Even so, the force he led out of Leicester on 21 August was probably twice as large as that of Henry.
A third army was also present at Bosworth, and it was one that would play a crucial part in the eventual outcome of the battle. These were the troops of Sir omas and Sir William Stanley. Henry had been in contact with them before the battle and had almost certainly received promises of their support. To continue, please confirm that you have read and accept these:. You have to agree to pocketmags.
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Battle of Flodden
You are currently viewing the Germany version of the site. Would you like to switch to your local site? Or devil or man Guard thou thine head. They might have cropt the myriad flower of May, And butt each other here, like brainless bulls, Dead for one heifer! I cannot brook to gaze upon the dead.
Why had ye not the shield I knew? Then Balin told him brokenly, and in gasps, All that had chanced, and Balan moaned again. I well believe this damsel, and the one Who stood beside thee even now, the same. Pure as our own true Mother is our Queen. My madness all thy life has been thy doom, Thy curse, and darkened all thy day; and now The night has come. I scarce can see thee now. I see thee now no more. I would not mine again should darken thine, Goodnight, true brother. Merlin and Vivien. Vivien and Merlin Repose.
They place their pride in Lancelot and the Queen. So passionate for an utter purity Beyond the limit of their bond, are these, For Arthur bound them not to singleness. Brave hearts and clean! Gracious lessons thine And maxims of the mud! Great Nature through the flesh herself hath made Gives him the lie! There is no being pure, My cherub; saith not Holy Writ the same?
Thy blessing, stainless King! To me this narrow grizzled fork of thine Is cleaner-fashioned — Well, I loved thee first, That warps the wit. Loud laughed the graceless Mark, But Vivien, into Camelot stealing, lodged Low in the city, and on a festal day When Guinevere was crossing the great hall Cast herself down, knelt to the Queen, and wailed. What evil hath ye wrought? O yield me shelter for mine innocency Among thy maidens!
Our noble Arthur, him Ye scarce can overpraise, will hear and know. He hath given us a fair falcon which he trained; We go to prove it. Bide ye here the while.
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I bide the while. Let go at last! Royaller game is mine. Then, narrow court and lubber King, farewell! For Lancelot will be gracious to the rat, And our wise Queen, if knowing that I know, Will hate, loathe, fear — but honour me the more. Yet while they rode together down the plain, Their talk was all of training, terms of art, Diet and seeling, jesses, leash and lure.
Many a time As once — of old — among the flowers — they rode. They heard and let her be. She hated all the knights, and heard in thought Their lavish comment when her name was named. For once, when Arthur walking all alone, Vext at a rumour issued from herself Of some corruption crept among his knights, Had met her, Vivien, being greeted fair, Would fain have wrought upon his cloudy mood With reverent eyes mock-loyal, shaken voice, And fluttered adoration, and at last With dark sweet hints of some who prized him more Than who should prize him most; at which the King Had gazed upon her blankly and gone by: But one had watched, and had not held his peace: It made the laughter of an afternoon That Vivien should attempt the blameless King.
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Then fell on Merlin a great melancholy; He walked with dreams and darkness, and he found A doom that ever poised itself to fall, An ever-moaning battle in the mist, World-war of dying flesh against the life, Death in all life and lying in all love, The meanest having power upon the highest, And the high purpose broken by the worm. She took the helm and he the sail; the boat Drave with a sudden wind across the deeps, And touching Breton sands, they disembarked.
And then she followed Merlin all the way, Even to the wild woods of Broceliande. For Merlin once had told her of a charm, The which if any wrought on anyone With woven paces and with waving arms, The man so wrought on ever seemed to lie Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower, From which was no escape for evermore; And none could find that man for evermore, Nor could he see but him who wrought the charm Coming and going, and he lay as dead And lost to life and use and name and fame.
And Vivien ever sought to work the charm Upon the great Enchanter of the Time, As fancying that her glory would be great According to his greatness whom she quenched. There lay she all her length and kissed his feet, As if in deepest reverence and in love.
I bid the stranger welcome. Thanks at last! But yesterday you never opened lip, Except indeed to drink: no cup had we: In mine own lady palms I culled the spring That gathered trickling dropwise from the cleft, And made a pretty cup of both my hands And offered you it kneeling: then you drank And knew no more, nor gave me one poor word; O no more thanks than might a goat have given With no more sign of reverence than a beard. And when we halted at that other well, And I was faint to swooning, and you lay Foot-gilt with all the blossom-dust of those Deep meadows we had traversed, did you know That Vivien bathed your feet before her own?
Even such a wave, but not so pleasurable, Dark in the glass of some presageful mood, Had I for three days seen, ready to fall. You followed me unasked; And when I looked, and saw you following me still, My mind involved yourself the nearest thing In that mind-mist: for shall I tell you truth? You seemed that wave about to break upon me And sweep me from my hold upon the world, My use and name and fame.
Your pardon, child. Your pretty sports have brightened all again. And ask your boon, for boon I owe you thrice, Once for wrong done you by confusion, next For thanks it seems till now neglected, last For these your dainty gambols: wherefore ask; And take this boon so strange and not so strange. I ever feared ye were not wholly mine; And see, yourself have owned ye did me wrong.
The people call you prophet: let it be: But not of those that can expound themselves. Take Vivien for expounder; she will call That three-days-long presageful gloom of yours No presage, but the same mistrustful mood That makes you seem less noble than yourself, Whenever I have asked this very boon, Now asked again: for see you not, dear love, That such a mood as that, which lately gloomed Your fancy when ye saw me following you, Must make me fear still more you are not mine, Must make me yearn still more to prove you mine, And make me wish still more to learn this charm Of woven paces and of waving hands, As proof of trust.
O Merlin, teach it me.
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The charm so taught will charm us both to rest. For, grant me some slight power upon your fate, I, feeling that you felt me worthy trust, Should rest and let you rest, knowing you mine. And therefore be as great as ye are named, Not muffled round with selfish reticence. How hard you look and how denyingly! Yield my boon, Till which I scarce can yield you all I am; And grant my re-reiterated wish, The great proof of your love: because I think, However wise, ye hardly know me yet.
Listen to it. And trust me not at all or all in all. And Merlin looked and half believed her true, So tender was her voice, so fair her face, So sweetly gleamed her eyes behind her tears Like sunlight on the plain behind a shower: And yet he answered half indignantly:.
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It was the time when first the question rose About the founding of a Table Round, That was to be, for love of God and men And noble deeds, the flower of all the world. And each incited each to noble deeds. But, Vivien, when you sang me that sweet rhyme, I felt as though you knew this cursed charm, Were proving it on me, and that I lay And felt them slowly ebbing, name and fame. Lo now, what hearts have men!
Battle of Flodden
So trust me not at all or all in all. Love, though Love were of the grossest, carves A portion from the solid present, eats And uses, careless of the rest; but Fame, The Fame that follows death is nothing to us; And what is Fame in life but half-disfame, And counterchanged with darkness? O Vivien, For you, methinks you think you love me well; For me, I love you somewhat; rest: and Love Should have some rest and pleasure in himself, Not ever be too curious for a boon, Too prurient for a proof against the grain Of him ye say ye love: but Fame with men, Being but ampler means to serve mankind, Should have small rest or pleasure in herself, But work as vassal to the larger love, That dwarfs the petty love of one to one.
Use gave me Fame at first, and Fame again Increasing gave me use. Lo, there my boon! What other? Sweet were the days when I was all unknown, But when my name was lifted up, the storm Brake on the mountain and I cared not for it. Right well know I that Fame is half-disfame, Yet needs must work my work. That other fame, To one at least, who hath not children, vague, The cackle of the unborn about the grave, I cared not for it: a single misty star, Which is the second in a line of stars That seem a sword beneath a belt of three, I never gazed upon it but I dreamt Of some vast charm concluded in that star To make fame nothing.
I am not trusted. Well, hide it, hide it; I shall find it out; And being found take heed of Vivien. A woman and not trusted, doubtless I Might feel some sudden turn of anger born Of your misfaith; and your fine epithet Is accurate too, for this full love of mine Without the full heart back may merit well Your term of overstrained. So used as I, My daily wonder is, I love at all.
O to what end, except a jealous one, And one to make me jealous if I love, Was this fair charm invented by yourself?