Enter Richard Duke of Glocester, solus.
Now is the Winter of our Discontent
Made glorious Summer by this Sun of York:
And all the clouds, that lowr'd upon our House,
In the deep bosom of the Ocean bury'd.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths,
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;

Our stern Alarums chang'd to merry meetings;
Our dreadful Marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visag'd War hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber,
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am not shap'd for sportive-tricks,
Nor made to court an am'rous looking-glass,—
I, that am rudely stampt, and want love's majesty,
To strut before a wanton, ambling Nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up;
And that so lamely and unfashionably,
That dogs bark at me, as I halt by them:
Why I, (in this weak piping time of peace)
Have no delight to pass away the time;
Unless to spy my shadow in the Sun,
And descant on mine own deformity.
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain,
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,

By drunken prophesies, libels, and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence and the King
In deadly hate, the one against the other:
And, if King Edward be as true and just,
As I am subtle, false and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up;
About a Prophecy, which says, that G(2) ^note

Of Edward's Heirs the Murtherer shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul! here Clarence comes. Enter Clarence guarded, and Brakenbury.
Brother, good day; what means this armed Guard,
That waits upon your Grace?

Clar.
His Majesty,
Tend'ring my person's safety, hath appointed
This Conduct to convey me to the Tower.

Glo.
Upon what cause?

Clar.
Because my name is George.

Glo.
Alack, my lord, that fault is none of yours:
He should for That commit your godfathers.
Belike, his Majesty hath some intent,
That you should be new christened in the Tower.
But what's the matter, Clarence, may I know?

Clar.
Yea, Richard, when I know; for, I protest,
As yet I do not; but as I can learn,
He hearkens after Prophesies and Dreams,
And from the cross-row plucks the letter G;
And says, a wizard told him, that by G
His Issue disinherited should be.
And, for my name of George begins with G,
It follows in his thought, that I am he.

These, as I learn, and such like toys as these,
Have mov'd his Highness to commit me now.

Glo.
Why, this it is, when men are rul'd by women.
'Tis not the King, that sends you to the Tower;
My lady Gray his wife, Clarence, 'tis she,
That tempts him to this harsh extremity.
Was it not she, and that good man of worship,
Anthony Woodvil her brother there,
That made him send lord Hastings to the Tower?
From whence this day he is delivered.
We are not safe; Clarence, we are not safe.

Clar.
By heav'n, I think, there is no man secure
But the Queen's kindred, and night-walking heralds,
That trudge between the King and mistress Shore.
Heard you not, what an humble suppliant
Lord Hastings was to her for his delivery?

Glo.
Humbly complaining to her Deity,
Got my lord Chamberlain his liberty.
I'll tell you what;—I think, it is our way,
If we will keep in favour with the King,
To be her men, and wear her livery:
The jealous o'erworn widow, and herself,
Since that our Brother dubb'd them gentlewomen,
Are mighty gossips in this Monarchy.

Brak.
I beg your Graces both to pardon me:
His Majesty hath straitly giv'n in charge,
That no man shall have private conference,
Of what degree soever, with your brother.

Glo.
Ev'n so, an't please your worship, Brakenbury!
You may partake of any thing we say:
We speak no treason, man—we say, the King
Is wise and virtuous; and his noble Queen
Well strook in years; fair, and not jealous—
We say, that Shore's wife hath a pretty foot,
A cherry lip, a passing pleasing tongue:
That the Queen's kindred are made gentle-folk:
How say you, Sir? can you deny all this?

Brak.
With this, my lord, myself have nought to do.

Glo.
What, fellow? nought to do with mistress Shore?
I tell you, Sir, he that doth naught with her,

Excepting one, were best to do it secretly.

Brak.
What one, my lord?

Glo.
Her husband, knave—would'st thou betray me?

Brak.
I do beseech your Grace to pardon me,
And to forbear your conf'rence with the Duke.

Clar.
We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will obey.

Glo.
We are the Queen's abjects, and must obey.
Brother, farewel; I will unto the King,
And whatsoe'er you will employ me in,
(Were it to call King Edward's widow sister)
I will perform it to infranchise you.
Mean time, this deep disgrace of brotherhood
Touches me deeper than you can imagine.

Clar.
I know, it pleaseth neither of us well.

Glo.
Well, your imprisonment shall not be long,
I will deliver you, or else lye for you:
Mean time have patience.

Clar.
I must perforce; farewel. [Exe. Brak. Clar.

Glo.
Go, tread the path, that thou shalt ne'er return:
Simple, plain Clarence!—I do love thee so,
That I will shortly send thy soul to heav'n,
If heav'n will take the Present at our hands,
But who comes here? the new-deliver'd Hastings? Enter Lord Hastings.

Hast.
Good time of day unto my gracious lord.

Glo.
As much unto my good lord Chamberlain:
Well are you welcome to the open air.
How hath your lordship brook'd imprisonment?

Hast.
With patience, noble lord, as pris'ners must:
But I shall live, my lord, to give them thanks,
That were the cause of my imprisonment.

Glo.
No doubt, no doubt; and so shall Clarence too;
For they, that were your enemies, are his,
And have prevail'd as much on him as you.

Hast.
More pity, that the Eagle should be mew'd,(3) ^note



While kites and buzzards prey at liberty.

Glo.
What news abroad?

Hast.
No news so bad abroad, as this at home:
The King is sickly, weak, and melancholy,
And his Physicians fear him mightily.

Glo.
Now, by St. Paul, that news is bad, indeed.
O, he hath kept an evil diet long,
And over-much consum'd his royal person:
'Tis very grievous to be thought upon.
Where is he, in his bed?

Hast.
He is.

Glo.
Go you before, and I will follow you. [Exit Hastings.
He cannot live, I hope; and must not die,
'Till George be pack'd with post-horse up to heav'n.
I'll in, to urge his hatred more to Clarence,
With Lyes well steel'd with weighty arguments;
And if I fail not in my deep intent,
Clarence hath not another day to live:
Which done, God take King Edward to his mercy,
And leave the world for me to bustle in!
For then, I'll marry Warwick's youngest daughter:
What though I kill'd her husband, and her father?
The readiest way to make the wench amends,
Is to become her husband and her father:
The which will I, not all so much for love,
As for another secret close intent,
By marrying her, which I must reach unto.
But yet I run before my horse to market:
Clarence still breathes, Edward still lives and reigns;
When they are gone, then must I count my Gains. [Exit.

Scene 2 SCENE changes to a Street. Enter the Coarse of Henry the Sixth, with halberds to guard it, Lady Anne being the Mourner.

Anne.
Set down, set down your honourable load,
If Honour may be shrouded in a herse;
Whilst I awhile obsequiously lament
Th' untimely Fall of virtuous Lancaster.
Poor key-cold figure of a holy King!
Pale ashes of the House of Lancaster!
Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood!
Be't lawful, that I invocate thy ghost,
To hear the lamentations of poor Anne,
Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughter'd son;
Stab'd by the self-same hand, that made these wounds.
Lo, in these windows, that let forth thy life,
I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes.
Curs'd be the hand, that made these fatal holes!
Curs'd be the heart, that had the heart to do it!
More direful hap betide that hated wretch,
That makes us wretched by the death of thee,
Than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads,
Or any creeping venom'd thing that lives!
If ever he have child, abortive be it,
Prodigious, and untimely brought to light,
Whose ugly and unnatural aspect
May fright the hopeful mother at the view:
And That be heir to his unhappiness.!
If ever he have wife, let her be made
More miserable by the death of him,
Than I am made by my young lord and thee!
Come, now tow'rds Chertsey with your holy load,
Taken from Paul's to be interred there.
And still, as you are weary of this weight,
Rest you, while I lament King Henry's Coarse.

Enter Richard Duke of Glocester.

Glo.
Stay you, that bear the Coarse, and set it down.

Anne.
What black magician conjures up this fiend,
To stop devoted charitable deeds?

Glo.
Villains, set down the Coarse; or, by St. Paul,
I'll make a Coarse of him that disobeys.

Gen.
My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass.

Glo.
Unmanner'd dog! stand thou, when I command;
Advance thy halbert higher than my breast,
Or, by St. Paul, I'll strike thee to my foot,
And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness.

Anne.
What, do you tremble? are you all afraid?
Alas, I blame you not, for you are mortal;
And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil.
Avant, thou dreadful minister of hell!
Thou had'st but pow'r over his mortal body,
His soul thou can'st not have; therefore be gone.

Glo.
Sweet Saint, for charity, be not so curst.

Anne.
Foul Dev'l! for God's sake hence, trouble as not,
For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell:
Fill'd it with cursing cries, and deep exclaims.
If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds,
Behold this pattern of thy butcheries.
Oh, gentlemen! see! see, dead Henry's wounds
Open their congeal'd mouths and bleed afresh.
Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity;
For 'tis thy presence that exhales this blood
From cold and empty veins, where no blood dwells.
Thy deeds, inhuman and unnatural,
Provoke this deluge most unnatural.
O God! which this blood mad'st, revenge his death:
O earth! which this blood drink'st, revenge his death:
Or Heav'n with lightning strike the murth'rer dead;
Or Earth gape open wide, and eat him quick,
As thou dost swallow up this good King's blood,
Which his hell-govern'd arm hath butchered!

Glo.
Lady, you know no rules of charity,
Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.

Anne.
Villain, thou know'st nor law of God nor man;
No beast so fierce, but knows some touch of pity.

Glo.
But I know none, and therefore am no beast.

Anne.
O wonderful, when devils tell the truth!—

Glo.
More wonderful, when angels are so angry:
Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman,
Of these supposed crimes, to give me leave,
By circumstance, but to acquit myself.

Anne.
Vouchsafe, diffus'd infection of a man,
For these known evils, but to give me leave,
By circumstance, to curse thy cursed self.

Glo.
Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me have
Some patient leisure to excuse myself.

Anne.
Fouler than heart can think thee, thou can'st make
No excuse current, but to hang thyself.

Glo.
By such despair I should accuse myself.

Anne.
And by despairing shalt thou stand excus'd,
For doing worthy vengeance on thyself;
That didst unworthy slaughter upon others.

Glo.
Say, that I slew them not.

Anne.
Then say, they were not slain:
But dead they are; and, devilish slave, by thee.

Glo.
I did not kill your husband.

Anne.
Why, then he is alive.

Glo.
Nay, he is dead, and slain by Edward's hands.

Anne.
In thy foul throat thou ly'st. Queen Marg'ret saw
Thy murd'rous faulchion smoaking in his blood:
The which thou once didst bend against her breast,
But that thy Brothers beat aside the point.

Glo.
I was provoked by her sland'rous tongue,
That laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoulders.

Anne.
Thou wast provoked by thy bloody mind,
That never dreamt on aught but butcheries:
Didst thou not kill this King?

Glo.
I grant ye.

Anne.
Dost grant me, hedge-hog? then God grant me too,
Thou may'st be damned for that wicked deed!
O, he was gentle, mild and virtuous.—

Glo.
The fitter for the King of heav'n, that hath him.

Anne.
He is in heav'n, where thou shalt never come.

Glo.
Let him thank me, that help'd to send him thither;
For he was fitter for that place than earth.

Anne.
And thou unfit for any place but hell.

Glo.
Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it.

Anne.
Some dungeon.

Glo.
Your bed-chamber.

Anne.
Ill Rest betide the chamber, where thou lyest!

Glo.
So will it, Madam, till I lye with you.

Anne.
I hope so.

Glo.
I know so.—But gentle lady Anne,
To leave this keen encounter of our wits,
And fall something into a slower method:
Is not the causer of the timeless deaths
Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward,
As blameful as the executioner?

Anne.
Thou wast the cause, and most accurst effect.

Glo.
Your beauty was the cause of that effect:
Your beauty, that did haunt me in my sleep,
To undertake the death of all the world;
So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom.

Anne.
If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide,
These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks.

Glo.
These eyes could not endure sweet beauty's wrack,
You should not blemish it, if I stood by;
As all the world is cheered by the Sun,
So I by That; it is my day, my life.

Anne.
Black night o'er-shade thy day, and death thy life!

Glo.
Curse not thyself, fair creature; thou art both.

Anne.
I would I were, to be reveng'd on thee.

Glo.
It is a quarrel most unnatural,
To be reveng'd on him that loveth thee.

Anne.
It is a quarrel just and reasonable,
To be reveng'd on him that kill'd my husband.

Glo.
He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband,
Did it to help thee to a better husband.

Anne.
His better doth not breathe upon the earth.

Glo.
He lives, that loves thee better than he could.

Anne.
Name him.

Glo.
Plantagenet.

Anne.
Why, that was he.

Glo.
The self-same name, but one of better nature.

Anne.
Where is he?

Glo.
Here: why dost thou spit at me? [She spits at him.

Anne.
Would it were mortal poison for thy sake!

Glo.
Never came poison from so sweet a place.

Anne.
Never hung poison on a fouler toad.
Out of my sight! thou dost infect mine eyes.

Glo.
Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine.

Anne.
Would they were Basilisks to strike thee dead!

Glo.
I would they were, that I might die at once:
For now they kill me with a living death.
Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears;
Sham'd their aspects with store of childish drops:
These eyes, which never shed remorseful tear,
Not when my father York, and Edward wept,
To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made;
When black-fac'd Clifford shook his sword at him:
Nor when thy warlike father, like a child,
Told the sad story of my father's death,
And twenty times made pause to sob and weep,
That all the standers-by had wet their cheeks,
Like trees be-dash'd with rain: in that sad time,
My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear:
And what these sorrows could not thence exhale,
Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping.
I never sued to friend, nor enemy;
My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing words;
But now thy beauty is propos'd my fee,
My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak. [She looks scornfully at him.
Teach not thy lip such scorn, for it was made
For kissing, lady, not for such contempt.
If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive,
Lo! here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword,
Which, if thou please to hide in this true breast,
And let the soul forth that adoreth thee,
I lay it naked to the deadly stroke,
And humbly beg the death upon my knee. [He lays his breast open, she offers at it with his sword.

Nay, do not pause; for I did kill King Henry;
But 'twas thy beauty that provoked me.
Nay, now dispatch: 'twas I that stabb'd young Edward;
But 'twas thy heav'nly face that set me on. [She falls the sword.
Take up the sword again, or take up me.

Anne.
Arise, dissembler; though I wish thy death,
I will not be thy executioner.

Glo.
Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it.

Anne.
I have already.

Glo.
That was in thy rage:
Speak it again, and even with thy word,
This hand, which for thy love, did kill thy love,
Shall for thy love, kill a far truer love;
To both their deaths shalt thou be accessary.

Anne.
I would, I knew thy heart.

Glo.
'Tis figur'd in my tongue.

Anne.
I fear me, both are false.

Glo.
Then never man was true.

Anne.
Well, well, put up your sword.

Glo.
Say then, my peace is made.

Anne.
That shalt thou know hereafter.

Glo.
But shall I live in hope?

Anne.
All men, I hope, live so.

Glo.
Vouchsafe to wear this ring.
Look, how my ring encompasseth thy finger,
Ev'n so thy breast incloseth my poor heart:
Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.
And if thy poor devoted suppliant may
But beg one favour at thy gracious hand,
Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever.

Anne.
What is it?

Glo.
That it may please you leave these sad designs
To him, that hath more cause to be a Mourner;
And presently repair to Crosby-place:(4) ^note

Where, after I have solemnly interr'd
At Chertsey Monast'ry this noble King,
And wet his grave with my repentant tears,
I will with all expedient duty see you.
For divers unknown reasons, I beseech you,
Grant me this boon.

Anne.
With all my heart, and much it joys me too,
To see you are become so penitent.
Trassel and Barkley, go along with me.

Glo.
Bid me farewel.

Anne.
'Tis more than you deserve:
But since you teach me how to flatter you,
Imagine, I have said farewel already. [Exe. two with Anne.

Glo.
Sirs, take up the Coarse.

Gent.
Towards Chertsey, noble lord?

Glo.
No, to White-Friars, there attend my Coming. [Exeunt with the Coarse.
Was ever woman in this humour woo'd?
Was ever woman in this humour won?
I'll have her—but I will not keep her long.
What! I that kill'd her husband, and his father!
To take her in her heart's extreamest hate,
With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes,
The bleeding witness of her hatred by:
With God, her conscience, and these bars against me,
And I no friends to back my suit withal,
But the plain devil and dissembling looks:
And yet to win her—All the world to nothing!
Ha!
Hath she forgot already that brave Prince,
Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months since,
Stab'd in my angry mood at Tewksbury?
A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman,
Fram'd in the prodigality of nature,
Young, wise, and valiant, and, no doubt, right royal,
The spacious world cannot again afford:—
And will she yet debase her eyes on me,
That cropt the golden Prime of this sweet Prince,
And made her widow to a woful bed?
On me, whose All not equals Edward's Moiety?

On me, that halt, and am mis-shapen thus?
My Dukedom to a beggarly Denier,
I do mistake my person all this while:
Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot,
My self to be a marv'lous proper man.
I'll be at charges for a looking-glass,
And entertain a score or two of tailors,
To study Fashions to adorn my body:
Since I am crept in favour with my self,
I will maintain it with some little cost.
But first I'll turn yon fellow in his grave,
And then return lamenting to my love.
Shine out, fair Sun, till I have bought a glass,
That I may see my shadow as I pass. [Exit. Scene 3 SCENE changes to the Palace. Enter the Queen, Lord Rivers, and Lord Gray.

Riv.
Have patience, Madam, there's no doubt, his Majesty
Will soon recover his accustom'd health.

Gray.
In that you brook it ill, it makes him worse;
Therefore, for God's sake, entertain good comfort,
And cheer his Grace with quick and merry eyes.

Queen.
If he were dead, what would betide of me?

Gray.
No other harm, but loss of such a lord.

Queen.
The loss of such a lord includes all harms.

Gray.
The heav'ns have blest you with a goodly Son,
To be your comforter when he is gone.

Queen.
Ah! he is young, and his minority
Is put into the Trust of Richard Glo'ster,
A man that loves not me, nor none of you.

Riv.
It is concluded, he shall be Protector?

Queen.
It is determin'd, not concluded yet:
But so it must be, if the King miscarry.

Enter Buckingham and Stanley.

Gray.
Here come the lords of Buckingham and Stanley.(5) ^note

Buck.
Good time of day unto your Royal Grace!

Stanley.
God make your Majesty joyful as you have been!

Queen.
The Countess Richmond, good my lord of Stanley,
To your good Pray'r will scarcely say, Amen;
Yet, Stanley, notwithstanding she's your wife,
And loves not me, be you, good lord, assur'd,
I hate not you for her proud arrogance.

Stanley.
I do beseech you, either not believe
The envious slanders of her false accusers:
Or, if she be accus'd on true report,
Bear with her weakness; which, I think, proceeds
From wayward sickness, and no grounded malice.

Queen.
Saw you the King to day, my lord of Stanley?

Stanley.
But now the Duke of Buckingham and I
Are come from visiting his Majesty.

Queen.
What likelihood of his amendment, lords?

Buck.
Madam, good hope; his Grace speaks chearfully.

Queen.
God grant him health! did you confer with him?

Buck.
Madam, we did; he seeks to make atonement
Between the Duke of Glo'ster and your Brothers,
And between them and my lord Chamberlain;

And sent to warn them to his royal presence.

Queen.
Would all were well—but that will never be—
I fear, our happiness is at the height. Enter Glocester.

Glo.
They do me wrong, and I will not endure it.
Who are they, that complain unto the King,
That I, forsooth, am stern, and love them not?
By holy Paul, they love his Grace but lightly,
That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours.
Because I cannot flatter, and look fair,
Smile in men's faces, smooth, deceive and cog,
Duck with French nods, and apish courtesie,
I must be held a rancorous enemy.
Cannot a plain man live and think no harm,
But thus his simple truth must be abus'd
By silken, sly, insinuating Jacks?

Gray.
To whom in all this presence speaks your Grace?

Glo.
To thee, that hast nor honesty, nor grace:
When have I injur'd thee? when done thee wrong?
Or thee? or thee? or any of your faction?
A plague upon you all! His royal person,
Whom God preserve better than you would wish,
Cannot be quiet scarce a breathing while,
But you must trouble him with lewd complaints.

Queen.
Brother of Glo'ster, you mistake the matter:
The King of his own royal disposition,
And not provok'd by any suitor else,
(Aiming, belike, at your interior hatred,
That in your outward action shews it self
Against my children, brothers, and my self;)
Makes him to send, that he may learn the ground
Of your ill will, and thereby to remove it.

Glo.
I cannot tell; the world is grown so bad,
That wrens make prey, where eagles dare not perch.
Since every Jack became a gentleman,
There's many a gentle person made a Jack.

Queen.
Come, come, we know your meaning, brother Glo'ster.
You envy my advancement and my friends:

God grant, we never may have need of you!

Glo.
Mean time, God grants that we have need of you.
Our Brother is imprisoned by your means;
My self disgrac'd; and the Nobility
Held in contempt; while many fair promotions
Are daily given to ennoble those,
That scarce, some two days since, were worth a noble.

Queen.
By him, that rais'd me to this careful height,
From that contented hap which I enjoy'd,
I never did incense his Majesty
Against the Duke of Clarence; but have been
An earnest Advocate to plead for him.
My lord, you do me shameful injury,
Falsely to draw me in these wild suspects.

Glo.
You may deny, that you were not the cause
Of my lord Hastings' late imprisonment.

Riv.
She may, my lord, for—

Glo.
She may, lord Rivers—why, who knows not so?
She may do more, Sir, than denying That:
She may help you to many fair preferments,
And then deny her aiding hand therein,
And lay those Honours on your high deserts.
What may she not? she may—ay, marry, may she—

Riv.
What, marry, may she?

Glo.
What, marry, may she? marry with a King,
A batchelor, a handsom stripling too:
I wis, your grandam had a worser match.—

Queen.
My lord of Glo'ster, I have too long borne
Your blunt upbraidings, and your bitter scoffs:
By heav'n, I will acquaint his Majesty,
Of those gross taunts I often have endur'd.
I had rather be a country servant-maid,
Than a great Queen with this condition;
To be thus taunted, scorn'd and baited at.
Small joy have I in being England's Queen. Enter Queen Margaret.

Q. Mar.
And lessen'd be That small, God, I beseech thee!
Thy Honour, State, and Seat is due to me.

Glo.
What! threat you me with telling of the King?
Tell him, and spare not: Look, what I have said,(6) ^note
I will avouch in presence of the King:
'Tis time to speak, my pains are quite forgot.

Q. Mar.
Out, Devil! I remember them too well:
Thou kill'dst my husband Henry in the Tower,
And Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury.

Glo.
Ere you were Queen, ay, or your husband King,
I was a pack-horse in his great affairs;
A weeder out of his proud Adversaries,
A liberal rewarder of his friends;
To royalize his blood, I spilt mine own.

Q. Mar.
Ay, and much better blood than his or thine.

Glo.
In all which time you and your husband Gray
Were factious for the House of Lancaster;
And, Rivers, so were you;—was not your husband,
In Marg'ret's battel, at St. Albans slain?
Let me put in your minds, if you forget,
What you have been ere now, and what you are;
Withal, what I have been, and what I am.

Q. Mar.
A murth'rous Villain, and so still thou art.

Glo.
Poor Clarence did forsake his father Warwick,
Ay, and forswore himself, (which, Jesu, pardon!—)

Q. Mar.
Which God revenge!—

Glo.
To fight on Edward's Party for the Crown;
And for his meed, poor lord, he is mew'd up:
I would to God, my heart were flint, like Edward's;
Or Edward's soft and pitiful, like mine;
I am too childish-foolish for this world.

Q. Mar.
Hie thee to hell for shame, and leave this world,
Thou Cacodæmon! there thy kingdom is.

Riv.
My lord of Glo'ster, in those busie days,
Which here you urge to prove us enemies,
We follow'd then our lord, our lawful King;
So should we you, if you should be our King.

Glo.
If I should be!—I had rather be a pedlar;
Far be it from my heart, the thought thereof.

Queen.
As little joy, my lord, as you suppose
You should enjoy, were you this Country's King;
As little joy you may suppose in me,
That I enjoy, being the Queen thereof.

Q. Mar.
A little joy enjoys the Queen thereof;
For I am she, and altogether joyless.
I can no longer hold me patient.
Hear me, you wrangling Pirates, that fall out
In sharing That which you have pill'd from me;
Which of you trembles not, that looks on me?
If not that I being Queen, you bow like subjects;
Yet that by you depos'd, you quake like rebels.
Ah, gentle villain, do not turn away!

Glo.
Foul wrinkled witch, what mak'st thou in my sight?

Q. Mar.
But repetition of what thou hast marr'd,
That will I make, before I let thee go.
A husband and a son thou ow'st to me; [To Glo.
And thou, a kingdom; all of you, allegiance; [To the Queen.
The sorrow, that I have, by Right is yours;
And all the pleasures, you usurp, are mine.

Glo.
The Curse my noble father laid on thee,
When thou didst crown his warlike brows with paper,
And with thy scorns drew'st rivers from his eyes,
And then, to dry them, gav'st the Duke a clout,
Steep'd in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland;—
His Curses, then from bitterness of soul
Denounc'd against thee, are now fall'n upon thee;
And God, not we, has plagu'd thy bloody deed.

Q. Mar.
So just is God, to right the innocent.

Hast.
O, 'twas the foulest deed to slay that babe,
And the most merciless, that e'er was heard of.

Riv.
Tyrants themselves wept, when it was reported.

Dors.
No man but prophesy'd revenge for it.

Buck.
Northumberland, then present, wept to see it.

Q. Mar.
What! were you snarling all before I came,
Ready to catch each other by the throat,

And turn you all your hatred now on me?
Did York's dread Curse prevail so much with heav'n,
That Henry's death, my lovely Edward's death,
Their Kingdom's loss, my woful Banishment,
Could all but answer for that peevish brat?
Can Curses pierce the clouds, and enter heav'n?
Why, then give way, dull clouds, to my quick Curses!
If not by war, by surfeit die your King,
As ours by murther to make him a King!
Edward thy son, that now is Prince of Wales,
For Edward our son, that was Prince of Wales,
Die in his youth, by like untimely violence!
Thy self a Queen, for me that was a Queen,
Out-live thy glory, like my wretched self!
Long may'st thou live to wail thy children's loss,
And see another, as I see thee now,
Deck'd in thy Rights, as thou art stall'd in mine!
Long die thy happy days before thy death,
And after many length'ned hours of grief,
Die, neither mother, wife, nor England's Queen!
Rivers and Dorset, you were standers-by,
And so wast thou, lord Hastings, when my son
Was stabb'd with bloody daggers; God, I pray him,
That none of you may live your natural age,
But by some unlook'd accident cut off!

Glo.
Have done thy Charm, thou hateful wither'd hag.

Q. Mar.
And leave out thee? stay, dog, for thou shalt hear me.
If heav'ns have any grievous plague in store,
Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee,
O, let them keep it, till thy sins be ripe;
And then hurl down their indignation
On thee, thou troubler of the poor world's peace!
The worm of Conscience still be-gnaw thy soul;
Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou liv'st,
And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends;
No Sleep close up that deadly eye of thine,
Unless it be while some tormenting dream
Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils!
Thou elvish-markt Abortive, rooting hog!

Thou that wast seal'd in thy nativity
The slave of nature, and the son of hell!(7) ^note

Glo.
Margaret.—

Q. Mar.
Richard.—

Glo.
Ha?—

Q. Mar.
I call thee not.

Glo.
I cry thee mercy then; for, I did think,
That thou had'st call'd me all these bitter names.

Q. Mar.
Why, so I did; but look'd for no reply.
Oh, let me make the period to my Curse.

Glo.
'Tis done by me, and ends in Margaret.

Queen.
Thus have you breath'd your Curse against your self.

Q. Mar.
Poor painted Queen, vain flourish of my fortune!
Why strew'st thou sugar on that bottel'd spider,
Whose deadly web ensnareth thee about?
Fool, fool, thou whet'st a knife to kill thy self:
The day will come, that thou shalt wish for me
To help thee curse this pois'nous bunch-back'd toad.

Hast.
False-boading woman, end thy frantick Curse;
Lest to thy harm thou move our patience.

Q. Mar.
Foul shame upon you! you have all mov'd mine.

Riv.
Were you well serv'd, you would be taught your duty.

Q. Mar.
To serve me well, you all should do me duty,
Teach me to be your Queen, and you my Subjects:
O, serve me well, and teach your selves that duty.

Dors.
Dispute not with her, she is lunatick.

Q. Mar.
Peace, master Marquiss, you are malapert;
Your fire-new stamp of honour is scarce current.
O, that your young Nobility could judge
What 'twere to lose it, and be miserable!
They, that stand high, have many blasts to shake them;
And, if they fall, they dash themselves to pieces.

Glo.
Good Counsel, marry, learn it, learn it, Marquiss.

Dors.
It touches you, my lord, as much as me.

Glo.
Ay, and much more; but I was born so high,
Our Airy buildeth in the cedar's top,
And dallies with the wind, and scorns the Sun.

Q. Mar.
And turns the Sun to shade;—alas! alas!
Witness my son, now in the shade of death;
Whose bright out-shining beams thy cloudy wrath
Hath in eternal darkness folded up.
Your Airy buildeth in our Airie's nest;
O God, that seest it, do not suffer it:
As it was won with blood, so be it lost!

Buck.
Peace, peace for shame, if not for charity.

Q. Mar.
Urge neither charity nor shame to me;
Uncharitably with me have you dealt,
And shamefully my hopes, by you, are butcher'd.
My charity is outrage, life my shame,
And in my shame still live my sorrow's rage!

Buck.
Have done, have done.

Q. Mar.
O Princely Buckingham, I'll kiss thy hand,
In sign of league and amity with thee:
Now fair befall thee, and thy noble House!
Thy garments are not spotted with our blood;
Nor thou within the compass of my Curse.

Buck.
Nor no one here; for Curses never pass
The lips of those, that breathe them in the air.

Q. Mar.
I'll not believe, but they ascend the sky,
And there awake God's gentle-sleeping Peace.
O Buckingham, beware of yonder dog;
Look, when he fawns, he bites; and, when he bites,

His venom tooth will rankle to the death;
Have not to do with him, beware of him,
Sin, death, and hell, have set their marks upon him;
And all their ministers attend on him.

Glo.
What doth she say, my lord of Buckingham?

Buck.
Nothing that I respect, my gracious lord.

Q. Mar.
What, dost thou scorn me for my gentle counsel?
And sooth the devil, that I warn thee from?
O, but remember this another day;
When he shall split thy very heart with sorrow;
And say, poor Marg'ret was a Prophetess.
Live each of you the subject to his hate,
And he to yours, and all of you to God's! [Exit.

Buck.
My hair doth stand on end to hear her Curses.

Riv.
And so doth mine: I wonder, she's at liberty.

Glo.
I cannot blame her, by God's holy Mother;
She hath had too much wrong, and I repent
My part thereof, that I have done to her.

Dors.
I never did her any, to my knowledge.

Glo.
Yet you have all the vantage of her wrong:
I was too hot to do some body good,
That is too cold in thinking of it now.
Marry, for Clarence, he is well repay'd;
He is frank'd up to fatting for his pains,
God pardon them, that are the cause thereof!

Riv.
A virtuous and a christian-like conclusion,
To pray for them that have done scathe to us.

Glo.
So do I ever, being well advis'd;
For had I curst now, I had curst my self. [Aside. Enter Catesby.

Cates.
Madam, his Majesty doth call for you,
And for your Grace, and you, my noble lord.

Queen.
Catesby, we come; lords, will you go with us?

Riv.
Madam, we will attend your Grace. [Exeunt all but Glocester.

Glo.
I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl.
The secret mischiefs, that I set a-broach,
I lay unto the grievous charge of others.

Clarence, whom I indeed have laid in darkness,
I do beweep to many simple gulls,
Namely to Stanley, Hastings, Buckingham;
And tell them, 'tis the Queen and her allies
That stir the King against the Duke my brother.
Now they believe it, and withal whet me
To be reveng'd on Rivers, Dorset, Gray.
But then I sigh, and, with a piece of Scripture,
Tell them, that God bids us do good for evil:
And thus I cloathe my naked villany
With old odd ends, stol'n forth of holy Writ,
And seem a Saint, when most I play the Devil. Enter two Murtherers.
But soft, here come my executioners.
How now my handy, stout, resolved mates,
Are you now going to dispatch this deed?

1 Vil.
We are, my lord, and come to have the Warrant,
That we may be admitted where he is.

Glo.
Well thought upon, I have it here about me:
When you have done, repair to Crosby-place.
But, Sirs, be sudden in the execution,
Withal obdurate, do not hear him plead;
For Clarence is well-spoken, and perhaps,
May move your hearts to pity, if you mark him.

Vil.
Fear not, my lord, we will not stand to prate;
Talkers are no good doers; be assur'd,
We go to use our hands, and not our tongues.

Glo.
Your eyes drop mill-stones, when fools eyes drop tears.
I like you, lads; about your business; go. [Exeunt.

Scene 4 SCENE changes to the Tower. Enter Clarence and Brakenbury.

Brak.
Why looks your Grace so heavily to day?

Clar.
O, I have past a miserable night,
So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams,
That, as I am a christian faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night
Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days:
So full of dismal terror was the time.

Brak.
What was your dream, my lord? I pray you, tell me.

Clar.
Methought, that I had broken from the Tower;
And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy,
And in my company my brother Glo'ster;
Who from my Cabin tempted me to walk
Upon the Hatches. Thence we look'd tow'rd England,
And cited up a thousand heavy times,
During the Wars of York and Lancaster,
That had befal'n us. As we pac'd along
Upon the giddy footing of the Hatches,
Methought, that Glo'ster stumbled; and in falling
Struck me (that sought to stay him) over-board,
Into the tumbling billows of the main.
Lord, Lord, methought, what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noise of waters in my ears!
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes!
I thought, I saw a thousand fearful wracks;
A thousand men, that fishes gnaw'd upon;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels.
Some lay in dead men's skulls; and in those holes,
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept,
As 'twere in scorn of Eyes, reflecting Gems;
That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep,
And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.

Brak.
Had you such leisure in the time of death,
To gaze upon the Secrets of the Deep?

Clar.
Methought, I had; and often did I strive
To yield the ghost; but still the envious flood
Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth
To find the empty, vast, and wand'ring air;
But smother'd it within my panting bulk,
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.

Brak.
Awak'd you not with this sore agony?

Clar.
No, no, my dream was lengthned after life.
O then began the tempest to my soul:
I past, methought, the melancholy flood,
With that grim ferry-man, which Poets write of,
Unto the Kingdom of perpetual Night.
The first that there did greet my stranger soul,
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick,
Who cry'd aloud—What scourge for perjury
Can this dark Monarchy afford false Clarence?
And so he vanish'd. Then came wand'ring by
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood, and he shriek'd out aloud—
Clarence is come, false, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence,
That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury;
Seize on him, Furies, take him to your torments!—
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Inviron'd me, and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that with the very noise
I, trembling, wak'd; and for a season after
Could not believe but that I was in Hell.
Such terrible impression made my dream.

Brak.
No marvel, lord, that it affrighted you;
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.

Clar.
Ah! Brakenbury, I have done those things,
That now give evidence against my soul,
For Edward's sake; and, see, how he requites me!
O God! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee,
But thou wilt be aveng'd on my misdeeds,
Yet execute thy wrath on me alone:
O, spare my guiltless wife, and my poor children!
I pr'ythee, Brakenbury, stay by me;
My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

Brak.
I will, my lord; God give your Grace good Rest!
Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, [Aside.
Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night.
Princes have but their titles for their glories,
An outward honour, for an inward toil;
And, for unfelt imaginations,
They often feel a world of restless cares:
So that between their titles, and low name,
There's nothing differs but the outward fame. Enter the two Murtherers.

1 Vil.

Ho, who's here?

Brak.

In God's name, what art thou? how cam'st thou hither?

2 Vil.

I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs.

Brak.

What, so brief?

1 Vil.

'Tis better, Sir, than to be tedious. Let him see our Commission, and talk no more.

Brak. [Reads]
I am in this commanded, to deliver
The noble Duke of Clarence to your hands.
I will not reason what is meant hereby,
Because I will be guiltless of the meaning.
There lyes the Duke asleep, and there the keys.
I'll to the King, and signify to him,
That thus I have resign'd to you my Charge. [Exit.

1 Vil.

You may, Sir, 'tis a point of wisdom: fare you well.

2 Vil.

What, shall we stab him as he sleeps?

1 Vil.

No; he'll say, 'twas done cowardly, when he wakes.

2 Vil.

When he wakes! why, Fool, he shall never wake until the great Judgment-day.

1 Vil.

Why, then he'll say, we stabb'd him sleeping.

2 Vil.

The urging of that word, Judgment, hath bred a kind of remorse in me.

1 Vil.

What? art thou afraid?

2 Vil.

Not to kill him, having a Warrant for it: But to be damn'd for killing him, from the which no Warrant can defend me.

1 Vil.

I'll back to the Duke of Glo'ster, and tell him so.

2 Vil.

Nay, pr'ythee, stay a little: I hope, this holy humour of mine will change; it was wont to hold me but while one would tell twenty.

1 Vil.

How dost thou feel thyself now?

2 Vil.

Faith, some certain dregs of conscience are yet within me.

1 Vil.

Remember the reward, when the deed's done.

2 Vil.

Come, he dies: I had forgot the reward.

1 Vil.

Where's thy conscience now;

2 Vil.

O, in the Duke of Glo'ster's purse.

1 Vil.

When he opens his purse to give us our reward, thy conscience flyes out.

2 Vil.

'Tis no matter, let it go; there's few or none will entertain it.

1 Vil.

What if it come to thee again?

2 Vil.

I'll not meddle with it; it is a dangerous Thing, it makes a man a coward: a man cannot steal, but it accuseth him; a man cannot swear, but it checks him; a man cannot lye with his neighbour's wife, but it detects him. 'Tis a blushing shame-fac'd spirit, that mutinies in a man's bosom: it fills one full of obstacles. It made me once restore a purse of gold, that by chance I found. It beggars any man, that keeps it. It is turn'd out of towns and cities for a dangerous thing; and every man, that means to live well, endeavours to trust to himself, and live without it.

1 Vil.

'Tis even now at my elbow, persuading me not to kill the Duke.

2 Vil.

Take the devil in thy mind, and believe him not: he would insinuate with thee but to make thee sigh.

1 Vil.

I am strong fram'd, he cannot prevail with me.

2 Vil.

Spoke like a tall fellow, that respects his reputation. Come, shall we fall to work?

1 Vil.

Take him over the costard, with the hilt of thy sword; and then throw him into the malmsie-but, in the next room.

2 Vil.

O excellent device, and make a sop of him.

1 Vil.

Soft, he wakes. Shall I strike?

2 Vil.

No, we'll reason with him.

Clar.
Where art thou, Keeper, give me a cup of wine.

2 Vil.
You shall have wine enough, my lord, anon.

Clar.
In God's name, what art thou?

1 Vil.
A man, as you are.

Clar.
But not, as I am, royal.

1 Vil.
Nor you, as we are, loyal.

Clar.
Thy voice is thunder, but thy looks are humble.

1 Vil.
My voice is now the King's, my looks mine own.

Clar.
How darkly, and how deadly dost thou speak?
Your eyes do menace me: why look you pale?
Who sent you hither? wherefore do you come?

Both.
To, to, to—

Clar.
To murther me?

Both.
Ay, ay.

Clar.
You scarcely have the hearts to tell me so!
And therefore cannot have the hearts to do it.
Wherein, my friends, have I offended you?

1 Vil.
Offended us you have not, but the King.

Clar.
I shall be reconcil'd to him again.

2 Vil.
Never, my lord, therefore prepare to die.

Clar.
Are you call'd forth from out a world of men,
To slay the innocent? what's my offence?
Where is the evidence, that doth accuse me?
What lawful Quest have giv'n their verdict up
Unto the frowning judge? or who pronounc'd
The bitter Sentence of poor Clarence' death?
Before I be convict by course of law,
To threaten me with death, is most unlawful.
I charge you, as you hope to have Redemption,
That you depart, and lay no hands on me:
The deed, you undertake, is damnable.

1 Vil.
What we will do, we do upon Command.

2 Vil.
And he, that hath commanded, is our King.

Clar.
Erroneous vassals! the great King of Kings
Hath in the Table of his Law commanded,
That thou shalt do no Murther; will you then
Spurn at his edict, and fulfil a man's?
Take heed, for he holds vengeance in his hand,
To hurl upon their heads that break his law.

2 Vil.
And that same vengeance doth he hurl on thee
For false forswearing, and for murther too:
Thou didst receive the Sacrament, to fight
In Quarrel of the House of Lancaster.

1 Vil.
And, like a traitor to the name of God,
Didst break that vow; and with thy treacherous blade,
Unrip'dst the bowels of thy Soveraign's son.

2 Vil.
Whom thou wert sworn to cherish and defend.

1 Vil.
How canst thou urge God's dreadful Law to us,
When thou hast broke it in such high degree?

Clar.
Alas! for whose sake did I that ill deed?
For Edward, for my brother, for his sake.
He sends you not to murther me for this:
For in that sin he is as deep as I.
If God will be avenged for the deed,
O, know you yet, he doth it publickly;
Take not the quarrel from his powerful arm:
He needs no indirect, nor lawless course,
To cut off those that have offended him.

1 Vil.
Who made thee then a bloody minister,
When gallant-springing brave Plantagenet,
That Princely novice, was struck dead by thee?

Clar.
My brother's love, the devil, and my rage.

1 Vil.
Thy brother's love, our duty, and thy fault,
Provoke us hither now, to slaughter thee.

Clar.
If you do love my brother, hate not me:
I am his brother and I love him well.
If you are hir'd for Meed, go back again,(8) ^note

And I will send you to my brother Glo'ster,
Who will reward you better for my life,
Than Edward will for tidings of my death.

2 Vil.
You are deceiv'd, your brother Glo'ster hates you.

Clar.
Oh, no, he loves me, and he holds me dear:
Go you to him from me.

Both.
Ay, so we will.

Clar.
Tell him, when that our Princely father York
Blest his three sons with his victorious arm,
And charg'd us from his soul to love each other,
He little thought of this divided friendship:
Bid Glo'ster think on this, and he will weep.

1 Vil.
Ay, mill-stones; as he lesson'd us to weep.

Clar.
O do not slander him, for he is kind.

1 Vil.
As snow in harvest:—you deceive your self;
'Tis he, that sends us to destroy you here.

Clar.
It cannot be, for he bewept my fortune,
And hugg'd me in his arms, and swore with sobs,
That he would labour my delivery.

1 Vil.
Why, so he doth, when he delivers you
From this earth's thraldom to the joys of heav'n.

2 Vil.
Make peace with God, for you must die, my lord.

Clar.
Have you that holy feeling in your soul,
To counsel me to make my peace with God,
And are you yet to your own souls so blind,
That you will war with God, by murd'ring me?
O Sirs, consider, they, that set you on
To do this deed, will hate you for the deed.

2 Vil.
What shall we do?

Clar.
Relent, and save your souls.
Which of you, if you were a Prince's son,
Being pent from liberty, as I am now,
If two such murtherers, as your selves, came to you,
Would not intreat for life? ah! you would beg,
Were you in my distress.—

1 Vil.
Relent? 'tis cowardly and womanish.

Clar.
Not to relent, is beastly, savage, devilish.
My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks:
O, if thine eye be not a flatterer,
Come thou on my side, and intreat for me.
A begging Prince what Beggar pities not?

2 Vil.
Look behind you, my lord.

1 Vil.
Take that, and that; if all this will not do, [Stabs him.
I'll drown you in the malmsey-butt within. [Exit.

2 Vil.
A bloody deed, and desp'rately dispatch'd:
How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands
Of this most grievous guilty murther done! Re-enter first Villain.

1 Vil.
How now? what mean'st thou, that thou help'st me not?
By heav'n, the Duke shall know how slack you've been.

2 Vil.
I would he knew, that I had sav'd his brother!
Take thou the fee, and tell him what I say;
For I repent me, that the Duke is slain. [Exit.

1 Vil.
So do not I; go, Coward, as thou art.
Well, I'll go hide the body in some hole,
Till that the Duke give order for his burial:
And, when I have my Meed, I must away;
For this will out, and then I must not stay. [Exit.

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