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About this text

  • Title: Edward III (Quarto 1, 1596)
  • Editor: Sonia Massai

  • Copyright Sonia Massai. This text may be freely used for educational, non-profit purposes; for all other uses contact the Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editor: Sonia Massai
    Not Peer Reviewed

    Edward III (Quarto 1, 1596)

    Edward the third.
    To satifie his hungrie griping mawe.
    Io: Thees for thy newes, returne vnto thy barke,
    1140And if thou scape the bloody strooke of warre,
    And do suruiue the conflict, come againe,
    And let vs heare the manner of the fight,
    Meane space my Lords, tis best we be disperst,
    To seuerall places least they chaunce to land:
    1145First you my Lord, with your Bohemian Troupes,
    Shall pitch your battailes on the lower hand,
    My eldest sonne the Duke of Normandie,
    Togeither with this aide of Muscouites,
    Shall clyme the higher ground an other waye:
    1150Heere in the middle cost betwixt you both,
    Phillip my yongest boy and I will lodge,
    So Lords begon, and looke vnto your charge.
    You stand for Fraunce, an Empire faire and large,
    Now tell me Phillip, what is their concept,
    1155Touching the challenge that the English make.
    Ph: I say my Lord, clayme Edward what he can,
    And bring he nere so playne a pedegree,
    Tis you are in possession of the Crowne,
    And thats the surest poynt of all the Law:
    1160But were it not, yet ere he should preuaile,
    Ile make a Conduit of my dearest blood,
    Or chase those stragling vpstarts home againe,
    King: Well said young Phillip, call for bread and Wine,
    That we may cheere our stomacks with repast,
    The battell
    1165To looke our foes more sternely in the face.
    Now is begun the heauie day at Sea,
    Fight Frenchmen, fight, be like the fielde of Beares,
    VVhen they defend their younglings in their Caues:
    Stir angry Nemesis the happie helme,
    1170That with the sulphur battels of your rage,
    The English Fleete may be disperst and sunke,
    Ph. O Father how this eckoing Cannon shot.
    Like sweete hermonie disgests my cates.