word. “Sing,” says he, and there they sing. “Mum
now,” says he, and all there’s no sound. “Sing! Mum!
Sing! Mum!” He’d weep when a boar or bear did the
the worst to one of his.
BOY
He’ll see worse things now, sure. All to war. No time now for hounds.
MASTER
Any other prince become any other king, I’d say thee
aye. But this boy loved his dogs, loved his games. And
then, now, see, he cannot but stop and admire every
maid or lady passes by. Say there’s a king who loves it so,
so strong as any pleasure-jack or apple-squire,5
who runs ’em to earth, prefers ’em to all war making,
mark it. Wants to miss the wars, sees no joy in the
noble slashing, the crying out, the gobbets of flesh
and man’s blood-sprays. Give ’em his choosing, say I,
he’ll visit his tib,6 have his will,7 then back in his slop,8
then he’ll be here, next us two, thou’lt see him, and
him calling for old Edgar and Lucius and stroking
Socrates’ long ears. And all us others, we’ll do what
the king will do, and not have to go to war. If he’s the
same boy, and why not? Who tells me he’s of another
sort now? For nothing: a drop of oil and a crown
makes not a man another sort.
BOY
I wot not,9 sir. There’s magic talk as well.
MASTER
Makes no puttock of a wren.10 Same
boy I loved, same boy. He’ll make no war when there’s peace to joy.
Watch, thou.
BOY
My mother’s brothers twain are pikemen in Sir
David’s company.
MASTER
A valiant, and Welsh as one might hope, God save him.
BOY
My mother would their hands were hers sooner their
arms lopped or hacked for Sir David.
MASTER
Might she see the kingdom commodated11 all to her
liking alone. Now wilt thou come, boy? There’s meat
to give out. Wouldst thou tarry12 on and on?
Exeunt
ACT II, SCENE II
[Location:] Below the Walls of York
Enter the King and his nobles and army. Alarum
ARTHUR
Now thick-walled York looms gray and cold above
And bristles all along like porpentine1
With spear and bolts that scent out English flesh.
My English friends, my English brothers now,
You hear my voice’s maiden call to arms,
To urge you on who want from me no urging,
And quicken ire of knights to martial wrath
Who were born fighting men ere I was born,
To lead you where you have already bled,
But I have not. What king is this who calls?
An York should be the first and last of me,
Let no man say I was not Uter’s son,
Nor valued more than he this bubble life.
But of our foemen, this cannot be said.
Who waits for us within, fell2 Englishmen?
This Saxon pride set sail o’er Humber’s tide3
And then conjoined4 to Pictish treachery
For but to cower, spent and quaking-shy,
Portcullised5 fast behind the walls of York,
When older boys they vex come for revenge.
But Arthur’s at the gate! ’Tis Britain’s fist
That hammers now upon the shiv’ring6 boards.
An English blood be thin as watery wine,
Then sheathe we now our swords and skulk away
With Saxon language tripping from our lips.
You’d con7 th’invader’s tongue? Absit omen.8
Let’s school them then in terms of English arms,
Decline and conjugate9 hard10 words—but hark!
Chambers11
She sighs with gentle pleading that we come!
Now wait no more to save her, nobles, in,
And pull those Saxon arms off English skin!
Alarum and chambers. Exeunt
[ACT II, SCENE III]
[Location: The road from York to Lincoln]
Enter Mordred, Calvan, and armies
MORDRED
Had cruel Diomedes on Deinos leapt1,2
To melt our arms and singe our prideful cheeks,
Still less endamagement3 had this day wreaked
As Arthur did these hours in battled York.
No Christian, holy king is Arthur, nay:
He cruelly used our gentle embassy
As I did doubt he might,4 though ’twas enough
To spur our father back to war-like mien5
And dispatch force to force his will in York
Yet still doth shame now cloud our northern brows!
Five hard assaults I put to the usurping
Upspring6 prince of English bastardy.
I rained upon him blows of sword and axe,
And through his beaver’s vents7 I heard the sound
Of laughing boy or demon’s goblin mirth.
CALVAN
The southern gallants drew from him their heart.
“For Arthur, George, and Britain!” they all cried,
Not England’s name alone, but Britain’s rung.
And on his quartered shield he paints his hopes:
The red Welsh dragon flanks gold English lions,
And harps of Western Isles do play light airs
O’er fields of northern thistle.8
MORDRED
Bannerets9
And horses’ coats all colored with that boast!
Self-loving Arthur now doth rest a-bed,
While we escape the day by postern gate.10
Yet all those buffets paid in York today
Are but an obolus of bloody debt
We’ll farm11 in Lincoln town. You, sirrah, here.
FIRST MSG.
My lord, your will?
MORDRED
Go now to Lincoln’s walls,
Where Colgerne keeps his tenfold larger strength.
We will entice the foe by seeming weak
To follow thither and therein surprise.
Advise him us we hie12 with Arthur’s force
Pursuing, thus he must lay gins13 with guile.
[Exit messenger]
There death will knock from haughty Arthur’s pate
The diadem my father’s brow to deck.14
Another man, another man!
[Enter messenger]
SECOND MSG.
Your grace?
To kings of Scots and Picts make speedy haste,
Invite them to descend from highland nest,
And on spread wing to Lincoln fly like fate
T’assay15 the crown I offer with all love.
Go, go!
Exit messenger
Now, Calvan, brother, Orkney’s prince,
To all the captains tell: ’twixt here and there
We leave no crumb, no watery drop but tears
Of those who’d us deny benevolence.
May Arthur find upon this road no bran,
No vivers16 of the basest sort to chew,
Until he come to Lincoln, there to wash
His blazon’s quartered fancies17 in red blood.
Exeunt
[ACT II, SCENE IV]
[Location: The town hall of York]
[Enter] Arthur, Gloucester
ARTHUR
I did not know what joy awaited me
When dawn did break this morn, when I alone
Had never tasted of the feast of war.
Whilst other men did seem to shy and fright,
Full general in my greetings,1 I did
leap
To gratulate2 each happy Saxon, Scot,
Or Pict I had good fortune there to meet.
I find no better way to sport than this.
The day is mine!
GLOUCESTER
And all our thanks to God.
But for the morrow, I’ll no wagers take.
ARTHUR
Refuse to rest your pounds upon my arm?3
GLOUCESTER
Were all of England York and all its sons
Were Arthur, Pluto’s wealth4 to any odds
I’d play and off to slumber vict’ry-ripe.5
But ’twixt pacific York and Pictish throne
Awaits no mead6 but cragged, ungentle path.
And proud the Saxons are to want a fleet,
So each and every foe will ask our care.7
ARTHUR
And so we shall design.
Enter Somerset, Norfolk, Cumbria, Kent, Derby
Good morrow, brothers!
SOMERSET
Great King, O rampant lion emperor!
CUMBRIA
My stomach wants for yet more bloody broil.8
Let fly! I’ll draw the culv’rin9 with my teeth.
NORFOLK
But majesty, ’twas you that ’mazed us all!
As evening dyed each Yorkish stone, I flagged:
My foot did slide through pools of Scottish gore
And on my back I lit. Two Saxon blades
Down toward me came, and I prepared my end.
But by my halidom10 St. George careered11
With Pictish blood across his bristled cheek,
His limbs still freshly sprung as bent green yew,12
He slashed through danger, holp13 me to my feet,
Then circled round and fought at every side.
My lord, bend I this ancient knee with love.
CUMBRIA
Now foes do run, King, whither turn our might?
ARTHUR
My nephew, King of Brittany in France,
I writ, and Constantine,14,15 young Cornish earl,
His father placed in Cornwall’s seat by mine.
I bid them come take part at Lincoln’s feast
And there to warm themselves and troops withal
By th’embers16 of this factious17 mutiny
And on its remnants dance a stamp royal.18
Enter messenger
What word there, boy?
MESSENGER
God save your majesty.
ARTHUR
He seems inclined t’affect thy will a time.
MESSENGER
The foe, affrayed, unranked, beset with pox,
Goes south and drops its numbers as it flies.
Your people worry19 them, bemock their heart.
A child did toss some several stones at them,
Which quaking Picts did in agastment20 flee,
As though shot out by ranked artillery.
ARTHUR
We’ll not await Petit Bretagne’s21 force,
But haste to Lincoln, where we’ll cut this tale.
Though half and half again the Yorkish brawl
We’ll see in Lincoln’s fields, an we not speed,
E’en that we grant to boys with slings and rocks.22
My lords, two hours to bid adieu to York.
Exeunt nobility [except Gloucester]
My duke, yet stately matters here in town
Demand of me considerance a time.23
GLOUCESTER
You would delay our march, my king?
ARTHUR
Nay, nay.
Our arms must haste, though even to a pin.
GLOUCESTER
I’ll set good men to follow at your hest.24
ARTHUR
’Tis of no need, though lovingly designed.
GLOUCESTER
My lord, my wit is blunted by the day.
Your mind it is to stay in York alone?
ARTHUR
It is.
GLOUCESTER
Shall I attend?
ARTHUR
There is no call.
GLOUCESTER
If I do waver at your word, it is—
But I should say, your new-dyed25 royalty—
I would so soon expose—but, stay, my king—
I beg indulgence if my love o’erflows
The bounds of mannered courtier’s smoothing tongue,
But this can no way be—the boy thou wert
With holy unction26 is reborn a king.
ARTHUR
I thank with all my love thy wise advice.
GLOUCESTER
My joy it is my wit can serve your need.
ARTHUR
’Tis well, ’tis well. It is my need that you
Command and lead our hunt to Lincoln now.