Edward III by William Shakespeare (new ebook reader TXT) 📕
Description
The authorship of Edward III has been up for debate ever since it was first published in 1596. Its publisher, Cuthbert Burby, published it without listing an author, and any records that might have shed light on the author’s name (or names) were destroyed in the Great Fire of London in 1666. In the 1760s, the acclaimed scholar Edward Capell was one of the first to claim that William Shakespeare might have been the author.
Many other academicians support this claim, or at least suggest Shakespeare partially wrote it, as certain archaic or obscure words and phrases found in the canonical Shakespearean plays also appear in this one. Others argue that Shakespeare would never write something so historically inaccurate; suggestions of possible alternative playwrights include Thomas Kyd, Christopher Marlowe, Michael Drayton, Thomas Nashe, and George Peele. While the legitimate authorship may never come to light, Edward III has become accepted as part of Shakespeare’s canon of plays.
After the King of France passes away, a new heir must take the throne; without any brothers or sons in the direct line, the crown falls to his nephew, King Edward of England. French nobles refuse to hand over France to the English, claiming that the right of succession should never have passed through his mother Isabel, and order Edward to acknowledge King John as the rightful successor. These disputed claims to the kingdom of France launch the Hundred Years’ War.
This Standard Ebooks production is based on G. C. Moore Smith’s 1897 edition.
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- Author: William Shakespeare
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Good news, my lord; the prince is hard at hand,
And with him comes Lord Audley and the rest,
Whom since our landing we could never meet.
Welcome, fair prince! How hast thou sped, my son,
Since thy arrival on the coast of France?
Successfully, I thank the gracious heavens:
Some of their strongest cities we have won,
As Harflew, Lo, Crotaye, and Carentine,
And others wasted; leaving at our heels
A wide apparent field and beaten path
For solitariness to progress in:
Yet, those that would submit, we kindly pardon’d;
But who in scorn refus’d our proffer’d peace,
Endured the penalty of sharp revenge.
Ah, France, why shouldst thou be thus obstinate
Against the kind embracement of thy friends?
How gently had we thought to touch thy breast
And set our foot upon thy tender mould,
But that in froward and disdainful pride
Thou, like a skittish and untamed colt,
Dost start aside and strike us with thy heels?—
But tell me, Ned, in all thy warlike course
Hast thou not seen the usurping King of France?
Yes, my good lord, and not two hours ago,
With full a hundred thousand fighting men,
Upon the one side of the river’s bank,
I on the other; with his multitudes
I fear’d he would have cropp’d our smaller power:
But, happily, perceiving your approach
He hath withdrawn himself to Cressy plains;
Where, as it seemeth by his good array,
He means to bid us battle presently.
Edward, know, that John, the true King of France—
Musing thou shouldst encroach upon his land,
And, in thy tyrannous proceeding, slay
His faithful subjects and subvert his towns—
Spits in thy face; and in this manner following
Upbraids thee with thine arrogant intrusion.
First, I condemn thee for a fugitive,
A thievish pirate, and a needy mate;
One, that hath either no abiding place,
Or else, inhabiting some barren soil,
Where neither herb nor fruitful grain is had,
Dost altogether live by pilfering:
Next—insomuch thou hast infring’d thy faith,
Broke league and solemn covenant made with me—
I hold thee for a false pernicious wretch:
And, last of all—although I scorn to cope
With one so much inferior to myself;
Yet, in respect thy thirst is all for gold,
Thy labour rather to be fear’d than lov’d—
To satisfy thy lust in either part,
Here am I come, and with me have I brought
Exceeding store of treasure, pearl and coin.
Leave therefore now to persecute the weak;
And armed ent’ring conflict with the arm’d,
Let it be seen, ’mongst other petty thefts,
How thou canst win this pillage manfully.
If gall or wormwood have a pleasant taste,
Then is thy salutation honey-sweet:
But as the one hath no such property,
So is the other most satirical.
Yet wot how I regard thy worthless taunts;—
If thou have utter’d them to foil my fame
Or dim the reputation of my birth,
Know that thy wolvish barking cannot hurt:
If slily to insinuate with the world,
And with a strumpet’s artificial line
To paint thy vicious and deformed cause,
Be well assur’d the counterfeit will fade
And in the end thy foul defects be seen:
But if thou didst it to provoke me on—
As who should say, I were but timorous,
Or coldly negligent did need a spur—
Bethink thyself how slack I was at sea;
How, since my landing, I have won no towns,
Enter’d no further but upon the coast,
And there have ever since securely slept.
But if I have been otherwise employ’d,
Imagine, Valois, whether I intend
To skirmish, not for pillage, but for the crown
Which thou dost wear; and that I vow to have,
Or one of us shall fall into his grave.
Look not for cross invectives at our hands
Or railing execrations of despite:
Let creeping serpents hid in hollow banks
Sting with their tongues; we have remorseless swords,
And they shall plead for us and our affairs.
Yet thus much, briefly, by my father’s leave:
As all the immodest poison of thy throat
Is scandalous and most notorious lies,
And our pretended quarrel is truly just,
So end the battle when we meet to day:
May either of us prosper and prevail
Or, luckless curst, receive eternal shame!
That needs no further question, and, I know,
His conscience witnesseth, it is my right.—
Therefore, Valois, say, wilt thou yet resign,
Before the sickle’s thrust into the corn
Or that inkindled fury turn to flame?
Edward, I know what right thou hast in France;
And ere I basely will resign my crown,
This champion field shall be a pool of blood
And all our prospect as a slaughter-house.
Ay, that approves thee, tyrant, what thou art:
No father, king or shepherd of thy realm;
But one that tears her entrails with thy hands
And, like a thirsty tyger, suck’st her blood.
You peers of France, why do you follow him
That is so prodigal to spend your lives?
Whom should they follow, aged impotent,
But he that is their true-born sovereign?
Upbraid’st thou him, because within his face
Time hath engrav’d deep characters of age?
Know, these grave scholars of experience,
Like stiff-grown oaks, will stand immovable,
When whirlwind quickly turns up younger trees.
Was ever any of thy father’s house
King, but thyself, before this present time?
Edward’s great linage, by the mother’s side,
Five hundred years hath held the sceptre up:—
Judge then, conspirators, by this descent,
Which is the true-born sovereign, this, or that.
Father, range your battles, prate no more;
These English fain would spend the time in words,
That, night approaching, they escape unfought.
Lords and my loving subjects, now’s the time
That your intended force must bide the touch:
Therefore, my friends, consider this in brief—
He that you fight for is your natural king;
He against whom you fight, a foreigner:
He that you fight for, rules in clemency
And reins you with a mild and gentle bit;
He against whom you fight, if he prevail,
Will straight enthrone himself in tyranny,
Make slaves of you, and with a heavy hand
Curtail and curb your sweetest liberty.
Then, to protect your country and your king,
Let but the haughty courage of your hearts
Answer the number of your able hands,
And we shall quickly chase these fugitives.
For
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