Edward III by William Shakespeare (new ebook reader TXT) 📕

Edward Plantagenet, Prince of Wales,
Hold, take this target, wear it on thy arm;
And may the view thereof, like Perseus’ shield,
Astonish and transform thy gazing foes
To senseless images of meagre death;
Fight and be valiant, conquer where thou com’st!

Now wants there nought but knighthood; which deferr’d
We leave till thou hast won it in the field.

My gracious father, and ye forward peers,
This honour, you have done me, animates
And cheers my green yet-scarce-appearing strength
With comfortable good-presaging signs,
No otherwise than did old Jacob’s words
When as he breath’d his blessings on his sons.
These hallow’d gifts of yours when I profane,
Or use them not to glory of my God,
To patronage the fatherless and poor,
Or for the benefit of England’s peace,
Be numb my joints! wax feeble both mine arms!
Wither my heart! that, like a sapless tree,
I may remain the map of infamy.

Then thus our steeled battles shall be rang’d;⁠—
The leading of the vaward, Ned, is thine;
To dignify whose lusty spirit the more,
We temper it with Audley’s gravity;
That, courage and experience join’d in one,
Your manage may be second unto none:
For the main battles, I will guide myself;
And, Derby, in the rearward march behind.
That orderly dispos’d and set in ’ray,
Let us to horse; and God grant us the day! Exeunt.

The Same.

O Lorraine, say, what mean our men to fly?
Our number is far greater than our foes.

The garrison of Genoa’s, my lord,
That came from Paris, weary with their march,
Grudging to be so4 suddenly employ’d,
No sooner in the fore-front took their place,
But, straight retiring, so dismay’d the rest
As likewise they betook themselves to flight;
In which, for haste to make a safe escape,
More in the clust’ring throng are press’d to death,
Than by the enemy, a thousand-fold.

O hapless fortune! Let us yet assay
If we can counsel some of them to stay. Exeunt.

The Same.

Lord Audley, whiles our son is in the chase,
Withdraw your powers unto this little hill,
And here a season let us breathe ourselves.

Just-dooming Heaven, whose secret providence
To our gross judgement is inscrutable,
How are we bound to praise thy wondrous works,
That hast this day giv’n way unto the right
And made the wicked stumble at themselves!

Rescue, Artois? what, is he prisoner?
Or by violence fell beside his horse?

Neither, my lord; but narrowly beset
With turning Frenchmen whom he did pursue,
As ’tis impossible that he should scape
Except your highness presently descend.

Tut, let him fight; we gave him arms to-day,
And he is labouring for a knighthood, man.

The prince, my lord, the prince! O, succour him;
He’s close encompass’d with a world of odds!

Then will he win a world of honour too
If he by valour can redeem him thence:
If not, what remedy? we have more sons
Than one, to comfort our declining age.

Renowned Edward, give me leave, I pray,
To lead my soldiers where I may relieve
Your grace’s son, in danger to be slain.
The snares of French, like emmets on a bank,
Muster about him; whilest he, lion-like,
Entangled in the net of their assaults,
Franticly rends and bites the woven toil:
But all in vain, he cannot free himself.

Audley, content; I will not have a man,
On pain of death, sent forth to succour him:
This is the day ordain’d by destiny
To season his courage with those grievous thoughts,
That, if he breathe out Nestor’s years on earth,
Will make him savour still of this exploit.