Tut, tut! Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle. I am no traitor’s uncle, and that word “grace” In an ungracious mouth is but profane. Why have those banished and forbidden legs Dared once to touch a dust of England’s ground? But then more why: why have they dared to march So many miles upon her peaceful bosom, Frighting her pale-faced villages with war And ostentation of despised arms? Com’st thou because the anointed king is hence? Why, foolish boy, the King is left behind, And in my loyal bosom lies his power. Were I but now lord of such hot youth As when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myself Rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of men, From forth the ranks of many thousand French, O, then how quickly should this arm of mine, Now prisoner to the palsy, chastise thee And minister correction to thy fault!

York Monologue from Richard II

Rehearse York's monologue