The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (99 page)

In Plain and Simple English

 King Henry the Fourth.

Henry, Prince of Wales, son to the King.

Prince John of Lancaster, son to the King.

Earl of Westmoreland.

Sir Walter Blunt.

Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester.

Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland.

Henry Percy, surnamed Hotspur, his son.

Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March.

Richard Scroop, Archbishop of York.

Archibald, Earl of Douglas.

Owen Glendower.

Sir Richard Vernon.

Sir John Falstaff.

Sir Michael, a friend to the Archbishop of York.

Poins.

Gadshill

Peto.

Bardolph.

Lady Percy, wife to Hotspur, and sister to Mortimer.

Lady Mortimer, daughter to Glendower, and wife to Mortimer.

Mistress Quickly, hostess of the Boar's Head in Eastcheap.

Lords, Officers, Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, two

Carriers, Travellers, and Attendants.

SCENE.--England and Wales.

London. The Palace.

Enter the King, Lord John of Lancaster, Earl of Westmoreland,

[Sir Walter Blunt,] with others.

King.

So shaken as we are, so wan with care,

Find we a time for frighted peace to pant

And breathe short-winded accents of new broils

To be commenc'd in stronds afar remote.

No more the thirsty entrance of this soil

Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood.

No more shall trenching war channel her fields,

Nor Bruise her flow'rets with the armed hoofs

Of hostile paces. Those opposed eyes

Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven,

All of one nature, of one substance bred,

Did lately meet in the intestine shock

And furious close of civil butchery,

Shall now in mutual well-beseeming ranks

March all one way and be no more oppos'd

Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies.

The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,

No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends,

As far as to the sepulchre of Christ-

Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross

We are impressed and engag'd to fight-

Forthwith a power of English shall we levy,

Whose arms were moulded in their mother's womb

To chase these pagans in those holy fields

Over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet

Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail'd

For our advantage on the bitter cross.

But this our purpose now is twelvemonth old,

And bootless 'tis to tell you we will go.

Therefore we meet not now. Then let me hear

Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland,

What yesternight our Council did decree

In forwarding this dear expedience.

As shaken as we are, so pale with stress,

will find a time in all this chaos to catch our breath,

and, puffing, talk of new battles

to be begun in faraway lands:

no more shall the thirsty mouth of this soil

paint her lips with her own children's blood,

the trenches of war shall no longer score her fields,

and her flowers will no longer be bruised with the armoured hoofs

of enemy horses: those conflicting eyes,

which, like the meteors in a stormy sky,

are all the same, all bread from the same stock,

which recently met in the internal shock

and furious battles of civil war,

will now, in interdependent well ordered ranks,

all march together, and no longer confront

friends, family and allies.

The blade of wars will no longer cut his master

like a carelessly stowed knife. Therefore, friends,

we shall go to the tomb of Christ–

whose soldier we are now, under whose blessed cross

we are conscripted and bound to fight–

we shall raise an English force,

who were born to fight,

to chase these pagans in those holy fields

on which those blessed feet walked

which fourteen hundred years ago were nailed

on the bitter cross for our benefit.

But this plan of ours is now twelve months old,

and it's pointless to tell you we will go;

that's not why we are meeting now. So let me hear

from you, my gentle cousin Westmorland,

what our Council decided last night

to move on this cherished and urgent enterprise.

West.

My liege, this haste was hot in question

And many limits of the charge set down

But yesternight; when all athwart there came

A post from Wales, loaden with heavy news;

Whose worst was that the noble Mortimer,

Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight

Against the irregular and wild Glendower,

Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken,

A thousand of his people butchered;

Upon whose dead corpse there was such misuse,

Such beastly shameless transformation,

By those Welshwomen done as may not be

Without much shame retold or spoken of.

My lord, this urgency was eagerly debated,

and many assignments had been handed out

just yesterday night, when all of a sudden there came

a messenger from Wales, carrying grim news,

the worst of which was that noble Mortimer,

leading the men of Herefordshire to fight

against the wild guerilla bands of Glendower,

was captured by the rough hands of that Welshman,

a thousand of his people were butchered,

whose dead bodies were so abused,

so brutally mutilated

by those Welsh women, that it can't be

spoken of without much shame.

King.

It seems then that the tidings of this broil

Brake off our business for the Holy Land.

So it seems that the news of this battle

means we must suspend our plans for the Holy Land.

West.

This, match'd with other, did, my gracious lord;

For more uneven and unwelcome news

Came from the North, and thus it did import:

On Holy-rood Day the gallant Hotspur there,

Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald,

That ever-valiant and approved Scot,

At Holmedon met,

Where they did spend a sad and bloody hour;

As by discharge of their artillery

And shape of likelihood the news was told;

For he that brought them, in the very heat

And pride of their contention did take horse,

Uncertain of the issue any way.

This, coupled with something else, does, my gracious Lord,

for even more disturbing and unwelcome news

came from the North, telling us this:

on the day of the Holy Cross, gallant Hotspur there,

young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald,

that always courageous and renowned Scott,

met at Holmedon, where they clashed in

a sad and bloody battle;

we were told the news that we would lose

on the basis of the probable result

based on the way the battle went so far;

for the one who brought it had left

right in the very heat of battle,

so he was uncertain as to the outcome.

King.

Here is a dear, a true-industrious friend,

Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse,

Stain'd with the variation of each soil

Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours,

And he hath brought us smooth and welcome news.

The Earl of Douglas is discomfited;

Ten thousand bold Scots, two-and-twenty knights,

Balk'd in their own blood did Sir Walter see

On Holmedon's plains. Of prisoners, Hotspur took

Mordake Earl of Fife and eldest son

To beaten Douglas, and the Earl of Athol,

Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith.

And is not this an honourable spoil?

A gallant prize? Ha, cousin, is it not?

Here is a dear loyal and zealous friend,

Sir Walter Blunt, newly dismounted from his horse,

stained with every type of soil

that exists between that Holmedon and our palace;

and he has brought us hopeful and welcome news.

The Earl of Douglas has been thwarted;

ten thousand bold Scotsmen, and twenty two knights,

choked with their own blood, Sir Walter saw