Lance (Euan Morton), Crab (Oliver the dog), and Speed (Adam Green) in the Shakespeare Theatre Company’s 2012 production of The Two Gentlemen of Verona.

The Two Gentlemen of Verona was my second play for the month of March, and it was a very sharp change from Romeo and Juliet. This play was very strange, and certainly not one of Shakespeare’s best. But I think I would be very excited to see it performed live because it would be a guaranteed good time.

I really did love Valentine – his brainless nature is so charming. I loved the whole letter writing gag in the second act. Sylvia has Valentine write a letter on her behalf so that she may give it to a man she’s been admiring. That man, of course, is Valentine. But when she hands it back to him, he is incredibly confused, and thinks she means for him to write a better one. Valentine’s man Speed cannot even begin to fathom his master’s stupidity:

SPEED [aside]
O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible
As a nose on a man’s face, or a weathercock on a steeple!
My master sues to her, and she hath taught her suitor,
He being her pupil, to become her tutor.
O excellent device! Was there ever heard a better?
That my master, being scribe, to himself should write the letter?

How now, sir? What, are you reasoning with yourself?

Nay, I was rhyming. ‘Tis you that have the reason.

To do what?

To be a spokesman from Madam Sylvia.

To whom?

To yourself. Why, she woos you by a figure.

What figure?

By a letter, I should say.

Why, she hath not writ to me!

hat need she when she hath made you write to yourself? Why, do you not perceive the jest?

No, believe me.

Poor, sweet Valentine. He is just constantly clueless, but so kind and gentle. His name fits him very well. This play is full of opposites: where Valentine is an airhead, Speed is clever. Where Proteus is intelligent and devious, Lance is dimwitted and not crafty in the slightest.

What I love most about Valentine in the above scene is how willing he is to do whatever Sylvia wants. He had just been telling Speed how much he admires Sylvia, but he doesn’t act jealous or angry at the idea of writing a letter to another man for her.

Speaking of Sylvia, she is just wonderful. I preferred her to Julia. Sylvia has Proteus running after her for most of the play, spouting off silly poetry and trying his best to woo her despite the fact that he had promised himself to Julia. But Sylvia is not impressed, and does not waver in her dedication to Valentine for even a second:

What’s your will?

That I may compass yours.

You have your wish: my will is even this,
That presently you hie you home to bed.
Thou subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man,
Think’st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless,
To be seducèd by thy flattery,
That hast deceived so many with thy vows?
Return, return, and make thy love amends.
For me, by this pale queen of night I swear,
I am so far from granting thy request
That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit
And by and by intend to chide myself
Even for this time I spend in talking to thee.

None of this stops Proteus though, and that’s only part of the reason I can’t stand him. The theme of opposites comes in once again – Proteus is everything that Valentine is not. He is sly, and would do anything to get what he wants. He lies, he betrays his best friend – there is just no end to Proteus’ faults. I am so glad that Sylvia called him out every chance she got.

And poor Julia, dressed as a man, had to watch the love of her life pursue another woman. Julia was unable to call Proteus out as much as Sylvia did – not only because she was in disguise, but because she spent most of the play hurting.

This entire play is silly – so silly, that this post is going to end up being a lot shorter than my other ones. I want to jump straight to the ending, because it was just ridiculous. By the time the end rolls around, Valentine is the leader of a troupe of outlaws.

In the woods, Proteus decides that he’s going to make me like him even less by handling Sylvia against her will so that he’ll “force [her] yield to [his] desire.” Luckily, Valentine shows up and saves his lady love. The play should have then ended with Proteus getting locked up, Julia realizing that she’s better than him, and Valentine whisking Julia back to the city. But no. After Valentine expresses his deep disappointment in Proteus, this happens:

My shame and guilt confounds me.
Forgive me, Valentine. If hearty sorrow
Be a sufficient ransom for offense,
I tender ‘t here. I do as truly suffer
As e’er I did commit.

Then I am paid,
And once again I do receive thee honest.
Who by repentance is not satisfied
Is nor of heaven nor earth, for these are pleased;
By penitence th’ Eternal’s wrath’s appeased.
And that my love may appear plain and free,
All that was mine in Sylvia I give thee.



As you know by now, I am a big fan of the Folger Shakespeare Library publications. So after reading the ending and being completely baffled, I flipped to the back to read The Two Gentlemen of Verona: A Modern Perspective by Jeffrey Masten. Dr. Masten suggests that this scene in particular is the reason that this play isn’t very popular. As modern individuals, we cannot begin to understand what Shakespeare was thinking. Dr. Mastern quotes Arthur Quiller-Couch, who says that this incident is part of a behavior “of refining, idealising, exalting [friendship] out of all proportion, or at any rate above the proportion it bears, in our modern minds, either to love between man and woman or to parental love.”

So there you have it. Who knows how this play was received when it was first put on? All I know is that The Two Gentlemen of Verona would not be a 2017 hit.

Or maybe it would. After all, who doesn’t love a play with a dog?



Image result for romeo and juliet
Romeo (Leonard Whiting) and Juliet (Olivia Hussey) in Franco Zeffirelli’s 1968 adaptation of Romeo and Juliet.

In 2017, Romeo and Juliet is known as nothing but a series of cliches. It’s still popular, yes, but it’s also quite popular to cast a cynical eye on it and call it silly and frivolous. If you’ve been reading this blog at all, you may have realized that I’m more or less the Queen of Cynics, and have been since I was a preteen. But – brace yourself – I could not find it in me to hate Romeo and Juliet. In fact, I rather love it now. It’s almost an embarrassing admission to make, but I’ve made it and now we can move on.

It took me five days to read Romeo and Juliet, and nearly every person who found out I was reading it mentioned something about the stupidity of both Romeo and Juliet. One of my sisters was surprised to hear me defend the play at all. But it wasn’t difficult to defend it, and that is because I don’t think Romeo and Juliet are stupid. They’re in love – Shakespeare was probably in love. And while I’ve never been in love myself, I had to sympathize with them.

I am smitten with the masquerade scenes. There is so much to notice – Tybalt’s fiery anger toward Romeo, Capulet’s insistence at keeping the peace, and Romeo – oh, Romeo – flush with emotion:

O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
As a rich jewel in Ethiop’s ear –
Beauty too rich for use, for Earth too dear.
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows
As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows.
The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand
And, touching hers, make blessèd my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight,
For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.

I understand anybody who finds themselves annoyed with Romeo. I’m quite aware that he can be a bit too dramatic, and that he was just pouting over Rosaline a few scenes ago. But what he had with Rosaline wasn’t love  – this is love. Rosaline is easily dismissed not because Romeo is a dog, but because his love for Juliet is true and all-encompassing. He is stricken by her, as we can see in his flowery and beautiful language.

Romeo’s dramatic and lovesick nature is very nicely balanced out by Mercutio and Benvolio. And, wouldn’t you know it, I love Mercutio. Nothing I say could compete with Stephen Greenblatt’s words: “For Mercutio […] words are fantastic trifles in a world fit only for satire, sexual teasing, and make-believe.” Mercutio’s sharp wit quickly won me over, and I was just devastated when Tybalt killed him. Well, half-devastated and half-pleased, since Mercutio insisted on going out with a bang:

Courage, man, the hurt cannot be so much.

No, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but ’tis enough. ‘Twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o’ both your houses! Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death! A braggart, a rogue, a villain that fights by the book of arithmetic! Why the devil came you between us?  I was hurt under your arm.

I thought all for the best.

Help me into some house, Benvolio,
Or I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses!
They have made worms’ meat of me.
I have it, and soundly, too. Your houses!

Also, and I’m not saying this because I like Tybalt (I do, actually), but it stings that Mercutio’s death was an accident. I have no doubt that the two of them were fighting to humiliate, not to kill. In contrast, we could say that Romeo was out for Tybalt’s blood, if only because he was so overcome by the death of his friend.

Juliet is often reduced to a simpering silly maid – and although she can be silly, she isn’t always. During the infamous balcony scene, she comes across as having more sense than people give her credit for:

Lady, by yonder blessèd moon I vow,
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops  –

O, swear not by the moon, th’ inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled orb,
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

What shall I swear by?

Do not swear at all.
Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,
Which is the god of my idolatry,
And I’ll believe thee.

If my heart’s dear love –

Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract tonight.
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden,
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say “It lightens.” Sweet, good night.
This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
Good night, good night. As sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart as that within my breast.

And she tells him to send word to her tomorrow, but only if his love is true and his intentions are to marry her. Juliet is no fool! She knows her worth, and she is cautious to a degree. She doesn’t even speak in absolutes: this new-found love may prove to be something more.

If we speak of Juliet, then we must mention her nurse. I love how supportive Juliet’s nurse was of her relationship. Who are we to call it silly if Juliet’s own mother figure helped to push her forward? Juliet’s nurse is so loving and merry that it’s difficult not to see her as Juliet’s actual mother. She cares for Juliet more than anything, and only wants to see her happy.

I want to talk about Juliet’s parents for a moment, because along with the Montagues, they are part of the larger problem. Juliet is incredibly young – two weeks away from her fourteenth birthday. And while I initially applauded old Capulet for telling Paris to wait a while, I was incredibly annoyed with his reaction to Juliet’s refusal to marry:

How, how, how, how? Chopped logic? What is this?
“Proud,” and “I thank you,” and “I thank you not,”
And yet “not proud?” Mistress minion you,
Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds,
But fettle your fine joints ‘gainst Thursday next
To go with Paris to Saint Peter’s Church,
Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.
Out, you green-sickness carrion! Out, you baggage!
You tallow face!

Juliet is Capulet’s only daughter, so you’d think he’d try to treat her gently and with love. Neither of her parents think to ever properly talk with their daughter. They have raised her to hate the Montagues – and it is their silly grudge that stops Juliet from telling them the real reason she doesn’t want to marry Paris. And, of course, Romeo’s parents are at fault for this too: their own son cannot share the joy of his love with them because all he knows is their hatred of the Capulets. When Romeo and Juliet act rashly, it is not because they are inherently foolish, it is because their families have led them to believe that there is no other choice.

Before I move on, can I just say I was in hysterics when it was implied that Paris was harassing Capulet for Juliet’s hand at like 5am? Old Capulet mentions that the time is so late, it may as well be day. I sat there in tears for a good three minutes. This is who they want to be their son-in-law?

Father Lawrence, Verona’s resident fuck-up, gives Juliet a potion that makes her appear to be dead for 42 hours. But his message to Romeo never reaches its destination, and we are left with a tragic, tragic end. Poor Paris, who is clearly nocturnal, is caught up in all of this as he visits the Capulet’s monument to pay his respects to Juliet. The play ends sombrely: “There never was a tale of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.” And only when Romeo and Juliet die can their families finally let go of their grudges for one another, which is sad in and of itself.

What was going on with Shakespeare? How on earth does on go from writing something like Titus Andronicus to writing Romeo and Juliet? He must have been in love. In Women of Will, Packer says: “[…] Ultimately, we learn about life through living, through our relationships with other people. And the only way to understand the deeper sexual/spiritual love is through experiencing sexual/spiritual love. So I declare: Shakespeare knew it. He lived it. And the language to say it flowed from his pen because of it. And he didn’t just experience it from the man’s point of view. He experienced the woman’s position just as deeply, felt her emotional journey as if it were his own.”

Romeo and Juliet is a curious play because the titular characters are equals. Shakespeare does not gloss over Juliet’s challenges – in fact, we see them in plain view. I would expect to read about Romeo’s personal problems, but it is interesting to also see Juliet’s, especially because Shakespeare was a man. The success of this play is a testament to his skill as a writer. In it, we find the very essence of passion and love, written out in plain words. And maybe Packer is right – it feels real because, for Shakespeare, it was.

To round off this play, I watched the 1968 adaptation of Romeo and Juliet (pictured above). I found both Romeo and Juliet to be very well-cast and charming. There was perhaps a touch too much wailing for my liking, but I was overall happy with what I had chosen to watch. I was not happy, however, with Mercutio: I think they played him as too much of an ass. Mercutio can be ridiculous, but he is closely associated with the Prince. I think they went overboard with his antics. Mercutio is wild, but I think it would be better to have a less in-your-face approach to his character. He can still be funny without being annoying and unlikable. Overall, however, I felt like it was quite close to the original text (typically my only requirement for these films!) and I had a good time watching it. I was kind of relieved to see Mercutio go, however, which is a bit sad considering how in love with him I was while reading.

I love that Romeo and Juliet is so well-known and so intertwined with the human experience. I love that people pin their love letters to the wall below Juliet’s balcony in Verona. I love that you can go see a statue of her, tragic heroine that she is, and place your hand upon her breast for good luck. Romeo and Juliet isn’t silly in the slightest – it tells us of the power of love, and (if you’re me) makes you want to experience it, if only for a while.

I will be moving on to The Two Gentlemen of Verona next week! I know nothing about it, so hopefully I have a good time. I hope to see you then!





Stained glass depiction of Richard III and Anne Neville in Cardiff Castle.

I know, I know – Richard III is not on my list. But I want to share with you my favorite Shakespeare story of all time. This is from a copy of Richard III published in 1995 by Penguin as a part of their New Penguin Shakespeare books. Here is a direct quote from the introduction of that very copy –

The popularity of Richard III dates back to Shakespeare’s own lifetime. Six editions of the play were published between 1597 and 1622 in Quarto, to be followed by a seventh in the Folio of 1623; and the exceptional number of early editions is matched by the exceptional number of copies of these editions still known to exist. Early allusions to the play confirm that it probably ranked with Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet as one of the outstanding favorites of the theatre; indeed, Richard III seems to have been once of the first plays to feature in the ‘Shakespeare mythos,’ as we learn from the Diary of John Manningham, a student at the Middle Temple, in the year 1602.

“Upon a time when Burbage played Richard III there was a [female] citizen grew so far in liking with him, that before she went from the play she appointed him come that night unto her by the name of Richard III. Shakespeare, overhearing their conclusion, went before, was entertained and at his game ere Burbage came. The message being brought that Richard III was at the door, Shakespeare caused return to be made that William the Conqueror was before Richard III.”

Whether or not this story is true – witty anecdotes readily attach themselves to the famous – it does at least establish that by 1602 the play had become part of popular mythology.

Any account of the glamour and power of Richard III must, of course, begin with Richard himself. […]

I love that little anecdote more than words can say. I tell it to anybody who is interested in Shakespeare – especially if they haven’t read Richard III. I find that it sparks their interest like nothing else.

How believable do you find this story? I’m convinced that it’s true – but only because it would be silly of me to deny that Richard has a wonderful charm and charisma to him that could manipulate even the most skeptical audience member. It’s why I say that Richard III is Shakespeare’s greatest work. With all his breaking of the fourth wall, you find yourself being twisted around Richard’s little finger, and perhaps even rooting for him despite how utterly evil he is.

Just thought I’d share that with you! Whether or not the story is true, it’s good for a laugh.



One theatre-goer, who watched the show’s opening night, said there had been “quite a few droppers” in the audience
A still of Lavinia (Laura Rees) from a 2006 production of Titus Andronicus at Shakespeare’s Globe.

When I promised that I would read every single Shakespeare play known to man this year, I meant every single one. And that is how I came to possess a copy of Titus Andronicus, a play that is rarely discussed, and one that had never crossed my radar more than once before.

Last quarter, my Shakespeare professor asked us about our favorite plays. My answer was quick, because I’ve known for years: “Richard III.” A girl across from me couldn’t quite remember the title of her favorite play, so she began to describe it. It was very violent, she said, and someone loses their tongue. “Titus Andronicus is your favorite play?” the professor asked in disbelief. “Titus Andronicus? What is wrong with you?”

The exchange was a teasing one, as was very characteristic of my professor. That was the first time I had heard someone talk about Titus Andronicus.

So you may be wondering how I feel about the play. The answer to that is: I don’t know. All I know is that I spent two days filled with morbid curiosity and was unable to look away until I had gone through the entire thing. Titus Andronicus is like a train wreck – you really don’t want to look, but you can’t help it.

I want to talk about Lavinia, because although she is rendered silent, I love her. I felt her sweetness and purity of heart through the pages, and I could not stand to see her beg for Tamora’s pity.

O, let me teach thee! For my father’s sake,
That gave thee life when well he might have slain thee,
Be not obdurate; open thy deaf ears.

Hadst thou in person ne’er offended me,
Even for his sake I am pitiless. –
Remember, boys, I poured forth tears in vain
To save your brother from the sacrifice,
But fierce Andronicus would not relent.
Therefore away with her, and use her as you will;
The worse to her; the better loved of me.

O, Tamora, be called a gentle queen,
And with thine own hands kill me in this place!
For ’tis not life that I have begged so long;
Poor I was slain when Bassianus died.

What, begg’st thou, then? Fond woman, let me go!

I cannot get over the image of Lavinia grasping at Tamora, begging her for mercy. I cannot accept that this conversation is happening between two women. Tamora knows what awaits Lavinia, but she has no pity. Her heart is stone, and all the begging in the world won’t move her. Poor Lavinia is sobbing her heart out, asking a fellow woman to help her, but it’s no use. She is raped and mutilated by Tamora’s despicable sons.

Are Tamora’s actions justified? She is a grieving mother, who had her son torn away from her. I understand why she is seeking revenge against Titus, but her refusal to protect Lavinia from the ultimate violation is just sickening.

And Titus – poor Titus! I was indifferent toward him at the beginning of the play, but every time Rome took something from him, I felt my heart soften. He cuts off his own hand in an effort to save Martius and Quintus from being wrongfully executed. And for what? For this?

Enter a Messenger with two heads and a hand.

Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid
For that good hand thou sent’st the Emperor:
Here are the heads of thy noble sons,
And here’s thy hand in scorn to thee sent back.
Thy grief their sports, thy resolution mocked,
That woe is me to think upon thy woes
More than remembrance of my father’s death.

[He exits.]

Now let hot Etna cool in Sicily,
And be my heart an everburning hell!
These miseries are more than may be borne.
To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal,
But sorrow flouted at is double death.

Ah, that this sight should make so deep a wound
And yet detested life not shrink thereat!
That ever death should let life bear his name,
Where life hath no more interest but to breathe.

[Lavinia kisses Titus.]

Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless
As frozen water to a starvèd snake.

When will this fearful slumber have an end?

Lavinia kissing Titus was what really broke my already destroyed heart. She is silent, and yet her actions speak volumes.

Titus has spent his entire life fighting for Rome, and this is what he has to show for it? Twenty-five sons reduced to one, and his precious Lavinia torn to shreds.

Aaron is arguably the primary antagonist of this play, and I’m afraid that I’m not skilled enough to eloquently analyze him. But I’d like to try, so I would appreciate it if you’d bear with me. It is important to understand what exactly white people in Elizabethan England would have associated with blackness. Stereotypes such as lustful, illiterate, and violent were often applied to Africans, especially since there was an influx of African immigrants in Shakespeare’s time. So what stereotypes does Aaron fall into, and what barriers does he break?

It is difficult to understand where Shakespeare stood on these issues. On one hand, Aaron is constantly associated with sex (being Tamora’s lover), and he often uses euphemisms in his speech (for example, the repeated use of the word ‘mount’ when discussing his affair). On the other, he is clearly incredibly smart. He makes constant references to literature, and is very eloquent, despite being incredibly evil.

Aaron is a violent character, and he encourages violence. He helps guide Chiron and Demetrius in their plan to rape and mutilate Lavinia, and even by the end of the play, his only regret was that he could not have done more to ruin the others:

Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds?

Ay, that I had not done a thousand more.
Even now I curse the day – and yet, I think,
Few come within the compass of my curse –
Wherein I did not some notorious ill,
As kill a man, or else devise his death;
Ravish a maid or plot the way to do it;
Accuse some innocent and forswear myself;
Set deadly enmity between two friends;
Make poor men’s cattle break their necks;
Set fire on barns and haystalks in the night,
And bid the owners quench them with their tears.

And yet, Aaron is fiercely protective of his son. His violent nature does not really seem to leave space for paternal instincts, but they are there. Aaron is evil, but he is also incredibly complicated. He is a slave, oppressed by the Romans, looked down upon. He is also inherently evil, and yet extremely dedicated to his own. Perhaps his multi-faceted personality came as a shock to Elizabethan theatre-goers. Perhaps their perception of black men was slightly challenged – and I say slightly only because Aaron still falls into some stereotypes that were popularly believed at the time.

This play is incredibly bloody – the image of Lavinia with blood pouring out of her mouth and from the stumps where her hands used to be gave me literal nightmares – and I didn’t think it could get any worse, until this:

Why hast thou slain thine only daughter thus?

Not I; ’twas Chiron and Demetrius.
They ravished her and cut away her tongue,
And they, ’twas they, that did her all this wrong.

Go fetch them hither to us presently.

Why, they are there, both bakèd in this pie,
Whereof their mother daintily hath fed,
Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred.
‘Tis true, ’tis true! Witness my knife’s sharp point.

Because I’m an innocent fool, I did not anticipate cannibalism playing into this story. To avenge poor Lavinia, Titus uses the blood and ground up bones of Tamora’s sons to make a pie. He stabs Tamora, Emperor Saturninus stabs Titus, and Lucius stabs Saturninus. Meanwhile, I just sat there, absolutely stunned.

Before Titus stabbed Tamora, he turned his knife on Lavinia. I was shocked, but reasoned that if I were Lavinia, I would not want to be alive in such a state. Titus meant to free both him and Lavinia from their sorrow and shame, which I can understand. Poor Lavinia, though. With no tongue, we will never know how she truly felt, and whether or not she wanted to live.

Lucius, who I see as this play’s Henry V figure, becomes Emperor. He and Marcus are all that’s left of the Andronici – as for the rest of Rome, I’d like to use a line from the very first act: “no noise, but silence and eternal sleep.”

Titus Andronicus is incredibly disturbing. Disturbing enough that it caused five people to faint at Shakespeare’s Globe in 2014. I think I could stomach it, personally, but who knows? I may just be tempted to see it if I ever get the chance.

Next month, we start with something completely different from the gory Titus Andronicus. We’ll be talking about Romeo and Juliet! Grab your tissues, and I’ll see you in a few weeks.



A group of soldiers raising their swords
A group of soldiers raising their swords from a 2006 production of Henry VI, Part 3. Royal Shakespeare Company.

Alarum. Enter King Henry alone, wearing the red rose.

This battle fares like to the morning’s war,
When dying clouds contend with growing light,
What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day nor night.
Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea
Forced by the tide to combat with the wind;
Now sways it that way, like the selfsame sea
Forced to retire by fury of the wind.
Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind;
Now one the better; then another best,
Both tugging to be victors, breast-to-breast,
So is the equal poise of this fell war.
Here on this molehill will I sit me down.

[He sits on a small prominence.]

To whom God will, there be the victory;
For Margaret my queen and Clifford too
Have chid me from battle, swearing both
They prosper best of all when I am thence.
Would I were dead, if God’s good will weres o,
For what is in this world but grief and woe?
O God! Methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain […]

In my last post, I said I wasn’t sure how I felt about Henry. Now, after finally finishing the trilogy, I know: I pity him. Poor Henry! All he craves is peace. He has no place in these wars, with his soft-heart and gentle demeanor. I read a critique about the Henry VI plays recently that called them emotionless because it’s almost impossible to root for a weak, unresolved character like Henry. But I don’t think I can agree with that. While I didn’t necessarily root for Henry, I did develop this desire to shield him from the court. It was easy to root for Henry V, who was always marching into battle like a shining God, but for Henry VI…perhaps just appreciating his gentle nature is all you can do.

I felt such a deep pang of sadness when I read the lines, “For Margaret my queen and Clifford too/Have chid me from battle, swearing both/They prosper best of all when I am thence.” Despite being the titular character, Henry is constantly shoved aside. But despite it all, he remains kind:

Master lieutenant, now that God and friends
Have shaken Edward from the regal seat
And turned my captive state to liberty,
My fear to hope, my sorrows unto joys,
At our enlargement what are they due fees?

Subjects may challenge nothing of their sov’reigns.
But, if an humble prayer may prevail,
I then crave pardon of your Majesty.

For what, lieutenant? For well using me?

Ah, Henry! Nothing seems to shake him out of this perpetual state of goodness. But still – he is weak, and that is why he is constantly being pushed on and off the throne like a piece on a chessboard. I mentioned in my last post that Henry might have been different if he had had his father around, but how different would he have been if he hadn’t been born into royalty? I think he would have been genuinely happy, and probably would have been a priest. But his fate was to be crowned at nine months old, and to be ruined by politics.

Let’s talk about Margaret, shall we? I’ve been struggling with my feelings for Margaret – on one hand, she’s one of my favorite parts of Richard III. On the other, she’s so bloodthirsty! But then I remember that she was pushed in this direction. Henry’s weakness leaves her no choice but to act the way she does. I really enjoyed the infamous molehill scene between Margaret and York.

[…] O, tiger’s heart wrapped in a woman’s hide,
How couldst thou drain the lifeblood of the child
To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,
And yet be seen to bear a woman’s face?
Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible;
Thou, stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.
Bidd’st thou me rage? Why, now thou hast thy wish.
Wouldst have me weep? Why, now thou hast thy will;
For raging winds blows up incessant showers,
And when the rage allays, the rain begins.
These tears are my sweet Rutland’s obsequies,
And every drop cries vengeance for his death
‘Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee false Frenchwoman!

Beshrew me, but his passions moves me so
That hardly can I check my eyes from tears.

I couldn’t care less about Northumberland, who is one of the most minor characters in the play, but he and I had the same reaction to York’s humiliating murder. But what of Margaret? They pushed her to do this, did they not? They preyed on her weak husband, and her son was disinherited. She is such a complex character, that it is difficult to fully know how she feels during this scene. Tina Packer, author of Women of Will, says that York’s weeping leaves her defenses crumbling when she plays Margaret. She feels she has to kill him, but only because she cannot bear what she has done. In Packer’s opinion, when York speaks from his very soul, Margaret suddenly sees him as a father, a lover, a brave man. She can feel York’s scorn toward her, and she sees how little he understands her own grief and betrayal. Margaret just cannot bear it, so she kills him.

I love this analysis. We would be selling Margaret short if all we saw her as was a heartless she-warrior. She is so much more: she’s a mother, and a queen. She and York are so similar in that they are both driven by their hopes for their children. Two sides of the same coin, each one unable to thrive unless the other is dead.

My heart broke into pieces when Margaret wept over Prince Edward’s body. Perhaps Edward IV should have let Richard kill her. It would have been an unintended act of mercy.

O Ned, sweet Ned, speak to thy mother, boy.
Canst thou not speak? O traitors, murderers!
They that stabbed Caesar shed no blood at all,
Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame,
If this foul deed were by to equal it.
He was a man; this, in respect, a child,
And men ne’er spent their fury on a child.
What’s worse than murderer, that I may name it?
No, no, my heart will burst an if I speak,
And I will speak, that so my heart may burst.
Butchers and villains, bloody cannibals,
How sweet a plant have you untimely cropped!
You have no children, butchers. If you had,
The thought of them would have stirred up remorse.
But if you ever chance to have a child,
Look in his youth to have him so cut off
As, deathsmen, you have rid this sweet young prince.

I don’t know how Shakespeare wrote this, how he managed to convey Margaret’s grief so clearly. Margaret has a lot of faults, but she was a loving mother to her boy. She’s strong, and even wears armor to push her enemies back. But it’s no use. No matter what she does, she cannot prevail.

As an aside, I was quite impressed with the way Prince Edward spoke to Edward IV. He clearly did not inherit his father’s unassuming nature – if he had been allowed to live, I have no doubts that he would have been the male embodiment of his mother: proud and fierce.

I want to talk about Edward for a moment. I don’t particularly care for him, but I wanted to say that, no matter the time period, men are all the same. When Elizabeth asks for her dead husband’s land back, Edward does this:

What service wilt thou do me if I give them?

This is the medieval version of a straight white boy saying, “What will you give me if I help you out? ;)” This belongs on a blog called Medieval Straight White Boys Texting. I cannot tell you how hard I rolled my eyes, but I’m pretty sure I saw the back of my skull.

Luckily, Elizabeth is unmoved by his desire to bed her. She ends up Queen of England, so…good for her, I guess? Bad for Edward though. His skirt-chasing habits infuriate Warwick to the point of changing sides. But, as it turns out, Edward doesn’t need the kingmaker as much as he thought he did.

I know what I want to write about next, but I’m putting off typing the words out. I’ve just heaved three huge sighs, switched to two different tabs, and I’m running out of things to do, so…let’s talk about Richard.

I am in no way a Richard apologist – or I try not to be, anyway. I know he’s just terrible, but I adore him. Richard brings life to every scene he’s in. He outshines both Edward and George. He practically takes over Henry VI, Part 3, despite it not being his own play. I love Richard.

His relationship with his family is quite interesting, and if you just read the play, it doesn’t seem that strained. He feels the need to avenge the deaths of Edmund and York, and maybe that’s because he actually had something of a familial bond with them. At the same time, however, he is isolated.

[…] What other pleasure can the world afford?
I’ll make my heaven in a lady’s lap
And deck my body in gay ornaments,
And ‘witch sweet ladies with my words and looks.
O, miserable thought, and more unlikely
Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns!
Why, Love forswore me in my mother’s womb,
And, for I should not deal in her soft laws,
She did corrupt frail Nature with some bribe
To shrink mine arm up like a withered shrub;
To make an envious mountain on my back,
Where sits Deformity to mock my body;
To shape my legs of an unequal size;
To disproportion me in every part,
Like to chaos, or an unlicked bear-whelp,
That carries no impression like the dam.
Am I then a man to be beloved?
O monstrous fault to harbour such a thought!
Then, since this earth affords no joy to me
But to command, to check, to o’erbear such
As are of better person than myself,
I’ll make my heaven to dream upon the crown […]

Too often, Richard is reduced to a crazy, cackling maniac. But I think a nuanced portrayal serves him best. We can speculate all day about what makes Richard tick and never arrive at a definitive answer. He is a character broken beyond repair, who has little love for himself. Oh, sure, he talks a big game, but that’s all it is: just talk. I’m crossing over into Richard III territory here, but something Packer said pierced my poor, Richard-loving heart:

Once [Richard and Anne] are married, he begins to poison her slowly. For fun? So he can marry someone else? Or just because she’s a woman and he hates women? Or because he loves her and can’t bear to love anyone?

Can Richard bear to love anyone? Does he feel like he doesn’t deserve to love and be loved because of what he is? How else was he supposed to turn out, what with people making snide comments about his body all his life? He could have turned out kind despite it all, of course. But that’s just not the way Richard learned to cope, I suppose.

Richard has a penchant for killing, and has no problem beheading, stabbing, and even offering to kill. I don’t know if this is because he is naturally bloodthirsty, or if killing someone finally allows him to feel powerful. I mentioned once before that I wouldn’t mind dedicating my life to analyzing Henry V, but that’s only because I don’t think I’m worthy of analyzing Richard III. That play is Shakespeare’s magnum opus, and it is what pulled me into this crazy Shakespearean stupor that I’ve been in for almost nine years now.

Richard constantly reminds the audience of how disgusting he is to look at. But, it seems that only he is allowed to say so.

[…] The owl shrieked at thy birth, an evil sign;
The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time;
Dogs howled, and hideous tempest shook down trees;
The raven rooked her on the chimney’s top;
And chatt’ring pies in dismal discords sung;
Thy mother felt more than a mother’s pain,
And yet brought forth less than a mother’s hope:
To wit, an indigested and deformèd lump,
Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree.
Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born
To signify thou cam’st to bite the world.
And if the rest be true which I have heard,
Thou cam’st –

I’ll hear no more. Die, prophet, in thy speech;

[Stabs him.]

For this amongst the rest was I ordained.

Now, don’t get me wrong – Richard was going to kill Henry in the Tower no matter what. But you can feel his rage bubbling under the surface, how he prickles at Henry’s words. He knows everything he’s being told. Knows it, and hates to hear it.

Richard sees no chances for happiness in his future. But perhaps getting his hands on the crown will finally give him a chance to be in the light.

[…] Then, since heavens have shaped my body so,
Let hell make crook’d my mind to answer it.
I have no brother, I am like no brother;
And this word “love,” which greybeards call divine,
Be resident in men like one another
And not in me. I am myself alone.

Richard does awful things. But a part of me can’t help but pity him. Either he’s evil because he is who he is, or something made him this way. What was it?

After finishing this play, I finally decided to watch the second set of The Hollow Crown films. Henry VI was split into two parts, which was a bit disappointing. They told the story of Joan of Arc so quickly! I only saw her in four scenes, and the Dauphin spoke once. What a waste of a play. Characters like Talbot dropped dead before giving the audience the chance to know and understand them. But I knew what they were doing. They were rushing to get to the third part.

They were rushing to get to Richard.

Now, Part 3 is my favorite of the Henry VI plays. It’s easier to keep track of all the characters, and the plot is as interesting as it gets. But that doesn’t mean Parts 1 and 2 should be ignored or snubbed like they were! Also, it doesn’t mean that Suffolk should be replaced by Somerset. I mean, what was that? I had to pause the movie and go to my bookshelf to make sure I wasn’t losing my mind. The play in my hand was opened to a scene between Suffolk and Margaret (the scene where they first meet, arguably my favorite one). The scene on my laptop screen was the same one – but it was between Margaret and Somerset. This bugged me beyond belief, and I still have no idea why they decided to do it.

I also watched Richard III, which I (shockingly, because I’m such a Richard III snob) enjoyed. I said earlier that it’s really easy to reduce Richard into a cackling maniac, but this was avoided for the most part. Sometimes I felt like we were dangerously close, but The Hollow Crown managed to save itself every time. I don’t think anything could top the time I saw Mark Rylance as Richard at the Globe in 2012. So many factors played into that experience, so The Hollow Crown’s adaptation could never take its place. But still – it was pretty good, and it was lovely to look at. I’d recommend giving it a shot if you’re interested in Shakespeare’s histories! I also highly recommend the first set of films – they cover the Henriad, and the BBC didn’t cut and change things as much as they did with Henry VI.

This will be my last history play until April, which is when I’m supposed to read Richard II. I’m moving on to Titus Andronicus – but, believe me, I’ll be silently thinking about my beloved politically charged plays all the way through.

See you soon!



Katy Stephens and Chukwudi Iwuji
Still from Henry VI, Part 2 – possibly a scene between Henry VI and Queen Margaret. Royal Shakespeare Company, 2006.

Through sheer force of will, I managed to meet my January deadline! I’ve already ordered a copy of Henry VI, Part 3, so hopefully I won’t have to rush myself next month.

I am going to apologize in advance for the quality of this post. Not only have I been slaving away in my lab non-stop, but I’m also an Iraqi Muslim who is now constantly surrounded by more bigotry than usual. But I’ll try my best to be coherent and thoughtful.

So far, the Henry VI plays have been an absolute pleasure to read. I love them very much, but I will admit that I agree with all of the scholars who have taught me: too much happens, and there are too many characters. But still! I’m so annoyed that I didn’t delve into this trilogy sooner. Anyway, let’s talk about Henry –

I’m not quite sure how I feel about Henry. His constant piety and weakness frustrates me to no end. He very clearly loves Gloucester, and sees him as both his uncle and mentor. And yet, when he has the chance to fight for him, he does this:

My lords, what to your wisdoms seemeth best
Do or undo, as if ourself were here.

What, will your Highness leave the Parliament?

Ah, Margaret. My heart is drowned with grief,
Whose flood begins to flow within mine eyes,
My body round engirt with misery;
For what’s more miserable than discontent?
Ah, uncle Humphrey, in thy face I see
The map of honor, truth, and loyalty;
And yet, good Humphrey, is the house to come
That e’er I proved thee false or feared thy faith.
What louring star now envies thy estate
That these great lords and Margaret our queen
Do seek subversion of thy harmless life?
Thou never didst them wrong nor no man wrong.
And as the butcher takes away the calf
And binds the wretch and beats it when it strains,
Bearing it to the bloody slaughterhouse,
Even so remorseless have they borne him hence,
And as the damn runs lowing up and down,
Looking the way her harmless young one went,
And can do naught but wail her darling’s loss,
Even so myself bewails good Gloucester’s case
With sad unhelpful tears, and with dimmed eyes
Look after him and cannot do him good.
So mighty are his vowèd enemies.
His fortunes I will weep and, ‘twixt each groan,
Say “Who’s a traitor, Gloucester he is none.”

[He exits.]

And so he leaves poor Gloucester to the mercy of Suffolk and the other nobles who are out for blood. For shame, Henry! What is the point of having a crown on your head if you do not intend to take charge? What is even more frustrating is that he knows he’s failed. He knows his inability to make decisions and rule properly could very well lead to Gloucester’s death.

And yet…there is something soft and kind about Henry that I couldn’t help but notice. When the townspeople that had been following Cade show up to beg for his mercy with halters around their necks, Henry doesn’t even express anger toward them:

Soldiers, this day have you redeemed your lives
And showed how well you love your prince and country.
Continue still in this so good a mind,
And Henry, though he be infortunate,
Assure yourselves, will never be unkind.
And so with thanks and pardon to you all,
I do dismiss you to your several countries.

There is nothing wrong with Henry’s forgiving nature. But placing a crown on the head of a weak person can only lead to ruin. Kindness will not prevent the nobles from tearing England to pieces.

I think it’s worth wondering how Henry would have turned out if his father had been alive. In 3.9, he mentions:

No sooner was I crept out of my cradle
But I was made a king at nine months old.
Was never subject longed to be a king
As I do long and wish to be a subject!

You can’t help but feel a bit sorry for him. I mean, nine months old?! He spent absolutely no time with his father and was unable to learn how to be a good king. Because, as I’ve already established, although Henry V wasn’t a good Christian king, he was still a good king. He walked the line between forgiving and firm – people loved him, but they also feared him. That was a successful recipe for him, one that Henry VI is unable to replicate. If dysentery hadn’t reared its ugly head, I’m quite sure that Hal would have tried his absolute best to be a good father and guide to his son – if only to avoid recreating the relationship he had with Henry IV.

Being weak, Henry can’t control the bickering aristocrats that litter his court. What’s worse, however, is that he doesn’t inspire much confidence in the people. When Cade has rounded up a crowd of commoners (an ingenious plot put in motion by York), Buckingham  and Clifford appear to try to bring the people to their senses. They are swayed by the words about Henry VI, but quickly return to Cade’s side after listening to him speak. Clifford is only successful when he brings up Henry V:

Is Cade the son of Henry the Fifth,
That thus you do exclaim you’ll go with him?
Will he conduct you through the heart of France
And make the meanest of you earls and dukes?

He continues on after this, but the gist is that the commoners only properly paused once they looked at Henry VI through the lens of Henry V. Cade notices their reaction to Henry V’s name:

Was ever feather so lightly blown to and fro as this multitude? The name of Henry the Fifth hales them to an hundred mischiefs and makes them leave me desolate.

Frankly, this is all a bit embarrassing for Henry VI. He’s such an ineffective ruler that it’s sometimes painful to think about.

If Henry VI is soft, then Margaret is as hard as stone. I wanted to badly to like her, but I couldn’t. I turned to Tina Packer, author of Women of Will, who appears to be very passionate about Margaret. But perhaps I am being too quick in my judgement – I have one part left after all. But something Packer said did speak to me:

The farewell between Margaret and Suffolk contains the most beautiful poetry in the canon up to this point. The bookends of the scene are a little clunky, but then there are twenty lines that are sublime, not only tender and erotic but viscerally alive, so that the physical expression of Margaret and Suffolk’s connection is transmitted to every audience member: the idea of the breath of the lover entering the body of the beloved, there to live in bliss.

Truth be told, I enjoyed Margaret and Suffolk’s exchange when they met for the first time in Part 1 more than I enjoyed the farewell between them. But I can’t deny that Shakespeare’s words are beautiful. However, as I felt no emotional connection to either character, I could not for the life of me react as emotionally as Packer does.

Henry and Margaret have something of an odd relationship. Well, maybe odd isn’t the right word. One-sided might be a better descriptor. We all know that Margaret is in love with Suffolk, and that they are likely having an intimate affair behind Henry’s back. Henry, meanwhile, seems to be trying to play husband as best he can, while remaining completely oblivious. After Suffolk’s death, Margaret is in mourning.

How now, madam?
Still lamenting and mourning for Suffolk’s death?
I fear me, love, if that I had been dead,
Thou wouldst not have mourned so much for me.

Margaret claims she would die for him, but I’m not sure I believe it. I honestly can’t tell you long I spent lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling after reading Henry’s lines. There’s no way a person could be that oblivious…right?

In any case, we see Margaret often become frustrated at Henry’s lack of resolve. And in a way, who can blame her? Writing this post now makes me realize that Margaret’s personality may have simply been a result of her situation. She’s married to a man she doesn’t love, which I can imagine is tough. But I cannot forgive her role in Gloucester’s death.

As I reached the end of the play, I began to find myself treading familiar water. Having read Richard III too many times, I no longer had to double check the character list when familiar faces began to appear. Of course, Henry VI was silly to think that York wouldn’t lose his mind after discovering that Somerset was never imprisoned in the Tower. But, here we are, I suppose. I enjoyed this little insult:

Oft have I seen a hot o’erweening cur
Run back and bite because he was withheld,
Who, being suffered with the bear’s fell paw,
Hath clapped his tail between his legs and cried;
And such a piece of service will you do
If you oppose yourselves to match Lord Warwick.

Hence, heap of wrath, foul indigested lump,
As crooked in thy manners as thy shape!

I am, of course, absolutely delighted to see Richard. The insults weren’t far behind – those delight me too, in a strange way. My love for Richard is well-known – perhaps not on this blog, but certainly in real life. I can’t tell you how many texts I got the day they unearthed his bones! But that’s neither here nor there.

I’ve never considered Shakespeare to be a cliffhanger master. This is because every play I’ve read has had its beginning and end in the same book. But I’ve come to realize that he is actually quite good at cliffhangers. From Suffolk’s ominous promise in Part 1, to the bubbling over of tensions in Part 2, I find myself very excited to see what happens next! And after Part 3, we’ll move on to Titus Andronicus which will be brand new territory for me.

I hope you all had a good January! It wasn’t the best start to the year, but seeing people all over stand up in solidarity has been a wonderful thing. See you next month!



Image result for henry vi part 1
Still from Henry VI, Part 1 – possibly a scene between Joan of Arc and Charles, the Dauphin of France. Shakespeare’s Globe

Nobody every talks about the Henry VI plays. Actually, none of my professors encouraged me to read them. In fact, most (if not all) of them told me to skip them, usually citing “too many characters” as the reason. And, you know what? There are too many characters. And there’s no use in trying to remember their names because, soon enough, you’ll find yourself drowning in a pool of Exeters, Gloucesters and Winchesters.

When I decided to embark on this whole ‘Complete the Canon in 2017’ thing, I figured I would be able to buy all the plays at my local used bookstore. Although I love Shakespeare more than words can describe, I wasn’t exactly prepared to break the bank for him…especially since I’m a broke graduate student. On a rainy day earlier this month, I took my umbrella and ventured downtown. At the used bookstore, I saw a million copies of Henry IV, Part 1 and Richard III. But no Henry VI. I headed over to the local Barnes and Noble. The histories were positioned on the shelf in ‘order’ of Henry IV, Part 1, Henry IV, Part 2, Henry V, and…I held my breath as I looked down the shelf, but my eyes were only met with copies of Richard III.

“Does this play even exist?” I wondered, before venturing out into the rain empty-handed. Back at my apartment, I went onto Amazon, found the Folger Shakespeare Library edition for around $6, and grumpily resigned to waiting two days for my play to show up. And when it did, I found myself filled with a little bit of dread as I remembered all the ominous warnings that had come from the mouths of teachers past.

But, hey, guess what! I really liked this play. I tend to have very strange taste in plays, and as you’ve probably noticed, I tend to obsess over the histories. They’re so interesting, and so rich that I just can’t imagine why people wouldn’t love them.

My professors, as I mentioned, weren’t wrong. I had to put a bookmark on the dramatis personae, because I kept having to refer back to it. But by act four, I had the hang of things. Kind of. Anyway, let’s move on to what really caught my attention in this boggy swamp of a play.


In Women of Will by Tina Packer, it’s mentioned that the way Shakespeare wrote Joan was inconsistent. This isn’t necessarily false – I loved Joan when she first appeared, but by the time she was being tied to the stake, any interest I had in her had fizzled into mere annoyance. Like Packer says, it’s almost like Shakespeare suddenly had to remind himself that Joan was the enemy – and once that realization hit, she became less of an admirable character and more of a proper antagonist for the English.

I was so tickled by the scene between her and the Dauphin in 1.2:

Thou hast astonished me with thy high terms.
Only this proof I’ll of thy valor make:
In single combat thou shalt buckle with me,
And if thou vanquishest, thy words are true;
Otherwise I renounce all confidence.

I am prepared. Here is my keen-edged sword,
Decked with fine flower-de-luces on each side –
[Aside.] The which at Touraine, in Saint Katherine’s churchyard,
Out of a great deal of old iron I chose forth.

Then come, a’ God’s name! I fear no woman.

And while I live, I’ll ne’er fly from a man.

[Here they fight, and Joan la Pucelle overcomes.]

Stay, stay thy hands! Thou art an Amazon,
And fightest with the sword of Deborah.

Christ’s mother helps me; else I were too weak.

Who’er helps thee, ’tis thou that must help me.
Impatiently I burn with thy desire.
My heart and hands thou hast at once subdued.
Excellent Pucelle, if thy name be so,
Let me thy servant and not sovereign be.
‘Tis the French Dauphin sueth to thee thus.

As it turns out, the quickest way to a man’s heart is through hand-to-hand combat. Charles is now desperately in love with Joan, and she becomes a powerful player in this story as a result.

This play takes a strange, strange turn when Shakespeare reveals that Joan has been offering her blood and soul up to demons. It was an unexpected scene – a bit of the supernatural in a play that is very much grounded in reality. A creative way to nip all of her drama in the bud, I suppose. I’m not sure I felt sorry for Joan when she was being taken to her death. The way she rejects the poor Shepherd, her father, made me hurt a bit for him – although he was wrong to turn against her as well. And her desperate attempts to argue that she was with child would have elicited some pity…except she kept changing her mind as to who the father was. All I could think of by the end was, “Oh, Joan. Give it up.”

As a female character, Joan starts off on a strong note. But as Packer argues in Women of Will, Shakespeare wrote this play when he was quite young. His deep, full understanding of women comes later.

As for the Dauphin, I like him just as much as I like his brother Louis (the Dauphin of Henry V fame) – which is to say: a lot. Charles is a bit more mature than Louis is. I’m not sure Louis would have accepted the abrupt terms of peace that Charles did at the end of this play. Although Charles felt the need to spare his people of more slaughter, Louis may have been too hot-headed to think that critically.


Ah, Talbot. Warrior extraordinaire! Every Frenchman’s greatest fear! It’s so difficult to connect to a character that is presented largely as an honorable soldier and nothing else. But honor was so important to men in Shakespeare’s time. And not just any kind of honor, but the kind you get from fighting the good fight. In later plays, we’ll see a shift in focus from men being war-obsessed to being lovers and poets. But, for now, soldiers are the bomb. And Talbot is the best there is.

Like I said, it was difficult connect to Talbot. But, oh, the scenes between him and his son John tugged at my poor heart. Here we have a father who is so invested in battle, who is soaked to the bone in honor – but we don’t focus on those traits when he is with John. Around his son, he is simply a father. His only wish is for his son to be happy, healthy – alive.

But John refuses. He is so utterly loyal to his father that he stubbornly refuses to abandon him. He knows he will die, but as long as he is with his brave, honorable father, it doesn’t matter.

O, my dear lord, lo where your son is borne!

Thou antic Death, which laugh’st us here to scorn,
Anon from thy insulting tyranny,
Coupled in bonds of perpetuity,
Two Talbots, wingèd through the lither sky,
In thy despite shall scape mortality. –
O, thou whose wounds become hard-favored Death,
Speak to thy father ere thou yield thy breath!
Brave Death by speaking, whither he will or no.
Imagine him a Frenchman and thy foe. –
Poor boy, he smiles, methinks, as who should say
“Had Death been French, then Death had died today.” –
Come, come, and lay him in his father’s arms;
My spirit can no longer bear these harms.
Soldiers, adieu! I have what I would have,
Now my old arms are young John Talbot’s grave.


And to think that this could have been avoided if Somerset and York had sent their men as promised. Poor Talbot suffers while they deal with their petty, unimportant problems. And he dies with his son in his arms.

I loved how Talbot and his son’s conversations kept to a sort of rhyming gait. They are reflections of one another – and with both their deaths, England becomes hard pressed for men of valor and chivalry.


We now move into familiar Richard III territory. Here, Margaret is not a batty old lady living on the edges of court, but rather a beautiful, clever maiden who has wandered onto the battlefield. Suffolk’s sudden obsession with her thrusts her down an unlikely path, given that her father the King of Naples is all but broke. But the language between Suffolk and Margaret during their first meeting on the field is so beautiful that I just had to point it out in this post.

Alarum. Enter Suffolk, with Margaret in his hand.

Be what thou wilt, thou art my prisoner.

Gazes on her.

O fairest beauty, do not fear nor fly,
For I will touch thee but with reverent hands.
I kiss these fingers for eternal peace
And lay them gently on thy tender side.
Who art thou? Say, that I may honor thee.

Margaret is my name, and daughter to a king,
The King of Naples, whosoe’er thou art.

An earl I am, and Suffolk I am called.
Be not offended, nature’s miracle;
Thou art allotted to be ta’en by me.
So doth the swan her downy cygnets save,
Keeping them prisoner underneath her wings.
Yet if this servile usage once offend,
Go and be free again as Suffolk’s friend.

She is going.

O, stay! [Aside.] I have no power to let her pass.
My hand would free her, but my heart says no.
As plays the sun upon the glassy streams,
Twinkling another counterfeited beam,
So seems this gorgeous beauty to mine eyes.
Fain would I woo her, yet I dare not speak.
I’ll call for pen and ink and write my mind.
Fie, de la Pole, disable not thyself!
Hast not a tongue? Is she not here?
Wilt thou be daunted at a woman’s sight?
Ay, Beauty’s princely majesty is such
Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough.

Say, Earl of Suffolk, if thy name be so,
What random must I pay before I pass?
For I perceive I am thy prisoner.

SUFFOLK, [aside]
How canst thou tell she will deny thy suit
Before thou make a trial of her love?

Why speak’st thou not? What random must I pay?

In the middle of a filthy, bloody field, we have this somewhat comedic exchange. It really is charming, and it changes the entire tone of the last act. Margaret and Suffolk change roles, and soon enough, Suffolk is speaking to a disengaged Margaret. It’s a well-written and lovely scene. And it leads us to a surprisingly interesting end…

Say, gentle princess, would you not suppose
Your bondage happy, to be made a queen?

To be a queen in bondage is more vile
Than is a slave in base servility.
For princes should be free.

And so shall you,
If happy England’s royal king be free.

Why, what concerns his freedom unto me?

I’ll undertake to make thee Henry’s queen,
To put a golden scepter in thy hand
And set a precious crown upon thy head,
If thou wilt condescend to be my –


His love.

Absolutely heart-wrenching. Suffolk quickly corrects himself, going from “my” to “his” in a split second. Margaret is as sharp as a tack, however. When he kisses her, she is not outraged, but rather leaves him with a witty remark. She’s truly a force, and I can’t wait to see more of her in Part 2.

Suffolk ends the play ominously, by telling us that he’ll use Margaret to control Henry VI. And speaking of Henry…I haven’t spoken of him at all, have I? He’s so young, so inexperienced, and comes off as so weak. It’s almost hysterical how quickly he decides to break off his marriage in order to get his hands on Margaret. A true testament to Suffolk’s hidden talents, I suppose.  But Henry is nothing like his lion of a father – and I don’t say that because I love Henry V. I say that because it’s true. Henry VI is poised to become a pawn in many a political game, and I don’t think he has the strength to get out of it.

As for Henry V, it’s a bit sad to think that all his hard work was essentially for naught. His death did not come at the right time – and although he is gone, the men of the court bring him up often. They remember him fondly, and it seems like they’re missing the glory days that have gone by. But they are gone indeed, and the seeds of the Wars of the Roses are being planted…

Before I go, I would like to share one last thing:

What! is my Lord of Winchester install’d,
And call’d unto a cardinal’s degree?
Then I perceive that will be verified
Henry the Fifth did sometime prophesy,
‘If once he come to be a cardinal,
He’ll make his cap co-equal with the crown.’

Henry VI, Part 1 was written before Henry V was. And yet, here we have a quote (straight from Henry V’s mouth, allegedly), that is so Hal that it’s almost shocking that the plays weren’t written consecutively.

Trust me to make a post about Henry VI, Part 1 into one about Henry V! Till next time, friends! I’ll see you after I’ve read Henry VI, Part 2, which should happen sometime before this month ends.