Rich.
Thus far into the bowels of the land
Have we march'd on without impediment.
Glo'ster, the bloody and devouring boar,
Whose ravenous appetite has spoil'd your fields,
Laid this rich country waste, and rudely cropt
Its ripen'd hopes of fair posterity,
Is now even in the center of the isle,
As we're inform'd, near to the town of Leicester:
From Tamworth thither is but one day's march;
And here receive we from our father Stanley,
Lines of fair comfort and encouragement,
Such as will help and animate our cause;

On which let's cheerly on, courageous friends,
To reap the harvest of a lasting peace,
Or fame more lasting from a well-fought war.

Oxford.
Your words have fire, my lord, and warm our men,
Who look'd, methought, but cold before—dishearten'd
With the unequal numbers of the foe.

Rich.
Why, double 'em still, our cause would conquer 'em.
Thrice is he arm'd, that has his quarrel just;
And he but naked, tho' lock'd up in steel,
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted:
The very weight of Glo'ster's guilt shall crush him.

Blunt.
His best friends, no doubt, will soon be ours.

Oxford.
He has no friends, but what are such thro' fear.

Rich.
And we no foes, but what are such to heav'n.
Then doubt not, heav'n's for us—let's on, my friends.
True hope ne'er tires, but mounts with eagle's wing;
Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings. [Exeunt. Scene SCENE, Bosworth-Field. Enter Glo'ster, Norfolk, Ratcliff, Surrey, &c.

Glo'st.
Here pitch our tent, even in Bosworth-field:
My good lord of Norfolk, the cheerful speed
Of your supply has merited my thanks.

Norfolk.
I am rewarded, sir, in having power
To serve your majesty.

Glo'st.
You have our thanks, my lord: up with my tent:
Here will I lie, to-night—but where, to-morrow?
Well, no matter where—has any careful friend
Discover'd yet the number of the rebels?

Norfolk.
My lord, as I from spies am well inform'd,
Six or seven thousand is their utmost power.

Glo'.st
Why, our battalions treble that account;
Besides, the king's name is a tower of strength,
Which they upon the adverse faction want.

Norfolk.
Their wants are greater yet, my lord—those e'en
Of motion, life and spirit—did you but know
How wretchedly their men disgrace the field;
Oh, such a tatter'd host of mounted scare-crows!
So poor, so famish'd; their executors,
The greedy crows, fly hovering o'er their heads,
Impatient for their lean inheritance.

Glo'st.
Now, by St. Paul, we'll send 'em dinners and apparel;
Nay, give their fasting horses provender* ^note,
And after fight 'em—How long must we stay,
My lords, before these desperate fools will give
Us time to lay them with their faces upwards?

Norfolk.
Unless their famine saves our swords that labour,
To-morrow's sun will light 'em to their ruin;
So soon, I hear, they mean to give us battle.

Glo'st.
The sooner still the better—Come, my lords,
Now let's survey the 'vantage of the ground.
Call me some men of sound direction.

Norfolk.
My gracious lord—

Glo'st.
What say'st thou, Norfolk?

Norfolk.
Might I advise your majesty, you yet
Shall save the blood that may be shed to-morrow.

Glo'st.
How so, my lord?

Norfolk.
The poor condition of the rebels tell me;
That, on a pardon offer'd to the lives
Of those who instantly shall quit their arms,
Young Richmond, ere to-morrow's dawn, were friendless.

Glo'st.
Why that indeed was our sixth Harry's way,
Which made his reign one scene of rude commotion.
I'll be in men's despite a monarch; no,
Let kings that fear, forgive—Blows and revenge for me. [Exeunt. Scene SCENE a Wood. Enter Richmond, Oxford, Blunt, Sir William Brandon, &c.

Rich.
The weary sun has made a golden set,

And by yon ruddy brightness of the clouds,
Gives tokens of a goodly day to-morrow.
Sir William Brandon, you shall bear my standard.
Here have I drawn the model of our battle,
Which parts in just proportion our small power:
Here may each leader know his several charge.
My lord of Oxford, you sir Walter Herbert,
And you, Sir William Brandon, stay with me:
The earl of Pembroke keeps his regiment. Enter Soldier.

Sol.
Sir, a gentleman that calls himself Stanley,
Desires admittance to the earl of Richmond.

Rich.
Now by our hopes, my noble father-in-law;
Admit him—my good friends, your leave awhile. Enter Lord Stanley.
My honour'd father! on my soul,
The joy of seeing you this night, is more
Than my most knowing hopes presag'd—what news?

Stanley.
I by commission bless thee from thy mother,
Who prays continually for Richmond's good:
The queen too, has with tears of joy consented
Thou shouldst espouse Elizabeth her daughter,
At whom the tyrant Richard closely aims.
In brief (for now the shortest moment of
My stay is bought with hazard of my life)
Prepare thy battle early in the morning,
(For so the season of affairs requires)
And this be sure of, I, upon the first
Occasion offer'd, will deceive some eyes,
And aid thee in this doubtful shock of arms,
In which I had more forward been, ere this,
But that the life of thy young brother George,
(Whom for my pawn of faith stern Richard keeps)
Would then be forfeit to his wild revenge.
Farewel, the rude enforcement of the time,
Denies me to renew those vows of love,
Which so-long-sunder'd friends should dwell upon.

Rich.
We may meet again, my lord—

Stanley.
Till then, once more farewel—be resolute, and conquer. [Exit.

Rich.
Give him safe conduct to his regiment.
Well, sirs, to-morrow proves a busy day;
But come, the night's far spent—let's in to council;
Captain, an hour before the sun gets up,
Let me be wak'd—I will in person walk
From tent to tent, and early chear the soldiers. [Exeunt. Scene SCENE, Bosworth-Field. Enter Glos'ter, Ratcliff, Norfolk, and Catesby.

Glo'st.
Catesby.

Catesby.
Here, my lord.

Glo'st.
Send out a pursuivant at arms,
To Stanley's regiment; bid him 'fore sun-rise
Meet me with his power, or young George's head
Shall pay the forfeit of his cold delay.
What, is my beaver easier than it was,
And all my armour laid into my tent?

Catesby.
It is, my liege; all is in readiness.

Glo'st.
Good Norfolk, hie thee to thy charge;
Use careful watch—choose trusty centinels.

Norfolk.
Doubt not, my lord.

Glo'st.
Be stirring with the lark, good Norfolk.

Norfolk.
I shall, my lord— [Exit.

Glo'st.
Saddle White Surry for the field, to-morrow.
Is ink and paper ready* ^note?

Catesby.
It is, my lord.

Glo'st.
An hour after midnight, come to my tent,
And help to arm me—a good night, my friends. [Exit.

Catesby.
Methinks the king has not that pleas'd alacrity,
Nor chear of mind that he was wont to have.

Ratcliff.
The mere effect of business;
You'll find him, sir, another man i'th' field.
When you shall see him with his beaver up,
Ready to mount his neighing steed, with whom

He smiling seems to have some wanton talk,
Clapping his pamper'd sides to hold him still;
Then, with a motion swift and light as air,
Like fiery Mars, he vaults him to the saddle;
Looks terror to the foe, and courage to his soldiers.

Catesby.
Good-night to Richmond then; as I hear,
His numbers are so few, and those so sick,
And famish'd in their march, if he dares fight us—
He jumps into the sea to cool his fever.
But come, 'tis late—Now let us to our tents,
We've few hours good, before the trumpet wakes us. [Exeunt. Glo'ster's Tent. Enter Glo'ster from his Tent* ^note.

Glo'st.
'Tis now the dead of night, and half the world
Is in a lonely solemn darkness hung;
Yet I (so coy a dame is sleep to me)
With all the weary courtship of
My care-tir'd thoughts can't win her to my bed;
Tho' ev'n the stars do wink, as 'twere with over-watching;
I'll forth, and walk awhile—the air's refreshing,
And the ripe harvest of the new-mown hay
Gives it a sweet and wholesom odour;
How awful is this gloom!—and hark, from camp to camp
The hum of either army stilly sounds;
That the fixt centinels almost receive
The secret whispers of each other's watch:
Steed threatens steed in high and boastful neighings,
Piercing the night's dull ear—Hark, from the tents
The armourers acocmplishing the knights,
With clink of hammers closing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation; while some,

Like sacrifices, by their fires of watch,
With patience sit, and inly ruminate
The morning's danger—By yon heav'n, my stern
Impatience chides this tardy-gaited night,
Who, like a foul and ugly witch, does limp
So tediously away—I'll to my couch,
And once more try to sleep her into morning. [Lies down; a groan is heard.
Ha! what means that dismal voice? sure 'tis
The echo of some yawning grave,
That teems with an untimely ghost—'tis gone!
'Twas but my fancy, or perhaps the wind,
Forcing his entrance thro' some hollow cavern.
No matter what—I feel my eyes grow heavy. [Sleeps. King Henry's Ghost rises* ^note.

K. Henry.
Oh! thou whose unrelenting thoughts, not all
The hideous terrors of thy guilt can shake,
Whose conscience, with thy body, ever sleeps,
Sleep on; while I, by heav'n's high ordinance.
In dreams of horror wake thy frightful soul:
Now give thy thoughts to me; let 'em behold
These gaping wounds, which thy death-dealing hand
Within the Tower gave my anointed body:
Now shall thy own devouring conscience gnaw
Thy heart, and terribly revenge my murder. Lady Anne's Ghost rises.

La. Anne.
Think on the wrongs of wretched Anne thy wife,
E'en in the battle's heat remember me,
And edgeless fall thy sword—despair, and die.

Ghosts of Prince Edward and the Duke of York rise.

P. Ed.
Richard, dream on; and see the wand'ring spirits
Of thy young nephews, murder'd in the Tower:
Could not our youth, our innocence, persuade
Thy cruel heart to spare our harmless lives?
Who, but for thee, alas, might have enjoy'd
Our many promis'd years of happiness.
No soul, save thine, but pities our misusage;
Oh, 'twas a cruel deed! therefore alone,
Unpitying, unpitied, shalt thou fall.

K. Henry.
The morning's dawn has summon'd me away;
Now, Richard, wake in all the hells of guilt!
And let that wild despair, which now does prey
Upon thy mangled thoughts, alarm the world.
Awake, Richard, awake, to guilty minds
A terrible example! [All the Ghosts sink.

Glo'st.
Give me a horse—bind up my wounds!
Have mercy, heav'n! ha! soft! 'twas but a dream;
But then so terrible, it shakes my soul;
Cold drops of sweat hang on my trembling flesh;
My blood grows chilly, and I freeze with horror:
Oh, tyrant conscience! how dost thou afflict me?
When I look back, 'tis terrible retreating:
I cannot bear the thought, nor dare repent:
I am but man; and, fate, do thou dispose me.
Who's there? Enter Catesby.

Catesby.
'Tis I, my lord: the early village cock
Has thrice done salutation to the morn:
Your friends are up, and buckle on their armour.

Glo'st.
Oh, Catesby! I have had such horrid dreams.

Catesby.
Shadows, my lord—below the soldier's heeding.

Glo'st.
Now, by my this day's hopes—shadows to-night
Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard,

Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers,
Arm'd all in proof, and led by shallow Richmond.

Catesby.
Be more yourself, my lord: consider, sir,
Were it but known a dream had frighted you,
How would your animated foes presume on't!

Glo'st.
Perish that thought!—no, never be it said
That fate itself could awe the soul of Richard.
Hence, babbling dreams! you threaten here in vain;
* ^noteConscience, avaunt! Richard's himself again:
Hark! the shrill trumpet sounds to horse; away:
My soul's in arms, and eager for the fray. [Exeunt. Scene SCENE, a Wood. Enter Richmond, Oxford, Soldiers, &c.

Rich.
Halt.

Sold.
Halt—halt!

Rich.
How far into the morning is it, friends?

Oxford.
Near four, my lord.

Rich.
'Tis well—
I am glad to find we are such early stirrers.

Oxford.
Methinks the foes less forward than we thought 'em;
Worn as we are, we brave the field before 'em.

Rich.
Come, there looks life in such a cheerful haste;
If dreams should animate a soul resolv'd,
I'm more than pleas'd with those I've had, to-night;
Methought that all the ghosts of them, whose bodies
Richard murder'd, came mourning to my tent,
And rous'd me to revenge 'em.

Oxford.
A good omen, sir—[Trumpets sound a distant March.] hark, the trumpet of
The enemy: it speaks them on the march.

Rich.
Why then let's on, my friends, to face 'em;
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As mild behaviour and humility:

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Let us be tigers in our fierce deportment:
For me, the ransom of my bold attempt
Shall be this body on the earth's cold face;
But if we thrive, the glory of the action
The meanest here shall share his part of:
Advance your standards, draw your willing swords;
Sound drums, and trumpets, boldly and chearfully,
The word's St. George, Richmond, and Victory. [Exeunt. Enter Glo'ster, Catesby, &c.

Glo'st.
Who saw the sun, to-day?

Catesby.
He has not yet broke forth, my lord.

Glo'st.
Then he disdains to shine—for by the clock
He should have brav'd the east an hour ago:
Not shine to-day! Why, what is that to me,
More than to Richmond! for the self-same heav'n,
That frowns on me, looks lowring upon him* ^note. Enter Norfolk, with a paper.

Norfolk.
Prepare, my lord, the foe is in the field.

Glo'st.
Come, bustle, bustle, caparison my horse,
Call forth lord Stanley, bid him bring his power;
Myself will lead the soldiers to the plain. [Exit Catesby.
Well, Norfolk, what think'st thou, now?

Norfolk.
That we shall conquer—but on my tent,
This morning early, was this paper found.

Glo'st. [Reads]
“Jockey of Norfolk, be not too bold;
“For Dicken thy master is bought and sold.”
A weak invention of the enemy!
Come, gentlemen, now each man to his charge,
And, ere we do bestride our foaming steeds,
Remember whom you are to cope withal,
A scum of Britons, rascals, runaways,
Whom their o'er-cloy'd country vomits forth
To desperate adventures, and destruction:

Enter Catesby.
What says lord Stanley?—will he bring his power?

Catesby.
He does refuse, my lord—he will not stir.

Glo'st.
Off with his son George's head.

Norfolk.
My lord, the foe's already past the marsh—
After the battle, let young Stanley die.

Glo'st.
Why, after be it then.
A thousand hearts are swelling in my bosom;
Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head,
Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood;
And thou, our warlike champion, thrice renown'd,
St. George, inspire me with the rage of lions:
Upon 'em—Charge—follow me. [Exeunt. Several Excursions, Soldiers driven across the stage by Glo'ster, &c. Re-enter Glo'ster.

Glo'st.
What ho! young Richmond, ho! 'tis Richard calls;
I hate thee, Harry, for thy blood of Lancaster!
Now if thou dost not hide thee from my sword,
Now while the angry trumpet sounds alarms,
And dying groans transpierce the wounded air;
Richmond, I say, come forth, and singly face me;
Richard is hoarse with daring thee to arms* ^note. [Exit. Enter Catesby and Norfolk in Disorder.

Catesby.
Rescue! rescue! my lord of Norfolk, haste;
The king enacts more wonders than a man,
Daring and opposite to every danger:
His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights,
Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death;
Nay haste, my lord—the day's against us. [Exit.

Enter Glos'ter and Ratcliff.

Glo'st.
A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse.

Ratcliff.
This way, this way, my lord—below yon thicket
Stands a swift horse—away, ruin pursues us;
Withdraw, my lord, for only flight can save you.

Glo'st.
Slave! I have set my life upon a cast,
And I will stand the hazard of the die:
I think there be six Richmonds in the field,
Five have I slain to-day, instead of him:
A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse. [Exeunt. * ^noteRe-enter Glo'ster and Richmond, meeting.

Glo'st.
Of one, or both of us, the time is come.

Rich.
Kind heav'n, I thank thee, for my cause is thine;
If Richard's fit to live, let Richmond fall.

Glo'st.
Thy gallant bearing, Harry, I could 'plaud,
But that the spotted rebel stains the soldier.

Rich.
Nor should thy prowess, Richard, want my praise,
But that thy cruel deeds have stampt thee tyrant,
So thrive my sword, as heav'n's high vengeance draws it.

Glo'st.
My soul and body on the action both.

Rich.
A dreadful lay—here's to decide it. [Fight; Richard falls.

Gle'st.
Perdition catch thy arm—the chance is thine.
But oh! the vast renown thou hast acquir'd,
In conquering Richard, does afflict him more

Than even his body's parting with its soul.
Now let the world no longer be a stage
To feed contention in a lingering act;
But let one spirit of the first-born Cain,
Reign in all bosoms; that, each heart being set
On bloody actions, the rude scene may end,
And darkness be the burier of the dead* ^note. [Dies.

Rich.
Farewel, Richard! and from thy dreadful end
May future kings from tyranny be warn'd;
Had thy aspiring soul but stirr'd in virtue,
With half the spirit it has dar'd in evil,
How might thy fame have grac'd our English annals!
But, as thou art, how fair a page thou'st blotted?
Hark! the glad trumpets speak the field our own. Enter Oxford, Lord Stanley, and Soldiers, with King Richard's Crown.
Oh welcome, friends! my noble father, welcome!
Heav'n and our arms be prais'd, the day is ours;
See there, my lords, stern Richard is no more.

Stanley.
Victorious Richmond, well hast thou acquitted thee!
And see, the just reward that heaven has sent thee:
Amongst the glorious spoils of Bosworth field,
We've found the crown, which now in right is thine :
'Tis doubly thine, by conquest, and by choice.
Long live Henry the Seventh, king of England!

Rich.
Next to just heav'n, my noble countrymen,
I owe my thanks to you, whose love I'm proud of,
And ruling well shall speak my gratitude.
But now, my lords—what friends of us are missing?
Pray tell me, is young George Stanley living?

Stanley.
He is, my liege, and safe in Leicester town,
Whither, if you please, we may withdraw us. Enter Blunt.

Blunt.
My lord, the queen, and fair Elizabeth,
Her beauteous daughter, some few miles off,

Are on their way to gratulate your victory.

Rich.
Ay, there indeed, my toil's rewarded:
Let us prepare to meet 'em, lords—and then,
As we're already bound by solemn vows,
We'll twine the roses red and white together,
And both from one kind stalk shall flourish;
England has long been mad, and scar'd herself;
The brother blindly shed the brother's blood;
The father rashly slaughter'd his own son;
The bloody son, compell'd, has kill'd his sire.
Oh, now, let Henry and Elizabeth,
The true successors of each royal house,
Conjoin'd together, heal those deadly wounds!
And be that wretch of all mankind abhorr'd,
That would reduce those bloody days again;
Ne'er let him live to taste our joy's increase,
That would with treason wound fair England's peace! ^note End of Richard the Third

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