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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Doth end the harvest of his Audley’s war. Exeunt. Scene VII
The same. The English camp.
Flourish. Enter Prince Edward, in triumph, leading prisoners, King John and his son Charles; and Officers, Soldiers, etc., with ensigns spread. Prince EdwardNow, John in France, and lately John of France,
Thy bloody ensigns are my captive colours;
And you, high-vaunting Charles of Normandy,
That once to-day sent me a horse to fly,
Are now the subjects of my clemency.
Fie, lords! is’t not a shame that English boys,
Whose early days are yet not worth a beard,
Should in the bosom of your kingdom thus,
One against twenty, beat you up together?
See, see, Artois doth bring with him along
The late good-counsel-giver to my soul!—
Welcome, Artois, and welcome, Philip, too:
Who now, of you or I, have need to pray!
Now is the proverb verified in you,
Too bright a morning breeds a louring day—
But say, what grim discouragement comes here!
Alas, what thousand armed men of France
Have writ that note of death in Audley’s face?—
Speak, thou that woo’st death with thy careless smile
And look’st so merrily upon thy grave
As if thou were enamour’d on thine end,
What hungry sword hath so bereav’d thy face
And lopp’d a true friend from my loving soul?
O prince, thy sweet bemoaning speech to me
Is as a mournful knell to one dead-sick.
Dear Audley, if my tongue ring out thy end,
My arms shall be thy grave: what may I do,
To win thy life, or to revenge thy death?
If thou wilt drink the blood of captive kings
Or that it were restorative, command
A health of kings’ blood, and I’ll drink to thee:
If honour may dispense for thee with death,
The never-dying honour of this day
Share wholly, Audley, to thyself, and live.
Victorious prince—that thou art so, behold
A Caesar’s fame in kings’ captivity—
If I could hold dim death but at a bay,
Till I did see my liege thy royal father,
My soul should yield this castle of my flesh,
This mangled tribute, with all willingness
To darkness, consummation, dust and worms.
Cheerily, bold man! thy soul is all too proud
To yield her city for one little breach;
Should be divorced from her earthly spouse
By the soft temper of a Frenchman’s sword?
Lo, to repair thy life, I give to thee
Three thousand marks a year in English land.
I take thy gift, to pay the debts I owe.
These two poor squires redeem’d me from the French,
With lusty and dear hazard of their lives;
What thou hast given me, I give to them;
And, as thou lov’st me, prince, lay thy consent
To this bequeath in my last testament.
Renowned Audley, live, and have from me
This gift twice doubled, to these squires and thee:
But live or die, what thou hast given away,
To these and theirs shall lasting freedom stay.—
Come, gentlemen, I will see my friend bestow’d
Within an easy litter; then we’ll march
Proudly toward Calice with triumphant pace
Unto my royal father, and there bring
The tribute of my wars, fair France’s king. Exit.
Picardy. The English camp before Calais.
Enter King Edward, with Philippa his Queen, and Derby; Officers, Soldiers, etc. King EdwardNo more, Queen Philip, pacify yourself;
Copland, except he can excuse his fault,
Shall find displeasure written in our looks.—
And now unto this proud resisting town:
Soldiers, assault; I will no longer stay,
To be deluded by their false delays;
Put all to sword, and make the spoil your own.
Contemptuous villains! call ye now for truce?
Mine ears are stopp’d against your bootless cries:—
Sound, drums; alarum draw, threat’ning swords!
Ah, noble prince, take pity on this town,
And hear us, mighty king!
We claim the promise that your highness made;
The two days’ respite is not yet expir’d,
And we are come with willingness to bear
What torturing death or punishment you please,
So that the trembling multitude be sav’d.
My promise? Well, I do confess as much:
But I do require the chiefest citizens
And men of most account that should submit;
You, peradventure, are but servile grooms,
Or some felonious robbers on the sea,
Whom, apprehended, law would execute,
Albeit severity lay dead in us:
No, no, ye cannot overreach us thus.
The sun, dread lord, that in the western fall
Beholds us now low brought through misery,
Did in the orient purple of the morn
Salute our coming forth, when we were known;
Or may our portion be with damned fiends.
If it be so, then let our covenant stand,
We take possession of the town in peace:
But, for yourselves, look you for no remorse;
But, as imperial justice hath decreed,
Your bodies shall be dragg’d about these walls
And after feel the stroke of quartering steel:
This is your doom;—go, soldiers, see it done.
Ah, be more mild unto these yielding men!
It is a glorious thing, to stablish peace;
And kings approach the nearest unto God,
By giving life and safety unto men.
As thou intendest to be King of France,
So let her people live to call thee king;
For what the sword cuts down or fire hath spoil’d
Is held in reputation none of ours.
Although experience teach us this is true,
That peaceful quietness brings most delight
When most of all abuses are controll’d,
Yet, insomuch it shall be known that we
As well can master our affections
As conquer other by the dint of sword,
Philip, prevail; we yield to thy request;
These men shall live to boast of clemency—
And, tyranny, strike terror to thyself.
Go, get you hence, return unto the town,
And if this kindness hath deserved your love,
Learn then to reverence Edward as your king.—Exeunt Citizens.
Now, might we
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