The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (150 page)

Fair greetings and good health from our general,

the Prince, Lord John and Duke of Lancaster.

ARCHBISHOP.

Say on, my Lord of Westmoreland, in peace:

What doth concern your coming?

Speak on, my Lord Westmorland, peacefully:

why have you come here?

WESTMORELAND.

Then, my lord,

Unto your grace do I in chief address

The substance of my speech. If that rebellion

Came like itself, in base and abject routs,

Led on by bloody youth, guarded with rags,

And countenanced by boys and beggary,

I say, if damn'd commotion so appear'd,

In his true, native, and most proper shape,

You, reverend father, and these noble lords

Had not been here, to dress the ugly form

Of base and bloody insurrection

With your fair honours. You, lord archbishop,

Whose see is by a civil peace maintain'd,

Whose beard the silver hand of peace hath touch'd,

Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutor'd,

Whose white investments figure innocence,

The dove and very blessed spirit of peace,

Wherefore you do so ill translate yourself

Out of the speech of peace that bears such grace,

Into the harsh and boisterous tongue of war;

Turning your books to graves, your ink to blood,

Your pens to lances and your tongue divine

To a loud trumpet and a point of war?

Then, my lord,

I shall make your Grace the person

I am chiefly speaking to. If rebellion

came undisguised, in low and ugly riots,

led on by bloodthirsty youths, dressed in rags,

supported by boys and beggars,

if, as I say, the dammed disturbances looked like that,

if they took their proper undisguised shape,

you, reverend father, and these noble Lords

would not be here, lending the ugly shape

of low and bloody rebellion the dignity

of your honours. You, Lord Archbishop,

whose position is upheld by civil peace,

who has been allowed to grow old in peace,

who taught peace in his writings,

whose white robes represent innocence,

the Dove and the very blessed spirit of peace,

why have you changed your ways from

the peaceful ones that had such grace

into the harsh and rowdy ways of war;

turning your books into graves, your ink to blood,

your pens to spears and your God guided tongue

into a loud trumpet, ordering battle?

ARCHBISHOP.

Wherefore do I this? so the question stands.

Briefly to this end: we are all diseased,

And with our surfeiting and wanton hours

Have brought ourselves into a burning fever,

And we must bleed for it; of which disease

Our late king, Richard, being infected, died.

But, my most noble Lord of Westmoreland,

I take not on me here as a physician,

Nor do I as an enemy to peace

Troop in the throngs of military men;

But rather show awhile like fearful war,

To diet rank minds sick of happiness,

And purge the obstructions which begin to stop

Our very veins of life. Hear me more plainly.

I have in equal balance justly weigh'd

What wrongs our arms may do, what wrongs we suffer,

And find our griefs heavier than our offences.

We see which way the stream of time doth run,

And are enforced from our most quiet there

By the rough torrent of occasion;

And have the summary of all our griefs,

When time shall serve, to show in articles;

Which long ere this we offer'd to the king,

And might by no suit gain our audience:

When we are wrong'd and would unfold our griefs,

We are denied access unto his person

Even by those men that most have done us wrong.

The dangers of the days but newly gone,

Whose memory is written on the earth

With yet appearing blood, and the examples

Of every minute's instance, present now,

Hath put us in these ill-beseeming arms,

Not to break peace or any branch of it,

But to establish here a peace indeed,

Concurring, both in name and quality.

Why have I done this? That's what you ask.

I'll answer briefly: we are all diseased,

and through our greed and improper behaviour

we have caused ourselves a burning fever,

and we must let blood to cure it; our late King Richard

was infected by this disease and died.

But, my most noble Lord Westmorland,

I am not here as a physician,

nor do I join the ranks of military men

as an enemy to peace,

but I want to show the country war for a while

as a purgative for minds bloated with luxury,

to flush out the obstructions which are blocking up

the veins of our national life. Let me speak more plainly.

I have carefully weighed up

the damage our fighting might do alongside the wrongs we have suffered,

and I find that our wrongs outweigh the wrong we are doing.

We can see which way things are going,

and that has made us leave our quiet retreats,

forced by the rough torrent of events,

and we have a list of all our grievances,

to show everyone when the time is right,

which long ago we offered to the King,

but he refused to listen to us.

When we had been wronged, and wanted to speak of our grievances,

we were denied access to him,

by the very men who have most harmed us.

The dangers of the days which have only just passed,

the memory of which is written on the Earth

in still visible blood, and the examples

which we can see every minute in the present

has made us take up these seemingly unsuitable weapons,

not to break the peace, or indeed any part of it,

but to establish a true peace,

that's actually worthy of the name.

WESTMORELAND.

When ever yet was your appeal denied?

Wherein have you been galled by the king?

What peer hath been suborn'd to grate on you,

That you should seal this lawless bloody book

Of forged rebellion with a seal divine

And consecrate commotion's bitter edge?

When was your appeal ever denied?

When have you been injured by the King?

What peer was secretly engaged to harass you,

badly enough to make you give your divine seal

of approval to this lawless bloody illegitimate

rebellion, and give heavenly approval

for these chaotic riots?

ARCHBISHOP.

My brother general, the commonwealth,

To brother born an household cruelty,

I make my quarrel in particular.

I am fighting on behalf of my brothers,

the common people, and also my brother

who was particularly cruelly treated.

WESTMORELAND.

There is no need of any such redress;

Or if there were, it not belongs to you.

No compensation is owed in these matters;

even if there was, it would not belong to you.

MOWBRAY.

Why not to him in part, and to us all

That feel the bruises of the days before,

And suffer the condition of these times

To lay a heavy and unequal hand

Upon our honours?

Why should he not get a share, and all of us

who have been harmed by the events leading up to this,

who are suffering at this time from having

a heavy and unjust imposition placed

upon our honours?

WESTMORELAND.

O, my good Lord Mowbray,

Construe the times to their necessities,

And you shall say indeed, it is the time,

And not the king, that doth you injuries.

Yet for your part, it not appears to me

Either from the king or in the present time

That you should have an inch of any ground

To build a grief on:  were you not restored

To all the Duke of Norfolk's signories,

Your noble and right well rememb'red father's?

Oh, my good Lord Mowbray,

if you see how necessary the events were,

you will certainly say it is the events,

and not the King, which have injured you.

But for you, it doesn't seem to me

that either the king or the current events

give you the slightest excuse to have

any grievances: were you not given back

all of the Duke of Norfolk's estates and honours,

those of your noble and rightly respected father?

MOWBRAY.

What thing, in honour, had my father lost,

That need to be revived and breathed in me?

The king that loved him, as the state stood then,

Was force perforce compell'd to banish him:

And then that Henry Bolingbroke and he,

Being mounted and both roused in their seats,

Their neighing coursers daring of the spur,

Their armed staves in charge, their beavers down,

Their eyes of fire sparkling through sights of steel,

And the loud trumpet blowing them together,

Then, then, when there was nothing could have stay'd

My father from the breast of Bolingbroke,

O, when the king did throw his warder down,

His own life hung upon the staff he threw;

Then threw he down himself and all their lives

That by indictment and by dint of sword

Have since miscarried under Bolingbroke.

What honourable thing had my father lost,

that needed to be revitalised through me?

The king who loved him, because of the situation then,

was compelled by force to banish them:

it was then that Henry Bolingbroke and he,

both mounted and ready for action,

spurring on their neighing warhorses,

their lances held ready for the charge, their face guards down,

their fiery eyes sparkling through the steel slits,

with the loud trumpet calling them to begin,

then, then, when there was nothing which could have stopped

my father from attacking Bolingbroke,

the King called a halt to proceedings,

and in doing so called a halt to his own life;

as he abandoned the fight he abandoned the lives

of everyone who has through war or the law

suffered under Bolingbroke.

WESTMORELAND.

You speak, Lord Mowbray, now you know not what.

The Earl of Hereford was reputed then

In England the most valiant gentleman:

Who knows on whom fortune would then have smiled?

But if your father had been victor there,

He ne'er had borne it out of Coventry:

For all the country in a general voice

Cried hate upon him; and all their prayers and love

Were set on Hereford, whom they doted on

And bless'd and graced indeed, more than the king.