The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (31 page)

Despite of death, that lives upon my grave

To dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have.

I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffl'd here;

Pierc'd to the soul with slander's venom'd spear,

The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood

Which breath'd this poison.

I throw myself, great King, at your feet;

you have command of my life, but not my honour:

my duty owes you my life; but my honourable name,

that will live upon my grave after I'm dead,

I will not let you have for dishonour.

I have been disgraced, accused and dishonoured here,

stabbed to the soul with the poisonous spear of slander,

and nothing can make this good except for the

lifeblood of the one who slandered me.

KING RICHARD.

Rage must be withstood:

Give me his gage-lions make leopards tame.

You must overcome your anger:

give me his glove–lions rule over leopards.

MOWBRAY.

Yea, but not change his spots. Take but my shame,

And I resign my gage. My dear dear lord,

The purest treasure mortal times afford

Is spotless reputation; that away,

Men are but gilded loam or painted clay.

A jewel in a ten-times barr'd-up chest

Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast.

Mine honour is my life; both grow in one;

Take honour from me, and my life is done:

Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try;

In that I live, and for that will I die.

Yes, but they can't change his spots. Take away my dishonour,

and I will give up my glove. My dear dear lord,

the purest treasure that we have in our life on Earth

is a spotless reputation; take that away,

and men are just gilded soil or painted clay.

A good spirit in a loyal heart is worth

More than the most precious jewel.

My honour is my life; they are intertwined;

if you take my honour from me, my life is ended:

so, my dear lord, let me test my honour;

I live for it, and I will die for it.

KING RICHARD.

Cousin, throw up your gage; do you begin.

Cousin, throw me your glove, you start.

BOLINGBROKE.

O, God defend my soul from such deep sin!

Shall I seem crest-fallen in my father's sight?

Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height

Before this outdar'd dastard? Ere my tongue

Shall wound my honour with such feeble wrong

Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear

The slavish motive of recanting fear,

And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace,

Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray's face.

May God defend me against committing such a terrible sin!

Should I surrender in sight of my father?

Or discredit my noble birth out of cowardice

in front of this cowardly bastard? Before my tongue

wounds my honour with such a pathetic insult

or agrees to such a dishonourable truce, my teeth shall

tear it out as a punishment for its cowardice

and spit it bleeding in disgrace into the place

were dishonour is hiding, Mowbray's face.

Exit GAUNT

KING RICHARD.

We were not born to sue, but to command;

Which since we cannot do to make you friends,

Be ready, as your lives shall answer it,

At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert's day.

There shall your swords and lances arbitrate

The swelling difference of your settled hate;

Since we can not atone you, we shall see

Justice design the victor's chivalry.

Lord Marshal, command our officers-at-arms

Be ready to direct these home alarms.

I was not born to ask, but to order;

since I can't make you be friendly,

be ready, on pain of death, to appear

at Coventry, upon St Lambert's day.

There your swords and lances will decide

this hateful argument between you;

since I can't reconcile you, I shall see

justice decide who will win the knightly combat.

Lord Marshal, order our officers-at-arms

to prepare matters for this domestic battle.

 Exeunt

London. The DUKE OF LANCASTER'S palace

Enter JOHN OF GAUNT with the DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER

GAUNT.

Alas, the part I had in Woodstock's blood

Doth more solicit me than your exclaims

To stir against the butchers of his life!

But since correction lieth in those hands

Which made the fault that we cannot correct,

Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven;

Who, when they see the hours ripe on earth,

Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.

Alas, my blood relationship to Woodstock

is a greater motive for me than your urgings

to take action against his murderers!

But since punishment lies in the hands

of the one who ordered the crime,

we must leave judgment to the will of heaven,

which, when it sees the time is right,

will rain hot punishment down upon the offenders.

DUCHESS.

Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?

Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?

Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one,

Were as seven vials of his sacred blood,

Or seven fair branches springing from one root.

Some of those seven are dried by nature's course,

Some of those branches by the Destinies cut;

But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloucester,

One vial full of Edward's sacred blood,

One flourishing branch of his most royal root,

Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt;

Is hack'd down, and his summer leaves all faded,

By envy's hand and murder's bloody axe.

Ah, Gaunt, his blood was thine! That bed, that womb,

That mettle, that self mould, that fashion'd thee,

Made him a man; and though thou livest and breathest,

Yet art thou slain in him. Thou dost consent

In some large measure to thy father's death

In that thou seest thy wretched brother die,

Who was the model of thy father's life.

Call it not patience, Gaunt-it is despair;

In suff'ring thus thy brother to be slaught'red,

Thou showest the naked pathway to thy life,

Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee.

That which in mean men we entitle patience

Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.

What shall I say? To safeguard thine own life

The best way is to venge my Gloucester's death.

Doesn't the fact that he was your brother spur you on?

Doesn't any love burn in your old blood?

Edward's seven sons, of whom you are one,

were like seven vials of his holy blood,

or seven sweet branches springing from the same root.

Some of those seven have dried up through the course of nature,

some of those branches have been cut by destiny;

but Thomas my dear Lord, my life, my Gloucester,

one vial full of Edward's sacred blood,

a flourishing branch from his royal root,

has been cracked, and all the precious liquor has been spilt,

chopped down, his summer leaves are all faded,

by the hand of envy, and the bloody axe of a murderer.

Ah, Gaunt, his blood was yours! You were made in the same bed,

the same womb, from the same material, in the same mould;

and though you are living and breathing,

you are killed with him; you are playing

a large part in your father's death

if you stand by and watch your wretched brother die,

who was the image of your father.

This is not patience, Gaunt, it is despair;

in allowing your brother to be killed like this

you are opening the doorway to your own murder,

showing how you can be butchered too.

What we call patience in lowborn men

is pale cold cowardice in the hearts of the noble.

What can I say? The best way to protect your own life

is to take revenge for my husband's death.

GAUNT.

God's is the quarrel; for God's substitute,

His deputy anointed in His sight,

Hath caus'd his death; the which if wrongfully,

Let heaven revenge; for I may never lift

An angry arm against His minister.

The argument is with God; because God's representative,

his deputy, chosen by him,

caused his death; if it was wrong to do so,

let God take revenge; I can never

attack the minister of God.

DUCHESS.

Where then, alas, may I complain myself?

Alas, then where can I address my complaints?

GAUNT.

To God, the widow's champion and defence.

Address them to God, the defender and champion of widows.

DUCHESS.

Why then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt.

Thou goest to Coventry, there to behold

Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight.

O, sit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's spear,

That it may enter butcher Mowbray's breast!

Or, if misfortune miss the first career,

Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom

That they may break his foaming courser's back

And throw the rider headlong in the lists,

A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford!

Farewell, old Gaunt; thy sometimes brother's wife,

With her companion, Grief, must end her life.

Alright, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt.

You are going to Coventry, to see

our cousin Hereford and evil Mowbray fight.

May my husband's wrongs give power to Hereford's spear,

so that it can pierce the breast of the butcher Mowbray!

Or, if he is unlucky enough to miss on his first charge,

may Mowbray's sins lie so heavily upon him

that the weight breaks the back of his foaming charger,

and throws the rider headfirst to the ground,

a helpless coward at the mercy of my cousin Hereford!

Farewell, old Gaunt; I was once your brother's wife,

now I must live out my life with grief as my companion.