Tir.
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 flesht villains, bloody dogs,
Melting with tenderness and mild compassion,
Wept like two children, in their deaths' sad story.
O thus, (quoth Dighton) lay the gentle babes;—
Thus, thus, (quoth Forrest) girdling one another
Within their innocent alabaster arms.
Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,
And in their summer beauty kiss'd each other.

A book of prayers on their pillow lay,
Which once, (quoth Forrest,) almost chang'd my mind,
But, oh! the Devil—there the villain stopt,
When Dighton thus told on—we smothered
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 these tidings to the bloody King. Enter King Richard.
And here he comes. All health, my sovereign Lord!

K. Rich.
Kind Tirrel—am I happy in thy news?

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

K. Rich.
But didst thou see them dead?

Tir.
I did, my Lord.

K. Rich.
And buried, gentle Tirrel?

Tir.
The Chaplain of the Tower hath buried them,
But where, to say the truth, I do not know.

K. Rich.
Come to me, Tirrel, soon, soon 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.
Farewel, till then.

Tir.
I humbly take my leave. [Exit.

K. Rich.
The son of Clarence have I pent up close;
His daughter meanly have I match'd in marriage;
The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham's bosom;
And Anne my wife hath bid this world good night.
Now, for I know the Briton Richmond 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.

Cates.
My Lord,—

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

Cates.
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 increaseth.

K. Rich.
Ely with Richmond troubles me more near,
Than Buckingham and his rash-levied army.
Come, I have learn'd, that ^{9 note}
fearful commenting
Is leaden servitor to dull delay;
Delay leads impotent and snail-pac'd beggary.
Then fiery expedition be my wing,
Jove's Mercury, and herald for a King.
Go, muster men; my Council is my shield,
We must be brief, when traitors brave the field. [Exit.

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