Anne.
Set down, set down your honourable load,
If Honour may be shrowded in a Herse;
Whilst I a-while obsequiously lament
The 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 it lawful that I invocate thy Ghost,
To hear the Lamentations of poor Anne,
Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughtred 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.
O cursed be the hand that made these holes!
Cursed the Heart, that had the Heart to do it!
Cursed the Blood, that let this Blood from hence,
More direful hap betide that hated wretch,
That makes us wretched by the death of thee,
Than I can wish to Wolves, to 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 towards Chertsey with your holy Load,
Taken from Paul's to be interred there.
And still as you are weary of this weight,
Rest you, whiles 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 hadst but power over his mortal Body,
His Soul thou canst not have; therefore be gone.

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

Anne.
Foul Devil!
For God's sake hence, and trouble us 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 hainous Deeds,
Behold this pattern of thy Butcheries.
Oh Gentlemen! see! see dead Henry's wounds
Open their congeal'd Mouths, and bleed a-fresh.
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.
Either 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 my self.

Anne.
Vouchsafe, diffus'd infection of a Man,
Of 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 my self.

Anne.
Fouler than Heart can think thee,
Thou canst make no excuse that will be currant,
Unless thou hang thy self.

Glo.
By such despair, I should accuse my self.

Anne.
And by despairing shalt thou stand excus'd,
For doing worthy Vengeance on thy self;
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 Margaret 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 dream'st on ought 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 better 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 holp 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 that 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 thy self, 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: She spits at him.
Why dost thou spit at me?

Anne.
Would it were mortal Poison for thy sake.

Glo.
Never came Poison from so sweet 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,
No, 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 my self, 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,
Even so thy Breast incloseth my poor Heart:
Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.
And if thy poor devoted Servant may
But beg one favour at thy gracious hand,
Thou dost confirm this Happiness for ever.

Anne.
What is it?

Glo.
That it may please you leave these sad Designs
To him that hath most cause to be a Mourner,
And presently repair to Crosby House:
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. aud much it joys me too,
To see you are become so penitent.
Tressel 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. [Exeunt two with Anne.

Gent.
Towards Chertsey, Noble Lord?

Glo.
Now to White-Friars, there attend my coming. [Exit 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 my hatred by,
Having 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!
Hah!
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, Valiant, Wise, and, no doubt, right Royal,
The spacious World cannot again afford:
And will she thus abase 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 halts, and am mishapen 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.

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