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 wand'ring to the Tower,
On pure heart's love, to greet the tender Prince.
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 your selves,
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 out-strip 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, e'er men can say, God save the Queen.

Queen.
Go, go, poor soul, I envy not thy glory;
To feed my humour wish thy self 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; ‘be thou, quoth I, accurs'd,
‘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,
‘More miserable by the life of thee,
‘Than thou hast made me, by my dear lord's death.
Loe, e'er I can repeat this curse again,
Within so small a time, my woman's heart
Grosly 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 wrack'd with a week of anguish.

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. SCENE II. The Court. Flourish of trumpets. Enter Gloucester as King, Buckingham, Catesby.

K. Rich.
Stand all apart—cousin of Buckingham—

Buck.
My gracious Soveraign!

K. Rich.
Give me thy hand. Thus high, by thy advice,
And thy assistance, is King Richard seated:
But shall we wear these glories for a day?
Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them?

Buck.
Still live they, and for ever let them last.

K. Rich.
Ah Buckingham, now do I play the touch,
To try if thou be currant gold indeed:
Young Edward lives—think now what I would speak.

Buck.
Say on, my loving lord.

K. Rich.
Why, Buckingham, I say I would be King.

Buck.
Why so you are, my thrice renowned Liege.

K. Rich.
Ha! am I a King? 'tis so—but Edward lives—

Buck.
True, noble Prince.

K. Rich.
O bitter consequence!
That Edward still should live true noble Prince.
Cousin, thou wert not wont to be so dull.
Shall I be plain? I wish the bastards dead,
And I would have it suddenly perform'd.
What say'st thou now? speak suddenly, be brief.

Buck.
Your Grace may do your pleasure.

K. Rich.
Tut, tut, thou art all ice, thy kindness freezes:
Say, have I thy consent that they shall die?

Buck.
Give me some breath, some little pause, dear lord,
Before I positively speak in this:
I will resolve your Grace immediately. [Exit Buckingham.

Cates.
The King is angry, see he gnaws his lip.

K. Rich.
I will converse with iron-witted fools,
And unrespective boys; none are for me,
That look into me with consid'rate eyes.
High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect.
Boy.

Page.
My lord.

K. Rich.
Know'st thou not any, whom corrupting gold
Would tempt unto a close exploit of death?

Page.
I know a discontented gentleman,
Whose humble means match not his haughty spirit:
Gold were as good as twenty orators,
And will, no doubt, tempt him to any thing.

K. Rich.
What is his name?

Page.
His name, my lord, is Tirrel.

K. Rich.
I partly know the man; go call him hither, [Exit Boy.
The deep-revolving witty Buckingham
No more shall be the neighbour to my counsels.
Hath he so long held out with me untir'd,
And stops he now for breath? well, be it so. Enter Stanley.
How now, lord Stanley, what's the news?

Stan.
My lord,
The Marquiss Dorset, as I hear, is fled
To Richmond, in the parts where he abides.

K. Rich.
Come hither, Catesby; rumour it abroad,
That Anne my wife is sick, and like to die.
I will take order for her keeping close.
Inquire me out some mean-born gentleman,
Whom I will marry strait to Clarence' daughter—
(The boy is foolish, and I fear not him.)
Look how thou dream'st—I say again, give out,
That Anne my Queen is sick, and like to die.
About it; for it stands me much upon
To stop all hopes, whose growth may damage me.
I must be married to my brother's daughter,
Or else my kingdom stands on brittle glass:
Murther her brothers, and then marry her!
Uncertain way of gain! but I am in
So far in blood, that sin will pluck on sin.
Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye. Enter Tirrel.
Is thy name Tirrel?

Tir.
James Tirrel, and your most obedient subject.

K. Rich.
Art thou indeed? [He takes him aside.

Tir.
Prove me, my gracious lord.

K. Rich.
Dar'st thou resolve to kill a friend of mine?

Tir.
Please you, I'd rather kill two enemies.

K. Rich.
Why then thou hast it; two deep enemies,
Foes to my rest, and my sweet sleep's disturbers,
Are they that I would have thee deal upon;
Tirrel, I mean those bastards in the Tower.

Tir.
Let me have open means to come to them,
And soon I'll rid you from the fear of them.

K. Rich.
Thou sing'st sweet musick. Hark, come hither Tirrel,
Go by this token—rise, and lend thine ear— [Whispers.
There is no more but so—say it is done,
And I will love thee and prefer thee for it.

Tir.
I will dispatch it strait. [Exit. Re-enter Buckingham.

Buck.
My lord, I have consider'd in my mind
That late demand that you did sound me in.

K. Rich.
Well, let that rest; Dorset is fled to Richmond.

Buck.
I hear the news, my lord.

K. Rich.
Stanley, he is your wife's son; well, look to it.

Buck.
My lord, I claim the gift, my due by promise,
For which your honour and your faith is pawn'd;
Th' Earldom of Hereford, and the moveables,
Which you have promised I shall possess.

K. Rich.
Stanley, look to your wife; if she convey
Letters to Richmond, you shall answer it.

Buck.
What says your Highness to my just request?

K. Rich.
I do remember me—Henry the Sixth
Did prophesie, that Richmond should be King,
When Richmond was a little peevish boy.

A King perhaps—† ^note

Buck.
My lord.

K. Rich.
How chance the Prophet could not at that time
Have told me, I being by, that I should kill him?

Buck.
My lord, your promise for the Earldom—

K. Rich.
Richmond? when I was last at Exeter
The Mayor in curtesie shewed me the castle,
And call'd it Rouge-mont, at which name I started,
Because a bard of Ireland told me once,
I should not live long after I saw Richmond.

Buck.
My lord.

K. Rich.
I, what's a clock?

Buck.
I am thus bold to put your Grace in mind
Of what you promis'd me.

K. Rich.
But what's a clock?

Buck.
Upon the stroke of ten.

K. Rich.
Well, let it strike.

Buck.
Why let it strike?

K. Rich.
Because that like a Jack thou keep'st the stroke
Betwixt thy begging and my meditation.
I am not in the giving vein to-day.

Buck.
Why then resolve me if you will or no.

K. Rich.
Thou troublest me, I am not in the vein. [Exit.

Buck.
Is it ev'n so? repays he my deep service
With such contempt? made I him King for this?
O let me think on Hastings, and be gone
To Brecnock, while my fearful head is on. [Exit.

SCENE III. Enter Tirrel.

&plquo;Tir.
&plquo;The tyrannous and bloody act is done,
&plquo;The most arch-deed of piteous massacre
&plquo;That ever yet this land was guilty of!
&plquo;Dighton and Forrest, whom I did suborn
&plquo;To do this piece of ruthless butchery,
&plquo;Albeit they were flesht villains, bloody dogs,
&plquo;Melting with tenderness and mild compassion,
&plquo;Wept ^{a note}like two children, in their deaths sad stories.
&plquo;O thus, quoth Dighton, lay the gentle babes,
&plquo;Thus, thus, quoth Forrest, girdling one another
&plquo;Within their innocent alabaster arms:
&plquo;Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,
&plquo;And in their summer-beauty kiss'd each other.
&plquo;A book of prayers on their pillow lay,
&plquo;Which once, quoth Forrest, almost chang'd my mind:
&plquo;But oh the devil—there the villain stopt:
&plquo;When Dighton thus told on—we smothered
&plquo;The most replenished sweet work of nature,
&plquo;That from the prime creation e'er she framed.
&plquo;Hence both are gone with conscience and remorse,
&plquo;They could not speak, and so I left them both,
&plquo;To bear these tidings to the bloody King. Enter King Richard.
And here he comes. All health, my sovereign Lord.

K. Rich.
Kind Tirrel—am I happy in thy news?

Tir.
If to have done the thing you gave in charge
Beget your happiness, be happy then,
For it is done.

K. Rich.
But didst thou see them dead?

Tir.
I did, my lord.

K. Rich.
And buried, gentle Tirrel?

Tir.
The chaplain of the Tower hath buried them,
But where, to say the truth, I do not know.

K. Rich.
Come to me Tirrel soon, soon after supper,
When thou shalt tell the process of their death.
Mean time—but think how I may do thee good,
And be inheritor of thy desire.
Farewel till then.

Tir.
I humbly take my leave. [Exit.

K. Rich.
The son of Clarence have I pent up close:
His daughter meanly have I match'd in marriage:
The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham's bosom:
And Anne my wife hath bid this world good night.
Now, for I know the Briton Richmond aims
At young Elizabeth my brother's daughter,
And by that knot looks proudly on the crown;
To her go I, a jolly thriving wooer. Enter Catesby.

Cates.
My lord.

K. Rich.
Good or bad news, that thou com'st in so bluntly?

Cates.
Bad news, my lord, † ^noteMorton is fled to Richmond,
And Buckingham, back'd with the hardy Welshmen,
Is in the field, and still his power encreaseth.

K. Rich.
Ely with Richmond troubles me more near,
Than Buckingham and his rash-levied army.
Come, I have learn'd, that fearful commenting
Is leaden servitor to dull delay;
Delay leads impotent and snail-pac'd beggary.
Then fiery expedition be my wing,
Jove's Mercury, and herald for a King.

Go muster men; my council is my shield,
We must be brief, when traitors brave the field. [Exit. SCENE IV. Enter Queen Margaret.

Q. Mar.
So now prosperity begins to mellow,
And drop into the rotten mouth of death:
Here in these confines slily have I lurk'd,
To watch the waining of mine enemies.
A dire induction am I witness to;
And will to France, hoping the consequence
Will prove as bitter, black and tragical.
Withdraw thee wretched Marg'ret, who comes here? Enter Dutchess and Queen.

Queen.
Ah my poor Princes! ah my tender babes!
My unblown flowers, new-appearing sweets!
If yet your gentle souls fly in the air,
And be not fixt in doom perpetual,
Hover about me with your airy wings,
And hear your mother's lamentation.

Q. Mar.
Hover about her, say, that right for right
Hath dimm'd your infant morn to aged night.

Dutch.
So many miseries have craz'd my voice,
That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute.
Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead?

Q. Mar.
Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet,
Edward for Edward pays a dying debt.

Queen.
Wilt thou, O God, fly from such gentle lambs,
And throw them in the intrails of the wolf?
Why did'st thou sleep when such a deed was done?

Q. Mar.
When holy Henry dy'd, and my sweet son.* ^note

Queen.
Ah that thou would'st as soon afford a grave
As thou canst yield a melancholly seat;
Then would I hide my bones, not rest them here.
Ah who hath any cause to mourn but we?

Q. Mar.
If any ancient sorrow be most reverent,
Give mine the benefit of seniority;
And let my griefs frown on the upper hand,
If sorrow can admit society.
I had an Edward 'till a Richard kill'd him:
I had a husband 'till a Richard kill'd him.
Thou had'st an Edward 'till a Richard kill'd him:
Thou had'st a Richard 'till a Richard kill'd him.

Dutch.
I had a Richard too, and thou did'st kill him:
I had a Rutland too, thou holp'st to kill him.

Q. Mar.
Thou hadst a Clarence too, and Richard kill'd him.
From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept
A hell-hound, that doth hunt us all to death:
That dog, that had his teeth before his eyes,
To worry lambs and lap their gentle blood,
That foul defacer of God's handy-work,
Thy womb let loose to chase us to our graves.
O upright, just, and true disposing God,
How do I thank thee, that this carnal cur
Preys on the issue of his mother's body!

Dutch.
Oh Harry's wife, triumph not in my woes:
God witness with me, I have wept for thine.

Q. Mar.
Bear with me: I am hungry for revenge,

And now I cloy me with beholding it.
Thy Edward, he is dead, that kill'd my Edward:
The other Edward dead, to quit my Edward:
Young York he is but boot, because both they
Match not the high perfection of my loss.
Thy Clarence he is dead that stab'd my Edward;
And the beholders of this tragic play,
Th' adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Gray,
Untimely smother'd in their dusky graves.
Richard yet lives, hell's black intelligencer,
Only reserv'd their factor to buy souls,
And send them thither: but at hand, at hand
Insues his piteous and unpitied end.
Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends roar, saints pray, ^{a note}

for vengeance.
Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I pray,
That I may live to say, the dog is dead.

Queen.
Oh thou did'st prophesie the time would come,
That I should wish for thee to help me curse
That bottell'd spider, that foul hunch-back'd toad.

Q. Mar.
I call'd thee then vain flourish of my fortune,
I call'd thee then poor shadow, painted Queen,
The presentation of but what I was;
The flatt'ring index of a direful pageant;
One heav'd on high to be hurl'd down below:
A mother only mock'd with two fair babes;
A dream of what thou wast; a garish flag
To be the aim of ev'ry dang'rous shot;
A sign of dignity, a breath, a bubble;
A Queen in jest, only to fill the scene.
Where is thy husband now? where be thy brothers?
Where be thy children? wherein dost thou joy?
Who sues and kneels, and says, God save the Queen?

Where be the bending Peers that flatter'd thee?
Where be the thronging troops that follow'd thee?
Decline all this, and see what now thou art.
For happy wife, a most distressed widow;
For joyful mother, one that wails the name;
For one being su'd to, one that humbly sues;
For Queen, a very caitiff crown'd with care;
For one that scorn'd at me, now scorn'd of me;
For one being fear'd of all, now fearing one;
For one commanding all, obey'd of none.
Thus hath the course of justice wheel'd about,
And left thee but a very prey to time;
Having no more but thought of what thou wert,
To torture thee the more, being what thou art.
Thou didst usurp my place, and dost thou not
Usurp the just proportion of my sorrow?
Now thy proud neck bears half my burthen'd yoak;
From which, ev'n here I slip my wearied head,
And leave the burthen of it all on thee.
Farewel York's wife, and Queen of sad mischance,
These English woes shall make me smile in France.

Queen.
O thou well skill'd in curses, stay awhile,
And teach me how to curse mine enemies.

Q. Mar.
Forbear to sleep the nights, and fast the days:
Compare dead happiness with living woe;
Think that thy babes were sweeter than they were,
And he that slew them fouler than he is:
Bett'ring thy loss makes the bad causer worse,
Revolving this, will teach thee how to curse.

Queen.
My words are dull, O quicken them with thine.

Q. Mar.
Thy woes will make them sharp, and pierce like mine. [Exit Margaret.

Dutch.
Why should calamity be full of words?

Queen.
Windy attorneys to your client's woes,
Airy succeeders of intestine joys,
Poor breathing orators of miseries,
Let them have scope, tho' what they do impart
Help nothing else, yet they do ease the heart.

Dutch.
If so, then be not tongue-ty'd; go with me,
And in the breath of bitter words, let's smother
My damned son, that thy two sweet sons smother'd.
I hear his drum, be copious in exclaims. SCENE V. Enter King Richard and his Train.

K. Rich.
Who intercepts me in my expedition?

Dutch.
O she that might have intercepted thee
By strangling thee in her accursed womb,
From all the slaughters, wretch, that thou hast done.

Queen.
Hidest thou that forehead with a golden crown,
Where should be branded, if that right were right,
The slaughter of the Prince that ow'd that crown,
And the dire death of my poor sons and brothers.
Tell me, thou villain-slave, where are my children?

Dutch.
Thou toad, thou toad, where is thy brother Clarence?
And little Ned Plantagenet his son?

Queen.
Where is kind Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Gray?

K. Rich.
A flourish, trumpets! strike alarum, drums!
Let not the heavens hear these tell-tale women
Rail on the Lord's anointed. Strike, I say. [Flourish. Alarums.
Either be patient, and intreat me fair,
Or with the clamorous report of war
Thus will I drown your exclamations.

Dutch.
Art thou my son?

K. Rich.
Ay, I thank God, my father, and your self.

Dutch.
Then patiently hear my impatience.

K. Rich.
Madam, I have a touch of your condition,
That cannot brook the accent of reproof.

Dutch.
I will be mild and gentle in my words.

K. Rich.
And brief, good mother, for I am in haste.

Dutch.
Art thou so hasty? I have staid for thee,
God knows, in anguish, pain and agony.

K. Rich.
And came I not at last to comfort you?

Dutch.
No, by the holy rood, thou know'st it well,
Thou cam'st on earth to make the earth my hell.
A grievous burthen was thy birth to me,
Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy;
Thy school-days frightful, desp'rate, wild and furious;
Thy prime of manhood, daring, bold and venturous:
Thy age confirm'd, proud, subtle, sly and bloody.
What comfortable hour canst thou name,
That ever grac'd me in thy company?* ^note

K. Rich.
If I be so disgracious in your sight,
Let me march on and not offend your Grace.

Dutch.
O hear me speak, for I shall never see thee.

K. Rich.
Come, come, you are too bitter.

Dutch.
Either thou'lt die by God's just ordinance,
E're from this war thou turn a conqueror;
Or I with grief and extream age shall perish,
And never look upon thy face again.
Therefore take with thee my most heavy curse;
Which, in the day of battel, tire thee more,
Than all the compleat armour that thou wear'st!
My prayers on the adverse party fight,
And there the little souls of Edward's children
Whisper the spirits of thine enemies,

And promise them success and victory.
Bloody thou art, bloody will be thy end:
Shame serves thy life, and doth thy death attend. [Exit.

Queen.
Tho' far more cause, yet much less spirit to curse
Abides in me, I say Amen to her.

K. Rich.
Stay, Madam, I must speak a word with you.

Queen.
I have no more sons of the royal blood
For thee to slaughter; for my daughters, Richard,
They shall be praying Nuns, not weeping Queens;
And therefore level not to hit their lives.

K. Rich.
You have a daughter call'd Elizabeth,
Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious.

Queen.
And must she die for this? O let her live,
And I'll corrupt her manners, stain her beauty,
Slander my self as false to Edward's bed,
Throw over her the veil of infamy.
So she may live unscarr'd from bleeding slaughter,
I will confess she was not Edward's daughter.

K. Rich.
Wrong not her birth, she is of royal blood.

Queen.
To save her life I'll say she is not so.

K. Rich.
Her life is safest only in her birth.

Queen.
And only in that safety dy'd her brothers.

K. Rich.
No, at their births good stars were opposite.

Queen.
No, to their lives bad friends were contrary.

K. Rich.
All unavoided is the doom of destiny.

Queen.
True; when avoided grace makes destiny.
My babes were destin'd to a fairer death,
If grace had blest thee with a fairer life.

K. Rich.
You speak as if that I had slain my cousins?

Queen.
Whose hands soever lanc'd their tender hearts,
Thy head, all indirectly, gave direction.
No doubt the murd'rous knife was dull and blunt,
'Till it was whetted on thy stone-hard heart,

To revel in the intrails of my lambs.
But that still use of grief makes wild grief tame,
My tongue should to thy ears not name my boys,
'Till that my nails were anchor'd in thine eyes;
And I in such a desp'rate bay of death,
Like a poor bark of sails and tackling rest,
Rush all to pieces on thy rocky bosom.

K. Rich.
Madam, so thrive I in my enterprize,
And dangerous success of bloody wars;
As I intend more good to you and yours,
Than ever you or yours by me were harm'd.

Queen.
What good is cover'd with the face of heav'n,
To be discover'd, that can do me good?

K. Rich.
Th' advancement of your children, gentle lady.

Queen.
Up to some scaffold, there to lose their heads.

K. Rich.
No, to the dignity and height of fortune,
The high imperial type of this earth's glory.

Queen.
Flatter my sorrows with report of it;
Tell me, what state, what dignity, what honour,
Canst thou devise to any child of mine?

K. Rich.
Ev'n all I have; ay, and my self and all,
Will I withal endow a child of thine:
So in the Lethe of thy angry soul
Thou drown the sad remembrance of those wrongs,
Which thou supposest I have done to thee.

Queen.
Be brief, lest that the process of thy kindness
Last longer telling than thy kindness do.

K. Rich.
Then know, that from my soul I love thy daughter.

Queen.
My daughter's mother thinks it with her soul.

K. Rich.
What do you think?

Queen.
That thou dost love my daughter from thy soul.
So from thy soul's love didst thou love her brothers,
And from my heart's love I do thank thee for it.

K. Rich.
Be not so hasty to confound my meaning;
I mean, that with my soul I love thy daughter,
And do intend to make her Queen of England.

Queen.
Say then, who dost thou mean shall be her King?

K. Rich.
Ev'n he that makes her Queen, who else should be?

Queen.
What, thou!

K. Rich.
Even so; how think you of it?

Queen.
How canst thou woo her?

K. Rich.
I would learn of you,
As one being best acquainted with her humour.

Queen.
And wilt thou learn of me?

K. Rich.
With all my heart.

Queen.
Send to her by the man that slew her brothers,
A pair of bleeding hearts; thereon engrave
Edward and York; then haply will she weep:
Therefore present to her, as sometime Marg'ret
Did to thy father steept in Rutland's blood,
A handkerchief, which, say to her, did drain
The purple tide from her sweet brothers bodies,
And bid her wipe her weeping eyes therewith.
If this inducement move her not to love,
Send her a letter of thy noble deeds;
Tell her, thou mad'st away her uncle Clarence,
Her uncle Rivers; ay, and for her sake,
Mad'st quick conveyance with her good aunt Anne.

K. Rich.
You mock me, madam this is not the way
To win your daughter.

Queen.
There's no other way,
Unless thou could'st put on some other shape,
And not be Richard that hath done all this.

K. Rich.
Say, that I did all this for love of her.

Queen.
Nay then indeed she cannot chuse but hate thee,
Having brought love with such a bloody spoil.

† ^noteK. Rich.
Look, what is done, cannot be now amended;
Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes,
Which after-hours give leisure to repent of.
If I did take the kingdom from your sons,
To make amends, I'll give it to your daughter:
If I have kill'd the issue of your womb,
To quicken your encrease I will beget
Mine issue of your blood, upon your daughter:
A grandam's name is little less in love,
Than is the doting title of a mother;
They are as children but one step below,
Even of your metal, of your very blood:
Of all one pain, save for a night of groans
Endur'd of her, for whom you bid like sorrow.
Your children were vexation to your youth,
But mine shall be a comfort to your age.
The loss you have is but a son being King,
And by that loss your daughter is made Queen.
I cannot make you what amends I would,
Therefore accept such kindness as I can.
Dorset, your son, that with a fearful soul
Leads discontented steps in foreign soil,
This fair alliance quickly shall call home
To high promotions and great dignity.
The King that calls your beauteous daughter wife,
Familiarly shall call thy Dorset brother:
Again shall you be mother to a King;
And all the ruins of distressful times,
Repair'd with double riches of content.
What! we have many goodly days to see.
The liquid drops of tears that you have shed
Shall come again, transform'd to orient pearl,
Advantaging their love with interest,

Oftentimes double gain of happiness.
Go then, my mother, to thy daughter go,
Make bold her bashful years with your experience,
Prepare her ears to hear a wooer's tale.
Put in her tender heart th' aspiring flame
Of golden Sov'reignty; acquaint the Princess
With the sweet silent hours of marriage joys.
And when this arm of mine hath chastised
The petty rebel, dull-brain'd Buckingham,
Bound with triumphant garlands will I come,
And lead thy daughter to a conqueror's bed;
To whom I will retail my conquest won,
And she shall be sole victress, Cæsar's Cæsar.

Queen.
What were I best to say, her father's brother
Would be her lord? or shall I say, her uncle?
Or he that slew her brothers, and her uncles?
Under what title shall I woo for thee,
That God, the law, my honour, and her love,
Can make seem pleasing to her tender years?

K. Rich.
Infer fair England's peace by this alliance.

Queen.
Which she shall purchase with still lasting war.

K. Rich.
Tell her, the King, that may command, intreats—

Queen.
That, at her hands, which the King's King forbids.

K. Rich.
Say, she shall be a high and mighty Queen—

Queen.
To ^{b note}wail the title, as her mother doth.

K. Rich.
Say, I will love her everlastingly.

Queen.
But how long shall that title ever last?

K. Rich.
Sweetly in force, unto her fair life's end.

Queen.
But how long, fairly, shall her sweet life last?

K. Rich.
As long as heav'n and nature lengthen it.

Queen.
As long as hell and Richard like of it.

K. Rich.
Say, I her Sov'raign, am her subject ^{c note}now.

Queen.
But she, your subject, loaths such Sov'reignty.

K. Rich.
Be eloquent in my behalf to her.

Queen.
An honest tale speeds best, being plainly told.

K. Rich.
Then, in plain terms tell her my loving tale.

Queen.
Plain and not honest, is too harsh a stile.

K. Rich.
Your reasons are too shallow, and too quick.* ^note






Now by my George, my garter, and my crown—

Queen.
Profan'd, dishonour'd, and the third usurp'd.

K. Rich.
I swear.

Queen.
By nothing, for this is no oath:
The George profan'd, hath lost his holy honour,
The garter blemish'd, pawn'd his ^{d note}knightly virtue,
The crown usurp'd, disgrac'd his kingly glory.
If something thou would'st swear to be believ'd,
Swear then by something that thou hast not wrong'd.

K. Rich.
Now by the world—

Queen.
'Tis full of thy foul wrongs.

K. Rich.
My father's death—

Queen.
Thy life hath that dishonour'd.

K. Rich.
Then by my self.

Queen.
Thy self thy self misusest.

K. Rich.
Why then, by heav'n—

Queen.
Heav'n's wrong is most of all:
If thou didst fear to break an oath with ^{e note}heav'n,
The unity the King my husband made
Thou hadst not broken, nor my brothers dy'd.
If thou hadst fear'd to break an oath with ^{f note}heav'n,
Th'imperial metal, circling now thy head,
Had grac'd the tender temples of my child;
And both the Princes had been breathing here,

Which now, two tender bed-fellows for dust,
Thy broken faith hath made a prey to worms.

K. Rich.
By time to come.

Queen.
That thou hast wronged in the time o'er-past:
For I my self have many tears to wash
Hereafter time, for time past, wrong'd by thee.
The children live, whose fathers thou hast slaughter'd,
Ungovern'd youth, to wail it in their age.
The parents live, whose children thou hast butcher'd,
Old wither'd plants, to wail it in their age.* ^note

K. Rich.
As I intend to prosper, and repent;
So thrive I in my dangerous attempt
Of hostile arms; my self, my self confound;
Heaven and fortune bar me happy hours;
Day yield me not thy light, nor night thy rest;
Be opposite all planets of good luck
To my proceeding; if with pure heart's love,
Immaculate devotion, holy thoughts,
I tender not thy beauteous Princely daughter.
In her consists my happiness and thine;
Without her, follows to my self and thee,
Her self, the land, and many a christian soul,
Death, desolation, ruin, and decay.
It cannot be avoided but by this;
It will not be avoided but by this.
Therefore, dear mother, I must call you so,
Be the attorney of my love to her;
Plead what I will be, not what I have been;
Not my ^{g note}deserts, but what I will deserve:
Urge the necessity and state of times;
And be not peevish found in great designs.

Queen.
Shall I be tempted of the devil thus?

K. Rich.
Ay, if the devil tempt you to do good.

Queen.
Shall I forget my self to be my self?

K. Rich.
Ay, if your self's remembrance wrong your self.

Queen.
But thou didst kill my children.

K. Rich.
But in your daughter's womb I bury them;
Where in that nest of spicery they shall breed
Selves of themselves, to your recomforture.

Queen.
Shall I go win my daughter to thy will?

K. Rich.
And be a happy mother by the deed.

Queen.
I go, write to me shortly. [Exit Queen.

K. Rich.
Bear her my true love's kiss, and so farewel—
Relenting fool, and shallow-changing woman! SCENE VI. Enter Ratcliff.

Rat.
Most mighty Soveraign, on the western coast
Rides a puissant navy: to our shores
Throng many doubtful hollow-hearted friends,
Unarm'd, and unresolv'd to beat them back.
'Tis thought that Richmond is their admiral:
And there they hull, expecting but the aid
Of Buckingham, to welcome them ashore.

K. Rich.
Some light-foot friend post to the Duke of Norfolk,
Ratcliff thy self, or Catesby; where is he?

Cates.
Here, my good lord.

K. Rich.
Catesby, fly to the Duke.

Cates.
I will, my lord, with all convenient haste.

K. Rich.
Ratcliff, come hither, post to Salisbury,
When thou com'st thither—dull unmindful villain, [To Cates.
Why stay'st thou here, and go'st not to the Duke?

Cates.
First, mighty Liege, tell me your Highness' pleasure,

What from your Grace I shall deliver to him.

K. Rich.
O true, good Catesby,—bid him levy strait
The greatest strength and power he can make,
And meet me suddenly at Salisbury.

Cates.
I go. [Exit.

Rat.
What, may it please you, shall I do at Salisbury?

K. Rich.
Why, what would'st thou do there before I go?

Rat.
Your Highness told me I should post before.

K. Rich.
My mind is chang'd— Enter Lord Stanley.
Stanley, what news with you?

Stan.
None, good my Liege, to please you with the hearing,
Nor none so bad, but well may be reported.

K. Rich.
Heyday, a riddle, neither good nor bad:
Why dost thou run so many miles about,
When thou may'st tell thy tale the nearest way?
Once more, what news?

Stan.
Richmond is on the seas.

K. Rich.
There let him sink, and be the seas on him!
White-liver'd run-a-gate, what doth he there?

Stan.
I know not, mighty Sov'raign, but by guess.

K. Rich.
Well, as you guess.

Stan.
Stirr'd up by Dorset, Buckingham, and Morton,
He makes for England, here to claim the crown.

K. Rich.
Is the chair empty? is the sword unsway'd?
Is the King dead? the empire unpossess'd?
What heir of York is there alive, but we?
And who is England's King, but great York's heir?
Then tell me, what makes he upon the sea?

Stan.
Unless for that, my Liege, I cannot guess.

K. Rich.
Unless for that he comes to be your Liege,
You cannot guess wherefore the Welch-man comes.

Thou wilt revolt, and fly to him, I fear.

Stan.
No, mighty Liege, therefore mistrust me not.

K. Rich.
Where is thy power then to beat him back?
Where are thy tenants, and thy followers?
Are they not now upon the western shore?
Conducting safe the rebels from their ships?

Stan.
No, my good lord, my friends are in the north.

K. Rich.
Cold friends to me: what do they in the north,
When they should serve their Sov'raign in the west?

Stan.
They have not been commanded, mighty King;
Please it your Majesty to give me leave,
I'll muster up my friends, and meet your Grace,
Where, and what time your Majesty shall please.

K. Rich.
Ay, thou would'st fain be gone, to join with Richmond:
But I'll not trust thee.

Stan.
Mighty Soveraign,
You have no cause to hold my friendship doubtful,
I never was, nor ever will be false.

K. Rich.
Go then, and muster men; but leave behind
Your son George Stanley: look your heart be firm,
Or else his head's assurance is but frail.

Stan.
So deal with him, as I prove true to you. [Ex. Stanley. Enter a Messenger.

Mes.
My gracious Sov'raign, now in Devonshire,
As I by friends am well advertised,
Sir Edmond Courtney, and the haughty prelate,
Bishop of Exeter his elder brother
With many more confed'rates, are in arms. Enter another Messenger.

Mes.
In Kent, my Liege, the Guilfords are in arms,
And every hour still more competitors

Flock to the rebels, and their power grows strong. Enter another Messenger.

Mes.
My lord, the army of the Duke of Buckingham—

K. Rich.
Out on ye, owls! nothing but songs of death? [He strikes him.
There take thou that, 'till thou bring better news.

Mes.
The news I have to tell your Majesty,
Is, that by sudden floods and fall of waters,
Buckingham's army is dispers'd and scatter'd,
And he himself wander'd away alone,
No man knows whither.

K. Rich.
Oh! I cry thee mercy;
There is my purse, to cure that blow of thine.
Hath any well-advised friend proclaim'd
Reward to him that brings the traitor in?

Mes.
Such proclamation hath been made, my Liege. Enter another Messenger.

Mes.
Sir Thomas Lovel, and lord Marquiss Dorset,
'Tis said, my Liege, in Yorkshire are in arms;
But this good comfort bring I to your Highness,
The Britain navy is dispers'd, by tempest.
Richmond in Dorsetshire sent out a boat
Unto the shore, to ask those on the banks,
If they were his assistants, yea, or no?
Who answer'd him, they came from Buckingham
Upon his party; he mistrusting them,
Hois'd sail, and made his course again for Britain.

K. Rich.
March on, march on, since we are up in arms;
If not to fight with foreign enemies,
Yet to beat down these rebels here at home. Enter Catesby.

Cates.
My Liege, the Duke of Buckingham is taken,
That is the best news; that the Earl of Richmond

Is with a mighty pow'r landed at Milford,
Is colder news, but yet it must be told.

K. Rich.
Away tow'rds Salisbury; while we reason here,
A royal battel might be won and lost:
Some one take order Buckingham be brought
To Salisbury; the rest march on with me. [Exeunt. SCENE VII. Enter Lord Stanley, and Sir Christopher.

Stan.
Sir Christopher, tell Richmond this from me;
That in the Sty of this most bloody boar,
My son George Stanley is † ^note

Chri.
At Pembroke, or at Hertford, west in Wales.

Stan.
What men of name resort to him?

Chri.
Sir Walter Herbert, a renowned soldier,
Sir Gilbert Talbot, and Sir William Stanley,
Oxford, redoubted Pembroke, Sir James Blunt,
And Rice ap Thomas, with a valiant crew,
And many other of great name and worth:
And towards London do they bend their power,
If by the way they be not fought withal.

Stan.
Well, hie thee to thy lord: I kiss his hand,
My letter will resolve him of my mind.
Farewell. [Exeunt.

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