One more sleep until we find out if the body retrieved by University of Leicester’s archaeologists is that of King Richard III. In the meantime, here are some words and images of Shakespeare’s (and Tudor England’s) version of this much maligned king.
Act 1, Scene 2
Gloucester: Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me have. Some patient leisure to excuse myself.
Lady Anne: Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst make No excuse current, but to hang thyself.
Act 1, Scene 4
First Murderer: Offended us you have not, but the king.
Duke of Clarence: I shall be reconciled to him again.
Second Murderer:Â Never, my lord; therefore prepare to die.
Act 2, Scene 1
Duke of Gloucester:Â Why, madam, have I offer’d love for this To be so bouted in this royal presence? Who knows not that the noble duke is dead? You do him injury to scorn his corpse
Act 3, Scene 7
Duke of Buckingham:Â Two props of virtue for a Christian prince, To stay him from the fall of vanity: And, see, a book of prayer in his hand, True ornaments to know a holy man.
Act 5, Scene 3
Ghost of Anne: Richard, thy wife, that wretched Anne thy wife, That never slept a quiet hour with thee, Now fills thy sleep with perturbations To-morrow in the battle think on me, And fall thy edgeless sword: despair, and die!
Act 5, Scene 4
Richard III: A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!
William Shakespeare (bapt 26 Apri 1564, died 23 April 1616 Today is also the anniversary of William Shakespeare’s death. Â Below are the words of the great man on England:
‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility; But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; Let it pry through the portage of the head Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it As fearfully as does a galled rock O’erhang and jutty his confounded base, Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit To his full height. On, on, you noblest English, Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, Have in these parts from morn till even fought, And sheath’d their swords for lack of argument. Dishonour not your mothers; now attest That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you. Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot! Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry, “God for Harry! England and Saint George!”‘
William Shakespeare, Henry V, Act III, Scene 1.
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands,– This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
William Shakespeare, Richard II, Act II, Scene 1.
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