RICHARD Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this son of York, And all the clouds that loured upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths, Our bruisèd arms hung up for monuments, Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front; And now, instead of mounting barbèd steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking glass; I, that am rudely stamped and want love’s majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them— Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to see my shadow in the sun And descant on mine own deformity. And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover To entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am determinèd to prove a villain And hate the idle pleasures of these days. Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams, To set my brother Clarence and the king In deadly hate, the one against the other; And if King Edward be as true and just As I am subtle, false, and treacherous, This day should Clarence closely be mewed up About a prophecy which says that “G” Of Edward’s heirs the murderer shall be. Dive, thoughts, down to my soul. Here Clarence comes.
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RICHARD Now the winter of our troubles has been transformed into glorious summer by the ascension of my brother, King Edward IV, son of the house of York. All the clouds that had descended over our family have now been banished and returned to the sea. Now we wear wreaths of victory on our foreheads, and we've hung up our armor as decoration. We've exchanged the sound of our battle trumpets for the sound of joyful greetings, and our death marches have become stately dances. The grim, warlike expressions on our faces have smoothed. And instead of charging on armored horses to frighten our opponents, we now dance in ladies' chambers to seductive songs on the lute. But as for me, I am not made for such games of love, or to admire myself in a mirror. I was badly made, and I lack the good looks to strut in front of passing girls. Nature has cheated me out of handsome features and proper proportions. I was born deformed, unfinished, and born prematurely. I was barely half-created when I came into the world, and left so lame and misshapen that dogs bark at me as I limp past them. In such delicate times of peace, I have nothing to do. No joys help me pass the time, unless I want to see my own shadow in the sun and make speeches about my deformity. Therefore, since I cannot amuse myself by being a lover during these peaceful days, I am determined to become a villain. I have hatched plots and put dangerous plans into action, using prophecies made while drunk; slander; and stories about dreams in order to set my brother George, Duke of Clarence, against my other brother, the king, so that they hate each other. If King Edward is as true as I am clever, false, and treacherous, then this very day Clarence will be imprisoned because of a prophecy that "G" will murder Edward's children. But, you thoughts, hide yourselves deep down in my soul, for here comes Clarence.
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RICHARD Alack, my lord, that fault is none of yours. He should, for that, commit your godfathers. O, belike his majesty hath some intent That you shall be new christened in the Tower. But what’s the matter, Clarence? May I know?
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RICHARD Alas, my lord, that's no fault of yours. If that's the problem, then our brother, the king, should arrest those who named you instead. Or maybe his Majesty intends to baptize you and rename you in the Tower. But what's the reason for this, Clarence? Will you tell me?
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CLARENCE Yea, Richard, when I know, for I protest As yet I do not. But, as I can learn, He hearkens after prophecies and dreams, And from the crossrow plucks the letter "G", And says a wizard told him that by “G” His issue disinherited should be. And for my name of George begins with "G", It follows in his thought that I am he. These, as I learn, and such like toys as these Have moved his Highness to commit me now.
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CLARENCE Yes, Richard, I'll inform you when I know—but right now I have no idea. As far as I can tell, the king has been putting a lot of trust in prophecies and dreams lately. And he picked the letter "G" from the alphabet, and says that a wizard told him that "G" will steal the throne from his children. And my name, George, begins with "G," so he thinks that the prophecy refers to me. Because of this, along with other trivial reasons, his Highness feels compelled to arrest me.
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RICHARD Why, this it is when men are ruled by women. 'Tis not the king that sends you to the Tower. My Lady Grey his wife, Clarence, ’tis she That tempers him to this extremity. Was it not she and that good man of worship, Anthony Woodeville, her brother there, That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower, From whence this present day he is delivered? We are not safe, Clarence. We are not safe.
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RICHARD Well, this is what happens when men are ruled by women. It isn't the king who's sending you to the Tower—it's his wife, Lady Elizabeth Grey. She's the one who persuaded him to take such an extreme action. Didn't she and her brother, Anthony Woodeville, make the king send Lord Hastings to the Tower? He was released only today. We are not safe, Clarence. We are not safe.
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