{"collection":"sks","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/sks/ff/kr3.htm","path":"sks/ff/kr3.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/sks/ff/kr3.htm","text":"with the Landing of Earle Richmond, and the Battell at Bosworth\nField\nActus Primus. Scoena Prima.\nEnter Richard Duke of Gloster, solus.\nNow is the Winter of our Discontent,\nMade glorious Summer by this Son of Yorke:\nAnd all the clouds that lowr'd vpon our house\nIn the deepe bosome of the Ocean buried.\nNow are our browes bound with Victorious Wreathes,\nOur bruised armes hung vp for Monuments;\nOur sterne Alarums chang'd to merry Meetings;\nOur dreadfull Marches, to delightfull Measures.\nGrim-visag'd Warre, hath smooth'd his wrinkled Front:\nAnd now, in stead of mounting Barbed Steeds,\nTo fright the Soules of fearfull Aduersaries,\nHe capers nimbly in a Ladies Chamber,\nTo the lasciuious pleasing of a Lute.\nBut I, that am not shap'd for sportiue trickes,\nNor made to court an amorous Looking-glasse:\nI, that am Rudely stampt, and want loues Maiesty,\nTo strut before a wonton ambling Nymph:\nI, that am curtail'd of this faire Proportion,\nCheated of Feature by dissembling Nature,\nDeform'd, vn-finish'd, sent before my time\nInto this breathing World, scarse halfe made vp,\nAnd that so lamely and vnfashionable,\nThat dogges barke at me, as I halt by them.\nWhy I (in this weake piping time of Peace)\nHaue no delight to passe away the time,\nVnlesse to see my Shadow in the Sunne,\nAnd descant on mine owne Deformity.\nAnd therefore, since I cannot proue a Louer,\nTo entertaine these faire well spoken dayes,\nI am determined to proue a Villaine,\nAnd hate the idle pleasures of these dayes.\nPlots haue I laide, Inductions dangerous,\nBy drunken Prophesies, Libels, and Dreames,\nTo set my Brother Clarence and the King\nIn deadly hate, the one against the other:\nAnd if King Edward be as true and iust,\nAs I am Subtle, False, and Treacherous,\nThis day should Clarence closely be mew'd vp:\nAbout a Prophesie, which sayes that G,\nOf Edwards heyres the murtherer shall be.\nDiue thoughts downe to my soule, here Clarence comes.\nEnter Clarence, and Brakenbury, guarded.\nBrother, good day: What meanes this armed guard\nThat waites vpon your Grace?\nCla. His Maiesty tendring my persons safety,\nHath appointed this Conduct, to conuey me to th' Tower\nRich. Vpon what cause?\nCla. Because my name is George\nRich. Alacke my Lord, that fault is none of yours:\nHe should for that commit your Godfathers.\nO belike, his Maiesty hath some intent,\nThat you should be new Christned in the Tower,\nBut what's the matter Clarence, may I know?\nCla. Yea Richard, when I know: but I protest\nAs yet I do not: But as I can learne,\nHe hearkens after Prophesies and Dreames,\nAnd from the Crosse-row pluckes the letter G:\nAnd sayes, a Wizard told him, that by G,\nHis issue disinherited should be.\nAnd for my name of George begins with G,\nIt followes in his thought, that I am he.\nThese (as I learne) and such like toyes as these,\nHath moou'd his Highnesse to commit me now\nRich. Why this it is, when men are rul'd by Women:\n'Tis not the King that sends you to the Tower,\nMy Lady Grey his Wife, Clarence 'tis shee,\nThat tempts him to this harsh Extremity.\nWas it not shee, and that good man of Worship,\nAnthony Woodeuile her Brother there,\nThat made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower?\nFrom whence this present day he is deliuered?\nWe are not safe Clarence, we are not safe\nCla. By heauen, I thinke there is no man secure\nBut the Queenes Kindred, and night-walking Heralds,\nThat trudge betwixt the King, and Mistris Shore.\nHeard you not what an humble Suppliant\nLord Hastings was, for her deliuery?\nRich. Humbly complaining to her Deitie,\nGot my Lord Chamberlaine his libertie.\nIle tell you what, I thinke it is our way,\nIf we will keepe in fauour with the King,\nTo be her men, and weare her Liuery.\nThe iealous ore-worne Widdow, and her selfe,\nSince that our Brother dub'd them Gentlewomen,\nAre mighty Gossips in our Monarchy\nBra. I beseech your Graces both to pardon me,\nHis Maiesty hath straightly giuen in charge,\nThat no man shall haue priuate Conference\n(Of what degree soeuer) with your Brother\nRich. Euen so, and please your Worship Brakenbury,\nYou may partake of any thing we say:\nWe speake no Treason man; We say the King\nIs wise and vertuous, and his Noble Queene\nWell strooke in yeares, faire, and not iealious.\nWe say, that Shores Wife hath a pretty Foot,\nA cherry Lip, a bonny Eye, a passing pleasing tongue:\nAnd that the Queenes Kindred are made gentle Folkes.\nHow say you sir? can you deny all this?\nBra. With this (my Lord) my selfe haue nought to\ndoo\nRich. Naught to do with Mistris Shore?\nI tell thee Fellow, he that doth naught with her\n(Excepting one) were best to do it secretly alone\nBra. What one, my Lord?\nRich. Her Husband Knaue, would'st thou betray me?\nBra. I do beseech your Grace\nTo pardon me, and withall forbeare\nYour Conference with the Noble Duke\nCla. We know thy charge Brakenbury, and wil obey\nRich. We are the Queenes abiects, and must obey.\nBrother farewell, I will vnto the King,\nAnd whatsoe're you will imploy me in,\nWere it to call King Edwards Widdow, Sister,\nI will performe it to infranchise you.\nMeane time, this deepe disgrace in Brotherhood,\nTouches me deeper then you can imagine\nCla. I know it pleaseth neither of vs well\nRich. Well, your imprisonment shall not be long,\nI will deliuer you, or else lye for you:\nMeane time, haue patience\nCla. I must perforce: Farewell.\nExit Clar[ence].\nRich. Go treade the path that thou shalt ne're return:\nSimple plaine Clarence, I do loue thee so,\nThat I will shortly send thy Soule to Heauen,\nIf Heauen will take the present at our hands.\nBut who comes heere? the new deliuered Hastings?\nEnter Lord Hastings.\nHast. Good time of day vnto my gracious Lord\nRich. As much vnto my good Lord Chamberlaine:\nWell are you welcome to this open Ayre,\nHow hath your Lordship brook'd imprisonment?\nHast. With patience (Noble Lord) as prisoners must:\nBut I shall liue (my Lord) to giue them thankes\nThat were the cause of my imprisonment\nRich. No doubt, no doubt, and so shall Clarence too,\nFor they that were your Enemies, are his,\nAnd haue preuail'd as much on him, as you,\nHast. More pitty, that the Eagles should be mew'd,\nWhiles Kites and Buzards play at liberty\nRich. What newes abroad?\nHast. No newes so bad abroad, as this at home:\nThe King is sickly, weake, and melancholly,\nAnd his Physitians feare him mightily\nRich. Now by S[aint]. Iohn, that Newes is bad indeed.\nO he hath kept an euill Diet long,\nAnd ouer-much consum'd his Royall Person:\n'Tis very greeuous to be thought vpon.\nWhere is he, in his bed?\nHast. He is\nRich. Go you before, and I will follow you.\nExit Hastings.\nHe cannot liue I hope, and must not dye,\nTill George be pack'd with post-horse vp to Heauen.\nIle in to vrge his hatred more to Clarence,\nWith Lyes well steel'd with weighty Arguments,\nAnd if I faile not in my deepe intent,\nClarence hath not another day to liue:\nWhich done, God take King Edward to his mercy,\nAnd leaue the world for me to bussle in.\nFor then, Ile marry Warwickes yongest daughter.\nWhat though I kill'd her Husband, and her Father,\nThe readiest way to make the Wench amends,\nIs to become her Husband, and her Father:\nThe which will I, not all so much for loue,\nAs for another secret close intent,\nBy marrying her, which I must reach vnto.\nBut yet I run before my horse to Market:\nClarence still breathes, Edward still liues and raignes,\nWhen they are gone, then must I count my gaines.\nExit\nScena Secunda.\nEnter the Coarse of Henrie the sixt with Halberds to guard it, Lady\nAnne\nbeing the Mourner.\nAnne. Set downe, set downe your honourable load,\nIf Honor may be shrowded in a Herse;\nWhil'st I a-while obsequiously lament\nTh' vntimely fall of Vertuous Lancaster.\nPoore key-cold Figure of a holy King,\nPale Ashes of the House of Lancaster;\nThou bloodlesse Remnant of that Royall Blood,\nBe it lawfull that I inuocate thy Ghost,\nTo heare the Lamentations of poore Anne,\nWife to thy Edward, to thy slaughtred Sonne,\nStab'd by the selfesame hand that made these wounds.\nLoe, in these windowes that let forth thy life,\nI powre the helplesse Balme of my poore eyes.\nO cursed be the hand that made these holes:\nCursed the Heart, that had the heart to do it:\nCursed the Blood, that let this blood from hence:\nMore direfull hap betide that hated Wretch\nThat makes vs wretched by the death of thee,\nThen I can wish to Wolues, to Spiders, Toades,\nOr any creeping venom'd thing that liues.\nIf euer he haue Childe, Abortiue be it,\nProdigeous, and vntimely brought to light,\nWhose vgly and vnnaturall Aspect\nMay fright the hopefull Mother at the view,\nAnd that be Heyre to his vnhappinesse.\nIf euer he haue Wife, let her be made\nMore miserable by the death of him,\nThen I am made by my young Lord, and thee.\nCome now towards Chertsey with your holy Lode,\nTaken from Paules, to be interred there.\nAnd still as you are weary of this waight,\nRest you, whiles I lament King Henries Coarse.\nEnter Richard Duke of Gloster.\nRich. Stay you that beare the Coarse, & set it down\nAn. What blacke Magitian coniures vp this Fiend,\nTo stop deuoted charitable deeds?\nRich. Villaines set downe the Coarse, or by S[aint]. Paul,\nIle make a Coarse of him that disobeyes\nGen. My Lord stand backe, and let the Coffin passe\nRich. Vnmanner'd Dogge,\nStand'st thou when I commaund:\nAduance thy Halbert higher then my brest,\nOr by S[aint]. Paul Ile strike thee to my Foote,\nAnd spurne vpon thee Begger for thy boldnesse\nAnne. What do you tremble? are you all affraid?\nAlas, I blame you not, for you are Mortall,\nAnd Mortall eyes cannot endure the Diuell.\nAuant thou dreadfull minister of Hell;\nThou had'st but power ouer his Mortall body,\nHis Soule thou canst not haue: Therefore be gone\nRich. Sweet Saint, for Charity, be not so curst\nAn. Foule Diuell,\nFor Gods sake hence, and trouble vs not,\nFor thou hast made the happy earth thy Hell:\nFill'd it with cursing cries, and deepe exclaimes:\nIf thou delight to view thy heynous deeds,\nBehold this patterne of thy Butcheries.\nOh Gentlemen, see, see dead Henries wounds,\nOpen their congeal'd mouthes, and bleed afresh.\nBlush, blush, thou lumpe of fowle Deformitie:\nFor 'tis thy presence that exhales this blood\nFrom cold and empty Veines where no blood dwels.\nThy Deeds inhumane and vnnaturall,\nProuokes this Deluge most vnnaturall.\nO God! which this Blood mad'st, reuenge his death:\nO Earth! which this Blood drink'st, reuenge his death.\nEither Heau'n with Lightning strike the murth'rer dead:\nOr Earth gape open wide, and eate him quicke,\nAs thou dost swallow vp this good Kings blood,\nWhich his Hell-gouern'd arme hath butchered\nRich. Lady, you know no Rules of Charity,\nWhich renders good for bad, Blessings for Curses\nAn. Villaine, thou know'st nor law of God nor Man,\nNo Beast so fierce, but knowes some touch of pitty\nRich. But I know none, and therefore am no Beast\nAn. O wonderfull, when diuels tell the truth!\nRich. More wonderfull, when Angels are so angry:\nVouchsafe (diuine perfection of a Woman)\nOf these supposed Crimes, to giue me leaue\nBy circumstance, but to acquit my selfe\nAn. Vouchsafe (defus'd infection of man)\nOf these knowne euils, but to giue me leaue\nBy circumstance, to curse thy cursed Selfe\nRich. Fairer then tongue can name thee, let me haue\nSome patient leysure to excuse my selfe\nAn. Fouler then heart can thinke thee,\nThou can'st make no excuse currant,\nBut to hang thy selfe\nRich. By such dispaire, I should accuse my selfe\nAn. And by dispairing shalt thou stand excused,\nFor doing worthy Vengeance on thy selfe,\nThat did'st vnworthy slaughter vpon others\nRich. Say that I slew them not\nAn. Then say they were not slaine:\nBut dead they are, and diuellish slaue by thee\nRich. I did not kill your Husband\nAn. Why then he is aliue\nRich. Nay, he is dead, and slaine by Edwards hands\nAn. In thy foule throat thou Ly'st,\nQueene Margaret saw\nThy murd'rous Faulchion smoaking in his blood:\nThe which, thou once didd'st bend against her brest,\nBut that thy Brothers beate aside the point\nRich. I was prouoked by her sland'rous tongue,\nThat laid their guilt, vpon my guiltlesse Shoulders\nAn. Thou was't prouoked by thy bloody minde,\nThat neuer dream'st on ought but Butcheries:\nDid'st thou not kill this King?\nRich. I graunt ye\nAn. Do'st grant me Hedge-hogge,\nThen God graunt me too\nThou may'st be damned for that wicked deede,\nO he was gentle, milde, and vertuous\nRich. The better for the King of heauen that hath him\nAn. He is in heauen, where thou shalt neuer come\nRich. Let him thanke me, that holpe to send him thither:\nFor he was fitter for that place then earth\nAn. And thou vnfit for any place, but hell\nRich. Yes one place else, if you will heare me name it\nAn. Some dungeon\nRich. Your Bed-chamber\nAn. Ill rest betide the chamber where thou lyest\nRich. So will it Madam, till I lye with you\nAn. I hope so\nRich. I know so. But gentle Lady Anne,\nTo leaue this keene encounter of our wittes,\nAnd fall something into a slower method.\nIs not the causer of the timelesse deaths\nOf these Plantagenets, Henrie and Edward,\nAs blamefull as the Executioner\nAn. Thou was't the cause, and most accurst effect\nRich. Your beauty was the cause of that effect:\nYour beauty, that did haunt me in my sleepe,\nTo vndertake the death of all the world,\nSo I might liue one houre in your sweet bosome\nAn. If I thought that, I tell thee Homicide,\nThese Nailes should rent that beauty from my Cheekes\nRich. These eyes could not endure y beauties wrack,\nYou should not blemish it, if I stood by;\nAs all the world is cheared by the Sunne,\nSo I by that: It is my day, my life\nAn. Blacke night ore-shade thy day, & death thy life\nRich. Curse not thy selfe faire Creature,\nThou art both\nAn. I would I were, to be reueng'd on thee\nRich. It is a quarrell most vnnaturall,\nTo be reueng'd on him that loueth thee\nAn. It is a quarrell iust and reasonable,\nTo be reueng'd on him that kill'd my Husband\nRich. He that bereft the Lady of thy Husband,\nDid it to helpe thee to a better Husband\nAn. His better doth not breath vpon the earth\nRich. He liues, that loues thee better then he could\nAn. Name him\nRich. Plantagenet\nAn. Why that was he\nRich. The selfesame name, but one of better Nature\nAn. Where is he?\nRich. Heere:\nSpits at him.\nWhy dost thou spit at me\nAn. Would it were mortall poyson, for thy sake\nRich. Neuer came poyson from so sweet a place\nAn. Neuer hung poyson on a fowler Toade.\nOut of my sight, thou dost infect mine eyes\nRich. Thine eyes (sweet Lady) haue infected mine\nAn. Would they were Basiliskes, to strike thee dead\nRich. I would they were, that I might dye at once:\nFor now they kill me with a liuing death.\nThose eyes of thine, from mine haue drawne salt Teares;\nSham'd their Aspects with store of childish drops:\nThese eyes, which neuer shed remorsefull teare,\nNo, when my Father Yorke, and Edward wept,\nTo heare the pittious moane that Rutland made\nWhen black-fac'd Clifford shooke his sword at him.\nNor when thy warlike Father like a Childe,\nTold the sad storie of my Fathers death,\nAnd twenty times, made pause to sob and weepe:\nThat all the standers by had wet their cheekes\nLike Trees bedash'd with raine. In that sad time,\nMy manly eyes did scorne an humble teare:\nAnd what these sorrowes could not thence exhale,\nThy Beauty hath, and made them blinde with weeping.\nI neuer sued to Friend, nor Enemy:\nMy Tongue could neuer learne sweet smoothing word.\nBut now thy Beauty is propos'd my Fee,\nMy proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speake.\nShe lookes scornfully at him.\nTeach not thy lip such Scorne; for it was made\nFor kissing Lady, not for such contempt.\nIf thy reuengefull heart cannot forgiue,\nLoe heere I lend thee this sharpe-pointed Sword,\nWhich if thou please to hide in this true brest,\nAnd let the Soule forth that adoreth thee,\nI lay it naked to the deadly stroke,\nAnd humbly begge the death vpon my knee,\nHe layes his brest open, she offers at with his sword.\nNay do not pause: For I did kill King Henrie,\nBut 'twas thy Beauty that prouoked me.\nNay now dispatch: 'Twas I that stabb'd yong Edward,\nBut 'twas thy Heauenly face that set me on.\nShe fals the Sword.\nTake vp the Sword againe, or take vp me\nAn. Arise Dissembler, though I wish thy death,\nI will not be thy Executioner\nRich. Then bid me kill my selfe, and I will do it\nAn. I haue already\nRich. That was in thy rage:\nSpeake it againe, and euen with the word,\nThis hand, which for thy loue, did kill thy Loue,\nShall for thy loue, kill a farre truer Loue,\nTo both their deaths shalt thou be accessary\nAn. I would I knew thy heart\nRich. 'Tis figur'd in my tongue\nAn. I feare me, both are false\nRich. Then neuer Man was true\nAn. Well, well, put vp your Sword\nRich. Say then my Peace is made\nAn. That shalt thou know heereafter\nRich. But shall I liue in hope\nAn. All men I hope liue so.\nVouchsafe to weare this Ring\nRich. Looke how my Ring incompasseth thy Finger,\nEuen so thy Brest incloseth my poore heart:\nWeare both of them, for both of them are thine.\nAnd if thy poore deuoted Seruant may\nBut beg one fauour at thy gracious hand,\nThou dost confirme his happinesse for euer\nAn. What is it?\nRich. That it may please you leaue these sad designes,\nTo him that hath most cause to be a Mourner,\nAnd presently repayre to Crosbie House:\nWhere (after I haue solemnly interr'd\nAt Chertsey Monast'ry this Noble King,\nAnd wet his Graue with my Repentant Teares)\nI will with all expedient duty see you,\nFor diuers vnknowne Reasons, I beseech you,\nGrant me this Boon\nAn. With all my heart, and much it ioyes me too,\nTo see you are become so penitent.\nTressel and Barkley, go along with me\nRich. Bid me farwell\nAn. 'Tis more then you deserue:\nBut since you teach me how to flatter you,\nImagine I haue saide farewell already.\nExit two with Anne.\nGent. Towards Chertsey, Noble Lord?\nRich. No: to White Friars, there attend my comming\nExit Coarse\nWas euer woman in this humour woo'd?\nWas euer woman in this humour wonne?\nIle haue her, but I will not keepe her long.\nWhat? I that kill'd her Husband, and his Father,\nTo take her in her hearts extreamest hate,\nWith curses in her mouth, Teares in her eyes,\nThe bleeding witnesse of my hatred by,\nHauing God, her Conscience, and these bars against me,\nAnd I, no Friends to backe my suite withall,\nBut the plaine Diuell, and dissembling lookes?\nAnd yet to winne her? All the world to nothing.\nHah!\nHath she forgot alreadie that braue Prince,\nEdward, her Lord, whom I (some three monthes since)\nStab'd in my angry mood, at Tewkesbury?\nA sweeter, and a louelier Gentleman,\nFram'd in the prodigallity of Nature:\nYong, Valiant, Wise, and (no doubt) right Royal,\nThe spacious World cannot againe affoord:\nAnd will she yet abase her eyes on me,\nThat cropt the Golden prime of this sweet Prince,\nAnd made her Widdow to a wofull Bed?\nOn me, whose All not equals Edwards Moytie?\nOn me, that halts, and am mishapen thus?\nMy Dukedome, to a Beggerly denier!\nI do mistake my person all this while:\nVpon my life she findes (although I cannot)\nMy selfe to be a maru'llous proper man.\nIle be at Charges for a Looking-glasse,\nAnd entertaine a score or two of Taylors,\nTo study fashions to adorne my body:\nSince I am crept in fauour with my selfe,\nI will maintaine it with some little cost.\nBut first Ile turne yon Fellow in his Graue,\nAnd then returne lamenting to my Loue.\nShine out faire Sunne, till I haue bought a glasse,\nThat I may see my Shadow as I passe.\nEnter.\nScena Tertia.\nEnter the Queene Mother, Lord Riuers, and Lord Gray.\nRiu. Haue patience Madam, ther's no doubt his Maiesty\nWill soone recouer his accustom'd health\nGray. In that you brooke it ill, it makes him worse,\nTherefore for Gods sake entertaine good comfort,\nAnd cheere his Grace with quicke and merry eyes\nQu. If he were dead, what would betide on me?\nIf he were dead, what would betide on me?\nGray. No other harme, but losse of such a Lord\nQu. The losse of such a Lord, includes all harmes\nGray. The Heauens haue blest you with a goodly Son,\nTo be your Comforter, when he is gone\nQu. Ah! he is yong; and his minority\nIs put vnto the trust of Richard Glouster,\nA man that loues not me, nor none of you\nRiu. Is it concluded he shall be Protector?\nQu. It is determin'd, not concluded yet:\nBut so it must be, if the King miscarry.\nEnter Buckingham and Derby.\nGray. Here comes the Lord of Buckingham & Derby\nBuc. Good time of day vnto your Royall Grace\nDer. God make your Maiesty ioyful, as you haue bin\nQu. The Countesse Richmond, good my L[ord]. of Derby.\nTo your good prayer, will scarsely say, Amen.\nYet Derby, not withstanding shee's your wife,\nAnd loues not me, be you good Lord assur'd,\nI hate not you for her proud arrogance\nDer. I do beseech you, either not beleeue\nThe enuious slanders of her false Accusers:\nOr if she be accus'd on true report,\nBeare with her weaknesse, which I thinke proceeds\nFrom wayward sicknesse, and no grounded malice\nQu. Saw you the King to day my Lord of Derby\nDer. But now the Duke of Buckingham and I,\nAre come from visiting his Maiesty\nQue. What likelyhood of his amendment Lords\nBuc. Madam good hope, his Grace speaks chearfully\nQu. God grant him health, did you confer with him?\nBuc. I Madam, he desires to make attonement\nBetweene the Duke of Glouster, and your Brothers,\nAnd betweene them, and my Lord Chamberlaine,\nAnd sent to warne them to his Royall presence\nQu. Would all were well, but that will neuer be,\nI feare our happinesse is at the height.\nEnter Richard.\nRich. They do me wrong, and I will not indure it,\nWho is it that complaines vnto the King,\nThat I (forsooth) am sterne, and loue them not?\nBy holy Paul, they loue his Grace but lightly,\nThat fill his eares with such dissentious Rumors.\nBecause I cannot flatter, and looke faire,\nSmile in mens faces, smooth, deceiue, and cogge,\nDucke with French nods, and Apish curtesie,\nI must be held a rancorous Enemy.\nCannot a plaine man liue, and thinke no harme,\nBut thus his simple truth must be abus'd,\nWith silken, slye, insinuating Iackes?\nGrey. To who in all this presence speaks your Grace?\nRich. To thee, that hast nor Honesty, nor Grace:\nWhen haue I iniur'd thee? When done thee wrong?\nOr thee? or thee? or any of your Faction?\nA plague vpon you all. His Royall Grace\n(Whom God preserue better then you would wish)\nCannot be quiet scarse a breathing while,\nBut you must trouble him with lewd complaints\nQu. Brother of Glouster, you mistake the matter:\nThe King on his owne Royall disposition,\n(And not prouok'd by any Sutor else)\nAyming (belike) at your interiour hatred,\nThat in your outward action shewes it selfe\nAgainst my Children, Brothers, and my Selfe,\nMakes him to send, that he may learne the ground\nRich. I cannot tell, the world is growne so bad,\nThat Wrens make prey, where Eagles dare not pearch.\nSince euerie Iacke became a Gentleman,\nThere's many a gentle person made a Iacke\nQu. Come, come, we know your meaning Brother Gloster\nYou enuy my aduancement, and my friends:\nGod grant we neuer may haue neede of you\nRich. Meane time, God grants that I haue need of you.\nOur Brother is imprison'd by your meanes,\nMy selfe disgrac'd, and the Nobilitie\nHeld in contempt, while great Promotions\nAre daily giuen to ennoble those\nThat scarse some two dayes since were worth a Noble\nQu. By him that rais'd me to this carefull height,\nFrom that contented hap which I inioy'd,\nI neuer did incense his Maiestie\nAgainst the Duke of Clarence, but haue bin\nAn earnest aduocate to plead for him.\nMy Lord you do me shamefull iniurie,\nFalsely to draw me in these vile suspects\nRich. You may deny that you were not the meane\nOf my Lord Hastings late imprisonment\nRiu. She may my Lord, for-\nRich. She may Lord Riuers, why who knowes not so?\nShe may do more sir then denying that:\nShe may helpe you to many faire preferments,\nAnd then deny her ayding hand therein,\nAnd lay those Honors on your high desert.\nWhat may she not, she may, I marry may she\nRiu. What marry may she?\nRic. What marrie may she? Marrie with a King,\nA Batcheller, and a handsome stripling too,\nIwis your Grandam had a worser match\nQu. My Lord of Glouster, I haue too long borne\nYour blunt vpbraidings, and your bitter scoffes:\nBy heauen, I will acquaint his Maiestie\nOf those grosse taunts that oft I haue endur'd.\nI had rather be a Countrie seruant maide\nThen a great Queene, with this condition,\nTo be so baited, scorn'd, and stormed at,\nSmall ioy haue I in being Englands Queene.\nEnter old Queene Margaret.\nMar. And lesned be that small, God I beseech him,\nThy honor, state, and seate, is due to me\nRich. What? threat you me with telling of the King?\nI will auouch't in presence of the King:\nI dare aduenture to be sent to th' Towre.\n'Tis time to speake,\nMy paines are quite forgot\nMargaret. Out Diuell,\nI do remember them too well:\nThou killd'st my Husband Henrie in the Tower,\nAnd Edward my poore Son, at Tewkesburie\nRich. Ere you were Queene,\nI, or your Husband King:\nI was a packe-horse in his great affaires:\nA weeder out of his proud Aduersaries,\nA liberall rewarder of his Friends,\nTo royalize his blood, I spent mine owne\nMargaret. I and much better blood\nThen his, or thine\nRich. In all which time, you and your Husband Grey\nWere factious, for the House of Lancaster;\nAnd Riuers, so were you: Was not your Husband,\nIn Margarets Battaile, at Saint Albons, slaine?\nLet me put in your mindes, if you forget\nWhat you haue beene ere this, and what you are:\nWithall, what I haue beene, and what I am\nQ.M. A murth'rous Villaine, and so still thou art\nRich. Poore Clarence did forsake his Father Warwicke,\nI, and forswore himselfe (which Iesu pardon.)\nQ.M. Which God reuenge\nRich. To fight on Edwards partie, for the Crowne,\nAnd for his meede, poore Lord, he is mewed vp:\nI would to God my heart were Flint, like Edwards,\nOr Edwards soft and pittifull, like mine;\nI am too childish foolish for this World\nQ.M. High thee to Hell for shame, & leaue this World\nThou Cacodemon, there thy Kingdome is\nRiu. My Lord of Gloster: in those busie dayes,\nWhich here you vrge, to proue vs Enemies,\nWe follow'd then our Lord, our Soueraigne King,\nSo should we you, if you should be our King\nRich. If I should be? I had rather be a Pedler:\nFarre be it from my heart, the thought thereof\nQu. As little ioy (my Lord) as you suppose\nYou should enioy, were you this Countries King,\nAs little ioy you may suppose in me,\nThat I enioy, being the Queene thereof\nQ.M. A little ioy enioyes the Queene thereof,\nFor I am shee, and altogether ioylesse:\nI can no longer hold me patient.\nHeare me, you wrangling Pyrates, that fall out,\nIn sharing that which you haue pill'd from me:\nWhich off you trembles not, that lookes on me?\nIf not, that I am Queene, you bow like Subiects;\nYet that by you depos'd, you quake like Rebells.\nAh gentle Villaine, doe not turne away\nRich. Foule wrinckled Witch, what mak'st thou in my sight?\nQ.M. But repetition of what thou hast marr'd,\nThat will I make, before I let thee goe\nRich. Wert thou not banished, on paine of death?\nQ.M. I was: but I doe find more paine in banishment,\nThen death can yeeld me here, by my abode.\nA Husband and a Sonne thou ow'st to me,\nAnd thou a Kingdome; all of you, allegeance:\nThis Sorrow that I haue, by right is yours,\nAnd all the Pleasures you vsurpe, are mine\nRich. The Curse my Noble Father layd on thee,\nWhen thou didst Crown his Warlike Brows with Paper,\nAnd with thy scornes drew'st Riuers from his eyes,\nAnd then to dry them, gau'st the Duke a Clowt,\nSteep'd in the faultlesse blood of prettie Rutland:\nHis Curses then, from bitternesse of Soule,\nDenounc'd against thee, are all falne vpon thee:\nAnd God, not we, hath plagu'd thy bloody deed\nQu. So iust is God, to right the innocent\nHast. O, 'twas the foulest deed to slay that Babe,\nAnd the most mercilesse, that ere was heard of\nRiu. Tyrants themselues wept when it was reported\nDors. No man but prophecied reuenge for it\nBuck. Northumberland, then present, wept to see it\nQ.M. What? were you snarling all before I came,\nReady to catch each other by the throat,\nAnd turne you all your hatred now on me?\nDid Yorkes dread Curse preuaile so much with Heauen,\nThat Henries death, my louely Edwards death,\nTheir Kingdomes losse, my wofull Banishment,\nShould all but answer for that peeuish Brat?\nCan Curses pierce the Clouds, and enter Heauen?\nWhy then giue way dull Clouds to my quick Curses.\nThough not by Warre, by Surfet dye your King,\nAs ours by Murther, to make him a King.\nEdward thy Sonne, that now is Prince of Wales,\nFor Edward our Sonne, that was Prince of Wales,\nDye in his youth, by like vntimely violence.\nThy selfe a Queene, for me that was a Queene,\nOut-liue thy glory, like my wretched selfe:\nLong may'st thou liue, to wayle thy Childrens death,\nAnd see another, as I see thee now,\nDeck'd in thy Rights, as thou art stall'd in mine.\nLong dye thy happie dayes, before thy death,\nAnd after many length'ned howres of griefe,\nDye neyther Mother, Wife, nor Englands Queene.\nRiuers and Dorset, you were standers by,\nAnd so wast thou, Lord Hastings, when my Sonne\nWas stab'd with bloody Daggers: God, I pray him,\nThat none of you may liue his naturall age,\nBut by some vnlook'd accident cut off\nRich. Haue done thy Charme, y hateful wither'd Hagge\nQ.M. And leaue out thee? stay Dog, for y shalt heare me.\nIf Heauen haue any grieuous plague in store,\nExceeding those that I can wish vpon thee,\nO let them keepe it, till thy sinnes be ripe,\nAnd then hurle downe their indignation\nOn thee, the troubler of the poore Worlds peace.\nThe Worme of Conscience still begnaw thy Soule,\nThy Friends suspect for Traytors while thou liu'st,\nAnd take deepe Traytors for thy dearest Friends:\nNo sleepe close vp that deadly Eye of thine,\nVnlesse it be while some tormenting Dreame\nAffrights thee with a Hell of ougly Deuills.\nThou eluish mark'd, abortiue rooting Hogge,\nThou that wast seal'd in thy Natiuitie\nThe slaue of Nature, and the Sonne of Hell:\nThou slander of thy heauie Mothers Wombe,\nThou loathed Issue of thy Fathers Loynes,\nThou Ragge of Honor, thou detested-\nRich. Margaret\nQ.M. Richard\nRich. Ha\nQ.M. I call thee not\nRich. I cry thee mercie then: for I did thinke,\nThat thou hadst call'd me all these bitter names\nQ.M. Why so I did, but look'd for no reply.\nOh let me make the Period to my Curse\nRich. 'Tis done by me and ends in Margaret\nQu. Thus haue you breath'd your Curse against your self\nQ.M. Poore painted Queen, vain flourish of my fortune,\nWhy strew'st thou Sugar on that Bottel'd Spider,\nWhose deadly Web ensnareth thee about?\nFoole, foole, thou whet'st a Knife to kill thy selfe:\nThe day will come, that thou shalt wish for me,\nTo helpe thee curse this poysonous Bunch-backt Toade\nHast. False boding Woman, end thy frantick Curse,\nLeast to thy harme, thou moue our patience\nQ.M. Foule shame vpon you, you haue all mou'd mine\nRi. Were you wel seru'd, you would be taught your duty\nQ.M. To serue me well, you all should do me duty,\nTeach me to be your Queene, and you my Subiects:\nO serue me well, and teach your selues that duty\nDors. Dispute not with her, shee is lunaticke\nQ.M. Peace Master Marquesse, you are malapert,\nYour fire-new stampe of Honor is scarce currant.\nO that your yong Nobility could iudge\nWhat 'twere to lose it, and be miserable.\nThey that stand high, haue many blasts to shake them,\nAnd if they fall, they dash themselues to peeces\nRich. Good counsaile marry, learne it, learne it Marquesse\nDor. It touches you my Lord, as much as me\nRich. I, and much more: but I was borne so high:\nOur ayerie buildeth in the Cedars top,\nAnd dallies with the winde, and scornes the Sunne\nMar. And turnes the Sun to shade: alas, alas,\nWitnesse my Sonne, now in the shade of death,\nWhose bright out-shining beames, thy cloudy wrath\nHath in eternall darknesse folded vp.\nYour ayery buildeth in our ayeries Nest:\nO God that seest it, do not suffer it,\nAs it is wonne with blood, lost be it so\nBuc. Peace, peace for shame: If not, for Charity\nMar. Vrge neither charity, nor shame to me:\nVncharitably with me haue you dealt,\nAnd shamefully my hopes (by you) are butcher'd.\nMy Charity is outrage, Life my shame,\nAnd in that shame, still liue my sorrowes rage\nBuc. Haue done, haue done\nMar. O Princely Buckingham, Ile kisse thy hand,\nIn signe of League and amity with thee:\nNow faire befall thee, and thy Noble house:\nThy Garments are not spotted with our blood:\nNor thou within the compasse of my curse\nBuc. Nor no one heere: for Curses neuer passe\nThe lips of those that breath them in the ayre\nMar. I will not thinke but they ascend the sky,\nAnd there awake Gods gentle sleeping peace.\nO Buckingham, take heede of yonder dogge:\nLooke when he fawnes, he bites; and when he bites,\nHis venom tooth will rankle to the death.\nHaue not to do with him, beware of him,\nSinne, death, and hell haue set their markes on him,\nAnd all their Ministers attend on him\nRich. What doth she say, my Lord of Buckingham\nBuc. Nothing that I respect my gracious Lord\nMar. What dost thou scorne me\nFor my gentle counsell?\nAnd sooth the diuell that I warne thee from.\nO but remember this another day:\nWhen he shall split thy very heart with sorrow:\nAnd say (poore Margaret) was a Prophetesse:\nLiue each of you the subiects to his hate,\nAnd he to yours, and all of you to Gods.\nEnter.\nBuc. My haire doth stand an end to heare her curses\nRiu. And so doth mine, I muse why she's at libertie\nRich. I cannot blame her, by Gods holy mother,\nShe hath had too much wrong, and I repent\nMy part thereof, that I haue done to her\nMar. I neuer did her any to my knowledge\nRich. Yet you haue all the vantage of her wrong:\nI was too hot, to do somebody good,\nThat is too cold in thinking of it now:\nMarry as for Clarence, he is well repayed:\nHe is frank'd vp to fatting for his paines,\nGod pardon them, that are the cause thereof\nRiu. A vertuous, and a Christian-like conclusion\nTo pray for them that haue done scath to vs\nRich. So do I euer, being well aduis'd.\nSpeakes to himselfe.\nFor had I curst now, I had curst my selfe.\nEnter Catesby.\nCates. Madam, his Maiesty doth call for you,\nAnd for your Grace, and yours my gracious Lord\nQu. Catesby I come, Lords will you go with mee\nRiu. We wait vpon your Grace.\nExeunt. all but Gloster.\nRich. I do the wrong, and first begin to brawle.\nThe secret Mischeefes that I set abroach,\nI lay vnto the greeuous charge of others.\nClarence, who I indeede haue cast in darknesse,\nI do beweepe to many simple Gulles,\nNamely to Derby, Hastings, Buckingham,\nAnd tell them 'tis the Queene, and her Allies,\nThat stirre the King against the Duke my Brother.\nNow they beleeue it, and withall whet me\nTo be reueng'd on Riuers, Dorset, Grey.\nBut then I sigh, and with a peece of Scripture,\nTell them that God bids vs do good for euill:\nAnd thus I cloath my naked Villanie\nWith odde old ends, stolne forth of holy Writ,\nAnd seeme a Saint, when most I play the deuill.\nEnter two murtherers.\nBut soft, heere come my Executioners,\nHow now my hardy stout resolued Mates,\nAre you now going to dispatch this thing?\nVil. We are my Lord, and come to haue the Warrant,\nThat we may be admitted where he is\nRic. Well thought vpon, I haue it heare about me:\nWhen you haue done, repayre to Crosby place;\nBut sirs be sodaine in the execution,\nWithall obdurate, do not heare him pleade;\nFor Clarence is well spoken, and perhappes\nMay moue your hearts to pitty, if you marke him\nVil. Tut, tut, my Lord, we will not stand to prate,\nTalkers are no good dooers, be assur'd:\nWe go to vse our hands, and not our tongues\nRich. Your eyes drop Mill-stones, when Fooles eyes\nfall Teares:\nI like you Lads, about your businesse straight.\nGo, go, dispatch\nVil. We will my Noble Lord.\nScena Quarta.\nEnter Clarence and Keeper.\nKeep. Why lookes your Grace so heauily to day\nCla. O, I haue past a miserable night,\nSo full of fearefull Dreames, of vgly sights,\nThat as I am a Christian faithfull man,\nI would not spend another such a night\nThough 'twere to buy a world of happy daies:\nSo full of dismall terror was the time\nKeep. What was your dream my Lord, I pray you tel me\nCla. Me thoughts that I had broken from the Tower,\nAnd was embark'd to crosse to Burgundy,\nAnd in my company my Brother Glouster,\nWho from my Cabin tempted me to walke,\nVpon the Hatches: There we look'd toward England,\nAnd cited vp a thousand heauy times,\nDuring the warres of Yorke and Lancaster\nThat had befalne vs. As we pac'd along\nVpon the giddy footing of the Hatches,\nMe thought that Glouster stumbled, and in falling\nStrooke me (that thought to stay him) ouer-boord,\nInto the tumbling billowes of the maine.\nO Lord, me thought what paine it was to drowne,\nWhat dreadfull noise of water in mine eares,\nWhat sights of vgly death within mine eyes.\nMe thoughts, I saw a thousand fearfull wrackes:\nA thousand men that Fishes gnaw'd vpon:\nWedges of Gold, great Anchors, heapes of Pearle,\nInestimable Stones, vnvalewed Iewels,\nAll scattred in the bottome of the Sea,\nSome lay in dead-mens Sculles, and in the holes\nWhere eyes did once inhabit, there were crept\n(As 'twere in scorne of eyes) reflecting Gemmes,\nThat woo'd the slimy bottome of the deepe,\nAnd mock'd the dead bones that lay scattred by\nKeep. Had you such leysure in the time of death\nTo gaze vpon these secrets of the deepe?\nCla. Me thought I had, and often did I striue\nTo yeeld the Ghost: but still the enuious Flood\nStop'd in my soule, and would not let it forth\nTo find the empty, vast, and wand'ring ayre:\nBut smother'd it within my panting bulke,\nWho almost burst, to belch it in the Sea\nKeep. Awak'd you not in this sore Agony?\nClar. No, no, my Dreame was lengthen'd after life.\nO then, began the Tempest to my Soule.\nI past (me thought) the Melancholly Flood,\nWith that sowre Ferry-man which Poets write of,\nVnto the Kingdome of perpetuall Night.\nThe first that there did greet my Stranger-soule,\nWas my great Father-in-Law, renowned Warwicke,\nWho spake alowd: What scourge for Periurie,\nCan this darke Monarchy affoord false Clarence?\nAnd so he vanish'd. Then came wand'ring by,\nA Shadow like an Angell, with bright hayre\nDabbel'd in blood, and he shriek'd out alowd\nClarence is come, false, fleeting, periur'd Clarence,\nThat stabb'd me in the field by Tewkesbury:\nSeize on him Furies, take him vnto Torment.\nWith that (me thought) a Legion of foule Fiends\nInuiron'd me, and howled in mine eares\nSuch hiddeous cries, that with the very Noise,\nI (trembling) wak'd, and for a season after,\nCould not beleeue, but that I was in Hell,\nSuch terrible Impression made my Dreame\nKeep. No maruell Lord, though it affrighted you,\nI am affraid (me thinkes) to heare you tell it\nCla. Ah Keeper, Keeper, I haue done these things\n(That now giue euidence against my Soule)\nFor Edwards sake, and see how he requits mee.\nO God! if my deepe prayres cannot appease thee,\nBut thou wilt be aueng'd on my misdeeds,\nYet execute thy wrath in me alone:\nO spare my guiltlesse Wife, and my poore children.\nKeeper, I prythee sit by me a-while,\nMy Soule is heauy, and I faine would sleepe\nKeep. I will my Lord, God giue your Grace good rest.\nEnter Brakenbury the Lieutenant.\nBra. Sorrow breakes Seasons, and reposing houres,\nMakes the Night Morning, and the Noon-tide night:\nPrinces haue but their Titles for their Glories,\nAn outward Honor, for an inward Toyle,\nAnd for vnfelt Imaginations\nThey often feele a world of restlesse Cares:\nSo that betweene their Titles, and low Name,\nThere's nothing differs, but the outward fame.\nEnter two Murtherers.\n1.Mur. Ho, who's heere?\nBra. What would'st thou Fellow? And how camm'st\nthou hither\n2.Mur. I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither\non my Legges\nBra. What so breefe?\n1. 'Tis better (Sir) then to be tedious:\nLet him see our Commission, and talke no more.\nReads\nBra. I am in this, commanded to deliuer\nThe Noble Duke of Clarence to your hands.\nI will not reason what is meant heereby,\nBecause I will be guiltlesse from the meaning.\nThere lies the Duke asleepe, and there the Keyes.\nIle to the King, and signifie to him,\nThat thus I haue resign'd to you my charge.\nEnter.\n1 You may sir, 'tis a point of wisedome:\nFar you well\n2 What, shall we stab him as he sleepes\n1 No: hee'l say 'twas done cowardly, when he wakes\n2 Why he shall neuer wake, vntill the great Iudgement\nday\n1 Why then hee'l say, we stab'd him sleeping\n2 The vrging of that word Iudgement, hath bred a\nkinde of remorse in me\n1 What? art thou affraid?\n2 Not to kill him, hauing a Warrant,\nBut to be damn'd for killing him, from the which\nNo Warrant can defend me\n1 I thought thou had'st bin resolute\n2 So I am, to let him liue\n1 Ile backe to the Duke of Glouster, and tell him so\n2 Nay, I prythee stay a little:\nI hope this passionate humor of mine, will change,\nIt was wont to hold me but while one tels twenty\n1 How do'st thou feele thy selfe now?\n2 Some certaine dregges of conscience are yet within\nmee\n1 Remember our Reward, when the deed's done\n2 Come, he dies: I had forgot the Reward\n1 Where's thy conscience now\n2 O, in the Duke of Glousters purse\n1 When hee opens his purse to giue vs our Reward,\nthy Conscience flyes out\n2 'Tis no matter, let it goe: There's few or none will\nentertaine it\n1 What if it come to thee againe?\n2 Ile not meddle with it, it makes a man a Coward:\nA man cannot steale, but it accuseth him: A man cannot\nSweare, but it Checkes him: A man cannot lye with his\nNeighbours Wife, but it detects him. 'Tis a blushing\nshamefac'd spirit, that mutinies in a mans bosome: It\nfilles a man full of Obstacles. It made me once restore a\nPursse of Gold that (by chance) I found: It beggars any\nman that keepes it: It is turn'd out of Townes and Citties\nfor a dangerous thing, and euery man that means to\nliue well, endeuours to trust to himselfe, and liue without\nit\n1 'Tis euen now at my elbow, perswading me not to\nkill the Duke\n2 Take the diuell in thy minde, and beleeue him not:\nHe would insinuate with thee but to make thee sigh\n1 I am strong fram'd, he cannot preuaile with me\n2 Spoke like a tall man, that respects thy reputation.\nCome, shall we fall to worke?\n1 Take him on the Costard, with the hiltes of thy\nSword, and then throw him into the Malmesey-Butte in\nthe next roome\n2 O excellent deuice; and make a sop of him\n1 Soft, he wakes\n2 Strike\n1 No, wee'l reason with him\nCla. Where art thou Keeper? Giue me a cup of wine\n2 You shall haue Wine enough my Lord anon\nCla. In Gods name, what art thou?\n1 A man, as you are\nCla. But not as I am Royall\n1 Nor you as we are, Loyall\nCla. Thy voice is Thunder, but thy looks are humble\n1 My voice is now the Kings, my lookes mine owne\nCla. How darkly, and how deadly dost thou speake?\nYour eyes do menace me: why looke you pale?\nWho sent you hither? Wherefore do you come?\n2 To, to, to-\nCla. To murther me?\nBoth. I, I\nCla. You scarsely haue the hearts to tell me so,\nAnd therefore cannot haue the hearts to do it.\nWherein my Friends haue I offended you?\n1 Offended vs you haue not, but the King\nCla. I shall be reconcil'd to him againe\n2 Neuer my Lord, therefore prepare to dye\nCla. Are you drawne forth among a world of men\nTo slay the innocent? What is my offence?\nWhere is the Euidence that doth accuse me?\nWhat lawfull Quest haue giuen their Verdict vp\nVnto the frowning Iudge? Or who pronounc'd\nThe bitter sentence of poore Clarence death,\nBefore I be conuict by course of Law?\nTo threaten me with death, is most vnlawfull.\nI charge you, as you hope for any goodnesse,\nThat you depart, and lay no hands on me:\nThe deed you vndertake is damnable\n1 What we will do, we do vpon command\n2 And he that hath commanded, is our King\nCla. Erroneous Vassals, the great King of Kings\nHath in the Table of his Law commanded\nThat thou shalt do no murther. Will you then\nSpurne at his Edict, and fulfill a Mans?\nTake heed: for he holds Vengeance in his hand,\nTo hurle vpon their heads that breake his Law\n2 And that same Vengeance doth he hurle on thee,\nFor false Forswearing, and for murther too:\nThou did'st receiue the Sacrament, to fight\nIn quarrell of the House of Lancaster\n1 And like a Traitor to the name of God,\nDid'st breake that Vow, and with thy treacherous blade,\nVnrip'st the Bowels of thy Sou'raignes Sonne\n2 Whom thou was't sworne to cherish and defend\n1 How canst thou vrge Gods dreadfull Law to vs,\nWhen thou hast broke it in such deere degree?\nCla. Alas! for whose sake did I that ill deede?\nFor Edward, for my Brother, for his sake.\nHe sends you not to murther me for this:\nFor in that sinne, he is as deepe as I.\nIf God will be auenged for the deed,\nO know you yet, he doth it publiquely,\nTake not the quarrell from his powrefull arme:\nHe needs no indirect, or lawlesse course,\nTo cut off those that haue offended him\n1 Who made thee then a bloudy minister,\nWhen gallant springing braue Plantagenet,\nThat Princely Nouice was strucke dead by thee?\nCla. My Brothers loue, the Diuell, and my Rage\n1 Thy Brothers Loue, our Duty, and thy Faults,\nProuoke vs hither now, to slaughter thee\nCla. If you do loue my Brother, hate not me:\nI am his Brother, and I loue him well.\nIf you are hyr'd for meed, go backe againe,\nAnd I will send you to my Brother Glouster:\nWho shall reward you better for my life,\nThen Edward will for tydings of my death\n2 You are deceiu'd,\nYour Brother Glouster hates you\nCla. Oh no, he loues me, and he holds me deere:\nGo you to him from me\n1 I so we will\nCla. Tell him, when that our Princely Father Yorke,\nBlest his three Sonnes with his victorious Arme,\nHe little thought of this diuided Friendship:\nBid Glouster thinke on this, and he will weepe\n1 I Milstones, as he lessoned vs to weepe\nCla. O do not slander him, for he is kinde\n1 Right, as Snow in Haruest:\nCome, you deceiue your selfe,\n'Tis he that sends vs to destroy you heere\nCla. It cannot be, for he bewept my Fortune,\nAnd hugg'd me in his armes, and swore with sobs,\nThat he would labour my deliuery\n1 Why so he doth, when he deliuers you\nFrom this earths thraldome, to the ioyes of heauen\n2 Make peace with God, for you must die my Lord\nCla. Haue you that holy feeling in your soules,\nTo counsaile me to make my peace with God,\nAnd are you yet to your owne soules so blinde,\nThat you will warre with God, by murd'ring me.\nO sirs consider, they that set you on\nTo do this deede will hate you for the deede\n2 What shall we do?\nClar. Relent, and saue your soules:\nWhich of you, if you were a Princes Sonne,\nBeing pent from Liberty, as I am now,\nIf two such murtherers as your selues came to you,\nWould not intreat for life, as you would begge\nWere you in my distresse\n1 Relent? no: 'Tis cowardly and womanish\nCla. Not to relent, is beastly, sauage, diuellish:\nMy Friend, I spy some pitty in thy lookes:\nO, if thine eye be not a Flatterer,\nCome thou on my side, and intreate for mee,\nA begging Prince, what begger pitties not\n2 Looke behinde you, my Lord\n1 Take that, and that, if all this will not do,\nStabs him.\nIle drowne you in the MalmeseyBut within.\nEnter.\n2 A bloody deed, and desperately dispatcht:\nHow faine (like Pilate) would I wash my hands\nOf this most greeuous murther.\nEnter 1.Murtherer]\n1 How now? what mean'st thou that thou help'st me\nnot? By Heauen the Duke shall know how slacke you\nhaue beene\n2.Mur. I would he knew that I had sau'd his brother,\nTake thou the Fee, and tell him what I say,\nFor I repent me that the Duke is slaine.\nEnter.\n1.Mur. So do not I: go Coward as thou art.\nWell, Ile go hide the body in some hole,\nTill that the Duke giue order for his buriall:\nAnd when I haue my meede, I will away,\nFor this will out, and then I must not stay.\nExit\nActus Secundus. Scoena Prima.\nFlourish.\nEnter the King sicke, the Queene, Lord Marquesse Dorset, Riuers,\nHastings,\nCatesby, Buckingham, Wooduill.\nKing. Why so: now haue I done a good daies work.\nYou Peeres, continue this vnited League:\nI, euery day expect an Embassage\nFrom my Redeemer, to redeeme me hence.\nAnd more to peace my soule shall part to heauen,\nSince I haue made my Friends at peace on earth.\nDorset and Riuers, take each others hand,\nDissemble not your hatred, Sweare your loue\nRiu. By heauen, my soule is purg'd from grudging hate\nAnd with my hand I seale my true hearts Loue\nHast. So thriue I, as I truly sweare the like\nKing. Take heed you dally not before your King,\nLest he that is the supreme King of Kings\nConfound your hidden falshood, and award\nEither of you to be the others end\nHast. So prosper I, as I sweare perfect loue\nRi. And I, as I loue Hastings with my heart,\nKing. Madam, your selfe is not exempt from this:\nNor you Sonne Dorset, Buckingham nor you;\nYou haue bene factious one against the other.\nWife, loue Lord Hastings, let him kisse your hand,\nAnd what you do, do it vnfeignedly\nQu. There Hastings, I will neuer more remember\nOur former hatred, so thriue I, and mine\nKing. Dorset, imbrace him:\nHastings, loue Lord Marquesse\nDor. This interchange of loue, I heere protest\nVpon my part, shall be inuiolable\nHast. And so sweare I\nKing. Now Princely Buckingham, seale y this league\nWith thy embracements to my wiues Allies,\nAnd make me happy in your vnity\nBuc. When euer Buckingham doth turne his hate\nVpon your Grace, but with all dutious loue,\nDoth cherish you, and yours, God punish me\nWith hate in those where I expect most loue,\nWhen I haue most need to imploy a Friend,\nAnd most assured that he is a Friend,\nDeepe, hollow, treacherous, and full of guile,\nBe he vnto me: This do I begge of heauen,\nWhen I am cold in loue, to you, or yours.\nEmbrace\nKing. A pleasing Cordiall, Princely Buckingham\nIs this thy Vow, vnto my sickely heart:\nThere wanteth now our Brother Gloster heere,\nTo make the blessed period of this peace\nBuc. And in good time,\nHeere comes Sir Richard Ratcliffe, and the Duke.\nEnter Ratcliffe, and Gloster.\nRich. Good morrow to my Soueraigne King & Queen\nAnd Princely Peeres, a happy time of day\nKing. Happy indeed, as we haue spent the day:\nGloster, we haue done deeds of Charity,\nMade peace of enmity, faire loue of hate,\nBetweene these swelling wrong incensed Peeres\nRich. A blessed labour my most Soueraigne Lord:\nAmong this Princely heape, if any heere\nBy false intelligence, or wrong surmize\nHold me a Foe: If I vnwillingly, or in my rage,\nHaue ought committed that is hardly borne,\nTo any in this presence, I desire\nTo reconcile me to his Friendly peace:\n'Tis death to me to be at enmitie:\nI hate it, and desire all good mens loue,\nFirst Madam, I intreate true peace of you,\nWhich I will purchase with my dutious seruice.\nOf you my Noble Cosin Buckingham,\nIf euer any grudge were lodg'd betweene vs.\nOf you and you, Lord Riuers and of Dorset,\nThat all without desert haue frown'd on me:\nOf you Lord Wooduill, and Lord Scales of you,\nDukes, Earles, Lords, Gentlemen, indeed of all.\nI do not know that Englishman aliue,\nWith whom my soule is any iot at oddes,\nMore then the Infant that is borne to night:\nI thanke my God for my Humility\nQu. A holy day shall this be kept heereafter:\nI would to God all strifes were well compounded.\nMy Soueraigne Lord, I do beseech your Highnesse\nTo take our Brother Clarence to your Grace\nRich. Why Madam, haue I offred loue for this,\nTo be so flowted in this Royall presence?\nWho knowes not that the gentle Duke is dead?\nThey all start.\nYou do him iniurie to scorne his Coarse\nKing. Who knowes not he is dead?\nWho knowes he is?\nQu. All-seeing heauen, what a world is this?\nBuc. Looke I so pale Lord Dorset, as the rest?\nDor. I my good Lord, and no man in the presence,\nBut his red colour hath forsooke his cheekes\nKing. Is Clarence dead? The Order was reuerst\nRich. But he (poore man) by your first order dyed,\nAnd that a winged Mercurie did beare:\nSome tardie Cripple bare the Countermand,\nThat came too lagge to see him buried.\nGod grant, that some lesse Noble, and lesse Loyall,\nNeerer in bloody thoughts, and not in blood,\nDeserue not worse then wretched Clarence did,\nAnd yet go currant from Suspition.\nEnter Earle of Derby.\nDer. A boone my Soueraigne for my seruice done\nKing. I prethee peace, my soule is full of sorrow\nDer. I will not rise, vnlesse your Highnes heare me\nKing. Then say at once, what is it thou requests\nDer. The forfeit (Soueraigne) of my seruants life,\nWho slew to day a Riotous Gentleman,\nLately attendant on the Duke of Norfolke\nKing. Haue I a tongue to doome my Brothers death?\nAnd shall that tongue giue pardon to a slaue?\nMy Brother kill'd no man, his fault was Thought,\nAnd yet his punishment was bitter death.\nWho sued to me for him? Who (in my wrath)\nKneel'd and my feet, and bid me be aduis'd?\nWho spoke of Brother-hood? who spoke of loue?\nWho told me how the poore soule did forsake\nThe mighty Warwicke, and did fight for me?\nWho told me in the field at Tewkesbury,\nWhen Oxford had me downe, he rescued me:\nAnd said deare Brother liue, and be a King?\nWho told me, when we both lay in the Field,\nFrozen (almost) to death, how he did lap me\nEuen in his Garments, and did giue himselfe\n(All thin and naked) to the numbe cold night?\nAll this from my Remembrance, brutish wrath\nSinfully pluckt, and not a man of you\nHad so much grace to put it in my minde.\nBut when your Carters, or your wayting Vassalls\nHaue done a drunken Slaughter, and defac'd\nThe precious Image of our deere Redeemer,\nYou straight are on your knees for Pardon, pardon,\nAnd I (vniustly too) must grant it you.\nBut for my Brother, not a man would speake,\nNor I (vngracious) speake vnto my selfe\nFor him poore Soule. The proudest of you all,\nHaue bin beholding to him in his life:\nYet none of you, would once begge for his life.\nO God! I feare thy iustice will take hold\nOn me, and you; and mine, and yours for this.\nCome Hastings helpe me to my Closset.\nAh poore Clarence.\nExeunt. some with K[ing]. & Queen.\nRich. This is the fruits of rashnes: Markt you not,\nHow that the guilty Kindred of the Queene\nLook'd pale, when they did heare of Clarence death.\nO! they did vrge it still vnto the King,\nGod will reuenge it. Come Lords will you go,\nTo comfort Edward with our company\nBuc. We wait vpon your Grace.\nExeunt.\nScena Secunda.\nEnter the old Dutchesse of Yorke, with the two children of\nClarence.\nEdw. Good Grandam tell vs, is our Father dead?\nDutch. No Boy\nDaugh. Why do weepe so oft? And beate your Brest?\nAnd cry, O Clarence, my vnhappy Sonne\nBoy. Why do you looke on vs, and shake your head,\nAnd call vs Orphans, Wretches, Castawayes,\nIf that our Noble Father were aliue?\nDut. My pretty Cosins, you mistake me both,\nI do lament the sicknesse of the King,\nAs loath to lose him, not your Fathers death:\nIt were lost sorrow to waile one that's lost\nBoy. Then you conclude, (my Grandam) he is dead:\nThe King mine Vnckle is too blame for it.\nGod will reuenge it, whom I will importune\nWith earnest prayers, all to that effect\nDaugh. And so will I\nDut. Peace children peace, the King doth loue you wel.\nIncapeable, and shallow Innocents,\nYou cannot guesse who caus'd your Fathers death\nBoy. Grandam we can: for my good Vnkle Gloster\nTold me, the King prouok'd to it by the Queene,\nDeuis'd impeachments to imprison him;\nAnd when my Vnckle told me so, he wept,\nAnd pittied me, and kindly kist my cheeke:\nBad me rely on him, as on my Father,\nAnd he would loue me deerely as a childe\nDut. Ah! that Deceit should steale such gentle shape,\nAnd with a vertuous Vizor hide deepe vice.\nHe is my sonne, I, and therein my shame,\nYet from my dugges, he drew not this deceit\nBoy. Thinke you my Vnkle did dissemble Grandam?\nDut. I Boy\nBoy. I cannot thinke it. Hearke, what noise is this?\nEnter the Queene with her haire about her ears, Riuers & Dorset\nafter\nher.\nQu. Ah! who shall hinder me to waile and weepe?\nTo chide my Fortune, and torment my Selfe.\nIle ioyne with blacke dispaire against my Soule,\nAnd to my selfe, become an enemie\nDut. What meanes this Scene of rude impatience?\nQu. To make an act of Tragicke violence.\nEdward my Lord, thy Sonne, our King is dead.\nWhy grow the Branches, when the Roote is gone?\nWhy wither not the leaues that want their sap?\nIf you will liue, Lament: if dye, be breefe,\nThat our swift-winged Soules may catch the Kings,\nOr like obedient Subiects follow him,\nTo his new Kingdome of nere-changing night\nDut. Ah so much interest haue in thy sorrow,\nAs I had Title in thy Noble Husband:\nI haue bewept a worthy Husbands death,\nAnd liu'd with looking on his Images:\nBut now two Mirrors of his Princely semblance,\nAre crack'd in pieces, by malignant death,\nAnd I for comfort, haue but one false Glasse,\nThat greeues me, when I see my shame in him.\nThou art a Widdow: yet thou art a Mother,\nAnd hast the comfort of thy Children left,\nBut death hath snatch'd my Husband from mine Armes,\nAnd pluckt two Crutches from my feeble hands,\nClarence, and Edward. O, what cause haue I,\n(Thine being but a moity of my moane)\nTo ouer-go thy woes, and drowne thy cries\nBoy. Ah Aunt! you wept not for our Fathers death:\nHow can we ayde you with our Kindred teares?\nDaugh. Our fatherlesse distresse was left vnmoan'd,\nYour widdow-dolour, likewise be vnwept\nQu. Giue me no helpe in Lamentation,\nI am not barren to bring forth complaints:\nAll Springs reduce their currents to mine eyes,\nThat I being gouern'd by the waterie Moone,\nMay send forth plenteous teares to drowne the World.\nAh, for my Husband, for my deere Lord Edward\nChil. Ah for our Father, for our deere Lord Clarence\nDut. Alas for both, both mine Edward and Clarence\nQu. What stay had I but Edward, and hee's gone?\nChil. What stay had we but Clarence? and he's gone\nDut. What stayes had I, but they? and they are gone\nQu. Was neuer widdow had so deere a losse\nChil. Were neuer Orphans had so deere a losse\nDut. Was neuer Mother had so deere a losse.\nAlas! I am the Mother of these Greefes,\nTheir woes are parcell'd, mine is generall.\nShe for an Edward weepes, and so do I:\nI for a Clarence weepes, so doth not shee:\nThese Babes for Clarence weepe, so do not they.\nAlas! you three, on me threefold distrest:\nPower all your teares, I am your sorrowes Nurse,\nAnd I will pamper it with Lamentation\nDor. Comfort deere Mother, God is much displeas'd,\nThat you take with vnthankfulnesse his doing.\nIn common worldly things, 'tis call'd vngratefull,\nWith dull vnwillingnesse to repay a debt,\nWhich with a bounteous hand was kindly lent:\nMuch more to be thus opposite with heauen,\nFor it requires the Royall debt it lent you\nRiuers. Madam, bethinke you like a carefull Mother\nOf the young Prince your sonne: send straight for him,\nLet him be Crown'd, in him your comfort liues.\nDrowne desperate sorrow in dead Edwards graue,\nAnd plant your ioyes in liuing Edwards Throne.\nEnter Richard, Buckingham, Derbie, Hastings, and Ratcliffe.\nRich. Sister haue comfort, all of vs haue cause\nTo waile the dimming of our shining Starre:\nBut none can helpe our harmes by wayling them.\nMadam, my Mother, I do cry you mercie,\nI did not see your Grace. Humbly on my knee,\nI craue your Blessing\nDut. God blesse thee, and put meeknes in thy breast,\nLoue Charity, Obedience, and true Dutie\nRich. Amen, and make me die a good old man,\nThat is the butt-end of a Mothers blessing;\nI maruell that her Grace did leaue it out\nBuc. You clowdy-Princes, & hart-sorowing-Peeres,\nThat beare this heauie mutuall loade of Moane,\nNow cheere each other, in each others Loue:\nThough we haue spent our Haruest of this King,\nWe are to reape the Haruest of his Sonne.\nThe broken rancour of your high-swolne hates,\nBut lately splinter'd, knit, and ioyn'd together,\nMust gently be preseru'd, cherisht, and kept:\nMe seemeth good, that with some little Traine,\nForthwith from Ludlow, the young Prince be set\nHither to London, to be crown'd our King\nRiuers. Why with some little Traine,\nMy Lord of Buckingham?\nBuc. Marrie my Lord, least by a multitude,\nThe new-heal'd wound of Malice should breake out,\nWhich would be so much the more dangerous,\nBy how much the estate is greene, and yet vngouern'd.\nWhere euery Horse beares his commanding Reine,\nAnd may direct his course as please himselfe,\nAs well the feare of harme, as harme apparant,\nIn my opinion, ought to be preuented\nRich. I hope the King made peace with all of vs,\nAnd the compact is firme, and true in me\nRiu. And so in me, and so (I thinke) in all.\nYet since it is but greene, it should be put\nTo no apparant likely-hood of breach,\nWhich haply by much company might be vrg'd:\nTherefore I say with Noble Buckingham,\nThat it is meete so few should fetch the Prince\nHast. And so say I\nRich. Then be it so, and go we to determine\nWho they shall be that strait shall poste to London.\nMadam, and you my Sister, will you go\nTo giue your censures in this businesse.\nExeunt.\nManet Buckingham, and Richard.\nBuc. My Lord, who euer iournies to the Prince,\nFor God sake let not vs two stay at home:\nFor by the way, Ile sort occasion,\nAs Index to the story we late talk'd of,\nTo part the Queenes proud Kindred from the Prince\nRich. My other selfe, my Counsailes Consistory,\nMy Oracle, My Prophet, my deere Cosin,\nI, as a childe, will go by thy direction,\nToward London then, for wee'l not stay behinde.\nExeunt.\nScena Tertia.\nEnter one Citizen at one doore, and another at the other.\n1.Cit. Good morrow Neighbour, whether away so\nfast?\n2.Cit. I promise you, I scarsely know my selfe:\nHeare you the newes abroad?\n1. Yes, that the King is dead\n2. Ill newes byrlady, seldome comes the better:\nI feare, I feare, 'twill proue a giddy world.\nEnter another Citizen.\n3. Neighbours, God speed\n1. Giue you good morrow sir\n3. Doth the newes hold of good king Edwards death?\n2. I sir, it is too true, God helpe the while\n3. Then Masters looke to see a troublous world\n1. No, no, by Gods good grace, his Son shall reigne\n3. Woe to that Land that's gouern'd by a Childe\n2. In him there is a hope of Gouernment,\nWhich in his nonage, counsell vnder him,\nAnd in his full and ripened yeares, himselfe\nNo doubt shall then, and till then gouerne well\n1. So stood the State, when Henry the sixt\nWas crown'd in Paris, but at nine months old\n3. Stood the State so? No, no, good friends, God wot\nFor then this Land was famously enrich'd\nWith politike graue Counsell; then the King\nHad vertuous Vnkles to protect his Grace\n1. Why so hath this, both by his Father and Mother\n3. Better it were they all came by his Father:\nOr by his Father there were none at all:\nFor emulation, who shall now be neerest,\nWill touch vs all too neere, if God preuent not.\nO full of danger is the Duke of Glouster,\nAnd the Queenes Sons, and Brothers, haught and proud:\nAnd were they to be rul'd, and not to rule,\nThis sickly Land, might solace as before\n1. Come, come, we feare the worst: all will be well\n3. When Clouds are seen, wisemen put on their clokes;\nWhen great leaues fall, then Winter is at hand;\nWhen the Sun sets, who doth not looke for night?\nVntimely stormes, makes men expect a Dearth:\nAll may be well; but if God sort it so,\n'Tis more then we deserue, or I expect\n2. Truly, the hearts of men are full of feare:\nYou cannot reason (almost) with a man,\nThat lookes not heauily, and full of dread\n3. Before the dayes of Change, still is it so,\nBy a diuine instinct, mens mindes mistrust\nPursuing danger: as by proofe we see\nThe Water swell before a boyst'rous storme:\nBut leaue it all to God. Whither away?\n2 Marry we were sent for to the Iustices\n3 And so was I: Ile beare you company.\nExeunt.\nScena Quarta.\nEnter Arch-bishop, yong Yorke, the Queene, and the Dutchesse.\nArch. Last night I heard they lay at Stony Stratford,\nAnd at Northampton they do rest to night:\nTo morrow, or next day, they will be heere\nDut. I long with all my heart to see the Prince:\nI hope he is much growne since last I saw him\nQu. But I heare no, they say my sonne of Yorke\nHa's almost ouertane him in his growth\nYorke. I Mother, but I would not haue it so\nDut. Why my good Cosin, it is good to grow\nYor. Grandam, one night as we did sit at Supper,\nMy Vnkle Riuers talk'd how I did grow\nMore then my Brother. I, quoth my Vnkle Glouster,\nSmall Herbes haue grace, great Weeds do grow apace.\nAnd since, me thinkes I would not grow so fast,\nBecause sweet Flowres are slow, and Weeds make hast\nDut. Good faith, good faith, the saying did not hold\nIn him that did obiect the same to thee.\nHe was the wretched'st thing when he was yong,\nSo long a growing, and so leysurely,\nThat if his rule were true, he should be gracious\nYor. And so no doubt he is, my gracious Madam\nDut. I hope he is, but yet let Mothers doubt\nYor. Now by my troth, if I had beene remembred,\nI could haue giuen my Vnkles Grace, a flout,\nTo touch his growth, neerer then he toucht mine\nDut. How my yong Yorke,\nI prythee let me heare it\nYor. Marry (they say) my Vnkle grew so fast,\nThat he could gnaw a crust at two houres old,\n'Twas full two yeares ere I could get a tooth.\nGrandam, this would haue beene a byting Iest\nDut. I prythee pretty Yorke, who told thee this?\nYor. Grandam, his Nursse\nDut. His Nurse? why she was dead, ere y wast borne\nYor. If 'twere not she, I cannot tell who told me\nQu. A parlous Boy: go too, you are too shrew'd\nDut. Good Madam, be not angry with the Childe\nQu. Pitchers haue eares.\nEnter a Messenger.\nArch. Heere comes a Messenger: What Newes?\nMes. Such newes my Lord, as greeues me to report\nQu. How doth the Prince?\nMes. Well Madam, and in health\nDut. What is thy Newes?\nMess. Lord Riuers, and Lord Grey,\nAre sent to Pomfret, and with them,\nSir Thomas Vaughan, Prisoners\nDut. Who hath committed them?\nMes. The mighty Dukes, Glouster and Buckingham\nArch. For what offence?\nMes. The summe of all I can, I haue disclos'd:\nWhy, or for what, the Nobles were committed,\nIs all vnknowne to me, my gracious Lord\nQu. Aye me! I see the ruine of my House:\nThe Tyger now hath seiz'd the gentle Hinde,\nInsulting Tiranny beginnes to Iutt\nVpon the innocent and awelesse Throne:\nWelcome Destruction, Blood, and Massacre,\nI see (as in a Map) the end of all\nDut. Accursed, and vnquiet wrangling dayes,\nHow many of you haue mine eyes beheld?\nMy Husband lost his life, to get the Crowne,\nAnd often vp and downe my sonnes were tost\nFor me to ioy, and weepe, their gaine and losse.\nAnd being seated, and Domesticke broyles\nCleane ouer-blowne, themselues the Conquerors,\nMake warre vpon themselues, Brother to Brother;\nBlood to blood, selfe against selfe: O prepostorous\nAnd franticke outrage, end thy damned spleene,\nOr let me dye, to looke on earth no more\nQu. Come, come my Boy, we will to Sanctuary.\nMadam, farwell\nDut. Stay, I will go with you\nQu. You haue no cause\nArch. My gracious Lady go,\nAnd thether beare your Treasure and your Goodes,\nFor my part, Ile resigne vnto your Grace\nThe Seale I keepe, and so betide to me,\nAs well I tender you, and all of yours.\nGo, Ile conduct you to the Sanctuary.\nExeunt.\nActus Tertius. Scoena Prima.\nThe Trumpets sound.\nEnter yong Prince, the Dukes of Glocester, and Buckingham, Lord\nCardinall,\nwith others.\nBuc. Welcome sweete Prince to London,\nTo your Chamber\nRich. Welcome deere Cosin, my thoughts Soueraign\nThe wearie way hath made you Melancholly\nPrin. No Vnkle, but our crosses on the way,\nHaue made it tedious, wearisome, and heauie.\nI want more Vnkles heere to welcome me\nRich. Sweet Prince, the vntainted vertue of your yeers\nHath not yet diu'd into the Worlds deceit:\nNo more can you distinguish of a man,\nThen of his outward shew, which God he knowes,\nSeldome or neuer iumpeth with the heart.\nThose Vnkles which you want, were dangerous:\nYour Grace attended to their Sugred words,\nBut look'd not on the poyson of their hearts:\nGod keepe you from them, and from such false Friends\nPrin. God keepe me from false Friends,\nBut they were none\nRich. My Lord, the Maior of London comes to greet\nyou.\nEnter Lord Maior.\nLo.Maior. God blesse your Grace, with health and\nhappie dayes\nPrin. I thanke you, good my Lord, and thank you all:\nI thought my Mother, and my Brother Yorke,\nWould long, ere this, haue met vs on the way.\nFie, what a Slug is Hastings, that he comes not\nTo tell vs, whether they will come, or no.\nEnter Lord Hastings.\nBuck. And in good time, heere comes the sweating\nLord\nPrince. Welcome, my Lord: what, will our Mother\ncome?\nHast. On what occasion God he knowes, not I;\nThe Queene your Mother, and your Brother Yorke,\nHaue taken Sanctuarie: The tender Prince\nWould faine haue come with me, to meet your Grace,\nBut by his Mother was perforce with-held\nBuck. Fie, what an indirect and peeuish course\nIs this of hers? Lord Cardinall, will your Grace\nPerswade the Queene, to send the Duke of Yorke\nVnto his Princely Brother presently?\nIf she denie, Lord Hastings goe with him,\nAnd from her iealous Armes pluck him perforce\nCard. My Lord of Buckingham, if my weake Oratorie\nCan from his Mother winne the Duke of Yorke,\nAnon expect him here: but if she be obdurate\nTo milde entreaties, God forbid\nWe should infringe the holy Priuiledge\nOf blessed Sanctuarie: not for all this Land,\nWould I be guiltie of so great a sinne\nBuck. You are too sencelesse obstinate, my Lord,\nToo ceremonious, and traditionall.\nWeigh it but with the grossenesse of this Age,\nYou breake not Sanctuarie, in seizing him:\nThe benefit thereof is alwayes granted\nTo those, whose dealings haue deseru'd the place,\nAnd those who haue the wit to clayme the place:\nThis Prince hath neyther claym'd it, nor deseru'd it,\nAnd therefore, in mine opinion, cannot haue it.\nThen taking him from thence, that is not there,\nYou breake no Priuiledge, nor Charter there:\nOft haue I heard of Sanctuarie men,\nBut Sanctuarie children, ne're till now\nCard. My Lord, you shall o're-rule my mind for once.\nCome on, Lord Hastings, will you goe with me?\nHast. I goe, my Lord.\nExit Cardinall and Hastings.\nPrince. Good Lords, make all the speedie hast you may.\nSay, Vnckle Glocester, if our Brother come,\nWhere shall we soiourne, till our Coronation?\nGlo. Where it think'st best vnto your Royall selfe.\nIf I may counsaile you, some day or two\nYour Highnesse shall repose you at the Tower:\nThen where you please, and shall be thought most fit\nFor your best health, and recreation\nPrince. I doe not like the Tower, of any place:\nDid Iulius C\u00e6sar build that place, my Lord?\nBuck. He did, my gracious Lord, begin that place,\nWhich since, succeeding Ages haue re-edify'd\nPrince. Is it vpon record? or else reported\nSuccessiuely from age to age, he built it?\nBuck. Vpon record, my gracious Lord\nPrince. But say, my Lord, it were not registred,\nMe thinkes the truth should liue from age to age,\nAs 'twere retayl'd to all posteritie,\nEuen to the generall ending day\nGlo. So wise, so young, they say doe neuer liue long\nPrince. What say you, Vnckle?\nGlo. I say, without Characters, Fame liues long.\nThus, like the formall Vice, Iniquitie,\nI morallize two meanings in one word\nPrince. That Iulius C\u00e6sar was a famous man,\nWith what his Valour did enrich his Wit,\nHis Wit set downe, to make his Valour liue:\nDeath makes no Conquest of his Conqueror,\nFor now he liues in Fame, though not in Life.\nIle tell you what, my Cousin Buckingham\nBuck. What, my gracious Lord?\nPrince. And if I liue vntill I be a man,\nIle win our ancient Right in France againe,\nOr dye a Souldier, as I liu'd a King\nGlo. Short Summers lightly haue a forward Spring.\nEnter young Yorke, Hastings, and Cardinall.\nBuck. Now in good time, heere comes the Duke of\nYorke\nPrince. Richard of Yorke, how fares our Noble Brother?\nYorke. Well, my deare Lord, so must I call you now\nPrince. I, Brother, to our griefe, as it is yours:\nToo late he dy'd, that might haue kept that Title,\nWhich by his death hath lost much Maiestie\nGlo. How fares our Cousin, Noble Lord of Yorke?\nYorke. I thanke you, gentle Vnckle. O my Lord,\nYou said, that idle Weeds are fast in growth:\nThe Prince, my Brother, hath out-growne me farre\nGlo. He hath, my Lord\nYorke. And therefore is he idle?\nGlo. Oh my faire Cousin, I must not say so\nYorke. Then he is more beholding to you, then I\nGlo. He may command me as my Soueraigne,\nBut you haue power in me, as in a Kinsman\nYorke. I pray you, Vnckle, giue me this Dagger\nGlo. My Dagger, little Cousin? with all my heart\nPrince. A Begger, Brother?\nYorke. Of my kind Vnckle, that I know will giue,\nAnd being but a Toy, which is no griefe to giue\nGlo. A greater gift then that, Ile giue my Cousin\nYorke. A greater gift? O, that's the Sword to it\nGlo. I, gentle Cousin, were it light enough\nYorke. O then I see, you will part but with light gifts,\nIn weightier things you'le say a Begger nay\nGlo. It is too weightie for your Grace to weare\nYorke. I weigh it lightly, were it heauier\nGlo. What, would you haue my Weapon, little Lord?\nYorke. I would that I might thanke you, as, as, you\ncall me\nGlo. How?\nYorke. Little\nPrince. My Lord of Yorke will still be crosse in talke:\nVnckle, your Grace knowes how to beare with him\nYorke. You meane to beare me, not to beare with me:\nVnckle, my Brother mockes both you and me,\nBecause that I am little, like an Ape,\nHe thinkes that you should beare me on your shoulders\nBuck. With what a sharpe prouided wit he reasons:\nTo mittigate the scorne he giues his Vnckle,\nHe prettily and aptly taunts himselfe:\nSo cunning, and so young, is wonderfull\nGlo. My Lord, wilt please you passe along?\nMy selfe, and my good Cousin Buckingham,\nWill to your Mother, to entreat of her\nTo meet you at the Tower, and welcome you\nYorke. what, will you goe vnto the Tower, my Lord?\nPrince. My Lord Protector will haue it so\nYorke. I shall not sleepe in quiet at the Tower\nGlo. Why, what should you feare?\nYorke. Marry, my Vnckle Clarence angry Ghost:\nMy Grandam told me he was murther'd there\nPrince. I feare no Vnckles dead\nGlo. Nor none that liue, I hope\nPrince. And if they liue, I hope I need not feare.\nBut come my Lord: and with a heauie heart,\nThinking on them, goe I vnto the Tower.\nA Senet. Exeunt Prince, Yorke, Hastings, and Dorset.\nManet Richard, Buckingham, and Catesby.\nBuck. Thinke you, my Lord, this little prating Yorke\nWas not incensed by his subtile Mother,\nTo taunt and scorne you thus opprobriously?\nGlo. No doubt, no doubt: Oh 'tis a perillous Boy,\nBold, quicke, ingenious, forward, capable:\nHee is all the Mothers, from the top to toe\nBuck. Well, let them rest: Come hither Catesby,\nThou art sworne as deepely to effect what we intend,\nAs closely to conceale what we impart:\nThou know'st our reasons vrg'd vpon the way.\nWhat think'st thou? is it not an easie matter,\nTo make William Lord Hastings of our minde,\nFor the installment of this Noble Duke\nIn the Seat Royall of this famous Ile?\nCates. He for his fathers sake so loues the Prince,\nThat he will not be wonne to ought against him\nBuck. What think'st thou then of Stanley? Will\nnot hee?\nCates. Hee will doe all in all as Hastings doth\nBuck. Well then, no more but this:\nGoe gentle Catesby, and as it were farre off,\nSound thou Lord Hastings,\nHow he doth stand affected to our purpose,\nAnd summon him to morrow to the Tower,\nTo sit about the Coronation.\nIf thou do'st finde him tractable to vs,\nEncourage him, and tell him all our reasons:\nIf he be leaden, ycie, cold, vnwilling,\nBe thou so too, and so breake off the talke,\nAnd giue vs notice of his inclination:\nFor we to morrow hold diuided Councels,\nWherein thy selfe shalt highly be employ'd\nRich. Commend me to Lord William: tell him Catesby,\nHis ancient Knot of dangerous Aduersaries\nTo morrow are let blood at Pomfret Castle,\nAnd bid my Lord, for ioy of this good newes,\nGiue Mistresse Shore one gentle Kisse the more\nBuck. Good Catesby, goe effect this businesse soundly\nCates. My good Lords both, with all the heed I can\nRich. Shall we heare from you, Catesby, ere we sleepe?\nCates. You shall, my Lord\nRich. At Crosby House, there shall you find vs both.\nExit Catesby.\nBuck. Now, my Lord,\nWhat shall wee doe, if wee perceiue\nLord Hastings will not yeeld to our Complots?\nRich. Chop off his Head:\nSomething wee will determine:\nAnd looke when I am King, clayme thou of me\nThe Earledome of Hereford, and all the moueables\nWhereof the King, my Brother, was possest\nBuck. Ile clayme that promise at your Graces hand\nRich. And looke to haue it yeelded with all kindnesse.\nCome, let vs suppe betimes, that afterwards\nWee may digest our complots in some forme.\nExeunt.\nScena Secunda.\nEnter a Messenger to the Doore of Hastings.\nMess. My Lord, my Lord\nHast. Who knockes?\nMess. One from the Lord Stanley\nHast. What is't a Clocke?\nMess. Vpon the stroke of foure.\nEnter Lord Hastings.\nHast. Cannot my Lord Stanley sleepe these tedious\nNights?\nMess. So it appeares, by that I haue to say:\nFirst, he commends him to your Noble selfe\nHast. What then?\nMess. Then certifies your Lordship, that this Night\nHe dreamt, the Bore had rased off his Helme:\nBesides, he sayes there are two Councels kept;\nAnd that may be determin'd at the one,\nWhich may make you and him to rue at th' other.\nTherefore he sends to know your Lordships pleasure,\nIf you will presently take Horse with him,\nAnd with all speed post with him toward the North,\nTo shun the danger that his Soule diuines\nHast. Goe fellow, goe, returne vnto thy Lord,\nBid him not feare the seperated Councell:\nHis Honor and my selfe are at the one,\nAnd at the other, is my good friend Catesby;\nWhere nothing can proceede, that toucheth vs,\nWhereof I shall not haue intelligence:\nTell him his Feares are shallow, without instance.\nAnd for his Dreames, I wonder hee's so simple,\nTo trust the mock'ry of vnquiet slumbers.\nTo flye the Bore, before the Bore pursues,\nWere to incense the Bore to follow vs,\nAnd make pursuit, where he did meane no chase.\nGoe, bid thy Master rise, and come to me,\nAnd we will both together to the Tower,\nWhere he shall see the Bore will vse vs kindly\nMess. Ile goe, my Lord, and tell him what you say.\nEnter.\nEnter Catesby.\nCates. Many good morrowes to my Noble Lord\nHast. Good morrow Catesby, you are early stirring:\nWhat newes, what newes, in this our tott'ring State?\nCates. It is a reeling World indeed, my Lord:\nAnd I beleeue will neuer stand vpright,\nTill Richard weare the Garland of the Realme\nHast. How weare the Garland?\nDoest thou meane the Crowne?\nCates. I, my good Lord\nHast. Ile haue this Crown of mine cut fro[m] my shoulders,\nBefore Ile see the Crowne so foule mis-plac'd:\nBut canst thou guesse, that he doth ayme at it?\nCates. I, on my life, and hopes to find you forward,\nVpon his partie, for the gaine thereof:\nAnd thereupon he sends you this good newes,\nThat this same very day your enemies,\nThe Kindred of the Queene, must dye at Pomfret\nHast. Indeed I am no mourner for that newes,\nBecause they haue beene still my aduersaries:\nBut, that Ile giue my voice on Richards side,\nTo barre my Masters Heires in true Descent,\nGod knowes I will not doe it, to the death\nCates. God keepe your Lordship in that gracious\nminde\nHast. But I shall laugh at this a twelue-month hence,\nThat they which brought me in my Masters hate,\nI liue to looke vpon their Tragedie.\nWell Catesby, ere a fort-night make me older,\nIle send some packing, that yet thinke not on't\nCates. 'Tis a vile thing to dye, my gracious Lord,\nWhen men are vnprepar'd, and looke not for it\nHast. O monstrous, monstrous! and so falls it out\nWith Riuers, Vaughan, Grey: and so 'twill doe\nWith some men else, that thinke themselues as safe\nAs thou and I, who (as thou know'st) are deare\nTo Princely Richard, and to Buckingham\nCates. The Princes both make high account of you,\nFor they account his Head vpon the Bridge\nHast. I know they doe, and I haue well deseru'd it.\nEnter Lord Stanley.\nCome on, come on, where is your Bore-speare man?\nFeare you the Bore, and goe so vnprouided?\nStan. My Lord good morrow, good morrow Catesby:\nYou may ieast on, but by the holy Rood,\nI doe not like these seuerall Councels, I\nHast. My Lord, I hold my Life as deare as yours,\nAnd neuer in my dayes, I doe protest,\nWas it so precious to me, as 'tis now:\nThinke you, but that I know our state secure,\nI would be so triumphant as I am?\nSta. The Lords at Pomfret, whe[n] they rode from London,\nWere iocund, and suppos'd their states were sure,\nAnd they indeed had no cause to mistrust:\nBut yet you see, how soone the Day o're-cast.\nThis sudden stab of Rancour I misdoubt:\nPray God (I say) I proue a needlesse Coward.\nWhat, shall we toward the Tower? the day is spent\nHast. Come, come, haue with you:\nWot you what, my Lord,\nTo day the Lords you talke of, are beheaded\nSta. They, for their truth, might better wear their Heads,\nThen some that haue accus'd them, weare their Hats.\nBut come, my Lord, let's away.\nEnter a Pursuiuant.\nHast. Goe on before, Ile talke with this good fellow.\nExit Lord Stanley, and Catesby.\nHow now, Sirrha? how goes the World with thee?\nPurs. The better, that your Lordship please to aske\nHast. I tell thee man, 'tis better with me now,\nThen when thou met'st me last, where now we meet:\nThen was I going Prisoner to the Tower,\nBy the suggestion of the Queenes Allyes.\nBut now I tell thee (keepe it to thy selfe)\nThis day those Enemies are put to death,\nAnd I in better state then ere I was\nPurs. God hold it, to your Honors good content\nHast. Gramercie fellow: there, drinke that for me.\nThrowes him his Purse.\nPurs. I thanke your Honor.\nExit Pursuiuant.\nEnter a Priest.\nPriest. Well met, my Lord, I am glad to see your Honor\nHast. I thanke thee, good Sir Iohn, with all my heart.\nI am in your debt, for your last Exercise:\nCome the next Sabboth, and I will content you\nPriest. Ile wait vpon your Lordship.\nEnter Buckingham.\nBuc. What, talking with a Priest, Lord Chamberlaine?\nYour friends at Pomfret, they doe need the Priest,\nYour Honor hath no shriuing worke in hand\nHast. Good faith, and when I met this holy man,\nThe men you talke of, came into my minde.\nWhat, goe you toward the Tower?\nBuc. I doe, my Lord, but long I cannot stay there:\nI shall returne before your Lordship, thence\nHast. Nay like enough, for I stay Dinner there\nBuc. And Supper too, although thou know'st it not.\nCome, will you goe?\nHast. Ile wait vpon your Lordship.\nExeunt.\nScena Tertia.\nEnter Sir Richard Ratcliffe, with Halberds, carrying the Nobles to\ndeath\nat Pomfret.\nRiuers. Sir Richard Ratcliffe, let me tell thee this,\nTo day shalt thou behold a Subiect die,\nFor Truth, for Dutie, and for Loyaltie\nGrey. God blesse the Prince from all the Pack of you,\nA Knot you are, of damned Blood-suckers\nVaugh. You liue, that shall cry woe for this heereafter\nRat. Dispatch, the limit of your Liues is out\nRiuers. O Pomfret, Pomfret! O thou bloody Prison!\nFatall and ominous to Noble Peeres:\nWithin the guiltie Closure of thy Walls,\nRichard the Second here was hackt to death:\nAnd for more slander to thy dismall Seat,\nWee giue to thee our guiltlesse blood to drinke\nGrey. Now Margarets Curse is falne vpon our Heads,\nWhen shee exclaim'd on Hastings, you, and I,\nFor standing by, when Richard stab'd her Sonne\nRiuers. Then curs'd shee Richard,\nThen curs'd shee Buckingham,\nThen curs'd shee Hastings. Oh remember God,\nTo heare her prayer for them, as now for vs:\nAnd for my Sister, and her Princely Sonnes,\nBe satisfy'd, deare God, with our true blood,\nWhich, as thou know'st, vniustly must be spilt\nRat. Make haste, the houre of death is expiate\nRiuers. Come Grey, come Vaughan, let vs here embrace.\nFarewell, vntill we meet againe in Heauen.\nExeunt.\nScaena Quarta.\nEnter Buckingham, Darby, Hastings, Bishop of Ely, Norfolke,\nRatcliffe,\nLouell, with others, at a Table.\nHast. Now Noble Peeres, the cause why we are met,\nIs to determine of the Coronation:\nIn Gods Name speake, when is the Royall day?\nBuck. Is all things ready for the Royall time?\nDarb. It is, and wants but nomination\nEly. To morrow then I iudge a happie day\nBuck. Who knowes the Lord Protectors mind herein?\nWho is most inward with the Noble Duke?\nEly. Your Grace, we thinke, should soonest know his\nminde\nBuck. We know each others Faces: for our Hearts,\nHe knowes no more of mine, then I of yours,\nOr I of his, my Lord, then you of mine:\nLord Hastings, you and he are neere in loue\nHast. I thanke his Grace, I know he loues me well:\nBut for his purpose in the Coronation,\nI haue not sounded him, nor he deliuer'd\nHis gracious pleasure any way therein:\nBut you, my Honorable Lords, may name the time,\nAnd in the Dukes behalfe Ile giue my Voice,\nWhich I presume hee'le take in gentle part.\nEnter Gloucester.\nEly. In happie time, here comes the Duke himselfe\nRich. My Noble Lords, and Cousins all, good morrow:\nI haue beene long a sleeper: but I trust,\nMy absence doth neglect no great designe,\nWhich by my presence might haue beene concluded\nBuck. Had you not come vpon your Q my Lord,\nWilliam, Lord Hastings, had pronounc'd your part;\nI meane your Voice, for Crowning of the King\nRich. Then my Lord Hastings, no man might be bolder,\nHis Lordship knowes me well, and loues me well.\nMy Lord of Ely, when I was last in Holborne,\nI saw good Strawberries in your Garden there,\nI doe beseech you, send for some of them\nEly. Mary and will, my Lord, with all my heart.\nExit Bishop.\nRich. Cousin of Buckingham, a word with you.\nCatesby hath sounded Hastings in our businesse,\nAnd findes the testie Gentleman so hot,\nThat he will lose his Head, ere giue consent\nHis Masters Child, as worshipfully he tearmes it,\nShall lose the Royaltie of Englands Throne\nBuck. Withdraw your selfe a while, Ile goe with you.\nExeunt.\nDarb. We haue not yet set downe this day of Triumph:\nTo morrow, in my iudgement, is too sudden,\nFor I my selfe am not so well prouided,\nAs else I would be, were the day prolong'd.\nEnter the Bishop of Ely.\nEly. Where is my Lord, the Duke of Gloster?\nI haue sent for these Strawberries\nHa. His Grace looks chearfully & smooth this morning,\nThere's some conceit or other likes him well,\nWhen that he bids good morrow with such spirit.\nI thinke there's neuer a man in Christendome\nCan lesser hide his loue, or hate, then hee,\nFor by his Face straight shall you know his Heart\nDarb. What of his Heart perceiue you in his Face,\nBy any liuelyhood he shew'd to day?\nHast. Mary, that with no man here he is offended:\nFor were he, he had shewne it in his Lookes.\nEnter Richard, and Buckingham.\nRich. I pray you all, tell me what they deserue,\nThat doe conspire my death with diuellish Plots\nOf damned Witchcraft, and that haue preuail'd\nVpon my Body with their Hellish Charmes\nHast. The tender loue I beare your Grace, my Lord,\nMakes me most forward, in this Princely presence,\nTo doome th' Offendors, whosoe're they be:\nI say, my Lord, they haue deserued death\nRich. Then be your eyes the witnesse of their euill.\nLooke how I am bewitch'd: behold, mine Arme\nIs like a blasted Sapling, wither'd vp:\nAnd this is Edwards Wife, that monstrous Witch,\nConsorted with that Harlot, Strumpet Shore,\nThat by their Witchcraft thus haue marked me\nHast. If they haue done this deed, my Noble Lord\nRich. If? thou Protector of this damned Strumpet,\nTalk'st thou to me of Ifs: thou art a Traytor,\nOff with his Head; now by Saint Paul I sweare,\nI will not dine, vntill I see the same.\nLouell and Ratcliffe, looke that it be done:\nExeunt.\nThe rest that loue me, rise, and follow me.\nManet Louell and Ratcliffe, with the Lord Hastings.\nHast. Woe, woe for England, not a whit for me,\nFor I, too fond, might haue preuented this:\nStanley did dreame, the Bore did rowse our Helmes,\nAnd I did scorne it, and disdaine to flye:\nThree times to day my Foot-Cloth-Horse did stumble,\nAnd started, when he look'd vpon the Tower,\nAs loth to beare me to the slaughter-house.\nO now I need the Priest, that spake to me:\nI now repent I told the Pursuiuant,\nAs too triumphing, how mine Enemies\nTo day at Pomfret bloodily were butcher'd,\nAnd I my selfe secure, in grace and fauour.\nOh Margaret, Margaret, now thy heauie Curse\nIs lighted on poore Hastings wretched Head\nRa. Come, come, dispatch, the Duke would be at dinner:\nMake a short Shrift, he longs to see your Head\nHast. O momentarie grace of mortall men,\nWhich we more hunt for, then the grace of God!\nWho builds his hope in ayre of your good Lookes,\nLiues like a drunken Sayler on a Mast,\nReadie with euery Nod to tumble downe,\nInto the fatall Bowels of the Deepe\nLou. Come, come, dispatch, 'tis bootlesse to exclaime\nHast. O bloody Richard: miserable England,\nI prophecie the fearefull'st time to thee,\nThat euer wretched Age hath look'd vpon.\nCome, lead me to the Block, beare him my Head,\nThey smile at me, who shortly shall be dead.\nExeunt.\nEnter Richard, and Buckingham, in rotten Armour, maruellous\nill-fauoured.\nRichard. Come Cousin,\nCanst thou quake, and change thy colour,\nMurther thy breath in middle of a word,\nAnd then againe begin, and stop againe,\nAs if thou were distraught, and mad with terror?\nBuck. Tut, I can counterfeit the deepe Tragedian,\nSpeake, and looke backe, and prie on euery side,\nTremble and start at wagging of a Straw:\nIntending deepe suspition, gastly Lookes\nAre at my seruice, like enforced Smiles;\nAnd both are readie in their Offices,\nAt any time to grace my Stratagemes.\nBut what, is Catesby gone?\nRich. He is, and see he brings the Maior along.\nEnter the Maior, and Catesby.\nBuck. Lord Maior\nRich. Looke to the Draw-Bridge there\nBuck. Hearke, a Drumme\nRich. Catesby, o're-looke the Walls\nBuck. Lord Maior, the reason we haue sent\nRich. Looke back, defend thee, here are Enemies\nBuck. God and our Innocencie defend, and guard vs.\nEnter Louell and Ratcliffe, with Hastings Head.\nRich. Be patient, they are friends: Ratcliffe, and Louell\nLouell. Here is the Head of that ignoble Traytor,\nThe dangerous and vnsuspected Hastings\nRich. So deare I lou'd the man, that I must weepe:\nI tooke him for the plainest harmelesse Creature,\nThat breath'd vpon the Earth, a Christian.\nMade him my Booke, wherein my Soule recorded\nThe Historie of all her secret thoughts.\nSo smooth he dawb'd his Vice with shew of Vertue,\nThat his apparant open Guilt omitted,\nI meane, his Conuersation with Shores Wife,\nHe liu'd from all attainder of suspects\nBuck. Well, well, he was the couertst sheltred Traytor\nThat euer liu'd.\nWould you imagine, or almost beleeue,\nWert not, that by great preseruation\nWe liue to tell it, that the subtill Traytor\nThis day had plotted, in the Councell-House,\nTo murther me, and my good Lord of Gloster\nMaior. Had he done so?\nRich. What? thinke you we are Turkes, or Infidels?\nOr that we would, against the forme of Law,\nProceed thus rashly in the Villaines death,\nBut that the extreme perill of the case,\nThe Peace of England, and our Persons safetie,\nEnforc'd vs to this Execution\nMaior. Now faire befall you, he deseru'd his death,\nAnd your good Graces both haue well proceeded,\nTo warne false Traytors from the like Attempts\nBuck. I neuer look'd for better at his hands,\nAfter he once fell in with Mistresse Shore:\nYet had we not determin'd he should dye,\nVntill your Lordship came to see his end,\nWhich now the louing haste of these our friends,\nSomething against our meanings, haue preuented;\nBecause, my Lord, I would haue had you heard\nThe Traytor speake, and timorously confesse\nThe manner and the purpose of his Treasons:\nThat you might well haue signify'd the same\nVnto the Citizens, who haply may\nMisconster vs in him, and wayle his death\nMa. But, my good Lord, your Graces words shal serue,\nAs well as I had seene, and heard him speake:\nAnd doe not doubt, right Noble Princes both,\nBut Ile acquaint our dutious Citizens\nWith all your iust proceedings in this case\nRich. And to that end we wish'd your Lordship here,\nT' auoid the Censures of the carping World\nBuck. Which since you come too late of our intent,\nYet witnesse what you heare we did intend:\nAnd so, my good Lord Maior, we bid farwell.\nExit Maior.\nRich. Goe after, after, Cousin Buckingham.\nThe Maior towards Guild-Hall hyes him in all poste:\nThere, at your meetest vantage of the time,\nInferre the Bastardie of Edwards Children:\nTell them, how Edward put to death a Citizen,\nOnely for saying, he would make his Sonne\nHeire to the Crowne, meaning indeed his House,\nWhich, by the Signe thereof, was tearmed so.\nMoreouer, vrge his hatefull Luxurie,\nAnd beastiall appetite in change of Lust,\nWhich stretcht vnto their Seruants, Daughters, Wiues,\nEuen where his raging eye, or sauage heart,\nWithout controll, lusted to make a prey.\nNay, for a need, thus farre come neere my Person:\nTell them, when that my Mother went with Child\nOf that insatiate Edward; Noble Yorke,\nMy Princely Father, then had Warres in France,\nAnd by true computation of the time,\nFound, that the Issue was not his begot:\nWhich well appeared in his Lineaments,\nBeing nothing like the Noble Duke, my Father:\nYet touch this sparingly, as 'twere farre off,\nBecause, my Lord, you know my Mother liues\nBuck. Doubt not, my Lord, Ile play the Orator,\nAs if the Golden Fee, for which I plead,\nWere for my selfe: and so, my Lord, adue\nRich. If you thriue wel, bring them to Baynards Castle,\nWhere you shall finde me well accompanied\nWith reuerend Fathers, and well-learned Bishops\nBuck. I goe, and towards three or foure a Clocke\nLooke for the Newes that the Guild-Hall affoords.\nExit Buckingham.\nRich. Goe Louell with all speed to Doctor Shaw,\nGoe thou to Fryer Penker, bid them both\nMeet me within this houre at Baynards Castle.\nEnter.\nNow will I goe to take some priuie order,\nTo draw the Brats of Clarence out of sight,\nAnd to giue order, that no manner person\nHaue any time recourse vnto the Princes.\nExeunt.\nEnter a Scriuener\nScr. Here is the Indictment of the good Lord Hastings,\nWhich in a set Hand fairely is engross'd,\nThat it may be to day read o're in Paules.\nAnd marke how well the sequell hangs together:\nEleuen houres I haue spent to write it ouer,\nFor yester-night by Catesby was it sent me,\nThe Precedent was full as long a doing,\nAnd yet within these fiue houres Hastings liu'd,\nVntainted, vnexamin'd, free, at libertie.\nHere's a good World the while.\nWho is so grosse, that cannot see this palpable deuice?\nYet who so bold, but sayes he sees it not?\nBad is the World, and all will come to nought,\nWhen such ill dealing must be seene in thought.\nEnter.\nEnter Richard and Buckingham at seuerall Doores.\nRich. How now, how now, what say the Citizens?\nBuck. Now by the holy Mother of our Lord,\nThe Citizens are mum, say not a word\nRich. Toucht you the Bastardie of Edwards Children?\nBuck. I did, with his Contract with Lady Lucy,\nAnd his Contract by Deputie in France,\nTh' vnsatiate greedinesse of his desire,\nAnd his enforcement of the Citie Wiues,\nHis Tyrannie for Trifles, his owne Bastardie,\nAs being got, your Father then in France,\nAnd his resemblance, being not like the Duke.\nWithall, I did inferre your Lineaments,\nBeing the right Idea of your Father,\nBoth in your forme, and Noblenesse of Minde:\nLayd open all your Victories in Scotland,\nYour Discipline in Warre, Wisdome in Peace,\nYour Bountie, Vertue, faire Humilitie:\nIndeed, left nothing fitting for your purpose,\nVntoucht, or sleightly handled in discourse.\nAnd when my Oratorie drew toward end,\nI bid them that did loue their Countries good,\nCry, God saue Richard, Englands Royall King\nRich. And did they so?\nBuck. No, so God helpe me, they spake not a word,\nBut like dumbe Statues, or breathing Stones,\nStar'd each on other, and look'd deadly pale:\nWhich when I saw, I reprehended them,\nAnd ask'd the Maior, what meant this wilfull silence?\nHis answer was, the people were not vsed\nTo be spoke to, but by the Recorder.\nThen he was vrg'd to tell my Tale againe:\nThus sayth the Duke, thus hath the Duke inferr'd,\nBut nothing spoke, in warrant from himselfe.\nWhen he had done, some followers of mine owne,\nAt lower end of the Hall, hurld vp their Caps,\nAnd some tenne voyces cry'd, God saue King Richard:\nAnd thus I tooke the vantage of those few.\nThankes gentle Citizens, and friends, quoth I,\nThis generall applause, and chearefull showt,\nArgues your wisdome, and your loue to Richard:\nAnd euen here brake off, and came away\nRich. What tongue-lesse Blockes were they,\nWould they not speake?\nWill not the Maior then, and his Brethren, come?\nBuck. The Maior is here at hand: intend some feare,\nBe not you spoke with, but by mightie suit:\nAnd looke you get a Prayer-Booke in your hand,\nAnd stand betweene two Church-men, good my Lord,\nFor on that ground Ile make a holy Descant:\nAnd be not easily wonne to our requests,\nPlay the Maids part, still answer nay, and take it\nRich. I goe: and if you plead as well for them,\nAs I can say nay to thee for my selfe,\nNo doubt we bring it to a happie issue\nBuck. Go, go vp to the Leads, the Lord Maior knocks.\nEnter the Maior, and Citizens.\nWelcome, my Lord, I dance attendance here,\nI thinke the Duke will not be spoke withall.\nEnter Catesby.\nBuck. Now Catesby, what sayes your Lord to my\nrequest?\nCatesby. He doth entreat your Grace, my Noble Lord,\nTo visit him to morrow, or next day:\nHe is within, with two right reuerend Fathers,\nDiuinely bent to Meditation,\nAnd in no Worldly suites would he be mou'd,\nTo draw him from his holy Exercise\nBuck. Returne, good Catesby, to the gracious Duke,\nTell him, my selfe, the Maior and Aldermen,\nIn deepe designes, in matter of great moment,\nNo lesse importing then our generall good,\nAre come to haue some conference with his Grace\nCatesby. Ile signifie so much vnto him straight.\nEnter.\nBuck. Ah ha, my Lord, this Prince is not an Edward,\nHe is not lulling on a lewd Loue-Bed,\nBut on his Knees, at Meditation:\nNot dallying with a Brace of Curtizans,\nBut meditating with two deepe Diuines:\nNot sleeping, to engrosse his idle Body,\nBut praying, to enrich his watchfull Soule.\nHappie were England, would this vertuous Prince\nTake on his Grace the Soueraigntie thereof.\nBut sure I feare we shall not winne him to it\nMaior. Marry God defend his Grace should say vs\nnay\nBuck. I feare he will: here Catesby comes againe.\nEnter Catesby.\nNow Catesby, what sayes his Grace?\nCatesby. He wonders to what end you haue assembled\nSuch troopes of Citizens, to come to him,\nHis Grace not being warn'd thereof before:\nHe feares, my Lord, you meane no good to him\nBuck. Sorry I am, my Noble Cousin should\nSuspect me, that I meane no good to him:\nBy Heauen, we come to him in perfit loue,\nAnd so once more returne, and tell his Grace.\nEnter.\nWhen holy and deuout Religious men\nAre at their Beades, 'tis much to draw them thence,\nSo sweet is zealous Contemplation.\nEnter Richard aloft, betweene two Bishops\nMaior. See where his Grace stands, tweene two Clergie\nmen\nBuck. Two Props of Vertue, for a Christian Prince,\nTo stay him from the fall of Vanitie:\nAnd see a Booke of Prayer in his hand,\nTrue Ornaments to know a holy man.\nFamous Plantagenet, most gracious Prince,\nLend fauourable eare to our requests,\nAnd pardon vs the interruption\nOf thy Deuotion, and right Christian Zeale\nRich. My Lord, there needes no such Apologie:\nI doe beseech your Grace to pardon me,\nWho earnest in the seruice of my God,\nDeferr'd the visitation of my friends.\nBut leauing this, what is your Graces pleasure?\nBuck. Euen that (I hope) which pleaseth God aboue,\nAnd all good men, of this vngouern'd Ile\nRich. I doe suspect I haue done some offence,\nThat seemes disgracious in the Cities eye,\nAnd that you come to reprehend my ignorance\nBuck. You haue, my Lord:\nWould it might please your Grace,\nOn our entreaties, to amend your fault\nRich. Else wherefore breathe I in a Christian Land\nBuck. Know then, it is your fault, that you resigne\nThe Supreme Seat, the Throne Maiesticall,\nThe Sceptred Office of your Ancestors,\nYour State of Fortune, and your Deaw of Birth,\nThe Lineall Glory of your Royall House,\nTo the corruption of a blemisht Stock;\nWhiles in the mildnesse of your sleepie thoughts,\nWhich here we waken to our Countries good,\nThe Noble Ile doth want his proper Limmes:\nHis Face defac'd with skarres of Infamie,\nHis Royall Stock grafft with ignoble Plants,\nAnd almost shouldred in the swallowing Gulfe\nOf darke Forgetfulnesse, and deepe Obliuion.\nWhich to recure, we heartily solicite\nYour gracious selfe to take on you the charge\nAnd Kingly Gouernment of this your Land:\nNot as Protector, Steward, Substitute,\nOr lowly Factor, for anothers gaine;\nBut as successiuely, from Blood to Blood,\nYour Right of Birth, your Empyrie, your owne.\nFor this, consorted with the Citizens,\nYour very Worshipfull and louing friends,\nAnd by their vehement instigation,\nIn this iust Cause come I to moue your Grace\nRich. I cannot tell, if to depart in silence,\nOr bitterly to speake in your reproofe,\nBest fitteth my Degree, or your Condition.\nIf not to answer, you might haply thinke,\nTongue-ty'd Ambition, not replying, yeelded\nTo beare the Golden Yoake of Soueraigntie,\nWhich fondly you would here impose on me.\nIf to reproue you for this suit of yours,\nSo season'd with your faithfull loue to me,\nThen on the other side I check'd my friends.\nTherefore to speake, and to auoid the first,\nAnd then in speaking, not to incurre the last,\nDefinitiuely thus I answer you.\nYour loue deserues my thankes, but my desert\nVnmeritable, shunnes your high request.\nFirst, if all Obstacles were cut away,\nAnd that my Path were euen to the Crowne,\nAs the ripe Reuenue, and due of Birth:\nYet so much is my pouertie of spirit,\nSo mightie, and so manie my defects,\nThat I would rather hide me from my Greatnesse,\nBeing a Barke to brooke no mightie Sea;\nThen in my Greatnesse couet to be hid,\nAnd in the vapour of my Glory smother'd.\nBut God be thank'd, there is no need of me,\nAnd much I need to helpe you, were there need:\nThe Royall Tree hath left vs Royall Fruit,\nWhich mellow'd by the stealing howres of time,\nWill well become the Seat of Maiestie,\nAnd make (no doubt) vs happy by his Reigne.\nOn him I lay that, you would lay on me,\nThe Right and Fortune of his happie Starres,\nWhich God defend that I should wring from him\nBuck. My Lord, this argues Conscience in your Grace,\nBut the respects thereof are nice, and triuiall,\nAll circumstances well considered.\nYou say, that Edward is your Brothers Sonne,\nSo say we too, but not by Edwards Wife:\nFor first was he contract to Lady Lucie,\nYour Mother liues a Witnesse to his Vow;\nAnd afterward by substitute betroth'd\nTo Bona, Sister to the King of France.\nThese both put off, a poore Petitioner,\nA Care-cras'd Mother to a many Sonnes,\nA Beautie-waining, and distressed Widow,\nEuen in the after-noone of her best dayes,\nMade prize and purchase of his wanton Eye,\nSeduc'd the pitch, and height of his degree,\nTo base declension, and loath'd Bigamie.\nBy her, in his vnlawfull Bed, he got\nThis Edward, whom our Manners call the Prince.\nMore bitterly could I expostulate,\nSaue that for reuerence to some aliue,\nI giue a sparing limit to my Tongue.\nThen good, my Lord, take to your Royall selfe\nThis proffer'd benefit of Dignitie:\nIf not to blesse vs and the Land withall,\nYet to draw forth your Noble Ancestrie\nFrom the corruption of abusing times,\nVnto a Lineall true deriued course\nMaior. Do good my Lord, your Citizens entreat you\nBuck. Refuse not, mightie Lord, this proffer'd loue\nCatesb. O make them ioyfull, grant their lawfull suit\nRich. Alas, why would you heape this Care on me?\nI am vnfit for State, and Maiestie:\nI doe beseech you take it not amisse,\nI cannot, nor I will not yeeld to you\nBuck. If you refuse it, as in loue and zeale,\nLoth to depose the Child, your Brothers Sonne,\nAs well we know your tendernesse of heart,\nAnd gentle, kinde, effeminate remorse,\nWhich we haue noted in you to your Kindred,\nAnd egally indeede to all Estates:\nYet know, where you accept our suit, or no,\nYour Brothers Sonne shall neuer reigne our King,\nBut we will plant some other in the Throne,\nTo the disgrace and downe-fall of your House:\nAnd in this resolution here we leaue you.\nCome Citizens, we will entreat no more.\nExeunt.\nCatesb. Call him againe, sweet Prince, accept their suit:\nIf you denie them, all the Land will rue it\nRich. Will you enforce me to a world of Cares.\nCall them againe, I am not made of Stones,\nBut penetrable to your kinde entreaties,\nAlbeit against my Conscience and my Soule.\nEnter Buckingham, and the rest.\nCousin of Buckingham, and sage graue men,\nSince you will buckle fortune on my back,\nTo beare her burthen, where I will or no.\nI must haue patience to endure the Load:\nBut if black Scandall, or foule-fac'd Reproach,\nAttend the sequell of your Imposition,\nYour meere enforcement shall acquittance me\nFrom all the impure blots and staynes thereof;\nFor God doth know, and you may partly see,\nHow farre I am from the desire of this\nMaior. God blesse your Grace, wee see it, and will\nsay it\nRich. In saying so, you shall but say the truth\nBuck. Then I salute you with this Royall Title,\nLong liue King Richard, Englands worthie King\nAll. Amen\nBuck. To morrow may it please you to be Crown'd\nRich. Euen when you please, for you will haue it so\nBuck. To morrow then we will attend your Grace,\nAnd so most ioyfully we take our leaue\nRich. Come, let vs to our holy Worke againe.\nFarewell my Cousins, farewell gentle friends.\nExeunt.\nActus Quartus. Scena Prima.\nEnter the Queene, Anne Duchesse of Gloucester, the Duchesse of\nYorke, and\nMarquesse Dorset.\nDuch.Yorke. Who meetes vs heere?\nMy Neece Plantagenet,\nLed in the hand of her kind Aunt of Gloster?\nNow, for my Life, shee's wandring to the Tower,\nOn pure hearts loue, to greet the tender Prince.\nDaughter, well met\nAnne. God giue your Graces both, a happie\nAnd a ioyfull time of day\nQu. As much to you, good Sister: whither away?\nAnne. No farther then the Tower, and as I guesse,\nVpon the like deuotion as your selues,\nTo gratulate the gentle Princes there\nQu. Kind Sister thankes, wee'le enter all together:\nEnter the Lieutenant.\nAnd in good time, here the Lieutenant comes.\nMaster Lieutenant, pray you, by your leaue,\nHow doth the Prince, and my young Sonne of Yorke?\nLieu. Right well, deare Madame: by your patience,\nI may not suffer you to visit them,\nThe King hath strictly charg'd the contrary\nQu. The King? who's that?\nLieu. I meane, the Lord Protector\nQu. The Lord protect him from that Kingly Title.\nHath he set bounds betweene their loue, and me?\nI am their Mother, who shall barre me from them?\nDuch.Yorke. I am their Fathers Mother, I will see\nthem\nAnne. Their Aunt I am in law, in loue their Mother:\nThen bring me to their sights, Ile beare thy blame,\nAnd take thy Office from thee, on my perill\nLieu. No, Madame, no; I may not leaue it so:\nI am bound by Oath, and therefore pardon me.\nExit Lieutenant.\nEnter Stanley.\nStanley. Let me but meet you Ladies one howre hence,\nAnd Ile salute your Grace of Yorke as Mother,\nAnd reuerend looker on of two faire Queenes.\nCome Madame, you must straight to Westminster,\nThere to be crowned Richards Royall Queene\nQu. Ah, cut my Lace asunder,\nThat my pent heart may haue some scope to beat,\nOr else I swoone with this dead-killing newes\nAnne. Despightfull tidings, O vnpleasing newes\nDors. Be of good cheare: Mother, how fares your\nGrace?\nQu. O Dorset, speake not to me, get thee gone,\nDeath and Destruction dogges thee at thy heeles,\nThy Mothers Name is ominous to Children.\nIf thou wilt out-strip Death, goe crosse the Seas,\nAnd liue with Richmond, from the reach of Hell.\nGoe hye thee, hye thee from this slaughter-house,\nLest thou encrease the number of the dead,\nAnd make me dye the thrall of Margarets Curse,\nNor Mother, Wife, nor Englands counted Queene\nStanley. Full of wise care, is this your counsaile, Madame:\nTake all the swift aduantage of the howres:\nYou shall haue Letters from me to my Sonne,\nIn your behalfe, to meet you on the way:\nBe not ta'ne tardie by vnwise delay\nDuch.Yorke. O ill dispersing Winde of Miserie.\nO my accursed Wombe, the Bed of Death:\nA Cockatrice hast thou hatcht to the World,\nWhose vnauoided Eye is murtherous\nStanley. Come, Madame, come, I in all haste was sent\nAnne. And I with all vnwillingnesse will goe.\nO would to God, that the inclusiue Verge\nOf Golden Mettall, that must round my Brow,\nWere red hot Steele, to seare me to the Braines,\nAnoynted let me be with deadly Venome,\nAnd dye ere men can say, God saue the Queene\nQu. Goe, goe, poore soule, I enuie not thy glory,\nTo feed my humor, wish thy selfe no harme\nAnne. No: why? When he that is my Husband now,\nCame to me, as I follow'd Henries Corse,\nWhen scarce the blood was well washt from his hands,\nWhich issued from my other Angell Husband,\nAnd that deare Saint, which then I weeping follow'd:\nO, when I say I look'd on Richards Face,\nThis was my Wish: Be thou (quoth I) accurst,\nFor making me, so young, so old a Widow:\nAnd when thou wed'st, let sorrow haunt thy Bed;\nAnd be thy Wife, if any be so mad,\nMore miserable, by the Life of thee,\nThen thou hast made me, by my deare Lords death.\nLoe, ere I can repeat this Curse againe,\nWithin so small a time, my Womans heart\nGrossely grew captiue to his honey words,\nAnd prou'd the subiect of mine owne Soules Curse,\nWhich hitherto hath held mine eyes from rest:\nFor neuer yet one howre in his Bed\nDid I enioy the golden deaw of sleepe,\nBut with his timorous Dreames was still awak'd.\nBesides, he hates me for my Father Warwicke,\nAnd will (no doubt) shortly be rid of me\nQu. Poore heart adieu, I pittie thy complaining\nAnne. No more, then with my soule I mourne for\nyours\nDors. Farewell, thou wofull welcommer of glory\nAnne. Adieu, poore soule, that tak'st thy leaue\nof it\nDu.Y. Go thou to Richmond, & good fortune guide thee,\nGo thou to Richard, and good Angels tend thee,\nGo thou to Sanctuarie, and good thoughts possesse thee,\nI to my Graue, where peace and rest lye with mee.\nEightie odde yeeres of sorrow haue I seene,\nAnd each howres ioy wrackt with a weeke of teene\nQu. Stay, yet looke backe with me vnto the Tower.\nPitty, you ancient Stones, those tender Babes,\nWhom Enuie hath immur'd within your Walls,\nRough Cradle for such little prettie ones,\nRude ragged Nurse, old sullen Play-fellow,\nFor tender Princes: vse my Babies well;\nSo foolish Sorrowes bids your Stones farewell.\nExeunt.\nScena Secunda.\nSound a Sennet. Enter Richard in pompe, Buckingham, Catesby,\nRatcliffe,\nLouel.\nRich. Stand all apart. Cousin of Buckingham\nBuck. My gracious Soueraigne\nRich. Giue me thy hand.\nSound.\nThus high, by thy aduice, and thy assistance,\nIs King Richard seated:\nBut shall we weare these Glories for a day?\nOr shall they last, and we reioyce in them?\nBuck. Still liue they, and for euer let them last\nRich. Ah Buckingham, now doe I play the Touch,\nTo trie if thou be currant Gold indeed:\nYoung Edward liues, thinke now what I would speake\nBuck. Say on my louing Lord\nRich. Why Buckingham, I say I would be King\nBuck. Why so you are, my thrice-renowned Lord\nRich. Ha? am I King? 'tis so: but Edward liues\nBuck True, Noble Prince\nRich. O bitter consequence!\nThat Edward still should liue true Noble Prince.\nCousin, thou wast not wont to be so dull.\nShall I be plaine? I wish the Bastards dead,\nAnd I would haue it suddenly perform'd.\nWhat say'st thou now? speake suddenly, be briefe\nBuck. Your Grace may doe your pleasure\nRich. Tut, tut, thou art all Ice, thy kindnesse freezes:\nSay, haue I thy consent, that they shall dye?\nBuc. Giue me some litle breath, some pawse, deare Lord,\nBefore I positiuely speake in this:\nI will resolue you herein presently.\nExit Buck[ingham].\nCatesby. The King is angry, see he gnawes his Lippe\nRich. I will conuerse with Iron-witted Fooles,\nAnd vnrespectiue Boyes: none are for me,\nThat looke into me with considerate eyes,\nHigh-reaching Buckingham growes circumspect.\nBoy\nPage. My Lord\nRich. Know'st thou not any, whom corrupting Gold\nWill tempt vnto a close exploit of Death?\nPage. I know a discontented Gentleman,\nWhose humble meanes match not his haughtie spirit:\nGold were as good as twentie Orators,\nAnd will (no doubt) tempt him to any thing\nRich. What is his Name?\nPage. His Name, my Lord, is Tirrell\nRich. I partly know the man: goe call him hither,\nBoy.\nEnter.\nThe deepe reuoluing wittie Buckingham,\nNo more shall be the neighbor to my counsailes.\nHath he so long held out with me, vntyr'd,\nAnd stops he now for breath? Well, be it so.\nEnter Stanley.\nHow now, Lord Stanley, what's the newes?\nStanley. Know my louing Lord, the Marquesse Dorset\nAs I heare, is fled to Richmond,\nIn the parts where he abides\nRich. Come hither Catesby, rumor it abroad,\nThat Anne my Wife is very grieuous sicke,\nI will take order for her keeping close.\nInquire me out some meane poore Gentleman,\nWhom I will marry straight to Clarence Daughter:\nThe Boy is foolish, and I feare not him.\nLooke how thou dream'st: I say againe, giue out,\nThat Anne, my Queene, is sicke, and like to dye.\nAbout it, for it stands me much vpon\nTo stop all hopes, whose growth may dammage me.\nI must be marryed to my Brothers Daughter,\nOr else my Kingdome stands on brittle Glasse:\nMurther her Brothers, and then marry her,\nVncertaine way of gaine. But I am in\nSo farre in blood, that sinne will pluck on sinne,\nTeare-falling Pittie dwells not in this Eye.\nEnter Tyrrel.\nIs thy Name Tyrrel?\nTyr. Iames Tyrrel, and your most obedient subiect\nRich. Art thou indeed?\nTyr. Proue me, my gracious Lord\nRich. Dar'st thou resolue to kill a friend of mine?\nTyr. Please you:\nBut I had rather kill two enemies\nRich. Why then thou hast it: two deepe enemies,\nFoes to my Rest, and my sweet sleepes disturbers,\nAre they that I would haue thee deale vpon:\nTyrrel, I meane those Bastards in the Tower\nTyr. Let me haue open meanes to come to them,\nAnd soone Ile rid you from the feare of them\nRich. Thou sing'st sweet Musique:\nHearke, come hither Tyrrel,\nGoe by this token: rise, and lend thine Eare,\nWhispers.\nThere is no more but so: say it is done,\nAnd I will loue thee, and preferre thee for it\nTyr. I will dispatch it straight.\nEnter.\nEnter Buckingham.\nBuck. My Lord, I haue consider'd in my minde,\nThe late request that you did sound me in\nRich. Well, let that rest: Dorset is fled to Richmond\nBuck. I heare the newes, my Lord\nRich. Stanley, hee is your Wiues Sonne: well, looke\nvnto it\nBuck. My Lord, I clayme the gift, my due by promise,\nFor which your Honor and your Faith is pawn'd,\nTh' Earledome of Hertford, and the moueables,\nWhich you haue promised I shall possesse\nRich. Stanley looke to your Wife: if she conuey\nLetters to Richmond, you shall answer it\nBuck. What sayes your Highnesse to my iust request?\nRich. I doe remember me, Henry the Sixt\nDid prophecie, that Richmond should be King,\nWhen Richmond was a little peeuish Boy.\nA King perhaps\nBuck. May it please you to resolue me in my suit\nRich. Thou troublest me, I am not in the vaine.\nEnter\nBuck. And is it thus? repayes he my deepe seruice\nWith such contempt? made I him King for this?\nO let me thinke on Hastings, and be gone\nTo Brecnock, while my fearefull Head is on.\nEnter.\nEnter Tyrrel.\nTyr. The tyrannous and bloodie Act is done,\nThe most arch deed of pittious massacre\nThat euer yet this Land was guilty of:\nDighton and Forrest, who I did suborne\nTo do this peece of ruthfull Butchery,\nAlbeit they were flesht Villaines, bloody Dogges,\nMelted with tendernesse, and milde compassion,\nWept like to Children, in their deaths sad Story.\nO thus (quoth Dighton) lay the gentle Babes:\nThus, thus (quoth Forrest) girdling one another\nWithin their Alablaster innocent Armes:\nTheir lips were foure red Roses on a stalke,\nAnd in their Summer Beauty kist each other.\nA Booke of Prayers on their pillow lay,\nWhich one (quoth Forrest) almost chang'd my minde:\nBut oh the Diuell, there the Villaine stopt:\nWhen Dighton thus told on, we smothered\nThe most replenished sweet worke of Nature,\nThat from the prime Creation ere she framed.\nHence both are gone with Conscience and Remorse,\nThey could not speake, and so I left them both,\nTo beare this tydings to the bloody King.\nEnter Richard.\nAnd heere he comes. All health my Soueraigne Lord\nRic. Kinde Tirrell, am I happy in thy Newes\nTir. If to haue done the thing you gaue in charge,\nBeget your happinesse, be happy then,\nFor it is done\nRich. But did'st thou see them dead\nTir. I did my Lord\nRich. And buried gentle Tirrell\nTir. The Chaplaine of the Tower hath buried them,\nBut where (to say the truth) I do not know\nRich. Come to me Tirrel soone, and after Supper,\nWhen thou shalt tell the processe of their death.\nMeane time, but thinke how I may do the good,\nAnd be inheritor of thy desire.\nFarewell till then\nTir. I humbly take my leaue\nRich. The Sonne of Clarence haue I pent vp close,\nHis daughter meanly haue I matcht in marriage,\nThe Sonnes of Edward sleepe in Abrahams bosome,\nAnd Anne my wife hath bid this world good night.\nNow for I know the Britaine Richmond aymes\nAt yong Elizabeth my brothers daughter,\nAnd by that knot lookes proudly on the Crowne,\nTo her go I, a iolly thriuing wooer.\nEnter Ratcliffe.\nRat. My Lord\nRich. Good or bad newes, that thou com'st in so\nbluntly?\nRat. Bad news my Lord, Mourton is fled to Richmond,\nAnd Buckingham backt with the hardy Welshmen\nIs in the field, and still his power encreaseth\nRich. Ely with Richmond troubles me more neere,\nThen Buckingham and his rash leuied Strength.\nCome, I haue learn'd, that fearfull commenting\nIs leaden seruitor to dull delay.\nDelay leds impotent and Snaile-pac'd Beggery:\nThen fierie expedition be my wing,\nIoues Mercury, and Herald for a King:\nGo muster men: My counsaile is my Sheeld,\nWe must be breefe, when Traitors braue the Field.\nExeunt.\nScena Tertia.\nEnter old Queene Margaret\nMar. So now prosperity begins to mellow,\nAnd drop into the rotten mouth of death:\nHeere in these Confines slily haue I lurkt,\nTo watch the waining of mine enemies.\nA dire induction, am I witnesse to,\nAnd will to France, hoping the consequence\nWill proue as bitter, blacke, and Tragicall.\nWithdraw thee wretched Margaret, who comes heere?\nEnter Dutchesse and Queene.\nQu. Ah my poore Princes! ah my tender Babes:\nMy vnblowed Flowres, new appearing sweets:\nIf yet your gentle soules flye in the Ayre,\nAnd be not fixt in doome perpetuall,\nHouer about me with your ayery wings,\nAnd heare your mothers Lamentation\nMar. Houer about her, say that right for right\nHath dim'd your Infant morne, to Aged night\nDut. So many miseries haue craz'd my voyce,\nThat my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute.\nEdward Plantagenet, why art thou dead?\nMar. Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet,\nEdward for Edward, payes a dying debt\nQu. Wilt thou, O God, flye from such gentle Lambs,\nAnd throw them in the intrailes of the Wolfe?\nWhen didst thou sleepe, when such a deed was done?\nMar. When holy Harry dyed, and my sweet Sonne\nDut. Dead life, blind sight, poore mortall liuing ghost,\nWoes Scene, Worlds shame, Graues due, by life vsurpt,\nBreefe abstract and record of tedious dayes,\nRest thy vnrest on Englands lawfull earth,\nVnlawfully made drunke with innocent blood\nQu. Ah that thou would'st assoone affoord a Graue,\nAs thou canst yeeld a melancholly seate:\nThen would I hide my bones, not rest them heere,\nAh who hath any cause to mourne but wee?\nMar. If ancient sorrow be most reuerent,\nGiue mine the benefit of signeurie,\nAnd let my greefes frowne on the vpper hand\nIf sorrow can admit Society.\nI had an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him:\nI had a Husband, till a Richard kill'd him:\nThou had'st an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him:\nThou had'st a Richard, till a Richard kill'd him\nDut. I had a Richard too, and thou did'st kill him;\nI had a Rutland too, thou hop'st to kill him\nMar. Thou had'st a Clarence too,\nAnd Richard kill'd him.\nFrom forth the kennell of thy wombe hath crept\nA Hell-hound that doth hunt vs all to death:\nThat Dogge, that had his teeth before his eyes,\nTo worry Lambes, and lap their gentle blood:\nThat foule defacer of Gods handy worke:\nThat reignes in gauled eyes of weeping soules:\nThat excellent grand Tyrant of the earth,\nThy wombe let loose to chase vs to our graues.\nO vpright, iust, and true-disposing God,\nHow do I thanke thee, that this carnall Curre\nPrayes on the issue of his Mothers body,\nAnd makes her Pue-fellow with others mone\nDut. Oh Harries wife, triumph not in my woes:\nGod witnesse with me, I haue wept for thine\nMar. Beare with me: I am hungry for reuenge,\nAnd now I cloy me with beholding it.\nThy Edward he is dead, that kill'd my Edward,\nThe other Edward dead, to quit my Edward:\nYong Yorke, he is but boote, because both they\nMatcht not the high perfection of my losse.\nThy Clarence he is dead, that stab'd my Edward,\nAnd the beholders of this franticke play,\nTh' adulterate Hastings, Riuers, Vaughan, Gray,\nVntimely smother'd in their dusky Graues.\nRichard yet liues, Hels blacke Intelligencer,\nOnely reseru'd their Factor, to buy soules,\nAnd send them thither: But at hand, at hand\nInsues his pittious and vnpittied end.\nEarth gapes, Hell burnes, Fiends roare, Saints pray,\nTo haue him sodainly conuey'd from hence:\nCancell his bond of life, deere God I pray,\nThat I may liue and say, The Dogge is dead\nQu. O thou did'st prophesie, the time would come,\nThat I should wish for thee to helpe me curse\nThat bottel'd Spider, that foule bunch-back'd Toad\nMar. I call'd thee then, vaine flourish of my fortune:\nI call'd thee then, poore Shadow, painted Queen,\nThe presentation of but what I was;\nThe flattering Index of a direfull Pageant;\nOne heau'd a high, to be hurl'd downe below:\nA Mother onely mockt with two faire Babes;\nA dreame of what thou wast, a garish Flagge\nTo be the ayme of euery dangerous Shot;\nA signe of Dignity, a Breath, a Bubble;\nA Queene in ieast, onely to fill the Scene.\nWhere is thy Husband now? Where be thy Brothers?\nWhere be thy two Sonnes? Wherein dost thou Ioy?\nWho sues, and kneeles, and sayes, God saue the Queene?\nWhere be the bending Peeres that flattered thee?\nWhere be the thronging Troopes that followed thee?\nDecline all this, and see what now thou art.\nFor happy Wife, a most distressed Widdow:\nFor ioyfull Mother, one that wailes the name:\nFor one being sued too, one that humbly sues:\nFor Queene, a very Caytiffe, crown'd with care:\nFor she that scorn'd at me, now scorn'd of me:\nFor she being feared of all, now fearing one:\nFor she commanding all, obey'd of none.\nThus hath the course of Iustice whirl'd about,\nAnd left thee but a very prey to time,\nHauing no more but Thought of what thou wast.\nTo torture thee the more, being what thou art,\nThou didst vsurpe my place, and dost thou not\nVsurpe the iust proportion of my Sorrow?\nNow thy proud Necke, beares halfe my burthen'd yoke,\nFrom which, euen heere I slip my wearied head,\nAnd leaue the burthen of it all, on thee.\nFarwell Yorkes wife, and Queene of sad mischance,\nThese English woes, shall make me smile in France\nQu. O thou well skill'd in Curses, stay a-while,\nAnd teach me how to curse mine enemies\nMar. Forbeare to sleepe the night, and fast the day:\nCompare dead happinesse, with liuing woe:\nThinke that thy Babes were sweeter then they were,\nAnd he that slew them fowler then he is:\nBett'ring thy losse, makes the bad causer worse,\nReuoluing this, will teach thee how to Curse\nQu. My words are dull, O quicken them with thine\nMar. Thy woes will make them sharpe,\nAnd pierce like mine.\nExit Margaret.\nDut. Why should calamity be full of words?\nQu. Windy Atturnies to their Clients Woes,\nAyery succeeders of intestine ioyes,\nPoore breathing Orators of miseries,\nLet them haue scope, though what they will impart,\nHelpe nothing els, yet do they ease the hart\nDut. If so then, be not Tongue-ty'd: go with me,\nAnd in the breath of bitter words, let's smother\nMy damned Son, that thy two sweet Sonnes smother'd.\nThe Trumpet sounds, be copious in exclaimes.\nEnter King Richard, and his Traine.\nRich. Who intercepts me in my Expedition?\nDut. O she, that might haue intercepted thee\nBy strangling thee in her accursed wombe,\nFrom all the slaughters (Wretch) that thou hast done\nQu. Hid'st thou that Forhead with a Golden Crowne\nWhere't should be branded, if that right were right?\nThe slaughter of the Prince that ow'd that Crowne,\nAnd the dyre death of my poore Sonnes, and Brothers.\nTell me thou Villaine-slaue, where are my Children?\nDut. Thou Toad, thou Toade,\nWhere is thy Brother Clarence?\nAnd little Ned Plantagenet his Sonne?\nQu. Where is the gentle Riuers, Vaughan, Gray?\nDut. Where is kinde Hastings?\nRich. A flourish Trumpets, strike Alarum Drummes:\nLet not the Heauens heare these Tell-tale women\nRaile on the Lords Annointed. Strike I say.\nFlourish. Alarums.\nEither be patient, and intreat me fayre,\nOr with the clamorous report of Warre,\nThus will I drowne your exclamations\nDut. Art thou my Sonne?\nRich. I, I thanke God, my Father, and your selfe\nDut. Then patiently heare my impatience\nRich. Madam, I haue a touch of your condition,\nThat cannot brooke the accent of reproofe\nDut. O let me speake\nRich. Do then, but Ile not heare\nDut. I will be milde, and gentle in my words\nRich. And breefe (good Mother) for I am in hast\nDut. Art thou so hasty? I haue staid for thee\n(God knowes) in torment and in agony\nRich. And came I not at last to comfort you?\nDut. No by the holy Rood, thou know'st it well,\nThou cam'st on earth, to make the earth my Hell.\nA greeuous burthen was thy Birth to me,\nTetchy and wayward was thy Infancie.\nThy School-daies frightfull, desp'rate, wilde, and furious,\nThy prime of Manhood, daring, bold, and venturous:\nThy Age confirm'd, proud, subtle, slye, and bloody,\nMore milde, but yet more harmfull; Kinde in hatred:\nWhat comfortable houre canst thou name,\nThat euer grac'd me with thy company?\nRich. Faith none, but Humfrey Hower,\nThat call'd your Grace\nTo Breakefast once, forth of my company.\nIf I be so disgracious in your eye,\nLet me march on, and not offend you Madam.\nStrike vp the Drumme\nDut. I prythee heare me speake\nRich. You speake too bitterly\nDut. Heare me a word:\nFor I shall neuer speake to thee againe\nRich. So\nDut. Either thou wilt dye, by Gods iust ordinance\nEre from this warre thou turne a Conqueror:\nOr I with greefe and extreame Age shall perish,\nAnd neuer more behold thy face againe.\nTherefore take with thee my most greeuous Curse,\nWhich in the day of Battell tyre thee more\nThen all the compleat Armour that thou wear'st.\nMy Prayers on the aduerse party fight,\nAnd there the little soules of Edwards Children,\nWhisper the Spirits of thine Enemies,\nAnd promise them Successe and Victory:\nBloody thou art, bloody will be thy end:\nShame serues thy life, and doth thy death attend.\nEnter.\nQu. Though far more cause, yet much lesse spirit to curse\nAbides in me, I say Amen to her\nRich. Stay Madam, I must talke a word with you\nQu. I haue no more sonnes of the Royall Blood\nFor thee to slaughter. For my Daughters (Richard)\nThey shall be praying Nunnes, not weeping Queenes:\nAnd therefore leuell not to hit their liues\nRich. You haue a daughter call'd Elizabeth,\nVertuous and Faire, Royall and Gracious?\nQu. And must she dye for this? O let her liue,\nAnd Ile corrupt her Manners, staine her Beauty,\nSlander my Selfe, as false to Edwards bed:\nThrow ouer her the vaile of Infamy,\nSo she may liue vnscarr'd of bleeding slaughter,\nI will confesse she was not Edwards daughter\nRich. Wrong not her Byrth, she is a Royall Princesse\nQu. To saue her life, Ile say she is not so\nRich. Her life is safest onely in her byrth\nQu. And onely in that safety, dyed her Brothers\nRich. Loe at their Birth, good starres were opposite\nQu. No, to their liues, ill friends were contrary\nRich. All vnauoyded is the doome of Destiny\nQu. True: when auoyded grace makes Destiny.\nMy Babes were destin'd to a fairer death,\nIf grace had blest thee with a fairer life\nRich. You speake as if that I had slaine my Cosins?\nQu. Cosins indeed, and by their Vnckle couzend,\nOf Comfort, Kingdome, Kindred, Freedome, Life,\nWhose hand soeuer lanch'd their tender hearts,\nThy head (all indirectly) gaue direction.\nNo doubt the murd'rous Knife was dull and blunt,\nTill it was whetted on thy stone-hard heart,\nTo reuell in the Intrailes of my Lambes.\nBut that still vse of greefe, makes wilde greefe tame,\nMy tongue should to thy eares not name my Boyes,\nTill that my Nayles were anchor'd in thine eyes:\nAnd I in such a desp'rate Bay of death,\nLike a poore Barke, of sailes and tackling reft,\nRush all to peeces on thy Rocky bosome\nRich. Madam, so thriue I in my enterprize\nAnd dangerous successe of bloody warres,\nAs I intend more good to you and yours,\nThen euer you and yours by me were harm'd\nQu. What good is couer'd with the face of heauen,\nTo be discouered, that can do me good\nRich. Th' aduancement of your children, gentle Lady\nQu. Vp to some Scaffold, there to lose their heads\nRich. Vnto the dignity and height of Fortune,\nThe high Imperiall Type of this earths glory\nQu. Flatter my sorrow with report of it:\nTell me, what State, what Dignity, what Honor,\nCanst thou demise to any childe of mine\nRich. Euen all I haue; I, and my selfe and all,\nWill I withall indow a childe of thine:\nSo in the Lethe of thy angry soule,\nThou drowne the sad remembrance of those wrongs,\nWhich thou supposest I haue done to thee\nQu. Be breefe, least that the processe of thy kindnesse\nLast longer telling then thy kindnesse date\nRich. Then know,\nThat from my Soule, I loue thy Daughter\nQu. My daughters Mother thinkes it with her soule\nRich. What do you thinke?\nQu. That thou dost loue my daughter from thy soule\nSo from thy Soules loue didst thou loue her Brothers,\nAnd from my hearts loue, I do thanke thee for it\nRich. Be not so hasty to confound my meaning:\nI meane that with my Soule I loue thy daughter,\nAnd do intend to make her Queene of England\nQu. Well then, who dost y meane shallbe her King\nRich. Euen he that makes her Queene:\nWho else should bee?\nQu. What, thou?\nRich. Euen so: How thinke you of it?\nQu. How canst thou woo her?\nRich. That I would learne of you,\nAs one being best acquainted with her humour\nQu. And wilt thou learne of me?\nRich. Madam, with all my heart\nQu. Send to her by the man that slew her Brothers.\nA paire of bleeding hearts: thereon ingraue\nEdward and Yorke, then haply will she weepe:\nTherefore present to her, as sometime Margaret\nDid to thy Father, steept in Rutlands blood,\nA hand-kercheefe, which say to her did dreyne\nThe purple sappe from her sweet Brothers body,\nAnd bid her wipe her weeping eyes withall.\nIf this inducement moue her not to loue,\nSend her a Letter of thy Noble deeds:\nTell her, thou mad'st away her Vnckle Clarence,\nHer Vnckle Riuers, I (and for her sake)\nMad'st quicke conueyance with her good Aunt Anne\nRich. You mocke me Madam, this not the way\nTo win your daughter\nQu. There is no other way,\nVnlesse thou could'st put on some other shape,\nAnd not be Richard, that hath done all this\nRic. Say that I did all this for loue of her\nQu. Nay then indeed she cannot choose but hate thee\nHauing bought loue, with such a bloody spoyle\nRich. Looke what is done, cannot be now amended:\nMen shall deale vnaduisedly sometimes,\nWhich after-houres giues leysure to repent.\nIf I did take the Kingdome from your Sonnes,\nTo make amends, Ile giue it to your daughter:\nIf I haue kill'd the issue of your wombe,\nTo quicken your encrease, I will beget\nMine yssue of your blood, vpon your Daughter:\nA Grandams name is little lesse in loue,\nThen is the doting Title of a Mother;\nThey are as Children but one steppe below,\nEuen of your mettall, of your very blood:\nOf all one paine, saue for a night of groanes\nEndur'd of her, for whom you bid like sorrow.\nYour Children were vexation to your youth,\nBut mine shall be a comfort to your Age,\nThe losse you haue, is but a Sonne being King,\nAnd by that losse, your Daughter is made Queene.\nI cannot make you what amends I would,\nTherefore accept such kindnesse as I can.\nDorset your Sonne, that with a fearfull soule\nLeads discontented steppes in Forraine soyle,\nThis faire Alliance, quickly shall call home\nTo high Promotions, and great Dignity.\nThe King that calles your beauteous Daughter Wife,\nFamiliarly shall call thy Dorset, Brother:\nAgaine shall you be Mother to a King:\nAnd all the Ruines of distressefull Times,\nRepayr'd with double Riches of Content.\nWhat? we haue many goodly dayes to see:\nThe liquid drops of Teares that you haue shed,\nShall come againe, transform'd to Orient Pearle,\nAduantaging their Loue, with interest\nOften-times double gaine of happinesse.\nGo then (my Mother) to thy Daughter go,\nMake bold her bashfull yeares, with your experience,\nPrepare her eares to heare a Woers Tale.\nPut in her tender heart, th' aspiring Flame\nOf Golden Soueraignty: Acquaint the Princesse\nWith the sweet silent houres of Marriage ioyes:\nAnd when this Arme of mine hath chastised\nThe petty Rebell, dull-brain'd Buckingham,\nBound with Triumphant Garlands will I come,\nAnd leade thy daughter to a Conquerors bed:\nTo whom I will retaile my Conquest wonne,\nAnd she shalbe sole Victoresse, C\u00e6sars C\u00e6sar\nQu. What were I best to say, her Fathers Brother\nWould be her Lord? Or shall I say her Vnkle?\nOr he that slew her Brothers, and her Vnkles?\nVnder what Title shall I woo for thee,\nThat God, the Law, my Honor, and her Loue,\nCan make seeme pleasing to her tender yeares?\nRich. Inferre faire Englands peace by this Alliance\nQu. Which she shall purchase with stil lasting warre\nRich. Tell her, the King that may command, intreats\nQu. That at her hands, which the kings King forbids\nRich. Say she shall be a High and Mighty Queene\nQu. To vaile the Title, as her Mother doth\nRich. Say I will loue her euerlastingly\nQu. But how long shall that title euer last?\nRich. Sweetly in force, vnto her faire liues end\nQu. But how long fairely shall her sweet life last?\nRich. As long as Heauen and Nature lengthens it\nQu. As long as Hell and Richard likes of it\nRich. Say, I her Soueraigne, am her Subiect low\nQu. But she your Subiect, lothes such Soueraignty\nRich. Be eloquent in my behalfe to her\nQu. An honest tale speeds best, being plainly told\nRich. Then plainly to her, tell my louing tale\nQu. Plaine and not honest, is too harsh a style\nRich. Your Reasons are too shallow, and to quicke\nQu. O no, my Reasons are too deepe and dead,\nToo deepe and dead (poore Infants) in their graues,\nHarpe on it still shall I, till heart-strings breake\nRich. Harpe not on that string Madam, that is past.\nNow by my George, my Garter, and my Crowne\nQu. Prophan'd, dishonor'd, and the third vsurpt\nRich. I sweare\nQu. By nothing, for this is no Oath:\nThy George prophan'd, hath lost his Lordly Honor;\nThy Garter blemish'd, pawn'd his Knightly Vertue;\nThy Crowne vsurp'd, disgrac'd his Kingly Glory:\nIf something thou would'st sweare to be beleeu'd,\nSweare then by something, that thou hast not wrong'd\nRich. Then by my Selfe\nQu. Thy Selfe, is selfe-misvs'd\nRich. Now by the World\nQu. 'Tis full of thy foule wrongs\nRich. My Fathers death\nQu. Thy life hath it dishonor'd\nRich. Why then, by Heauen\nQu. Heauens wrong is most of all:\nIf thou didd'st feare to breake an Oath with him,\nThe vnity the King my husband made,\nThou had'st not broken, nor my Brothers died.\nIf thou had'st fear'd to breake an oath by him,\nTh' Imperiall mettall, circling now thy head,\nHad grac'd the tender temples of my Child,\nAnd both the Princes had bene breathing heere,\nWhich now two tender Bed-fellowes for dust,\nThy broken Faith hath made the prey for Wormes.\nWhat can'st thou sweare by now\nRich. The time to come\nQu. That thou hast wronged in the time ore-past:\nFor I my selfe haue many teares to wash\nHeereafter time, for time past, wrong'd by thee.\nThe Children liue, whose Fathers thou hast slaughter'd,\nVngouern'd youth, to waile it with their age:\nThe Parents liue, whose Children thou hast butcher'd,\nOld barren Plants, to waile it with their Age.\nSweare not by time to come, for that thou hast\nMisvs'd ere vs'd, by times ill-vs'd repast\nRich. As I entend to prosper, and repent:\nSo thriue I in my dangerous Affayres\nOf hostile Armes: My selfe, my selfe confound:\nHeauen, and Fortune barre me happy houres:\nDay, yeeld me not thy light; nor Night, thy rest.\nBe opposite all Planets of good lucke\nTo my proceeding, if with deere hearts loue,\nImmaculate deuotion, holy thoughts,\nI tender not thy beautious Princely daughter.\nIn her, consists my Happinesse, and thine:\nWithout her, followes to my selfe, and thee;\nHer selfe, the Land, and many a Christian soule,\nDeath, Desolation, Ruine, and Decay:\nIt cannot be auoyded, but by this:\nIt will not be auoyded, but by this.\nTherefore deare Mother (I must call you so)\nBe the Atturney of my loue to her:\nPleade what I will be, not what I haue beene;\nNot my deserts, but what I will deserue:\nVrge the Necessity and state of times,\nAnd be not peeuish found, in great Designes\nQu. Shall I be tempted of the Diuel thus?\nRich. I, if the Diuell tempt you to do good\nQu. Shall I forget my selfe, to be my selfe\nRich. I, if your selfes remembrance wrong your selfe\nQu. Yet thou didst kil my Children\nRich. But in your daughters wombe I bury them.\nWhere in that Nest of Spicery they will breed\nSelues of themselues, to your recomforture\nQu. Shall I go win my daughter to thy will?\nRich. And be a happy Mother by the deed\nQu. I go, write to me very shortly,\nAnd you shal vnderstand from me her mind.\nExit Q[ueene].\nRich. Beare her my true loues kisse, and so farewell.\nRelenting Foole, and shallow-changing Woman.\nHow now, what newes?\nEnter Ratcliffe.\nRat. Most mightie Soueraigne, on the Westerne Coast\nRideth a puissant Nauie: to our Shores\nThrong many doubtfull hollow-hearted friends,\nVnarm'd, and vnresolu'd to beat them backe.\n'Tis thought, that Richmond is their Admirall:\nAnd there they hull, expecting but the aide\nOf Buckingham, to welcome them ashore\nRich. Some light-foot friend post to y Duke of Norfolk:\nRatcliffe thy selfe, or Catesby, where is hee?\nCat. Here, my good Lord\nRich. Catesby, flye to the Duke\nCat. I will, my Lord, with all conuenient haste\nRich. Catesby come hither, poste to Salisbury:\nWhen thou com'st thither: Dull vnmindfull Villaine,\nWhy stay'st thou here, and go'st not to the Duke?\nCat. First, mighty Liege, tell me your Highnesse pleasure,\nWhat from your Grace I shall deliuer to him\nRich. O true, good Catesby, bid him leuie straight\nThe greatest strength and power that he can make,\nAnd meet me suddenly at Salisbury\nCat. I goe.\nEnter.\nRat. What, may it please you, shall I doe at Salisbury?\nRich. Why, what would'st thou doe there, before I\ngoe?\nRat. Your Highnesse told me I should poste before\nRich. My minde is chang'd:\nEnter Lord Stanley.\nStanley, what newes with you?\nSta. None, good my Liege, to please you with y hearing,\nNor none so bad, but well may be reported\nRich. Hoyday, a Riddle, neither good nor bad:\nWhat need'st thou runne so many miles about,\nWhen thou mayest tell thy Tale the neerest way?\nOnce more, what newes?\nStan. Richmond is on the Seas\nRich. There let him sinke, and be the Seas on him,\nWhite-liuer'd Runnagate, what doth he there?\nStan. I know not, mightie Soueraigne, but by guesse\nRich. Well, as you guesse\nStan. Stirr'd vp by Dorset, Buckingham, and Morton,\nHe makes for England, here to clayme the Crowne\nRich. Is the Chayre emptie? is the Sword vnsway'd?\nIs the King dead? the Empire vnpossest?\nWhat Heire of Yorke is there aliue, but wee?\nAnd who is Englands King, but great Yorkes Heire?\nThen tell me, what makes he vpon the Seas?\nStan. Vnlesse for that, my Liege, I cannot guesse\nRich. Vnlesse for that he comes to be your Liege,\nYou cannot guesse wherefore the Welchman comes.\nThou wilt reuolt, and flye to him, I feare\nStan. No, my good Lord, therefore mistrust me not\nRich. Where is thy Power then, to beat him back?\nWhere be thy Tenants, and thy followers?\nAre they not now vpon the Westerne Shore,\nSafe-conducting the Rebels from their Shippes?\nStan. No, my good Lord, my friends are in the\nNorth\nRich. Cold friends to me: what do they in the North,\nWhen they should serue their Soueraigne in the West?\nStan. They haue not been commanded, mighty King:\nPleaseth your Maiestie to giue me leaue,\nIle muster vp my friends, and meet your Grace,\nWhere, and what time your Maiestie shall please\nRich. I, thou would'st be gone, to ioyne with Richmond:\nBut Ile not trust thee\nStan. Most mightie Soueraigne,\nYou haue no cause to hold my friendship doubtfull,\nI neuer was, nor neuer will be false\nRich. Goe then, and muster men: but leaue behind\nYour Sonne George Stanley: looke your heart be firme,\nOr else his Heads assurance is but fraile\nStan. So deale with him, as I proue true to you.\nExit Stanley.\nEnter a Messenger.\nMess. My gracious Soueraigne, now in Deuonshire,\nAs I by friends am well aduertised,\nSir Edward Courtney, and the haughtie Prelate,\nBishop of Exeter, his elder Brother,\nWith many moe Confederates, are in Armes.\nEnter another Messenger\nMess. In Kent, my Liege, the Guilfords are in Armes,\nAnd euery houre more Competitors\nFlocke to the Rebels, and their power growes strong.\nEnter another Messenger.\nMess. My Lord, the Armie of great Buckingham\nRich. Out on ye, Owles, nothing but Songs of Death,\nHe striketh him.\nThere, take thou that, till thou bring better newes\nMess. The newes I haue to tell your Maiestie,\nIs, that by sudden Floods, and fall of Waters,\nBuckinghams Armie is dispers'd and scatter'd,\nAnd he himselfe wandred away alone,\nNo man knowes whither\nRich. I cry thee mercie:\nThere is my Purse, to cure that Blow of thine.\nHath any well-aduised friend proclaym'd\nReward to him that brings the Traytor in?\nMess. Such Proclamation hath been made, my Lord.\nEnter another Messenger.\nMess. Sir Thomas Louell, and Lord Marquesse Dorset,\n'Tis said, my Liege, in Yorkeshire are in Armes:\nBut this good comfort bring I to your Highnesse,\nThe Brittaine Nauie is dispers'd by Tempest.\nRichmond in Dorsetshire sent out a Boat\nVnto the shore, to aske those on the Banks,\nIf they were his Assistants, yea, or no?\nWho answer'd him, they came from Buckingham,\nVpon his partie: he mistrusting them,\nHoys'd sayle, and made his course againe for Brittaine\nRich. March on, march on, since we are vp in Armes,\nIf not to fight with forraine Enemies,\nYet to beat downe these Rebels here at home.\nEnter Catesby.\nCat. My Liege, the Duke of Buckingham is taken,\nThat is the best newes: that the Earle of Richmond\nIs with a mighty power Landed at Milford,\nIs colder Newes, but yet they must be told\nRich. Away towards Salsbury, while we reason here,\nA Royall battell might be wonne and lost:\nSome one take order Buckingham be brought\nTo Salsbury, the rest march on with me.\nFlorish. Exeunt\nScena Quarta.\nEnter Derby, and Sir Christopher.\nDer. Sir Christopher, tell Richmond this from me,\nThat in the stye of the most deadly Bore,\nMy Sonne George Stanley is frankt vp in hold:\nIf I reuolt, off goes yong Georges head,\nThe feare of that, holds off my present ayde.\nSo get thee gone: commend me to thy Lord.\nWithall say, that the Queene hath heartily consented\nHe should espouse Elizabeth hir daughter.\nBut tell me, where is Princely Richmond now?\nChri. At Penbroke, or at Hertford West in Wales\nDer. What men of Name resort to him\nChri. Sir Walter Herbert, a renowned Souldier,\nSir Gilbert Talbot, Sir William Stanley,\nOxford, redoubted Pembroke, Sir Iames Blunt,\nAnd Rice ap Thomas, with a valiant Crew,\nAnd many other of great name and worth:\nAnd towards London do they bend their power,\nIf by the way they be not fought withall\nDer. Well hye thee to thy Lord: I kisse his hand,\nMy Letter will resolue him of my minde.\nFarewell.\nExeunt.\nActus Quintus. Scena Prima.\nEnter Buckingham with Halberds, led to Execution.\nBuc. Will not King Richard let me speake with him?\nSher. No my good Lord, therefore be patient\nBuc. Hastings, and Edwards children, Gray & Riuers,\nHoly King Henry, and thy faire Sonne Edward,\nVaughan, and all that haue miscarried\nBy vnder-hand corrupted foule iniustice,\nIf that your moody discontented soules,\nDo through the clowds behold this present houre,\nEuen for reuenge mocke my destruction.\nThis is All-soules day (Fellow) is it not?\nSher. It is\nBuc. Why then Al-soules day, is my bodies doomsday\nThis is the day, which in King Edwards time\nI wish'd might fall on me, when I was found\nFalse to his Children, and his Wiues Allies.\nThis is the day, wherein I wisht to fall\nBy the false Faith of him whom most I trusted.\nThis, this All-soules day to my fearfull Soule,\nIs the determin'd respit of my wrongs:\nThat high All-seer, which I dallied with,\nHath turn'd my fained Prayer on my head,\nAnd giuen in earnest, what I begg'd in iest.\nThus doth he force the swords of wicked men\nTo turne their owne points in their Masters bosomes.\nThus Margarets curse falles heauy on my necke:\nWhen he (quoth she) shall split thy heart with sorrow,\nRemember Margaret was a Prophetesse:\nCome leade me Officers to the blocke of shame,\nWrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame.\nExeunt. Buckingham with Officers.\nScena Secunda.\nEnter Richmond, Oxford, Blunt, Herbert, and others, with drum\nand\ncolours.\nRichm. Fellowes in Armes, and my most louing Frends\nBruis'd vnderneath the yoake of Tyranny,\nThus farre into the bowels of the Land,\nHaue we marcht on without impediment;\nAnd heere receiue we from our Father Stanley\nLines of faire comfort and encouragement:\nThe wretched, bloody, and vsurping Boare,\n(That spoyl'd your Summer Fields, and fruitfull Vines)\nSwilles your warm blood like wash, & makes his trough\nIn your embowel'd bosomes: This foule Swine\nIs now euen in the Centry of this Isle,\nNe're to the Towne of Leicester, as we learne:\nFrom Tamworth thither, is but one dayes march.\nIn Gods name cheerely on, couragious Friends,\nTo reape the Haruest of perpetuall peace,\nBy this one bloody tryall of sharpe Warre\nOxf. Euery mans Conscience is a thousand men,\nTo fight against this guilty Homicide\nHer. I doubt not but his Friends will turne to vs\nBlunt. He hath no friends, but what are friends for fear,\nWhich in his deerest neede will flye from him\nRichm. All for our vantage, then in Gods name march,\nTrue Hope is swift, and flyes with Swallowes wings,\nKings it makes Gods, and meaner creatures Kings.\nExeunt. Omnes.\nEnter King Richard in Armes with Norfolke, Ratcliffe, and the\nEarle of\nSurrey.\nRich. Here pitch our Tent, euen here in Bosworth field,\nMy Lord of Surrey, why looke you so sad?\nSur. My heart is ten times lighter then my lookes\nRich. My Lord of Norfolke\nNor. Heere most gracious Liege\nRich. Norfolke, we must haue knockes:\nHa, must we not?\nNor. We must both giue and take my louing Lord\nRich. Vp with my Tent, heere wil I lye to night,\nBut where to morrow? Well, all's one for that.\nWho hath descried the number of the Traitors?\nNor. Six or seuen thousand is their vtmost power\nRich. Why our Battalia trebbles that account:\nBesides, the Kings name is a Tower of strength,\nWhich they vpon the aduerse Faction want.\nVp with the Tent: Come Noble Gentlemen,\nLet vs suruey the vantage of the ground.\nCall for some men of sound direction:\nLet's lacke no Discipline, make no delay,\nFor Lords, to morrow is a busie day.\nExeunt.\nEnter Richmond, Sir William Branden, Oxford, and Dorset.\nRichm. The weary Sunne, hath made a Golden set,\nAnd by the bright Tract of his fiery Carre,\nGiues token of a goodly day to morrow.\nSir William Brandon, you shall beare my Standard:\nGiue me some Inke and Paper in my Tent:\nIle draw the Forme and Modell of our Battaile,\nLimit each Leader to his seuerall Charge,\nAnd part in iust proportion our small Power.\nMy Lord of Oxford, you Sir William Brandon,\nAnd your Sir Walter Herbert stay with me:\nThe Earle of Pembroke keepes his Regiment;\nGood Captaine Blunt, beare my goodnight to him,\nAnd by the second houre in the Morning,\nDesire the Earle to see me in my Tent:\nYet one thing more (good Captaine) do for me:\nWhere is Lord Stanley quarter'd, do you know?\nBlunt. Vnlesse I haue mistane his Colours much,\n(Which well I am assur'd I haue not done)\nHis Regiment lies halfe a Mile at least\nSouth, from the mighty Power of the King\nRichm. If without perill it be possible,\nSweet Blunt, make some good meanes to speak with him\nAnd giue him from me, this most needfull Note\nBlunt. Vpon my life, my Lord, Ile vndertake it,\nAnd so God giue you quiet rest to night\nRichm. Good night good Captaine Blunt:\nCome Gentlemen,\nLet vs consult vpon to morrowes Businesse;\nInto my Tent, the Dew is rawe and cold.\nThey withdraw into the Tent.\nEnter Richard, Ratcliffe, Norfolke, & Catesby.\nRich. What is't a Clocke?\nCat. It's Supper time my Lord, it's nine a clocke\nKing. I will not sup to night,\nGiue me some Inke and Paper:\nWhat, is my Beauer easier then it was?\nAnd all my Armour laid into my Tent?\nCat. It is my Liege: and all things are in readinesse\nRich. Good Norfolke, hye thee to thy charge,\nVse carefull Watch, choose trusty Centinels,\nNor. I go my Lord\nRich. Stir with the Larke to morrow, gentle Norfolk\nNor. I warrant you my Lord.\nExit\nRich. Ratcliffe\nRat. My Lord\nRich. Send out a Pursuiuant at Armes\nTo Stanleys Regiment: bid him bring his power\nBefore Sun-rising, least his Sonne George fall\nInto the blinde Caue of eternall night.\nFill me a Bowle of Wine: Giue me a Watch,\nSaddle white Surrey for the Field to morrow:\nLook that my Staues be sound, & not too heauy. Ratcliff\nRat. My Lord\nRich. Saw'st the melancholly Lord Northumberland?\nRat. Thomas the Earle of Surrey, and himselfe,\nMuch about Cockshut time, from Troope to Troope\nWent through the Army, chearing vp the Souldiers\nKing. So, I am satisfied: Giue me a Bowle of Wine,\nI haue not that Alacrity of Spirit,\nNor cheere of Minde that I was wont to haue.\nSet it downe. Is Inke and Paper ready?\nRat. It is my Lord\nRich. Bid my Guard watch. Leaue me.\nRatcliffe, about the mid of night come to my Tent\nAnd helpe to arme me. Leaue me I say.\nExit Ratclif.\nEnter Derby to Richmond in his Tent.\nDer. Fortune, and Victory sit on thy Helme\nRich. All comfort that the darke night can affoord,\nBe to thy Person, Noble Father in Law.\nTell me, how fares our Noble Mother?\nDer. I by Attourney, blesse thee from thy Mother,\nWho prayes continually for Richmonds good:\nSo much for that. The silent houres steale on,\nAnd flakie darkenesse breakes within the East.\nIn breefe, for so the season bids vs be,\nPrepare thy Battell early in the Morning,\nAnd put thy Fortune to th' Arbitrement\nOf bloody stroakes, and mortall staring Warre:\nI, as I may, that which I would, I cannot,\nWith best aduantage will deceiue the time,\nAnd ayde thee in this doubtfull shocke of Armes.\nBut on thy side I may not be too forward,\nLeast being seene, thy Brother, tender George\nBe executed in his Fathers sight.\nFarewell: the leysure, and the fearfull time\nCuts off the ceremonious Vowes of Loue,\nAnd ample enterchange of sweet Discourse,\nWhich so long sundred Friends should dwell vpon:\nGod giue vs leysure for these rites of Loue.\nOnce more Adieu, be valiant, and speed well\nRichm. Good Lords conduct him to his Regiment:\nIle striue with troubled noise, to take a Nap,\nLest leaden slumber peize me downe to morrow,\nWhen I should mount with wings of Victory:\nOnce more, good night kinde Lords and Gentlemen.\nExeunt. Manet Richmond.\nO thou, whose Captaine I account my selfe,\nLooke on my Forces with a gracious eye:\nPut in their hands thy bruising Irons of wrath,\nThat they may crush downe with a heauy fall,\nTh' vsurping Helmets of our Aduersaries:\nMake vs thy ministers of Chasticement,\nThat we may praise thee in thy victory:\nTo thee I do commend my watchfull soule,\nEre I let fall the windowes of mine eyes:\nSleeping, and waking, oh defend me still.\nSleeps.\nEnter the Ghost of Prince Edward, Sonne to Henry the sixt.\nGh. to Ri[chard]. Let me sit heauy on thy soule to morrow:\nThinke how thou stab'st me in my prime of youth\nAt Teukesbury: Dispaire therefore, and dye.\nGhost to Richm[ond].\nBe chearefull Richmond,\nFor the wronged Soules\nOf butcher'd Princes, fight in thy behalfe:\nKing Henries issue Richmond comforts thee.\nEnter the Ghost of Henry the sixt.\nGhost. When I was mortall, my Annointed body\nBy thee was punched full of holes;\nThinke on the Tower, and me: Dispaire, and dye,\nHarry the sixt, bids thee dispaire, and dye.\nTo Richm[ond].\nVertuous and holy be thou Conqueror:\nHarry that prophesied thou should'st be King,\nDoth comfort thee in sleepe: Liue, and flourish.\nEnter the Ghost of Clarence.\nGhost. Let me sit heauy in thy soule to morrow.\nI that was wash'd to death with Fulsome Wine:\nPoore Clarence by thy guile betray'd to death:\nTo morrow in the battell thinke on me,\nAnd fall thy edgelesse Sword, dispaire and dye.\nTo Richm[ond].\nThou off-spring of the house of Lancaster\nThe wronged heyres of Yorke do pray for thee,\nGood Angels guard thy battell, Liue and Flourish.\nEnter the Ghosts of Riuers, Gray, and Vaughan.\nRiu. Let me sit heauy in thy soule to morrow,\nRiuers, that dy'de at Pomfret: dispaire, and dye\nGrey. Thinke vpon Grey, and let thy soule dispaire\nVaugh. Thinke vpon Vaughan, and with guilty feare\nLet fall thy Lance, dispaire and dye.\nAll to Richm[ond].\nAwake,\nAnd thinke our wrongs in Richards Bosome,\nWill conquer him. Awake, and win the day.\nEnter the Ghost of Lord Hastings.\nGho. Bloody and guilty: guiltily awake,\nAnd in a bloody Battell end thy dayes.\nThinke on Lord Hastings: dispaire, and dye.\nHast. to Rich[ard].\nQuiet vntroubled soule,\nAwake, awake:\nArme, fight, and conquer, for faire Englands sake.\nEnter the Ghosts of the two yong Princes.\nGhosts. Dreame on thy Cousins\nSmothered in the Tower:\nLet vs be laid within thy bosome Richard,\nAnd weigh thee downe to ruine, shame, and death,\nThy Nephewes soule bids thee dispaire and dye.\nGhosts to Richm[ond].\nSleepe Richmond,\nSleepe in Peace, and wake in Ioy,\nGood Angels guard thee from the Boares annoy,\nLiue, and beget a happy race of Kings,\nEdwards vnhappy Sonnes, do bid thee flourish.\nEnter the Ghost of Anne, his Wife.\nGhost to Rich[ard].\nRichard, thy Wife,\nThat wretched Anne thy Wife,\nThat neuer slept a quiet houre with thee,\nNow filles thy sleepe with perturbations,\nTo morrow in the Battaile, thinke on me,\nAnd fall thy edgelesse Sword, dispaire and dye:\nGhost to Richm[ond].\nThou quiet soule,\nSleepe thou a quiet sleepe:\nDreame of Successe, and Happy Victory,\nThy Aduersaries Wife doth pray for thee.\nEnter the Ghost of Buckingham.\nGhost to Rich[ard].\nThe first was I\nThat help'd thee to the Crowne:\nThat last was I that felt thy Tyranny.\nO, in the Battaile think on Buckingham,\nAnd dye in terror of thy guiltinesse.\nDreame on, dreame on, of bloody deeds and death,\nFainting dispaire; dispairing yeeld thy breath.\nGhost to Richm[ond].\nI dyed for hope\nEre I could lend thee Ayde;\nBut cheere thy heart, and be thou not dismayde:\nGod, and good Angels fight on Richmonds side,\nAnd Richard fall in height of all his pride.\nRichard starts out of his dreame.\nRich. Giue me another Horse, bind vp my Wounds:\nHaue mercy Iesu. Soft, I did but dreame.\nO coward Conscience? how dost thou afflict me?\nThe Lights burne blew. It is not dead midnight.\nCold fearefull drops stand on my trembling flesh.\nWhat? do I feare my Selfe? There's none else by,\nRichard loues Richard, that is, I am I.\nIs there a Murtherer heere? No; Yes, I am:\nThen flye; What from my Selfe? Great reason: why?\nLest I Reuenge. What? my Selfe vpon my Selfe?\nAlacke, I loue my Selfe. Wherefore? For any good\nThat I my Selfe, haue done vnto my Selfe?\nO no. Alas, I rather hate my Selfe,\nFor hatefull Deeds committed by my Selfe.\nI am a Villaine: yet I Lye, I am not.\nFoole, of thy Selfe speake well: Foole, do not flatter.\nMy Conscience hath a thousand seuerall Tongues,\nAnd euery Tongue brings in a seuerall Tale,\nAnd euerie Tale condemnes me for a Villaine;\nPeriurie, in the high'st Degree,\nMurther, sterne murther, in the dyr'st degree,\nAll seuerall sinnes, all vs'd in each degree,\nThrong all to'th' Barre, crying all, Guilty, Guilty.\nI shall dispaire, there is no Creature loues me;\nAnd if I die, no soule shall pittie me.\nNay, wherefore should they? Since that I my Selfe,\nFinde in my Selfe, no pittie to my Selfe.\nMe thought, the Soules of all that I had murther'd\nCame to my Tent, and euery one did threat\nTo morrowes vengeance on the head of Richard.\nEnter Ratcliffe.\nRat. My Lord\nKing. Who's there?\nRat. Ratcliffe, my Lord, 'tis I: the early Village Cock\nHath twice done salutation to the Morne,\nYour Friends are vp, and buckle on their Armour\nKing. O Ratcliffe, I feare, I feare\nRat. Nay good my Lord, be not affraid of Shadows\nKing. By the Apostle Paul, shadowes to night\nHaue stroke more terror to the soule of Richard,\nThen can the substance of ten thousand Souldiers\nArmed in proofe, and led by shallow Richmond.\n'Tis not yet neere day. Come go with me,\nVnder our Tents Ile play the Ease-dropper,\nTo heare if any meane to shrinke from me.\nExeunt. Richard & Ratliffe,\nEnter the Lords to Richmond sitting in his Tent.\nRichm. Good morrow Richmond\nRich. Cry mercy Lords, and watchfull Gentlemen,\nThat you haue tane a tardie sluggard heere?\nLords. How haue you slept my Lord?\nRich. The sweetest sleepe,\nAnd fairest boading Dreames,\nThat euer entred in a drowsie head,\nHaue I since your departure had my Lords.\nMe thought their Soules, whose bodies Rich[ard]. murther'd,\nCame to my Tent, and cried on Victory:\nI promise you my Heart is very iocond,\nIn the remembrance of so faire a dreame,\nHow farre into the Morning is it Lords?\nLor. Vpon the stroke of foure\nRich. Why then 'tis time to Arme, and giue direction.\nHis Oration to his Souldiers.\nMore then I haue said, louing Countrymen,\nThe leysure and inforcement of the time\nForbids to dwell vpon: yet remember this,\nGod, and our good cause, fight vpon our side,\nThe Prayers of holy Saints and wronged soules,\nLike high rear'd Bulwarkes, stand before our Faces,\n(Richard except) those whom we fight against,\nHad rather haue vs win, then him they follow.\nFor, what is he they follow? Truly Gentlemen,\nA bloudy Tyrant, and a Homicide:\nOne rais'd in blood, and one in blood establish'd;\nOne that made meanes to come by what he hath,\nAnd slaughter'd those that were the meanes to help him:\nA base foule Stone, made precious by the soyle\nOf Englands Chaire, where he is falsely set:\nOne that hath euer beene Gods Enemy.\nThen if you fight against Gods Enemy,\nGod will in iustice ward you as his Soldiers.\nIf you do sweare to put a Tyrant downe,\nYou sleepe in peace, the Tyrant being slaine:\nIf you do fight against your Countries Foes,\nYour Countries Fat shall pay your paines the hyre.\nIf you do fight in safegard of your wiues,\nYour wiues shall welcome home the Conquerors.\nIf you do free your Children from the Sword,\nYour Childrens Children quits it in your Age.\nThen in the name of God and all these rights,\nAduance your Standards, draw your willing Swords.\nFor me, the ransome of my bold attempt,\nShall be this cold Corpes on the earth's cold face.\nBut if I thriue, the gaine of my attempt,\nThe least of you shall share his part thereof.\nSound Drummes and Trumpets boldly, and cheerefully,\nGod, and Saint George, Richmond, and Victory.\nEnter King Richard, Ratcliffe, and Catesby.\nK. What said Northumberland as touching Richmond?\nRat. That he was neuer trained vp in Armes\nKing. He said the truth: and what said Surrey then?\nRat. He smil'd and said, the better for our purpose\nKing. He was in the right, and so indeed it is.\nTell the clocke there.\nClocke strikes.\nGiue me a Kalender: Who saw the Sunne to day?\nRat. Not I my Lord\nKing. Then he disdaines to shine: for by the Booke\nHe should haue brau'd the East an houre ago,\nA blacke day will it be to somebody. Ratcliffe\nRat. My Lord\nKing. The Sun will not be seene to day,\nThe sky doth frowne, and lowre vpon our Army.\nI would these dewy teares were from the ground.\nNot shine to day? Why, what is that to me\nMore then to Richmond? For the selfe-same Heauen\nThat frownes on me, lookes sadly vpon him.\nEnter Norfolke.\nNor. Arme, arme, my Lord: the foe vaunts in the field\nKing. Come, bustle, bustle. Caparison my horse.\nCall vp Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power,\nI will leade forth my Soldiers to the plaine,\nAnd thus my Battell shal be ordred.\nMy Foreward shall be drawne in length,\nConsisting equally of Horse and Foot:\nOur Archers shall be placed in the mid'st;\nIohn Duke of Norfolke, Thomas Earle of Surrey,\nShall haue the leading of the Foot and Horse.\nThey thus directed, we will follow\nIn the maine Battell, whose puissance on either side\nShall be well-winged with our cheefest Horse:\nThis, and Saint George to boote.\nWhat think'st thou Norfolke\nNor. A good direction warlike Soueraigne,\nThis found I on my Tent this Morning.\nIockey of Norfolke, be not so bold,\nFor Dickon thy maister is bought and sold\nKing. A thing deuised by the Enemy.\nGo Gentlemen, euery man to his Charge,\nLet not our babling Dreames affright our soules:\nFor Conscience is a word that Cowards vse,\nDeuis'd at first to keepe the strong in awe,\nOur strong armes be our Conscience, Swords our Law.\nMarch on, ioyne brauely, let vs too't pell mell,\nIf not to heauen, then hand in hand to Hell.\nWhat shall I say more then I haue inferr'd?\nRemember whom you are to cope withall,\nA sort of Vagabonds, Rascals, and Run-awayes,\nA scum of Brittaines, and base Lackey Pezants,\nWhom their o're-cloyed Country vomits forth\nTo desperate Aduentures, and assur'd Destruction.\nYou sleeping safe, they bring you to vnrest:\nYou hauing Lands, and blest with beauteous wiues,\nThey would restraine the one, distaine the other,\nAnd who doth leade them, but a paltry Fellow?\nLong kept in Britaine at our Mothers cost,\nA Milke-sop, one that neuer in his life\nFelt so much cold, as ouer shooes in Snow:\nLet's whip these straglers o're the Seas againe,\nLash hence these ouer-weening Ragges of France,\nThese famish'd Beggers, weary of their liues,\nWho (but for dreaming on this fond exploit)\nFor want of meanes (poore Rats) had hang'd themselues.\nIf we be conquered, let men conquer vs,\nAnd not these bastard Britaines, whom our Fathers\nHaue in their owne Land beaten, bobb'd, and thump'd,\nAnd on Record, left them the heires of shame.\nShall these enioy our Lands? lye with our Wiues?\nRauish our daughters?\nDrum afarre off\nHearke, I heare their Drumme,\nRight Gentlemen of England, fight boldly yeomen,\nDraw Archers draw your Arrowes to the head,\nSpurre your proud Horses hard, and ride in blood,\nAmaze the welkin with your broken staues.\nEnter a Messenger.\nWhat sayes Lord Stanley, will he bring his power?\nMes. My Lord, he doth deny to come\nKing. Off with his sonne Georges head\nNor. My Lord, the Enemy is past the Marsh:\nAfter the battaile, let George Stanley dye\nKing. A thousand hearts are great within my bosom.\nAduance our Standards, set vpon our Foes,\nOur Ancient word of Courage, faire S[aint]. George\nInspire vs with the spleene of fiery Dragons:\nVpon them, Victorie sits on our helpes.\nAlarum, excursions. Enter Catesby.\nCat. Rescue my Lord of Norfolke,\nRescue, Rescue:\nThe King enacts more wonders then a man,\nDaring an opposite to euery danger:\nHis horse is slaine, and all on foot he fights,\nSeeking for Richmond in the throat of death:\nRescue faire Lord, or else the day is lost.\nAlarums.\nEnter Richard.\nRich. A Horse, a Horse, my Kingdome for a Horse\nCates. Withdraw my Lord, Ile helpe you to a Horse\nRich. Slaue, I haue set my life vpon a cast,\nAnd I will stand the hazard of the Dye:\nI thinke there be sixe Richmonds in the field,\nFiue haue I slaine to day, in stead of him.\nA Horse, a Horse, my Kingdome for a Horse.\nAlarum, Enter Richard and Richmond, they fight, Richard is\nslaine.\nRetreat, and Flourish. Enter Richmond, Derby bearing the Crowne,\nwith\ndiuers other Lords.\nRichm. God, and your Armes\nBe prais'd Victorious Friends;\nThe day is ours, the bloudy Dogge is dead\nDer. Couragious Richmond,\nWell hast thou acquit thee: Loe,\nHeere these long vsurped Royalties,\nFrom the dead Temples of this bloudy Wretch,\nHaue I pluck'd off, to grace thy Browes withall.\nWeare it, and make much of it\nRichm. Great God of Heauen, say Amen to all.\nBut tell me, is yong George Stanley liuing?\nDer. He is my Lord, and safe in Leicester Towne,\nWhither (if you please) we may withdraw vs\nRichm. What men of name are slaine on either side?\nDer. Iohn Duke of Norfolke, Walter Lord Ferris,\nSir Robert Brokenbury, and Sir William Brandon\nRichm. Interre their Bodies, as become their Births,\nProclaime a pardon to the Soldiers fled,\nThat in submission will returne to vs,\nAnd then as we haue tane the Sacrament,\nWe will vnite the White Rose, and the Red.\nSmile Heauen vpon this faire Coniunction,\nThat long haue frown'd vpon their Enmity:\nWhat Traitor heares me, and sayes not Amen?\nEngland hath long beene mad, and scarr'd her selfe;\nThe Brother blindely shed the Brothers blood;\nThe Father, rashly slaughtered his owne Sonne;\nThe Sonne compell'd, beene Butcher to the Sire;\nAll this diuided Yorke and Lancaster,\nDiuided, in their dire Diuision.\nO now, let Richmond and Elizabeth,\nThe true Succeeders of each Royall House,\nBy Gods faire ordinance, conioyne together:\nAnd let thy Heires (God if thy will be so)\nEnrich the time to come, with Smooth-fac'd Peace,\nWith smiling Plenty, and faire Prosperous dayes.\nAbate the edge of Traitors, Gracious Lord,\nThat would reduce these bloudy dayes againe,\nAnd make poore England weepe in Streames of Blood;\nLet them not liue to taste this Lands increase,\nThat would with Treason, wound this faire Lands peace.\nNow Ciuill wounds are stopp'd, Peace liues agen;\nThat she may long liue heere, God say, Amen.\nExeunt.\nFINIS. The Tragedy of Richard the Third: with the Landing of\nEarle\nRichmond, and the Battell at Bosworth Field.","title":"The Tragedie of Richard the Third","type":"page"}