Son.
Good grandam, tell us, is our father dead?

Dutch.
No, boy.

Daugh.
Why do you weep so oft? and beat your breast?
And cry,—O Clarence, my unhappy son!

Son.
Why do you look on us, and shake your head,
And call us—orphans, wretches, cast-aways,
If that our noble father be alive?

Dutch.
My pretty cousins, you mistake me both;
I do lament the sickness of the king,
As loth to lose him, not your father's death;
It were lost sorrow, to wail one that's lost.

Son.
Then, grandam, you conclude that he is dead.
The king mine uncle is to blame for this:
God will revenge it; whom I will importune
With earnest prayers, all to that effect.

Daugh.
And so will I.

Dutch.
Peace, children, peace! the king doth love you well:
Incapable and shallow innocents,
You cannot guess who caus'd your father's death.

Son.
Grandam, we can: for my good uncle Gloster
Told me, the king, provok'd to't by the queen,

Devis'd impeachments to imprison him:
And when my uncle told me so, he wept,
And pitied me, and kindly kiss'd my cheek;
Bade me rely on him, as on my father,
And he would love me dearly as his child.

Dutch.
Ah, that deceit should steal such gentle shapes,
And with a virtuous vizor hide deep vice!
He is my son, ay, and therein my shame,
Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit.

Son.
Think you, my uncle did dissemble, grandam?

Dutch.
Ay, boy.

Son.
I cannot think it. Hark! what noise is this? Enter the Queen, distractedly; Rivers, and Dorset, after her.

Queen.
Ah! who shall hinder me to wail and weep?
To chide my fortune, and torment myself?
I'll join with black despair against my soul,
And to myself become an enemy.—

Dutch.
What means this scene of rude impatience?

Queen.
To make an act of tragic violence:—
Edward, my lord, thy son, our king, is dead.—
Why grow the branches, when the root is gone?
Why wither not the leaves, that want their sap?—
If you will live, lament; if die, be brief;
That our swift-winged souls may catch the king's;
Or, like obedient subjects, follow him
To his new kingdom of perpetual rest.

Dutch.
Ah, so much interest have I in thy sorrow,
As I had title in thy noble husband!
I have bewept a worthy husband's death,
And liv'd by looking on ^{1 note}his images:
But now, two mirrors of his princely semblance

Are crack'd in pieces by malignant death;
And I for comfort have but one false glass,
That grieves me when I see my shame in him.
Thou art a widow; yet thou art a mother,
And hast the comfort of thy children left thee:
But death hath snatch'd my husband from mine arms,
And pluck'd two crutches from my feeble hands,
Clarence, and Edward. O, what cause have I,
(Thine being but a moiety of my grief)
To over-go thy plaints, and drown thy cries?

Son.
Ah, aunt! [To the Queen.] you wept not for our father's death;
How can we aid you with our kindred tears?

Daugh.
Our fatherless distress was left unmoan'd,
Your widow dolour likewise be unwept!

Queen.
Give me no help in lamentation,
I am not barren to bring forth laments:
All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes,
That I, ^{2 note}being govern'd by the watry moon,
May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world!
Ah, for my husband, for my dear lord Edward!

Chil.
Ah, for our father, for our dear lord Clarence!

Dutch.
Alas, for both, both mine, Edward and Clarence!

Queen.
What stay had I, but Edward? and he's gone.

Chil.
What stay had we, but Clarence? and he's gone.

Dutch.
What stays had I, but they? and they are gone.

Queen.
Was never widow, had so dear a loss.

Chil.
Were never orphans, had so dear a loss.

Dutch.
Was never mother, had so dear a loss.
Alas! I am the mother of these griefs;

Their woes are parcell'd, mine are general.
She for an Edward weeps, and so do I;
I for a Clarence weep, so doth not she:
These babes for Clarence weep, and so do I;
I for an Edward weep, so do not they:—
Alas! you three, on me, threefold distress'd,
Pour all your tears; I am your sorrow's nurse,
And I will pamper it with lamentations.

Dor.
Comfort, dear mother; God is much displeas'd,
That you take with unthankfulness his doing:
In common worldly things, 'tis call'd—ungrateful,
With dull unwillingness to repay a debt,
Which with a bounteous hand was kindly lent;
Much more, to be thus opposite with heaven,
For it requires the royal debt it lent you.

Riv.
Madam, bethink you, like a careful mother,
Of the young prince your son: send straight for him,
Let him be crown'd; in him your comfort lives:
Drown desperate sorrow in dead Edward's grave,
And plant your joys in living Edward's throne. Enter Gloster, Buckingham, Stanley, Hastings, and Ratcliff.

Glo.
Sister, have comfort: all of us have cause
To wail the dimming of our shining star;
But none can cure their harms by wailing them.—
Madam, my mother, I do cry you mercy,
I did not see your grace:—Humbly on my knee
I crave your blessing.

Dutch.
God bless thee; and put meekness in thy breast,
Love, charity, obedience, and true duty!

Glo.
Amen; and make me die a good old man!—
That is the butt-end of a mother's blessing; [Aside.
I marvel, that her grace did leave it out.

Buck.
You cloudy princes, and heart-sorrowing peers,
That bear this mutual heavy load of moan,
Now chear each other in each other's love:
Though we have spent our harvest of this king,
We are to reap the harvest of his son.
The broken rancour of your high-swoln hearts,
But lately splinted, knit, and join'd together,
Must gently be preserv'd, cherish'd, and kept:
Me seemeth good, that, with some little train,
^{3 note}Forthwith from Ludlow the young prince be fetch'd
Hither to London, to be crown'd our king.

Riv.
Why with some little train, my lord of Buckingham?

Buck.
Marry, my lord, lest, by a multitude,
The new-heal'd wound of malice should break out;
Which would be so much the more dangerous,
By how much the estate is green, and yet ungovern'd:
Where every horse bears his commanding rein,
And may direct his course as please himself,
As well the fear of harm, as harm apparent,
In my opinion, ought to be prevented.

Glo.
I hope, the king made peace with all of us;
And the compact is firm, and true, in me.

Riv.
And so in me; and so, I think, in all:
Yet, since it is but green, it should be put
To no apparent likelihood of breach,
Which, haply, by much company might be urg'd:
Therefore I say, with noble Buckingham,
That it is meet so few should fetch the prince.

Hast.
And so say I.

Glo.
Then be it so; and go we to determine
Who they shall be that straight shall post to Ludlow,
Madam,—and you my mother,—will you go
To give your censures^{4 note}

Buck.
My lord, whoever journeys to the prince,
For God's sake, let not us two stay at home:
For, by the way, I'll sort occasion,
As index to the story we late talk'd of^{5 note}

Glo.
My other self, my counsel's consistory,
My oracle, my prophet!—My dear cousin,
I, as a child, will go by thy direction.
Towards Ludlow then, for we'll not stay behind. [Exeunt.

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