http://www.william-shakespeare.info/act2-script-text-henry-vi-part3.htm

ACT II
SCENE I.  – a plain near Mortimer's Cross in Herefordshire.

Enter Richard and Edward and their forces.  It has been days since the battle, yet they do not know what has become of their father (York).  They see a strange omen in the sky – three suns.  Edward interprets it as the three surviving sons of York (himself, Richard, and George) joining their lights together to over-shine the earth.  Whether he is right or not, he resolves to bear three suns on his shield from that point onward.

A messenger brings them news of their father’s death.  And Edward’s outcry is about the most perfect description of grief I have ever read:

“Now my soul's palace is become a prison:
Ah, would she break from hence, that this my body
Might in the ground be closed up in rest!
For never henceforth shall I joy again,
Never, O never shall I see more joy!”

The contrast between Edward and Richard is starkly drawn.  Edward doesn’t want to hear the details and goes into a fit of passion.  Richard demands to know all.  And he refuses to display any kind of emotion.  He is saving it so that when the time for vengeance comes, he will have a reservoir of hatred on which to draw.  He says that “to weep is to make less the depth of grief.”  It’s an interesting thought, but (in my opinion), untrue.  The act of crying does release chemicals, especially stress hormones, but I would say this has more to do with enabling a person to deal with the depth of grief than with lessening the depth itself.  In either case, I think we can safely say that Richard does not have a healthy outlet for dealing with grief.  And unless he goes out and runs a mile or starts painting in the next scene, I am going to stand by that.

Edward realizes that he is now the Duke of York, but Richard tells him not to be content with that.  The agreement made with Henry was that York would be king, followed by his heirs.  According to Richard, if Edward is truly York’s son, he will continue to fight for the crown. 

Warwick and Montague arrive and are given the news of York’s death.  They all agree to go on with the plan, supporting Edward now in place of his father.  And just before the scene ends, a messenger comes with the news that Margaret is coming after them with a mighty host. 

SCENE II – outside the city of York

Enter Henry, Margaret, Prince Edward, Clifford, and Northumberland.  York’s head is on the gate.  The sight cheers Margaret but depresses Henry (for which Clifford chides him).  Margaret rolls her eyes at how soft Henry is and tells him to knight their son for the valour he proved in the last battle.  Henry does so.  A messenger brings the news that Warwick is leading an army in support of Edward, now Duke of York, proclaiming him king and gathering more and more followers.  Clifford and Margaret both ask Henry to leave and let them handle Warwick.  This makes by far the most sense.  Henry, far from being a military leader, does not even fight, and nothing kills the morale of an army faster than fighting for a king who stands there looking like a halibut with a secret sorrow.  But Henry refuses to leave.  He says his fortunes are on the battlefield with everyone else’s, so that is where he will stay.

 Enter Edward of York, George, Richard, Warwick, Norfolk, Montague, and their soldiers.  It’s a classic scene of trashtalking.  You know exactly how it will go, and Will does not disappoint.  Edward opens with a sneer to Henry, but it is of course Margaret who answers.  And everyone jumps in, grabbing a piece of the verbal action – everyone except Henry.  He says nothing for the rest of the scene, save for one feeble attempt to gain the floor.  “Remember, you guys, I AM the king – somebody should listen to me.”  But nobody does.

SCENE III – a field of battle between Towton and Saxton, in Yorkshire

Warwick sits down to catch his breath, and Edward (York) enters running.  George is close behind him.  Things are nto going well, and they are prepared to fly, but Richard comes and exhorts them all to keep fighting. 

SCENE IV – another part of the field

It’s the showdown between Clifford (who has been killing every member of the House of York he can find, to avenge his father) and the most malicious member of that House (Richard).  Before they finish it, though, Warwick shows up, and Clifford flies.  Richard tells Warwick, “Stay where you are; he’s mine!” and runs after Clifford. 

SCENE V – another part of the field.

Saddest scene of the play (possibly of any play).  Whether you love Henry or want to shake some backbone into him, this is his scene.  First of all, it’s a great soliloquy, and secondly, when other characters enter, Henry serves as observer, drawing the attention of the audience to these lesser players who would not otherwise get the same notice.  Observing an observer is a great way to see things in a new light.

Henry is heartbroken.  Whether or not he is a good king, he is compassionate, and these are his people.  The battle is swinging back and forth, and Margaret and Clifford have finally convinced him to go off somewhere and wait it out.  So he is alone, thinking about his life, when he speaks the most famous lines of the play:

“O God! methinks it were a happy life,
To be no better than a homely swain;”

And you have to feel sorry for him.  King since he was nine months old, manipulated by those closest to him, threatened and mocked and scorned for things which were not his fault, and now he sees himself responsible for the deaths of thousands of his people.  And he can’t help thinking what a great life it would be to be a shepherd – quiet, low-stress, you never let anyone down.  A simple life, even a life in poverty, if also peaceful, seems to him infinitely better than a glittering life where he can trust no one.

“Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy
To kings that fear their subjects' treachery?
O, yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth.
And to conclude, the shepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle.
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince's delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,
When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him.”

Enter a young soldier, dragging a body to rifle through its pockets.  He discovers, however, that this man he has just killed is his own father.  On the other side of a stage comes an older soldier, also carrying a body he has just dispatched in order to loot it.  This time, it is the man’s son.  Both men are in agonies of grief, and Henry cries along with them as he watches, in his own words, “aid[ing] tear for tear.”  It is a perfect picture of how “unnatural” the Wars of the Roses were (and, indeed, all civil wars are) – where fathers and sons kill each other without knowing it.  Edward Duke of York and Prince Edward are both named Edward Plantagenet – it’s another family reunion gone sour, but because the family happens to be royal, everyone in the kingdom gets dragged into it.  Henry knows this, and each father and son that is killed he feels to be his own father or son. 

Enter Margaret, Prince Edward, and Exeter.  The day has gone against them after all, and they urge Henry to escape while he can. 

SCENE VI – another part of the field.

Clifford has received his death wound from Richard, and he staggers onstage and collapses, waiting as the life bleeds out of him.  Like any Shakespearean character about to expire, he is still collected enough to speak cogently and at great length.  And his words about the effect his death will have on the situation are sadly accurate:

“Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies,
Which, whiles it lasted, gave King Henry light.
O Lancaster, I fear thy overthrow
More than my body's parting with my soul!
My love and fear glued many friends to thee;
And, now I fall, thy tough commixture melts.”

Many of Henry’s allies stuck with him more for Clifford’s sake than for Henry’, so things are not looking good.

Enter Edward (York), George, Richard, Montague, and Warwick.  They are speculating on Henry’s flight and wondering if Clifford went with him.  Warwick says that this is impossible, since “Richard mark’d him for the grave.”  Clifford groans just at that moment and gives up the ghost.  They recognize him and indulge in some posthumous taunting, then cut off his head to hang on the gates of York. 

Their plan is to march in triumph to London, crown Edward king, and then Warwick (historically known as the “kingmaker”) will go to France to get the Lady Bona for his queen.  Edward heartily approves of the plan, and creates his brother Richard Duke of Gloucester and his brother George Duke of Clarence.  Richard is displeased – he wants to be Duke of Clarence, saying “Gloucester’s dukedom is too ominous” (and who can blame him, remembering what happened to the last Duke of Gloucester?).  Warwick tuts at him for being foolish, and they proceed to London. 

Methinks Richard would make any dukedom ominous . . .

End of Act II

ACT V

http://www.william-shakespeare.info/act5-script-text-henry-vi-part2.htm

SCENE I -- Fields between Dartford and Blackheath.

I often wonder why people say talking to yourself is unnatural when everyone does it.  Enter York.  Not only is he talking to himself, he is talking about himself (in the third person).  He goes on and on about how amazing and kingly he is, and with an army fresh from Ireland behind him, he probably looks it.

Enter Buckingham. 

Buckingham: York!  What in God’s name are you doing?!

York: I intend to remove Somerset, traitor to king and country.

Buckingham: You have no right to do so.  Besides, the king has already granted your request and thrown Somerset in the Tower.

York: Oh, really?  Well, that’s all right, then.  (to army) Run along, boys!

York even offers all of his sons to Henry as pledges of his good faith (this was common practice all over Europe for princes and dignitaries to exchange sons or nephews as hostages to insure good behavior).  He is, of course, bluffing.

Enter Henry.  Buckingham relays York’s message, and it seems that everything will be smoothed over.  Enter Iden with Jack’s head.

Henry is delighted to have the head of the traitor, and he knights Iden for his service to England. 

Enter Margaret and Somerset.  (There is no real explanation as to why Somerset is not in the Tower.  Henry sent him there.  Somerset declared he would go gladly if was for the good of England.  Was he let out on Margaret’s authority?  The script is not clear whether or not Henry is surprised to see him or only anxious to hide him from York.)  York, upon seeing Somerset (clearly not in the Tower), is outraged.  The time has come to lay his cards on the table.  “Guess what, Henry!   You’re not worthy to be king.  You were made to serve someone like me.”

Somerset says he arrests York for treason, but York calls for his two sons to be his bail.  Everyone gets very dramatic, and various allies appear.  Clifford and his son show up on the king’s side.  Warwick and Salisbury appear for York.  They yell back and forth, determining who has betrayed whom, and by the end of the scene, there’s nothing left to do but fight it out.

SCENE II – Saint Alban's.

Warwick is after Clifford, but York wants to be the one to kill him, so Warwick steps aside.  Clifford and York have a very interesting exchange in which they expound upon what worthy opponents they are, and how they admire and respect each other even though they are enemies.  Then Clifford dies by York’s hand.

Enter Clifford’s son.  When he sees his father’s body, he launches into an impassioned speech about how he will show the House of York no pity, not even the children.  He carries away his father’s body, saying:

“As did Æneas old Anchises bear,
So bear I thee upon my manly shoulders;
But then Æneas bare a living load,
Nothing so heavy as these woes of mine.”

(Slightly irrelevant remark: I do not doubt that Young Clifford means that his grief is heavy, not that a dead man weighs more than a living [though having never hefted a dead man, I could not say with any great degree of certainty].  People do seem to weigh more when they go limp, but as soon as rigormortis set it, that would be negligible.  I heard an interesting thing somewhere where scientists were trying to prove the existence of the soul and said that a person lost something like 11 ounces in the instant that he died.  Very difficult to do a study of this, of course.  If you go around asking people at death’s door to hop on a scale, you will get some dirty looks.  But still . . . does your soul weigh 11 ounces?)

The next to die is Somerset, slain by Richard (son of York). 

After more nondescript fighting ,we see Henry and Margaret.  Margaret is urging Henry to run.  It’s not as if he’s fighting anyway, and if he can make it to London, where he has the support of the people, it is likely that things could still turn out in his favour.  Young Clifford enters and adds his pleas to Margaret’s.  He says that normally, he would say to fight to the death, but he hopes to pay these rascals back on another day, and the only way to do that is if Henry survives.  And Henry finally assents.

SCENE III – Fields near St. Alban’s

The York contingent regroups and congratulates themselves on their victory.  Aware of the king’s movements, they set off for London with all speed, hoping to beat him there.

End of Act V.

As with any trilogy, the middle installment has no kind of ending at all – curtains are not supposed to close on the middle of a race to London. 

A line from Richard:
“Priests pray for enemies, but princes kill.”

So often true, even today in places where princes are “chosen” by the people.  To indulge in a Socratic moment, do they kill because they are princes, or are they princes because they kill?

ACT III (in which things happen very quickly)

http://www.william-shakespeare.info/act3-script-text-henry-vi-part2.htm

SCENE I – the Abbey at Bury St. Edmund's.

Enter Henry, Margaret, Cardinal Beaufort, Suffolk, York, Buckingham, Salisbury, and Warwick.  They have gathered for the parliament, and Henry wonders why Gloucester is late.  Margaret is only too happy to give an answer.  According to her, he has become insolent of late.  He is an enemy to Henry and wants to have him disposed of, because he (Gloucester) is next in line to the crown.  Suffolk confirms her analysis, and the others chip in as well, accusing Gloucester of judging misdemeanors too harshly and of overtaxing all of England to pay for the French war, yet never sending any of the money to France. 

In Suffolk’s speech, you will find the origin of the saying, “smooth waters run deep.”  What Suffolk actually says is, “Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep.”  The meaning of this phrase has altered significantly since Suffolk said it, though.  Today, we mean that those tending toward taciturnity are the most profound.  Suffolk means, though, that those who are plotting treachery are careful not to draw attention to themselves: “The fox barks not when he would steal the lamb.”

Henry maintains that Gloucester is virtuous, mild, and innocent of any and all offenses. 

Enter Somerset with the news that France is utterly lost.   

Enter Gloucester.  And Suffolk arrests him for high treason.  When Gloucester asks why, York accuses him of accepting bribes from France and of keeping the soldiers’ pay for himself, thereby making him responsible for the loss of France.  This is absurd.  As Gloucester protests, he gave a great deal of money from his own estate toward the war effort so that he would not have to tax the people more than necessary.  York proceeds to accuse him of “devis[ing] strange tortures for offenders never heard of, that England was defamed by tyranny.”  This, too, is ludicrous.  Gloucester says that, if anything, he was too lenient. 

Henry is convinced of Gloucester’s innocence, but he does nothing.  King he may be, but he lets them take Gloucester away to face trial.  As soon as Gloucester leaves, he excuses himself, too overcome with grief to go on with the parliament.  And his exit speech is truly painful.  Firstly, because he describes his current emotional state so vividly (“my body round engirt with misery”), and secondly because he goes on and on about how Gloucester never hurt anyone, yet all the lords and queen Margaret have turned on him, and now he has been taken away like a calf to the butcher’s block, and I just want to yell at him, “Henry!  Let’s pretend for one moment that you’re the king and can do something about injustice, shall we?”

Exeunt all but Margaret, Cardinal Beaufort, Suffolk, and York.  Somerset remains apart.

Margaret says that her husband is “too full of foolish pity, and Gloucester’s show beguiles him as the mournful crocodile with sorrow snares relenting passengers.”  (I find it fascinating that Elizabethan Britons had the saying “crocodile tears.”  Globalization is not a recent phenomenon,  my friends.)  They all agree that Gloucester will be dangerous until he is dead.  After all, Henry is on his side, and the vast majority of the English people.   So they decide to kill him before his trial. 

Enter a messenger with the news that Ireland is in revolt (which comes as no surprise to anyone).  York, the epitome of sarcasm, suggests that Somerset be sent to Ireland as regent, since he had such marvelous success in France.  They begin bickering – Somerset saying he lasted longer in France than York would have done, York saying he would have died before losing France and dishonouring himself. 

Cardinal Beaufort suggests that York be the one to subdue Ireland.  He implies that, in this way, he can prove he would have succeeded where Somerset failed.   Another possible motive is that Beaufort is always trying to eliminate rivals, and York in Ireland is much less of a threat to his power than York in London.

But this plays directly into York’s hand.  He will be provided with soldiers before he sails for Ireland, and soldiers were the one thing he lacked to stage a coup against Henry.

SCENE II – Bury St. Edmund's. A room of state.

First Murderer: “Run to my Lord of Suffolk; let him know

We have dispatch'd the duke, as he commanded.”

(Didst thou ever hear a murderer who spoke with such elegance?  Using such a polite euphemism for bumping someone off?)

Second Murderer: “O that it were to do! What have we done?

Didst ever hear a man so penitent?”

(“O that it were to do!” = O that the deed lay still before us, that we might choose differently)

Enter Suffolk.  He confers briefly with his assassins, promising they will be paid, and they exit.  Enter Henry, Margaret, Cardinal Beaufort, and Somerset.  The time has come for Gloucester’s trial, and Suffolk goes to fetch him.  He re-enters, pretending to be all shaken up, and announces that Gloucester is dead.  The Cardinal sticks in a snide comment that this is God’s secret judgment, and Henry faints dead away. 

When he comes to, he begins railing at Suffolk for bringing such terrible news, and Margaret instantly comes to Suffolk’s defense.  This is the part at which I just want to gag her.  First she goes on and on about how Gloucester was an enemy to Suffolk, yet Suffolk “most Christian-like laments his death.”  She says the same thing about herself.  Gloucester was her enemy, but she is only too happy for cry for him.  And then she really goes off the deep end and turns it into a “you don’t love me!” speech.  She says she is even more wretched that Gloucester, because she went through so much suffering to come to Henry and he his queen, and he has a “flinty heart” and does not appreciate her.  (Meg.  Sweetheart.  Could you please try and stick to the subject?)

Enter Warwick, Salisbury, and a horde of commoners.  Warwick says that according to local gossip, Gloucester is dead by Suffolk and Beaufort’s hands, and the commoners are up in arms about it.  Henry informs him that Gloucester is indeed dead, but he doesn’t know how.  Warwick goes to inspect the corpse.

Re-enter Warwick with Gloucester’s mortal remains.  Warwick performs a quick autopsy in the king’s presence to convince him that Gloucester was murdered.  In Warwick’s reasoning, a person who dies of natural causes is usually pale, because the heart – labouring so intensely at the end – draws all the blood to itself.  Gloucester’s face is positively black with all the blood settled there.  His eyeballs are slightly popped , his fingers spread, his nostrils stretched with struggling (I know.  I’m a bit skeptical myself, but Warwick is a fictional character in a 400-year-old play, so you can’t challenge him on it).  All the signs point to the conclusion that that he was murdered.

SUFFOLK 
Why, Warwick, who should do the duke to death?
Myself and Beaufort had him in protection;
And we, I hope, sir, are no murderers.

WARWICK 
But both of you were vow'd Duke Humphrey's foes,
And you, forsooth, had the good duke to keep:
'Tis like you would not feast him like a friend;
And 'tis well seen he found an enemy.

Suffolk is not about to take a murder accusation lying down (however just it may be).  He says that Warwick’s mother must have slept with some low-born villain to produce him.  And Warwick’s answer is impressive in both dignity and contempt.  He says that he would make Suffolk beg forgiveness for that speech, and say it was his own mother he meant, but two things stop him: 1) he is in the presence of his sovereign, and 2) if he killed Suffolk outright, it would deny him the pleasure of seeing him executed shamefully as a murderer.  And he calls Suffolk a “pernicious blood-sucker of sleeping men.”  (Like I said, these people really know how to insult each other.)

They exit, but re-enter almost immediately, weapons drawn.  This is illegal in the king’s presence, but Suffolk cries that Warwick and all the men of Bury set upon him.  Salisbury calls to the commoners to be still and wait for the king to hear their complaint.  They want Suffolk dead, or at least banished.  They know he killed Gloucester, and they fear he will also kill Henry, so the mob is there out of love for their king (so Salisbury says). 

Henry’s response is probably his most regal moment in all three plays.  He does indeed banish Suffolk. 

“by His majesty I swear,

Whose far unworthy deputy I am,   [this is a foundational concept of the Divine Right of Kings – that the earthly king was an anointed deputy of God]

He [Suffolk] shall not breathe infection in this air

But three days longer, on the pain of death.”

Yes, Henry, you may take a bow.  Thank you for standing up and being a man.

Now Margaret and Suffolk have their good-bye scene (after everyone else has left).  It is both volatile and poetic, and since they are both vile characters, the scene’s appeal is based entirely on the beauty of the verbal imagery and the intricacy of the words. 

Vaux enters with the news that Cardinal Beaufort has been taken suddenly and violently ill, and he leaves again to bear this message to the king.  Margaret and Suffolk indulge in yet another fling of good-byes (in which Suffolk outdoes even his earlier efforts), and they finally exit. 


SCENE III – a bedchamber.

Enter Henry, Salisbury, and Warwick.  Cardinal Beaufort is already there, dying.

This is a fairly short death scene, but it exemplifies that idea of that time that a man who feared death or died ‘badly’ was surely a villain.  At the last, Henry begs Beaufort to hold up his hand as a sign that his trust is in God, but Beaufort dies without making such a sign.  And Henry is his usual sanctimonious self as he closes the scene:

“Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.
Close up his eyes and draw the curtain close;
And let us all to meditation.”

End of Act III.

Who will die next?  I confess, I wouldn’t be opposed to someone slipping Margaret some arsenic, but I fear we shall have to endure her for yet some time.