Complete Plays, The (294 page)
Read Complete Plays, The Online
Authors: William Shakespeare
King Henry VIII
Come, come, my lord, you’ld spare your spoons: you shall have two noble partners with you; the old Duchess of Norfolk, and Lady Marquess Dorset: will these please you? Once more, my Lord of Winchester, I charge you, Embrace and love this man.
Gardiner
With a true heart
And brother-love I do it.
Cranmer
And let heaven
Witness, how dear I hold this confirmation.
King Henry VIII
Good man, those joyful tears show thy true heart:
The common voice, I see, is verified
Of thee, which says thus, ‘Do my Lord of Canterbury
A shrewd turn, and he is your friend for ever.’
Come, lords, we trifle time away; I long
To have this young one made a Christian.
As I have made ye one, lords, one remain;
So I grow stronger, you more honour gain.
Exeunt
S
CENE
IV. T
HE
PALACE
YARD
.
Noise and tumult within. Enter Porter and his Man
Porter
You’ll leave your noise anon, ye rascals: do you take the court for Paris-garden? ye rude slaves, leave your gaping.
Within
Good master porter, I belong to the larder.
Porter
Belong to the gallows, and be hanged, ye rogue! is this a place to roar in? Fetch me a dozen crab-tree staves, and strong ones: these are but switches to ’em. I’ll scratch your heads: you must be seeing christenings? do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals?
Man
Pray, sir, be patient: ’tis as much impossible —
Unless we sweep ’em from the door with cannons —
To scatter ’em, as ’tis to make ’em sleep
On May-day morning; which will never be:
We may as well push against Powle’s, as stir em.
Porter
How got they in, and be hang’d?
Man
Alas, I know not; how gets the tide in?
As much as one sound cudgel of four foot —
You see the poor remainder — could distribute,
I made no spare, sir.
Porter
You did nothing, sir.
Man
I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand,
To mow ’em down before me: but if I spared any
That had a head to hit, either young or old,
He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker,
Let me ne’er hope to see a chine again
And that I would not for a cow, God save her!
Within
Do you hear, master porter?
Porter
I shall be with you presently, good master puppy.
Keep the door close, sirrah.
Man
What would you have me do?
Porter
What should you do, but knock ’em down by the dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? or have we some strange Indian with the great tool come to court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a fry of fornication is at door! On my Christian conscience, this one christening will beget a thousand; here will be father, godfather, and all together.
Man
The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a fellow somewhat near the door, he should be a brazier by his face, for, o’ my conscience, twenty of the dog-days now reign in’s nose; all that stand about him are under the line, they need no other penance: that fire-drake did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged against me; he stands there, like a mortar-piece, to blow us. There was a haberdasher’s wife of small wit near him, that railed upon me till her pinked porringer fell off her head, for kindling such a combustion in the state. I missed the meteor once, and hit that woman; who cried out ‘Clubs!’ when I might see from far some forty truncheoners draw to her succor, which were the hope o’ the Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my place: at length they came to the broom-staff to me; I defied ’em still: when suddenly a file of boys behind ’em, loose shot, delivered such a shower of pebbles, that I was fain to draw mine honour in, and let ’em win the work: the devil was amongst ’em, I think, surely.
Porter
These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse, and fight for bitten apples; that no audience, but the tribulation of Tower-hill, or the limbs of Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure. I have some of ’em in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance these three days; besides the running banquet of two beadles that is to come.
Enter Chamberlain
Chamberlain
Mercy o’ me, what a multitude are here!
They grow still too; from all parts they are coming,
As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters,
These lazy knaves? Ye have made a fine hand, fellows:
There’s a trim rabble let in: are all these
Your faithful friends o’ the suburbs? We shall have
Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies,
When they pass back from the christening.
Porter
An’t please your honour,
We are but men; and what so many may do,
Not being torn a-pieces, we have done:
An army cannot rule ’em.
Chamberlain
As I live,
If the king blame me for’t, I’ll lay ye all
By the heels, and suddenly; and on your heads
Clap round fines for neglect: ye are lazy knaves;
And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when
Ye should do service. Hark! the trumpets sound;
They’re come already from the christening:
Go, break among the press, and find a way out
To let the troop pass fairly; or I’ll find
A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months.
Porter
Make way there for the princess.
Man
You great fellow,
Stand close up, or I’ll make your head ache.
Porter
You i’ the camlet, get up o’ the rail;
I’ll peck you o’er the pales else.
Exeunt
S
CENE
V. T
HE
PALACE
.
Enter trumpets, sounding; then two Aldermen, Lord Mayor, Garter, Cranmer, Norfolk with his marshal’s staff, Suffolk, two Noblemen bearing great standing-bowls for the christening-gifts; then four Noblemen bearing a canopy, under which the Duchess of Norfolk, godmother, bearing the child richly habited in a mantle, & c., train borne by a Lady; then follows the Marchioness Dorset, the other godmother, and Ladies. The troop pass once about the stage, and Garter speaks
Garter
Heaven, from thy endless goodness, send prosperous life, long, and ever happy, to the high and mighty princess of England, Elizabeth!
Flourish. Enter King Henry VIII and Guard
Cranmer
[Kneeling]
And to your royal grace, and the good queen,
My noble partners, and myself, thus pray:
All comfort, joy, in this most gracious lady,
Heaven ever laid up to make parents happy,
May hourly fall upon ye!
King Henry VIII
Thank you, good lord archbishop:
What is her name?
Cranmer
Elizabeth.
King Henry VIII
Stand up, lord.
King Henry VIII kisses the child
With this kiss take my blessing: God protect thee!
Into whose hand I give thy life.
Cranmer
Amen.
King Henry VIII
My noble gossips, ye have been too prodigal:
I thank ye heartily; so shall this lady,
When she has so much English.
Cranmer
Let me speak, sir,
For heaven now bids me; and the words I utter
Let none think flattery, for they’ll find ’em truth.
This royal infant — heaven still move about her!—
Though in her cradle, yet now promises
Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings,
Which time shall bring to ripeness: she shall be —
But few now living can behold that goodness —
A pattern to all princes living with her,
And all that shall succeed: Saba was never
More covetous of wisdom and fair virtue
Than this pure soul shall be: all princely graces,
That mould up such a mighty piece as this is,
With all the virtues that attend the good,
Shall still be doubled on her: truth shall nurse her,
Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her:
She shall be loved and fear’d: her own shall bless her;
Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn,
And hang their heads with sorrow: good grows with her:
In her days every man shall eat in safety,
Under his own vine, what he plants; and sing
The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours:
God shall be truly known; and those about her
From her shall read the perfect ways of honour,
And by those claim their greatness, not by blood.
Nor shall this peace sleep with her: but as when
The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix,
Her ashes new create another heir,
As great in admiration as herself;
So shall she leave her blessedness to one,
When heaven shall call her from this cloud of darkness,
Who from the sacred ashes of her honour
Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she was,
And so stand fix’d: peace, plenty, love, truth, terror,
That were the servants to this chosen infant,
Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him:
Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine,
His honour and the greatness of his name
Shall be, and make new nations: he shall flourish,
And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches
To all the plains about him: our children’s children
Shall see this, and bless heaven.
King Henry VIII
Thou speakest wonders.
Cranmer
She shall be, to the happiness of England,
An aged princess; many days shall see her,
And yet no day without a deed to crown it.
Would I had known no more! but she must die,
She must, the saints must have her; yet a virgin,
A most unspotted lily shall she pass
To the ground, and all the world shall mourn her.
King Henry VIII
O lord archbishop,
Thou hast made me now a man! never, before
This happy child, did I get any thing:
This oracle of comfort has so pleased me,
That when I am in heaven I shall desire
To see what this child does, and praise my Maker.
I thank ye all. To you, my good lord mayor,
And your good brethren, I am much beholding;
I have received much honour by your presence,
And ye shall find me thankful. Lead the way, lords:
Ye must all see the queen, and she must thank ye,
She will be sick else. This day, no man think
Has business at his house; for all shall stay:
This little one shall make it holiday.
Exeunt
E
PILOGUE
’Tis ten to one this play can never please
All that are here: some come to take their ease,
And sleep an act or two; but those, we fear,
We have frighted with our trumpets; so, ’tis clear,
They’ll say ’tis naught: others, to hear the city
Abused extremely, and to cry ‘That’s witty!’
Which we have not done neither: that, I fear,
All the expected good we’re like to hear
For this play at this time, is only in
The merciful construction of good women;
For such a one we show’d ’em: if they smile,
And say ’twill do, I know, within a while
All the best men are ours; for ’tis ill hap,
If they hold when their ladies bid ’em clap.
The Life and Death of
Richard the Third
T
ABLE
OF
C
ONTENTS
S
CENE
II. T
HE
SAME
. A
NOTHER
STREET
.
