Dutchess.
Who meets us here? my Neice Plantagenet,
Led in the hand of her kind Aunt of Glo'ster?
Now, for my life she's wandring to the Tower,
On pure heart's love, to greet the tender Princes.
Daughter, well met.

Anne.
God give your Graces both
A happy and a joyful time of day.

Queen.
Sister, well met; whither away so fast?

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

Queen.
Kind sister, thanks; we'll enter all together. Enter the Lieutenant.
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?

Lieu.
Right well, dear Madam; by your patience,
I may not suffer you to visit them;
The King hath strictly charg'd the contrary.

Queen.
The King? who's That?

Lieu.
I mean, the Lord Protector.

Queen.
The Lord protect him from that kingly title!
Hath he set bounds between their love and me?
I am their mother, who shall bar me from them?

Dutch.
I am their father's mother. I will see them.

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

Lieu.
No, Madam, no, I may not leave it so:
I'm bound by oath, and therefore pardon me. [Exit Lieu. Enter Stanley.

Stan.
Let me but meet you, Ladies, one hour hence,
And I'll salute your Grace of York as mother
And rev'rend looker on of two fair Queens.
Come, Madam, you must strait to Westminster,
There to be crowned Richard's royal Queen.

Queen.
Ah, cut my lace asunder,
That my pent heart may have some scope to beat,
Or else I swoon with this dead-killing news!

Anne.
Despightful tidings, O unpleasing news!

Dor.
Be of good chear: Mother, how fares your Grace!

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

Stan.
Full of wise care is this your counsel, Madam;
Take all the swift advantage of the time;
You shall have letters from me to my son
In your behalf, to meet you on the way:
Be not ta'en tardy by unwise delay.

Dutch.
O Ill-dispersing wind of misery!
O my accursed womb, the bed of death!
A cockatrice hast thou hatch'd to the world,
Whose unavoided eye is murtherous.

Stan.
Come, Madam, come, I in all haste was sent.

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

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

Anne.
No! why?—When he, that is my husband now,
Came to me, as I follow'd Henry's coarse;
When scarce the blood was well wash'd from his hands,
Which issu'd from my other angel husband,
And that dear Saint, which then I weeping follow'd:
O when, I say, I look'd on Richard's face,
This was my wish; &plquo;Be thou, quoth I, accurs'd,
&plquo;For making me, so young, so old a widow!
&plquo;And when thou wed'st, let sorrow haunt thy bed;

&plquo;And be thy wife, if any be so mad,
&plquo;More miserable by the life of thee,
&plquo;Than thou hast made me, by my dear Lord's death!&prquo;
Lo, ere I can repeat this curse again,
Within so small a time, my woman's heart
Grossly grew captive to his honey words,
And prov'd the subject of mine own soul's curse:
Which ever since hath held mine eyes from rest.
For never yet one hour in his bed
Did I enjoy the golden dew of sleep,
But with his tim'rous dreams was still awak'd.
Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick;
And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me.

Queen.
Poor heart, adieu, I pity thy complaining.

Anne.
No more than with my soul I mourn for yours.

Dor.
Farewel, thou woful welcomer of Glory!

Anne.
Adieu, poor soul, that tak'st thy leave of it!

Dutch.
Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune guide thee! [To Dorset.
Go thou to Richard, and good Angels tend thee! [To Anne.
Go thou to Sanctuary, good thoughts possess thee! [To the Queen.
I to my grave, where peace and rest lye with me!
Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen,
And each hour's joy wreck'd with a week of teen.

Queen.
Stay; yet look back, with me unto the Tower.
Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes,
Whom envy hath immur'd within your walls!
Rough cradle for such little pretty ones!
Rude ragged nurse! old sullen play-fellow,
For tender Princes; use my babies well!
So foolish sorrow bids your stones farewel. [Exeunt.

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