Richard 3 Flashcards
I weep for joy to stand upon
My Kingdom once again
So weeping, so smiling greet I thee,
My Earth
Fear not my lord. The power that made you king
Hath power to keep you King in spite of all
And darts his light through ever guilty hole
The murders, treasons and detested sins stand bare and naked trembling at themselves
Not all the water in the rough rude sea
Can wash the balm from an anointed king
But now the blood of twenty thousand men did triumph in my face
And they are fled
Is not the Kings name
Twenty thousand names
White beards have armed their thin and hairless scalps against thy majesty;
Boys with woman’s voices, strive to speak big and clap their female joints stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown
Three judases
Each one thrice worse than Judas
Let’s talk of graves
Of worms and epitaphs
Our land, our lives are Bolingbrokes
And nothing we can call our own, but death
For Gods sake let us sit upon the ground
And tell stories of the death of Kings
Within the hollow crown that rounds the mortal temples of a King
Keeps death his court, and there the antic sits
From Richards night
To Bolingbroke’s fair day
You have misled a prince
A royal king
Eating the bitter bread of banishment
Whilst you have fed upon my signifies, disparked my parks, and felled my forest woods
From my own windows torn my household coat, razed out my impresse leaving me no sign
To show the world I am a gentleman
More welcome is the stroke of death to me
Than Bolingbroke to England
It would beseem the Lord Northumberland
To say King Richard
Take not, good cousin, further than you should
Lest you mistake; the heavens o’er our heads
If not, I’ll use th’ advantage of my power
And lay the summers dust with showers of blood
Be he the fire, I’ll be the yielding water
The age be his, whilst on earth I rain
As doth the blushing discontented sun
From out her fiery portal of the east
For well we know, no hand of blood and bone
Can gripe the sacred handle of our sceptre
And we are barren
And bereft of friends
Every stride he makes upon my land
Is dangerous treason
Ten thousand bloody crowns of mothers sons shall I’ll become
The flower of England’s face
And my large kingdom for a little grave
A little little grave an obscure grave
Down down I come, like glist’string Phaeton
Wanting the manager of unruly jades
In the base court? Base court
Where kings grow base, to come at traitors calls and do them grace
In the base court? Come down? Down court, down King!
For night owls shriek where mourning larks should sing
Go thou and, like an executioner cut off the heads of
Too fast growing sprays that look too lofty in our commonwealth
He that have suffered this disordered spring
Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf
Their fortunes both are weighted. In yours lords scale is nothing
But himself and a few vanities that make him light
But in the balance of great Bolingbroke
Besides himself are all the English peers and that odds he weighs King Richard down
