Tyr.
The tyrannous and bloody act is done;
The most arch deed of piteous massacre,
That ever yet this land was guilty of.
Dighton, and Forrest, whom I did suborn
To do this piece of ruthless butchery,
Albeit they were flesh'd villains, bloody dogs,
Melting with tenderness and mild compassion,
Wept like two children, in their death's sad story.
O thus, quoth Dighton, lay the gentle babes,—
Thus, thus, quoth Forrest, girdling one another
Within their alabaster innocent arms:
Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,
Which, in their summer beauty, kiss'd each other.
A book of prayers on their pillow lay^{5 note}

Which once, quoth Forrest, almost chang'd my mind;
But, O, the devil—there the villain stopp'd;
When Dighton thus told on,—we smother'd
The most replenished sweet work of nature,
That, from the prime creation, e'er she fram'd.
Hence both are gone with conscience and remorse,
They could not speak; and so I left them both,
To bear this tidings to the bloody king. Enter King Richard.
And here he comes:—All health, my sovereign lord!

K. Rich.
Kind Tyrrel! am I happy in thy news?

Tyr.
If to have done the thing you gave in charge
Beget your happiness, be happy then,
For it is done.

K. Rich.
But did'st thou see them dead?

Tyr.
I did, my lord.

K. Rich.
And buried, gentle Tyrrel?

Tyr.
The chaplain of the Tower hath buried them;
But where, to say the truth, I do not know.

K. Rich.
Come to me, Tyrrel, soon, at after supper,
When thou shalt tell the process of their death.
Mean time, but think how I may do thee good,
And be inheritor of thy desire.
Farewell, till then* ^note.

Tyr.
I humbly take my leave. [Exit.

K. Rich.
The son of Clarence have I pen'd up close^{6 note};
His daughter meanly have I match'd in marriage^{7 note};
The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham's bosom,
And Anne my wife hath bid the world good night.
Now, for I know the Bretagne Richmond^{8 note} aims
At young Elizabeth, my brother's daughter,
And, by that knot, looks proudly on the crown,
To her go I, a jolly thriving wooer. Enter Catesby.

Cate.
My lord,—

K. Rich.
Good news or bad, that thou com'st in so bluntly?

Cate.
Bad news, my lord: Morton is fled to Richmond;
And Buckingham, back'd with the hardy Welshmen,
Is in the field, and still his power encreaseth.

K. Rich.
Ely with Richmond troubles me more near,
Than Buckingham and his rash-levied strength.
Come,—I have learn'd, that fearful commenting
Is leaden servitor^{9 note}
to dull delay;
Delay leads impotent and snail-pac'd beggary:
Then firy expedition^{1 note}

be my wing,
Jove's Mercury, and herald for a king!
Go, muster men: My counsel is my shield;
We must be brief, when traitors brave the field. [Exeunt.

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