Introductory matter ^note

INTRODUCTION.

The popularity of Shakespeare's “Richard the Third” must have been great, judging only from the various quarto editions which preceded the publication of it in the folio of 1623. It originally came out in 1597, without the name of the author: it was reprinted in 1598, with “by William Shake-speare” on the title-page, and again in 1602^{1 note}, all three impressions having been made for the same bookseller, Andrew Wise. On the 27th June, 1603, it was assigned to Mathew Lawe, as appears by an entry in the Stationers' Registers; accordingly, he published the fourth edition of it with the date of 1605: the fifth edition was printed for the same bookseller in 1613^{2 note}. This seems to have been the last time it came out in quarto, anterior to its appearance in the first folio^{3 note}; but after that date, three other quarto impressions are known, viz. in 1624, 1629, and 1634, and it is remarkable that these were all mere reprints of the earlier quartos, not one of them including any of the passages which the player-editors of the folio first inserted in their volume. This fact might show that the publishers of the later quartos did not know that there were any material variations between the earlier quartos and the folio, that they did not think them of importance, or that the projectors of the folio were considered to have some species of copyright in the additions. These additions, extending in one instance to more than fifty lines, are pointed out in our notes. It will also be found that more than one speech in the folio is unintelligible without aid from the quartos;

and for some other characteristic omissions, particularly for one in Act iv. sc. 2, it is not possible to account.

With respect to the additions in the folio of 1623, we have no means of ascertaining whether they formed part of the original play. Steevens was of opinion that the quarto, 1597, contained a better text than the folio: such is not our opinion; for though the quarto sets right several doubtful matters, it is not well printed, even for a production of that day, and bears marks of having been brought out in haste, and from an imperfect manuscript. The copy of the “history” in the folio of 1623 was in some places a reprint of the quarto, 1602, as several obvious errors of the press are repeated, right for “fight,” helps for “helms,” &c. For the additions, a manuscript was no doubt employed; and the variations in some scenes, particularly near the middle of the play, are so numerous, and the corrections so frequent, that it is probable a transcript belonging to the theatre was there consulted. Our text is that of the folio, with due notice of all the chief variations.

The earliest entry in the Stationers' Registers relating to Shakespeare's “Richard the Third,” is in these terms:—

“20 Oct. 1597
Andrew Wise] The Tragedie of Kinge Richard the Third, with the death of the Duke of Clarence.”

This memorandum, probably, immediately preceded the publication of the quarto, 1597. The only other entry relating to “Richard the Third” we have already mentioned, and the exact words of it may be seen in a note to our Introduction to “Richard the Second,” Vol. iv. p. 108.

It is certain that there was a historical drama upon some of the events of the reign of Richard III. anterior to that of Shakespeare. T. Warton quoted Sir John Harington's “Apologie for Poetry,” prefixed to his translation of Ariosto in 1591, respecting a tragedy of “Richard the Third,” acted at St. John's, Cambridge, which would “have moved Phalaris, the tyrant, and terrified all tyrannous-minded men;” and Steevens adduced Heywood's “Apology for Actors^{4 note},” 1612, to the same effect, without apparently being aware that Heywood was professedly only repeating the words of Harington. Both those authors, however, referred to a Latin drama on the story of Richard III., written by Dr. Legge, and acted at Cambridge before 1583. Steevens followed up his quotation from Heywood by the copy of an entry in the Stationers' Registers, dated June 19, 1594, relating to an English play on the same subject.

When Steevens wrote, and for many years afterwards, it was not known that such a drama had ever been printed; but in 1821 Boswell reprinted a large fragment of it (with many errors) from a copy wanting the commencement. A perfect copy of this very rare play is in the collection of the Duke of Devonshire, and from it we transcribe the following title-page:—

“The True Tragedie of Richard the third: Wherein is showne the death of Edward the fourth, with the smothering of the two yoong Princes in the Tower: With a lamentable ende of Shore's wife, an example for all wicked women. And lastly, the coniunction and ioyning of the two noble Houses, Lancaster and Yorke. As it was playd by the Queenes Maiesties Players. London Printed by Thomas Creede, and are to be sold by William Barley, at his shop in Newgate Market, neare Christ Church doore. 1594.”

This title-page so nearly corresponds with the entry in the Stationers' Registers^{5 note}, as to leave no doubt that the latter referred to the former. The piece itself, as a literary composition, deserves little remark, but as a drama it possesses several peculiar features. It is in some respects unlike any relic of the kind, and was evidently written several years before it came from Creede's press. It opens with a singular dialogue between Truth and Poetry:—

Hence Truth proceeds with a sort of argument of the play; but before the Induction begins, the ghost of George, Duke of Clarence, had passed over the stage, delivering two lines as he went, which we give precisely as in the original copy now before us:—

The drama itself afterwards opens with a scene representing the death of Edward IV., and the whole story is thenceforward most inartificially and clumsily conducted, with a total disregard of dates, facts, and places, by characters imperfectly drawn and ill sustained. Shore's wife plays a conspicuous part; and the tragedy does not finish with the battle of Bosworth Field, but is carried on subsequently, although the plot is clearly at an end. The conclusion is quite as remarkable as the commencement. After the death of Richard, Report (a personification like some of those in the old Moralities) enters, and holds a dialogue with a Page, to inform the audience of certain matters not exhibited; and after a long scene between Richmond, the Queen mother, Princess Elizabeth, &c., two Messengers enter, and, mixing with the personages of the play, detail the succession of events and of monarchs from the death of Richard until the accession of Elizabeth. The Queen mother then comes forward, and pronounces an elaborate panegyric upon Elizabeth, ending with these lines:—

As in this sort of epilogue no allusion is made to the Spanish Armada, though other public events of less prominence are touched upon, we may perhaps infer that the drama was written before the year 1588.

The style in which it is composed also deserves observation: it is partly in prose, partly in heavy blank-verse, (such as was penned before Marlowe had introduced his improvements, and Shakespeare had adopted and advanced them) partly in ten-syllable rhyming couplets, and stanzas, and partly in the long fourteen-syllable metre, which seems to have been popular even before prose was employed upon our stage. In every point of view it may be asserted, that few more curious dramatic relics exist in our language. It is perhaps the most ancient printed specimen of composition for a public theatre, of which the subject was derived from English history.

Boswell asserts that “The True Tragedy of Richard the Third” had “evidently been used and read by Shakespeare,” but we cannot trace any resemblances, but such as were probably purely accidental, and are merely trivial. Two persons could hardly take up the same period of our annals, as the ground-work of a drama, without some coincidences; but there is no point, either in the conduct of the plot or in the language in which it is clothed, where our great dramatist does not show his measureless superiority. The portion of the story in which the two plays make the nearest approach to

each other, is just before the murder of the princes, where Richard strangely takes a page into his confidence respecting the fittest agent for the purpose. ^note

It is not to be concluded, because the title-page of “The True Tragedy of Richard the Third” expresses that it was acted “by the Queen's Majesty's Players,” that it was the association to which Shakespeare belonged, and which became “the King's Players” after James I. ascended the throne. In 1583, the Queen selected a company from the theatrical servants of several of her nobility; (Hist. of Engl. Dram. Poetry and the Stage, vol. i. 254;) and in 1590 there were two companies, called “her Majesty's Players,” one under the management of Laneham, and the other of Laurence Dutton^{6 note}. By one of these companies “The True Tragedy of Richard the Third” must have been performed. Until the death of Elizabeth, the association to which Shakespeare was attached was usually called “the Lord Chamberlain's Servants.”

In the “Memoirs of Edward Alleyn,” p. 121, it is shown that Henslowe's company, subsequent to 1599, was either in possession of a play upon the story of Richard III., or that some of the poets he employed were engaged upon such a drama. From the sketch of five scenes, there inserted, we may judge that it was a distinct performance from “The True Tragedy of Richard the Third.” By an entry in Henslowe's Diary, dated 22d June, 1602, we learn that Ben Jonson received 10l. in earnest of a play called “Richard Crookback,” and for certain additions he was to make to Kyd's Spanish Tragedy. Considering the success of Shakespeare's “Richard the Third,” and the active contention, at certain periods, between the company to which Shakespeare belonged, and that under the management of Henslowe, it may be looked upon as singular, that the latter should have been without a drama on that portion of English history until after 1599; and it is certainly not less singular, that as late as 1602 Ben Jonson should have been occupied in writing a new play upon the subject. Possibly, about that date Shakespeare's “Richard the Third” had been revived with the additions; and hence the employment of Jonson on a rival drama, and the publication of the third edition of Shakespeare's tragedy after an interval of four years.

Malone was of opinion that Shakespeare wrote “Richard the Third” in 1593, but he did not adduce a particle of evidence, and none in fact exists. We should be disposed to place it somewhat nearer the time of publication.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. KING EDWARD THE FOURTH. EDWARD, Prince of Wales; Son to the King. RICHARD, Duke of York; Son to the King. GEORGE, Duke of Clarence; Brother to the King. RICHARD, Duke of Gloster; Brother to the King. A young Son of Clarence. HENRY, Earl of Richmond. CARDINAL BOUCHIER [Cardinal Bourchier], Archbishop of Canterbury. THOMAS ROTHERHAM, Archbishop of York. JOHN MORTON, Bishop of Ely. DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. DUKE OF NORFOLK. EARL OF SURREY, his Son. EARL RIVERS, Brother to King Edward's Queen: MARQUESS OF DORSET, [Marquis of Dorset], Son of King Edward's Queen. LORD GREY, Son of King Edward's Queen. EARL OF OXFORD. LORD HASTINGS. LORD STANLEY. LORD LOVEL. SIR THOMAS VAUGHAN. SIR RICHARD RATCLIFF. SIR WILLIAM CATESBY. SIR JAMES TYRREL. SIR JAMES BLOUNT. SIR WALTER HERBERT. SIR ROBERT BRAKENBURY, Lieutenant of the Tower. CHRISTOPHER URSWICK, a Priest. Another Priest. Lord Mayor of London. Sheriff of Wiltshire. ELIZABETH [Lady Grey], Queen of King Edward IV. MARGARET, Widow of King Henry VI. DUCHESS OF YORK, Mother to King Edward IV., Clarence, and Gloster. LADY ANNE, Widow of Edward Prince of Wales. A young Daughter of Clarence [Daughter of Clarence]. Lords, and other Attendants; two Gentlemen, a Pursuivant, Scrivener, Citizens, Murderers, Messengers, Ghosts, Soldiers, &c. [Gentleman 1], [Murderer 1], [Murderer 2], [Citizen 1], [Citizen 2], [Citizen 3], [Page], [Messenger], [Messenger 2], [Messenger 3], [Messenger 4], [Ghost of Prince Edward], [Ghost of King Henry], [Ghost of Clarence], [Ghost of Rivers], [Ghost of Grey], [Ghost of Vaughan], [Ghost of Hastings], [Ghosts of Two Young Princes], [Ghost of Queen Anne], [Ghost of Buckingham] SCENE, England.

LIFE AND DEATH OF KING RICHARD III. ACT I. SCENE I. London. A Street. Enter Gloster.

Glo.
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York^{1 note};
And all the clouds, that lower'd upon our house,
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds,
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber,
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute^{2 note}.
But I, that am not shap'd for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty,
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;

I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion, 11Q0759
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable,
That dogs bark at me, as I halt by them;
Why I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to see^{3 note} my shadow in the sun,
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain,
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence, and the king,
In deadly hate the one against the other:
And, if king Edward be as true and just,
As I am subtle, false, and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up,
About a prophecy, which says—that G
Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here Clarence comes. Enter Clarence, guarded, and Brakenbury.
Brother, good day. What means this armed guard,
That waits upon your grace?

Clar.
His majesty,
Tendering my person's safety, hath appointed
This conduct to convey me to the Tower.

Glo.
Upon what cause?

Clar.
Because my name is George.

Glo.
Alack! my lord, that fault is none of yours;
He should, for that, commit your godfathers.
O! belike, his majesty hath some intent,

That you should be new christen'd in the Tower.
But what's the matter, Clarence? may I know?

Clar.
Yea, Richard, when I know; but I protest,
As yet I do not: but, as I can learn,
He hearkens after prophecies, and dreams;
And from the cross-row plucks the letter G,
And says, a wizard told him, that by G
His issue disinherited should be;
And, for my name of George begins with G,
It follows in his thought that I am he.
These, as I learn, and such like toys as these,
Have mov'd his highness to commit me now.

Glo.
Why, this it is, when men are rul'd by women!
'Tis not the king, that sends you to the Tower:
My lady Grey, his wife, Clarence, 'tis she,
That tempts him to this harsh extremity^{4 note}.
Was it not she, and that good man of worship,
Antony Woodeville, her brother there,
That made him send lord Hastings to the Tower, 11Q0760
From whence this present day he is deliver'd?
We are not safe, Clarence; we are not safe.

Clar.
By heaven, I think, there is no man secure,
But the queen's kindred, and night-walking heralds
That trudge betwixt the king and mistress Shore.
Heard you not, what an humble suppliant
Lord Hastings was to her for his delivery?

Glo.
Humbly complaining to her deity
Got my lord chamberlain his liberty.
I'll tell you what; I think, it is our way,
If we will keep in favour with the king,
To be her men, and wear her livery:
The jealous o'er-worn widow, and herself,
Since that our brother dubb'd them gentlewomen,
Are mighty gossips in our monarchy.

Brak.
I beseech your graces both to pardon me:
His majesty hath straitly given in charge,
That no man shall have private conference,
Of what degree soever, with your brother.

Glo.
Even so; an please your worship, Brakenbury,
You may partake of any thing we say.
We speak no treason, man: we say, the king
Is wise and virtuous; and his noble queen
Well struck in years; fair, and not jealous:—
We say that Shore's wife hath a pretty foot,
A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue;
And that the queen's kindred are made gentlefolks.
How say you, sir? can you deny all this?

Brak.
With this, my lord, myself have nought to do.

Glo.
Nought to do with mistress Shore? I tell thee, fellow,
He that doth naught with her, excepting one,
Were best to do it secretly, alone.

Brak.
What one, my lord?

Glo.
Her husband, knave. Would'st thou betray me?

Brak.
I do beseech your grace to pardon me; and withal,
Forbear your conference with the noble duke.

Clar.
We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will obey.

Glo.
We are the queen's abjects, and must obey.—
Brother, farewell: I will unto the king;
And whatsoe'er you will employ me in,
Were it to call king Edward's widow sister,
I will perform it to enfranchise you.
Mean time, this deep disgrace in brotherhood
Touches me deeper than you can imagine.

Clar.
I know, it pleaseth neither of us well.

Glo.
Well, your imprisonment shall not be long;
I will deliver you, or else lie for you^{5 note}:
Mean time, have patience.

Clar.
I must perforce: farewell. [Exeunt Clarence, Brakenbury, and Guard.

Glo.
Go, tread the path that thou shalt ne'er return,
Simple, plain Clarence!—I do love thee so,
That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven,
If heaven will take the present at our hands.
But who comes here? the new-deliver'd Hastings? Enter Hastings.

Hast.
Good time of day unto my gracious lord.

Glo.
As much unto my good lord chamberlain.
Well are you welcome to this open air.
How hath your lordship brook'd imprisonment?

Hast.
With patience, noble lord, as prisoners must;
But I shall live, my lord, to give them thanks,
That were the cause of my imprisonment.

Glo.
No doubt, no doubt; and so shall Clarence too,
For they that were your enemies are his,
And have prevail'd as much on him as you.

Hast.
More pity, that the eagles should be mew'd,
While kites and buzzards prey at liberty^{6 note}.

Glo.
What news abroad?

Hast.
No news so bad abroad, as this at home:—
The king is sickly, weak, and melancholy,
And his physicians fear him mightily.

Glo.
Now, by Saint Paul^{7 note}, that news is bad indeed.
O! he hath kept an evil diet long,
And over-much consum'd his royal person:
'Tis very grievous to be thought upon.
Where is he? in his bed?

Hast.
He is.

Glo.
Go you before, and I will follow you. [Exit Hastings.

He cannot live, I hope; and must not die,
Till George be pack'd with posthorse up to heaven. 11Q0761
I'll in, to urge his hatred more to Clarence,
With lies well steel'd with weighty arguments;
And, if I fail not in my deep intent,
Clarence hath not another day to live:
Which done, God take king Edward to his mercy,
And leave the world for me to bustle in,
For then I'll marry Warwick's youngest daughter.
What though I kill'd her husband, and her father?
The readiest way to make the wench amends,
Is to become her husband, and her father:
The which will I; not all so much for love,
As for another secret close intent,
By marrying her which I must reach unto.
But yet I run before my horse to market:
Clarence still breathes; Edward still lives and reigns;
When they are gone, then must I count my gains. [Exit. SCENE II. The Same. Another Street. Enter the Corpse of King Henry the Sixth, borne in an open Coffin, Gentlemen bearing Halberds, to guard it; and Lady Anne as mourner.

Anne.
Set down, set down your honourable load^{8 note},
If honour may be shrouded in a hearse,
Whilst I a while obsequiously lament^{9 note}

Th' 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 slaughter'd son,
Stabb'd by the self-same hand that made these wounds^{1 note}!
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^{2 note}

!
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 adders, spiders, toads^{3 note},
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^{4 note}!
If ever he have wife, let her be made
More miserable^{5 note} by the death of him,
Than I am made by my young lord, and thee!—

Come, now toward 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 corse. [The Bearers take up the Corpse and advance. Enter Gloster.

Glo.
Stay you, that bear the corse, and set it down.

Anne.
What black magician conjures up this fiend,
To stop devoted charitable deeds?

Glo.
Villains! set down the corse; or, by Saint Paul,
I'll make a corse of him that disobeys.

1 Gent.
My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass.

Glo.
Unmanner'd dog! stand thou when I command^{6 note}:
Advance thy halberd higher than my breast,
Or, by Saint Paul, I'll strike thee to my foot,
And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness. [The Bearers set down the Coffin.

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.—
Avaunt, 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 heinous deeds,
Behold this pattern of thy butcheries.—
O, gentlemen! see, see! dead Henry's wounds

Open their congeal'd mouths, and bleed afresh^{7 note}!—
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 deed, inhuman and unnatural,
Provokes 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, heaven, with lightning strike the murderer 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 evils^{8 note} to give me leave
By circumstance but to acquit myself.

Anne.
Vouchsafe, diffus'd infection of a man,
For 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 myself.

Anne.
Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst make
No excuse current, but to hang thyself.

Glo.
By such despair, I should accuse myself.

Anne.
And, by despairing, shalt thou stand excus'd;
For doing worthy vengeance on thyself,

That didst unworthy slaughter upon others.

Glo.
Say, that I slew them not?

Anne.
Then say they were not slain^{9 note}:
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 hand.

Anne.
In thy foul throat thou liest: queen Margaret saw
Thy murderous falchion^{1 note} smoking 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 dreamt on aught 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 fitter^{2 note} for the King of heaven that hath him.

Anne.
He is in heaven, 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 liest.

Glo.
So will it, madam, till I lie 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^{2 note} 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^{7 note}, and most accurs'd 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^{4 note} 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 wreck;
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'ershade thy day, and death thy life!

Glo.
Curse not thyself, 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^{5 note}.

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^{6 note} that loves you 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 a 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 bedash'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^{7 note}.

I never sued to friend, nor enemy;
My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing word^{8 note};
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 despatch; 'twas I that stabb'd young Edward;—
But 'twas thy heavenly face that set me on^{9 note}



. [She lets fall 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 myself, and I will do it.

Anne.
I have already.

Glo.
That was in thy rage:
Speak it again, and even with the 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.

Anne.
To take, is not to give^{1 note}. [She puts on the ring.

Glo.
Look, how my ring encompasseth thy finger,
Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart;
Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.
And if thy poor devoted servant may 11Q0762
But beg one favour at thy gracious hand,
Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever.

Anne.
What is it?

Glo.
That it may please you leave these sad designs
To him that hath most cause^{2 note} to be a mourner,
And presently repair to Crosby-place^{3 note}.
Where (after I have solemnly interr'd,
At Chertsey monastery, this noble king,
And wet his grave with my repentant tears),
I will with all expedient duty see you^{4 note}:

For divers unknown reasons, I beseech you,
Grant me this boon.

Anne.
With all my heart; and much it joys me too,
To see you are become so penitent.—
Tressel, and Berkley, go along with me.

Glo.
Bid me farewell.

Anne.
'Tis more than you deserve;
But since you teach me how to flatter you,
Imagine I have said farewell already. [Exeunt Lady Anne, Tressel, and Berkley.

Gent.
Towards Chertsey, noble lord^{5 note}?

Glo.
No, to White-Friars; there attend my coming. [Exeunt the rest, with the Corse.
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 extremest hate;
With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes,
The bleeding witness of my hatred by^{6 note},
Having God, her conscience, and these bars against me,
And I no friends to back my suit withal^{7 note}
,
But the plain devil, and dissembling looks,
And yet to win her,—all the world to nothing! Ha!
Hath she forgot already that brave prince,
Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months since,
Stabb'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 yet abase her eyes^{8 note} on me,
That cropp'd 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 halt, and am mis-shapen thus?
My dukedom to a beggarly denier^{9 note},
I do mistake my person all this while:
Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot,
Myself to be a marvellous 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 myself,
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. SCENE III. The Same. A Room in the Palace. Enter Queen Elizabeth, Lord Rivers, and Lord Grey.

Riv.
Have patience, madam: there's no doubt, his majesty
Will soon recover his accustom'd health.

Grey.
In that you brook it ill, it makes him worse:
Therefore, for God's sake, entertain good comfort,
And cheer his grace with quick and merry words^{1 note}.

Q. Eliz.
If he were dead, what would betide on me?

Grey.
No other harm, but loss of such a lord.

Q. Eliz.
The loss of such a lord includes all harms.

Grey.
The heavens have bless'd you with a goodly son,
To be your comforter when he is gone.

Q. Eliz.
Ah! he is young; and his minority
Is put unto the trust of Richard Gloster,
A man that loves not me, nor none of you.

Riv.
Is it concluded, he shall be protector?

Q. Eliz.
It is determin'd, not concluded yet:
But so it must be, if the king miscarry. Enter Buckingham and Stanley^{2 note}.

Grey.
Here come the lords of Buckingham and Stanley.

Buck.
Good time of day unto your royal grace.

Stan.
God make your majesty joyful as you have been!

Q. Eliz.
The countess Richmond, good my lord of Stanley,
To your good prayer will scarcely say amen.
Yet, Stanley, notwithstanding she's your wife,
And loves not me, be you, good lord, assur'd,
I hate not you for her proud arrogance.

Stan.
I do beseech you, either not believe
The envious slanders of her false accusers;
Or, if she be accus'd on true report,
Bear with her weakness, which, I think, proceeds
From wayward sickness, and no grounded malice.

Q. Eliz.
Saw you the king to-day, my lord of Stanley?

Stan.
But now, the duke of Buckingham, and I,

Are come^{5 note} from visiting his majesty.

Q. Eliz.
What likelihood of his amendment, lords?

Buck.
Madam, good hope: his grace speaks cheerfully.

Q. Eliz.
God grant him health! Did you confer with him?

Buck.
Ay, madam: he desires to make atonement^{4 note}
Between the duke of Gloster and your brothers,
And between them and my lord chamberlain;
And sent to warn them to his royal presence.

Q. Eliz.
Would all were well!—But that will never be:
I fear, our happiness is at the height^{5 note}. Enter Gloster, Hastings, and Dorset.

Glo.
They do me wrong, and I will not endure it.—
Who are they^{6 note}, that complain unto the king,
That I, forsooth, am stern, and love them not?
By holy Paul, they love his grace but lightly,
That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours.
Because I cannot flatter, and speak fair,
Smile in men's faces, smooth, deceive, and cog,
Duck with French nods and apish courtesy,
I must be held a rancorous enemy.
Cannot a plain man live, and think no harm,
But thus his simple truth must be abus'd
With silken, sly, insinuating Jacks?

Grey.
To whom in all this presence speaks your grace?

Glo.
To thee, that hast nor honesty, nor grace.
When have I injur'd thee? when done thee wrong?—
Or thee?—or thee?—or any of your faction?

A plague upon you all! His royal grace,
(Whom God preserve better than you would wish!)
Cannot be quiet scarce a breathing-while,
But you must trouble him with lewd complaints^{7 note}.

Q. Eliz.
Brother of Gloster, you mistake the matter.
The king, on his own royal disposition,
And not provok'd by any suitor else,
Aiming, belike, at your interior hatred,
That in your outward action shows itself,
Against my children, brothers, and myself,
Makes him to send; that thereby he may gather
The ground of your ill-will, and so remove it^{8 note}
.

Glo.
I cannot tell;—the world is grown so bad,
That wrens make prey^{9 note} where eagles dare not perch:
Since every Jack became a gentleman,
There's many a gentle person made a Jack.

Q. Eliz.
Come, come, we know your meaning, brother Gloster:
You envy my advancement, and my friends.
God grant, we never may have need of you!

Glo.
Meantime, God grants that I have need of you:
Our brother is imprison'd by your means;
Myself disgrac'd, and the nobility
Held in contempt; while many great promotions^{1 note}

Are daily given, to ennoble those
That scarce, some two days since, were worth a noble.

Q. Eliz.
By him that rais'd me to this careful height
From that contented hap which I enjoy'd,
I never did incense his majesty
Against the duke of Clarence; but have been
An earnest advocate to plead for him.
My lord, you do me shameful injury,
Falsely to draw me in these vile suspects.

Glo.
You may deny, that you were not the mean^{2 note}
Of my lord Hastings' late imprisonment.

Riv.
She may, my lord; for—

Glo.
She may, lord Rivers,—why, who knows not so?
She may do more, sir, than denying that:
She may help you to many fair preferments;
And then deny her aiding hand therein,
And lay those honours on your high desert.
What may she not? She may,—ay, marry, may she,—

Riv.
What, marry, may she?

Glo.
What, marry, may she? marry with a king,
A bachelor, and a handsome stripling too.
I wis, your grandam had a worser match.

Q. Eliz.
My lord of Gloster, I have too long borne
Your blunt upbraidings, and your bitter scoffs:
By heaven, I will acquaint his majesty,
Of those gross taunts that oft I have endur'd.
I had rather be a country serving-maid,
Than a great queen, with this condition—
To be thus taunted, scorn'd, and baited at^{3 note}:
Small joy have I in being England's queen.

Enter Queen Margaret, behind.

Q. Mar.
And lessen'd be that small, God, I beseech him!
Thy honour, state, and seat, is due to me.

Glo.
What! threat you me with telling of the king?
Tell him, and spare not: look, what I have said
I will avouch, in presence of the king:
I dare adventure to be sent to the Tower^{4 note}.
'Tis time to speak; my pains are quite forgot.

Q. Mar.
Out, devil! I do remember them too well:
Thou kill'dst my husband Henry in the Tower,
And Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury.

Glo.
Ere you were queen, ay, or your husband king,
I was a pack-horse in his great affairs;
A weeder-out of his proud adversaries,
A liberal rewarder of his friends;
To royalize his blood, I spent mine own.

Q. Mar.
Ay, and much better blood than his, or thine.

Glo.
In all which time, you, and your husband Grey,
Were factious for the house of Lancaster;—
And, Rivers, so were you:—was not your husband
In Margaret's battle at Saint Alban's slain?
Let me put in your minds, if you forget,
What you have been ere this, and what you are;
Withal, what I have been, and what I am.

Q. Mar.
A murd'rous villain, and so still thou art.

Glo.
Poor Clarence did forsake his father Warwick,
Ay, and forswore himself,—which Jesu pardon!—

Q. Mar.
Which God revenge!

Glo.
To fight on Edward's party, for the crown;
And, for his meed, poor lord, he is mew'd up.
I would to God, my heart were flint like Edward's,

Or Edward's soft and pitiful, like mine:
I am too childish-foolish for this world.

Q. Mar.
Hie thee to hell for shame, and leave this world,
Thou cacodæmon! there thy kingdom is.

Riv.
My lord of Gloster, in those busy days,
Which here you urge to prove us enemies,
We follow'd then our lord, our sovereign king^{5 note};
So should we you, if you should be our king.

Glo.
If I should be?—I had rather be a pedlar.
Far be it from my heart, the thought thereof!

Q. Eliz.
As little joy, my lord, as you suppose
You should enjoy, were you this country's king,
As little joy you may suppose in me,
That I enjoy, being the queen thereof.

Q. Mar.
A little joy enjoys the queen thereof;
For I am she, and altogether joyless.
I can no longer hold me patient. 11Q0763— [Advancing.
Hear me, you wrangling pirates, that fall out
In sharing that which you have pill'd from me!
Which of you trembles not, that looks on me?
If not, that, I being queen^{6 note}, you bow like subjects,
Yet that, by you depos'd, you quake like rebels?—
Ah! gentle villain, do not turn away.

Glo.
Foul wrinkled witch, what mak'st thou in my sight?

Q. Mar.
But repetition of what thou hast marr'd;
That will I make, before I let thee go.

Glo.
Wert thou not banished, on pain of death?

Q. Mar.
I was; but I do find more pain in banishment,
Than death can yield me here by my abode^{7 note}.
A husband, and a son, thou ow'st to me,—

And thou, a kingdom;—all of you, allegiance:
This sorrow that I have, by right is yours,
And all the pleasures you usurp are mine.

Glo.
The curse my noble father laid on thee,
When thou didst crown his warlike brows with paper,
And with thy scorns drew'st rivers from his eyes;
And then, to dry them, gav'st the duke a clout
Steep'd in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland;—
His curses, then from bitterness of soul
Denounc'd against thee, are all fallen upon thee;
And God, not we, hath plagu'd thy bloody deed.

Q. Eliz.
So just is God, to right the innocent.

Hast.
O! 'twas the foulest deed to slay that babe,
And the most merciless, that e'er was heard of.

Riv.
Tyrants themselves wept when it was reported.

Dors.
No man but prophesied revenge for it.

Buck.
Northumberland, then present, wept to see it.

Q. Mar.
What! were you snarling all, before I came,
Ready to catch each other by the throat,
And turn you all your hatred now on me?
Did York's dread curse prevail so much with heaven,
That Henry's death, my lovely Edward's death,
Their kingdom's loss, my woful banishment,
Should all but answer for that peevish brat?
Can curses pierce the clouds, and enter heaven?—
Why, then give way, dull clouds, to my quick curses!—
Though not by war, by surfeit die your king,
As ours by murder, to make him a king!
Edward, thy son, that now is prince of Wales,
For Edward, our son, that was prince of Wales,
Die in his youth by like untimely violence!
Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen,
Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self!
Long may'st thou live, to wail thy children's death^{8 note};
And see another, as I see thee now,

Deck'd in thy rights, as thou art stall'd in mine!
Long die thy happy days before thy death;
And, after many lengthen'd hours of grief,
Die neither mother, wife, nor England's queen!
Rivers, and Dorset, you were standers by,
And so wast thou, lord Hastings, when my son
Was stabb'd with bloody daggers: God, I pray him,
That none of you may live his natural age,
But by some unlook'd accident cut off!

Glo.
Have done thy charm, thou hateful wither'd hag.

Q. Mar.
And leave out thee? stay, dog, for thou shalt hear me.
If heaven have any grievous plague in store,
Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee,
O! let them keep it, till thy sins be ripe,
And then hurl down their indignation
On thee, the troubler of the poor world's peace!
The worm of conscience still be-gnaw thy soul!
Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou liv'st,
And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends!
No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine,
Unless it be while some tormenting dream
Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils!
Thou elvish-mark'd, abortive, rooting hog!
Thou that wast seal'd in thy nativity
The slave of nature, and the son of hell! 11Q0764
Thou slander of thy heavy mother's womb!
Thou loathed issue of thy father's loins!
Thou rag of honour! thou detested^{9 note}—

Glo.
Margaret.

Q. Mar.
Richard!

Glo.
Ha?

Q. Mar.
I call thee not.

Glo.
I cry thee mercy then; for I did think,
That thou hadst call'd me all these bitter names.

Q. Mar.
Why, so I did; but look'd for no reply.
O! let me make the period to my curse.

Glo.
'Tis done by me, and ends in—Margaret.

Q. Eliz.
Thus have you breath'd your curse against yourself.

Q. Mar.
Poor painted queen, vain flourish of my fortune;
Why strew'st thou sugar on that bottled spider,
Whose deadly web ensnareth thee about?
Fool, fool! thou whet'st a knife to kill thyself.
The day will come, that thou shalt wish for me
To help thee curse this pois'nous bunch-back'd toad.

Hast.
False-boding woman, end thy frantic curse, 11Q0765
Lest to thy harm thou move our patience.

Q. Mar.
Foul shame upon you; you have all mov'd mine.

Riv.
Were you well serv'd, you would be taught your duty.

Q. Mar.
To serve me well, you all should do me duty,
Teach me to be your queen, and you my subjects.
O! serve me well, and teach yourselves that duty.

Dor.
Dispute not with her, she is lunatic.

Q. Mar.
Peace, master marquess! you are malapert:
Your fire-new stamp of honour is scarce current.
O, that your young nobility could judge,
What 'twere to lose it, and be miserable!
They that stand high have many blasts to shake them,
And if they fall they dash themselves to pieces.

Glo.
Good counsel, marry:—learn it, learn it, marquess.

Dor.
It touches you, my lord, as much as me.

Glo.
Ay, and much more; but I was born so high:
Our eyry buildeth in the cedar's top,
And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun.

Q. Mar.
And turns the sun to shade,—alas! alas!—
Witness my son, now in the shade of death;
Whose bright out-shining beams thy cloudy wrath
Hath in eternal darkness folded up.
Your eyry buildeth in our eyry's nest.—
O God! that seest it, do not suffer it:
As it was won^{1 note} with blood, lost be it so!

Buck.
Peace, peace! for shame, if not for charity.

Q. Mar.
Urge neither charity nor shame to me:
Uncharitably with me have you dealt,
And shamefully my hopes by you are butcher'd.
My charity is outrage, life my shame,
And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!

Buck.
Have done, have done.

Q. Mar.
O, princely Buckingham! I'll kiss thy hand,
In sign of league and amity with thee:
Now, fair befal thee, and thy noble house!
Thy garments are not spotted with our blood,
Nor thou within the compass of my curse.

Buck.
Nor no one here; for curses never pass
The lips of those that breathe them in the air.

Q. Mar.
I will not think^{2 note} but they ascend the sky,
And there awake God's gentle-sleeping peace.
O Buckingham! take heed of yonder dog:
Look, when he fawns, he bites; and, when he bites,
His venom tooth will rankle to the death^{3 note}:
Have not to do with him, beware of him;
Sin, death, and hell, have set their marks on him,
And all their ministers attend on him.

Glo.
What doth she say, my lord of Buckingham?

Buck.
Nothing that I respect, my gracious lord.

Q. Mar.
What! dost thou scorn me for my gentle counsel,

And sooth the devil that I warn thee from?
O! but remember this another day,
When he shall split thy very heart with sorrow,
And say, poor Margaret was a prophetess.—
Live each of you the subjects to his hate,
And he to yours, and all of you to God's! [Exit.

Hast.
My hair doth stand on end to hear her curses.

Riv.
And so doth mine. I muse, why she's at liberty^{4 note}.

Glo.
I cannot blame her: by God's holy mother,
She hath had too much wrong, and I repent
My part thereof, that I have done to her^{5 note}.

Q. Eliz.
I never did her any, to my knowledge.

Glo.
Yet you have all the vantage of her wrong.
I was too hot to do somebody good,
That is too cold in thinking of it now.
Marry, as for Clarence, he is well repaid;
He is frank'd up to fatting^{6 note} for his pains;—
God pardon them that are the cause thereof!

Riv.
A virtuous and a Christian-like conclusion,
To pray for them that have done scath to us.

Glo.
So do I ever, being well advis'd;
For had I curs'd now, I had curs'd myself^{7 note}
. [Aside. Enter Catesby.

Cates.
Madam, his majesty doth call for you,—
And for your grace, and you, my noble lords^{8 note}.

Q. Eliz.
Catesby, I come.—Lords, will you go with me^{9 note}?

Riv.
We wait upon your grace. [Exeunt all but Gloster.

Glo.
I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl.
The secret mischiefs that I set abroach,
I lay unto the grievous charge of others.
Clarence, whom I, indeed, have cast in darkness,
I do beweep to many simple gulls;
Namely, to Stanley, Hastings, Buckingham;
And tell them, 'tis the queen and her allies,
That stir the king against the duke my brother.
Now, they believe it; and withal whet me
To be reveng'd on Rivers, Vaughan, Grey^{1 note}:
But then I sigh, and, with a piece of scripture,
Tell them, that God bids us do good for evil:
And thus I clothe my naked villainy
With odd old ends stol'n forth of holy writ,
And seem a saint, when most I play the devil. Enter Two Murderers.
But soft! here come my executioners.—
How now, my hardy, stout resolved mates!
Are you now going to dispatch this thing^{2 note}?

1 Murd.
We are, my lord; and come to have the warrant,
That we may be admitted where he is.

Glo.
Well thought upon; I have it here about me. [Gives the Warrant.

When you have done, repair to Crosby-place.
But, sirs, be sudden in the execution,
Withal obdurate: do not hear him plead,
For Clarence is well spoken, and, perhaps,
May move your hearts to pity, if you mark him.

1 Murd.
Tut, tut! my lord, we will not stand to prate;
Talkers are no good doers: be assur'd,
We go to use our hands, and not our tongues.

Glo.
Your eyes drop mill-stones, when fools' eyes fall tears^{3 note}
:
I like you, lads;—about your business straight;
Go, go, despatch.

1 Murd.
We will, my noble lord^{4 note}. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. London. A Room in the Tower. Enter Clarence and Brakenbury. 11Q0766

Brak.
Why looks your grace so heavily to-day?

Clar.
O! I have pass'd a miserable night,
So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights^{5 note}
,
That, as I am a Christian faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night,
Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days,
So full of dismal terror was the time.

Brak.
What was your dream, my lord? I pray you, tell me^{6 note}.

Clar.
Methought, that I had broken from the Tower,
And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy;
And, in my company, my brother Gloster,
Who from my cabin tempted me to walk
Upon the hatches: thence we look'd toward England,
And cited up a thousand heavy times,
During the wars of York and Lancaster
That had befall'n us. As we pac'd along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
Methought, that Gloster stumbled; and, in falling^{7 note},
Struck me (that thought to stay him) over-board,
Into the tumbling billows of the main.
O Lord! methought, what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noise of water in mine ears!
What sights of ugly death^{8 note} within mine eyes!
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;
A thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upon;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,
All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea^{9 note}:
Some lay in dead men's skulls; and in the holes
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept
(As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems,
That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep,
And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.

Brak.
Had you such leisure in the time of death,
To gaze upon these secrets of the deep?

Clar.
Methought I had, and often did I strive
To yield the ghost^{1 note}
; but still the envious flood

Stopt in my soul^{2 note}, and would not let it forth
To find^{3 note} the empty, vast, and wandering air;
But smother'd it within my panting bulk,
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.

Brak.
Awak'd you not in this sore agony^{4 note}?

Clar.
No, no, my dream was lengthen'd after life;
O! then began the tempest to my soul!
I pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood,
With that sour ferryman^{5 note} which poets write of,
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.
The first that there did greet my stranger soul,
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick;
Who cried aloud^{6 note},—“What scourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?”
And so he vanish'd. Then, came wandering by
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood; and he shriek'd out aloud^{7 note},—
“Clarence is come,—false, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence,—
That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury;—
Seize on him, furies! take him unto torment^{8 note}!”
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Environ'd me^{9 note}, and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise,
I trembling wak'd, and, for a season after,
Could not believe but that I was in hell;
Such terrible impression made my dream^{1 note}.

Brak.
No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you;

I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it^{2 note}.

Clar.
Ah, keeper, keeper! I have done these things
That now give evidence^{3 note} against my soul,
For Edward's sake; and, see, how he requites me!—
O God! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee,
But thou wilt be aveng'd on my misdeeds,
Yet execute thy wrath in me alone:
O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children^{4 note}!—
Keeper, I pr'ythee, sit by me awhile^{5 note}
;
My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

Brak.
I will, my lord: God give your grace good rest.— [Clarence reposes himself on a Chair^{6 note}.
Sorrow breaks seasons, and reposing hours,
Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night.
Princes have but their titles for their glories,
An outward honour for an inward toil;
And for unfelt imaginations,
They often feel a world of restless cares:
So that, between their titles, and low name,
There's nothing differs but the outward fame. Enter the two Murderers.

1 Murd.

Ho! who's here?

Brak.
What would'st thou, fellow? and how cam'st thou hither^{7 note}?

1 Murd.

I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs.

Brak.

What! so brief^{8 note}?

2 Murd.
'Tis better' sir, than to be tedious.—
Let him see our commission; and talk no more. [A Paper delivered to Brakenbury, who reads it.

Brak.
I am, in this, commanded to deliver
The noble duke of Clarence to your hands:—
I will not reason what is meant hereby,
Because I will be guiltless from the meaning.
There lies the duke asleep, and there the keys^{9 note}.
I'll to the king; and signify to him,
That thus I have resign'd to you my charge.

1 Murd.
You may, sir; 'tis a point of wisdom:
Fare you well. [Exit Brakenbury.

2 Murd.

What, shall we stab him as he sleeps?

1 Murd.

No; he'll say, 'twas done cowardly, when he wakes.

2 Murd.

Why, he shall never wake until the great judgment day.

1 Murd.

Why, then he'll say, we stabb'd him sleeping.

2 Murd.

The urging of that word, judgment, hath bred a kind of remorse in me.

1 Murd.

What! art thou afraid?

2 Murd.

Not to kill him, having a warrant; but to be damn'd for killing him, from the which no warrant can defend me.

1 Murd.

I thought, thou hadst been resolute.

2 Murd.

So I am, to let him live^{1 note}.

1 Murd.

I'll back to the duke of Gloster, and tell him so.

2 Murd.

Nay, I pr'ythee, stay a little: I hope, this passionate humour of mine 11Q0767^{2 note} will change; it was wont to hold me but while one tells twenty.

1 Murd.

How dost thou feel thyself now?

2 Murd.

'Faith, some certain dregs of conscience are yet within me.

1 Murd.

Remember our reward, when the deed's done.

2 Murd.

Zounds! he dies: I had forgot the reward.

1 Murd.

Where's thy conscience now?

2 Murd.

O! in the duke of Gloster's purse.

1 Murd.

When he opens his purse to give us our reward, thy conscience flies out.

2 Murd.

'Tis no matter; let it go: there's few or none, will entertain it.

1 Murd.

What, if it come to thee again?

2 Murd.

I'll not meddle with it; it is a dangerous thing^{3 note}, it makes a man a coward: a man cannot steal, but it accuseth him; a man cannot swear, but it checks him; a man cannot lie with his neighbour's wife, but it detects him: 'tis a blushing shame-faced spirit, that mutinies in a man's bosom; it fills a man full of obstacles: it made me once restore a purse of gold, that by chance I found: it beggars any man that keeps it: it is turned out of all towns and cities for a dangerous thing; and every man, that means to live well, endeavours to trust to himself, and live without it.

1 Murd.

Zounds! it is even now at my elbow, persuading me not to kill the duke.

2 Murd.

Take the devil in thy mind, and believe

him not: he would insinuate with thee, but to make thee sigh.

1 Murd.

I am strong-fram'd^{4 note}; he cannot prevail with me.

2 Murd.

Spoke like a tall man that respects his reputation. Come, shall we fall to work^{5 note}?

1 Murd.

Take him on the costard with the hilts of thy sword, and then throw him into the malmsey-butt in the next room.

2 Murd.

O, excellent device! and make a sop of him.

1 Murd.

Soft! he wakes.

2 Murd.

Strike.

1 Murd.

No; we'll reason with him.

Clar. [Waking.]
Where art thou, keeper? give me a cup of wine.

1 Murd.
You shall have wine enough, my lord, anon.

Clar.

In God's name, what art thou?

1 Mur.

A man, as you are.

Clar.

But not, as I am, royal.

1 Murd.

Nor you, as we are, loyal.

Clar.
Thy voice is thunder, but thy looks are humble.

1 Murd.
My voice is now the king's, my looks mine own.

Clar.
How darkly, and how deadly dost thou speak.
Your eyes do menace me: why look you pale^{6 note}
?
Who sent you hither? Wherefore do you come?

Both Murd.
To, to, to—

Clar.
To murder me?

Both Murd.
Ay, Ay.

Clar.
You scarcely have the hearts to tell me so,
And therefore cannot have the hearts to do it.
Wherein, my friends, have I offended you?

1 Murd.
Offended us you have not, but the king.

Clar.
I shall be reconcil'd to him again.

2 Murd.
Never, my lord; therefore prepare to die.

Clar.
Are you drawn forth among a world of men^{7 note},
To slay the innocent? What is my offence?
Where is the evidence that doth accuse me?
What lawful quest have given their verdict up
Unto the frowning judge? or who pronounc'd
The bitter sentence of poor Clarence' death?
Before I be convict by course of law,
To threaten me with death is most unlawful.
I charge you, as you hope to have redemption^{8 note}
By Christ's dear blood shed for our grievous sins,
That you depart, and lay no hands on me;
The deed you undertake is damnable.

1 Murd.
What we will do, we do upon command.

2 Murd.
And he, that hath commanded, is our king.

Clar.
Erroneous vassals! the great King of kings
Hath in the table of his law commanded,
That thou shalt do no murder: will you, then,
Spurn at his edict, and fulfil a man's?
Take heed; for he holds vengeance in his hand,
To hurl upon their heads that break his law.

2 Murd.
And that same vengeance doth he hurl on thee,

For false forswearing, and for murder too.
Thou didst receive^{9 note}

the sacrament, to fight
In quarrel of the house of Lancaster.

1 Murd.
And, like a traitor to the name of God,
Didst break that vow; and, with thy treacherous blade,
Unripp'dst the bowels of thy sovereign's son.

2 Murd.
Whom thou wast sworn to cherish and defend.

1 Murd.
How canst thou urge God's dreadful law to us,
When thou hast broke it in such dear degree?

Clar.
Alas! for whose sake did I that ill deed?
For Edward, for my brother, for his sake:
He sends you not to murder me for this;
For in that sin he is as deep as I.
If God will be avenged for the deed,
O! know you yet, he doth it publicly^{1 note};
Take not the quarrel from his powerful arm:
He needs no indirect or lawless course,
To cut off those that have offended him.

1 Murd.
Who made thee, then, a bloody minister,
When gallant-springing, brave Plantagenet,
That princely novice, was struck dead by thee?

Clar.
My brother's love, the devil, and my rage.

1 Murd.
Thy brother's love, our duty^{2 note}, and thy faults,
Provoke us hither now to slaughter thee.

Clar.
If you do love my brother, hate not me;
I am his brother, and I love him well.
If you are hir'd for meed, go back again,
And I will send you to my brother Gloster;

Who shall reward you better for my life,
Than Edward will for tidings of my death.

2 Murd.
You are deceiv'd: your brother Gloster hates you.

Clar.
O! no; he loves me, and he holds me dear.
Go you to him from me.

Both Murd.
Ay, so we will.

Clar.
Tell him, when that our princely father York
Bless'd his three sons with his victorious arm,
And charg'd us from his soul to love each other^{3 note},
He little thought of this divided friendship:
Bid Gloster think on this, and he will weep.

1 Murd.
Ay, mill-stones; as he lesson'd us to weep.

Clar.
O! do not slander him, for he is kind.

1 Murd.
Right; as snow in harvest.—Come, you deceive yourself;
'Tis he that sends us to destroy you here^{4 note}.

Clar.
It cannot be; for he bewept my fortune,
And hugg'd me in his arms, and swore, with sobs,
That he would labour my delivery.

1 Murd.
Why, so he doth, when he delivers you
From this earth's thraldom to the joys of heaven.

2 Murd.
Make peace with God, for you must die, my lord.

Clar.
Have you that holy feeling in your souls,
To counsel me to make my peace with God,
And are you yet to your own souls so blind,
That you will war with God by murdering me?—
O! sirs, consider, they that set you on
To do this deed, will hate you for the deed^{5 note}.

2 Murd.
What shall we do?

Clar.
Relent, and save your souls.
Which of you, if you were a prince's son,
Being pent from liberty, as I am now,
If two such murderers as yourselves came to you,
Would not entreat for life, as you would beg
Were you in my distress 11Q0768^{6 note}?

1 Murd.
Relent! no: 'tis cowardly, and womanish.

Clar.
Not to relent, is beastly, savage, devilish.—
My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks;
O! if thine eye be not a flatterer,
Come thou on my side, and entreat for me.
A begging prince what beggar pities not?

2 Murd.
Look behind you, my lord.

1 Murd.
Take that, and that: if all this will not do, [Stabs him.
I'll drown you in the malmsey-butt within. [Exit, with the body.

2 Murd.
A bloody deed, and desperately despatch'd!
How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands
Of this most grievous guilty murder done^{7 note}. Re-enter first Murderer.

1 Murd.
How now? what mean'st thou, that thou help'st me not?
By heaven, the duke shall know how slack you have been.

2 Murd.
I would he knew, that I had sav'd his brother!

Take thou the fee, and tell him what I say,
For I repent me that the duke is slain. [Exit.

1 Murd.
So do not I: go, coward, as thou art.—
Well, I'll go hide the body in some hole,
Till that the duke give order for his burial:
And when I have my meed, I will away;
For this will out, and then I must not stay. [Exit. ACT II. SCENE I. London. A Room in the Palace. Enter King Edward, led in sick, Queen Elizabeth, Dorset, Rivers, Hastings, Buckingham, Grey, and Others.

K. Edw.
Why, so:—now have I done a good day's work.—
You peers, continue this united league:
I every day expect an embassage
From my Redeemer to redeem me hence;
And more to peace^{8 note} my soul shall part to heaven,
Since I have made my friends at peace on earth.
Rivers, and Hastings^{9 note}, take each other's hand;
Dissemble not your hatred, swear your love.

Riv.
By heaven, my soul^{1 note} is purg'd from grudging hate;
And with my hand I seal my true heart's love.

Hast.
So thrive I, as I truly swear the like.

K. Edw.
Take heed, you dally not before your king;

Lest he, that is the supreme king of kings,
Confound your hidden falsehood, and award
Either of you to be the other's end.

Hast.
So prosper I, as I swear perfect love.

Riv.
And I, as I love Hastings with my heart.

K. Edw.
Madam, yourself are not exempt from this,—
Nor you, son Dorset,—Buckingham, nor you;—
You have been factious one against the other.
Wife, love lord Hastings, let him kiss your hand;
And what you do, do it unfeignedly.

Q. Eliz.
There, Hastings:—I will never more remember
Our former hatred, so thrive I, and mine.

K. Edw.
Dorset, embrace him,—Hastings, love lord marquess.

Dor.
This interchange of love, I here protest,
Upon my part shall be inviolable.

Hast.
And so swear I.

K. Edw.
Now, princely Buckingham, seal thou this league
With thy embracements to my wife's allies,
And make me happy in your unity.

Buck.
Whenever Buckingham doth turn his hate
Upon your grace^{2 note}, [To the Queen.] but with all duteous love
Doth cherish you, and yours, God punish me
With hate in those where I expect most love.
When I have most need to employ a friend,
And most assured that he is a friend,
Deep, hollow, treacherous, and full of guile,
Be he unto me. This do I beg of heaven,
When I am cold in love^{3 note} to you, or yours.

K. Edw.
A pleasing cordial, princely Buckingham,
Is this thy vow unto my sickly heart.
There wanteth now our brother Gloster here,

To make the blessed period^{4 note} of this peace.

Buck.
And, in good time, here comes the noble duke^{5 note}

. Enter Gloster.

Glo.
Good-morrow to my sovereign king, and queen;
And, princely peers, a happy time of day!

K. Edw.
Happy, indeed, as we have spent the day.—
Gloster, we have done deeds of charity;
Made peace of enmity, fair love of hate,
Between these swelling wrong-incensed peers.

Glo.
A blessed labour, my most sovereign lord.—
Among this princely heap, if any here,
By false intelligence, or wrong surmise,
Hold me a foe;
If I unwittingly, or in my rage^{6 note},
Have aught committed that is hardly borne
To any in this presence^{7 note}, I desire
To reconcile me to his friendly peace:
'Tis death to me, to be at enmity;
I hate it, and desire all good men's love.—
First, madam, I entreat true peace of you,
Which I will purchase with my duteous service;
Of you, my noble cousin Buckingham,
If ever any grudge were lodg'd between us;
Of you, and you, lord Rivers, and of Dorset,
That all without desert have frown'd on me;

Of you, lord Woodville, and lord Scales, of you^{8 note};
Dukes, earls, lords, gentlemen; indeed, of all.
I do not know that Englishman alive,
With whom my soul is any jot at odds,
More than the infant that is born to-night:
I thank my God for my humility.

Q. Eliz.
A holy day shall this be kept hereafter:—
I would to God, all strifes were well compounded.—
My sovereign lord, I do beseech your highness
To take our brother Clarence to your grace.

Glo.
Why, madam, have I offer'd love for this,
To be so flouted^{9 note} in this royal presence?
Who knows not, that the gentle duke is dead? [They all start.
You do him injury to scorn his corse.

K. Edw.
Who knows not, he is dead! who knows he is?

Q. Eliz.
All-seeing heaven, what a world is this!

Buck.
Look I so pale, lord Dorset, as the rest?

Dor.
Ay, my good lord; and no man in the presence,
But his red colour hath forsook his cheeks.

K. Edw.
Is Clarence dead? the order was revers'd.

Glo.
But he, poor man^{1 note}, by your first order died,
And that a winged Mercury did bear;
Some tardy cripple bare the countermand,
That came too lag to see him buried.
God grant, that some, less noble, and less loyal,
Nearer in bloody thoughts, and not in blood,
Deserve not worse than wretched Clarence did,
And yet go current from suspicion.

Enter Stanley.

Stan.
A boon, my sovereign, for my service done!

K. Edw.
I pr'ythee, peace: my soul is full of sorrow.

Stan.
I will not rise, unless your highness hear me.

K. Edw.
Then say at once, what is it thou request'st^{2 note}.

Stan.
The forfeit, sovereign, of my servant's life^{3 note};
Who slew to-day a riotous gentleman,
Lately attendant on the duke of Norfolk.

K. Edw.
Have I a tongue to doom my brother's death,
And shall that tongue^{4 note} give pardon to a slave?
My brother kill'd no man, his fault was thought,
And yet his punishment was bitter death^{5 note}.
Who sued to me for him? who, in my wrath,
Kneel'd at my feet, and bade me be advis'd?
Who spoke of brotherhood? who spoke of love?
Who told me, how the poor soul did forsake
The mighty Warwick, and did fight for me?
Who told me, in the field at Tewksbury,
When Oxford had me down, he rescu'd me,
And said, “Dear brother, live, and be a king?”
Who told me, when we both lay in the field,
Frozen almost to death, how he did lap me
Even in his garments; and did give himself,
All thin and naked, to the numb-cold night?
All this from my remembrance brutish wrath
Sinfully pluck'd, and not a man of you
Had so much grace to put it in my mind.
But when your carters, or your waiting-vassals,

Have done a drunken slaughter, and defac'd
The precious image of our dear Redeemer,
You straight are on your knees for pardon, pardon;
And I, unjustly too, must grant it you.
But for my brother not a man would speak,
Nor I, ungracious, speak unto myself
For him, poor soul.—The proudest of you all
Have been beholding to him in his life,
Yet none of you would once beg for his life^{6 note}.—
O God! I fear, thy justice will take hold
On me, and you, and mine, and yours, for this.—
Come, Hastings, help me to my closet. Ah, poor Clarence! [Exeunt King, Queen, Hastings, Rivers, Dorset, and Grey.

Glo.
This is the fruit of rashness.—Mark'd you not,
How that the guilty kindred of the queen
Look'd pale, 11Q0769 when they did hear of Clarence' death?
O! they did urge it still unto the king:
God will revenge it. Come, lords; will you go^{7 note},
To comfort Edward with our company?

Buck.
We wait upon your grace. [Exeunt. SCENE II. London. Enter the Duchess of York, with a Son and Daughter of Clarence.

Son.
Good grandam, tell us, is our father dead?

Duch.
No, boy.

Daugh.
Why do you weep so oft^{8 note}? and beat your breast;
And cry—“O Clarence, my unhappy son!”

Son.
Why do you look on us, and shake your head,
And call us—orphans, wretches, cast-aways,
If that our noble father were alive?

Duch.
My pretty cousins, you mistake me both^{9 note},
I do lament the sickness of the king,
As loath to lose him, not your father's death.
It were lost sorrow to wail one that's lost^{1 note}.

Son.
Then you conclude, my grandam, he is dead?
The king mine uncle is to blame for it:
God will revenge it; whom I will importune
With earnest prayers all to that effect.

Daugh.
And so will I.

Duch.
Peace, children, peace! the king doth love you well.
Incapable and shallow innocents,
You cannot guess who caus'd your father's death.

Son.
Grandam, we can; for my good uncle Gloster
Told me, the king, provok'd to it by the queen,
Devis'd impeachments to imprison him:
And when my uncle told me so, he wept,
And pitied me, and kindly kiss'd my cheek^{2 note}


;
Bade me rely on him, as on my father,
And he would love me dearly as a child.

Duch.
Ah! that deceit should steal such gentle shape,
And with a virtuous visor hide deep vice^{3 note}!

He is my son, ay, and therein my shame,
Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit.

Son.
Think you, my uncle did dissemble, grandam?

Duch.
Ay, boy.

Son.
I cannot think it. Hark! what noise is this! Enter Queen Elizabeth, distractedly^{4 note}; Rivers and Dorset, following her.

Q. Eliz.
Ah! who shall hinder me to wail and weep,
To chide my fortune, and torment myself?
I'll join with black despair against my soul,
And to myself become an enemy.

Duch.
What means this scene of rude impatience?

Q. Eliz.
To make an act of tragic violence:—
Edward, my lord, thy son, our king, is dead!—
Why grow the branches, when the root is gone^{5 note}?
Why wither not the leaves, that want their sap^{6 note}?—
If you will live, lament; if die, be brief;
That our swift-winged souls may catch the king's;
Or, like obedient subjects, follow him
To his new kingdom of ne'er changing night 11Q0770^{7 note}.

Duch.
Ah! so much interest have I in thy sorrow,
As I had title in thy noble husband.
I have bewept a worthy husband's death,
And liv'd with looking on his images;
But now, two mirrors of his princely semblance
Are crack'd in pieces by malignant death,
And I for comfort have but one false glass,
That grieves me when I see my shame in him.
Thou art a widow; yet thou art a mother,
And hast the comfort of thy children left^{8 note}:

But death hath snatch'd my husband^{9 note} from mine arms,
And pluck'd two crutches from my feeble hands,
Clarence, and Edward. O! what cause have I,
(Thine being but a moiety of my moan^{1 note})
To over-go thy woes, and drown thy cries?

Son.
Ah, aunt! you wept not for our father's death;
How can we aid you with our kindred tears?

Daugh.
Our fatherless distress was left unmoan'd;
Your widow-dolour likewise be unwept.

Q. Eliz.
Give me no help in lamentation;
I am not barren to bring forth complaints^{2 note}.
All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes,
That I, being govern'd by the watry moon,
May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world!
Ah, for my husband, for my dear lord, Edward^{3 note}!

Chil.
Ah, for our father, for our dear lord Clarence!

Duch.
Alas, for both! both mine, Edward and Clarence.

Q. Eliz.
What stay had I, but Edward? and he's gone.

Chil.
What stay had we, but Clarence? and he's gone.

Duch.
What stays had I, but they? and they are gone.

Q. Eliz.
Was never widow had so dear a loss.

Chil.
Were never orphans had so dear a loss.

Duch.
Was never mother had so dear a loss.
Alas! I am the mother of these griefs^{4 note}:
Their woes are parcell'd, mine are general.
She for an Edward weeps, and so do I;

I for a Clarence weep, so doth not she:
These babes for Clarence weep, and so do I:
I for an Edward weep, so do not they^{5 note}
:—
Alas! you three on me, threefold distress'd,
Pour all your tears, I am your sorrow's nurse,
And I will pamper it with lamentation.

Dor.
Comfort, dear mother: God is much displeas'd,
That you take with unthankfulness his doing.
In common worldly things, 'tis call'd ungrateful,
With dull unwillingness to repay a debt,
Which with a bounteous hand was kindly lent;
Much more to be thus opposite with heaven,
For it requires the royal debt it lent you.

Riv.
Madam, bethink you, like a careful mother,
Of the young prince your son: send straight for him,
Let him be crown'd; in him your comfort lives.
Drown desperate sorrow in dead Edward's grave,
And plant your joys in living Edward's throne^{6 note}. Enter Gloster, Buckingham, Stanley, Hastings, Ratcliff, and Others.

Glo.
Sister, have comfort^{7 note}: all of us have cause
To wail the dimming of our shining star;
But none can help our harms^{8 note} by wailing them.—
Madam, my mother, I do cry you mercy;
I did not see your grace.—Humbly on my knee
I crave your blessing.

Duch.
God bless thee; and put meekness in thy breast^{9 note},
Love, charity, obedience, and true duty.

Glo.
Amen; [Aside.] and make me die a good old man!—
That is the butt-end of a mother's blessing;
I marvel, that her grace^{1 note} did leave it out.

Buck.
You cloudy princes, and heart-sorrowing peers,
That bear this heavy mutual load of moan,
Now cheer each other in each other's love:
Though we have spent our harvest of this king,
We are to reap the harvest of his son.
The broken rancour of your high-swoln hates^{2 note},
But lately splinter'd, knit, and join'd together,
Must gently be preserv'd, cherish'd, and kept:
Me seemeth good, that, with some little train,
Forthwith from Ludlow the young prince be fet
Hither to London, to be crown'd our king.

Riv.
Why with some little train, my lord of Buckingham?

Buck.
Marry, my lord, lest, by a multitude,
The new-heal'd wound of malice should break out;
Which would be so much the more dangerous,
By how much the estate is green, and yet ungovern'd:
Where every horse bears his commanding rein,
And may direct his course as please himself,
As well the fear of harm, as harm apparent,
In my opinion, ought to be prevented.

Glo.
I hope the king made peace with all of us;
And the compact is firm, and true, in me.

Riv.
And so in me; and so, I think, in all:
Yet, since it is but green, it should be put
To no apparent likelihood of breach,
Which, haply, by much company might be urg'd:
Therefore, I say with noble Buckingham,
That it is meet so few should fetch the prince.

Hast.
And so say I^{3 note}.

Glo.
Then be it so; and go we to determine
Who they shall be that straight shall post to Ludlow^{4 note}.
Madam,—and you my sister,—will you go
To give your censures in this business^{5 note}? [Exeunt all but Buckingham and Gloster.

Buck.
My lord, whoever journeys to the prince,
For God's sake, let not us two stay at home:
For by the way I'll sort occasion^{6 note},
As index to the story^{7 note} we late talk'd of,
To part the queen's proud kindred from the prince.

Glo.
My other self, my counsel's consistory,
My oracle, my prophet!—My dear cousin,
I, as a child, will go by thy direction.
Towards Ludlow then, for we'll not stay behind. [Exeunt. SCENE III. 11Q0771 The Same. A Street. Enter Two Citizens, meeting.

1 Cit.
Good morrow, neighbour: whither away so fast?

2 Cit.
I promise you, I scarcely know myself.
Hear you the news abroad?

1 Cit.
Yes; that the king is dead.

2 Cit.
Ill news, by'r lady; seldom comes the better:
I fear, I fear, 'twill prove a giddy world^{8 note}. Enter another Citizen.

3 Cit.
Neighbours, God speed!

1 Cit.
Give you good morrow, sir.

3 Cit.
Doth the news hold of good king Edward's death?

2 Cit.
Ay, sir, it is too true; God help, the while!

3 Cit.
Then, masters, look to see a troublous world.

1 Cit.
No, no; by God's good grace, his son shall reign.

3 Cit.
Woe to that land that's govern'd by a child!

2 Cit.
In him there is a hope of government;
That, in his nonage, council under him,
And, in his full and ripen'd years, himself,
No doubt, shall then, and till then, govern well.

1 Cit.
So stood the state, when Henry the Sixth
Was crown'd in Paris but at nine months old.

3 Cit.
Stood the state so? no, no, good friends, God wot;
For then this land was famously enrich'd
With politic grave counsel: then the king
Had virtuous uncles to protect his grace.

1 Cit.
Why, so hath this, both by his father and mother.

3 Cit.
Better it were they all came by his father,
Or by his father there were none at all;
For emulation, who shall now be nearest,
Will touch us all too near, if God prevent not.
O! full of danger is the duke of Gloster;
And the queen's sons, and brothers, haught and proud:
And were they to be rul'd, and not to rule,

This sickly land might solace as before.

1 Cit.
Come, come; we fear the worst: all will be well.

3 Cit.
When clouds are seen, wise men put on their cloaks;
When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand:
When the sun sets, who doth not look for night?
Untimely storms make men expect a dearth.
All may be well; but, if God sort it so,
'Tis more than we deserve, or I expect.

2 Cit.
Truly, the hearts of men are full of fear:
You cannot reason almost with a man
That looks not heavily, and full of dread.

3 Cit.
Before the days of change, still is it so.
By a divine instinct men's minds mistrust
Pursuing danger^{9 note}
; as by proof we see
The water swell before a boisterous storm.
But leave it all to God. Whither away?

2 Cit.
Marry, we were sent for to the justices.

3 Cit.
And so was I: I'll bear you company. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. London. A Room in the Palace. Enter the Archbishop of York, the young Duke of York, Queen Elizabeth, and the Duchess of York.

Arch.
Last night, I heard, they lay at Stony-Stratford,
And at Northampton they do rest to-night^{1 note}


:

To-morrow, or next day, they will be here.

Duch.
I long with all my heart to see the prince:
I hope, he is much grown since last I saw him.

Q. Eliz.
But I hear, no: they say, my son of York
Hath almost overta'en him in his growth.

York.
Ay, mother, but I would not have it so.

Duch.
Why, my young cousin, it is good to grow.

York.
Grandam, one night, as we did sit at supper,
My uncle Rivers talk'd how I did grow
More than my brother; “Ay,” quoth my uncle Gloster,
“Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace:”
And since, methinks, I would not grow so fast,
Because sweet flowers are slow, and weeds make haste.

Duch.
'Good faith, 'good faith, the saying did not hold
In him that did object the same to thee:
He was the wretched'st thing when he was young,
So long a growing, and so leisurely,
That, if his rule were true, he should be gracious.

Arch.
And so, no doubt, he is, my gracious madam^{2 note}.

Duch.
I hope, he is; but yet let mothers doubt.

York.
Now, by my troth, if I had been remember'd,
I could have given my uncle's grace a flout,
To touch his growth nearer than he touch'd mine.

Duch.
How, my young York? I pr'ythee, let me hear it.

York.
Marry, they say, my uncle grew so fast,
That he could gnaw a crust at two hours old:
'Twas full two years ere I could get a tooth.
Grandam, this would have been a biting jest.

Duch.
I pr'ythee, pretty York, who told thee this?

York.
Grandam, his nurse.

Duch.
His nurse! why, she was dead ere thou wast born.

York.
If 'twere not she, I cannot tell who told me.

Q. Eliz.
A parlous boy^{3 note}. Go to, you are too shrewd.

Arch.
Good madam, be not angry with the child.

Q. Eliz.
Pitchers have ears. Enter a Messenger^{4 note}.

Arch.
Here comes a messenger: what news?

Mess.
Such news, my lord, as grieves me to report^{5 note}.

Q. Eliz.
How doth the prince?

Mess.
Well, madam, and in health.

Duch.
What is thy news?

Mess.
Lord Rivers and lord Grey are sent to Pomfret,
And with them sir Thomas Vaughan, prisoners.

Duch.
Who hath committed them?

Mess.
The mighty dukes,
Gloster and Buckingham.

Arch.
For what offence?

Mess.
The sum of all I can, I have disclos'd:
Why, or for what, the nobles were committed,
Is all unknown to me, my gracious lady.

Q. Eliz.
Ah me! I see the ruin of my house.
The tiger now hath seiz'd the gentle hind;
Insulting tyranny begins to jet^{6 note}

Upon the innocent and awless throne^{7 note}:—
Welcome, destruction, blood, and massacre!
I see, as in a map, the end of all.

Duch.
Accursed and unquiet wrangling days,
How many of you have mine eyes beheld?
My husband lost his life to get the crown;
And often up and down my sons were tost,
For me to joy, and weep, their gain, and loss:
And being seated, and domestic broils
Clean over-blown, themselves, the conquerors,
Make war upon themselves; brother to brother,
Blood to blood, self against self^{8 note}


:—O! preposterous
And frantic outrage^{9 note}, end thy damned spleen;
Or let me die, to look on death no more^{1 note}.

Q. Eliz.
Come, come, my boy; we will to sanctuary.—
Madam, farewell.

Duch.
Stay, I will go with you.

Q. Eliz.
You have no cause.

Arch.
My gracious lady, go, [To the Queen.
And thither bear your treasure and your goods.
For my part, I'll resign unto your grace
The seal I keep: and so betide to me,

As well I tender you, and all of yours.
Go; I'll conduct you to the sanctuary. [Exeunt. ACT III. SCENE 1. London. A Street. The Trumpets sound. Enter the Prince of Wales, Gloster, Buckingham, Cardinal Bourchier, and Others.

Buck.
Welcome, sweet prince, to London, to your chamber^{2 note}.

Glo.
Welcome, dear cousin, my thoughts' sovereign:
The weary way hath made you melancholy.

Prince.
No, uncle; but our crosses on the way
Have made it tedious, wearisome, and heavy:
I want more uncles here to welcome me.

Glo.
Sweet prince, the untainted virtue of your years
Hath not yet div'd into the world's deceit:
No more can you distinguish of a man,
Than of his outward show; which, God he knows,
Seldom, or never, jumpeth with the heart.
Those uncles, which you want, were dangerous;
Your grace attended to their sugar'd words,
But look'd not on the poison of their hearts:
God keep you from them, and from such false friends!

Prince.
God keep me from false friends! but they were none.

Glo.
My lord, the mayor of London comes to greet you. Enter the Lord Mayor, and his Train.

May.
God bless your grace with health and happy days!

Prince.
I thank you, good my lord; and thank you all.— [Exeunt Mayor, &c.
I thought my mother, and my brother York,
Would long ere this have met us on the way:
Fie! what a slug is Hastings, that he comes not
To tell us whether they will come or no. Enter Hastings.

Buck.
And in good time here comes the sweating lord.

Prince.
Welcome, my lord. What! will our mother come?

Hast.
On what occasion, God he knows, not I,
The queen your mother, and your brother York,
Have taken sanctuary: the tender prince
Would fain have come with me to meet your grace,
But by his mother was perforce withheld.

Buck.
Fie! what an indirect and peevish course
Is this of hers.—Lord cardinal, will your grace
Persuade the queen to send the duke of York
Unto his princely brother presently?
If she deny, lord Hastings, go with him,
And from her jealous arms pluck him perforce.

Card.
My lord of Buckingham, if my weak oratory
Can from his mother win the duke of York,
Anon expect him here: but if she be obdurate
To mild entreaties, God in heaven forbid^{3 note}
We should infringe the holy privilege
Of blessed sanctuary! not for all this land,
Would I be guilty of so great a sin 11Q0772^{4 note}.

Buck.
You are too senseless-obstinate, my lord,
Too ceremonious, and traditional:
Weigh it but with the grossness of this age,

You break not sanctuary in seizing him.
The benefit thereof is always granted
To those whose dealings have deserv'd the place,
And those who have the wit to claim the place:
This prince hath neither claim'd it, nor deserv'd it;
And therefore, in mine opinion, cannot have it:
Then, taking him from thence, that is not there,
You break no privilege nor charter there.
Oft have I heard of sanctuary men,
But sanctuary children, ne'er till now.

Card.
My lord, you shall o'er-rule my mind for once.—
Come on, lord Hastings; will you go with me?

Hast.
I go, my lord.

Prince.
Good lords, make all the speedy haste you may.— [Exeunt Cardinal and Hastings.
Say, uncle Gloster, if our brother come,
Where shall we sojourn till our coronation?

Glo.
Where it seems best^{5 note} unto your royal self.
If I may counsel you, some day, or two,
Your highness shall repose you at the Tower:
Then, where you please, and shall be thought most fit
For your best health and recreation.

Prince.
I do not like the Tower, of any place.—
Did Julius Cæsar build that place, my lord?

Buck.
He did, my gracious lord^{6 note}, begin that place,
Which, since, succeeding ages have re-edified.

Prince.
Is it upon record, or else reported
Successively from age to age, he built it?

Buck.
Upon record, my gracious lord.

Prince.
But say, my lord, it were not register'd,
Methinks, the truth should live from age to age,
As 'twere retail'd to all posterity,
Even to the general all-ending day^{7 note}.

Glo.
So wise so young, they say, do never live long. [Aside.

Prince.
What say you, uncle?

Glo.
I say without characters fame lives long.
Thus, like the formal Vice, Iniquity^{8 note}, [Aside.
I moralize two meanings in one word.

Prince.
That Julius Cæsar was a famous man:
With what his valour did enrich his wit,
His wit set down to make his valour live:
Death makes no conquest of his conqueror,
For now he lives in fame, though not in life.—
I'll tell you what, my cousin Buckingham.

Buck.
What, my gracious lord?

Prince.
An if I live until I be a man,
I'll win our ancient right in France again,
Or die a soldier, as I liv'd a king.

Glo.
Short summers lightly^{9 note} have a forward spring. [Aside. Enter York, Hastings, and the Cardinal.

Buck.
Now, in good time, here comes the duke of York.

Prince.
Richard of York! how fares our noble brother?

York.
Well, my dread lord^{1 note}; so must I call you now.

Prince.
Ay, brother; to our grief, as it is yours.
Too late he died, that might have kept that title,
Which by his death hath lost much majesty.

Glo.
How fares our cousin, noble lord of York?

York.
I thank you, gentle uncle. O! my lord,
You said, that idle weeds are fast in growth:
The prince my brother hath outgrown me far.

Glo.
He hath, my lord.

York.
And therefore is he idle?

Glo.
O! my fair cousin, I must not say so.

York.
Then he is more beholding to you, than I.

Glo.
He may command me as my sovereign,
But you have power in me as in a kinsman.

York.
I pray you, uncle, give me this dagger.

Glo.
My dagger, little cousin? with all my heart.

Prince.
A beggar, brother?

York.
Of my kind uncle, that I know will give;
And, being but a toy, which is no grief to give.

Glo.
A greater gift than that I'll give my cousin.

York.
A greater gift? O! that's the sword to it.

Glo.
Ay, gentle cousin, were it light enough.

York.
O! then, I see, you'll part but with light gifts:
In weightier things you'll say a beggar, nay.

Glo.
It is too weighty for your grace to wear.

York.
I weigh it lightly, were it heavier.

Glo.
What! would you have my weapon, little lord?

York.
I would, that I might thank you as you call me.

Glo.
How?

York.
Little.

Prince.
My lord of York will still be cross in talk.—

Uncle, your grace knows how to bear with him.

York.
You mean, to bear me, not to bear with me.—
Uncle, my brother mocks both you and me:
Because that I am little, like an ape,
He thinks that you should bear me on your shoulders.

Buck.
With what a sharp provided wit he reasons: 11Q0773
To mitigate the scorn he gives his uncle,
He prettily and aptly taunts himself.
So cunning, and so young, is wonderful.

Glo.
My lord, will't please you pass along?
Myself, and my good cousin Buckingham,
Will to your mother, to entreat of her
To meet you at the Tower, and welcome you.

York.
What! will you go unto the Tower, my lord?

Prince.
My lord protector needs will have it so^{2 note}.

York.
I shall not sleep in quiet at the Tower.

Glo.
Why, what should you fear?

York.
Marry, my uncle Clarence' angry ghost:
My grandam told me, he was murder'd there.

Prince.
I fear no uncles dead.

Glo.
Nor none that live, I hope.

Prince.
An if they live, I hope, I need not fear.
But come, my lord; and, with a heavy heart^{3 note},
Thinking on them, go I unto the Tower. [A sennet. Exeunt Prince, York, Hastings, Cardinal, and Attendants.

Buck.
Think you, my lord, this little prating York
Was not incensed by his subtle mother
To taunt and scorn you thus opprobriously?

Glo.
No doubt, no doubt. O! 'tis a perilous boy;
Bold, quick, ingenious, forward, capable:

He's all the mother's, from the top to toe.

Buck.
Well, let them rest.—Come hither, Catesby.
Thou art sworn as deeply to effect what we intend,
As closely to conceal what we impart.
Thou know'st our reasons urg'd upon the way:—
What think'st thou? is it not an easy matter
To make William lord Hastings of our mind,
For the instalment of this noble duke
In the seat royal of this famous isle?

Cate.
He for his father's sake so loves the prince,
That he will not be won to aught against him.

Buck.
What think'st thou then of Stanley? will not he?

Cate.
He will do all in all as Hastings doth.

Buck.
Well then, no more but this. Go, gentle Catesby,
And, as it were far off, sound thou lord Hastings,
How he doth stand affected to our purpose;
And summon him to-morrow to the Tower,
To sit about the coronation^{4 note}.
If thou dost find him tractable to us,
Encourage him, and tell him all our reasons:
If he be leaden, icy, cold, unwilling,
Be thou so too, and so break off the talk,
And give us notice of his inclination;
For we to-morrow hold divided councils^{5 note},
Wherein thyself shalt highly be employ'd.

Glo.
Commend me to lord William: tell him, Catesby,
His ancient knot of dangerous adversaries
To-morrow are let blood at Pomfret-castle;
And bid my lord, for joy of this good news,

Give mistress Shore one gentle kiss the more.

Buck.
Good Catesby, go^{6 note}; effect this business soundly.

Cate.
My good lords both, with all the heed I can.

Glo.
Shall we hear from you, Catesby, ere we sleep?

Cate.
You shall, my lord.

Glo.
At Crosby-place^{7 note}, there shall you find us both. [Exit Catesby.

Buck.
Now, my lord, what shall we do, if we perceive
Lord Hastings will not yield to our complots?

Glo.
Chop off his head, man;—somewhat we will do 11Q0774^{8 note}:—
And, look, when I am king, claim thou of me
The earldom of Hereford, and all the moveables
Whereof the king, my brother, was possess'd.

Buck.
I'll claim that promise at your grace's hand.

Glo.
And look to have it yielded with all kindness^{9 note}.
Come, let us sup betimes, that afterwards
We may digest our complots in some form. [Exeunt. SCENE II. Before Lord Hastings' House. Enter a Messenger.

Mess.
My lord! my lord!— [Knocking.

Hast. [Within.]
—Who knocks^{1 note}?

Mess.
One from the lord Stanley.

Hast. [Within.]
What is't o'clock?

Mess.
Upon the stroke of four. Enter Hastings.

Hast.
Cannot my lord Stanley^{2 note} sleep these tedious nights?

Mess.
So it appears^{3 note} by that I have to say.
First, he commends him to your noble self.

Hast.
What then?

Mess.
Then certifies your lordship, that this night
He dreamt the boar had rased off his helm^{4 note}


:
Besides, he says, there are two councils kept;
And that may be determin'd at the one,
Which may make you and him to rue at th' other.
Therefore, he sends to know your lordship's pleasure,—
If you will presently take horse with him,
And with all speed post with him toward the north,
To shun the danger that his soul divines.

Hast.
Go, fellow, go; return unto thy lord.
Bid him not fear the separated council:
His honour and myself are at the one,
And at the other is my good friend Catesby;
Where nothing can proceed that toucheth us,
Whereof I shall not have intelligence.
Tell him, his fears are shallow, without instance:
And for his dreams—I wonder he's so simple^{5 note}

To trust the mockery of unquiet slumbers.
To fly the boar, before the boar pursues,
Were to incense the boar to follow us,
And make pursuit, where he did mean no chase.
Go, bid thy master rise and come to me;
And we will both together to the Tower,
Where, he shall see, the boar will use us kindly.

Mess.
I'll go, my lord, and tell him what you say^{6 note}. [Exit. Enter Catesby.

Cate.
Many good morrows to my noble lord!

Hast.
Good morrow, Catesby: you are early stirring.
What news, what news, in this our tottering state?

Cate.
It is a reeling world, indeed, my lord;
And, I believe, will never stand upright,
Till Richard wear the garland of the realm.

Hast.
How! wear the garland! dost thou mean the crown?

Cate.
Ay, my good lord.

Hast.
I'll have this crown of mine cut from my shoulders,
Before I'll see^{7 note} the crown so foul misplac'd.
But canst thou guess that he doth aim at it?

Cate.
Ay, on my life^{8 note}; and hopes to find you forward
Upon his party for the gain thereof:
And thereupon he sends you this good news,—
That this same very day your enemies,
The kindred of the queen, must die at Pomfret.

Hast.
Indeed, I am no mourner for that news,
Because they have been still my adversaries^{9 note};

But, that I'll give my voice on Richard's side,
To bar my master's heirs in true descent,
God knows, I will not do it, to the death.

Cate.
God keep your lordship in that gracious mind.

Hast.
But I shall laugh at this a twelve-month hence,
That they which brought me in my master's hate,
I live to look upon their tragedy.
Well, Catesby, ere a fortnight make me older^{1 note}


,
I'll send some packing that yet think not on't.

Cate.
'Tis a vile thing to die, my gracious lord,
When men are unprepar'd, and look not for it.

Hast.
O monstrous, monstrous! and so falls it out
With Rivers, Vaughan, Grey; and so 'twill do
With some men else, who think themselves as safe
As thou, and I; who, as thou know'st, are dear
To princely Richard, and to Buckingham.

Cate.
The princes both make high account of you;
For they account his head upon the bridge. [Aside.

Hast.
I know they do, and I have well deserv'd it. Enter Stanley.
Come on, come on^{2 note}; where is your boar-spear, man?
Fear you the boar, and go so unprovided?

Stan.
My lord, good morrow: — good morrow, Catesby.—
You may jest on, but, by the holy rood,
I do not like these several councils, I.

Hast.
My lord, I hold my life as dear as yours^{3 note};
And never, in my days, I do protest,

Was it so precious to me as 'tis now^{4 note}.
Think you, but that I know our state secure,
I would be so triumphant as I am?

Stan.
The lords at Pomfret, when they rode from London,
Were jocund, and suppos'd their states were sure,
And they, indeed, had no cause to mistrust;
But yet, you see, how soon the day o'er-cast:
This sudden stab^{5 note} of rancour I misdoubt.
Pray God, I say, I prove a needless coward!
What, shall we toward the Tower? the day is spent^{6 note}

.

Hast.
Come, come, have with you.—Wot you what, my lord?
To-day, the lords you talk of are beheaded.

Stan.
They for their truth might better wear their heads,
Than some that have accus'd them wear their hats.
But come, my lord, let's away. Enter a Pursuivant.

Hast.
Go on before; I'll talk with this good fellow. [Exeunt Stan. and Catesby.
How now, sirrah! how goes the world with thee?

Purs.
The better, that your lordship please to ask.

Hast.
I tell thee, man, 'tis better with me now,
Than when thou met'st me last, where now we meet:
Then, was I going prisoner to the Tower,
By the suggestion of the queen's allies;

But now, I tell thee, (keep it to thyself)
This day those enemies are put to death,
And I in better state than ere I was.

Purs.
God hold it, to your honour's good content.

Hast.
Gramercy, fellow. There, drink that for me. [Throwing him his Purse.

Purs.
I thank your honour. [Exit Pursuivant. Enter a Priest.

Pr.
Well met, my lord; I am glad to see your honour.

Hast.
I thank thee, good sir John^{7 note}, with all my heart.
I am in your debt for your last exercise^{8 note};
Come the next Sabbath, and I will content you.

Pr.
I'll wait upon your lordship. Enter Buckingham.

Buck.
What, talking with a priest, lord chamberlain!
Your friends at Pomfret, they do need the priest:
Your honour hath no shriving work in hand.

Hast.
'Good faith, and when I met this holy man,
The men you talk of came into my mind.
What, go you toward the Tower?

Buck.
I do, my lord; but long I cannot stay there:
I shall return before your lordship thence.

Hast.
Nay, like enough, for I stay dinner there.

Buck.
And supper too, although thou know'st it not. [Aside.
Come, will you go?

Hast.
I'll wait upon your lordship^{9 note}. [Exeunt. 11Q0775

SCENE III. Pomfret. Before the Castle. Enter Ratcliff, with a Guard, conducting Rivers, Grey, and Vaughan, to Execution.

Riv.
Sir Richard Ratcliff, let me tell thee this^{1 note}:—
To-day shalt thou behold a subject die
For truth, for duty, and for loyalty.

Grey.
God bless the prince^{2 note} from all the pack of you!
A knot you are of damned blood-suckers.

Vaugh.
You live, that shall cry woe for this hereafter.

Rat.
Despatch: the limit of your lives is out^{3 note}.

Riv.
O Pomfret, Pomfret! O, thou bloody prison,
Fatal and ominous to noble peers!
Within the guilty closure of thy walls,
Richard the Second here was hack'd to death:
And, for more slander to thy dismal seat^{4 note},
We give to thee our guiltless blood to drink.

Grey.
Now Margaret's curse is fallen upon our heads,
When she exclaim'd on Hastings, you, and I^{5 note},
For standing by when Richard stabb'd her son.

Riv.
Then curs'd she Richard, then curs'd she Buckingham,
Then curs'd she Hastings^{6 note}:—O, remember, God,
To hear her prayer for them, as now for us!
And for my sister, and her princely sons,
Be satisfied, dear God, with our true blood,
Which, as thou know'st, unjustly must be spilt!

Rat.
Make haste: the hour of death is expiate^{7 note}.

Riv.
Come, Grey,—come, Vaughan;—let us here embrace:
Farewell, until we meet again in heaven. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. London. A Room in the Tower. Buckingham, Stanley, Hastings, the Bishop of Ely, Catesby, Lovel, and Others, sitting at a Table: Officers of the Council attending.

Hast.
Now, noble peers, the cause why we are met
Is to determine of the coronation:
In God's name, speak, when is this royal day?

Buck.
Are all things ready for the royal time?

Stan.
They are; and want but nomination.

Ely.
To-morrow, then, I judge a happy day.

Buck.
Who knows the lord protector's mind herein?
Who is most inward^{8 note} with the noble duke?

Ely.
Your grace, we think, should soonest know his mind.

Buck.
We know each other's faces^{9 note}; for our hearts,
He knows no more of mine, than I of yours;
Nor I of his, my lord, than you of mine.
Lord Hastings, you and he are near in love.

Hast.
I thank his grace, I know he loves me well;
But for his purpose in the coronation,
I have not sounded him, nor he deliver'd
His gracious pleasure any way therein:
But you, my honourable lords^{1 note}, may name the time;
And in the duke's behalf I'll give my voice,
Which, I presume, he'll take in gentle part. Enter Gloster.

Ely.
In happy time here comes the duke himself.

Glo.
My noble lords and cousins, all, good morrow.
I have been long a sleeper; but, I trust,
My absence doth neglect no great design,
Which by my presence might have been concluded.

Buck.
Had you not come upon your cue^{2 note}, my lord,
William lord Hastings had pronounc'd your part,
I mean, your voice, for crowning of the king.

Glo.
Than my lord Hastings, no man might be bolder:
His lordship knows me well, and loves me well^{3 note}



.
My lord of Ely, when I was last in Holborn,
I saw good strawberries in your garden there;
I do beseech you, send for some of them.

Ely.
Marry, and will, my lord, with all my heart. [Exit Ely.

Glo.
Cousin of Buckingham, a word with you. [Takes him aside.
Catesby hath sounded Hastings in our business,
And finds the testy gentleman so hot,
That he will lose his head, ere give consent,
His master's child, as worshipfully he terms it,
Shall lose the royalty of England's throne.

Buck.
Withdraw yourself awhile; I'll go with you^{4 note}. [Exeunt Gloster and Buckingham.

Stan.
We have not yet set down this day of triumph.
To-morrow, in my judgment^{5 note}, is too sudden;
For I myself am not so well provided,
As else I would be, were the day prolong'd. Re-enter Bishop of Ely.

Ely.
Where is my lord, the duke of Gloster?
I have sent for these strawberries.

Hast.
His grace looks cheerfully and smooth this morning^{6 note}:
There's some conceit or other likes him well,
When that he bids good morrow with such spirit.
I think, there's never a man in Christendom
Can lesser hide his love, or hate, than he;
For by his face straight shall you know his heart.

Stan.
What of his heart perceive you in his face,
By any livelihood^{7 note} he show'd to-day?

Hast.
Marry, that with no man here he is offended;

For, were he, he had shown it in his looks^{8 note}. Re-enter Gloster and Buckingham.

Glo.
I pray you all, tell me what they deserve,
That do conspire my death with devilish plots
Of damned witchcraft? and that have prevail'd
Upon my body with their hellish charms?

Hast.
The tender love I bear your grace, my lord,
Makes me most forward in this princely presence
To doom th' offenders: whosoe'er they be^{9 note},
I say, my lord, they have deserved death.

Glo.
Then, be your eyes the witness of their evil.
Look how I am bewitch'd; behold mine arm
Is like a blasted sapling wither'd up:
And this is Edward's wife, that monstrous witch,
Consorted with that harlot^{1 note}, strumpet Shore,
That by their witchcraft thus have marked me.

Hast.
If they have done this deed, my noble lord^{2 note},—

Glo.
If! thou protector of this damned strumpet,
Talk'st thou to me of ifs?—Thou art a traitor:—
Off with his head!—now, by Saint Paul I swear,
I will not dine until I see the same.—
Lovel, and Ratcliff, look that it be done^{3 note}:
The rest, that love me, rise, and follow me^{4 note}. [Exeunt Council, with Gloster and Buckingham.

Hast.
Woe, woe, for England! not a whit for me;
For I, too fond, might have prevented this.

Stanley did dream the boar did rase his helm^{5 note};
And I did scorn it, and disdain'd to fly^{6 note}.
Three times to-day my foot-cloth horse did stumble,
And started when he look'd upon the Tower,
As loath to bear me to the slaughter-house.
O! now I need the priest that spake to me:
I now repent I told the pursuivant,
As too triumphing, how mine enemies,
To-day at Pomfret bloodily were butcher'd^{7 note}


,
And I myself secure in grace and favour.
O, Margaret, Margaret! now thy heavy curse
Is lighted on poor Hastings' wretched head.

Rat.
Come, come; despatch^{8 note}, the duke would be at dinner:
Make a short shrift; he longs to see your head.

Hast.
O, momentary grace of mortal men!
Which we more hunt for than the grace of God.
Who builds his hope in air of your good looks,
Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast;
Ready with every nod to tumble down
Into the fatal bowels of the deep.

Lov.
Come, come, despatch: 'tis bootless to exclaim.

Hast.
O, bloody Richard!—miserable England!
I prophesy the fearfull'st time to thee,
That ever wretched age hath look'd upon^{9 note}.

Come, lead me to the block; bear him my head:
They smile at me, who shortly shall be dead. [Exeunt. SCENE V. The Same. The Tower Walls. 11Q0776 Enter Gloster and Buckingham, in rusty armour^{1 note}, marvellous ill-favoured.

Glo.
Come, cousin, canst thou quake, and change thy colour,
Murder thy breath in middle of a word,
And then again begin, and stop again,
As if thou wert distraught, and mad with terror?

Buck.
Tut^{2 note}! I can counterfeit the deep tragedian;
Speak and look back, and pry on every side,
Tremble and start at wagging of a straw^{3 note},
Intending deep suspicion^{4 note}: ghastly looks
Are at my service, like enforced smiles;
And both are ready in their offices,
At any time to grace my stratagems.
But what! is Catesby gone?

Glo.
He is; and, see, he brings the mayor along.

Enter the Lord Mayor and Catesby.

Buck.
Lord mayor^{5 note}




,—

Glo.
Look to the drawbridge there!

Buck.
Hark! a drum^{6 note}.

Glo.
Catesby, o'erlook the walls.

Buck.
Lord mayor, the reason we have sent,—

Glo.
Look back, defend thee: here are enemies.

Buck.
God and our innocency defend and guard us! Enter Lovel and Ratcliff, with Hastings' Head.

Glo.
Be patient, they are friends; Ratcliff, and Lovel^{7 note}.

Lov.
Here is the head of that ignoble traitor,
The dangerous and unsuspected Hastings.

Glo.
So dear I lov'd the man, that I must weep.
I took him for the plainest harmless creature,
That breath'd upon the earth a Christian^{8 note};
Made him my book, wherein my soul recorded
The history of all her secret thoughts:
So smooth he daub'd his vice with show of virtue,
That, his apparent open guilt omitted,
I mean his conversation with Shore's wife,
He liv'd^{9 note} from all attainder of suspects.

Buck.
Well, well, he was the covert'st shelter'd traitor
That ever liv'd.—
Would you imagine, or almost believe,
Were't not that by great preservation
We live to tell it, that the subtle traitor
This day had plotted, in the council house,
To murder me, and my good lord of Gloster?

May.
Had he done so?

Glo.
What! think you we are Turks, or infidels?
Or that we would, against the form of law,
Proceed thus rashly in the villain's death,
But that the extreme peril of the case,
The peace of England, and our persons' safety,
Enforc'd us to this execution?

May.
Now, fair befal you! he deserv'd his death;
And your good graces both have well proceeded,
To warn false traitors from the like attempts.

Buck.
I never look'd for better at his hands^{1 note},
After he once fell in with mistress Shore;
Yet had we not determin'd he should die,
Until your lordship came to see his end^{2 note};
Which now the loving haste of these our friends,
Something against our meanings, hath prevented:
Because, my lord, I would have had you heard
The traitor speak, and timorously confess
The manner and the purpose of his treasons;
That you might well have signified the same
Unto the citizens, who, haply, may
Miscontrue us in him, and wail his death.

May.
But, my good lord, your grace's words shall serve,
As well as I had seen, and heard him speak:
And do not doubt, right noble princes both,
But I'll acquaint our duteous citizens
With all your just proceedings in this case.

Glo.
And to that end we wish'd your lordship here,
To avoid the censures of the carping world.

Buck.
But since you come^{3 note} too late of our intent,
Yet witness what you hear we did intend:
And so, my good lord mayor, we bid farewell^{4 note}. [Exit Lord Mayor.

Glo.
Go, after, after, cousin Buckingham.
The mayor towards Guildhall hies him in all post:
There, at your meetest vantage of the time,
Infer the bastardy of Edward's children:
Tell them, how Edward put to death a citizen,
Only for saying—he would make his son
Heir to the crown; meaning, indeed, his house,
Which by the sign thereof was termed so.
Moreover, urge his hateful luxury,
And bestial appetite in change of lust;
Which stretch'd unto their servants, daughters, wives,
Even where his raging eye, or savage heart,
Without controul lusted to make a prey^{5 note}.
Nay, for a need, thus far come near my person:
Tell them, when that my mother went with child
Of that insatiate Edward, noble York,
My princely father, then had wars in France;
And by true computation^{6 note} of the time,

Found that the issue was not his begot;
Which well appeared in his lineaments,
Being nothing like the noble duke my father.
Yet touch this sparingly, as 'twere far off;
Because, my lord, you know, my mother lives.

Buck.
Doubt not, my lord, I'll play the orator,
As if the golden fee, for which I plead,
Were for myself: and so, my lord, adieu^{7 note}.

Glo.
If you thrive well, bring them to Baynard's castle?
Where you shall find me well accompanied,
With reverend fathers, and well-learned bishops.

Buck.
I go; and, towards three or four o'clock,
Look for the news that the Guildhall affords. [Exit Buckingham.

Glo.
Go, Lovel, with all speed to doctor Shaw,—
Go thou [To Cat.] to friar Penker:—bid them both
Meet me within this hour at Baynard's castle^{8 note}. [Exeunt Lovel and Catesby.
Now will I go^{9 note}, to take some privy order,
To draw the brats of Clarence out of sight;
And to give order, that no manner person
Have any time recourse unto the princes. [Exit.

SCENE VI. A Street. Enter a Scrivener^{1 note}.

Scriv.
Here is the indictment of the good lord Hastings;
Which in a set hand fairly is engross'd,
That it may be to-day read o'er in Paul's:
And mark how well the sequel hangs together.
Eleven hours I have spent to write it over,
For yesternight by Catesby was it sent me^{2 note}.
The precedent was full as long a doing;
And yet within these five hours Hastings liv'd,
Untainted, unexamin'd, free, at liberty.
Here's a good world the while!—Who is so gross,
That cannot see this palpable device?
Yet who so bold^{3 note}, but says he sees it not?
Bad is the world; and all will come to nought,
When such ill dealing must be seen in thought^{4 note}. [Exit. SCENE VII. The Same. The Court of Baynard's Castle. Enter Gloster at one Door, and Buckingham at another.

Glo.
How now, how now! what say the citizens?

Buck.
Now by the holy mother of our Lord,
The citizens are mum, say not a word^{5 note}.

Glo.
Touch'd you the bastardy of Edward's children?

Buck.
I did; with his contract with Lady Lucy,
And his contract by deputy in France^{6 note}:
The insatiate greediness of his desires,
And his enforcement of the city wives;
His tyranny for trifles; his own bastardy,
As being got, your father then in France;
And his resemblance, being not like the duke 11Q0777^{7 note}.
Withal I did infer your lineaments,
Being the right idea of your father,
Both in your form and nobleness of mind:
Laid open all your victories in Scotland,
Your discipline in war, wisdom in peace,
Your bounty, virtue, fair humility;
Indeed, left nothing fitting for your purpose
Untouch'd, or slightly handled in discourse:
And, when my oratory drew toward end,
I bade them that did love their country's good,
Cry—“God save Richard, England's royal king!”

Glo.
And did they so?

Buck.
No, so God help me, they spake not a word^{8 note};
But, like dumb statues, or breathing stones^{9 note},
Star'd each on other, and look'd deadly pale.
Which when I saw, I reprehended them,
And ask'd the mayor, what meant this wilful silence?
His answer was, the people were not us'd^{1 note}
To be spoke to, but by the recorder.
Then, he was urg'd to tell my tale again:—

“Thus saith the duke, thus hath the duke inferr'd;”
But nothing spoke in warrant from himself.
When he had done, some followers of mine own,
At lower end of the hall, hurl'd up their caps,
And some ten voices cried, “God save king Richard!”
And thus I took the vantage of those few^{2 note},—
“Thanks, gentle citizens, and friends,” quoth I;
“This general applause, and cheerful shout,
Argues your wisdom, and your love to Richard:”
And even here brake off, and came away.

Glo.
What tongueless blocks were they! would they not speak^{3 note}?
Will not the mayor, then, and his brethren, come?

Buck.
The mayor is here at hand. Intend some fear;
Be not you spoke with, but by mighty suit:
And look you get a prayer-book in your hand,
And stand between two churchmen, good my lord;
For on that ground I'll make a holy descant^{4 note}:
And be not easily won to our requests;
Play the maid's part, still answer nay, and take it.

Glo.
I go; and if you plead as well for them,
As I can say nay to thee for myself,
No doubt we bring it to a happy issue.

Buck.
Go, go, up to the leads! the lord mayor knocks. [Exit Gloster. Enter the Lord Mayor, Aldermen, and Citizens.
Welcome, my lord: I dance attendance here;
I think the duke will not be spoke withal.—

Enter from the Castle, Catesby.
Now, Catesby! what says your lord to my request^{5 note}?

Cate.
He doth entreat your grace, my noble lord,
To visit him to-morrow, or next day.
He is within, with two right reverend fathers,
Divinely bent to meditation;
And in no worldly suits would he be mov'd,
To draw him from his holy exercise.

Buck.
Return, good Catesby, to the gracious duke^{6 note}:
Tell him, myself, the mayor and aldermen^{7 note},
In deep designs, in matter of great moment,
No less importing than our general good,
Are come to have some conference with his grace.

Cate.
I'll signify so much unto him straight^{8 note}. [Exit.

Buck.
Ah, ha! my lord, this prince is not an Edward:
He is not lulling on a lewd love-bed,
But on his knees at meditation;
Not dallying with a brace of courtezans,
But meditating with two deep divines;
Not sleeping to engross his idle body,
But praying to enrich his watchful soul.
Happy were England, would this virtuous prince
Take on his grace^{9 note} the sovereignty thereof;
But, sure, I fear, we shall not win him to it. 11Q0778

May.
Marry, God defend^{1 note} his grace should say us nay!

Buck.
I fear, he will. Here Catesby comes again.—

Re-enter Catesby.
Now, Catesby, what says his grace?

Cate.
He wonders to what end you have assembled
Such troops of citizens to come to him^{2 note}:
His grace not being warn'd thereof before,
He fears, my lord, you mean no good to him.

Buck.
Sorry I am, my noble cousin should
Suspect me, that I mean no good to him:
By heaven, we come to him in perfect love;
And so once more return, and tell his grace. [Exit Catesby.
When holy, and devout religious men
Are at their beads, 'tis much to draw them thence;
So sweet is zealous contemplation. Enter Gloster, in a Gallery above^{3 note}, between Two Bishops. Catesby returns.

May.
See, where his grace stands 'tween two clergymen!

Buck.
Two props of virtue for a Christian prince,
To stay him from the fall of vanity;
And, see, a book of prayer in his hand;
True ornaments to know a holy man^{4 note}.—
Famous Plantagenet, most gracious prince,
Lend favourable ear to our requests,
And pardon us the interruption
Of thy devotion, and right-christian zeal.

Glo.
My lord, there needs no such apology;
I do beseech your grace to pardon me^{5 note},

Who, earnest in the service of my God,
Deferr'd the visitation of my friends.
But, leaving this, what is your grace's pleasure?

Buck.
Even that, I hope, which pleaseth God above,
And all good men of this ungovern'd isle.

Glo.
I do suspect, I have done some offence,
That seems disgracious in the city's eye;
And that you come to reprehend my ignorance.

Buck.
You have, my lord: would it might please your grace,
On our entreaties to amend your fault.

Glo.
Else wherefore breathe I in a Christian land?

Buck.
Know then, it is your fault that you resign
The supreme seat, the throne majestical,
The scepter'd office of your ancestors,
Your state of fortune, and your due of birth^{6 note},
The lineal glory of your royal house,
To the corruption of a blemish'd stock;
Whiles, in the mildness of your sleepy thoughts,
Which here we waken to our country's good,
This noble isle doth want her proper limbs^{7 note};
Her face defac'd with scars of infamy,
Her royal stock graft with ignoble plants,
And almost shoulder'd in the swallowing gulf
Of dark forgetfulness, and deep oblivion^{8 note}.
Which to recure, we heartily solicit
Your gracious self to take on you the charge
And kingly government of this your land^{9 note}:

Not as protector, steward, substitute,
Or lowly factor for another's gain;
But as successively from blood to blood,
Your right of birth, your empery, your own.
For this, consorted with the citizens,
Your very worshipful and loving friends,
And by their vehement instigation,
In this just cause^{1 note} come I to move your grace.

Glo.
I cannot tell, if to depart in silence,
Or bitterly to speak in your reproof,
Best fitteth my degree, or your condition:
If, not to answer,—you might haply think,
Tongue-tied ambition, not replying, yielded
To bear the golden yoke of sovereignty,
Which fondly you would here impose on me:
If to reprove you for this suit of yours,
So season'd with your faithful love to me,
Then, on the other side, I check'd my friends.
Therefore, to speak, and to avoid the first,
And then, in speaking, not to incur the last,
Definitively thus I answer you^{2 note}.
Your love deserves my thanks; but my desert,
Unmeritable, shuns your high request.
First, if all obstacles were cut away,
And that my path were even to the crown,
As the ripe revenue and due of birth^{3 note};
Yet so much is my poverty of spirit,
So mighty, and so many, my defects,
That I would rather hide me from my greatness,
Being a bark to brook no mighty sea,
Than in my greatness covet to be hid,
And in the vapour of my glory smother'd.

But, God be thank'd, there is no need of me;
And much I need to help you, were there need^{4 note};
The royal tree hath left us royal fruit,
Which, mellow'd by the stealing hours of time,
Will well become the seat of majesty,
And make, no doubt, us happy by his reign.
On him I lay that you would lay on me,
The right and fortune of his happy stars;
Which God defend that I should wring from him!

Buck.
My lord, this argues conscience in your grace;
But the respects thereof are nice and trivial^{5 note},
All circumstances well considered.
You say, that Edward is your brother's son:
So say we too, but not by Edward's wife;
For first was he contract to lady Lucy;
Your mother lives a witness to his vow:
And afterward by substitute betroth'd
To Bona, sister to the king of France.
These both put off, a poor petitioner,
A care-craz'd mother to a many sons^{6 note},
A beauty-waning and distressed widow,
Even in the afternoon of her best days,
Made prize and purchase^{7 note} of his wanton eye,
Seduc'd the pitch and height of his degree^{8 note}
To base declension and loath'd bigamy.
By her, in his unlawful bed, he got
This Edward, whom our manners call the prince.
More bitterly could I expostulate,
Save that, for reverence to some alive,
I give a sparing limit to my tongue.

Then, good my lord, take to your royal self
This proffer'd benefit of dignity;
If not to bless us and the land withal,
Yet to draw forth your noble ancestry^{9 note}
From the corruption of abusing times,
Unto a lineal true-derived course.

May.
Do, good my lord; your citizens entreat you.

Buck.
Refuse not, mighty lord, this proffer'd love^{1 note}.

Cate.
O! make them joyful: grant their lawful suit.

Glo.
Alas! why would you heap this care on me?
I am unfit for state and majesty^{2 note}:
I do beseech you, take it not amiss;
I cannot, nor I will not, yield to you.

Buck.
If you refuse it,—as in love and zeal,
Loath to depose the child, your brother's son;
As well we know your tenderness of heart,
And gentle, kind, effeminate remorse,
Which we have noted in you to your kindred^{3 note},
And equally, indeed, to all estates,—
Yet know, whe'r you accept our suit or no,
Your brother's son shall never reign our king;
But we will plant some other in your throne,
To the disgrace and downfall of your house.
And, in this resolution, here we leave you.—
Come, citizens, we will entreat no more 11Q0779^{4 note}

. [Exeunt Buckingham and Citizens.

Cate.
Call him again, sweet prince; accept their suit:

If you deny them, all the land will rue it^{5 note}.

Glo.
Will you enforce me to a world of cares?
Call them again: I am not made of stone^{6 note},
But penetrable to your kind entreaties, [Exit Catesby.
Albeit against my conscience, and my soul.— Re-enter Buckingham, and the rest.
Cousin of Buckingham, and sage, grave men,
Since you will buckle fortune on my back,
To bear her burden, whe'r I will, or no,
I must have patience to endure the load:
But if black scandal, or foul-fac'd reproach,
Attend the sequel of your imposition,
Your mere enforcement shall acquittance me
From all the impure blots and stains thereof;
For God doth know^{7 note}, and you may partly see,
How far I am from the desire of this.

May.
God bless your grace! we see it, and will say it.

Glo.
In saying so, you shall but say the truth.

Buck.
Then I salute you with this royal title^{8 note},—
Long live king Richard, England's worthy king!

All.
Amen.

Buck.
To-morrow may it please you to be crown'd?

Glo.
Even when you please, for you will have it so.

Buck.
To-morrow, then, we will attend your grace:
And so, most joyfully, we take our leave.

Glo.
Come, let us to our holy work again^{9 note}. [To the Bishops.
Farewell, my cousin:—farewell, gentle friends. [Exeunt. ACT IV. SCENE I. Before the Tower. Enter, on one side, Queen Elizabeth, Duchess of York, and Marquess of Dorset; on the other, Anne, Duchess of Gloster, leading Lady Margaret Plantagenet, Clarence's young Daughter.

Duch.
Who meets us here?—my niece Plantagenet
Led in the hand of her kind aunt of Gloster!
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.

Q. Eliz.
As much to you, good sister: whither away^{1 note}

?

Anne.
No farther than the Tower; and, as I guess,
Upon the like devotion as yourselves,
To gratulate the gentle princes there^{2 note}.

Q. Eliz.
Kind sister, thanks: we'll enter all together:

Enter Brakenbury.
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^{3 note}?

Brak.
Right well, dear madam. By your patience,
I may not suffer you to visit them:
The king hath strictly charg'd the contrary.

Q. Eliz.
The king! who's that?

Brak.
I mean the lord protector.

Q. Eliz.
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^{4 note} from them?

Duch.
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^{5 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^{6 note}:
I am bound by oath, and therefore pardon me. [Exit Brakenbury. Enter Stanley.

Stan.
Let me but meet you, ladies, one hour hence,
And I'll salute your grace of York as mother,
And reverend looker-on of two fair queens.—
Come, madam, you must straight to Westminster, [To the Duchess of Gloster.
There to be crowned Richard's royal queen.

Q. Eliz.
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.
Despiteful tidings! O, unpleasing news^{7 note}!

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

Q. Eliz.
O Dorset! speak not to me, get thee gone;
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, 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 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^{8 note};
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.

Duch.
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 murderous!

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^{9 note};
And die, ere men can say—God save the queen!

Q. Eliz.
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 corse;
When scarce the blood was well wash'd from his hands,
Which issu'd from my other angel husband,
And that dear saint^{1 note} 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 wedd'st, let sorrow haunt thy bed;
And be thy wife (if any be so mad)
More miserable by the life of thee^{2 note},
Than thou hast made me by my dear lord's death!”
Lo! ere I can repeat this curse again,
Within so small a time^{3 note}, my woman's heart
Grossly grew captive to his honey words,
And prov'd the subject of mine own soul's curse:
Which hitherto 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 timorous dreams was still awak'd.
Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick;
And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me.

Q. Eliz.
Poor heart, adieu; I pity thy complaining^{4 note}.

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

Dor.
Farewell, thou woeful welcomer of glory.

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

Duch.
Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune guide thee!— [To Dorset.
Go thou to Richard, and good angels tend thee^{5 note}!— [To Anne.

Go thou to sanctuary, and good thoughts possess thee! [To Queen Elizabeth.
I to my grave, where peace and rest lie with me!
Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen,
And each hour's joy wreck'd with a week of teen^{6 note}.

Q. Eliz.
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 farewell^{7 note}. [Exeunt. SCENE II. A Room of State in the Palace. Sound a Sennet. Richard, as King upon his Throne^{8 note}; Buckingham, Catesby, a Page, and Others.

K. Rich.
Stand all apart.—Cousin of Buckingham!

Buck.
My gracious sovereign.

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^{9 note},
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^{1 note},
To try if thou be current 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 lord.

K. Rich.
Ha! am I 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 wast 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 little breath, some pause, dear lord,
Before I positively speak in this:
I will resolve you herein presently^{2 note}. [Exit Buckingham.

Cate.
The king is angry: see, he gnaws his lip^{3 note}. [Aside.

K. Rich.
I will converse with iron-witted fools, [Descends from his Throne.
And unrespective boys: none are for me,
That look into me with considerate eyes.
High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect.
Boy!—

Page.
My lord.

K. Rich.
Know'st thou not any, whom corrupting gold
Will tempt^{4 note} 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 Tyrrel.

K. Rich.
I partly know the man: go, call him hither, boy^{5 note}.— [Exit Page.
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.
Know, my loving lord,
The marquis Dorset, as I hear, is fled

To Richmond, in the parts where he abides^{6 note}.

K. Rich.
Come hither, Catesby^{7 note}



: rumour it abroad,
That Anne, my wife, is very grievous sick;
I will take order for her keeping close.
Inquire me out some mean poor gentleman^{8 note},
Whom I will marry straight 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.— [Exit Catesby.
I must be married to my brother's daughter,
Or else my kingdom stands on brittle glass.—
Murder 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.— Re-enter Page, with Tyrrel.
Is thy name Tyrrel?