King Edward the Third
|King Edward||The Black Prince||Queen Philippa|
|Duke of Clarence||Sir John Chandos||Sir Thomas
|Sir Walter Manny||Lord Audley||Lord Percy|
|Bishop William,||Peter Blunt,|
Scene: The Coast of France. King Edward and Nobles before it. The Army.
King. O thou, to whose
fury the nations are
But as dust, maintain thy servant's right!
Without thine aid, the twisted mail, and spear,
forgèd helm, and shield of seven-times beaten brass,
Are idle trophies of the vanquisher.
rages, when the field is in a flame,
When the cries of blood tear horror from heav'n,
And yelling Death
runs up and down the ranks,
Let Liberty, the charter'd right of Englishmen,
Won by our fathers in many a
Enerve my soldiers; let Liberty
Blaze in each countenance, and fire the battle.
fight in chains, invisible chains, but heavy;
Their minds are fetter'd, then how can they be free?
like the mounting flame,
We spring to battle o'er the floods of death!
And these fair youths, the flow'r of
Venturing their lives in my most righteous cause,
O sheathe their hearts with triple steel, that
May emulate their fathers' virtues.
And thou, my son, be strong; thou fightest for a crown
can never ravish from thy brow,
A crown of glory -- but from thy very dust
Shall beam a radiance, to fire
Of youth unborn! Our names are written equal
In fame's wide-trophied hall; 'tis ours to gild
letters, and to make them shine with gold
That never tarnishes: whether Third Edward,
Or the Prince of
Wales, or Montacute, or Mortimer,
Or ev'n the least by birth, shall gain the brightest fame,
Is in His hand
to whom all men are equal.
The world of men are like the num'rous stars
That beam and twinkle in the
depth of night,
Each clad in glory according to his sphere;
But we, that wander from our native seats
beam forth lustre on a darkling world,
Grow larger as we advance: and some, perhaps
The most obscure
at home, that scarce were seen
To twinkle in their sphere, may so advance
That the astonish'd world,
with upturn'd eyes,
Regardless of the moon, and those that once were bright,
Stand only for to gaze upon
[He here knights the Prince, and other young Nobles.
Now let us take a just revenge for
Brave Lords, who fell beneath the bloody axe
At Paris. Thanks, noble Harcourt, for 'twas
advice we landed here in Brittany,
A country not yet sown with destruction,
And where the fiery whirlwind
of swift war
Has not yet swept its desolating wing.--
Into three parties we divide by day,
And separate march,
but join again at night;
Each knows his rank, and Heav'n marshal all. [Exeunt.
Scene: English Court. Lionel, Duke of Clarence; Queen Philippa; Lords;
My Lords, I have by the advice of her
Whom I am doubly bound to obey, my Parent
Sovereign, call'd you together.
My task is great, my burden heavier than
My unfledg'd years;
Yet, with your
kind assistance, Lords, I hope
England shall dwell in peace; that, while my father
Toils in his wars, and
turns his eyes on this
His native shore, and sees commerce fly round
With his white wings, and sees
his golden London
And her silver Thames, throng'd with shining spires
And corded ships, her merchants
Like summer bees, and all the golden cities
In his land overflowing with honey,
not be dimm'd with clouds of care.
Say, Lords, should not our thoughts be first to commerce?
Bishop, you would recommend us agriculture?
Bishop. Sweet Prince, the arts of peace are great,
less glorious than those of war,
Perhaps more glorious in the philosophic mind.
When I sit at my home, a
My thoughts are on my gardens and my fields,
How to employ the hand that lacketh bread.
Industry is in my diocese,
Religion will flourish; each man's heart
Is cultivated and will bring forth fruit:
is my private duty and my pleasure.
But, as I sit in council with my Prince,
My thoughts take in the gen'ral
good of the whole,
And England is the land favour'd by Commerce;
For Commerce, tho' the child of Agriculture,
his parent, who else must sweat and toil,
And gain but scanty fare. Then, my dear Lord,
trade our care; and we, as tradesmen,
Looking to the gain of this our native land.
Clar. O my good Lord,
true wisdom drops like honey
From your tongue, as from a worshipp'd oak.
Forgive, my Lords, my talkative
youth, that speaks
Not merely what my narrow observation has
Pick'd up, but what I have concluded
from your lessons.
Now, by the Queen's advice, I ask your leave
To dine to-morrow with the Mayor of
If I obtain your leave, I have another boon
To ask, which is the favour of your company.
Lord Percy will not give me leave.
Percy. Dear Sir, a prince should always keep his state,
And grant his
favours with a sparing hand,
Or they are never rightly valuèd.
These are my thoughts; yet it were best to
But keep a proper dignity, for now
You represent the sacred person of
Your father; 'tis with princes as
'tis with the sun;
If not sometimes o'er-clouded, we grow weary
Of his officious glory.
Clar. Then you will