned tongue deliver him.

King Richard    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.

Scroop    Glad am I that your highness is so armed
    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 armed 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.
    Thy 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.

King Richard    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.

Scroop    Peace have they made with him indeed, my lord.

King Richard    O villains, vipers, damned without redemption!
    Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!
    Snakes, in my heart-blood warmed, 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.

Scroop    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.

Aumerle    Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead?

Scroop    Ay, all of them at Bristol lost their heads.

Aumerle    Where is the duke my father with his power?

King Richard    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 deposd 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 poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed,
    All murdered - 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 feared, and kill with looks,
    Infusing him with self and vain conceit
    As if this flesh which walls about our life
    Were brass impregnable; and humoured thus,
    Comes at the last, and with a little pin
    Bores thorough 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?

Carlisle    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.

Aumerle    My father hath a power; enquire of him,
    And learn to make a body of a limb.

King Richard    Thou chid'st me well. Proud Bolingbroke, I come
    To change blows with thee for our day of doom.
    This ague-fit of fear is overblown;
    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.

Scroop    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 joined with Bolingbroke,
    And all your northern castles yielded up,
    And all your southern gentlemen in arms
    Upon his party.

King Richard                    Thou hast said enough.
    [To AUMERLE.]
    Beshrew thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth
    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.

Aumerle    My liege, one word.

King Richard                        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.
                                                    [Exeunt.