Henry VI, Part III by William Shakespeare (story books for 5 year olds txt) 📕

fondly gave away”?
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!

Queen Margaret

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.

King Henry

Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight;
And learn this lesson, draw thy sword in right.

Prince

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.

Clifford Why, that is spoken like a toward prince. Enter a Messenger. Messenger

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.

Clifford

I would your highness would depart the field:
The queen hath best success when you are absent.

Queen Margaret Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fortune. King Henry Why, that’s my fortune too; therefore I’ll stay. Northumberland Be it with resolution then to fight. Prince

My royal father, cheer these noble lords
And hearten those that fight in your defence:
Unsheathe your sword, good father; cry “Saint George!”

March. Enter Edward, George, Richard, Warwick, Norfolk, Montague, and Soldiers. Edward

Now, perjured Henry! wilt thou kneel for grace,
And set thy diadem upon my head;
Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?

Queen Margaret

Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting boy!
Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms
Before thy sovereign and thy lawful king?

Edward

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.

Clifford

And reason too:
Who should succeed the father but the son?

Richard Are you there, butcher? O, I cannot speak! Clifford

Ay, crook-back, here I stand to answer thee,
Or any he the proudest of thy sort.

Richard ’Twas you that kill’d young Rutland, was it not? Clifford Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied. Richard For God’s sake, lords, give signal to the fight. Warwick What say’st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown? Queen Margaret

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.

Warwick Then ’twas my turn to fly, and now ’tis thine. Clifford You said so much before, and yet you fled. Warwick ’Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence. Northumberland No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay. Richard

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.

Clifford I slew thy father, call’st thou him a child? Richard

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.

King Henry Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak. Queen Margaret Defy them then, or else hold close thy lips. King Henry

I prithee, give no limits to my tongue:
I am a king, and privileged to speak.

Clifford

My liege, the wound that bred this meeting here
Cannot be cured by words; therefore be still.

Richard

Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword:
By him that made us all, I am resolved
That Clifford’s manhood lies upon his tongue.

Edward

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.

Warwick

If thou deny, their blood upon thy head;
For York in justice puts his armour on.

Prince

If that be right which Warwick says is right,
There is no wrong, but every thing is right.

Richard

Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands;
For, well I wot, thou hast thy mother’s tongue.

Queen Margaret

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.

Richard

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?

Edward

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.

George

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,