Come, bring forth the prisoners.
Sir Richard Ratcliff, let me tell thee this:
To-day shalt thou behold a subject die
For truth, for duty, and for loyalty.
God keep the prince from all the pack of you!
A knot you are of damned blood-suckers!
You live that shall cry woe for this after.
Dispatch; the limit of your lives is out.
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,
We give thee up our guiltless blood to drink.
Now Margaret's curse is fall'n upon our heads,
For standing by when Richard stabb'd her son.
Then cursed she Hastings, then cursed she Buckingham,
Then cursed she Richard. O, remember, God
To hear her prayers 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.
Make haste; the hour of death is expiate.
Come, Grey, come, Vaughan, let us all embrace:
And take our leave, until we meet in heaven.