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
Read book online «Henry VI, Part III by William Shakespeare (story books for 5 year olds txt) 📕». Author - William Shakespeare
Ah, what a shame were this! Look on the boy:
And let his manly face, which promiseth
Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart
To hold thine own and leave thine own with him. King Henry
Full well hath Clifford play’d the orator,
Inferring arguments of mighty force.
But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear
That things ill-got had ever bad success?
And happy always was it for that son
Whose father for his hoarding went to hell?
I’ll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind;
And would my father had left me no more!
For all the rest is held at such a rate
As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep
Than in possession any jot of pleasure.
Ah, cousin York! would thy best friends did know
How it doth grieve me that thy head is here!
My lord, cheer up your spirits: our foes are nigh,
And this soft courage makes your followers faint.
You promised knighthood to our forward son:
Unsheathe your sword, and dub him presently.
Edward, kneel down.
Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight;
And learn this lesson, draw thy sword in right.
My gracious father, by your kingly leave,
I’ll draw it as apparent to the crown,
And in that quarrel use it to the death.
Royal commanders, be in readiness:
For with a band of thirty thousand men
Comes Warwick, backing of the Duke of York;
And in the towns, as they do march along,
Proclaims him king, and many fly to him:
Darraign your battle, for they are at hand.
I would your highness would depart the field:
The queen hath best success when you are absent.
My royal father, cheer these noble lords
And hearten those that fight in your defence:
Unsheathe your sword, good father; cry “Saint George!”
Now, perjured Henry! wilt thou kneel for grace,
And set thy diadem upon my head;
Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?
Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting boy!
Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms
Before thy sovereign and thy lawful king?
I am his king, and he should bow his knee;
I was adopted heir by his consent:
Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear,
You, that are king, though he do wear the crown,
Have caused him, by new act of parliament,
To blot out me, and put his own son in.
And reason too:
Who should succeed the father but the son?
Ay, crook-back, here I stand to answer thee,
Or any he the proudest of thy sort.
Why, how now, long-tongued Warwick! dare you speak?
When you and I met at Saint Alban’s last,
Your legs did better service than your hands.
Northumberland, I hold thee reverently.
Break off the parley; for scarce I can refrain
The execution of my big-swoln heart
Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.
Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward,
As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland;
But ere sunset I’ll make thee curse the deed.
I prithee, give no limits to my tongue:
I am a king, and privileged to speak.
My liege, the wound that bred this meeting here
Cannot be cured by words; therefore be still.
Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword:
By him that made us all, I am resolved
That Clifford’s manhood lies upon his tongue.
Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or no?
A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day,
That ne’er shall dine unless thou yield the crown.
If thou deny, their blood upon thy head;
For York in justice puts his armour on.
If that be right which Warwick says is right,
There is no wrong, but every thing is right.
Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands;
For, well I wot, thou hast thy mother’s tongue.
But thou art neither like thy sire nor dam;
But like a foul mis-shapen stigmatic,
Mark’d by the destinies to be avoided,
As venom toads, or lizards’ dreadful stings.
Iron of Naples hid with English gilt,
Whose father bears the title of a king—
As if a channel should be call’d the sea—
Shamest thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,
To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?
A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns,
To make this shameless callet know herself.
Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,
Although thy husband may be Menelaus;
And ne’er was Agamemnon’s brother wrong’d
By that false woman, as this king by thee.
His father revell’d in the heart of France,
And tamed the king, and made the dauphin stoop;
And had he match’d according to his state,
He might have kept that glory to this day;
But when he took a beggar to his bed,
And graced thy poor sire with his bridal-day,
Even then that sunshine brew’d a shower for him,
That wash’d his father’s fortunes forth of France,
And heap’d sedition on his crown at home.
For what hath broach’d this tumult but thy pride?
Hadst thou been meek, our title still had slept;
And we, in pity of the gentle king,
Had slipp’d our claim until another age.
But when we saw our sunshine made thy spring,
And that thy summer bred us no increase,
We set the axe to thy usurping root;
And though the edge hath something hit ourselves,
Yet,
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