Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

But now I know thy mind;

My liege, farewell.

Who sitting in the stocks refuge their shame,

How near the tiding of our comfort is.

And for our coffers are grown somewhat light,

Thus boldly for his king,

I say that Mowbray hath received eight thousand nobles

He is our subject, Mowbray; so art thou.

And tell sad stories of the death of kings.

And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.

In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.

Come, lords, away.

Would it not shame thee in so fair a troop

Rased out my imprese, leaving me no sign

Against the state and profit of this land;

Right, you say true. As Hereford's love, so his

This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.

Yet I well remember the favours of these men

I fear. What should you fear?

And buried once, why not upon my head?

Who hither come engaged by my oath

Think I am dead and that even here though takest,

Since presently your souls must part your bodies

Were enough noble to be upright judge

Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old.

And ostentation of despised arms?

Я клянусь "I Swear."

To Henry Bolingbroke.

Committed by yourself and your followers

Name it, fair cousin.

To see those lands I must again call mine.

As were our England in reversion his.

A traitor to my God, my king and me.

But for his own

which if today thou shed,

O then, my father,

That I may breathe my last

With all my heart

You will be there, I know.

Swell'st thou, proud heart?

Jousts and triumphs?

In the devotion of a subject's love,

Meaning the king in the Tower.

Of those physicians that first wounded thee.

Her fruit-trees all upturned, her hedges ruined,

Than my unpleased eye see your courtesy.

To make me grow

My lord, wise men ne'er sit and wail their woes,

Unless you call it good to pity him,

Nay, speak thy mind, and let him ne'er speak more

His prayers are in jest;

That look too lofty in our commonwealth -

Can wash the balm off from an anointed king.

With nothing shall be pleased,

For within the hollow crown

Music do I hear?

All souls that will be safe fly from my side.

Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite

To God of heaven, King Richard and to me.

My noble uncle!

No lord of thine, thou haught insulting man,

As well assured Richard, their king,

A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments,

That Harry, Duke of Hereford,

Com'st thou because the anointed King is hence?

Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power?

You pluck a thousand dangers on your head,

Much more than twice all this,

I thought you had been willing to resign.

Why do I rail on thee,

If God prevent not, I purpose so.

Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear?

To Bolingbroke's fair day.

That rounds the mortal temples of a king

Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,

Hath power to keep you king in spite of all.

But soft, but see, or rather do not see,

Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal

Here to make good the boisterous late appeal

And let him never see joy that breaks that oath!

That rise thus nimbly by a true king's fall.

Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense,

Against them both my true joints bended be.

Shall we call back Northumberland,

Hath sorrow struck

As I have done, thou wouldst be more pitiful.

Thou frantic woman,

Setting aside his high blood's royalty, I do defy him,

And show fair duty to his majesty.

And shall the figure of God's majesty, His captain,

O how that name befits my composition!

Suppose the singing birds musicians,

For gnarling sorrow has less power to bite

is there no plot

Is a foul traitor to proud Hereford's king

Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath,

Must he be deposed?

Look what I speak, my life shall prove it true:

I give this heavy weight from off my head,

Than a delightful measure or a dance

Be ready as your lives shall answer it

THE SOLDIERS ROAR

Not yet, I thee beseech, for ever will I walk upon my knees,

I mean the favourites of the King, Bushy and Green.

With good old folks and let them tell thee tales

It doth contain a king.

Can grip the sacred handle of our sceptre,

Terrible hell make war upon their spotted souls for this!

Pray God the plants thou graft'st may never grow.

Or else he never would compare between...

Long mayst thou live in Richard's seat to sit,

If not, I'll use the advantage of my power

To wayward sickliness and age in him.

Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind

Her knots disorder'd

But what thou art,

Confess thy treasons 'ere thou fly this realm.

After, Aumerle!

Why, uncle, what's the matter?

Where subjects' feet may hourly trample on their sovereign's head,

THEY BOTH LAUGH

After our sentence, plaining comes too late.

Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me!

Thanks, noble peer;

Today, today, unhappy day, too late,

I see the issue of these arms.

And with that odds he weighs King Richard down.

O thou, the earthly author of my blood,

Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispersed, fled.