Henry VI, Part I by William Shakespeare (best big ereader .txt) đź“•
Description
King Henry V has suddenly died, and the kingdom is in chaos. In England, noblemen are fighting amongst themselves. Loyalties are divided into two factions: the White Roses (York) and the Red Roses (Lancaster). The Duke of Gloucester, Henry VI’s Protector, is accused by Cardinal Beaufort of seizing the throne for himself.
Meanwhile in France, the Dauphin Charles has been crowned the new king. English-held land once conquered by Henry V is quickly being recaptured by French forces. In one of these battles, the English hero Talbot is imprisoned. A French woman named Joan la Pucelle—also known as Joan of Arc—has been having visions that reveal to her how to defeat the English Army.
The only thing that unifies the two countries is their pessimism towards the new English monarch. It is now Henry VI’s turn to rule over England, or die trying.
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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But madam, I must trouble you again;
No loving token to his majesty? Margaret
Yes, my good lord, a pure unspotted heart,
Never yet taint with love, I send the king.
That for thyself: I will not so presume
To send such peevish tokens to a king. Exeunt Reignier and Margaret.
O, wert thou for myself! But, Suffolk, stay;
Thou mayst not wander in that labyrinth;
There Minotaurs and ugly treasons lurk.
Solicit Henry with her wondrous praise:
Bethink thee on her virtues that surmount,
And natural graces that extinguish art;
Repeat their semblance often on the seas,
That, when thou comest to kneel at Henry’s feet,
Thou mayst bereave him of his wits with wonder. Exit.
Camp of the Duke of York in Anjou.
Enter York, Warwick, and others. York Bring forth that sorceress condemn’d to burn. Enter La Pucelle, guarded, and a Shepherd. ShepherdAh, Joan, this kills thy father’s heart outright!
Have I sought every country far and near,
And, now it is my chance to find thee out,
Must I behold thy timeless cruel death?
Ah, Joan, sweet daughter Joan, I’ll die with thee!
Decrepit miser! base ignoble wretch!
I am descended of a gentler blood:
Thou art no father nor no friend of mine.
Out, out! My lords, an please you, ’tis not so;
I did beget her, all the parish knows:
Her mother liveth yet, can testify
She was the first fruit of my bachelorship.
This argues what her kind of life hath been,
Wicked and vile; and so her death concludes.
Fie, Joan, that thou wilt be so obstacle!
God knows thou art a collop of my flesh;
And for thy sake have I shed many a tear:
Deny me not, I prithee, gentle Joan.
Peasant, avaunt! You have suborn’d this man,
Of purpose to obscure my noble birth.
’Tis true, I gave a noble to the priest
The morn that I was wedded to her mother.
Kneel down and take my blessing, good my girl.
Wilt thou not stoop? Now cursed be the time
Of thy nativity! I would the milk
Thy mother gave thee when thou suck’dst her breast,
Had been a little ratsbane for thy sake!
Or else, when thou didst keep my lambs a-field,
I wish some ravenous wolf had eaten thee!
Dost thou deny thy father, cursed drab?
O, burn her, burn her! hanging is too good. Exit.
Take her away; for she hath lived too long,
To fill the world with vicious qualities.
First, let me tell you whom you have condemn’d:
Not me begotten of a shepherd swain,
But issued from the progeny of kings;
Virtuous and holy; chosen from above,
By inspiration of celestial grace,
To work exceeding miracles on earth.
I never had to do with wicked spirits:
But you, that are polluted with your lusts,
Stain’d with the guiltless blood of innocents,
Corrupt and tainted with a thousand vices,
Because you want the grace that others have,
You judge it straight a thing impossible
To compass wonders but by help of devils.
No, misconceived! Joan of Arc hath been
A virgin from her tender infancy,
Chaste and immaculate in very thought;
Whose maiden blood, thus rigorously effused,
Will cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven.
And hark ye, sirs; because she is a maid,
Spare for no faggots, let there be enow:
Place barrels of pitch upon the fatal stake,
That so her torture may be shortened.
Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts?
Then, Joan, discover thine infirmity,
That warranteth by law to be thy privilege.
I am with child, ye bloody homicides:
Murder not then the fruit within my womb,
Although ye hale me to a violent death.
The greatest miracle that e’er ye wrought:
Is all your strict preciseness come to this?
She and the Dauphin have been juggling:
I did imagine what would be her refuge.
Well, go to; we’ll have no bastards live;
Especially since Charles must father it.
You are deceived; my child is none of his:
It was Alençon that enjoy’d my love.
Alençon! that notorious Machiavel!
It dies, an if it had a thousand lives.
O, give me leave, I have deluded you:
’Twas neither Charles nor yet the duke I named,
But Reignier, king of Naples, that prevail’d.
Why, here’s a girl! I think she knows not well,
There were so many, whom she may accuse.
And yet, forsooth, she is a virgin pure.
Strumpet, thy words condemn thy brat and thee:
Use no entreaty, for it is in vain.
Then lead me hence; with whom I leave my curse:
May never glorious sun reflex his beams
Upon the country where you make abode;
But darkness and the gloomy shade of death
Environ you, till mischief and despair
Drive you to break your necks or hang yourselves! Exit, guarded.
Break thou in pieces and consume to ashes,
Thou foul accursed minister of hell!
Lord regent, I do greet your excellence
With letters of commission from the king.
For know, my lords, the states of Christendom,
Moved with remorse of these outrageous broils,
Have earnestly implored a general peace
Betwixt our nation and the aspiring French;
And here at hand the Dauphin and his train
Approacheth, to confer about some matter.
Is all our travail turn’d to this effect?
After the slaughter of so many peers,
So many captains, gentlemen and soldiers,
That in this quarrel have been overthrown
And sold their bodies for their country’s benefit,
Shall we at last conclude effeminate peace?
Have we not lost most part of all the towns,
By treason, falsehood and by treachery,
Our great progenitors had conquered?
O Warwick, Warwick! I foresee with grief
The utter loss of all the realm of France.
Be patient, York: if we conclude a peace,
It shall be with such strict and severe covenants
As little shall the Frenchmen gain thereby.
Since, lords of England, it is thus agreed
That peaceful truce shall be proclaim’d in France,
We
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