* ^noteLa. Anne.
When, when shall I have rest! Was marriage made
To be the scourge of our offences here?
Oh! no—'twas meant a blessing to the virtuous;
It once was so to me, tho' now my curse.
The fruit of Edward's love was sweet and pleasing;
But oh! untimely cropt by cruel Glo'ster;
Who rudely having grafted on his stock,
Now makes my life yield only sorrow.
Let me have music to compose my thoughts. [Soft music.
It will not be—nought but the grave can close my eyes.
But see,
He comes, the rude disturber of my pillow. Enter Glo'ster.

Glo'st.
Ha! still in tears! let them flow on; they're signs
Of a substantial grief—why don't she die?
She must, my interest will not let her live.
The fair Elizabeth hath caught my eye;
My heart's vacant, and she shall fill her place.
They say that women have but tender hearts:
'Tis a mistake, I doubt—I've found 'em tough;
They'll bend, indeed—but he must strain that cracks 'em.
All I can hope's to throw her into sickness,
That I may send her a physician's help.

So, madam, what! you still take care, I see,
To let the world believe I love you not.
This outward mourning now, has malice in't,
So have these sullen disobedient tears;
I'll have you tell the world I dote upon you.

La. Anne.
I wish I could—but 'twill not be believ'd.
Have I deserv'd this usage?

Glo'st.
You have—you do not please me, as at first.

La. Anne.
What have I done? what horrid crime committed?

Glo'st.
To me the worst of crimes; outliv'd my liking.

La. Anne.
If that be criminal, just heav'n, be kind,
And take me while my penitence is warm;
Oh sir, forgive and kill me.

Glo'st.
Umph! no—the meddling world will call that murder,
And I would have them think me pitiful:
Now, wert thou not afraid of self-destruction,
Thou hast a fair excuse for't.

La. Anne.
How fain would I be friends with death!
—Oh name it.

Glo'st.
Thy husband's hate: nor do I hate thee, only
From the dull'd edge of sated appetite,
But from the eager love I bear another.
Some call me hypocrite—what think'st thou, now?
Do I dissemble?

La. Anne.
Thy vows of love to me were all dissembled.

Glo'st.
Not one—for when I told thee so, I lov'd:
Thou art the only soul I never yet deceiv'd;
And 'tis my honesty that tells thee now,
With all my heart I hate thee.
If this have no effect, she is immortal. [Aside.

La. Anne.
Forgive me, heav'n, that I forgave this man.
Oh may my story, told in after-ages,
Give warning to our easy sex's ears;
May it unveil the hearts of men, and strike
Them deaf to their dissimulated love!

Enter Catesby.

Glo'st.
Now, Catesby—

Catesby.
My lord, his grace of Buckingham attends your highness' pleasure.

Glo'st.
Wait on him—I'll expect him here. [Exit Catesby.
Your absence, madam, will be necessary.

La. Anne.
Would my death were so! [Exit.

Glo'st.
It may be, shortly. Enter Buckingham.
My cousin, what say the citizens?

Buck.
Now, by our hopes, my lord, they are senseless stones:
Their hesitating fear has struck 'em dumb.

Glo'st.
Touch'd you the bastardy of Edward's children?

Buck.
I did, with his contract to lady Lucy;
Nay, his own bastardy, and tyranny for trifles,
Laid open all your victories in Scotland,
Your discipline in war, wisdom in peace;
Your bounty, justice, fair humility;
Indeed left nothing that might gild our cause,
Untouch'd, or slightly handled, in my talk:
And when my oration drew towards an end,
I urg'd of them that lov'd their country's good,
To do you right, and cry, Long live King Richard.

Glo'st.
And did they so?

Buck.
Not one, by heav'n—but each, like statues fix'd,
Speechless and pale, star'd in his fellow's face:
Which when I saw, I reprehended them,
And ask'd the Mayor what meant this wilful silence?
His answer was, the people were not us'd
To be spoken to but by the Recorder;
Who then took on him to repeat my words;
Thus saith the duke, thus hath the duke inferr'd;
But nothing urg'd, in warrant from himself.
When he had done, some followers of my own,

At th' lower end of th' hall, hurl'd up their caps,
And some ten voices cry'd, God save King Richard!
At which I took the 'vantage of those few,
And cry'd, Thanks, gentle citizens, and friends,
This general applause and chearful shout,
Argues your wisdom, and your love to Richard.
And even here broke off, and came away.

Glo'st.
Oh tongueless blocks! would they not speak?
Will not the Mayor then, and his brethren, come?

Buck.
The Mayor is here at hand—feign you some fear,
And be not spoke with, but by mighty suit.
A prayer-book in your hand, my lord, were well,
Standing between two churchmen of repute;
For on that ground I'll make an holy descant:
Yet be not easily won to our requests;
Seem, like the virgin, fearful of your wishes.

Glo'st.
My other self—my counsel's consistory!
My oracle! my prophet! my dear cousin!
I, as a child, will go by thy direction.

Buck.
Hark! the lord Mayor's at hand—away, my lord;
No doubt, but yet we reach our point propos'd.

Glo'st.
We cannot fail, my lord, while you are pilot!
A little flattery sometimes does well. [Exit. Enter Lord Mayor and Citizens.

Buck.
Welcome, my lord; I dance attendance here.
I am afraid the duke will not be spoke withal. Enter Catesby.
Now, Catesby, what says your lord to my request?

Catesby.
My lord, he humbly does intreat your grace
To visit him to-morrow, or the next day:
He's now retir'd with two right reverend fathers,
Divinely bent to meditation;
And in no worldly suits would he be mov'd,
To interrupt his holy exercise.

Buck.
Return, good Catesby, to the gracious duke;
Tell him, myself, the mayor, and citizens,

In deep designs, in matters of great moment,
No less importing than our general good,
Are come to have some conference with his grace.

Catesby.
My lord, I'll instantly inform his highness.

Buck.
Ah, my lord! this prince is not an Edward;
He is not lolling on a lewd love-bed,
But on his knees at meditation;
Not dallying with a brace of courtezans;
But with two deep divines in sacred praying:
Happy were England, would this virtuous prince
Take on himself the toil of sov'reignty.

Ld. Mayor.
Happy indeed, my lord.
He will not, sure, refuse our proffer'd love.

Buck.
Alas, my lord! you know him not: his mind's
Above this world—he's for a crown immortal.
Look there, his door opens: now where's our hope?

Ld. Mayor.
See where his grace stands, 'tween two clergymen!

Buck.
Ay, ay, 'tis there he's caught—there's his ambition.

Ld. Mayor.
How low he bows, to thank 'em for their care!
And see! a prayer-book in his hand!

Buck.
Would he were king, we'd give him leave to pray:
Methinks I wish it for the love he bears the city.
How have I heard him vow, he thought it hard
The Mayor should lose his title with his office* ^note!
Well, who knows? He may be won.

Ld. Mayor.
Ah, my lord!

Buck.
See, he comes forth—my friends, be resolute;
I know he's cautious to a fault: but do not
Leave him, till our honest suit be granted. Enter Glo'ster, with a Book† ^note.

Glo'st.
Cousin of Buckingham,

I do beseech your grace to pardon me,
Who, earnest in my zealous meditation,
So long deferr'd the service of my friends.
Now do I fear I've done some strange offence,
That looks disgracious in the city's eye. If so,
'Tis just you should reprove my ignorance.

Buck.
You have, my lord; we wish your grace,
On our intreaties, would amend your fault.

Glo'st.
Else wherefore breathe I in a Christian land?

Buck.
Know then, it is your fault, that you resign
The scepter'd office of your ancestors,
Fair England's throne, your own due right of birth,
To the corruption of a blemish'd stock;
While in the mildness of your sleeping thoughts
(Which here we waken to our country's good)
This wounded isle does want her proper limbs,
Which to re-cure, join'd with these loyal men,
Your very worshipful and loving friends,
And by their zealous instigation,
In this just cause, I come, to move your highness,
That on your gracious self you'd take 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 own by right of birth, and lineal glory.

Glo'st.
I cannot tell, if to depart in silence,
Or bitterly to speak in your reproof,
Fits best with my degree, or your condition;
Therefore to speak in just refusal of your suit,
And then in speaking not to check my friends,
Definitively thus I answer you:
Your love deserves my thanks; but my desert,
Unmeritable, shuns your fond request;
For, heav'n be thank'd, there is no need of me;
The royal stock has left us royal fruit,
Which, mellow'd by the stealing hours of time,
Will well become the seat of majesty,
And make us (no doubt) happy by his reign.
On him I lay what you would lay on me,

The right and fortune of his happier stars;
Which heav'n forbid my thoughts should rob him of!

Ld. Mayor.
Upon our knees, my lord, we beg your grace
To wear this precious robe of dignity,
Which on a child must sit too loose and heavy;
'Tis yours, befitting both your wisdom, and your birth.

Catesby.
My lord, this coldness is unkind,
Nor suits it with such ardent loyalty.

Buck.
Oh make 'em happy! grant their lawful suit.

Glo'st.
Alas! why would you heap this care on me?
I am unfit for state and majesty.
I thank you for your loves, but must declare
(I do beseech you take it not amiss)
I will not, dare not, must not, yield to you.

Buck.
If you refuse us, thro' a soft remorse,
Loth to depose the child your brother's son
(As well we know your tenderness of heart);
Yet know, tho' you deny us to the last,
Your brother's son shall never reign our king,
But we will plant some other in the throne,
To the disgrace and downfal of your house:
And, thus resolv'd, I bid you, sir, farewel.
My lord, and gentlemen, I beg your pardon,
For this vain trouble—my intent was good,
I would have serv'd my country, and my king:
But 'twill not be—Farewel, till next we meet.

Ld. Mayor.
Be not too rash, my lord: his grace relents.

Buck.
Away, you but deceive yourselves. [Exit.

Catesby.
Sweet prince, accept their suit.

Ld. Mayor.
If you deny us, all the land will rue it.

Glo'st.
Call him again—[Exit Catesby.] you will enforce me to
A world of cares—I am not made of stone,
But penetrable to your kind intreaties;
Tho, heaven knows, against my own inclining. Enter Buckingham and Catesby.
Cousin of Buckingham, and sage, grave men,

Since you will buckle fortune on my back,
To bear her burden, whether I will or no,
I must have patience to endure the load;
But, if black scandal, or foul-fac'd reproach,
Attend the sequel of your imposition,
Your mere enforcement shall acquittance me;
For heaven knows, as you may partly see,
How far I am from the desire of this.

Ld. Mayor.
Heaven guard your grace! we see it, and will say it.

Glo'st.
You will but say the truth, my lord.

Buck.
My heart's so full, it scarce has vent for words;
My knee will better speak my duty, now!
Long live our sovereign, Richard, king of England.

Glo'st.
Indeed, your words have touch'd me nearly, cousin!
Pray rise—I wish you could recall 'em.

Buck.
It would be treason, now, my lord; to-morrow,
If it so please your majesty, from council
Orders shall be given for your coronation.

Glo'st.
E'en when you please, for you will have it so.

Buck.
To-morrow then we will attend your majesty,
And now we take our leaves with joy.

Glo'st.
Cousin, adieu—my loving friends, farewel.
I must unto my holy work again. [Exeunt all but Richard.
* ^noteWhy, now my golden dream is out—
Ambition, like an early friend, throws back
My curtains with an eager hand, o'erjoy'd
To tell me what I dreamt is true—A crown!
Thou bright reward of ever-daring minds!
Oh! how thy awful glory wraps my soul!
Nor can the means that got thee dim thy lustre:
For, not men's love, fear pays thee adoration,

And fame not more survives from good than evil deeds.
Th' aspiring youth that fir'd the Ephesian dome,
Outlives, in fame, the pious fool that rais'd it.
Conscience, lie still; more lives must yet be drain'd;
Crowns got with blood, must be with blood maintain'd. [Exit.* ^note

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