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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My liege, as we were pricking on the hills,
To fetch in booty, marching hitherward
We might descry a might host of men;
The sun, reflecting on the armour, show’d
A field of plate, a wood of pikes advanc’d;
Bethink your highness speedily herein.
An easy march within four hours will bring
The hindmost rank unto this place, my liege.
Say, good my lord, which is he, must have the lady,
And which, her jewels? I am sure, my lords,
Ye will not hence, till you have shar’d the spoils.
She heard the messenger and heard our talk;
And now that comfort makes her scorn at us.
After the French ambassador, my liege,
And tell him that you dare not ride to York;
Excuse it, that your bonny horse is lame.
She heard that too; intolerable grief!—
Woman, farewell: although I do not stay—Exeunt Scots.
’Tis not for fear—and yet you run away.—
O happy comfort, welcome to our house!
The confident and boist’rous boasting Scot—
That swore before my walls, they would not back
For all the armed power of this land—
With faceless fear that ever turns his back,
Turn’d hence again the blasting north-east wind
Upon the bare report and name of arms.
How fares my aunt? Why, aunt,1 we are not Scots;
Why do you shut your gates against your friends?
Well may I give a welcome, cousin, to thee,
For thou com’st well to chase my foes from hence.
The king himself is come in person hither;
Dear aunt, descend, and gratulate his highness.
How may I entertain his majesty,
To show my duty and his dignity? Exit, from above.
What, are the stealing foxes fled and gone
Before we could uncouple at their heels?
They are, my liege; but, with a cheerful cry,
Hot hounds and hardy chase them at the heels.
Even she, my liege; whose beauty tyrant’s fear,
As a May blossom with pernicious winds,
Hath sullied, wither’d, overcast, and done.
My gracious king, fair is she not at all,
If that herself were by to stain herself,
As I have seen her when she was herself.
What strange enchantment lurk’d in those her eyes
When they excell’d this excellence they have,
That now their dim decline hath power to draw
My subject eyes from persing majesty
To gaze on her with doting admiration?
In duty lower than the ground I kneel
And for my dull knees bow my feeling heart,
To witness my obedience to your highness;
With many millions of a subject’s thanks
For this your royal presence, whose approach
Hath driven war and danger from my gate.
Lady, stand up: I come to bring thee peace,
However thereby I have purchas’d war.
No war to you, my liege; the Scots are gone,
And gallop home toward Scotland with their hate.
Lest yielding here I pine in shameful love,
Come, we’ll pursue the Scots;—Artois, away!
A little while, my gracious sovereign, stay
And let the power of a mighty king
Honour our roof; my husband in the wars,
When he shall hear it, will triumph for joy:
Then, dear my liege, now niggard not thy state;
Being at the wall, enter our homely gate.
Pardon me, countess, I will come no near;
I dream’d to-night of treason, and I fear.
No farther off than her conspiring eye,
Which shoots infected poison in my heart
Beyond repulse of wit or cure of art.
Now in the sun alone it doth not lie
With light to take light from a mortal eye;
For here two day-stars, that mine eyes would see,
More than the sun, steals mine own light from me.
Contemplative desire! desire to be
In contemplation, that may master thee!
Warwick, Artois, to horse, and let’s away!
What needs a tongue to such a speaking eye
That more persuades than winning oratory?
Let not thy presence, like the April sun,
Flatter our earth and suddenly be done.
More happy do not make our outward wall
Than thou wilt grace our inner house withal.
Our house, my liege, is like a country swain,
Whose habit rude and manners blunt and plain
Presageth nought, yet inly beautified
With bounty’s riches and faire hidden pride:
For, where the golden ore doth buried lie,
The ground, undeck’d with nature’s tapestry,
Seems barren, sere, unfertile, fructless, dry;
And where the upper turf of earth doth boast
His pride, perfumes and parti-colour’d cost,
Delve there, and find this issue and their pride
To spring from ordure and corruption’s side.
But, to make up my all too long compare,
These ragged walls no testimony are,
What is within; but, like a cloak, doth hide,
From weather’s waste, the under-garnish’d pride.
More gracious then my terms can let thee be,
Intreat thyself to stay a while with me.
As wise as fair; what fond fit can be heard
When wisdom keeps the gate as beauty’s guard?—
Countess, albeit my business urgeth me,
It shall attend while I attend on thee.—
Come on, my lords, here will I host to-night. Exeunt.
The same. Gardens of the castle.
Enter Lodwick. LodwickI might perceive his eye in her eye lost,
His ear to drink her sweet tongue’s utterance;
And changing passion, like inconstant clouds
That rack upon the carriage of the winds,
Increase and die in his disturbed cheeks.
Lo, when she blush’d, even then did he look pale,
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