ACT II, SCENE 1 The Same. Gardens of the
|I 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,
As if her cheeks by some enchanted power
Attracted had the cherry blood from his:
Anon, with reverent fear when she grew pale,
His cheeks put on their scarlet ornaments;
But no more like her oriental red,
Than brick to coral or live things to dead.
Why did he then thus counterfeit her looks?
If she did blush, t'was tender modest shame,
Being in the sacred presence of a king;
If he did blush, t'was red immodest shame,
To veil his eyes amiss, being a king;
If she looked pale, twas silly woman's fear,
To bear her self in presence of a king;
If he looked pale, it was with guilty fear,
To dote amiss, being a mighty king.
Then, Scottish wars, farewell! I fear 'twill prove
A ling'ring English siege of peevish love.
Here comes his highness, walking all alone.
||[Enter King Edward.]
|She is grown more fairer far
since I came hither,
Her voice more silver every word than other,
Her wit more fluent. What a strange discourse
Unfolded she of David and his Scots!
'Even thus', quoth she, 'he spake', and then spoke broad,
With epithets and accents of the Scot,
But somewhat better than the Scot could speak:
'And thus', quoth she, and answered then herself;
For who could speak like her but she herself
Breathes from the wall an angel's note from Heaven
Of sweet defiance to her barbarous foes.
When she would talk of peace, me thinks, her tongue
Commanded war to prison; when of war,
It waken'd Caesar from his Roman grave,
To hear war beautified by her discourse.
Wisdom is foolishness but in her tongue,
Beauty a slander but in her fair face,
There is no summer but in her cheerful looks,
Nor frosty winter but in her disdain.
I cannot blame the Scots that did besiege her,
For she is all the Treasure of our land;
But call them cowards, that they ran away,
Having so rich and fair a cause to stay.--
Art thou there, Lodwick? Give me ink and paper.
||I will, my liege.
|And bid the Lords hold on
their play at chess,
For we will walk and meditate alone.
||I will, my sovereign.
|This fellow is well read in
And hath a lusty and persuasive spirit;
I will acquaint him with my passion,
Which he shall shadow with a veil of lawn,
Through which the queen of beauty's queen shall see
Her self the ground of my infirmity.
||Hast thou pen, ink, and
paper ready, Lodwick?
||Ready, my liege.
|Then in the summer arbour
sit by me,
Make it our counsel-house or cabinet;
Since green our thoughts, green be the conventicle,
Where we will ease us by disburd'ning them.
Now, Lodwick, invocate some golden muse,
To bring thee hither an enchanted pen
That may for sighs set down true sighs indeed,
Talking of grief, to make thee ready groan;
And when thou writest of tears, encouch the word
Before and after with such sweet laments,
That it may raise drops in a Tartar's eye,
And make a flintheart Scythian pitiful;
For so much moving hath a poet's pen:
Then, if thou be a poet, move thou so,
And be enriched by thy sovereign's love.
For, if the touch of sweet concordant strings
Could force attendance in the ears of hell,
How much more shall the strains of poets' wit
Beguile and ravish soft and human minds?
||To whom, my Lord, shall I
direct my style?
|To one that shames the fair
and sots the wise;
Whose bod is an abstract or a brief,
Contains each general virtue in the world.
Better than beautiful thou must begin,
Devise for fair a fairer word than fair,
And every ornament that thou wouldest praise,
Fly it a pitch above the soar of praise.
For flattery fear thou not to be convicted;
For, were thy admiration ten times more,
Ten times ten thousand more the worth exceeds
Of that thou art to praise, thy praise's worth.
Begin; I will to contemplate the while:
Forget not to set down, how passionate,
How heart sick, and how full of languishment,
Her beauty makes me.
||Write I to a woman?
|What beauty else could
triumph over me,
Or who but women do our love-lays greet?
What, think'st thou I did bid thee praise a horse?
|Of what condition or estate
'Twere requisite that I should know, my lord.
|Of such estate, that hers is
as a throne,
And my estate the footstool where she treads:
Then maist thou judge what her condition is
By the proportion of her mightiness.
Write on, while I peruse her in my thoughts.--
Her voice to music or the nightingale--
To music every summer leaping swain
Compares his sunburnt lover when she speaks;
And why should I speak of the nightingale?
The nightingale sings of adulterate wrong,
And that, compar'd, is too satirical;
For sin, though sin, would not be so esteem'd,
But, rather, virtue sin, sin virtue deemed.
Her hair, far softer than the silk worm's twist,
Like to a flattering glass, doth make more fair
The yellow amber: 'like a flattering glass'
Comes in too soon; for, writing of her eyes,
I'll say that like a glass they catch the sun,
And thence the hot reflection doth rebound
Against the breast, and burns my heart within.
Ah, what a world of descant makes my soul
Upon this voluntary ground of love!--
Come, Lodwick, hast thou turned thy ink to gold?
If not, write but in letters capital
My mistress' name, and it will gild thy paper:
Read, Lord, read;
Fill thou the empty hollows of mine ears
With the sweet hearing of thy poetry.
||I have not to a period
brought her praise.
|Her praise is as my love,
Which apprehend such violent extremes,
That they disdain an ending period.
Her beauty hath no match but my affection;
Hers more than most, mine most and more than more:
Hers more to praise than tell the sea by drops,
Nay, more than drop the massy earth by sands,
And sand by sand print them in memory:
Then wherefore talkest thou of a period
To that which craves unended admiration?
Read, let us hear.
||'More fair and chaste than
is the queen of shades,'--
|That line hath two faults,
gross and palpable:
Compar'st thou her to the pale queen of night,
Who, being set in dark, seems therefore light?
What is she, when the sun lifts up his head,
But like a fading taper, dim and dead?
My love shall brave the eye of heaven at noon,
And, being unmask'd, outshine the golden sun.
||What is the other fault, my
||Read o'er the line again.
||'More fair and chaste'--
|I did not bid thee talk of
To ransack so the treasure of her mind;
For I had rather have her chased than chaste.
Out with the moon line, I will none of it;
And let me have her likened to the sun:
Say she hath thrice more splendour than the sun,
That her perfections emulate the sun,
That she breeds sweets as plenteous as the sun,
That she doth thaw cold winter like the sun,
That she doth cheer fresh summer like the sun,
The she doth dazzle gazers like the sun;
And, in this application to the sun,
Bid her be free and general as the sun,
Who smiles upon the basest weed that grows
As lovingly as on the fragrant rose.
Let's see what follows that same moonlight line.
|'More fair and chaste than
is the queen of shades,
More bold in constance'--
||In constance! than who?
||'Than Judith was.'
|O monstrous line! Put in the
next a sword,
And I shall woo her to cut of my head.
Blot, blot, good Lodwick! Let us hear the next.
||There's all that yet is
|I thank thee then; thou hast
done little ill,
But what is done, is passing passing ill.
No, let the captain talk of boist'rous war,
The prisoner of immured dark constraint,
The sick man best sets down the pangs of death,
The man that starves the sweetness of a feast,
The frozen soul the benefit of fire,
And every grief his happy opposite:
Love cannot sound well but in lover's tongues;
Give me the pen and paper, I will write.
But soft, here comes the treasurer of my spirit.
Lodwick, thou know'st not how to draw a battle;
These wings, these flankers, and these squadrons
Argue in thee defective discipline:
Thou shouldest have placed this here, this other here.
|Pardon my boldness, my
Let my intrusion here be called my duty,
That comes to see my sovereign how he fares.
||Go, draw the same, I tell
thee in what form.
|Sorry I am to see my liege
What may thy subject do to drive from thee
Thy gloomy consort, sullen melancholy?
|Ah, Lady, I am blunt and
The flowers of solace in a ground of shame:--
Since I came hither, Countess, I am wronged.
|Now God forbid that any in
Should think my sovereign wrong! Thrice-gentle King,
Acquaint me with your cause of discontent.
||How near then shall I be to
|As near, my Liege, as all my
Can pawn it self to buy thy remedy.
|If thou speak'st true, then
have I my redress:
Engage thy power to redeem my joys,
And I am joyful, countess; else I die.
||I will, my liege.
||Swear, countess, that thou
||By Heaven, I will.
|Then take thy self a little
And tell thy self, a king doth dote on thee;
Say that within thy power it doth lie
To make him happy, and that thou hast sworn
To give him all the joy within thy power:
Do this, and tell me when I shall be happy.
|All this is done, my
That power of love, that I have power to give,
Thou hast with all devout obedience;
Employ me how thou wilt in proof thereof.
||Thou hear'st me say that I
do dote on thee.
|If on my beauty, take it if
Though little, I do prize it ten times less;
If on my virtue, take it if thou canst,
For virtue's store by giving doth augment;
Be it on what it will, that I can give
And thou canst take away, inherit it
||It is thy beauty that I
|O, were it painted, I would
wipe it off
And dispossess my self, to give it thee.
But, sovereign, it is solder'd to my life:
Take one and both; for, like an humble shadow,
It haunts the sunshine of my summer's life.
||But thou may'st lend it me
to sport with all.
|As easy may my intellectual
Be lent away, and yet my body live,
As lend my body, palace to my soul,
Away from her, and yet retain my soul.
My body is her bower, her court, her abbey,
And she an angel, pure, divine, unspotted:
If I should leave her house, my lord, to thee,
I kill my poor soul and my poor soul me.
||Didst thou not swear to give
me what I would?
||I did, my liege, so what you
would I could.
|I wish no more of thee than
thou may'st give:--
Nor beg I do not, but I rather buy
That is, thy love; and for that love of thine
In rich exchange I tender to thee mine.
|But that your lips were
sacred, my Lord,
You would profane the holy name of love.
That love you offer me you cannot give,
For Caesar owes that tribute to his queen;
That love you beg of me I cannot give,
For Sara owes that duty to her Lord.
He that doth clip or counterfeit your stamp
Shall die, my Lord; and will your sacred self
Commit high treason against the King of heaven,
To stamp his Image in forbidden metal,
Forgetting your allegiance and your oath?
In violating marriage sacred law,
You break a greater honor than your self:
To be a king is of a younger house
Than to be married; your progenitour,
Sole-reigning Adam on the universe,
By God was honor'd for a married man,
But not by him anointed for a king.
It is a penalty to break your statutes,
Though not enacted with your highness' hand:
How much more, to infringe the holy act,
Made by the mouth of God, sealed with his hand?
I know, my sovereign, in my husband's love,
Who now doth loyal service in his wars,
Doth but so try the wife of Salisbury,
Whither she will hear a wanton's tale or no,
Lest being therein guilty by my stay,
From that, not from my liege, I turn away.
|Whether is her beauty by her
Or are her words sweet chaplains to her beauty?
Like as the wind doth beautify a sail,
And as a sail becomes the unseen wind,
So do her words her beauties, beauties 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 my self.
I must enjoy her; for I cannot beat
With reason and reproof, fond love away.
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 endeavor will remove it,
It shall not cumber long your majesty.
|A kind and voluntary gift
That I was forward to have begged 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 charactered there!
|Far be it from the honor of
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 knowest 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
But by the loss and bruising of thine honour.
|If nothing but that loss may
I would accompt that loss my vantage too.
||Think'st that thou canst
unswear thy oath again?
||I cannot; nor I would not,
if I could.
||But, if thou dost, what
shall I say to thee?
|What may be said to any
That breaks the sacred warrant of an oath.
||What wilt thou say to one
that breaks 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?
||An office for the devil, not
|That devil's office must
thou do for me,
Or break thy oath, or cancel all the bonds
Of love and duty twixt thy self 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.
|O doting King! O detestable
Well may I tempt my self to wrong my self,
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 preacht 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 pardoned, 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 endamagement?
[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 thy honor; then consent
To pawn thine honor rather than thy life:
Honor 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 disdain 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 forragement 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 eye-sight, looking in the Sun.
What can one drop of poison harm the Sea,
Whose huge vastures can digest the ill
And make it loose 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 suit.
||Unnatural besiege! Woe me
To have escaped the danger of my foes,
And to be ten times worse injur'd by friends!
Hath he no means to stain my honest blood,
But to corrupt the author of my blood
To be his scandalous and vile solicitor?
No marvel though the branches be then infected,
When poison hath encompassed the root:
No marvel though the leprous infant die,
When the stern dame invenometh the Dug.
Why then, give sin a passport to offend,
And youth the dangerous reign of liberty:
Blot out the strict forbidding of the law,
And cancel every cannon that prescribes
A shame for shame or penance for offence.
No, let me die, if his too boistrous will
Will have it so, before I will consent
To be an actor in his graceless lust.
|Why, now thou speakst as I
would have thee speak:
And mark how I unsay my words again.
An honorable grave is more esteem'd
Than the polluted closet of a king:
The greater man, the greater is the thing,
Be it good or bad, that he shall undertake:
An unreputed mote, flying in the sun,
Presents a greater substance than it is:
The freshest summer's day doth soonest taint
The loathed carrion that it seems to kiss:
Deep are the blows made with a mighty axe:
That sin doth ten times aggravate it self,
That is committed in a holy place:
An evil deed, done by authority,
Is sin and subornation: deck an ape
In tissue, and the beauty of the robe
Adds but the greater scorn unto the beast.
A spatious field of reasons could I urge
Between his glory, daughter, and thy shame:
That poison shows worst in a golden cup;
Dark night seems darker by the lightning flash;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds;
And every glory that inclines to sin,
The shame is treble by the opposite.
So leave I with my blessing in thy bosom,
Which then convert to a most heavy curse,
When thou convertest from honor's golden name
To the black faction of bed-blotting shame.
|I'll follow thee; and when
my mind turns so,
My body sink my soul in endless woe!
To see other scenes in
ACT III, SCENE 4 The Same./ACT III, SCENE 5 The Same.
ACT I, SCENE 1 London. A Room of State in the Palace.
ACT IV, SCENE 1 Bretagne. Camp of the English/ACT IV,
SCENE 2 Picardy. The English Camp before Calais.
ACT I, Scene
2 Roxborough. Before the Castle.
ACT IV, SCENE 3 Poitou. Fields near Poitiers. The
French camp; Tent of the Duke of Normandy.
ACT II, SCENE 1 The
Same. Gardens of the Castle.
ACT IV, SCENE 4 The same. The English Camp.
ACT II, SCENE2 The Same. A Room in the Castle.
ACT IV, SCENE 5 The same. The French Camp.
ACT III, SCENE1 Flanders. The French Camp.
ACT IV, SCENE 6 The same. A Part of the Field
of Battle./ACT IV, SCENE 7 The same. Another Part of the Field of
ACT III, SCENE 2 Picardy. Fields near Cressy.
ACT IV, SCENE 8 The same. Another Part of the
Field of Battle. /ACT IV, SCENE 9 The same. The English Camp.
ACT III, SCENE 3 The same. Drums.
ACT V, SCENE 1 Picardy. The English Camp before Calais.
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