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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And as a sail becomes the unseen wind,
So do her words her beauty, beauty words.
O, that I were a honey-gathering bee,
To bear the comb of virtue from this flower;
And not a poison-sucking envious spider,
To turn the juice I take to deadly venom!
Religion is austere, and beauty gentle;
Too strict a guardian for so fair a ward.
O, that she were, as is the air, to me!
Why, so she is; for, when I would embrace her,
This do I, and catch nothing but myself.
I must enjoy her; for I cannot beat,
With reason and reproof, fond love away. Enter Warwick.
Here comes her father: I will work with him,
To bear my colours in this field of love.
How is it, that my sovereign is so sad?
May I with pardon know your highness’ grief,
And that my old endeavour will remove it,
It shall not cumber long your majesty.
A kind and voluntary gift thou proffer’st,
That I was forward to have begg’d of thee.
But, O thou world, great nurse of flattery,
Why dost thou tip men’s tongues with golden words
And peise their deeds with weight of heavy lead,
That fair performance cannot follow promise?
O, that a man might hold the heart’s close book,
And choke the lavish tongue when it doth utter
The breath of falsehood not character’d there!
Far be it from the honour of my age
That I should owe bright gold and render lead!
Age is a cynic, not a flatterer:
I say again, that, if I knew your grief,
And that by me it may be lessened,
My proper harm should buy your highness’ good.
These are the vulgar tenders of false men,
That never pay the duty of their words.
Thou wilt not stick to swear what thou hast said;
But, when thou know’st my grief’s condition,
This rash-disgorged vomit of thy word
Thou wilt eat up again, and leave me helpless.
By Heaven, I will not, though your majesty
Did bid me run upon your sword and die.
Say, that my grief is no way med’cinable,
But by the loss and bruising of thine honour?
If nothing but that loss may vantage you,
I would account that loss my vantage too.
What may be said to any perjur’d villain
That breaks the sacred warrant of an oath.
That he hath broke his faith with God and man
And from them both stands excommunicate.
What office were it to suggest a man
To break a lawful and religious vow?
That devil’s office must thou do for me;
Or break thy oath or cancel all the bonds
Of love and duty ’twixt thyself and me.
And therefore, Warwick, if thou art thyself,
The lord and master of thy word and oath,
Go to thy daughter, and in my behalf
Command her, woo her, win her any ways,
To be my mistress and my secret love.
I will not stand to hear thee make reply;
Thy oath break hers, or let thy sovereign die. Exit.
O doting king! O detestable office!
Well may I tempt myself to wrong myself,
When he hath sworn me by the name of God
To break a vow made by the name of God.
What if I swear by this right hand of mine
To cut this right hand off? the better way
Were to profane the idol than confound it:
But neither will I do; I’ll keep mine oath
And to my daughter make a recantation
Of all the virtue I have preach’d to her.
I’ll say, she must forget her husband Salisbury,
If she remember to embrace the king;
I’ll say, an oath may easily be broken,
But not so easily pardon’d, being broken;
I’ll say, it is true charity to love,
But not true love to be so charitable;
I’ll say, his greatness may bear out the shame,
But not his kingdom can buy out the sin;
I’ll say, it is my duty to persuade,
But not her honesty to give consent.
See, where she comes: was never father, had
Against his child an embassage so bad.
My lord and father, I have sought for you:
My mother and the peers importune you
To keep in presence of his majesty
And do your best to make his highness merry.
How shall I enter in this arrant errand?
I must not call her child; for where’s the father
That will, in such a suit, seduce his child?
Then, Wife of Salisbury—shall I so begin?
No, he’s my friend; and where is found the friend,
That will do friendship such indammagement?—
To the Countess. Neither my daughter, nor my dear friend’s wife,
I am not Warwick, as thou think’st I am,
But an attorney from the court of hell;
That thus have hous’d my spirit in his form,
To do a message to thee from the king.
The mighty King of England dotes on thee:
He that hath power to take away thy life
Hath power to take thine honour; then consent
To pawn thine honour, rather than thy life:
Honour is often lost and got again;
But life, once gone, hath no recovery.
The sun, that withers hay, doth nourish grass;
The king that would distain thee will advance thee.
The poets write that great Achilles’ spear
Could heal the wound it made: the moral is,
What mighty men misdo, they can amend.
The lion doth become his bloody jaws
And grace his foragement, by being mild
When vassel fear lies trembling at his feet.
The king will in his glory hide thy shame;
And those that gaze on him to find out thee
Will lose their eyesight, looking in the sun.
What can one drop of poison harm the sea,
Whose hugy vastures can digest the ill
And make it lose his operation?
The king’s great name will temper thy misdeeds,
And give the bitter potion of reproach
A sugar’d-sweet and most delicious taste:
Besides, it is no harm, to do the thing
Which without shame could not be left undone.
Thus have I, in his majesty’s behalf,
Apparell’d sin in virtuous sentences,
And dwell upon thy answer in his
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