Glo.
Ay, Edward will use women honourably.
Would he were wasted, marrow, bones, and all,
That from his loins no hopeful branch may spring,
To cross me from the golden time I look for.
And yet between my soul's desire and me,
(The lustful Edward's title buried)
Is Clarence, Henry, and his son young Edward,
And all th' unlook'd-for issue of their bodies,
To take their rooms ere I can place my self.
A cold premeditation for my purpose!
Why then I do but dream on Sov'reignty,
Like one that stands upon a promontory
And spyes a far-off shore where he would tread,
Wishing his foot were equal with his eye,
And chides the sea that sunders him from thence,
Saying he'll lade it dry to have his way:

So do I wish the crown being so far off,
And so I chide the means that keep me from it,
And so (I say) I'll out the causes off,
Flatt'ring my mind with things impossible.
My eye's too quick, my heart o'er-weens too much,
Unless my hand and strength could equal them.
Well, say there is no kingdom then for Richard:
What other pleasure can the world afford?
I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap,
And deck my body in gay ornaments,
And 'witch sweet ladies with my words and looks.
Oh miserable thought! and more unlikely,
Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns.
Why love forswore me in my mother's womb,
And, for I should not deal in her soft laws,
She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe
To shrink mine arm like to a wither'd shrub;
To make an envious mountain on my back,
Where sits deformity to mock my body;
To shape my legs of an unequal size;
To disproportion me in every part:
Like to a Chaos, or unlick'd bear-whelp
That carries no impression like the dam.
And am I then a man to be belov'd?
Oh monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought!
Then since this earth affords no joy to me,
But to command, to check, to o'er-bear such
As are of better person than my self;
I'll make my heav'n to dream upon the crown,
And while I live t'account this world but hell,
Until the mis-shap'd trunk that bears this head
Be round-impaled with a glorious crown.
And yet I know not how to get the crown,

For many lives stand between me and home:
And I, (like one lost in a thorny wood,
That rends the thorns, and is rent with the thorns,
Seeking a way, and straying from the way,
Not knowing how to find the open air,
But toiling desp'rately to find it out)
Torment my self to catch the English crown.
And from that torment I will free my self,
Or hew my way out with a bloody ax.
Why I can smile, and murther while I smile,
And cry content to that which grieves my heart,
And wet my cheeks with artificial tears,
And frame my face to all occasions:
I'll drown more sailors then the Mermaid shall,
I'll slay more gazers than the Basilisk,
I'll play the orator as well as Nestor,
Deceive more slily than Ulysses could,
And like a Sinon, take another Troy:
I can add colours ev'n to the Camelion,
Change shapes with Proteus, for advantages,
And set the murth'rous Machiavel to school.
Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?
Tut, were it farther off, I'll pluck it down. Exit.

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