Now, York, or never, steel thy fearful thoughts, And change misdoubt to resolution. Be that thou hop’st to be, or what thou art Resign to death; it is not worth th’ enjoying. Let pale-faced fear keep with the mean-born man And find no harbour in a royal heart. Faster than springtime showers comes thought on thought, And not a thought but thinks on dignity. My brain, more busy than the labouring spider Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies. Well, nobles, well, ’tis politicly done, To send me packing with an host of men; I fear me you but warm the starved snake, Who, cherished in your breasts, will sting your hearts. ’Twas men I lacked, and you will give them me; I take it kindly, yet be well assured You put sharp weapons in a madman’s hands. Whiles I in Ireland nourish a mighty band, I will stir up in England some black storm Shall blow ten thousand souls to heaven or hell; And this fell tempest shall not cease to rage Until the golden circuit on my head, Like to the glorious sun’s transparent beams, Do calm the fury of this mad-bred flaw. And for a minister of my intent, I have seduced a headstrong Kentishman, John Cade of Ashford, To make commotion, as full well he can, Under the title of John Mortimer. In Ireland have I seen this stubborn Cade Oppose himself against a troop of kerns, And fought so long till that his thighs with darts Were almost like a sharp-quilled porpentine; And in the end being rescued, I have seen Him caper upright like a wild Morisco, Shaking the bloody darts as he his bells. Full often, like a shag-haired crafty kern, Hath he conversed with the enemy, And undiscovered come to me again And given me notice of their villainies. This devil here shall be my substitute; For that John Mortimer, which now is dead, In face, in gait, in speech, he doth resemble. By this I shall perceive the commons’ mind, How they affect the house and claim of York. Say he be taken, racked, and tortured, I know no pain they can inflict upon him Will make him say I moved him to those arms. Say that he thrive, as ’tis great like he will, Why then from Ireland come I with my strength And reap the harvest which that rascal sowed. For Humphrey being dead, as he shall be, And Henry put apart, the next for me. (Exit.)

York Monologue from Henry VI

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