More happy do not make our outward wall

Thou shalt talk to the hand

Not bad for a "missing play," Edward III chronicles the exploits of the grandfather and father of Richard II. Generally accepted as at least partially penned by Shakespeare, it proves at least more engaging than Cardenio and the plot is reminiscent of the Henriad in places. History tells us that Edward III was actually a very effective leader, so it's entertaining to see the King's foolish wooing of the Countess of Salisbury contrasted with the victorious French war heroics of his son, the Black Prince. It also gives us some insight as to why Richard II's reign was such an epic disappointment.

The play begins with a lot of Scot-bashing, so no wonder it wasn't included in the First Folio; no one wanted to rile up King James in those days. Anyway, Edward goes to rescue the poor Countess from some dirty Scots and winds up thoroughly infatuated with the woman, nagging his secretary Ludowick with his paltry attempts at dictating some primo poetry to win her married hand. The countess is flattered, but sees through the King's hormonal haze and shows him nothing more enticing than her raised palm. Perhaps it was her initial flowery greeting at the gate of her manse that he mistook for flirtation:

Edward III, Act I, Sc. II

Countess of Salisbury: Let not thy presence, like the April sun,

Flatter our earth and suddenly be done.

More happy do not make our outward wall

Than thou wilt grace our inner house withal.

Our house, my liege, is like a country swain,

Whose habit rude and manners blunt and plain

Presageth nought, yet inly beautified

With bounties, riches and faire hidden pride.

For where the golden ore doth buried lie,

The ground, undecked with nature’s tapestry,

Seems barren, sere, unfertile, fructless, dry;

And where the upper turf of earth doth boast

His pied perfumes and party coloured coat,

Delve there, and find this issue and their pride

To spring from ordure and corruption’s side.

But, to make up my all too long compare,

These ragged walls no testimony are,

What is within; but, like a cloak, doth hide

From weather’s Waste the under garnished pride.

More gracious then my terms can let thee be,

Intreat thyself to stay a while with me.