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  • Title: Henry VI, Part 1 (Folio 1, 1623)

  • Copyright Internet Shakespeare Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-proift purposes; for all other uses contact the Coordinating Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
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    Henry VI, Part 1 (Folio 1, 1623)

    The first Part of Henry the Sixt.
    985 Lawyer. Vnlesse my Studie and my Bookes be false,
    The argument you held, was wrong in you;
    In signe whereof, I pluck a white Rose too.
    Yorke. Now Somerset, where is your argument?
    Som. Here in my Scabbard, meditating, that
    990Shall dye your white Rose in a bloody red.
    York Meane time your cheeks do counterfeit our Roses:
    For pale they looke with feare, as witnessing
    The truth on our side.
    Som. No Plantagenet:
    995'Tis not for feare, but anger, that thy cheekes
    Blush for pure shame, to counterfeit our Roses,
    And yet thy tongue will not confesse thy error.
    Yorke. Hath not thy Rose a Canker, Somerset?
    Som. Hath not thy Rose a Thorne, Plantagenet?
    1000 Yorke. I, sharpe and piercing to maintaine his truth,
    Whiles thy consuming Canker eates his falsehood.
    Som. Well, Ile find friends to weare my bleeding Roses,
    That shall maintaine what I haue said is true,
    Where false Plantagenet dare not be seene.
    1005 Yorke. Now by this Maiden Blossome in my hand,
    I scorne thee and thy fashion, peeuish Boy.
    Suff. Turne not thy scornes this way, Plantagenet.
    Yorke. Prowd Poole, I will, and scorne both him and
    1010 Suff. Ile turne my part thereof into thy throat.
    Som. Away, away, good William de la Poole,
    We grace the Yeoman, by conuersing with him.
    Warw. Now by Gods will thou wrong'st him, Somerset:
    His Grandfather was Lyonel Duke of Clarence,
    1015Third Sonne to the third Edward King of England:
    Spring Crestlesse Yeomen from so deepe a Root?
    Yorke. He beares him on the place's Priuiledge,
    Or durst not for his crauen heart say thus.
    Som. By him that made me, Ile maintaine my words
    1020On any Plot of Ground in Christendome.
    Was not thy Father Richard, Earle of Cambridge,
    For Treason executed in our late Kings dayes?
    And by his Treason, stand'st not thou attainted,
    Corrupted, and exempt from ancient Gentry?
    1025His Trespas yet liues guiltie in thy blood,
    And till thou be restor'd, thou art a Yeoman.
    Yorke. My Father was attached, not attainted,
    Condemn'd to dye for Treason, but no Traytor;
    And that Ile proue on better men then Somerset,
    1030Were growing time once ripened to my will.
    For your partaker Poole, and you your selfe,
    Ile note you in my Booke of Memorie,
    To scourge you for this apprehension:
    Looke to it well, and say you are well warn'd.
    1035 Som. Ah, thou shalt finde vs ready for thee still:
    And know vs by these Colours for thy Foes,
    For these, my friends in spight of thee shall weare.
    Yorke. And by my Soule, this pale and angry Rose,
    As Cognizance of my blood-drinking hate,
    1040Will I for euer, and my Faction weare,
    Vntill it wither with me to my Graue,
    Or flourish to the height of my Degree.
    Suff. Goe forward, and be choak'd with thy ambition:
    And so farwell, vntill I meet thee next. Exit.
    1045 Som. Haue with thee Poole: Farwell ambitious Ri-
    chard. Exit.
    Yorke. How I am brau'd, and must perforce endure
    Warw. This blot that they obiect against your House,
    1050Shall be whipt out in the next Parliament,

    Call'd for the Truce of Winchester and Gloucester:
    And if thou be not then created Yorke,
    I will not liue to be accounted Warwicke.
    Meane time, in signall of my loue to thee,
    1055Against prowd Somerset, and William Poole,
    Will I vpon thy partie weare this Rose.
    And here I prophecie: this brawle to day,
    Growne to this faction in the Temple Garden,
    Shall send betweene the Red-Rose and the White,
    1060A thousand Soules to Death and deadly Night.
    Yorke. Good Master Vernon, I am bound to you,
    That you on my behalfe would pluck a Flower.
    Ver. In your behalfe still will I weare the same.
    Lawyer. And so will I.
    1065 Yorke. Thankes gentle.
    Come, let vs foure to Dinner: I dare say,
    This Quarrell will drinke Blood another day.

    Enter Mortimer, brought in a Chayre,
    1070and Iaylors.

    Mort. Kind Keepers of my weake decaying Age,
    Let dying Mortimer here rest himselfe.
    Euen like a man new haled from the Wrack,
    So fare my Limbes with long Imprisonment:
    1075And these gray Locks, the Pursuiuants of death,
    Nestor-like aged, in an Age of Care,
    Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer.
    These Eyes, like Lampes, whose wasting Oyle is spent,
    Waxe dimme, as drawing to their Exigent.
    1080Weake Shoulders, ouer-borne with burthening Griefe,
    And pyth-lesse Armes, like to a withered Vine,
    That droupes his sappe-lesse Branches to the ground.
    Yet are these Feet, whose strength-lesse stay is numme,
    (Vnable to support this Lumpe of Clay)
    1085Swift-winged with desire to get a Graue,
    As witting I no other comfort haue.
    But tell me, Keeper, will my Nephew come?
    Keeper. Richard Plantagenet, my Lord, will come:
    We sent vnto the Temple, vnto his Chamber,
    1090And answer was return'd, that he will come.
    Mort. Enough: my Soule shall then be satisfied.
    Poore Gentleman, his wrong doth equall mine.
    Since Henry Monmouth first began to reigne,
    Before whose Glory I was great in Armes,
    1095This loathsome sequestration haue I had;
    And euen since then,hath Richard beene obscur'd,
    Depriu'd of Honor and Inheritance.
    But now, the Arbitrator of Despaires,
    Iust Death, kinde Vmpire of mens miseries,
    1100With sweet enlargement doth dismisse me hence:
    I would his troubles likewise were expir'd,
    That so he might recouer what was lost.

    Enter Richard.
    Keeper. My Lord, your louing Nephew now is come.
    1105 Mor. Richard Plantagenet, my friend, is he come?
    Rich. I, Noble Vnckle, thus ignobly vs'd,
    Your Nephew, late despised Richard, comes.
    Mort. Direct mine Armes, I may embrace his Neck,
    And in his Bosome spend my latter gaspe.
    1110Oh tell me when my Lippes doe touch his Cheekes,
    That I may kindly giue one fainting Kisse.
    And now declare sweet Stem from Yorkes great Stock,
    Why didst thou say of late thou wert despis'd?
    Rich. First