Henry VI, Part III by William Shakespeare (story books for 5 year olds txt) 📕
Description
The first battle of St. Alban’s is over and the White Rose faction is victorious. They have captured Henry VI and, after having threatened him with violence, secured the king’s promise of passing the crown to Edward Plantagenet after his death. Not willing to accept her son’s disinheritance, Queen Margaret decides to take matters into her own hands and declares war on the Yorkists.
Margaret’s forces invade Wakefield Castle, home to the Duke of York and his sons, and successfully capture York. The queen and Clifford taunt York and eventually stab him to death. York’s sons Edward and Richard receive news of their father’s death, vow to get their revenge, and plan to place Edward on the English throne.
This Standard Ebooks production is based on William George Clark and William Aldis Wright’s 1887 Victoria edition, which is taken from the Globe edition.
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- Author: William Shakespeare
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Ay, but, I fear me, in another sense.
What love, think’st thou, I sue so much to get?
My love till death, my humble thanks, my prayers;
That love which virtue begs and virtue grants.
My mind will never grant what I perceive
Your highness aims at, if I aim aright.
Why, then mine honesty shall be my dower;
For by that loss I will not purchase them.
Herein your highness wrongs both them and me.
But, mighty lord, this merry inclination
Accords not with the sadness of my suit:
Please you dismiss me, either with “ay” or “no.”
Ay, if thou wilt say “ay” to my request;
No, if thou dost say “no” to my demand.
Aside. Her looks do argue her replete with modesty;
Her words do show her wit incomparable;
All her perfections challenge sovereignty:
One way or other, she is for a king;
And she shall be my love, or else my queen.—
Say that King Edward take thee for his queen?
’Tis better said than done, my gracious lord:
I am a subject fit to jest withal,
But far unfit to be a sovereign.
Sweet widow, by my state I swear to thee
I speak no more than what my soul intends;
And that is, to enjoy thee for my love.
And that is more than I will yield unto:
I know I am too mean to be your queen,
And yet too good to be your concubine.
No more than when my daughters call thee mother.
Thou art a widow, and thou hast some children;
And, by God’s mother, I, being but a bachelor,
Have other some: why, ’tis a happy thing
To be the father unto many sons.
Answer no more, for thou shalt be my queen.
Well, jest on, brothers: I can tell you both
Her suit is granted for her husband’s lands.
My gracious lord, Henry your foe is taken,
And brought your prisoner to your palace gate.
See that he be convey’d unto the Tower:
And go we, brothers, to the man that took him,
To question of his apprehension.
Widow, go you along. Lords, use her honourably. Exeunt all but Gloucester.
Ay, Edward will use women honourably.
Would he were wasted, marrow, bones and all,
That from his loins no hopeful branch may spring,
To cross me from the golden time I look for!
And yet, between my soul’s desire and me—
The lustful Edward’s title buried—
Is Clarence, Henry, and his son young Edward,
And all the unlook’d for issue of their bodies,
To take their rooms, ere I can place myself:
A cold premeditation for my purpose!
Why, then, I do but dream on sovereignty;
Like one that stands upon a promontory,
And spies a far-off shore where he would tread,
Wishing his foot were equal with his eye,
And chides the sea that sunders him from thence,
Saying, he’ll lade it dry to have his way:
So do I wish the crown, being so far off;
And so I chide the means that keeps me from it;
And so I say, I’ll cut the causes off,
Flattering me with impossibilities.
My eye’s too quick, my heart o’erweens too much,
Unless my hand and strength could equal them.
Well, say there is no kingdom then for Richard;
What other pleasure can the world afford?
I’ll make my heaven in a lady’s lap,
And deck my body in gay ornaments,
And witch sweet ladies with my words and looks.
O miserable thought! and more unlikely
Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns!
Why, love forswore me in my mother’s womb:
And, for I should not deal in her soft laws,
She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe,
To shrink mine arm up like a wither’d shrub;
To make an envious mountain on my back,
Where sits deformity to mock my body;
To shape my legs of an unequal size;
To disproportion me in every part,
Like to a chaos, or an unlick’d bear-whelp
That carries no impression like the dam.
And am I then a man to be beloved?
O monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought!
Then, since this earth affords no joy to me,
But to command, to check, to o’erbear such
As are of better person than myself,
I’ll make my heaven to dream upon the crown,
And, whiles I live, to account this world but hell,
Until my mis-shaped trunk that bears this head
Be round impaled with a glorious crown.
And yet I know not how to get the crown,
For many lives stand between me and home:
And
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