Edward III - William Shakespeare (best mobile ebook reader TXT) 📗
- Author: William Shakespeare
Book online «Edward III - William Shakespeare (best mobile ebook reader TXT) 📗». Author William Shakespeare
We would, till gloomy winter were o’er-spent,
Dispose our men in garrison a while.
But who comes here? Enter Copland and King David. Derby Copland, my lord, and David King of Scots. King Edward
Is this the proud presumptuous squire o’ the north
That would not yield his prisoner to my queen?
I am, my liege, a northern squire, indeed,
But neither proud nor insolent, I trust.
What moved thee then to be so obstinate
To contradict our royal queen’s desire?
No wilful disobedience, mighty lord,
But my desert and public law of arms:
I took the king myself in single fight;
And, like a soldier, would be loath to lose
The least pre-eminence that I had won:
And Copland straight upon your highness’ charge
Is come to France, and with a lowly mind
Doth vail the bonnet of his victory.
Receive, dread lord, the custom of my fraught,
The wealthy tribute of my labouring hands;
Which should long since have been surrender’d up,
Had but your gracious self been there in place.
But, Copland, thou didst scorn the king’s command,
Neglecting our commission in his name.
His name I reverence, but his person more;
His name shall keep me in allegiance still,
But to his person I will bend my knee.
I pray thee, Philip, let displeasure pass;
This man doth please me and I like his words:
For what is he that will attempt great deeds
And lose the glory that ensues the same?
All rivers have recourse unto the sea;
And Copland’s faith, relation to his king.—
Kneel therefore down; now rise, king Edward’s knight:
And, to maintain thy state, I freely give
Five hundred marks a year to thee and thine.—
This, mighty king: the country we have won;
And John de Mountford, regent of that place,
Presents your highness with this coronet,
Protesting true allegiance to your grace.
We thank thee for thy service, valiant earl;
Challenge our favour, for we owe it thee.
But now, my lord, as this is joyful news,
So must my voice be tragical again
And I must sing of doleful accidents.
What, have our men the overthrow at Poitiers?
Or is our son beset with too much odds?
He was, my lord: and as my worthless self,
With forty other serviceable knights,
Under safe-conduct of the Dauphin’s seal
Did travel that way, finding him distress’d,
A troop of lances met us on the way,
Surpris’d, and brought us prisoners to the king;
Who, proud of this and eager of revenge,
Commanded straight to cut off all our heads:
And surely we had died, but that the duke,
More full of honour than his angry sire,
Procur’d our quick deliverance from thence:
But, ere we went, “Salute your king,” quoth he,
“Bid him provide a funeral for his son,
To-day our sword shall cut his thread of life;
And, sooner than he thinks, we’ll be with him,
To quittance those displeasures he hath done”:
This said, we passed, not daring to reply;
Our hearts were dead, our looks diffus’d and wan.
Wand’ring, at last we climb’d unto a hill;
From whence, although our grief were much before,
Yet now to see the occasion with our eyes
Did thrice so much increase our heaviness:
For there, my lord, O, there we did descry
Down in a valley how both armies lay.
The French had cast their trenches like a ring;
And every barricado’s open front
Was thick emboss’d with brazen ordinance.
Here stood a battaile of ten thousand horse;
There twice as many pikes, in quadrant-wise:
Here cross-bows and deadly-wounding darts:
And in the midst, like to a slender point
Within the compass of the horizon—
As ’twere a rising bubble in the sea,
A hazel-wand amidst a wood of pines,
Or as a bear fast chain’d unto a stake—
Stood famous Edward, still expecting when
Those dogs of France would fasten on his flesh.
Anon, the death-procuring knell begins:
Off go the cannons, that, with trembling noise,
Did shake the very mountain where they stood;
Then sound the trumpets’ clangour in the air,
The battles join: and, when we could no more
Discern the difference ’twixt the friend and foe,
(So intricate the dark confusion was)
Away we turn’d our wat’ry eyes, with sighs
As black as powder fuming into smoke.
And thus, I fear, unhappy have I told
The most untimely tale of Edward’s fall.
Ah me! is this my welcome into France?
Is this the comfort that I look’d to have
When I should meet with my beloved son?
Sweet Ned, I would thy mother in the sea
Had been prevented of this mortal grief!
Content thee, Philip; ’tis not tears will serve
To call him back if he be taken hence:
Comfort thyself, as I do, gentle queen,
With hope of sharp, unheard-of, dire revenge.—
He bids me to provide his funeral;
And so I will: but all the peers in France
Shall mourners be and weep out bloody tears
Until their empty veins be dry and sere:
The pillars of his hearse shall be his bones;
The mould that covers him, their cities’ ashes;
His knell, the groaning cries of dying men;
And, in the stead of tapers on his tomb,
An hundred fifty towers shall burning blaze,
While we bewail our valiant son’s decease.
Rejoice, my lord; ascend the imperial throne!
The mighty and redoubted Prince of Wales,
Great servitor to bloody Mars in arms,
The Frenchman’s terror and his country’s fame,
Triumphant rideth like a Roman peer:
And, lowly at his stirrup, comes afoot
King John of France together with his son
In captive bonds; whose diadem he brings
To crown thee with and to proclaim thee king.
Away with mourning, Philip, wipe thine eyes;—
Sound, trumpets, welcome in Plantagenet!
As things long lost, when they are found again,
So doth my son rejoice his father’s heart,
For whom, even now, my soul was much perplex’d! Embracing the Prince.
Be this a token to express my joy, Kisses him.
For inward passion will not let me speak.
My gracious father, here receive the gift, Presenting him with King John’s crown.
This wreath of conquest and reward of war,
Got with as mickle peril of our lives
As e’er
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