Original subtitles

The heavens themselves, the planets and this earth,

observe degree, priority and place,

office and custom, in all line of order.

Take but degree away,

untune that string,

and hark,

what discord follows!

Ripped By mstoll

King Henry V,

too famous to live long.

England ne'er lost a king of so much worth.

England ne'er had a king until his time.

His sparkling eyes,

replete with wrathful fire.

More dazzled and drove back his enemies than midday sun

fierce bent against their faces.

Henry V, thy ghost I invocate.

Prosper this realm, keep it from civil broils.

Combat with adverse planets in the heavens.

A far more glorious star thy soul will make,

than Julius Caesar, or bright...

My honorable lords.

Sad tidings bring I to you out of France,

of loss, of slaughter and discomfiture.

Paris, Gisors, Poitiers are all quite lost.

What sayest thou, man, before dead Henry's corpse? Speak softly.

The loss of those great towns will make him burst his lead and rise from death.

Is Paris lost?

Is Gisors yielded up?

If Henry were recalled to life again,

these news would cause him once more yield the ghost.

How were they lost? What treachery was used?

No treachery, but want of men and money.

Of England's coat one half is cut away.

Were our tears wanting to this funeral,

these tidings would call forth their flowing tides.

Give me my steeled coat. I'll fight for France.

Wounds will I lend the French instead of eyes,

to weep their intermissive miseries.

O whither shall we fly from this reproach?

We will not fly, but to our enemies' throats.

Exeter, if thou be slack, I'll fight it out.

Gloucester, why doubt'st thou of my forwardness?

An army have I mustered in my thoughts wherewith already France is overrun.

My gracious Lord,

to add to your laments, wherewith you now bedew King Henry's hearse,

I must inform you of the fight for Orleans

betwixt the stout lords, Talbot and Salisbury,

and the French.

Salisbury!

The camp by night was overrun.

Talbot slain?

No.

Talbot lives, but forced to flee Orleans.

Farewell, my masters. Bonfires in France forthwith I am to make,

to warm our great Saint George's feast.

I'll either quell the Dauphin utterly,

or bring him in obedience to our yoke. Come.

I'll to the Tower with all the haste I can,

and there I will proclaim young Henry King.

Your Majesty.

Brakenbury?

My Lord, your loving nephew.

Richard Plantagenet, is he come?

Ay, noble uncle,

your nephew, Richard, comes.

Direct mine arms, I may embrace his neck.

Poor gentleman, your wrong doth equal mine.

Deprived of honor and inheritance.

But now, the arbitrator of despairs,

just death,

kind umpire of men's miseries,

with sweet enlargements doth dismiss me hence.

I would his troubles were expired,

that you might recover what is lost.

Good uncle, for my father's sake,

in honor of a true Plantagenet

and for alliance sake, declare the cause.

Henry IV, grandfather to the young king,

deposed his true King Richard.

I should have been the rightful next by birth

when my friends opposed this usurpment,

and worked to instate me the rightful heir.

I lost my liberty and they their lives.

Are you the rightful king?

And I thy heir?

Silence, nephew, be thou politic.

Strong fixed is the house of Lancaster,

and, like a mountain, not to be removed.

And so, farewell,

and fair be all thy hopes,

and prosperous be thy life

in peace and war.

Here dies the dusky torch of Mortimer.

And now, for all those wrongs,

those bitter injuries,

which too long fate hath offered to my house,

I silently swear with honor to redress.

My great uncle was Edmund Mortimer, who married Philippa,

sole daughter unto Lionel, Duke of Clarence.

Therefore, so if the issue of the elder son succeed the younger,

I am King.

The truth appears so naked on my side,

that any purblind eye could seek it out.

Since you are tongue-tied and so loath to speak,

let him that is a true-born gentleman,

if he suppose that I have pleaded truth,

from off this brier pluck

a white rose with me.

Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer

pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me.

I love no colors.

And without all color of base insinuating flattery,

I pluck this white rose with My Lord.

I pluck this red rose with brave Somerset,

and say withal I think he held the right.

Stay, lords and gentlemen, and pluck no more,

till you conclude that he upon whose side

the fewest roses are cropped from the tree,

shall yield the other in the right opinion.

Good Lord of Warwick, it is well objected.

If I have fewest, I subscribe in silence.

And I.

Then, for the truth

and plainness of the case,

I pluck this pale and maiden blossom here,

giving my verdict on the white rose side.

Well, well. Come on, who else?

Now, Somerset, where is your argument?

Here in my scabbard,

meditating that shall dye your white rose in a bloody red.

Meantime...

Your cheeks do counterfeit our roses, for pale they look with fear.

Not for fear, but anger, that yet thy tongue will not confess thy error.

Proud fool, be gone!

I scorn both him and thee.

Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet.

I'll turn my dagger here into thy throat.

Let us away, good Suffolk.

We grace this yeoman by conversing with him.

Now, by God's will, thou wrong'st him, Somerset!

Was not thy father for treason executed?

His trespass yet lives guilty in thy blood,

and till thou be restored, thou art a yeoman.

My father was no traitor,

and that I'll prove on better men than Somerset,

and scourge you for this apprehension.

Look to it well, say you are well warned.

Thou shalt find us ready for thee still,

and know us by these colors for thy foes.

For these my friends, in spite of thee, shall wear.

And, by my soul,

this pale and angry rose,

as symbol white of my blood-drinking hate,

shall I, forever,

and my faction, wear.

Go forward, and be choked with thy ambition.

Oh!

Gloucester.

Com'st thou with deep premeditated lines?

With written pamphlets, studiously devised?

Humphrey of Gloucester, if thou canst accuse,

do it without invention, suddenly.

As I with sudden and extemporal speech

purpose to answer what thou canst object.

Your Majesty?

Presumptuous priest, this place commands my patience,

or thou shouldst find thou hast dishonored me.

Thou art a most pernicious usurer,

forward by nature, enemy to peace.

Lascivious, wanton, more than well beseems a man of thy profession and degree.

Beside, I fear me, if thy thoughts were sifted,

the King, thy sovereign, is not quite exempt

from envious malice of thy swelling heart.

Gloucester, I do defy thee.

If I were covetous,

ambitious, or perverse, as he would have me,

how am I so poor?

It is not that that hath incensed the Duke.

It is because no one should sway but he.

No one but he should be about the King,

and that engenders thunder in his breast

and makes him roar these accusations forth.

Am I not Protector, saucy priest?

Unreverent Gloucester!

Thou art reverent touching thy spiritual function, not thy life.

Rome shall remedy this.

Roam thither, then.

Uncles of Gloucester and of Winchester,

I would prevail, if prayers might prevail,

to join your hearts in love

and amity.

O, what a scandal is it to our crown,

that two such noble peers as ye should jar?

Believe me, lords,

my tender years can tell,

civil dissension is a viperous worm,

that gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth.

O, how this discord doth afflict my soul.

Can you, My Lord of Winchester, behold my sighs and tears,

and will not once relent?

Who should study to prefer a peace

if holy churchmen take delight in broils?

Yield, My Lord Protector.

Yield, Winchester.

He shall submit, or I will never yield.

Compassion on the King commands me stoop.

Behold, my Lord of Winchester,

the Duke hath banished moody discontented fury.

Why look you still so stern and tragical?

Here, Winchester, I offer thee my hand.

Fie,

holy uncle,

I have heard you preach that malice is a great and grievous sin,

and will not you maintain the thing you teach?

Well, Duke of Gloucester, I will yield to thee.

O, loving uncle, kind Duke of Gloucester,

how joyful am I made by this contract.

Accept this appeal, gracious sovereign,

and hear the right of Richard Plantagenet.

Uh...

Well urged, my Lord of Warwick,

for sweet prince, you have great reason to do Richard right.

My loving lords,

our pleasure is that Richard be restored to his blood.

Thy humble servant vows obedience,

and humble service to the point of death.

Stoop, then, and set thy knee against my foot.

And in return of that duty done,

I gird thee with the valiant sword of York.

Rise, Richard, like a true Plantagenet.

And rise created princely Duke of York.

And so thrive Richard,

and so perish they

that grudge one thought against Your Majesty.

Welcome, high prince,

mighty Duke of York.

Perish, base prince, ignoble Duke of York.

Now will it best avail Your Majesty

to cross the seas and to be crowned in France.

The presence of a king engenders love amongst his subjects

and his loyal friends, as it disanimates his enemies.

When Gloucester says the word, King Henry goes,

for friendly counsel cuts off many foes.

Your ships already are in readiness.

God save King Henry of England and of France,

of that name VI.

God save the King.

My gracious sovereign,

as we rode from Calais in haste unto your coronation,

a letter was delivered to my hands, writ to Your Grace

from the Dauphin of France.

My Lord Protector,

view the letter.

"To the King."

Hath he forgot he is his sovereign?

"I have upon especial cause,

"moved with compassion of my country's wrack,

"led by one Joan la Pucelle

"taken back the town of Rouen, lost,

"thrown out your lordships occupying there,

"and am hailed by my people,

"Charles, the rightful King of France."

O, monstrous treachery!

Doth France revolt?

It doth, My Lord, and is become your foe.

Now, then, Lord Talbot,

you must return to Charles and give him chastisement for this abuse.

How say you, My Lord, are you content?

Content, my liege?

I should have begged I might have been employed.

Then gather strength from these assembled here.

Somerset, you have scores of horsemen, have you not?

I have, My Lord.

Will you help good Talbot curb the French?

I swear I shall supply him what he needs.

Now, with full power, march unto Charles straight.

Let him perceive how ill we brook his treason,

and what offense it is to flout a friend.

I go, My Lord,

in heart desiring still you may behold

confusion of your foes.

Lords Somerset and York, I pray, come hither.

I see no reason, if I wear this rose,

that anyone should therefore be suspicious

I more incline to Somerset than York.

Both are my kinsmen, and I love them both.

As we hither came in peace,

so let us still continue peace and love.

Cousin of York,

we institute Your Grace to be our regent in these parts of France.

And, good my Lord of Somerset,

unite your troops of horsemen with his bands of foot

and, like true subjects, both follow Talbot,

and our valiant uncle Exeter

back to Rouen and to this traitor Charles.

Go cheerfully together

and digest your angry choler on your enemies.

Prettily the King did play the orator.

And so he did,

but yet, I like it not he wears the badge of Somerset.

Tush, that was but his fancy. Blame him not.

I dare presume, sweet prince,

he thought no harm.

But let it rest.

Other affairs must now be managed.

Well didst Richard of York suppress his voice.

For had the passions of his heart burst out,

I fear we should have seen deciphered there more rancorous spite,

more furious raging broils than yet can be imagined or supposed.

'Tis much when scepters are in children's hands,

but more when envy

breeds unkind division.

There comes the rain,

there begins confusion.

Joan.

Joan.

Joan?

Joan.

Look on thy country.

Look on fertile France,

and see the cities and the towns defaced

by wasting ruin of the cruel foe.

We, little herd of England's timorous deer,

mazed with a yelping kennel of French curs.

If we be English deer, be then in blood,

not rascal-like, to fall down with a pinch,

but rather, moody-mad desperate stags.

Good men, I am by birth a shepherd's daughter,

my wit untrained in any kind of art.

Turn on the bloody hounds with heads of steel

and make the cowards stand aloof at bay.

Whilst I prayed unto the holy lamb,

God's mother deigned to appear to me.

And in a vision full of Majesty,

willed me to leave my base vocation

and free my country from calamity.

God and Saint George, Talbot and England's right,

prosper our colors in this dangerous fight!

Lord Somerset?

How now, Sir William, whither were you sent?

Whither, Somerset.

From bought and sold Lord Talbot,

who ringed about with bold adversity,

cries out for noble Somerset's promised horse.

Say, will you send your troops?

It is too late, I cannot send them now.

This expedition was by York and Talbot too rashly plotted.

The over-daring Talbot hath sullied

all his gloss of former glory

by this unheedful, desperate, wild adventure.

York set him on, York should provide him aid.

And York, as fast upon Your Grace exclaims,

swearing that you withhold your promised aid.

York lies.

He might have sent and had the horse.

I owe him little duty and less love.

The fraud of England, not the force of France,

hath now entrapp'd the noble-minded Talbot.

He dies, betrayed to fortune by your strife.

And on his son, young John,

of whom, two hours since, news did arrive

that he is speeding to his warlike father.

Come! Go.

I will dispatch the horsemen straight.

Within six hours, they will be at his aid.

Too late comes rescue, he is ta'en or slain.

If he be dead,

brave Talbot, then, adieu.

His fame lives in the world,

his shame in you.

Father!

John!

John, I did send for thee,

that Talbot's name might be in thee revived.

Now thou art come unto a feast of death,

a terrible and unavoided danger.

Therefore, dear boy, mount on my swiftest horse,

and I'll direct thee how thou shalt escape by sudden flight.

Come, dally not, be gone.

Is my name Talbot? And am I your son?

And shall I fly?

O, if you love my mother,

dishonor not her name to make a bastard and a slave of me.

You fly to revenge my death if I be slain.

He that flies so will ne'er return again.

If we both stay, we both are sure to die.

Then let me stay and, Father, do you fly.

Here on my knee I beg mortality,

rather than life preserved with infamy.

Upon my blessing, I command thee, go!

To fight I will, but not to fly the foe.

Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I.

For live I will not, if my father die.

Come, side by side,

together live and die,

and soul with soul from France to heaven fly.

Where is young Talbot?

Where is valiant John?

Where is my other life?

No.

O, John.

Dizzy-eyed fury

and great rage of heart,

suddenly made thou from my side

to start into the clustering battle of the French.

And there,

in that sea of blood,

my boy did drench his over-mounting spirit,

and there died my Icarus,

my blossom,

in his pride.

Had York and Somerset brought rescue in,

we should have found a bloody day of this.

Hew them to pieces.

Hack their bones asunder,

whose life was England's glory,

Gallia's wonder. O, no, forbear.

For that which we have fled during the life,

let us not wrong it dead.

Where is the Dauphin?

The day is ours, base wretches.

Thy forces are o'erwhelmed by God and France.

Who art thou, devil?

Where's the great Alcides of the field?

Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury.

O, were mine eyeballs into bullets turned,

that I, in rage, might shoot them in your faces.

Go, take their bodies hence.

We will bear them hence.

O, that we could call the dead to life,

it were enough to fright the realm of France.

The English army that divided was into two parties,

must now conjoin

in one.

From Talbot's sacred ashes shall be reared

a phoenix that will make all France afeared.

Again!

Joan. Joan.

Joan.

Joan.

Joan.

Fairest woman,

do not fear nor fly,

for I will touch thee but with reverent hands.

I kiss these fingers

for eternal peace

and lay them gently at thy tender side.

Who art thou?

Say, that I may honor thee.

Margaret, my name,

and daughter to a Duke.

The Duke of Anjou, whosoe'er thou art.

An earl, I am,

and Somerset am called.

Say, Somerset, if thy name be so,

what ransom must I pay before I pass?

For I perceive I am thy prisoner.

Why speak'st thou not?

What ransom must I pay?

Gentle princess, would you not suppose

your bondage happy.

To be made a queen?

To be a queen in bondage is more vile

than is a slave in base servility.

For princes should be free.

And so shall you,

if happy England's royal king be free.

Why?

What concerns his freedom unto me?

I'll undertake to make thee Henry's queen,

to put a precious crown upon thy head,

if thou wilt condescend to be my...

What?

His love.

I am unworthy to be Henry's wife.

No, gentle madam. I unworthy am to woo so fair a dame

to be his wife.

How say you, madam, are ye so content?

And,

if my father please,

I am content.

Then, madam,

at your father's castle walls we'll crave a parley

to confer with him.

Where art thou, witch?

Damsel of France, I think I have you fast.

A plaguing mischief light on thee,

and may ye be suddenly surprised

by bloody hands, in sleeping on your bed.

Fell banning hag, enchantress, hold thy tongue.

I prithee, give me leave to curse awhile!

Curse, miscreant, when thou com'st to the stake.

See, Anjou.

See thy daughter prisoner.

What remedy? I am a soldier, and unapt to weep,

or to exclaim on fortune's fickleness.

There is remedy enough, My Lord.

Consent, and for thy honor give consent

thy daughter shall be wedded to my king.

Her, I, with pain have wooed and won thereto,

and this, her easy-held imprisonment,

hath gained thy daughter princely liberty.

Speaks he as he thinks?

Fair Margaret knows the Earl of Somerset doth not flatter nor feign.

Welcome, brave earl, into our territories.

Command to Anjou what your honor pleases.

Thanks, Anjou,

happy for so sweet a child

for to be made companion to a king.

What answer makes Your Grace unto my suit?

Since thou dost deign to woo her little worth

to be the princely bride of such a lord...

Upon condition, I may quietly enjoy mine own,

the country Maine and Anjou,

my daughter shall be Henry's, if he please.

That is her ransom.

I deliver her, and those two counties I will undertake

Your Grace shall well and quietly enjoy.

And I again, in Henry's royal name,

give thee her hand

for sign of plighted faith.

Anjou of France, I give thee kingly thanks,

for this is in traffic of a king.

I'll over then to England with this news,

and make this marriage to be solemnized.

So farewell, Anjou.

I'll set this diamond safe

in golden palaces, as it becomes.

I do embrace thee, as I would embrace

the Christian prince, King Henry,

were he here.

Farewell, My Lord.

Good wishes, praise and prayers

shall Somerset ever have of Margaret.

Farewell, sweet madam.

But hark you, Margaret, no princely commendations to my king?

Such commendations as becomes a maid,

a virgin and his servant say to him.

And this withal.

That for thyself.

I will not so presume to send such peevish tokens to a king.

Bring forth the sorceress!

No!

No! Please, no!

No! Tie her to the stake,

for she hath lived too long,

to fill the world with vicious qualities.

First, let me tell you whom you have condemned.

Not me, begotten of a shepherd swain,

but issued from the progeny of kings.

Chosen from above to work exceeding miracles on earth.

I never had to do with wicked spirits!

But you,

that are polluted with your lusts,

stained by the guiltless blood of innocents.

You judge it straight a thing impossible

to compass wonders but by help of devils.

Joan of Arc

hath been chaste

and immaculate in very thought.

Whose maiden-blood, thus rigorously abused,

will cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven!

Place barrels of pitch upon the fatal stake

that so her torture may be shortened.

Dispatch her straight!

Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts?

Use no entreaty, for it is in vain.

May never glorious sun reflex his beams

upon the country where you make abode,

but darkness and the gloomy shade of death environ you,

till mischief and despair

drive you to break your necks or hang yourselves.

Break thou in pieces, and consume to ashes,

thou foul, accursed minister of hell.

Your wondrous, rare description, noble Earl,

of beauteous Margaret hath astonished me.

Her virtues,

graced with external gifts,

do breed love's settled passions in my heart.

And like as rigor of tempestuous gusts

provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide,

so am I driven,

by breath of her renown, either to suffer shipwreck

or arrive where I may have fruition of her love.

Tush, my good Lord,

this superficial tale is but a preface of her worthy praise.

The chief perfections of that lovely dame,

had I sufficient skill to utter them,

would make a volume of enticing lines.

And, which is more, she is not so divine,

but with as humble lowliness of mind,

she is content to be at your command

to love and honor Henry as her Lord.

And otherwise will Henry ne'er presume.

Therefore, my Lord Protector,

give consent that Margaret of Anjou be England's queen.

So should I give consent to flatter sin?

You know, My Lord,

your highness is betrothed unto another lady of esteem,

the daughter of the Earl of Armagnac.

How shall we then dispense with that contract

and not deface Your Honor with reproach?

As doth a ruler with unlawful oaths.

A poor earl's daughter is unequal odds,

and therefore may be broke without offense.

Why, what, I pray, is Margaret more than that?

Her father is no better than an earl.

Her father is of authority so great as his alliance will confirm our peace,

and keep the Frenchmen in allegiance.

And so the Earl of Armagnac may do.

Beside, his wealth doth warrant a liberal dower,

where Anjou sooner will receive than give.

A dower, My Lord?

Disgrace not so your king that he should be so abject, base and poor

to choose for wealth, and not for perfect love.

Henry is able to enrich his queen,

not seek a queen to make him rich.

So worthless peasants bargain for their wives

as market-men for oxen, sheep or horse.

Marriage is a matter of more worth.

Whom should we match with Henry, being a king,

but Margaret?

Her valiant courage and undaunted spirit

will answer our hope in issue of a king.

For Henry, son unto a conqueror,

is likely to beget more conquerors,

if with a lady of so high resolve as is fair Margaret

he be linked in love.

Take shipping post, My Lord, to France.

Agree to any covenants,

and procure that Lady Margaret do vouchsafe to come,

to cross the seas to England

and be crowned King Henry's faithful and anointed queen.

And you, good uncle, banish all offense.

If you do censure me by what you were, not what you are,

I know it will excuse this sudden execution of my will.

No matter...

As by Your High Imperial Majesty,

I had in charge at my depart for France,

to secure Princess Margaret for Your Grace.

I have perform'd my task

and humbly now upon my knee

in sight of England and her lordly peers deliver up

the happiest gift that ever marquis gave,

the fairest queen that ever king received.

Welcome, Queen Margaret.

I can express no kinder sign of love than this kind kiss.

O, Lord, that lends me life,

lend me a heart replete with thankfulness.

For thou hast given me in this beauteous face

a world of earthly blessings to my soul.

If sympathy of love unite our thoughts?

Great King of England

and my gracious Lord,

the mutual conference my mind hath made

by day, by night,

waking and in my dreams, with you, my sovereign,

makes me the bolder to salute my king.

Lords,

with one cheerful voice,

welcome my love.

Long live Queen Margaret,

England's happiness!

We thank you all.

My Lord Protector.

So it please Your Grace,

here are details of the contracted peace

between our sovereign

and the French King, Charles.

"It is agreed between the French King Charles,

"and William, Duke of Somerset,

"ambassador for Henry, King of England,

"that the said Henry shall espouse the Lady Margaret,

"and crown her Queen of England."

Hear! Hear! "That the Duchy of Anjou,

"the cities of Rouen and of Paris and the county of Maine

"shall be released and delivered to the French king."

Uncle, how now?

Pardon me, gracious Lord.

A sudden qualm hath struck me at the heart

and dimmed mine eyes, that I can read no further.

Uncle of Winchester, I pray, read on.

"And she be sent over at the King of England's own cost,

"without having any dowry."

They please us well.

Thanks, Uncle Winchester.

Come, let us in.

Brave peers of England, pillars of the state,

to you Duke Humphrey must unload his grief.

What? Did my brother Henry spend his youth,

his valor, coin and people, in the wars?

Did he so often lodge in open field,

in winter's cold and summer's parching heat,

to conquer France, his true inheritance?

And did the noble Salisbury and Talbot

give up their lives to keep what Henry got?

Have you yourselves

received deep scars in France and Normandy?

And shall these labors and these honors die?

O, peers of England, shameful is this league!

Fatal this marriage, canceling your fame,

defacing monuments in conquer'd France,

undoing all, as if all had never been!

Gloucester, what means this passionate discourse?

For France, 'tis ours, and we will keep it still.

Ay, we will keep it, if we can,

but now it is impossible we should.

Somerset hath given Anjou and Maine unto the Dauphin,

who now we must call King!

Anjou and Maine! I fought to win them both,

and are the cities that I got with wounds

delivered up again with peaceful words?

France should have torn and rent my very heart,

before I would have yielded to this league.

I never read but England's kings

have had great sums of gold and dowries with their wives.

And our King Henry gives away his own,

to match with her that brings no vantages!

She should have stayed in France and starved in France!

My Lord of Gloucester, now ye grow too hot.

My Lord of Winchester, I know your mind.

'Tis not my speeches that you do mislike,

but 'tis my presence that doth trouble ye.

Lordings, farewell. And say, when I am gone,

I prophesied France will be lost ere long.

So, there goes our Protector in a rage.

'Tis known to you he is mine enemy.

Nay, more, an enemy unto us all.

And no great friend, I fear me, to the King.

Consider, sir, he is the next of blood

and heir apparent to the English crown.

I fear me that for all his flattering gloss,

he will be found a dangerous Protector.

Why should he then protect our sovereign,

he being of age to govern of himself?

My Lord of Winchester, join you with me,

and together, with the Duke of Somerset,

we'll quickly hoist Duke Humphrey from his seat.

The day will come when York shall claim his own,

and when I spy advantage, claim the crown.

Nor shall proud Lancaster usurp my right,

nor wear the diadem upon his head,

whose church-like humors fits not for a king.

Then, York, be still awhile, till time do serve.

Watch thou and wake, when others be asleep,

to pry into the secrets of the state.

Till Henry, surfeiting in joys of love...

...and Humphrey with the peers be fallen at jars.

Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose,

and force perforce I'll make him yield the crown,

whose bookish rule hath pulled fair England down.

Why droops my Lord like over-ripened corn?

Why doth the great Duke Humphrey knit his brows?

Why are thine eyes fixed to the sullen earth,

gazing on that which seems to dim thy sight?

What seest thou there?

King Henry's crown?

If so, gaze on,

and grovel on thy face until thy head be circled with the same.

Put forth thy hand,

reach at the glorious gold.

What, is't too short?

I'll lengthen it with mine.

And, having both together heaved it up, we'll both lift our heads to heaven.

O, Nell, sweet Nell, if thou dost love thy Lord,

banish the canker of ambitious thoughts.

And may that hour, when I imagine ill

against my King and nephew,

virtuous Henry,

be my last breathing in this mortal world.

My troublous dream this night has made me sad.

What dreamed my Lord?

Tell me,

and I'll requite it with sweet rehearsal of my morning's dream.

Me thought this staff,

mine office-badge in court,

was broke in twain by whom I have forgot.

But, as I think, it was by th' Cardinal.

And on the pieces of the broken wand

were placed the heads of Somerset and Suffolk.

This was my dream.

What it doth bode, God knows.

This was nothing but an argument.

That he that breaks a stick of Gloucester's grove

shall lose his head for his presumption.

But list to me,

my Humphrey, my sweet Duke.

Me thought I sat in seat of majesty

in the cathedral church of Westminster,

and in that chair where kings and queens are crowned,

where Henry and Dame Margaret kneeled to me,

and on my head did set the diadem.

Nay, Eleanor, then must I chide outright.

Art thou not second woman in the realm,

and the Protector's wife, beloved of him?

And wilt thou still be hammering treachery,

to tumble down thy husband and thyself

from top of honor to disgrace's feet?

Away from me, and let me hear no more!

What? What, are you so choleric with Eleanor, for telling but her dream?

Next time I'll keep my dreams unto myself, and not be checked.

My Lord Protector,

'tis his highness' pleasure you do prepare to join the assembly

that lately gathers at Westminster.

I go.

Nell, thou wilt come with us?

Yes, my good Lord, I'll follow presently.

What?

Shall King Henry be a pupil still

under the surly Gloucester's governance?

Am I a queen in title and in style

and must be made a subject to a duke?

I tell thee, sir, when we first met,

I thought King Henry had resembled thee in courage, courtship and proportion.

But all his mind is bent to holiness,

to number Ave-Memes on ms beads.

I would the college of the cardinals would choose him Pope,

and carry him to Rome.

That were a state fit for His Holiness.

Madam, be patient.

As I was cause Your Highness came to England,

so will I In England work Your Grace's full content.

Beside the Lord Protector,

have we Winchester, the imperious churchman,

Suffolk, Exeter, and grumbling York.

And not the least of these but can do more in England than the King.

Not all these lords do vex me half so much

as that proud dame,

the Lord Protector’s wife.

She sweeps in through Court

with troops of ladies,

more like an empress than Duke Humphrey's wife.

Strangers in court do take her for the Queen.

She bears a Duke's revenues on her back,

and in her heart, she scorns our poverty.

Shall I not live to be avenged on her?

She vaunted 'mongst her minions t'other day,

the very train of her worst wearing gown

was better worth than all my father's lands,

till Somerset gave two dukedoms for his daughter.

Madam, myself have limed a bush for her,

and placed a choir of such enticing birds

that she will light to listen to the lays

and never mount to trouble you again. So...

Let her rest.

And, madam, list to me,

for I am bold to counsel you in this.

Although we fancy not the Cardinal,

yet must we join with him and with the lords

till we have brought Duke Humphrey in disgrace.

Then, one by one,

we'll weed them all at last,

and you yourself shall steer the happy helm.

If York have ill-demeaned himself in France,

then let him be denied the regentship.

If Suffolk be unworthy of the place,

let York be Regent. I will yield to him.

Whether Your Grace be worthy, yea or no,

dispute not that York is the worthier.

Ambitious Warwick, let thy betters speak.

The Cardinal's not my better in the field.

All in this presence are thy betters, Warwick.

Warwick may live to be the best of all.

Show some reason, Somerset.

Why Suffolk should be preferred in this!

Because the King, forsooth, would have it so.

Madam, the King is old enough himself to give his censure.

These are no women's matters.

If he be old enough,

what needs Your Grace to be Protector of His Excellence?

Madam, I am Protector of the realm,

and at his pleasure will resign my place.

Resign it then...

...and leave thine insolence.

Since thou wert King,

and who is King but thou,

the commonwealth hath daily run to wrack,

the Dauphin hath prevailed beyond the seas,

and all the peers and nobles of the realm

have been as bondsmen to thy sovereignty.

The commons hast thou racked.

The clergy's bags are lank and lean with thy extortions.

Thy sumptuous buildings and thy wife's attire

have cost a mass of public treasury.

The sale of offices and towns in France,

if they were known, as the suspect is great,

would make thee quickly hop without thy head.

Enough!

The King knows what he knows.

Oh!

Give me my fan.

What, minion?

Can ye not?

Proud Frenchwoman.

Could I come near your beauty with my nails,

I'd set my 10 commandments in your face!

Sweet aunt, be quiet, 'twas against her will.

Against her will!

Good king,

look to't in time.

She shall not strike Dame Eleanor unrevenged.

Your Majesty.

What a point, My Lord, your falcon made!

And what a pitch she flew above the rest!

No marvel, and it like your Majesty,

my Lord Protector's hawks do tower so well.

They know their master loves to be aloft,

and bears his thoughts above a falcon's pitch.

My Lord, 'tis but a base ignoble mind

that mounts no higher than a bird can soar.

I thought as much he would be above the clouds.

Why, Somerset, England knows thine insolence.

And thy ambition, Gloucester.

I prithee, peace, good queen,

and whet not on these furious peers.

For blessed are the peacemakers on earth.

Mmm.

The winds grow high,

so do your stomachs, lords.

I pray, let me compound this strife.

What tidings with our holy uncle?

Such as my heart doth tremble to unfold.

Lady Eleanor, the Protector's wife,

hath practiced dangerously against your state.

Raising up wicked spirits from underground,

demanding of King Henry's life and death,

and other of Your Highness' privy council.

As more at large Your Grace shall understand.

And so, my Lord Protector, by this means,

your lady is forthcoming yet at London.

This news, I think, hath turned your weapon's edge.

Ambitious Lord, leave to afflict my heart.

Sorrow and grief have vanquished all my powers.

And, vanquished as I am, I yield to thee.

Oh, God, what mischiefs work the wicked ones!

Heaping confusion on their own heads thereby.

Gloucester, see here the tainture of thy nest.

And look thyself be faultless, thou wert best.

Madam, for myself, to heaven I do appeal,

how I have loved my king and commonweal.

And for my wife, I know not how it stands.

Sorry I am to hear what I have heard.

Noble she is,

but if she have forgot honor and virtue and conversed with such,

I banish her my bed and company.

And give her as a prey to law and shame,

that hath dishonored Gloucester's honest name.

Well...

For this night we will repose us here.

Tomorrow toward London back again,

to look into this business thoroughly.

Come on!

Stand forth, Dame Eleanor Cobham.

In sight of God and us,

your guilt is great.

Receive the sentence of the law for sin

such as by God's book are adjudged to death.

You, madam,

for you are so nobly born, shall...

...after three days' open penance done,

live in your country here in banishment,

with Sir John Glasdale, in the Isle of Man.

Welcome is my banishment.

Welcome is my death.

Eleanor...

The law, thou see'st,

hath judged thee.

I cannot justify whom the law condemns.

Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief.

Ah, Humphrey,

this dishonor in thine age will bring thy head with sorrow to the ground.

I do beseech Your Majesty, give me leave to go.

Sorrow would solace and mine age would ease.

Stay!

Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester,

ere thou go, give up thy staff.

Henry will to himself Protector be,

and God shall be my guide.

But go in peace, Humphrey,

no less beloved than when thou wert Protector to thy king.

I see no reason why a king of years should be

protected like a child.

God and King Henry govern England's realm!

Give up your staff, sir, and the King his realm.

My staff.

Here, noble Henry,

is my staff.

As willingly do I the same resign

as e'er thy father Henry made it mine.

And even as willingly at thy feet I leave it,

as others would ambitiously receive it.

Farewell, good King.

When I am dead and gone,

may honorable peace attend thy throne.

This staff of honor wrought,

there let it stand

where it best fits to be, in Henry's hand.

Move! Move!

Eleanor!

Come you, My Lord, to see my open shame?

Now thou dost penance, too. Hear how they mock!

Ah, Gloucester.

Hide thee from their hateful taunts,

and in thy closet pent up, rue my shame.

And ban thine enemies, both mine and thine.

Be patient, gentle Nell, forget this grief.

Ah, Gloucester, teach me to forget myself.

For whilst I think I am thy married wife,

methinks I should not thus be led along,

mailed up in shame, with papers on my back.

The ruthless flint doth cut my tender feet, and when I start,

the envious people laugh.

Ah. Humphrey!

Can I bear this shameful yoke?

Now dark shall be my light and night my day.

To think upon my pomp shall be my hell.

Please you, Sir John, protect my lady here!

And treat her not the worse in that I pray you, use her well!

Sometime I'll say,

I am Duke Humphrey's wife, and he a prince and ruler of the land!

Yet so he ruled and such a prince he was, as he stood by,

whilst I, his forlorn duchess,

was made a wonder and a pointing-stock.

For Somerset, and York

and that false priest, of all limed bushes to betray thy wings.

And fly thou how thou canst,

they'll tangle thee. Gentle, Nell, forbear!

Thou aimest all awry.

I must offend before I be attainted.

And had I twenty times so many foes,

all these could not procure me any scathe,

so long as I am loyal, true and crimeless.

Thy greatest help is quiet, gentle Nell,

I pray thee, sort thy heart to patience,

these few days' wonder will be quickly worn.

Humphrey!

Your Grace is summoned to a meeting.

At the palace.

A meeting now?

And my consent ne'er ask'd herein before?

This is close dealing.

Well, I will be there.

My heart assures me that the Earl of Warwick

shall one day make the Duke of York a king.

And, my friend, this I do assure myself,

that Richard shall live to one day make the Earl of Warwick

the greatest man in England but the King.

I muse my Lord of Gloucester is not here.

'Tis not his wont to be the hindmost man.

Can you not see, or will ye not observe,

the strangeness of his altered countenance?

With what a majesty he bears himself.

How insolent of late he is become, how proud,

how peremptory, and unlike himself.

We know the time since he was mild and affable,

and all the court admired him for submission.

But meet him now, be it in the morn,

when everyone will give the time of day,

he knits his brow and shows an angry eye,

disdaining duty that to us belongs.

Humphrey is no little man in England,

and should you fall,

he as the next will mount.

Me seemeth then it is no policy respecting what a rancorous mind he bears

that he should come about your royal person

or be admitted to Your Highness' council.

The reverent care I bear unto My Lord made me collect

these dangers in the Duke.

My Lords of Somerset and Winchester,

reprove my allegation, if you can,

or else conclude my words effectual.

Well hath Your Highness seen into this Duke,

and had I first been put to speak my mind,

I think I should have told Your Grace's tale.

Mmm.

The Duchess, by his subornation, upon my life,

began her devilish practices.

Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep,

the fox barks not when he would steal the lamb.

Know, my sovereign,

Gloucester is a man unsounded yet

and full of deep deceit.

Our kinsman Gloucester is as innocent

from meaning treason to our royal person

as is the sucking lamb or harmless dove.

The Duke is virtuous, mild and too well given to dream on evil

or to work my downfall.

Seems he a dove?

His feathers are but borrowed,

for he's disposed as the hateful raven.

Is he a lamb?

His skin is surely lent him,

for he's inclined as is the ravenous wolf.

Take heed, My Lord, the welfare of us all

hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man.

All health unto my gracious sovereign.

Welcome, Sir William.

What news from France?

That Charles the Dauphin breaks his forsworn oath

and raises his flag over every all town.

He is proclaimed King by every mouth

and all your interest in those territories is utterly bereft you.

All is lost.

Cold news, My Lord from France,

but God's will be done.

All happiness unto My Lord the King.

Pardon, my liege, that I have stayed so long.

Nay, Gloucester, know that thou art come too soon,

I do arrest thee of high treason here.

Well, Somerset, thou shalt not see me blush,

nor change my countenance for this arrest.

The purest spring is not so free from mud

as I am clear from treason to my sovereign.

Who can accuse me?

Wherein am I guilty?

'Tis thought, My Lord, that you took bribes of France,

and, being Protector, stayed the soldiers' pay,

by means whereof His Highness hath lost France.

Is it but thought so?

What are they that think it?

I never robbed the soldiers of their pay.

So help me God, as I have watched the night,

ay, night by night, in studying good for England.

No, many a pound of mine own proper store,

because I would not tax the needy commons,

have I dispursed to the garrisons,

and never asked for restitution.

It serves you well, My Lord, to say so much.

I say no more than truth, so help me God!

In your Protectorship, you did devise strange tortures

for offenders never heard of,

that England was defamed by tyranny.

Why, 'tis well known that whiles I was Protector,

pity was all the fault that was in me,

for I should melt at an offender's tears.

My Lord, these faults are easy, quickly answered,

but mightier crimes are laid unto your charge,

whereof you cannot easily purge yourself.

I do arrest you in His Highness' name... Your Majesty.

...and here commit you to my Lord Cardinal

to keep until your further time of trial.

Your Majesty?

Oh, uncle Gloucester, 'tis my special hope

that you will clear yourself from all suspect.

My conscience tells me he is innocent.

Ah, gracious Lord, these days are dangerous.

Virtue is choked with foul ambition.

I know their complot is to have my life.

And if my death might make this island happy,

and prove the period of their tyranny,

I would expend it with all willingness.

But mine is made the prologue to their play,

for thousands more that yet suspect no peril

will not conclude their plotted tragedy.

Somerset's red eyes blab his heart's malice.

Thou, Winchester, that reaches at the moon,

whose overweening arm I have plucked back,

by false accuse does level at my life.

And you, my sovereign lady, with the rest,

causeless have laid disgraces on my head,

and with your best endeavor have stirred up

my beloved liege to be mine enemy.

Ay, all you

have laid your heads together

and all to make away my blameless life.

I shall not want false witness to condemn me,

nor stores of treasons to augment my guilt.

The ancient proverb will be well effected,

a staff is quickly found to beat a dog.

My liege, his railing is intolerable.

He'll wrest the sense and hold us here all clay.

Cardinal, he is your prisoner.

Take away the Duke.

Ah, thus King Henry throws away his crutch

before his legs be firm to bear his body.

Thus is the shepherd beaten from thy side,

and wolves are gnarling who will gnaw thee first.

Ah, that my fear were false. Ah, that it were!

For, good King Henry, thy decay I fear.

Your Majesty needs o'erlook this bill.

My Lords, what to your wisdoms seemeth best,

do or undo, as if ourself were here.

What, will Your Highness leave?

Ay, Margaret.

My heart is drowned with grief.

Uncle Humphrey,

in thy face I see the map of honor,

truth and loyalty.

Thou never didst them wrong, nor no man wrong.

And as the butcher takes away the calf

and binds the wretch and beats it when it strains,

bearing it to the bloody slaughterhouse,

even so remorseless have they borne him hence.

His fortunes I will weep,

and 'twixt each groan say,

"Who's a traitor?

"Gloucester, he is none."

Henry, My Lord, is cold in great affairs, too full of foolish pity,

and Gloucester's show beguiles him.

This Gloucester should be quickly rid the world,

to rid us of the fear we have of him.

That he should die is worthy policy,

but yet we want a color for his death.

'Tis meet he be condemned by course of law.

But, in my mind, that were no policy.

The King will labor still to save his life,

the commons haply rise to save his life.

And yet we have but trivial argument...

...more than mistrust, that shows him worthy death.

So that, by this, you would not have him die.

Would not a fool alone appoint a fox

to guard a chicken from a hungry kite?

So the chicken should be sure of death.

Madam, 'tis true.

Let Gloucester die, in that he is a fox,

by nature proved an enemy to the flock,

before his chaps be stain'd with crimson blood.

Let us not stand debating how to slay him,

be it by gins, by snares, by subtlety,

sleeping or waking, 'tis no matter how, so he be dead.

Thrice-noble Somerset, 'tis bravely spoke.

Not bravely yet.

Say but the word, My Lords.

I'll be his priest.

Here is my hand.

The deed is worthy doing.

And so say I.

And I.

And now we three have spoke it,

it skills not greatly who impugns our doom.

Farewell, My Lords.

Now, sirs, have you dispatched this thing?

Ay, my good Lord. 'Tiss done.

Why, that's well said.

Go, get you hence, away, I will reward you for this venturous deed.

Have you laid fair the body?

Are all things well,

according as I gave directions?

'Tis, my good Lord.

Away, be gone.

Go, call our uncle to our presence straight.

Say we intend to try His Grace today.

I'll call him presently, my noble lord.

My Lords, prepare the trial.

And I pray you proceed no straiter 'gainst our uncle Gloucester

than from true evidence,

of good esteem,

he be approved in practice culpable.

God forbid any malice should prevail,

that faultless may condemn a nobleman.

Pray God he may acquit him of suspicion.

I thank thee, Meg. These words content me much.

How now?

Why look'st thou pale?

Why tremblest thou? Where is our uncle?

Dead, My Lord.

Gloucester is dead.

Marry, God forfend! God's secret judgment.

My Lord?

O, Henry, ope thine eyes!

- How fares my gracious Lord? - Comfort, my sovereign.

Gracious Henry, comfort.

What, doth my Lord Somerset comfort me?

Lay not thy hands on me, forbear, I say!

Thou baleful messenger, out of my sight!

Good Warwick,

come with me into his chamber to view his breathless corpse.

O thou that judges all things,

stay my thoughts.

Come hither, gracious sovereign.

As surely as my soul intends to live,

I do believe that violent hands

were laid upon the life of this thrice-famed Duke.

Why, Warwick, who would do the Duke to death?

Myself had him in protection,

charged his safety with Somerset and Suffolk.

And we, I hope, sir, are no murderers.

But all of you were vowed Duke Humphrey's foes.

And 'tis well seen he found an enemy.

Are you the butcher, Somerset?

Where's your knife?

I wear no knife to slaughter sleeping men.

But here's a vengeful sword,

rusted with ease, that shall be scoured in his rancorous heart

that slanders me with murder's crimson badge.

Thou, Warwick... Madam, with reverence may I say,

for every word you speak in his behalf

is slander to your royal dignity.

Blunt-witted lord, ignoble in demeanor!

Thy mother took unto her blameful bed some stern untutored churl,

and noble stock was graft

with crab-tree slip whose fruit thou art.

Exeter!

Why, how now, Lords?

Your wrathful weapons drawn here in our presence?

Dare you be so bold?

Why, what tumultuous clamor have we here?

The traitorous York set all upon us, mighty sovereign.

If Somerset and Suffolk be not done to death,

or banished fair England's territories,

the people will by violence tear them from you.

I say, by them the good Duke Humphrey died.

I say, in them I fear Your Highness' death.

I thank thee, York, for thy tender loving care.

For sure, my thoughts do hourly prophesy mischance

unto my state by these lords.

And therefore, by His Majesty, I swear,

they shall not breathe infection in this air but three days longer,

on the pain of death.

Henry, let me plead for gentle Somerset!

Ungentle Queen, that callst him gentle!

No more, I say.

If thou dost plead for them, thou wilt but add increase unto my wrath.

If, after three days' space,

thou two be'st found on any ground that I am ruler of,

the world shall not be ransom for thy life.

Wise King!

Banish'd are you both!

I will repeal thee or, be well assured,

adventure to be banished myself.

I thought thou lovest me.

But I see thee a puppet of these lords,

pulling down banishment on Somerset and loyal Suffolk's head.

Thou breakst my heart, My Lord.

My love, I would not have thee cry.

Then reverse thy doom!

I do, Meg,

I do for thee.

Suffolk and Somerset remain at liberty

and live thee here in peace.

Suffolk at liberty?

Somerset a free man?

And Gloucester's bloody trunk accusing there?

False king!

That head of thine doth not become a crown.

That gold should round engirt these brows of mine.

Here is a hand to hold a scepter up.

I am far better born than is the king,

more like a king, more kingly in my thoughts.

Give place!

Enough, York.

I cannot in silence stand to watch thee

thus abuse His Majesty.

We are thy sovereign, Exeter. Kneel to us.

This is my king, York, I do not mistake.

But thou mistakes me much to think I do.

Hold him here at the tower, and chop away that factious pate of his.

He is a traitor! Why, Warwick,

hath thy knee forgot to bow?

I have considered with myself the title of this most renowned duke.

And in my conscience do repute His Grace,

the rightful heir to England's royal seat.

Hast thou not sworn allegiance unto me?

I have.

Canst thou dispense with heaven for such an act?

It is great sin to swear unto a sin.

But greater sin to keep a sinful oath.

Call forth our troops and bid them arm themselves!

Away, My Lord, and let us prepare.

We go,

but will return to wear our crown.

I will stir up in England some black storm

shall blow ten thousand souls to heaven or hell.

Cecily!

Cecily!

Boys!

Cecily. Where are they?

In there.

Edward!

George!

Edmund.

And...

Richard!

Richard!

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