Duch.
Who meets us here? my niece Plantagenet ^note
Led in the hand of her kind aunt of Gloucester?
Now, for my life, she's wandering to the Tower,
On pure heart's love to greet the tender princes ^note.
Daughter, well met. ^note

Anne.
God give your graces both
A happy and a joyful time of day! ^note

Q. Eliz.
As much to you, good sister! Whither away? ^note

Anne. ^note
No farther than the Tower, and, as I guess,
Upon the like devotion as yourselves,
To gratulate the gentle ^note princes there.

Q. Eliz.
Kind sister, thanks: we'll enter all together. Enter Brakenbury ^note.
And, in good time, here the lieutenant comes.

Master lieutenant, pray you, by your leave,
How doth the prince, and my young son of York? ^note

Brak.
Right well, dear madam. By your patience ^note,
I may not suffer you to visit them ^note;
The king hath straitly ^note charged the ^note contrary.

Q. Eliz.
The king! why, who's that? ^note

Brak.
I cry you mercy: ^note I mean the lord protector.

Q. Eliz.
The Lord protect him from that kingly title!
Hath he ^note set bounds ^note betwixt ^note their ^note love and me?
I am their mother; who should keep ^note me from them?

Duch.
I am ^note their father's mother; I ^note will see them.

Anne.
Their aunt I am in law, in love their mother:
Then bring me to their sights ^note; I'll bear thy blame,
And take thy office from thee, on my peril.

Brak.
No, madam, no; I may not leave it so:
I am ^note bound by oath, and therefore pardon me. ^note Exit. ^note Enter Lord Stanley. ^note

Stan.
Let me but meet you, ladies ^note, one ^note hour hence,
And I'll salute your grace of York as mother, ^note
And reverend ^note looker on ^note, of two fair queens.

[To Anne ^note]
Come, madam, you must straight ^note to Westminster,
There to be crowned Richard's royal queen.

Q. Eliz.
O ^note, cut my lace in sunder ^note, that my pent heart
May have some scope to beat, or else I swoon ^note
With this dead-killing ^note news! ^note

Anne.
Despiteful tidings! O unpleasing news! ^note

Dor.
Be of good cheer: mother, ^note how fares your grace?

Q. Eliz.
O Dorset, speak not to me, get thee hence ^note!
Death and destruction dog ^note thee at the heels ^note;
Thy mother's name is ominous ^note to children ^note.
If thou wilt outstrip ^note death, go cross the seas,
And live with Richmond, from the reach ^note of hell:
Go, hie thee, hie thee from this slaughter-house,
Lest thou increase the number of the dead;
And make me die the thrall of Margaret's curse,
Nor ^note mother, wife, nor England's counted queen.

Stan.
Full of wise care is this your counsel, madam.
Take all the swift advantage of the hours ^note;
You shall have letters from me to my ^note son
To meet you on the way, and welcome you. ^note
Be not ta'en ^note tardy by unwise delay ^note.

Duch.
O ill-dispersing ^note wind of misery!
O my accursed womb, the bed of death!
A cockatrice hast ^note thou hatch'd ^note to the world,

Whose unavoided eye is murderous.

Stan.
Come, madam, come ^note; I in all haste was sent ^{note note}.

Anne. ^note
And I in ^note all unwillingness will go.
I would ^note to God that the inclusive ^note verge
Of golden metal that must round my brow
Were red-hot steel, to sear me to the brain ^note!
Anointed let me be with deadly venom ^note,
And die, ere men can say, God save the queen!

Q. Eliz.
Go, go ^note, poor soul, I envy not thy ^note glory;
To feed my humour, wish thyself no harm.

Anne.
No! why? ^note When he that is my husband now
Came to me, as ^note I follow'd ^note Henry's corse ^note,
When scarce the blood was well ^note wash'd from his hands
Which issued from my other angel husband
And that dead ^note saint which ^note then I weeping follow'd ^note;
O, when, I say, I look'd on Richard's face,
This was my wish: ‘Be thou,’ quoth I, ‘accursed,
For making me, so young, so old a widow!
And, when thou wed'st, let sorrow haunt thy bed;
And be thy wife—if any be so mad ^note— ^note
As miserable by the life of thee
As ^note thou hast made me by my dear lord's death!’
Lo, ere ^note I can repeat this curse again,
Even in so short a space ^note, my woman's heart
Grossly ^note grew captive to his honey words

And proved the subject ^note of my ^note own soul's curse,
Which ever since ^note hath kept ^note my ^note eyes from rest ^note;
For never yet one hour in his bed
Have I enjoy'd ^note the golden dew ^note of sleep,
But have been waked by his timorous dreams ^note.
Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick;
And will, no doubt ^note, shortly be rid of me.

Q. Eliz.
Poor heart, adieu! I pity thy complaining. ^note

Anne.
No more than from ^note my soul I mourn for yours.

Q. Eliz. ^note
Farewell, thou woful welcomer of glory!

Anne.
Adieu, poor soul, that ^note takest thy leave of it!

Duch. [To Dorset]
Go thou ^note to Richmond, and good fortune guide thee! [To Anne]
Go thou ^note to Richard, and good angels guard ^note thee! [To Queen Eliz.]
Go thou ^note to sanctuary, and ^note good thoughts possess thee!
I to my grave, where peace and rest lie with me!
Eighty odd ^note years of sorrow have I seen,
And each hour's joy wreck'd ^note with a week of teen ^note.

Q. Eliz.
Stay, yet ^note look back with me unto the Tower.
Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes
Whom envy hath immured within your walls!

Rough cradle for such little pretty ones! ^note
Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow
For tender princes, use my babies well!
So foolish sorrow bids ^note your stones farewell. ^note Exeunt.

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