The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (266 page)

as he was in his death agony he cried out,

like a funeral bell heard ringing far away,

“Warwick, take revenge! Brother, revenge my death!"

So, underneath the bellies of their horses

whose legs were stained with his smoking blood,

the noble gentleman gave up the ghost.

WARWICK.

Then let the earth be drunken with our blood;

I'll kill my horse, because I will not fly.

Why stand we like soft-hearted women here,

Wailing our losses whiles the foe doth rage,

And look upon, as if the tragedy

Were play'd in jest by counterfeiting actors?

Here on my knee I vow to God above,

I'll never pause again, never stand still,

Till either death hath clos'd these eyes of mine,

Or fortune given me measure of revenge.

Then let the earth become drunk with our blood;

I shall kill my horse, because I will not fly.

Why are we standing here like softhearted women,

bemoaning our losses while the enemies triumph,

and watching it all, as if it were a tragedy

being played by fake actors for fun?

Here on my knee I vow to God above

that I shall never pause again, never stand still,

until I have either got some revenge

or death has closed these eyes of mine.

EDWARD.

O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine,

And in this vow do chain my soul to thine!--

And, ere my knee rise from the earth's cold face,

I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee,

Thou setter-up and plucker-down of kings,

Beseeching thee, if with thy will it stands

That to my foes this body must be prey,

Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope,

And give sweet passage to my sinful soul.--

Now, lords, take leave until we meet again,

Where'er it be, in heaven or in earth.

Oh Warwick, I kneel down alongside you,

and I make the same vow as you!

And, before I get up from the cold earth,

I look up to you with my hands, my eyes and my heart,

you creator and destroyer of kings,

begging you, that if you decide that

my enemies shall have my body

you will open the bronze gates of heaven

and sweetly give permission for my sinful soul to enter.

Now, lords, farewell until we meet again,

wherever it may be, in heaven or on earth.

RICHARD.

Brother, give me thy hand;--and, gentle Warwick,

Let me embrace thee in my weary arms.

I, that did never weep, now melt with woe,

That winter should cut off our spring-time so.

Brother, give me your hand; and, gentle Warwick,

let me embrace you with my weary arms.

I, who never cried, am now melting with sorrow,

that the winter should have come to cut off our spring like this.

WARWICK.

Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell.

Let's go! Once more, sweet lords, farewell.

GEORGE.

Yet let us all together to our troops,

And give them leave to fly that will not stay,

And call them pillars that will stand to us;

And if we thrive, promise them such rewards

As victors wear at the Olympian games.

This may plant courage in their quailing breasts,

For yet is hope of life and victory.--

Forslow no longer; make we hence amain.

But let us all go together to our troops,

and give those who did not want to stay permission to flee,

and praise the courage of those who will stay with us;

and if we succeed, promise them rewards

like those that the victors wear in the Olympic Games.

This may put some courage in their fearful hearts,

for there is still hope for life and victory.

Let's not waste any more time; we must go there at once.

[Exeunt.]

[Excursions. Enter RICHARD and CLIFFORD.]

RICHARD.

Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone.

Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York,

And this for Rutland; both bound to revenge,

Wert thou environ'd with a brazen wall.

Now, Clifford, I have got you to myself.

Imagine that this arm is for the Duke of York,

and this one for Rutland; they are both bound to take revenge,

if you were surrounded with a wall of shields.

CLIFFORD.

Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone.

This is the hand that stabbed thy father York,

And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland;

And here's the heart that triumphs in their death,

And cheers these hands that slew thy sire and brother

To execute the like upon thyself;

And so have at thee!

Now, Richard, I'm here with you alone.

This is the hand that stabbed your father York,

and this is the hand that killed your brother Rutland;

and here is the heart that rejoices at their death,

and applauds these hands that killed your father and brother,

telling them to do the same to you; and so take that!

[They fight. Warwick enters; Clifford flies.]

RICHARD.

Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase;

For I myself will hunt this wolf to death.

No, Warwick, find someone else to hunt;

this wolf is just for me.

[Exeunt.]

[Alarum. Enter KING HENRY.]

KING HENRY.

This battle fares like to the morning's war,

When dying clouds contend with growing light,

What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,

Can neither call it perfect day nor night.

Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea

Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind;

Now sways it that way, like the selfsame sea

Forc'd to retire by fury of the wind.

Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind,

Now one the better, then another best,

Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,

Yet neither conqueror nor conquered;

So is the equal poise of this fell war.

Here on this molehill will I sit me down.

To whom God will, there be the victory!

For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too,

Have chid me from the battle, swearing both

They prosper best of all when I am thence.

Would I were dead! if God's good will were so;

For what is in this world but grief and woe?

O God! methinks it were a happy life,

To be no better than a homely swain;

To sit upon a hill, as I do now,

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,

Thereby to see the minutes how they run,

How many make the hour full complete,

How many hours brings about the day,

How many days will finish up the year,

How many years a mortal man may live.

When this is known, then to divide the times;

So many hours must I tend my flock;

So many hours must I take my rest;

So many hours must I contemplate;

So many hours must I sport myself;

So many days my ewes have been with young;

So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean;

So many years ere I shall shear the fleece.

So minutes, hours, days, months, and years,

Pass'd over to the end they were created,

Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.

Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!

Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade

To shepherds looking on their silly sheep

Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy

To kings that fear their subjects' treachery?

O, yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth!

And to conclude, the shepherd's homely curds,

His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,

His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,

All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,

Is far beyond a prince's delicates,

His viands sparkling in a golden cup,

His body couched in a curious bed,

When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.

This battle is like the war of the morning,

when the fading clouds fight with the growing light,

that time that the shepherd, blowing on his hands,

cannot precisely call either day or night.

Now it goes this way, like a great sea

with the tide forcing it to fight against the wind;

now it goes that way, like the same sea

forced to retreat by the strength of the wind.

Sometimes the tide wins, and then the wind,

first one is better, then the other,

both trying to win, chest to chest,

but neither one coming out on top;

this is the way this terrible battle is balanced.

I will sit myself down here on this molehill.

May whomever God wishes take the victory!

My Queen Margaret, and Clifford too,

have driven me away from the battle, both swearing

that they do better when I am not there.

I wish I were dead! If it were God's good will;

what is there in this world but grief and sorrow?

Oh God! I think it would be a happy life

to be no better than a lowly peasant;

to sit on a hill, as I'm doing now,

to carve out sundials delicately, point by point,

to see how the minutes go past,

how many make up an hour,