![]() The royal tree has left us royal fruit, which, with time, will fit the throne well, and make us all happy as our king. But, thank God, there is no need for me to rule. I am only a small boat, unprepared for the stormy sea of kingship. Even if all obstacles were removed and my path led straight to the crown-my proper birthright- my poverty of spirit and my many other flaws would still make me prefer to hide from my greatness, rather than be swallowed up by it and be smothered in glory. So this is my answer, once and for all: I thank you for your love, but I don't deserve to be king. Therefore I will speak, and so avoid the first possibility, but with my words I will avoid the second. But if I scold you for this request just after you've proven your faithful love for me, then I would be guilty of rebuking my friends. If I say nothing, you might think that my silence means consent, and you'll assume that I agree to bear the golden burden of responsibility that you're foolishly trying to impose on me. I don't know which response is more appropriate to my rank and your social position. I can't decide if I should leave in silence or bitterly scold you. On him I lay what you would lay on me, The right and fortune of his happy stars, Which God defend that I should wring from him. The royal tree hath left us royal fruit, Which, mellowed by the stealing hours of time, Will well become the seat of majesty, And make, no doubt, us happy by his reign. But, God be thanked, there is no need of me, And much I need to help you, were there need. ![]() First, if all obstacles were cut away And that my path were even to the crown As the ripe revenue and due of birth, Yet so much is my poverty of spirit, So mighty and so many my defects, That I would rather hide me from my greatness, Being a bark to brook no mighty sea, Than in my greatness covet to be hid And in the vapor of my glory smothered. Therefore, to speak, and to avoid the first, And then, in speaking, not to incur the last, Definitively thus I answer you: Your love deserves my thanks, but my desert Unmeritable shuns your high request. If to reprove you for this suit of yours, So seasoned with your faithful love to me, Then on the other side I checked my friends. If not to answer, you might haply think Tongue-tied ambition, not replying, yielded To bear the golden yoke of sovereignty, Which fondly you would here impose on me. I cannot tell if to depart in silence Or bitterly to speak in your reproof Best fitteth my degree or your condition. ![]() It's for this purpose that I have come with these citizens-who are your devoted and loving friends, and vehemently begged me to do this-to try and convince your Grace to accept our plea. This is your right by birth, your empire, your own. To fix this situation, we beg your Grace to take charge and become king of this land- not Lord Protector, steward, substitute, or lowly agent to another ruler, but king, the successor of a noble bloodline. Its majesty is almost lost in an abyss of dark forgetfulness and deep oblivion. ![]() Our noble island wants her true self back-her face has been scarred by Edward's infamous deeds, and her royal family has been corrupted by ignoble outsiders. You have been lost in prayer and dreamy contemplation, but now we've come to alert you of your country's needs. And instead you've handed it over to a corrupted, impure usurper. Know, then, that it is your fault that you've given up the supreme seat, the majestic throne, the powerful office of your ancestors, your position of greatness, and the glory of your royal family-all of which are yours by birth. For this, consorted with the citizens, Your very worshipful and loving friends, And by their vehement instigation, In this just suit come I to move your Grace. Know, then, it is your fault that you resign The supreme seat, the throne majestical, The sceptered office of your ancestors, Your state of fortune, and your due of birth, The lineal glory of your royal house, To the corruption of a blemished stock, Whiles in the mildness of your sleepy thoughts, Which here we waken to our country’s good, The noble isle doth want her proper limbs- Her face defaced with scars of infamy, Her royal stock graft with ignoble plants, And almost shouldered in the swallowing gulf Of dark forgetfulness and deep oblivion Which to recure, we heartily solicit Your gracious self to take on you the charge And kingly government of this your land, Not as Protector, steward, substitute, Or lowly factor for another’s gain, But as successively, from blood to blood, Your right of birth, your empery, your own.
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