London. A Room in the Tower. |
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KING HENRY is discovered sitting with a book in his hand, the Lieutenant attending. Enter GLOUCESTER. |
Glo. Good day, my lord. What! at your book so hard? |
K. Hen. Ay, my good lord:—my lord, I should say rather; |
’Tis sin to flatter, ‘good’ was little better: |
‘Good Gloucester’ and ‘good devil’ were alike, |
And both preposterous; therefore, not ‘good lord.’ |
Glo. Sirrah, leave us to ourselves: we must confer. [Exit Lieutenant. |
K. Hen. So flies the reckless shepherd from the wolf; |
So first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece, |
And next his throat unto the butcher’s knife. |
What scene of death hath Roscius now to act? |
Glo. Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; |
The thief doth fear each bush an officer. |
K. Hen. The bird that hath been limed in a bush, |
With trembling wings misdoubteth every bush; |
And I, the hapless male to one sweet bird, |
Have now the fatal object in my eye |
Where my poor young was lim’d, was caught, and kill’d. |
Glo. Why, what a peevish fool was that of Crete, |
That taught his son the office of a fowl! |
And yet, for all his wings, the fool was drown’d. |
K. Hen. I, Dædalus; my poor boy, Icarus; |
Thy father, Minos, that denied our course; |
The sun, that sear’d the wings of my sweet boy, |
Thy brother Edward, and thyself the sea, |
Whose envious gulf did swallow up his life. |
Ah! kill me with thy weapon, not with words. |
My breast can better brook thy dagger’s point |
Than can my ears that tragic history. |
But wherefore dost thou come? is’t for my life? |
Glo. Think’st thou I am an executioner? |
K. Hen. A persecutor, I am sure, thou art: |
If murd’ring innocents be executing, |
Why, then thou art an executioner. |
Glo. Thy son I kill’d for his presumption. |
K. Hen. Hadst thou been kill’d, when first thou didst presume, |
Thou hadst not liv’d to kill a son of mine. |
And thus I prophesy: that many a thousand, |
Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear, |
And many an old man’s sigh, and many a widow’s, |
And many an orphan’s water-standing eye, |
Men for their sons’, wives for their husbands’, |
And orphans for their parents’ timeless death, |
Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born. |
The owl shriek’d at thy birth, an evil sign; |
The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time; |
Dogs howl’d, and hideous tempest shook down trees! |
The raven rook’d her on the chimney’s top, |
And chattering pies in dismal discords sung. |
Thy mother felt more than a mother’s pain, |
And yet brought forth less than a mother’s hope; |
To wit an indigest deformed lump, |
Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree. |
Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born, |
To signify thou cam’st to bite the world: |
And, if the rest be true which I have heard, |
Thou cam’st— |
Glo. I’ll hear no more: die, prophet, in thy speech: [Stabs him. |
For this, amongst the rest, was I ordain’d. |
K. Hen. Ay, and for much more slaughter after this. |
O, God forgive my sins, and pardon thee! [Dies. |
Glo. What! will the aspiring blood of Lancaster |
Sink in the ground? I thought it would have mounted. |
See how my sword weeps for the poor king’s death! |
O! may such purple tears be always shed |
From those that wish the downfall of our house. |
If any spark of life be yet remaining, |
Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither, [Stabs him again. |
I, that have neither pity, love, nor fear. |
Indeed, ’tis true, that Henry told me of; |
For I have often heard my mother say |
I came into the world with my legs forward. |
Had I not reason, think ye, to make haste, |
And seek their ruin that usurp’d our right? |
The midwife wonder’d, and the women cried |
‘O! Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth.’ |
And so I was; which plainly signified |
That I should snarl and bite and play the dog. |
Then, since the heavens have shap’d my body so, |
Let hell make crook’d my mind to answer it. |
I have no brother, I am like no brother; |
And this word ‘love,’ which greybeards call divine, |
Be resident in men like one another |
And not in me: I am myself alone. |
Clarence, beware; thou keep’st me from the light: |
But I will sort a pitchy day for thee; |
For I will buzz abroad such prophecies |
That Edward shall be fearful of his life; |
And then, to purge his fear, I’ll be thy death. |
King Henry and the prince his son are gone: |
Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest, |
Counting myself but bad till I be best. |
I’ll throw thy body in another room, |
And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom. [Exit with the body. |