The Life and Death of Richard the Third

1Now is the winter of our discontent

2Made glorious summer by this sun of York;

3And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house

4In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

5Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;

6Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;

7Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,

8Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.

9Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;

10And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds

11To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,

12He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber

13To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

14But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,

15Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;

16I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty

17To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;

18I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,

19Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,

20Deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my time

21Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,

22And that so lamely and unfashionable

23That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;

24Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,

25Have no delight to pass away the time,

26Unless to spy my shadow in the sun

27And descant on mine own deformity:

28And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,

29To entertain these fair well-spoken days,

30I am determined to prove a villain

31And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

32Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,

33By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,

34To set my brother Clarence and the king

35In deadly hate the one against the other:

36And if King Edward be as true and just

37As I am subtle, false and treacherous,

38This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up,

39About a prophecy, which says that 'G'

40Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be.

41Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here

42Clarence comes.

43Brother, good day; what means this armed guard

44That waits upon your grace?

45His majesty

46Tendering my person's safety, hath appointed

47This conduct to convey me to the Tower.

48Upon what cause?

49Because my name is George.

50Alack, my lord, that fault is none of yours;

51He should, for that, commit your godfathers:

52O, belike his majesty hath some intent

53That you shall be new-christen'd in the Tower.

54But what's the matter, Clarence? may I know?

55Yea, Richard, when I know; for I protest

56As yet I do not: but, as I can learn,

57He hearkens after prophecies and dreams;

58And from the cross-row plucks the letter G.

59And says a wizard told him that by G

60His issue disinherited should be;

61And, for my name of George begins with G,

62It follows in his thought that I am he.

63These, as I learn, and such like toys as these

64Have moved his highness to commit me now.

65Why, this it is, when men are ruled by women:

66'Tis not the king that sends you to the Tower:

67My Lady Grey his wife, Clarence, 'tis she

68That tempers him to this extremity.

69Was it not she and that good man of worship,

70Anthony Woodville, her brother there,

71That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower,

72From whence this present day he is deliver'd?

73We are not safe, Clarence; we are not safe.

74By heaven, I think there's no man is secure

75But the queen's kindred and night-walking heralds

76That trudge betwixt the king and Mistress Shore.

77Heard ye not what an humble suppliant

78Lord hastings was to her for his delivery?

79Humbly complaining to her deity

80Got my lord chamberlain his liberty.

81I'll tell you what; I think it is our way,

82If we will keep in favour with the king,

83To be her men and wear her livery:

84The jealous o'erworn widow and herself,

85Since that our brother dubb'd them gentlewomen.

86Are mighty gossips in this monarchy.

87I beseech your graces both to pardon me;

88His majesty hath straitly given in charge

89That no man shall have private conference,

90Of what degree soever, with his brother.

91Even so; an't please your worship, Brakenbury,

92You may partake of any thing we say:

93We speak no treason, man: we say the king

94Is wise and virtuous, and his noble queen

95Well struck in years, fair, and not jealous;

96We say that Shore's wife hath a pretty foot,

97A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue;

98And that the queen's kindred are made gentle-folks:

99How say you sir? Can you deny all this?

100With this, my lord, myself have nought to do.

101Naught to do with mistress Shore! I tell thee, fellow,

102He that doth naught with her, excepting one,

103Were best he do it secretly, alone.

104What one, my lord?

105Her husband, knave: wouldst thou betray me?

106I beseech your grace to pardon me, and withal

107Forbear your conference with the noble duke.

108We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will obey.

109We are the queen's abjects, and must obey.

110Brother, farewell: I will unto the king;

111And whatsoever you will employ me in,

112Were it to call King Edward's widow sister,

113I will perform it to enfranchise you.

114Meantime, this deep disgrace in brotherhood

115Touches me deeper than you can imagine.

116I know it pleaseth neither of us well.

117Well, your imprisonment shall not be long;

118Meantime, have patience.

119I must perforce. Farewell.

120Go, tread the path that thou shalt ne'er return.

121Simple, plain Clarence! I do love thee so,

122That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven,

123If heaven will take the present at our hands.

124But who comes here? the new-deliver'd Hastings?

125Good time of day unto my gracious lord!

126As much unto my good lord chamberlain!

127Well are you welcome to the open air.

128How hath your lordship brook'd imprisonment?

129With patience, noble lord, as prisoners must:

130But I shall live, my lord, to give them thanks

131That were the cause of my imprisonment.

132No doubt, no doubt; and so shall Clarence too;

133For they that were your enemies are his,

134And have prevail'd as much on him as you.

135More pity that the eagle should be mew'd,

136While kites and buzzards prey at liberty.

137What news abroad?

138No news so bad abroad as this at home;

139The King is sickly, weak and melancholy,

140And his physicians fear him mightily.

141Now, by Saint Paul, this news is bad indeed.

142O, he hath kept an evil diet long,

143And overmuch consumed his royal person:

144'Tis very grievous to be thought upon.

145What, is he in his bed?

146He is.

147Go you before, and I will follow you.

148He cannot live, I hope; and must not die

149Till George be pack'd with post-horse up to heaven.

150I'll in, to urge his hatred more to Clarence,

151With lies well steel'd with weighty arguments;

152And, if I fall not in my deep intent,

153Clarence hath not another day to live:

154Which done, God take King Edward to his mercy,

155And leave the world for me to bustle in!

156For then I'll marry Warwick's youngest daughter.

157What though I kill'd her husband and her father?

158The readiest way to make the wench amends

159Is to become her husband and her father:

160The which will I; not all so much for love

161As for another secret close intent,

162By marrying her which I must reach unto.

163But yet I run before my horse to market:

164Clarence still breathes; Edward still lives and reigns:

165When they are gone, then must I count my gains.

1Set down, set down your honourable load,

2If honour may be shrouded in a hearse,

3Whilst I awhile obsequiously lament

4The untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster.

5Poor key-cold figure of a holy king!

6Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster!

7Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood!

8Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost,

9To hear the lamentations of Poor Anne,

10Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughter'd son,

11Stabb'd by the selfsame hand that made these wounds!

12Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life,

13I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes.

14Cursed be the hand that made these fatal holes!

15Cursed be the heart that had the heart to do it!

16Cursed the blood that let this blood from hence!

17More direful hap betide that hated wretch,

18That makes us wretched by the death of thee,

19Than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads,

20Or any creeping venom'd thing that lives!

21If ever he have child, abortive be it,

22Prodigious, and untimely brought to light,

23Whose ugly and unnatural aspect

24May fright the hopeful mother at the view;

25And that be heir to his unhappiness!

26If ever he have wife, let her he made

27A miserable by the death of him

28As I am made by my poor lord and thee!

29Come, now towards Chertsey with your holy load,

30Taken from Paul's to be interred there;

31And still, as you are weary of the weight,

32Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry's corse.

33Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it down.

34What black magician conjures up this fiend,

35To stop devoted charitable deeds?

36Villains, set down the corse; or, by Saint Paul,

37I'll make a corse of him that disobeys.

38My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass.

39Unmanner'd dog! stand thou, when I command:

40Advance thy halbert higher than my breast,

41Or, by Saint Paul, I'll strike thee to my foot,

42And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness.

43What, do you tremble? are you all afraid?

44Alas, I blame you not; for you are mortal,

45And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil.

46Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell!

47Thou hadst but power over his mortal body,

48His soul thou canst not have; therefore be gone.

49Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst.

50Foul devil, for God's sake, hence, and trouble us not;

51For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell,

52Fill'd it with cursing cries and deep exclaims.

53If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds,

54Behold this pattern of thy butcheries.

55O, gentlemen, see, see! dead Henry's wounds

56Open their congeal'd mouths and bleed afresh!

57Blush, Blush, thou lump of foul deformity;

58For 'tis thy presence that exhales this blood

59From cold and empty veins, where no blood dwells;

60Thy deed, inhuman and unnatural,

61Provokes this deluge most unnatural.

62O God, which this blood madest, revenge his death!

63O earth, which this blood drink'st revenge his death!

64Either heaven with lightning strike the

65murderer dead,

66Or earth, gape open wide and eat him quick,

67As thou dost swallow up this good king's blood

68Which his hell-govern'd arm hath butchered!

69Lady, you know no rules of charity,

70Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.

71Villain, thou know'st no law of God nor man:

72No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.

73But I know none, and therefore am no beast.

74O wonderful, when devils tell the truth!

75More wonderful, when angels are so angry.

76Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman,

77Of these supposed-evils, to give me leave,

78By circumstance, but to acquit myself.

79Vouchsafe, defused infection of a man,

80For these known evils, but to give me leave,

81By circumstance, to curse thy cursed self.

82Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me have

83Some patient leisure to excuse myself.

84Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst make

85No excuse current, but to hang thyself.

86By such despair, I should accuse myself.

87And, by despairing, shouldst thou stand excused;

88For doing worthy vengeance on thyself,

89Which didst unworthy slaughter upon others.

90Say that I slew them not?

91Why, then they are not dead:

92But dead they are, and devilish slave, by thee.

93I did not kill your husband.

94Why, then he is alive.

95Nay, he is dead; and slain by Edward's hand.

96In thy foul throat thou liest: Queen Margaret saw

97Thy murderous falchion smoking in his blood;

98The which thou once didst bend against her breast,

99But that thy brothers beat aside the point.

100I was provoked by her slanderous tongue,

101which laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoulders.

102Thou wast provoked by thy bloody mind.

103Which never dreamt on aught but butcheries:

104Didst thou not kill this king?

105I grant ye.

106Dost grant me, hedgehog? then, God grant me too

107Thou mayst be damned for that wicked deed!

108O, he was gentle, mild, and virtuous!

109The fitter for the King of heaven, that hath him.

110He is in heaven, where thou shalt never come.

111Let him thank me, that holp to send him thither;

112For he was fitter for that place than earth.

113And thou unfit for any place but hell.

114Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it.

115Some dungeon.

116Your bed-chamber.

117Ill rest betide the chamber where thou liest!

118So will it, madam till I lie with you.

119I hope so.

120I know so. But, gentle Lady Anne,

121To leave this keen encounter of our wits,

122And fall somewhat into a slower method,

123Is not the causer of the timeless deaths

124Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward,

125As blameful as the executioner?

126Thou art the cause, and most accursed effect.

127Your beauty was the cause of that effect;

128Your beauty: which did haunt me in my sleep

129To undertake the death of all the world,

130So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom.

131If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide,

132These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks.

133These eyes could never endure sweet beauty's wreck;

134You should not blemish it, if I stood by:

135As all the world is cheered by the sun,

136So I by that; it is my day, my life.

137Black night o'ershade thy day, and death thy life!

138Curse not thyself, fair creature thou art both.

139I would I were, to be revenged on thee.

140It is a quarrel most unnatural,

141To be revenged on him that loveth you.

142It is a quarrel just and reasonable,

143To be revenged on him that slew my husband.

144He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband,

145Did it to help thee to a better husband.

146His better doth not breathe upon the earth.

147He lives that loves thee better than he could.

148Name him.

149Plantagenet.

150Why, that was he.

151The selfsame name, but one of better nature.

152Where is he?

153Here.

154Why dost thou spit at me?

155Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake!

156Never came poison from so sweet a place.

157Never hung poison on a fouler toad.

158Out of my sight! thou dost infect my eyes.

159Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine.

160Would they were basilisks, to strike thee dead!

161I would they were, that I might die at once;

162For now they kill me with a living death.

163Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears,

164Shamed their aspect with store of childish drops:

165These eyes that never shed remorseful tear,

166No, when my father York and Edward wept,

167To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made

168When black-faced Clifford shook his sword at him;

169Nor when thy warlike father, like a child,

170Told the sad story of my father's death,

171And twenty times made pause to sob and weep,

172That all the standers-by had wet their cheeks

173Like trees bedash'd with rain: in that sad time

174My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear;

175And what these sorrows could not thence exhale,

176Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping.

177I never sued to friend nor enemy;

178My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing word;

179But now thy beauty is proposed my fee,

180My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak.

181Teach not thy lips such scorn, for they were made

182For kissing, lady, not for such contempt.

183If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive,

184Lo, here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword;

185Which if thou please to hide in this true bosom.

186And let the soul forth that adoreth thee,

187I lay it naked to the deadly stroke,

188And humbly beg the death upon my knee.

189Nay, do not pause; for I did kill King Henry,

190But 'twas thy beauty that provoked me.

191Nay, now dispatch; 'twas I that stabb'd young Edward,

192But 'twas thy heavenly face that set me on.

193Take up the sword again, or take up me.

194Arise, dissembler: though I wish thy death,

195I will not be the executioner.

196Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it.

197I have already.

198Tush, that was in thy rage:

199Speak it again, and, even with the word,

200That hand, which, for thy love, did kill thy love,

201Shall, for thy love, kill a far truer love;

202To both their deaths thou shalt be accessary.

203I would I knew thy heart.

204'Tis figured in my tongue.

205I fear me both are false.

206Then never man was true.

207Well, well, put up your sword.

208Say, then, my peace is made.

209That shall you know hereafter.

210But shall I live in hope?

211All men, I hope, live so.

212Vouchsafe to wear this ring.

213To take is not to give.

214Look, how this ring encompasseth finger.

215Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart;

216Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.

217And if thy poor devoted suppliant may

218But beg one favour at thy gracious hand,

219Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever.

220What is it?

221That it would please thee leave these sad designs

222To him that hath more cause to be a mourner,

223And presently repair to Crosby Place;

224Where, after I have solemnly interr'd

225At Chertsey monastery this noble king,

226And wet his grave with my repentant tears,

227I will with all expedient duty see you:

228For divers unknown reasons. I beseech you,

229Grant me this boon.

230With all my heart; and much it joys me too,

231To see you are become so penitent.

232Tressel and Berkeley, go along with me.

233Bid me farewell.

234'Tis more than you deserve;

235But since you teach me how to flatter you,

236Imagine I have said farewell already.

237Sirs, take up the corse.

238Towards Chertsey, noble lord?

239No, to White-Friars; there attend my coining.

240Was ever woman in this humour woo'd?

241Was ever woman in this humour won?

242I'll have her; but I will not keep her long.

243What! I, that kill'd her husband and his father,

244To take her in her heart's extremest hate,

245With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes,

246The bleeding witness of her hatred by;

247Having God, her conscience, and these bars

248against me,

249And I nothing to back my suit at all,

250But the plain devil and dissembling looks,

251And yet to win her, all the world to nothing!

252Ha!

253Hath she forgot already that brave prince,

254Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months since,

255Stabb'd in my angry mood at Tewksbury?

256A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman,

257Framed in the prodigality of nature,

258Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right royal,

259The spacious world cannot again afford

260And will she yet debase her eyes on me,

261That cropp'd the golden prime of this sweet prince,

262And made her widow to a woful bed?

263On me, whose all not equals Edward's moiety?

264On me, that halt and am unshapen thus?

265My dukedom to a beggarly denier,

266I do mistake my person all this while:

267Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot,

268Myself to be a marvellous proper man.

269I'll be at charges for a looking-glass,

270And entertain some score or two of tailors,

271To study fashions to adorn my body:

272Since I am crept in favour with myself,

273Will maintain it with some little cost.

274But first I'll turn yon fellow in his grave;

275And then return lamenting to my love.

276Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass,

277That I may see my shadow as I pass.

1Have patience, madam: there's no doubt his majesty

2Will soon recover his accustom'd health.

3In that you brook it in, it makes him worse:

4Therefore, for God's sake, entertain good comfort,

5And cheer his grace with quick and merry words.

6If he were dead, what would betide of me?

7No other harm but loss of such a lord.

8The loss of such a lord includes all harm.

9The heavens have bless'd you with a goodly son,

10To be your comforter when he is gone.

11Oh, he is young and his minority

12Is put unto the trust of Richard Gloucester,

13A man that loves not me, nor none of you.

14Is it concluded that he shall be protector?

15It is determined, not concluded yet:

16But so it must be, if the king miscarry.

17Here come the lords of Buckingham and Derby.

18Good time of day unto your royal grace!

19God make your majesty joyful as you have been!

20The Countess Richmond, good my Lord of Derby.

21To your good prayers will scarcely say amen.

22Yet, Derby, notwithstanding she's your wife,

23And loves not me, be you, good lord, assured

24I hate not you for her proud arrogance.

25I do beseech you, either not believe

26The envious slanders of her false accusers;

27Or, if she be accused in true report,

28Bear with her weakness, which, I think proceeds

29From wayward sickness, and no grounded malice.

30Saw you the king to-day, my Lord of Derby?

31But now the Duke of Buckingham and I

32Are come from visiting his majesty.

33What likelihood of his amendment, lords?

34Madam, good hope; his grace speaks cheerfully.

35God grant him health! Did you confer with him?

36Madam, we did: he desires to make atonement

37Betwixt the Duke of Gloucester and your brothers,

38And betwixt them and my lord chamberlain;

39And sent to warn them to his royal presence.

40Would all were well! but that will never be

41I fear our happiness is at the highest.

42They do me wrong, and I will not endure it:

43Who are they that complain unto the king,

44That I, forsooth, am stern, and love them not?

45By holy Paul, they love his grace but lightly

46That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours.

47Because I cannot flatter and speak fair,

48Smile in men's faces, smooth, deceive and cog,

49Duck with French nods and apish courtesy,

50I must be held a rancorous enemy.

51Cannot a plain man live and think no harm,

52But thus his simple truth must be abused

53By silken, sly, insinuating Jacks?

54To whom in all this presence speaks your grace?

55To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace.

56When have I injured thee? when done thee wrong?

57Or thee? or thee? or any of your faction?

58A plague upon you all! His royal person,--

59Whom God preserve better than you would wish!--

60Cannot be quiet scarce a breathing-while,

61But you must trouble him with lewd complaints.

62Brother of Gloucester, you mistake the matter.

63The king, of his own royal disposition,

64And not provoked by any suitor else;

65Aiming, belike, at your interior hatred,

66Which in your outward actions shows itself

67Against my kindred, brothers, and myself,

68Makes him to send; that thereby he may gather

69The ground of your ill-will, and so remove it.

70I cannot tell: the world is grown so bad,

71That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch:

72Since every Jack became a gentleman

73There's many a gentle person made a Jack.

74Come, come, we know your meaning, brother

75Gloucester;

76You envy my advancement and my friends':

77God grant we never may have need of you!

78Meantime, God grants that we have need of you:

79Your brother is imprison'd by your means,

80Myself disgraced, and the nobility

81Held in contempt; whilst many fair promotions

82Are daily given to ennoble those

83That scarce, some two days since, were worth a noble.

84By Him that raised me to this careful height

85From that contented hap which I enjoy'd,

86I never did incense his majesty

87Against the Duke of Clarence, but have been

88An earnest advocate to plead for him.

89My lord, you do me shameful injury,

90Falsely to draw me in these vile suspects.

91You may deny that you were not the cause

92Of my Lord Hastings' late imprisonment.

93She may, my lord, for--

94She may, Lord Rivers! why, who knows not so?

95She may do more, sir, than denying that:

96She may help you to many fair preferments,

97And then deny her aiding hand therein,

98And lay those honours on your high deserts.

99What may she not? She may, yea, marry, may she--

100What, marry, may she?

101What, marry, may she! marry with a king,

102A bachelor, a handsome stripling too:

103I wis your grandam had a worser match.

104My Lord of Gloucester, I have too long borne

105Your blunt upbraidings and your bitter scoffs:

106By heaven, I will acquaint his majesty

107With those gross taunts I often have endured.

108I had rather be a country servant-maid

109Than a great queen, with this condition,

110To be thus taunted, scorn'd, and baited at:

111Small joy have I in being England's queen.

112And lessen'd be that small, God, I beseech thee!

113Thy honour, state and seat is due to me.

114What! threat you me with telling of the king?

115Tell him, and spare not: look, what I have said

116I will avouch in presence of the king:

117I dare adventure to be sent to the Tower.

118'Tis time to speak; my pains are quite forgot.

119Out, devil! I remember them too well:

120Thou slewest my husband Henry in the Tower,

121And Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury.

122Ere you were queen, yea, or your husband king,

123I was a pack-horse in his great affairs;

124A weeder-out of his proud adversaries,

125A liberal rewarder of his friends:

126To royalize his blood I spilt mine own.

127Yea, and much better blood than his or thine.

128In all which time you and your husband Grey

129Were factious for the house of Lancaster;

130And, Rivers, so were you. Was not your husband

131In Margaret's battle at Saint Alban's slain?

132Let me put in your minds, if you forget,

133What you have been ere now, and what you are;

134Withal, what I have been, and what I am.

135A murderous villain, and so still thou art.

136Poor Clarence did forsake his father, Warwick;

137Yea, and forswore himself,--which Jesu pardon!--

138Which God revenge!

139To fight on Edward's party for the crown;

140And for his meed, poor lord, he is mew'd up.

141I would to God my heart were flint, like Edward's;

142Or Edward's soft and pitiful, like mine

143I am too childish-foolish for this world.

144Hie thee to hell for shame, and leave the world,

145Thou cacodemon! there thy kingdom is.

146My Lord of Gloucester, in those busy days

147Which here you urge to prove us enemies,

148We follow'd then our lord, our lawful king:

149So should we you, if you should be our king.

150If I should be! I had rather be a pedlar:

151Far be it from my heart, the thought of it!

152As little joy, my lord, as you suppose

153You should enjoy, were you this country's king,

154As little joy may you suppose in me.

155That I enjoy, being the queen thereof.

156A little joy enjoys the queen thereof;

157For I am she, and altogether joyless.

158I can no longer hold me patient.

159Hear me, you wrangling pirates, that fall out

160In sharing that which you have pill'd from me!

161Which of you trembles not that looks on me?

162If not, that, I being queen, you bow like subjects,

163Yet that, by you deposed, you quake like rebels?

164O gentle villain, do not turn away!

165Foul wrinkled witch, what makest thou in my sight?

166But repetition of what thou hast marr'd;

167That will I make before I let thee go.

168Wert thou not banished on pain of death?

169I was; but I do find more pain in banishment

170Than death can yield me here by my abode.

171A husband and a son thou owest to me;

172And thou a kingdom; all of you allegiance:

173The sorrow that I have, by right is yours,

174And all the pleasures you usurp are mine.

175The curse my noble father laid on thee,

176When thou didst crown his warlike brows with paper

177And with thy scorns drew'st rivers from his eyes,

178And then, to dry them, gavest the duke a clout

179Steep'd in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland--

180His curses, then from bitterness of soul

181Denounced against thee, are all fall'n upon thee;

182And God, not we, hath plagued thy bloody deed.

183So just is God, to right the innocent.

184O, 'twas the foulest deed to slay that babe,

185And the most merciless that e'er was heard of!

186Tyrants themselves wept when it was reported.

187No man but prophesied revenge for it.

188Northumberland, then present, wept to see it.

189What were you snarling all before I came,

190Ready to catch each other by the throat,

191And turn you all your hatred now on me?

192Did York's dread curse prevail so much with heaven?

193That Henry's death, my lovely Edward's death,

194Their kingdom's loss, my woful banishment,

195Could all but answer for that peevish brat?

196Can curses pierce the clouds and enter heaven?

197Why, then, give way, dull clouds, to my quick curses!

198If not by war, by surfeit die your king,

199As ours by murder, to make him a king!

200Edward thy son, which now is Prince of Wales,

201For Edward my son, which was Prince of Wales,

202Die in his youth by like untimely violence!

203Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen,

204Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self!

205Long mayst thou live to wail thy children's loss;

206And see another, as I see thee now,

207Deck'd in thy rights, as thou art stall'd in mine!

208Long die thy happy days before thy death;

209And, after many lengthen'd hours of grief,

210Die neither mother, wife, nor England's queen!

211Rivers and Dorset, you were standers by,

212And so wast thou, Lord Hastings, when my son

213Was stabb'd with bloody daggers: God, I pray him,

214That none of you may live your natural age,

215But by some unlook'd accident cut off!

216Have done thy charm, thou hateful wither'd hag!

217And leave out thee? stay, dog, for thou shalt hear me.

218If heaven have any grievous plague in store

219Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee,

220O, let them keep it till thy sins be ripe,

221And then hurl down their indignation

222On thee, the troubler of the poor world's peace!

223The worm of conscience still begnaw thy soul!

224Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou livest,

225And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends!

226No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine,

227Unless it be whilst some tormenting dream

228Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils!

229Thou elvish-mark'd, abortive, rooting hog!

230Thou that wast seal'd in thy nativity

231The slave of nature and the son of hell!

232Thou slander of thy mother's heavy womb!

233Thou loathed issue of thy father's loins!

234Thou rag of honour! thou detested--

235Margaret.

236Richard!

237Ha!

238I call thee not.

239I cry thee mercy then, for I had thought

240That thou hadst call'd me all these bitter names.

241Why, so I did; but look'd for no reply.

242O, let me make the period to my curse!

243'Tis done by me, and ends in 'Margaret.'

244Thus have you breathed your curse against yourself.

245Poor painted queen, vain flourish of my fortune!

246Why strew'st thou sugar on that bottled spider,

247Whose deadly web ensnareth thee about?

248Fool, fool! thou whet'st a knife to kill thyself.

249The time will come when thou shalt wish for me

250To help thee curse that poisonous bunchback'd toad.

251False-boding woman, end thy frantic curse,

252Lest to thy harm thou move our patience.

253Foul shame upon you! you have all moved mine.

254Were you well served, you would be taught your duty.

255To serve me well, you all should do me duty,

256Teach me to be your queen, and you my subjects:

257O, serve me well, and teach yourselves that duty!

258Dispute not with her; she is lunatic.

259Peace, master marquess, you are malapert:

260Your fire-new stamp of honour is scarce current.

261O, that your young nobility could judge

262What 'twere to lose it, and be miserable!

263They that stand high have many blasts to shake them;

264And if they fall, they dash themselves to pieces.

265Good counsel, marry: learn it, learn it, marquess.

266It toucheth you, my lord, as much as me.

267Yea, and much more: but I was born so high,

268Our aery buildeth in the cedar's top,

269And dallies with the wind and scorns the sun.

270And turns the sun to shade; alas! alas!

271Witness my son, now in the shade of death;

272Whose bright out-shining beams thy cloudy wrath

273Hath in eternal darkness folded up.

274Your aery buildeth in our aery's nest.

275O God, that seest it, do not suffer it!

276As it was won with blood, lost be it so!

277Have done! for shame, if not for charity.

278Urge neither charity nor shame to me:

279Uncharitably with me have you dealt,

280And shamefully by you my hopes are butcher'd.

281My charity is outrage, life my shame

282And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage.

283Have done, have done.

284O princely Buckingham I'll kiss thy hand,

285In sign of league and amity with thee:

286Now fair befal thee and thy noble house!

287Thy garments are not spotted with our blood,

288Nor thou within the compass of my curse.

289Nor no one here; for curses never pass

290The lips of those that breathe them in the air.

291I'll not believe but they ascend the sky,

292And there awake God's gentle-sleeping peace.

293O Buckingham, take heed of yonder dog!

294Look, when he fawns, he bites; and when he bites,

295His venom tooth will rankle to the death:

296Have not to do with him, beware of him;

297Sin, death, and hell have set their marks on him,

298And all their ministers attend on him.

299What doth she say, my Lord of Buckingham?

300Nothing that I respect, my gracious lord.

301What, dost thou scorn me for my gentle counsel?

302And soothe the devil that I warn thee from?

303O, but remember this another day,

304When he shall split thy very heart with sorrow,

305And say poor Margaret was a prophetess!

306Live each of you the subjects to his hate,

307And he to yours, and all of you to God's!

308My hair doth stand on end to hear her curses.

309And so doth mine: I muse why she's at liberty.

310I cannot blame her: by God's holy mother,

311She hath had too much wrong; and I repent

312My part thereof that I have done to her.

313I never did her any, to my knowledge.

314But you have all the vantage of her wrong.

315I was too hot to do somebody good,

316That is too cold in thinking of it now.

317Marry, as for Clarence, he is well repaid,

318He is frank'd up to fatting for his pains

319God pardon them that are the cause of it!

320A virtuous and a Christian-like conclusion,

321To pray for them that have done scathe to us.

322So do I ever:

323being well-advised.

324For had I cursed now, I had cursed myself.

325Madam, his majesty doth call for you,

326And for your grace; and you, my noble lords.

327Catesby, we come. Lords, will you go with us?

328Madam, we will attend your grace.

329I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl.

330The secret mischiefs that I set abroach

331I lay unto the grievous charge of others.

332Clarence, whom I, indeed, have laid in darkness,

333I do beweep to many simple gulls

334Namely, to Hastings, Derby, Buckingham;

335And say it is the queen and her allies

336That stir the king against the duke my brother.

337Now, they believe it; and withal whet me

338To be revenged on Rivers, Vaughan, Grey:

339But then I sigh; and, with a piece of scripture,

340Tell them that God bids us do good for evil:

341And thus I clothe my naked villany

342With old odd ends stolen out of holy writ;

343And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.

344But, soft! here come my executioners.

345How now, my hardy, stout resolved mates!

346Are you now going to dispatch this deed?

347We are, my lord; and come to have the warrant

348That we may be admitted where he is.

349Well thought upon; I have it here about me.

350When you have done, repair to Crosby Place.

351But, sirs, be sudden in the execution,

352Withal obdurate, do not hear him plead;

353For Clarence is well-spoken, and perhaps

354May move your hearts to pity if you mark him.

355Tush!

356Fear not, my lord, we will not stand to prate;

357Talkers are no good doers: be assured

358We come to use our hands and not our tongues.

359Your eyes drop millstones, when fools' eyes drop tears:

360I like you, lads; about your business straight;

361Go, go, dispatch.

362We will, my noble lord.

1Why looks your grace so heavily today?

2O, I have pass'd a miserable night,

3So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams,

4That, as I am a Christian faithful man,

5I would not spend another such a night,

6Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days,

7So full of dismal terror was the time!

8What was your dream? I long to hear you tell it.

9Methoughts that I had broken from the Tower,

10And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy;

11And, in my company, my brother Gloucester;

12Who from my cabin tempted me to walk

13Upon the hatches: thence we looked toward England,

14And cited up a thousand fearful times,

15During the wars of York and Lancaster

16That had befall'n us. As we paced along

17Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,

18Methought that Gloucester stumbled; and, in falling,

19Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard,

20Into the tumbling billows of the main.

21Lord, Lord! methought, what pain it was to drown!

22What dreadful noise of waters in mine ears!

23What ugly sights of death within mine eyes!

24Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;

25Ten thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upon;

26Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,

27Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,

28All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea:

29Some lay in dead men's skulls; and, in those holes

30Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept,

31As 'twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems,

32Which woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep,

33And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.

34Had you such leisure in the time of death

35To gaze upon the secrets of the deep?

36Methought I had; and often did I strive

37To yield the ghost: but still the envious flood

38Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth

39To seek the empty, vast and wandering air;

40But smother'd it within my panting bulk,

41Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.

42Awaked you not with this sore agony?

43O, no, my dream was lengthen'd after life;

44O, then began the tempest to my soul,

45Who pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood,

46With that grim ferryman which poets write of,

47Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.

48The first that there did greet my stranger soul,

49Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick;

50Who cried aloud, 'What scourge for perjury

51Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?'

52And so he vanish'd: then came wandering by

53A shadow like an angel, with bright hair

54Dabbled in blood; and he squeak'd out aloud,

55'Clarence is come; false, fleeting, perjured Clarence,

56That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury;

57Seize on him, Furies, take him to your torments!'

58With that, methoughts, a legion of foul fiends

59Environ'd me about, and howled in mine ears

60Such hideous cries, that with the very noise

61I trembling waked, and for a season after

62Could not believe but that I was in hell,

63Such terrible impression made the dream.

64No marvel, my lord, though it affrighted you;

65I promise, I am afraid to hear you tell it.

66O Brakenbury, I have done those things,

67Which now bear evidence against my soul,

68For Edward's sake; and see how he requites me!

69O God! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee,

70But thou wilt be avenged on my misdeeds,

71Yet execute thy wrath in me alone,

72O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children!

73I pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me;

74My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

75I will, my lord: God give your grace good rest!

76Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours,

77Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night.

78Princes have but their tides for their glories,

79An outward honour for an inward toil;

80And, for unfelt imagination,

81They often feel a world of restless cares:

82So that, betwixt their tides and low names,

83There's nothing differs but the outward fame.

84Ho! who's here?

85In God's name what are you, and how came you hither?

86I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs.

87Yea, are you so brief?

88O sir, it is better to be brief than tedious. Show

89him our commission; talk no more.

90I am, in this, commanded to deliver

91The noble Duke of Clarence to your hands:

92I will not reason what is meant hereby,

93Because I will be guiltless of the meaning.

94Here are the keys, there sits the duke asleep:

95I'll to the king; and signify to him

96That thus I have resign'd my charge to you.

97Do so, it is a point of wisdom: fare you well.

98What, shall we stab him as he sleeps?

99No; then he will say 'twas done cowardly, when he wakes.

100When he wakes! why, fool, he shall never wake till

101the judgment-day.

102Why, then he will say we stabbed him sleeping.

103The urging of that word 'judgment' hath bred a kind

104of remorse in me.

105What, art thou afraid?

106Not to kill him, having a warrant for it; but to be

107damned for killing him, from which no warrant can defend us.

108I thought thou hadst been resolute.

109So I am, to let him live.

110Back to the Duke of Gloucester, tell him so.

111I pray thee, stay a while: I hope my holy humour

112will change; 'twas wont to hold me but while one

113would tell twenty.

114How dost thou feel thyself now?

115'Faith, some certain dregs of conscience are yet

116within me.

117Remember our reward, when the deed is done.

118'Zounds, he dies: I had forgot the reward.

119Where is thy conscience now?

120In the Duke of Gloucester's purse.

121So when he opens his purse to give us our reward,

122thy conscience flies out.

123Let it go; there's few or none will entertain it.

124How if it come to thee again?

125I'll not meddle with it: it is a dangerous thing: it

126makes a man a coward: a man cannot steal, but it

127accuseth him; he cannot swear, but it cheques him;

128he cannot lie with his neighbour's wife, but it

129detects him: 'tis a blushing shamefast spirit that

130mutinies in a man's bosom; it fills one full of

131obstacles: it made me once restore a purse of gold

132that I found; it beggars any man that keeps it: it

133is turned out of all towns and cities for a

134dangerous thing; and every man that means to live

135well endeavours to trust to himself and to live

136without it.

137'Zounds, it is even now at my elbow, persuading me

138not to kill the duke.

139Take the devil in thy mind, and relieve him not: he

140would insinuate with thee but to make thee sigh.

141Tut, I am strong-framed, he cannot prevail with me,

142I warrant thee.

143Spoke like a tail fellow that respects his

144reputation. Come, shall we to this gear?

145Take him over the costard with the hilts of thy

146sword, and then we will chop him in the malmsey-butt

147in the next room.

148O excellent devise! make a sop of him.

149Hark! he stirs: shall I strike?

150No, first let's reason with him.

151Where art thou, keeper? give me a cup of wine.

152You shall have wine enough, my lord, anon.

153In God's name, what art thou?

154A man, as you are.

155But not, as I am, royal.

156Nor you, as we are, loyal.

157Thy voice is thunder, but thy looks are humble.

158My voice is now the king's, my looks mine own.

159How darkly and how deadly dost thou speak!

160Your eyes do menace me: why look you pale?

161Who sent you hither? Wherefore do you come?

162To, to, to--

163To murder me?

164Ay, ay.

165You scarcely have the hearts to tell me so,

166And therefore cannot have the hearts to do it.

167Wherein, my friends, have I offended you?

168Offended us you have not, but the king.

169I shall be reconciled to him again.

170Never, my lord; therefore prepare to die.

171Are you call'd forth from out a world of men

172To slay the innocent? What is my offence?

173Where are the evidence that do accuse me?

174What lawful quest have given their verdict up

175Unto the frowning judge? or who pronounced

176The bitter sentence of poor Clarence' death?

177Before I be convict by course of law,

178To threaten me with death is most unlawful.

179I charge you, as you hope to have redemption

180By Christ's dear blood shed for our grievous sins,

181That you depart and lay no hands on me

182The deed you undertake is damnable.

183What we will do, we do upon command.

184And he that hath commanded is the king.

185Erroneous vassal! the great King of kings

186Hath in the tables of his law commanded

187That thou shalt do no murder: and wilt thou, then,

188Spurn at his edict and fulfil a man's?

189Take heed; for he holds vengeance in his hands,

190To hurl upon their heads that break his law.

191And that same vengeance doth he hurl on thee,

192For false forswearing and for murder too:

193Thou didst receive the holy sacrament,

194To fight in quarrel of the house of Lancaster.

195And, like a traitor to the name of God,

196Didst break that vow; and with thy treacherous blade

197Unrip'dst the bowels of thy sovereign's son.

198Whom thou wert sworn to cherish and defend.

199How canst thou urge God's dreadful law to us,

200When thou hast broke it in so dear degree?

201Alas! for whose sake did I that ill deed?

202For Edward, for my brother, for his sake: Why, sirs,

203He sends ye not to murder me for this

204For in this sin he is as deep as I.

205If God will be revenged for this deed.

206O, know you yet, he doth it publicly,

207Take not the quarrel from his powerful arm;

208He needs no indirect nor lawless course

209To cut off those that have offended him.

210Who made thee, then, a bloody minister,

211When gallant-springing brave Plantagenet,

212That princely novice, was struck dead by thee?

213My brother's love, the devil, and my rage.

214Thy brother's love, our duty, and thy fault,

215Provoke us hither now to slaughter thee.

216Oh, if you love my brother, hate not me;

217I am his brother, and I love him well.

218If you be hired for meed, go back again,

219And I will send you to my brother Gloucester,

220Who shall reward you better for my life

221Than Edward will for tidings of my death.

222You are deceived, your brother Gloucester hates you.

223O, no, he loves me, and he holds me dear:

224Go you to him from me.

225Ay, so we will.

226Tell him, when that our princely father York

227Bless'd his three sons with his victorious arm,

228And charged us from his soul to love each other,

229He little thought of this divided friendship:

230Bid Gloucester think of this, and he will weep.

231Ay, millstones; as be lesson'd us to weep.

232O, do not slander him, for he is kind.

233Right,

234As snow in harvest. Thou deceivest thyself:

235'Tis he that sent us hither now to slaughter thee.

236It cannot be; for when I parted with him,

237He hugg'd me in his arms, and swore, with sobs,

238That he would labour my delivery.

239Why, so he doth, now he delivers thee

240From this world's thraldom to the joys of heaven.

241Make peace with God, for you must die, my lord.

242Hast thou that holy feeling in thy soul,

243To counsel me to make my peace with God,

244And art thou yet to thy own soul so blind,

245That thou wilt war with God by murdering me?

246Ah, sirs, consider, he that set you on

247To do this deed will hate you for the deed.

248What shall we do?

249Relent, and save your souls.

250Relent! 'tis cowardly and womanish.

251Not to relent is beastly, savage, devilish.

252Which of you, if you were a prince's son,

253Being pent from liberty, as I am now,

254if two such murderers as yourselves came to you,

255Would not entreat for life?

256My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks:

257O, if thine eye be not a flatterer,

258Come thou on my side, and entreat for me,

259As you would beg, were you in my distress

260A begging prince what beggar pities not?

261Look behind you, my lord.

262Take that, and that: if all this will not do,

263I'll drown you in the malmsey-butt within.

264A bloody deed, and desperately dispatch'd!

265How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands

266Of this most grievous guilty murder done!

267How now! what mean'st thou, that thou help'st me not?

268By heavens, the duke shall know how slack thou art!

269I would he knew that I had saved his brother!

270Take thou the fee, and tell him what I say;

271For I repent me that the duke is slain.

272So do not I: go, coward as thou art.

273Now must I hide his body in some hole,

274Until the duke take order for his burial:

275And when I have my meed, I must away;

276For this will out, and here I must not stay.

1Why, so: now have I done a good day's work:

2You peers, continue this united league:

3I every day expect an embassage

4From my Redeemer to redeem me hence;

5And now in peace my soul shall part to heaven,

6Since I have set my friends at peace on earth.

7Rivers and Hastings, take each other's hand;

8Dissemble not your hatred, swear your love.

9By heaven, my heart is purged from grudging hate:

10And with my hand I seal my true heart's love.

11So thrive I, as I truly swear the like!

12Take heed you dally not before your king;

13Lest he that is the supreme King of kings

14Confound your hidden falsehood, and award

15Either of you to be the other's end.

16So prosper I, as I swear perfect love!

17And I, as I love Hastings with my heart!

18Madam, yourself are not exempt in this,

19Nor your son Dorset, Buckingham, nor you;

20You have been factious one against the other,

21Wife, love Lord Hastings, let him kiss your hand;

22And what you do, do it unfeignedly.

23Here, Hastings; I will never more remember

24Our former hatred, so thrive I and mine!

25Dorset, embrace him; Hastings, love lord marquess.

26This interchange of love, I here protest,

27Upon my part shall be unviolable.

28And so swear I, my lord

29Now, princely Buckingham, seal thou this league

30With thy embracements to my wife's allies,

31And make me happy in your unity.

32Whenever Buckingham doth turn his hate

33On you or yours,

34but with all duteous love

35Doth cherish you and yours, God punish me

36With hate in those where I expect most love!

37When I have most need to employ a friend,

38And most assured that he is a friend

39Deep, hollow, treacherous, and full of guile,

40Be he unto me! this do I beg of God,

41When I am cold in zeal to yours.

42A pleasing cordial, princely Buckingham,

43is this thy vow unto my sickly heart.

44There wanteth now our brother Gloucester here,

45To make the perfect period of this peace.

46And, in good time, here comes the noble duke.

47Good morrow to my sovereign king and queen:

48And, princely peers, a happy time of day!

49Happy, indeed, as we have spent the day.

50Brother, we done deeds of charity;

51Made peace enmity, fair love of hate,

52Between these swelling wrong-incensed peers.

53A blessed labour, my most sovereign liege:

54Amongst this princely heap, if any here,

55By false intelligence, or wrong surmise,

56Hold me a foe;

57If I unwittingly, or in my rage,

58Have aught committed that is hardly borne

59By any in this presence, I desire

60To reconcile me to his friendly peace:

61'Tis death to me to be at enmity;

62I hate it, and desire all good men's love.

63First, madam, I entreat true peace of you,

64Which I will purchase with my duteous service;

65Of you, my noble cousin Buckingham,

66If ever any grudge were lodged between us;

67Of you, Lord Rivers, and, Lord Grey, of you;

68That without desert have frown'd on me;

69Dukes, earls, lords, gentlemen; indeed, of all.

70I do not know that Englishman alive

71With whom my soul is any jot at odds

72More than the infant that is born to-night

73I thank my God for my humility.

74A holy day shall this be kept hereafter:

75I would to God all strifes were well compounded.

76My sovereign liege, I do beseech your majesty

77To take our brother Clarence to your grace.

78Why, madam, have I offer'd love for this

79To be so bouted in this royal presence?

80Who knows not that the noble duke is dead?

81You do him injury to scorn his corse.

82Who knows not he is dead! who knows he is?

83All seeing heaven, what a world is this!

84Look I so pale, Lord Dorset, as the rest?

85Ay, my good lord; and no one in this presence

86But his red colour hath forsook his cheeks.

87Is Clarence dead? the order was reversed.

88But he, poor soul, by your first order died,

89And that a winged Mercury did bear:

90Some tardy cripple bore the countermand,

91That came too lag to see him buried.

92God grant that some, less noble and less loyal,

93Nearer in bloody thoughts, but not in blood,

94Deserve not worse than wretched Clarence did,

95And yet go current from suspicion!

96A boon, my sovereign, for my service done!

97I pray thee, peace: my soul is full of sorrow.

98I will not rise, unless your highness grant.

99Then speak at once what is it thou demand'st.

100The forfeit, sovereign, of my servant's life;

101Who slew to-day a righteous gentleman

102Lately attendant on the Duke of Norfolk.

103Have a tongue to doom my brother's death,

104And shall the same give pardon to a slave?

105My brother slew no man; his fault was thought,

106And yet his punishment was cruel death.

107Who sued to me for him? who, in my rage,

108Kneel'd at my feet, and bade me be advised

109Who spake of brotherhood? who spake of love?

110Who told me how the poor soul did forsake

111The mighty Warwick, and did fight for me?

112Who told me, in the field by Tewksbury

113When Oxford had me down, he rescued me,

114And said, 'Dear brother, live, and be a king'?

115Who told me, when we both lay in the field

116Frozen almost to death, how he did lap me

117Even in his own garments, and gave himself,

118All thin and naked, to the numb cold night?

119All this from my remembrance brutish wrath

120Sinfully pluck'd, and not a man of you

121Had so much grace to put it in my mind.

122But when your carters or your waiting-vassals

123Have done a drunken slaughter, and defaced

124The precious image of our dear Redeemer,

125You straight are on your knees for pardon, pardon;

126And I unjustly too, must grant it you

127But for my brother not a man would speak,

128Nor I, ungracious, speak unto myself

129For him, poor soul. The proudest of you all

130Have been beholding to him in his life;

131Yet none of you would once plead for his life.

132O God, I fear thy justice will take hold

133On me, and you, and mine, and yours for this!

134Come, Hastings, help me to my closet.

135Oh, poor Clarence!

136This is the fruit of rashness! Mark'd you not

137How that the guilty kindred of the queen

138Look'd pale when they did hear of Clarence' death?

139O, they did urge it still unto the king!

140God will revenge it. But come, let us in,

141To comfort Edward with our company.

142We wait upon your grace.

1Tell me, good grandam, is our father dead?

2No, boy.

3Why do you wring your hands, and beat your breast,

4And cry 'O Clarence, my unhappy son!'

5Why do you look on us, and shake your head,

6And call us wretches, orphans, castaways

7If that our noble father be alive?

8My pretty cousins, you mistake me much;

9I do lament the sickness of the king.

10As loath to lose him, not your father's death;

11It were lost sorrow to wail one that's lost.

12Then, grandam, you conclude that he is dead.

13The king my uncle is to blame for this:

14God will revenge it; whom I will importune

15With daily prayers all to that effect.

16And so will I.

17Peace, children, peace! the king doth love you well:

18Incapable and shallow innocents,

19You cannot guess who caused your father's death.

20Grandam, we can; for my good uncle Gloucester

21Told me, the king, provoked by the queen,

22Devised impeachments to imprison him:

23And when my uncle told me so, he wept,

24And hugg'd me in his arm, and kindly kiss'd my cheek;

25Bade me rely on him as on my father,

26And he would love me dearly as his child.

27Oh, that deceit should steal such gentle shapes,

28And with a virtuous vizard hide foul guile!

29He is my son; yea, and therein my shame;

30Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit.

31Think you my uncle did dissemble, grandam?

32Ay, boy.

33I cannot think it. Hark! what noise is this?

34Oh, who shall hinder me to wail and weep,

35To chide my fortune, and torment myself?

36I'll join with black despair against my soul,

37And to myself become an enemy.

38What means this scene of rude impatience?

39To make an act of tragic violence:

40Edward, my lord, your son, our king, is dead.

41Why grow the branches now the root is wither'd?

42Why wither not the leaves the sap being gone?

43If you will live, lament; if die, be brief,

44That our swift-winged souls may catch the king's;

45Or, like obedient subjects, follow him

46To his new kingdom of perpetual rest.

47Ah, so much interest have I in thy sorrow

48As I had title in thy noble husband!

49I have bewept a worthy husband's death,

50And lived by looking on his images:

51But now two mirrors of his princely semblance

52Are crack'd in pieces by malignant death,

53And I for comfort have but one false glass,

54Which grieves me when I see my shame in him.

55Thou art a widow; yet thou art a mother,

56And hast the comfort of thy children left thee:

57But death hath snatch'd my husband from mine arms,

58And pluck'd two crutches from my feeble limbs,

59Edward and Clarence. O, what cause have I,

60Thine being but a moiety of my grief,

61To overgo thy plaints and drown thy cries!

62Good aunt, you wept not for our father's death;

63How can we aid you with our kindred tears?

64Our fatherless distress was left unmoan'd;

65Your widow-dolour likewise be unwept!

66Give me no help in lamentation;

67I am not barren to bring forth complaints

68All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes,

69That I, being govern'd by the watery moon,

70May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world!

71Oh for my husband, for my dear lord Edward!

72Oh for our father, for our dear lord Clarence!

73Alas for both, both mine, Edward and Clarence!

74What stay had I but Edward? and he's gone.

75What stay had we but Clarence? and he's gone.

76What stays had I but they? and they are gone.

77Was never widow had so dear a loss!

78Were never orphans had so dear a loss!

79Was never mother had so dear a loss!

80Alas, I am the mother of these moans!

81Their woes are parcell'd, mine are general.

82She for an Edward weeps, and so do I;

83I for a Clarence weep, so doth not she:

84These babes for Clarence weep and so do I;

85I for an Edward weep, so do not they:

86Alas, you three, on me, threefold distress'd,

87Pour all your tears! I am your sorrow's nurse,

88And I will pamper it with lamentations.

89Comfort, dear mother: God is much displeased

90That you take with unthankfulness, his doing:

91In common worldly things, 'tis call'd ungrateful,

92With dull unwilligness to repay a debt

93Which with a bounteous hand was kindly lent;

94Much more to be thus opposite with heaven,

95For it requires the royal debt it lent you.

96Madam, bethink you, like a careful mother,

97Of the young prince your son: send straight for him

98Let him be crown'd; in him your comfort lives:

99Drown desperate sorrow in dead Edward's grave,

100And plant your joys in living Edward's throne.

101Madam, have comfort: all of us have cause

102To wail the dimming of our shining star;

103But none can cure their harms by wailing them.

104Madam, my mother, I do cry you mercy;

105I did not see your grace: humbly on my knee

106I crave your blessing.

107God bless thee; and put meekness in thy mind,

108Love, charity, obedience, and true duty!

109[Aside] Amen; and make me die a good old man!

110That is the butt-end of a mother's blessing:

111I marvel why her grace did leave it out.

112You cloudy princes and heart-sorrowing peers,

113That bear this mutual heavy load of moan,

114Now cheer each other in each other's love

115Though we have spent our harvest of this king,

116We are to reap the harvest of his son.

117The broken rancour of your high-swoln hearts,

118But lately splinter'd, knit, and join'd together,

119Must gently be preserved, cherish'd, and kept:

120Me seemeth good, that, with some little train,

121Forthwith from Ludlow the young prince be fetch'd

122Hither to London, to be crown'd our king.

123Why with some little train, my Lord of Buckingham?

124Marry, my lord, lest, by a multitude,

125The new-heal'd wound of malice should break out,

126Which would be so much the more dangerous

127By how much the estate is green and yet ungovern'd:

128Where every horse bears his commanding rein,

129And may direct his course as please himself,

130As well the fear of harm, as harm apparent,

131In my opinion, ought to be prevented.

132I hope the king made peace with all of us

133And the compact is firm and true in me.

134And so in me; and so, I think, in all:

135Yet, since it is but green, it should be put

136To no apparent likelihood of breach,

137Which haply by much company might be urged:

138Therefore I say with noble Buckingham,

139That it is meet so few should fetch the prince.

140And so say I.

141Then be it so; and go we to determine

142Who they shall be that straight shall post to Ludlow.

143Madam, and you, my mother, will you go

144To give your censures in this weighty business?

145With all our harts.

146My lord, whoever journeys to the Prince,

147For God's sake, let not us two be behind;

148For, by the way, I'll sort occasion,

149As index to the story we late talk'd of,

150To part the queen's proud kindred from the king.

151My other self, my counsel's consistory,

152My oracle, my prophet! My dear cousin,

153I, like a child, will go by thy direction.

154Towards Ludlow then, for we'll not stay behind.

1Neighbour, well met: whither away so fast?

2I promise you, I scarcely know myself:

3Hear you the news abroad?

4Ay, that the king is dead.

5Bad news, by'r lady; seldom comes the better:

6I fear, I fear 'twill prove a troublous world.

7Neighbours, God speed!

8Give you good morrow, sir.

9Doth this news hold of good King Edward's death?

10Ay, sir, it is too true; God help the while!

11Then, masters, look to see a troublous world.

12No, no; by God's good grace his son shall reign.

13Woe to the land that's govern'd by a child!

14In him there is a hope of government,

15That in his nonage council under him,

16And in his full and ripen'd years himself,

17No doubt, shall then and till then govern well.

18So stood the state when Henry the Sixth

19Was crown'd in Paris but at nine months old.

20Stood the state so? No, no, good friends, God wot;

21For then this land was famously enrich'd

22With politic grave counsel; then the king

23Had virtuous uncles to protect his grace.

24Why, so hath this, both by the father and mother.

25Better it were they all came by the father,

26Or by the father there were none at all;

27For emulation now, who shall be nearest,

28Will touch us all too near, if God prevent not.

29O, full of danger is the Duke of Gloucester!

30And the queen's sons and brothers haught and proud:

31And were they to be ruled, and not to rule,

32This sickly land might solace as before.

33Come, come, we fear the worst; all shall be well.

34When clouds appear, wise men put on their cloaks;

35When great leaves fall, the winter is at hand;

36When the sun sets, who doth not look for night?

37Untimely storms make men expect a dearth.

38All may be well; but, if God sort it so,

39'Tis more than we deserve, or I expect.

40Truly, the souls of men are full of dread:

41Ye cannot reason almost with a man

42That looks not heavily and full of fear.

43Before the times of change, still is it so:

44By a divine instinct men's minds mistrust

45Ensuing dangers; as by proof, we see

46The waters swell before a boisterous storm.

47But leave it all to God. whither away?

48Marry, we were sent for to the justices.

49And so was I: I'll bear you company.

1Last night, I hear, they lay at Northampton;

2At Stony-Stratford will they be to-night:

3To-morrow, or next day, they will be here.

4I long with all my heart to see the prince:

5I hope he is much grown since last I saw him.

6But I hear, no; they say my son of York

7Hath almost overta'en him in his growth.

8Ay, mother; but I would not have it so.

9Why, my young cousin, it is good to grow.

10Grandam, one night, as we did sit at supper,

11My uncle Rivers talk'd how I did grow

12More than my brother: 'Ay,' quoth my uncle

13Gloucester,

14'Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace:'

15And since, methinks, I would not grow so fast,

16Because sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste.

17Good faith, good faith, the saying did not hold

18In him that did object the same to thee;

19He was the wretched'st thing when he was young,

20So long a-growing and so leisurely,

21That, if this rule were true, he should be gracious.

22Why, madam, so, no doubt, he is.

23I hope he is; but yet let mothers doubt.

24Now, by my troth, if I had been remember'd,

25I could have given my uncle's grace a flout,

26To touch his growth nearer than he touch'd mine.

27How, my pretty York? I pray thee, let me hear it.

28Marry, they say my uncle grew so fast

29That he could gnaw a crust at two hours old

30'Twas full two years ere I could get a tooth.

31Grandam, this would have been a biting jest.

32I pray thee, pretty York, who told thee this?

33Grandam, his nurse.

34His nurse! why, she was dead ere thou wert born.

35If 'twere not she, I cannot tell who told me.

36A parlous boy: go to, you are too shrewd.

37Good madam, be not angry with the child.

38Pitchers have ears.

39Here comes a messenger. What news?

40Such news, my lord, as grieves me to unfold.

41How fares the prince?

42Well, madam, and in health.

43What is thy news then?

44Lord Rivers and Lord Grey are sent to Pomfret,

45With them Sir Thomas Vaughan, prisoners.

46Who hath committed them?

47The mighty dukes

48Gloucester and Buckingham.

49For what offence?

50The sum of all I can, I have disclosed;

51Why or for what these nobles were committed

52Is all unknown to me, my gracious lady.

53Ay me, I see the downfall of our house!

54The tiger now hath seized the gentle hind;

55Insulting tyranny begins to jet

56Upon the innocent and aweless throne:

57Welcome, destruction, death, and massacre!

58I see, as in a map, the end of all.

59Accursed and unquiet wrangling days,

60How many of you have mine eyes beheld!

61My husband lost his life to get the crown;

62And often up and down my sons were toss'd,

63For me to joy and weep their gain and loss:

64And being seated, and domestic broils

65Clean over-blown, themselves, the conquerors.

66Make war upon themselves; blood against blood,

67Self against self: O, preposterous

68And frantic outrage, end thy damned spleen;

69Or let me die, to look on death no more!

70Come, come, my boy; we will to sanctuary.

71Madam, farewell.

72I'll go along with you.

73You have no cause.

74My gracious lady, go;

75And thither bear your treasure and your goods.

76For my part, I'll resign unto your grace

77The seal I keep: and so betide to me

78As well I tender you and all of yours!

79Come, I'll conduct you to the sanctuary.

1Welcome, sweet prince, to London, to your chamber.

2Welcome, dear cousin, my thoughts' sovereign

3The weary way hath made you melancholy.

4No, uncle; but our crosses on the way

5Have made it tedious, wearisome, and heavy

6I want more uncles here to welcome me.

7Sweet prince, the untainted virtue of your years

8Hath not yet dived into the world's deceit

9Nor more can you distinguish of a man

10Than of his outward show; which, God he knows,

11Seldom or never jumpeth with the heart.

12Those uncles which you want were dangerous;

13Your grace attended to their sugar'd words,

14But look'd not on the poison of their hearts:

15God keep you from them, and from such false friends!

16God keep me from false friends! but they were none.

17My lord, the mayor of London comes to greet you.

18God bless your grace with health and happy days!

19I thank you, good my lord; and thank you all.

20I thought my mother, and my brother York,

21Would long ere this have met us on the way

22Fie, what a slug is Hastings, that he comes not

23To tell us whether they will come or no!

24And, in good time, here comes the sweating lord.

25Welcome, my lord: what, will our mother come?

26On what occasion, God he knows, not I,

27The queen your mother, and your brother York,

28Have taken sanctuary: the tender prince

29Would fain have come with me to meet your grace,

30But by his mother was perforce withheld.

31Fie, what an indirect and peevish course

32Is this of hers! Lord cardinal, will your grace

33Persuade the queen to send the Duke of York

34Unto his princely brother presently?

35If she deny, Lord Hastings, go with him,

36And from her jealous arms pluck him perforce.

37My Lord of Buckingham, if my weak oratory

38Can from his mother win the Duke of York,

39Anon expect him here; but if she be obdurate

40To mild entreaties, God in heaven forbid

41We should infringe the holy privilege

42Of blessed sanctuary! not for all this land

43Would I be guilty of so deep a sin.

44You are too senseless--obstinate, my lord,

45Too ceremonious and traditional

46Weigh it but with the grossness of this age,

47You break not sanctuary in seizing him.

48The benefit thereof is always granted

49To those whose dealings have deserved the place,

50And those who have the wit to claim the place:

51This prince hath neither claim'd it nor deserved it;

52And therefore, in mine opinion, cannot have it:

53Then, taking him from thence that is not there,

54You break no privilege nor charter there.

55Oft have I heard of sanctuary men;

56But sanctuary children ne'er till now.

57My lord, you shall o'er-rule my mind for once.

58Come on, Lord Hastings, will you go with me?

59I go, my lord.

60Good lords, make all the speedy haste you may.

61Say, uncle Gloucester, if our brother come,

62Where shall we sojourn till our coronation?

63Where it seems best unto your royal self.

64If I may counsel you, some day or two

65Your highness shall repose you at the Tower:

66Then where you please, and shall be thought most fit

67For your best health and recreation.

68I do not like the Tower, of any place.

69Did Julius Caesar build that place, my lord?

70He did, my gracious lord, begin that place;

71Which, since, succeeding ages have re-edified.

72Is it upon record, or else reported

73Successively from age to age, he built it?

74Upon record, my gracious lord.

75But say, my lord, it were not register'd,

76Methinks the truth should live from age to age,

77As 'twere retail'd to all posterity,

78Even to the general all-ending day.

79[Aside] So wise so young, they say, do never

80live long.

81What say you, uncle?

82I say, without characters, fame lives long.

83Thus, like the formal vice, Iniquity,

84I moralize two meanings in one word.

85That Julius Caesar was a famous man;

86With what his valour did enrich his wit,

87His wit set down to make his valour live

88Death makes no conquest of this conqueror;

89For now he lives in fame, though not in life.

90I'll tell you what, my cousin Buckingham,--

91What, my gracious lord?

92An if I live until I be a man,

93I'll win our ancient right in France again,

94Or die a soldier, as I lived a king.

95[Aside] Short summers lightly have a forward spring.

96Now, in good time, here comes the Duke of York.

97Richard of York! how fares our loving brother?

98Well, my dread lord; so must I call you now.

99Ay, brother, to our grief, as it is yours:

100Too late he died that might have kept that title,

101Which by his death hath lost much majesty.

102How fares our cousin, noble Lord of York?

103I thank you, gentle uncle. O, my lord,

104You said that idle weeds are fast in growth

105The prince my brother hath outgrown me far.

106He hath, my lord.

107And therefore is he idle?

108O, my fair cousin, I must not say so.

109Then is he more beholding to you than I.

110He may command me as my sovereign;

111But you have power in me as in a kinsman.

112I pray you, uncle, give me this dagger.

113My dagger, little cousin? with all my heart.

114A beggar, brother?

115Of my kind uncle, that I know will give;

116And being but a toy, which is no grief to give.

117A greater gift than that I'll give my cousin.

118A greater gift! O, that's the sword to it.

119A gentle cousin, were it light enough.

120O, then, I see, you will part but with light gifts;

121In weightier things you'll say a beggar nay.

122It is too heavy for your grace to wear.

123I weigh it lightly, were it heavier.

124What, would you have my weapon, little lord?

125I would, that I might thank you as you call me.

126How?

127Little.

128My Lord of York will still be cross in talk:

129Uncle, your grace knows how to bear with him.

130You mean, to bear me, not to bear with me:

131Uncle, my brother mocks both you and me;

132Because that I am little, like an ape,

133He thinks that you should bear me on your shoulders.

134With what a sharp-provided wit he reasons!

135To mitigate the scorn he gives his uncle,

136He prettily and aptly taunts himself:

137So cunning and so young is wonderful.

138My lord, will't please you pass along?

139Myself and my good cousin Buckingham

140Will to your mother, to entreat of her

141To meet you at the Tower and welcome you.

142What, will you go unto the Tower, my lord?

143My lord protector needs will have it so.

144I shall not sleep in quiet at the Tower.

145Why, what should you fear?

146Marry, my uncle Clarence' angry ghost:

147My grandam told me he was murdered there.

148I fear no uncles dead.

149Nor none that live, I hope.

150An if they live, I hope I need not fear.

151But come, my lord; and with a heavy heart,

152Thinking on them, go I unto the Tower.

153Think you, my lord, this little prating York

154Was not incensed by his subtle mother

155To taunt and scorn you thus opprobriously?

156No doubt, no doubt; O, 'tis a parlous boy;

157Bold, quick, ingenious, forward, capable

158He is all the mother's, from the top to toe.

159Well, let them rest. Come hither, Catesby.

160Thou art sworn as deeply to effect what we intend

161As closely to conceal what we impart:

162Thou know'st our reasons urged upon the way;

163What think'st thou? is it not an easy matter

164To make William Lord Hastings of our mind,

165For the instalment of this noble duke

166In the seat royal of this famous isle?

167He for his father's sake so loves the prince,

168That he will not be won to aught against him.

169What think'st thou, then, of Stanley? what will he?

170He will do all in all as Hastings doth.

171Well, then, no more but this: go, gentle Catesby,

172And, as it were far off sound thou Lord Hastings,

173How doth he stand affected to our purpose;

174And summon him to-morrow to the Tower,

175To sit about the coronation.

176If thou dost find him tractable to us,

177Encourage him, and show him all our reasons:

178If he be leaden, icy-cold, unwilling,

179Be thou so too; and so break off your talk,

180And give us notice of his inclination:

181For we to-morrow hold divided councils,

182Wherein thyself shalt highly be employ'd.

183Commend me to Lord William: tell him, Catesby,

184His ancient knot of dangerous adversaries

185To-morrow are let blood at Pomfret-castle;

186And bid my friend, for joy of this good news,

187Give mistress Shore one gentle kiss the more.

188Good Catesby, go, effect this business soundly.

189My good lords both, with all the heed I may.

190Shall we hear from you, Catesby, ere we sleep?

191You shall, my lord.

192At Crosby Place, there shall you find us both.

193Now, my lord, what shall we do, if we perceive

194Lord Hastings will not yield to our complots?

195Chop off his head, man; somewhat we will do:

196And, look, when I am king, claim thou of me

197The earldom of Hereford, and the moveables

198Whereof the king my brother stood possess'd.

199I'll claim that promise at your grace's hands.

200And look to have it yielded with all willingness.

201Come, let us sup betimes, that afterwards

202We may digest our complots in some form.

1What, ho! my lord!

2[Within] Who knocks at the door?

3A messenger from the Lord Stanley.

4What is't o'clock?

5Upon the stroke of four.

6Cannot thy master sleep these tedious nights?

7So it should seem by that I have to say.

8First, he commends him to your noble lordship.

9And then?

10And then he sends you word

11He dreamt to-night the boar had razed his helm:

12Besides, he says there are two councils held;

13And that may be determined at the one

14which may make you and him to rue at the other.

15Therefore he sends to know your lordship's pleasure,

16If presently you will take horse with him,

17And with all speed post with him toward the north,

18To shun the danger that his soul divines.

19Go, fellow, go, return unto thy lord;

20Bid him not fear the separated councils

21His honour and myself are at the one,

22And at the other is my servant Catesby

23Where nothing can proceed that toucheth us

24Whereof I shall not have intelligence.

25Tell him his fears are shallow, wanting instance:

26And for his dreams, I wonder he is so fond

27To trust the mockery of unquiet slumbers

28To fly the boar before the boar pursues,

29Were to incense the boar to follow us

30And make pursuit where he did mean no chase.

31Go, bid thy master rise and come to me

32And we will both together to the Tower,

33Where, he shall see, the boar will use us kindly.

34My gracious lord, I'll tell him what you say.

35Many good morrows to my noble lord!

36Good morrow, Catesby; you are early stirring

37What news, what news, in this our tottering state?

38It is a reeling world, indeed, my lord;

39And I believe twill never stand upright

40Till Richard wear the garland of the realm.

41How! wear the garland! dost thou mean the crown?

42Ay, my good lord.

43I'll have this crown of mine cut from my shoulders

44Ere I will see the crown so foul misplaced.

45But canst thou guess that he doth aim at it?

46Ay, on my life; and hopes to find forward

47Upon his party for the gain thereof:

48And thereupon he sends you this good news,

49That this same very day your enemies,

50The kindred of the queen, must die at Pomfret.

51Indeed, I am no mourner for that news,

52Because they have been still mine enemies:

53But, that I'll give my voice on Richard's side,

54To bar my master's heirs in true descent,

55God knows I will not do it, to the death.

56God keep your lordship in that gracious mind!

57But I shall laugh at this a twelve-month hence,

58That they who brought me in my master's hate

59I live to look upon their tragedy.

60I tell thee, Catesby--

61What, my lord?

62Ere a fortnight make me elder,

63I'll send some packing that yet think not on it.

64'Tis a vile thing to die, my gracious lord,

65When men are unprepared and look not for it.

66O monstrous, monstrous! and so falls it out

67With Rivers, Vaughan, Grey: and so 'twill do

68With some men else, who think themselves as safe

69As thou and I; who, as thou know'st, are dear

70To princely Richard and to Buckingham.

71The princes both make high account of you;

72For they account his head upon the bridge.

73I know they do; and I have well deserved it.

74Come on, come on; where is your boar-spear, man?

75Fear you the boar, and go so unprovided?

76My lord, good morrow; good morrow, Catesby:

77You may jest on, but, by the holy rood,

78I do not like these several councils, I.

79My lord,

80I hold my life as dear as you do yours;

81And never in my life, I do protest,

82Was it more precious to me than 'tis now:

83Think you, but that I know our state secure,

84I would be so triumphant as I am?

85The lords at Pomfret, when they rode from London,

86Were jocund, and supposed their state was sure,

87And they indeed had no cause to mistrust;

88But yet, you see how soon the day o'ercast.

89This sudden stag of rancour I misdoubt:

90Pray God, I say, I prove a needless coward!

91What, shall we toward the Tower? the day is spent.

92Come, come, have with you. Wot you what, my lord?

93To-day the lords you talk of are beheaded.

94They, for their truth, might better wear their heads

95Than some that have accused them wear their hats.

96But come, my lord, let us away.

97Go on before; I'll talk with this good fellow.

98How now, sirrah! how goes the world with thee?

99The better that your lordship please to ask.

100I tell thee, man, 'tis better with me now

101Than when I met thee last where now we meet:

102Then was I going prisoner to the Tower,

103By the suggestion of the queen's allies;

104But now, I tell thee--keep it to thyself--

105This day those enemies are put to death,

106And I in better state than e'er I was.

107God hold it, to your honour's good content!

108Gramercy, fellow: there, drink that for me.

109God save your lordship!

110Well met, my lord; I am glad to see your honour.

111I thank thee, good Sir John, with all my heart.

112I am in your debt for your last exercise;

113Come the next Sabbath, and I will content you.

114What, talking with a priest, lord chamberlain?

115Your friends at Pomfret, they do need the priest;

116Your honour hath no shriving work in hand.

117Good faith, and when I met this holy man,

118Those men you talk of came into my mind.

119What, go you toward the Tower?

120I do, my lord; but long I shall not stay

121I shall return before your lordship thence.

122'Tis like enough, for I stay dinner there.

123[Aside] And supper too, although thou know'st it not.

124Come, will you go?

125I'll wait upon your lordship.

1Come, bring forth the prisoners.

2Sir Richard Ratcliff, let me tell thee this:

3To-day shalt thou behold a subject die

4For truth, for duty, and for loyalty.

5God keep the prince from all the pack of you!

6A knot you are of damned blood-suckers!

7You live that shall cry woe for this after.

8Dispatch; the limit of your lives is out.

9O Pomfret, Pomfret! O thou bloody prison,

10Fatal and ominous to noble peers!

11Within the guilty closure of thy walls

12Richard the second here was hack'd to death;

13And, for more slander to thy dismal seat,

14We give thee up our guiltless blood to drink.

15Now Margaret's curse is fall'n upon our heads,

16For standing by when Richard stabb'd her son.

17Then cursed she Hastings, then cursed she Buckingham,

18Then cursed she Richard. O, remember, God

19To hear her prayers for them, as now for us

20And for my sister and her princely sons,

21Be satisfied, dear God, with our true blood,

22Which, as thou know'st, unjustly must be spilt.

23Make haste; the hour of death is expiate.

24Come, Grey, come, Vaughan, let us all embrace:

25And take our leave, until we meet in heaven.

1My lords, at once: the cause why we are met

2Is, to determine of the coronation.

3In God's name, speak: when is the royal day?

4Are all things fitting for that royal time?

5It is, and wants but nomination.

6To-morrow, then, I judge a happy day.

7Who knows the lord protector's mind herein?

8Who is most inward with the royal duke?

9Your grace, we think, should soonest know his mind.

10Who, I, my lord I we know each other's faces,

11But for our hearts, he knows no more of mine,

12Than I of yours;

13Nor I no more of his, than you of mine.

14Lord Hastings, you and he are near in love.

15I thank his grace, I know he loves me well;

16But, for his purpose in the coronation.

17I have not sounded him, nor he deliver'd

18His gracious pleasure any way therein:

19But you, my noble lords, may name the time;

20And in the duke's behalf I'll give my voice,

21Which, I presume, he'll take in gentle part.

22Now in good time, here comes the duke himself.

23My noble lords and cousins all, good morrow.

24I have been long a sleeper; but, I hope,

25My absence doth neglect no great designs,

26Which by my presence might have been concluded.

27Had not you come upon your cue, my lord

28William Lord Hastings had pronounced your part,--

29I mean, your voice,--for crowning of the king.

30Than my Lord Hastings no man might be bolder;

31His lordship knows me well, and loves me well.

32I thank your grace.

33My lord of Ely!

34My lord?

35When I was last in Holborn,

36I saw good strawberries in your garden there

37I do beseech you send for some of them.

38Marry, and will, my lord, with all my heart.

39Cousin of Buckingham, a word with you.

40Catesby hath sounded Hastings in our business,

41And finds the testy gentleman so hot,

42As he will lose his head ere give consent

43His master's son, as worshipful as he terms it,

44Shall lose the royalty of England's throne.

45Withdraw you hence, my lord, I'll follow you.

46We have not yet set down this day of triumph.

47To-morrow, in mine opinion, is too sudden;

48For I myself am not so well provided

49As else I would be, were the day prolong'd.

50Where is my lord protector? I have sent for these

51strawberries.

52His grace looks cheerfully and smooth to-day;

53There's some conceit or other likes him well,

54When he doth bid good morrow with such a spirit.

55I think there's never a man in Christendom

56That can less hide his love or hate than he;

57For by his face straight shall you know his heart.

58What of his heart perceive you in his face

59By any likelihood he show'd to-day?

60Marry, that with no man here he is offended;

61For, were he, he had shown it in his looks.

62I pray God he be not, I say.

63I pray you all, tell me what they deserve

64That do conspire my death with devilish plots

65Of damned witchcraft, and that have prevail'd

66Upon my body with their hellish charms?

67The tender love I bear your grace, my lord,

68Makes me most forward in this noble presence

69To doom the offenders, whatsoever they be

70I say, my lord, they have deserved death.

71Then be your eyes the witness of this ill:

72See how I am bewitch'd; behold mine arm

73Is, like a blasted sapling, wither'd up:

74And this is Edward's wife, that monstrous witch,

75Consorted with that harlot strumpet Shore,

76That by their witchcraft thus have marked me.

77If they have done this thing, my gracious lord--

78If I thou protector of this damned strumpet--

79Tellest thou me of 'ifs'? Thou art a traitor:

80Off with his head! Now, by Saint Paul I swear,

81I will not dine until I see the same.

82Lovel and Ratcliff, look that it be done:

83The rest, that love me, rise and follow me.

84Woe, woe for England! not a whit for me;

85For I, too fond, might have prevented this.

86Stanley did dream the boar did raze his helm;

87But I disdain'd it, and did scorn to fly:

88Three times to-day my foot-cloth horse did stumble,

89And startled, when he look'd upon the Tower,

90As loath to bear me to the slaughter-house.

91O, now I want the priest that spake to me: