полная версия
Уильям Шекспир
The First Part of King Henry the Fourth
Scene II. London. The Palace
Enter the King, Prince of Wales, and others.
King. Lords, give us leave. The Prince of Wales and I
Must have some private conference; but be near at hand,
For we shall presently have need of you.
Exeunt Lords
I know not whether God will have it so,
For some displeasing service I have done,
That, in his secret doom, out of my blood
He'll breed revengement and a scourge for me;
But thou dost in thy passages of life
Make me believe that thou art only mark'd
For the hot vengeance and the rod of heaven
To punish my mistreadings. Tell me else,
Could such inordinate and low desires,
Such poor, such bare, such lewd, such mean attempts,
Such barren pleasures, rude society,
As thou art match'd withal and grafted to,
Accompany the greatness of thy blood
And hold their level with thy princely heart?
Prince. So please your Majesty, I would I could
Quit all offences with as clear excuse
As well as I am doubtless I can purge
Myself of many I am charged withal.
Yet such extenuation let me beg
As, in reproof of many tales devis'd,
Which oft the ear of greatness needs must bear
By, smiling pickthanks and base newsmongers,
I may, for some things true wherein my youth
Hath faulty wand'red and irregular,
And pardon on lily true submission.
King. God pardon thee! Yet let me wonder, Harry,
At thy affections, which do hold a wing,
Quite from the flight of all thy ancestors.
Thy place in Council thou hast rudely lost,
Which by thy younger brother is supplied,
And art almost an alien to the hearts
Of all the court and princes of my blood.
The hope and expectation of thy time
Is ruin'd, and the soul of every man
Prophetically do forethink thy fall.
Had I so lavish of my presence been,
So common-hackney'd in the eyes of men,
So stale and cheap to vulgar company,
Opinion, that did help me to the crown,
Had still kept loyal to possession
And left me in reputeless banishment,
A fellow of no mark nor likelihood.
By being seldom seen, I could not stir
But, like a comet, I Was wond'red at;
That men would tell their children, 'This is he!'
Others would say, 'Where? Which is Bolingbroke?'
And then I stole all courtesy from heaven,
And dress'd myself in such humility
That I did pluck allegiance from men's hearts,
Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths
Even in the presence of the crowned King.
Thus did I keep my person fresh and new,
My presence, like a robe pontifical,
Ne'er seen but wond'red at; and so my state,
Seldom but sumptuous, show'd like a feast
And won by rareness such solemnity.
The skipping King, he ambled up and down
With shallow jesters and rash bavin wits,
Soon kindled and soon burnt; carded his state;
Mingled his royalty with cap'ring fools;
Had his great name profaned with their scorns
And gave his countenance, against his name,
To laugh at gibing boys and stand the push
Of every beardless vain comparative;
Grew a companion to the common streets,
Enfeoff'd himself to popularity;
That, being dally swallowed by men's eyes,
They surfeited with honey and began
To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little
More than a little is by much too much.
So, when he had occasion to be seen,
He was but as the cuckoo is in June,
Heard, not regarded- seen, but with such eyes
As, sick and blunted with community,
Afford no extraordinary gaze,
Such as is bent on unlike majesty
When it shines seldom in admiring eyes;
But rather drows'd and hung their eyelids down,
Slept in his face, and rend'red such aspect
As cloudy men use to their adversaries,
Being with his presence glutted, gorg'd, and full.
And in that very line, Harry, standest thou;
For thou hast lost thy princely privilege
With vile participation. Not an eye
But is aweary of thy common sight,
Save mine, which hath desir'd to see thee more;
Which now doth that I would not have it do-
Make blind itself with foolish tenderness.
Prince. I shall hereafter, my thrice-gracious lord,
Be more myself.
King. For all the world,
As thou art to this hour, was Richard then
When I from France set foot at Ravenspurgh;
And even as I was then is Percy now.
Now, by my sceptre, and my soul to boot,
He hath more worthy interest to the state
Than thou, the shadow of succession;
For of no right, nor colour like to right,
He doth fill fields with harness in the realm,
Turns head against the lion's armed jaws,
And, Being no more in debt to years than thou,
Leads ancient lords and reverend Bishops on
To bloody battles and to bruising arms.
What never-dying honour hath he got
Against renowmed Douglas! whose high deeds,
Whose hot incursions and great name in arms
Holds from all soldiers chief majority
And military title capital
Through all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ.
Thrice hath this Hotspur, Mars in swathling clothes,
This infant warrior, in his enterprises
Discomfited great Douglas; ta'en him once,
Enlarged him, and made a friend of him,
To fill the mouth of deep defiance up
And shake the peace and safety of our throne.
And what say you to this? Percy, Northumberland,
The Archbishop's Grace of York, Douglas, Mortimer
Capitulate against us and are up.
But wherefore do I tell these news to thee
Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes,
Which art my nearest and dearest enemy'
Thou that art like enough, through vassal fear,
Base inclination, and the start of spleen,
To fight against me under Percy's pay,
To dog his heels and curtsy at his frowns,
To show how much thou art degenerate.
Prince. Do not think so. You shall not find it so.
And God forgive them that so much have sway'd
Your Majesty's good thoughts away from me!
I will redeem all this on Percy's head
And, in the closing of some glorious day,
Be bold to tell you that I am your son,
When I will wear a garment all of blood,
And stain my favours in a bloody mask,
Which, wash'd away, shall scour my shame with it.
And that shall be the day, whene'er it lights,
That this same child of honour and renown,
This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight,
And your unthought of Harry chance to meet.
For every honour sitting on his helm,
Would they were multitudes, and on my head
My shames redoubled! For the time will come
That I shall make this Northern youth exchange
His glorious deeds for my indignities.
Percy is but my factor, good my lord,
To engross up glorious deeds on my behalf;
And I will call hall to so strict account
That he shall render every glory up,
Yea, even the slightest worship of his time,
Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart.
This in the name of God I promise here;
The which if he be pleas'd I shall perform,
I do beseech your Majesty may salve
The long-grown wounds of my intemperance.
If not, the end of life cancels all bands,
And I will die a hundred thousand deaths
Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow.
King. A hundred thousand rebels die in this!
Thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein.
Enter Blunt.
How now, good Blunt? Thy looks are full of speed.
Blunt. So hath the business that I come to speak of.
Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word
That Douglas and the English rebels met
The eleventh of this month at Shrewsbury.
A mighty and a fearful head they are,
If promises be kept oil every hand,
As ever off'red foul play in a state.
King. The Earl of Westmoreland set forth to-day;
With him my son, Lord John of Lancaster;
For this advertisement is five days old.
On Wednesday next, Harry, you shall set forward;
On Thursday we ourselves will march. Our meeting
Is Bridgenorth; and, Harry, you shall march
Through Gloucestershire; by which account,
Our business valued, some twelve days hence
Our general forces at Bridgenorth shall meet.
Our hands are full of business. Let's away.
Advantage feeds him fat while men delay. Exeunt.
Scene III. Eastcheap. The Boar's Head Tavern
Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.
Fal. Bardolph, am I not fall'n away vilely since this last action? Do I not bate? Do I not dwindle? Why, my skin hangs about me like an old lady's loose gown! I am withered like an old apple John. Well, I'll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking. I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no strength to repent. An I have not forgotten what the inside of a church is made of, I am a peppercorn, a brewer's horse. The inside of a church! Company, villanous company, hath been the spoil of me. Bard. Sir John, you are so fretful you cannot live long. Fal. Why, there is it! Come, sing me a bawdy song; make me merry. I was as virtuously given as a gentleman need to be, virtuous enough: swore little, dic'd not above seven times a week, went to a bawdy house not above once in a quarter- of an hour, paid money that I borrowed- three or four times, lived well, and in good compass; and now I live out of all order, out of all compass. Bard. Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must needs be out of all compass- out of all reasonable compass, Sir John. Fal. Do thou amend thy face, and I'll amend my life. Thou art our admiral, thou bearest the lantern in the poop- but 'tis in the nose of thee. Thou art the Knight of the Burning Lamp. Bard. Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm. Fal. No, I'll be sworn. I make as good use of it as many a man doth of a death's-head or a memento mori. I never see thy face but I think upon hellfire and Dives that lived in purple; for there he is in his robes, burning, burning. if thou wert any way given to virtue, I would swear by thy face; my oath should be 'By this fire, that's God's angel.' But thou art altogether given over, and wert indeed, but for the light in thy face, the son of utter darkness. When thou ran'st up Gadshill in the night to catch my horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an ignis fatuus or a ball of wildfire, there's no purchase in money. O, thou art a perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire-light! Thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt tavern and tavern; but the sack that thou hast drunk me would have bought me lights as good cheap at the dearest chandler's in Europe. I have maintained that salamander of yours with fire any time this two-and-thirty years. God reward me for it! Bard. 'Sblood, I would my face were in your belly! Fal. God-a-mercy! so should I be sure to be heart-burn'd.
Enter Hostess.
How now, Dame Partlet the hen? Have you enquir'd yet who
pick'd
my pocket?
Host. Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John? Do you think
I
keep thieves in my house? I have search'd, I have enquired,
so
has my husband, man by man, boy by boy, servant by servant.
The
tithe of a hair was never lost in my house before.
Fal. Ye lie, hostess. Bardolph was shav'd and lost many a hair,
and
I'll be sworn my pocket was pick'd. Go to, you are a woman,
go!
Host. Who, I? No; I defy thee! God's light, I was never call'd
so
in mine own house before!
Fal. Go to, I know you well enough.
Host. No, Sir John; you do not know me, Sir John. I know you,
Sir
John. You owe me money, Sir John, and now you pick a quarrel
to
beguile me of it. I bought you a dozen of shirts to your
back.
Fal. Dowlas, filthy dowlas! I have given them away to bakers'
wives; they have made bolters of them.
Host. Now, as I am a true woman, holland of eight shillings an
ell.
You owe money here besides, Sir John, for your diet and
by-drinkings, and money lent you, four-and-twenty pound.
Fal. He had his part of it; let him pay.
Host. He? Alas, he is poor; he hath nothing.
Fal. How? Poor? Look upon his face. What call you rich? Let
them
coin his nose, let them coin his cheeks. I'll not pay a
denier.
What, will you make a younker of me? Shall I not take mine
ease
in mine inn but I shall have my pocket pick'd? I have lost a
seal-ring of my grandfather's worth forty mark.
Host. O Jesu, I have heard the Prince tell him, I know not how
oft,
that that ring was copper!
Fal. How? the Prince is a Jack, a sneak-cup. 'Sblood, an he
were
here, I would cudgel him like a dog if he would say so.
Enter the Prince [and Poins], marching; and Falstaff meets
them, playing upon his truncheon like a fife.
How now, lad? Is the wind in that door, i' faith? Must we all
march?
Bard. Yea, two and two, Newgate fashion.
Host. My lord, I pray you hear me.
Prince. What say'st thou, Mistress Quickly? How doth thy
husband?
I love him well; he is an honest man.
Host. Good my lord, hear me.
Fal. Prithee let her alone and list to me.
Prince. What say'st thou, Jack?
Fal. The other night I fell asleep here behind the arras and
had my
pocket pick'd. This house is turn'd bawdy house; they pick
pockets.
Prince. What didst thou lose, Jack?
Fal. Wilt thou believe me, Hal? Three or four bonds of forty
pound
apiece and a seal-ring of my grandfather's.
Prince. A trifle, some eightpenny matter.
Host. So I told him, my lord, and I said I heard your Grace say
so;
and, my lord, he speaks most vilely of you, like a
foul-mouth'd
man as he is, and said he would cudgel you.
Prince. What! he did not?
Host. There's neither faith, truth, nor womanhood in me else.
Fal. There's no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune, nor
no
more truth in thee than in a drawn fox; and for woman-hood,
Maid
Marian may be the deputy's wife of the ward to thee. Go, you
thing, go!
Host. Say, what thing? what thing?
Fal. What thing? Why, a thing to thank God on.
Host. I am no thing to thank God on, I would thou shouldst know
it!
I am an honest man's wife, and, setting thy knight-hood
aside,
thou art a knave to call me so.
Fal. Setting thy womanhood aside, thou art a beast to say
otherwise.
Host. Say, what beast, thou knave, thou?
Fal. What beast? Why, an otter.
Prince. An otter, Sir John? Why an otter?
Fal. Why, she's neither fish nor flesh; a man knows not where
to
have her.
Host. Thou art an unjust man in saying so. Thou or any man
knows
where to have me, thou knave, thou!
Prince. Thou say'st true, hostess, and he slanders thee most
grossly.
Host. So he doth you, my lord, and said this other day you
ought
him a thousand pound.
Prince. Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound?
Fal. A thousand pound, Hal? A million! Thy love is worth a
million;
thou owest me thy love.
Host. Nay, my lord, he call'd you Jack and said he would cudgel
you.
Fal. Did I, Bardolph?
Bard. Indeed, Sir John, you said so.
Fal. Yea. if he said my ring was copper.
Prince. I say, 'tis copper. Darest thou be as good as thy word
now?
Fal. Why, Hal, thou knowest, as thou art but man, I dare; but
as
thou art Prince, I fear thee as I fear the roaring of the
lion's
whelp.
Prince. And why not as the lion?
Fal. The King himself is to be feared as the lion. Dost thou
think
I'll fear thee as I fear thy father? Nay, an I do, I pray God
my
girdle break.
Prince. O, if it should, how would thy guts fall about thy
knees!
But, sirrah, there's no room for faith, truth, nor honesty in
this bosom of thine. It is all fill'd up with guts and
midriff.
Charge an honest woman with picking thy pocket? Why, thou
whoreson, impudent, emboss'd rascal, if there were anything
in
thy pocket but tavern reckonings, memorandums of bawdy
houses,
and one poor pennyworth of sugar candy to make thee
long-winded-
if thy pocket were enrich'd with any other injuries but
these, I
am a villain. And yet you will stand to it; you will not
up wrong. Art thou not ashamed?
Fal. Dost thou hear, Hal? Thou knowest in the state of
innocency
Adam fell; and what should poor Jack Falstaff do in the days
of
villany? Thou seest I have more flesh than another man, and
therefore more frailty. You confess then, you pick'd my
pocket?
Prince. It appears so by the story.
Fal. Hostess, I forgive thee. Go make ready breakfast. Love thy
husband, look to thy servants, cherish thy guests. Thou shalt
find me tractable to any honest reason. Thou seest I am
pacified.
-Still? – Nay, prithee be gone. [Exit Hostess.] Now, Hal, to
the
news at court. For the robbery, lad- how is that answered?
Prince. O my sweet beef, I must still be good angel to thee.
The money is paid back again.
Fal. O, I do not like that paying back! 'Tis a double labour.
Prince. I am good friends with my father, and may do anything.
Fal. Rob me the exchequer the first thing thou doest, and do it
with unwash'd hands too.
Bard. Do, my lord.
Prince. I have procured thee, Jack, a charge of foot.
Fal. I would it had been of horse. Where shall I find one that
can
steal well? O for a fine thief of the age of two-and-twenty
or
thereabouts! I am heinously unprovided. Well, God be thanked
for
these rebels. They offend none but the virtuous. I laud them,
I
praise them.
Prince. Bardolph!
Bard. My lord?
Prince. Go bear this letter to Lord John of Lancaster,
To my brother John; this to my Lord of Westmoreland.
[Exit Bardolph.]
Go, Poins, to horse, to horse; for thou and I
Have thirty miles to ride yet ere dinner time.
[Exit Poins.]
Jack, meet me to-morrow in the Temple Hall
At two o'clock in the afternoon.
There shalt thou know thy charge. and there receive
Money and order for their furniture.
The land is burning; Percy stands on high;
And either they or we must lower lie. [Exit.]
Fal. Rare words! brave world! Hostess, my breakfast, come.
O, I could wish this tavern were my drum!
Exit.
ACT IV. Scene I. The rebel camp near Shrewsbury
Enter Harry Hotspur, Worcester, and Douglas.
Hot. Well said, my noble Scot. If speaking truth
In this fine age were not thought flattery,
Such attribution should the Douglas have
As not a soldier of this season's stamp
Should go so general current through the world.
By God, I cannot flatter, I defy
The tongues of soothers! but a braver place
In my heart's love hath no man than yourself.
Nay, task me to my word; approve me, lord.
Doug. Thou art the king of honour.
No man so potent breathes upon the ground
But I will beard him.
Enter one with letters.
Hot. Do so, and 'tis well. -
What letters hast thou there? – I can but thank you.
Messenger. These letters come from your father.
Hot. Letters from him? Why comes he not himself?
Mess. He cannot come, my lord; he is grievous sick.
Hot. Zounds! how has he the leisure to be sick
In such a justling time? Who leads his power?
Under whose government come they along?
Mess. His letters bears his mind, not I, my lord.
Wor. I prithee tell me, doth he keep his bed?
Mess. He did, my lord, four days ere I set forth,
And at the time of my departure thence
He was much fear'd by his physicians.
Wor. I would the state of time had first been whole
Ere he by sickness had been visited.
His health was never better worth than now.
Hot. Sick now? droop now? This sickness doth infect
The very lifeblood of our enterprise.
'Tis catching hither, even to our camp.
He writes me here that inward sickness-
And that his friends by deputation could not
So soon be drawn; no did he think it meet
To lay so dangerous and dear a trust
On any soul remov'd but on his own.
Yet doth he give us bold advertisement,
That with our small conjunction we should on,
To see how fortune is dispos'd to us;
For, as he writes, there is no quailing now,
Because the King is certainly possess'd
Of all our purposes. What say you to it?
Wor. Your father's sickness is a maim to us.
Hot. A perilous gash, a very limb lopp'd off.
And yet, in faith, it is not! His present want
Seems more than we shall find it. Were it good
To set the exact wealth of all our states
All at one cast? to set so rich a man
On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour?
It were not good; for therein should we read
The very bottom and the soul of hope,
The very list, the very utmost bound
Of all our fortunes.
Doug. Faith, and so we should;
Where now remains a sweet reversion.
We may boldly spend upon the hope of what
Is to come in.
A comfort of retirement lives in this.
Hot. A rendezvous, a home to fly unto,
If that the devil and mischance look big
Upon the maidenhead of our affairs.
Wor. But yet I would your father had been here.
The quality and hair of our attempt
Brooks no division. It will be thought
By some that know not why he is away,
That wisdom, loyalty, and mere dislike
Of our proceedings kept the Earl from hence.
And think how such an apprehension
May turn the tide of fearful faction
And breed a kind of question in our cause.
For well you know we of the off'ring side
Must keep aloof from strict arbitrement,
And stop all sight-holes, every loop from whence
The eye of reason may pry in upon us.
This absence of your father's draws a curtain
That shows the ignorant a kind of fear
Before not dreamt of.
Hot. You strain too far.
I rather of his absence make this use:
It lends a lustre and more great opinion,
A larger dare to our great enterprise,
Than if the Earl were here; for men must think,
If we, without his help, can make a head
To push against a kingdom, with his help
We shall o'erturn it topsy-turvy down.
Yet all goes well; yet all our joints are whole.
Doug. As heart can think. There is not such a word
Spoke of in Scotland as this term of fear.
Enter Sir Richard Vernon.
Hot. My cousin Vernon! welcome, by my soul.
Ver. Pray God my news be worth a welcome, lord.
The Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong,
Is marching hitherwards; with him Prince John.
Hot. No harm. What more?
Ver. And further, I have learn'd
The King himself in person is set forth,
Or hitherwards intended speedily,
With strong and mighty preparation.
Hot. He shall be welcome too. Where is his son,
The nimble-footed madcap Prince of Wales,
And his comrades, that daff'd the world aside
And bid it pass?
Ver. All furnish'd, all in arms;
All plum'd like estridges that with the wind
Bated like eagles having lately bath'd;
Glittering in golden coats like images;
As full of spirit as the month of May
And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer;
Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.
I saw young Harry with his beaver on
His cushes on his thighs, gallantly arm'd,
Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury,
And vaulted with such ease into his seat
As if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus
And witch the world with noble horsemanship.
Hot. No more, no more! Worse than the sun in March,
This praise doth nourish agues. Let them come.
They come like sacrifices in their trim,
And to the fire-ey'd maid of smoky war
All hot and bleeding Will we offer them.
The mailed Mars Shall on his altar sit
Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire
To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh,
And yet not ours. Come, let me taste my horse,
Who is to bear me like a thunderbolt
Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales.
Harry to Harry shall, hot horse to horse,
Meet, and ne'er part till one drop down a corse.
that Glendower were come!
Ver. There is more news.
I learn'd in Worcester, as I rode along,
He cannot draw his power this fourteen days.
Doug. That's the worst tidings that I hear of yet.
Wor. Ay, by my faith, that bears a frosty sound.
Hot. What may the King's whole battle reach unto?
Ver. To thirty thousand.
Hot. Forty let it be.
My father and Glendower being both away,
The powers of us may serve so great a day.
Come, let us take a muster speedily.
Doomsday is near. Die all, die merrily.
Doug. Talk not of dying. I am out of fear
Of death or death's hand for this one half-year.
