Edward III William Shakespeare (books to read for 13 year olds .txt) đ
- Author: William Shakespeare
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Unnatural besiege! Woe me unhappy,
To have escapâd the danger of my foes
And to be ten times worse envirâd 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 dam envenometh the dug.
Why then, give sin a passport to offend,
And youth the dangerous rein of liberty:
Blot out the strict forbidding of the law;
And cancel every canon, that prescribes
A shame for shame or penance for offence.
No, let me die, if his too boistârous will
Will have it so, before I will consent
To be an actor in his graceless lust.
Why, now thou speakâst as I would have thee speak:
And mark how I unsay my words again.
An honourable grave is more esteemâd,
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 summerâs 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 itself,
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 spacious 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 convertâst from honourâs golden name
To the black faction of bed-blotting shame! Exit.
Iâll follow thee; and when my mind turns so,
My body sink my soul in endless woe! Exit.
The same. A room in the castle.
Enter Derby and Audley, meeting. DerbyThrice-noble Audley, well encounterâd here:
How is it with our sovereign and his peers?
âTis full a fortnight since I saw his highness,
What time he sent me forth to muster men;
Which I accordingly have done, and bring them hither
In fair array before his majesty.
What news, my Lord of Derby, from the Emperor?
As good as we desire: the Emperor
Hath yielded to his highness friendly aid;
And makes our king lieutenant-general
In all his lands and large dominions:
Then via for the spacious bounds of France!
I have not yet found time to open them;
The king is in his closet, malcontent,
For what, I know not, but he gave in charge,
Till after dinner, none should interrupt him:
The Countess Salisbury, and her father Warwick,
Artois, and all, look underneath the brows.
I have, my liege, levied those horse and foot,
According to your charge, and brought them hither.
Then let those foot trudge hence upon those horse,
According to our discharge, and be gone.â â
Derby,
Iâll look upon the countessâ mind anon.
Thus from the heartâs abundance speaks the tongue;
Countess for emperor: and, indeed, why not?
She is as imperator over me;
And I to her
Am as a kneeling vassal that observes
The pleasure or displeasure of her eye.â â
What says the more than Cleopatraâs match
To Caesar now?
That yet, my liege, ere night
She will resolve your majesty. Drum within.
What drum is this, that thunders forth this march,
To start the tender Cupid in my bosom?
Poor sheep-skin, how it brawls with him that beateth it!
Go, break the thundâring parchment-bottom out,
And I will teach it to conduct sweet lines
Unto the bosom of a heavenly nymph:
For I will use it as my writing-paper;
And so reduce him, from a scolding drum,
To be the herald and dear counsel-bearer
Betwixt a goddess and a mighty king.
Go, bid the drummer learn to touch the lute,
Or hang him in the braces of his drum;
For now we think it an uncivil thing,
To trouble heaven with such harsh resounds:
Away.â âExit Lodwick.
The quarrel, that I have, requires no arms
But these of mine; and these shall meet my foe
In a deep march of penetrable groans:
My eyes shall be my arrows; and my sighs
Shall serve me as the vantage of the wind,
To whirl away my sweetâst artillery:
Ah but, alas, she wins the sun of me,
For that is she herself; and thence it comes
That poets term the wanton warrior blind;
But love hath eyes as judgement to his steps,
Till too-much-loved glory dazzles them.â â
My liege, the drum that stroke the lusty march
Stands with Prince Edward, your thrice-valiant son.
I see the boy. O, how his motherâs face,
Modellâd in his, corrects my strayâd desire
And rates my heart and chides my thievish eye;
Who being rich enough in seeing her,
Yet seeks elsewhere: and basest theft is that,
Which cannot cloak itself on poverty.â â
Now, boy, what news?
I have assembled, my dear lord and father,
The choicest buds of all our English blood
For our affairs in France; and here we come,
To take direction from your majesty.
Still do I
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