The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (44 page)

will see us rising on our throne in the East,

his treason will light up his face,

he won't be able to tolerate the sight of day,

but frightened by himself he will tremble at his sin.

All the water in the rough rude sea

cannot wash off the anointing oil of a king;

the words of mortal men cannot overthrow

the deputy chosen by the Lord;

for every man that Bolingbroke has conscripted

to raise a harmful sword against my golden crown,

God has a glorious angel as a heavenly servant

for his Richard: so, if angels fight,

weak men must fall, for heaven still defends the just.

Welcome, my lord: how far away are your forces?

SALISBURY.

Nor near nor farther 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!

To-day, to-day, 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, dispers'd, and fled.

As close to you, my gracious lord,

as this weak arm is. Unhappiness guides my speech,

and makes me speak of nothing but despair.

I'm afraid, noble lord, you have come one day too late,

and that has lost you your chance of happiness on earth.

Oh, if it was only yesterday, if we could turn back time,

you would have twelve thousand fighting men!

Today, today, unhappy day, it's too late,

your happiness, friends, fortune and your country are all lost;

all the Welshmen, hearing you were dead,

have gone over to Bolingbroke, dispersed and fled.

AUMERLE.

Comfort, my liege, why looks your Grace so pale?

Be easy, my lord, why does your Grace look 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.

Previously I had the blood of twenty thousand men

lighting up my face, and they have fled;

and, until I get that much blood back again,

why shouldn't I look pale and dead?

Anyone who wants to be safe, run away;

Time has ruined my position.

AUMERLE.

Comfort, my liege; remember who you are.

Be easy, my lord; remember who you are.

KING RICHARD.

I had forgot myself; am I not King?

Awake, thou coward 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?

I was forgetting myself; aren't I the King?

Wake up, you cowardly royal! You're asleep.

Isn't the King's name worth twenty thousand men?

Take up your arms, my name! A puny subject is striking

at your great glory. Don't be downcast,

you King's favourites; aren't we noble?

Let our thoughts be noble. I know my uncle York

has enough forces for us. But who is this coming?

Enter SCROOP

SCROOP.

More health and happiness betide my liege

Than can my care-tun'd tongue deliver him.

May my lord have more health and happiness

than my worried tongue can offer him.

KING RICHARD.

Mine ear is open and my heart prepar'd.

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.

My ears are open and my heart is ready.

The worst you can tell me is that I have lost worldly things.

Tell me, is my kingdom lost? Why, it was my burden,

what loss is it to lose a burden?

Is Bolingbroke trying to be as great as me?

He shall not be greater; if he serves God,

I'll serve him too, and be his equal.

Are our subjects rebelling? We can't change that;

they are breaking their promise to God as well as to me.

Tell me of sorrow, destruction, ruin and decay–

the worst you can say is death, and he will always come.

SCROOP.

Glad am I that your Highness is so arm'd

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 dissolv'd 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 arm'd 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.

I'm glad that your Highness is so prepared

to receive bad news.

Like a stormy day in summer

which makes the silver rivers burst their banks,

as if the whole world had dissolved into tears,

that's as high as the rage of Bolingbroke

has risen, flooding your fearful country

with hard bright steel and hearts harder than steel.

Old men have covered their bald heads with helmets

to fight your Majesty; boys, with unbroken voices,

try to speak like men, and slap their girlish hands

in awkward assaults on your crown;

your own archers are bending their bows

of deathdealing yew against your majesty;

even servant women are wielding rusty pikes

against your throne: both the young and the old rebel,

and everything is going worse than I have power to describe.

KING RICHARD.

Too well, too well thou tell'st a tale so in.

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.

You have told your tale too well.

Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? Where is Bagot?

What has happened to Bushy? Where is Green?

Why have they allowed the dangerous enemy

 to walk into our kingdom unopposed?

If I win I shall have them executed for it.

I'll bet they have made peace with Bolingbroke.

SCROOP.

Peace have they made with him indeed, my lord.

They have certainly made peace with him, my lord.

KING RICHARD.

O villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption!

Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!

Snakes, in my heart-blood warm'd, 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 offence!

Oh villains, vipers, damn them eternally!

Dogs, who can be won over by any man!

Snakes, warmed by my own blood, that sting my heart!

Three Judases, each one three times worse than Judas!

Make peace, would they? May terrible hell make war

on their stained souls for this crime!

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, grav'd in the hollow ground.

I see that sweet love when changing his point of view

can turn to the sourest and most deadly hate.

Take your curse off their souls; they have made their peace

with their heads, and not with their hands; those whom you curse

have felt the heaviest wound of death

and are lying low in their graves.

AUMERLE.

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

Are Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire all dead?

SCROOP.

Ay, all of them at Bristow lost their heads.

Yes, they were all executed at Bristol.

AUMERLE.

Where is the Duke my father with his power?

Where is my father the Duke with his forces?

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 deposed bodies to the ground?

Our lands, our lives, and an, are Bolingbroke's.

And nothing can we can 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 depos'd, some slain in war,

Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd,

Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd,

All murder'd-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 fear'd, and kill with looks;

Infusing him with self and vain conceit,

As if this flesh which walls about our life

Were brass impregnable; and, humour'd thus,

Comes at the last, and with a little pin

Bores through his castle wall, and farewell, king!

Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood

With solemn reverence; throw away respect,