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K. Rich. Thou troublest me; I am not in the vein. [Exeunt King Richard, and train. Buck. And is it thus? repays he my deep service With such contempt? made I him king for this? O, let me think on Hastings; and be gone

To Brecknock, while my fearful head is on. [Exit.

SCENE III.-The same. Enter Tyrell.

Tyr. The tyrannous and bloody act is done; The most arch deed of piteous massacre, That ever yet this land was guilty of. Dighton and Forrest, whom I did suborn To do this piece of ruthless butchery, Albeit they were flesh'd villains, bloody dogs, Melting with tenderness and mild compassion, Wept like two children, in their death's sad story. O thus, quoth Dighton, lay the gentle babes,Thus, thus, quoth Forrest, girdling one another Within their alabaster innocent arms: Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, Which, in their summer beauty, kiss'd each other. A book of prayers on their pillow lay; Which once, quoth Forrest, almost chang'd my mind;

But, O, the devil-there the villain stopp'd;
When Dighton thus told on,-we smothered
The most replenished sweet work of nature,
That from the prime creation, e'er she fram'd.-
Hence both are gone with conscience and remorse,
They could not speak; and so I left them both,
To bear this tidings to the bloody king.

Enter King Richard.

And here he comes:-All health, my sovereign lord!
K. Rich. Kind Tyrrel! am I happy in thy news?
Tyr. If to have done the thing you gave in charge
Beget your happiness, be happy then,"
For it is done.

K. Rich. But didst thou see them dead?
Tyr. I did, my lord.
K. Rich.
And buried, gentle Tyrrel?
Tyr. The chaplain of the Tower hath buried
them;

But where, to say the truth, I do not know.

K. Rich. Come to me, Tyrrel, soon, at after

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His daughter meanly match'd in marriage ;
The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham's bosom,

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near,

Than Buckingham, and his rash-levied strength.
Come,-I have learn'd, that fearful commenting
Is leaden servitor to dull delay;
Delay leads impotent and snail-pac'd beggary:
Then fiery expedition be my wing,
Jove's Mercury, and herald for a king!
Go, muster men: My counsel is my shield;
We must be brief, when traitors brave the field.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.-The same. Before the Palace.
Enter Queen Margaret.

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

Enter Queen Elizabeth and the Duchess of York. Q. Eliz. Ah, my poor princes! ah, my tender babes!

My unblown flowers, new-appearing sweets!
If yet your gentle souls fly in the air,
And be not fix'd in doom perpetual,
Hover about me with your airy wings,
And hear your mother's lamentation!"

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

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

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

Q. Eliz. Wilt thou, O God, fly from such gentle lambs,

And throw them in the entrails of the wolf?
When didst thou sleep, when such a deed was done?
Q. Mar. When holy Harry died, and my sweet

son.

Duch. Dead life, blind sight, poor mortal-living ghost,

Wo's scene, world's shame, grave's due by life usurp'd,

Brief abstract and record of tedious days,
Rest thy unrest on England's lawful earth,
[Sitting down.
Unlawfully made drunk with innocent blood!
Q. Eliz. Ah, that thou would'st as soon afford a

grave,

And Anne my wife hath bid the world good night,As thou canst vield a melancholy seat;

Now, for I know the Bretagne Richmond aims

(1) An image like those at St. Dunstan's church

In Fleet-street.

(2) His castle in Wales.

(3) Merciless.

Then would I hide my bones, not rest them here!

(4) The country in which Richmond had taken refuge. (5) Bishop of Ely. (6) Introduction.

Ah, who hath any cause to mourn, but we?
[Sitting down by her.
Q. Mar. If ancient sorrow be most reverent,
Give me the benefit of seniory,'
And let my griefs frown on the upper hand.
If sorrow can admit society,

Sitting down with them.
Tell o'er your woes again by viewing mine:-
I had an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him;
I had a husband, till a Richard kill'd him:
Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him;
Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard kill'd him.
Duch. I had a Richard too, and thou didst kill him;
I had a Rutland too, thou holp'st to kill him.
Q. Mar. Thou hadst a Clarence too, and Richard
kill'd him.

From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept
A hell-hound, that doth hunt us all to death:
That dog, that had his teeth before his eyes,
To worry lambs, and lap their gentle blood;
That foul defacer of God's handy-work;
That excellent grand tyrant of the earth,
That reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls,
Thy womb let loose, to chase us to our graves.-
O upright, just, and true disposing God,
How do I thank thee, that this carnal cur
Preys on the issue of his mother's body,
And makes her pew-fellow with other's moan!
Duch. O, Harry's wife, triumph not in my woes;
God witness with me, I have wept for thine.

Q. Mar. Bear with me, I am hungry for revenge,
And now I cloy me with beholding it.
Thy Edward he is dead, that kill'd my Edward;
Thy other Edward dead, to quit my Edward;
Young York he is but boot, because both they
Match not the high perfection of my loss.
Thy Clarence he is dead, that stabb'd my Edward;
And the beholders of this tragic play,
The adulderate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey,
Untimely smother'd in their dusky graves.
Richard yet lives, hell's black intelligencer;
Only reserv'd their factor, to buy souls,
And send them thither: But at hand, at hand,
Ensues his piteous and unpitied end:
Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends roar, saints pray,
To have him suddenly conveyed from hence:-
Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I pray,
That I may live to say, The dog is dead!

Q. Eliz. O, thou didst prophesy, the time would

come,

That I should wish for thee to help me curse
That bottled spider, that foul bunch-back'd toad.
Q. Mar. I call'd thee then, vain flourish of my
fortune;

I call'd thee then, poor shadow, painted queen :
The presentation of but what I was,
The flattering index of a direful pageant,
One heav'd a high, to be hurl'd down below:
A mother only mock'd with two fair babes;
A dream of what thou wast; a garish' fag,
To be the aim of every dangerous shot;
A sign of dignity, a breath, a bubble;
A queen in jest, only to fill the scene.
Where is thy husband now? where be thy brothers?
Where be thy two sons? wherein dost thou joy?
Who sues, and kneels, and says-God save the
queen ?

Where be the bending peers that flatter'd thee?
Where be the thronging troops that follow'd thee?
Decline all this, and see what now thou art.
For happy wife, a most distressed widow;
(1) Seniority. (2) Companion.
(3) Thrown in to boot."
VOL LE

For joyful mother, one that wails the name;
For being sued to, one that humbly sues;
For queen, a very caitiff crown'd with care:
For one that scorn'd at me, now scorn'd of me;
For one being fear'd of all, now fearing one;
For one commanding all, obey'd of none.
Thus hath the course of justice wheel'd about,
And left thee but a very prey to time;
Having no more but thought of what thou wert,
To torture thee the more, being what thou art.
Thou didst usurp my place, And dost thou not
Usurp the just proportion of my sorrow?
Now thy proud neck bears half my burden'd yoke ;
From which even here I slip my wearied head,
And leave the burden of it all on thee.
Farewell, York's wife, and queen of sad mis
chance,-

These English woes shall make me smile in France.
Q. Eliz. O thou well skill'd in curses, stay a while,
And teach me how to curse mine enemies.

Q. Mar. Forbear to sleep the night, and fast the day;

Compare dead happiness with living wo;
Think that thy babes were fairer than they were,
And he, that slew them, fouler than he is:
Bettering thy loss makes the bad causer worse:
Revolving this will teach thee how to curse.

Q. Eliz. My words are dull, O, quicken them with thine!

Q. Mar. Thy woes will make them sharp, and pierce like mine. Exit. Q. Mar. Duch. Why should calamity be full of words? Q. Eliz. Windy attorneys to their client woes, Airy succeeders of intestate joys, Poor breathing orators of miseries! Let them have scope: though what they do impart Help nothing else, yet do they ease the heart.

Duch. If so, then be not tongue-ty'd go with

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Duch. Art thou so hasty? I have staid for thee, God knows, in torment and in agony.

K. Rich. And came I not at last to comfort you? Duch. No, by the holy rood,2 thou know'st it well, Thou cam'st on earth to make the earth my hell. A grievous burden was thy birth to me; Telchy and wayward was thy infancy; Thy school-days, frightful, desperate, wild, and rious;

Thy prime of manhood, daring, bold, and turous;

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Q. Eliz. Cousins, indeed; and by their uncle cozen'd

Of comfort, kingdom, kindred, freedom, life. fu-Whose hands soever lanc'd their tender hearts, Thy head, all indirectly, gave direction:

ven

Thy age confirm'd, proud, subtle, sly, and bloody,
More mild, but yet more harmful, kind in hatred:
What comfortable hour canst thou name,
That ever grac'd me in thy company?

No doubt the murderous knife was dull and
blunt,

Till it was whetted on thy stone-hard heart,
To revel in the entrails of my lambs.

But that still use of grief makes wild grief tame,
My tongue should to thy ears not name my boys,

K. Rich. Faith, none, but Humphrey Hour, that Till that my nails were anchor'd in thine eyes;

call'd your grace

To breakfast once, forth of my company.
If I be so disgracious in your sight,

Let me march on, and not offend you, madam.-
Strike up the drum.

Duch.

I pr'ythee, hear me speak.
K. Rich. You speak too bitterly.
Duch.

Hear me a word;
For I shall never speak to thee again.
K. Rich. So.

Duch. Either thou wilt die, by God's just ordi

nance,

Ere from this war thou turn a conqueror ;
Or I with grief and extreme age shall perish,
And never look upon thy face again.
Therefore, take with thee my most heavy curse,
Which, in the day of battle, tire thee more,
Than all the complete armour that thou wear'st!
My prayers on the adverse party fight;
And there the little souls of Edward's children
Whisper the spirits of thine enemies,
And promise them success and victory.
Bloody thou art, bloody will be thy end;
Shame serves thy life, and doth thy death attend.

[Exit. Q. Eliz. Though far more cause, yet much less spirit to curse

Abides in me; I say amen to her.

[Going.

K. Rich. Stay, madam, I must speak a word with

you.

Q. Eliz. I have no more sons of the royal blood, For thee to murder: for my daughters, Richard,They shall be praying nuns, not weeping queens ; And therefore level not to hit their lives.

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

Q. Eliz. And must she die for this? O, let her live, And I'll corrupt her manners, stain her beauty; Slander myself, as false to Edward's bed; Throw over her the veil of infamy:

So she may live unscarr'd of bleeding slaughter, will confess she was not Edward's daughter. K. Rich. Wrong not her birth, she is of royal blood.

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And I, in such a desperate bay of death,
Like a poor bark, of sails and tackling reft,
Rush all to pieces on thy rocky bosom.

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

Q. Eliz. What good is cover'd with the face of heaven,

To be discover'd, that can do me good? K. Rich. The advancement of your children, gentle lady.

Q. Eliz. Up to some scaffold, there to lose their heads?

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

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

K. Rich. Even all I have; ay, and myself and all, Will I withal endow a child of thine; So in the Lethe of thy angry soul Thou drown the sad remembrance of those wrongs, Which, thou supposest, I have done to thee. Q. Eliz. Be brief, lest that the process of thy kindness

Last longer telling than thy kindness' date. K. Rich. Then know, that from my soul, I love thy daughter.

Q. Eliz. My daughter's mother thinks it with her soul.

K. Rich. What do you think?

Q. Eliz. That thou dost love my daughter, from

thy soul:

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K. Rich.

Even so: What think you With the sweet silent hours of marriage joys:
And when this arm of mine hath chastised
The petty rebel, dull-brain'd Buckingham,
Bound with triumphant garlands will I come,
And lead thy daughter to a conqueror's bed;
To whom I will retail my conquest won,
And she shall be sole victress, Cæsar's Cæsar.

of it, madam?
Q. Eliz. How canst thou woo her?
K. Rich.
That I would learn of you,
As one being best acquainted with her humour.
Q. Eliz. And wilt thou learn of me?
K. Rich.

Madam, with all r y heart. Q. Eliz. Send to her by the man that slew her brothers,

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A pair of bleeding hearts; thereon engrave,
Edward, and York, then, haply,' will she weep:
Therefore present to her, as sometime Margaret
Did to thy father, steep'd in Rutland's blood,-
A handkerchief'; which, say to her, did drain
The purple sap from her sweet brother's body,
And bid her wipe her weeping eyes withal.
If this inducement move her not to love,
Send her a letter of thy noble deeds;
Tell her, thou mad'st away her uncle Clarence,
Her uncle Rivers; ay, and, for her sake,
Mad'st quick conveyance with her good aunt Anne.
K. Rich. You mock me, madam; this is not the
way

To win your daughter.
Q. Eliz.
There is no other way;
Unless thou could'st put on some other shape,
And not be Richard that hath done all this.

K. Rich. Say, that I did all this for love of her?
Q. Eliz. Nay, then indeed, she cannot choose
but have thee,

Having bought love with such a bloody spoil.
K. Rich. Look, what is done cannot be now
amended:

Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes,
Which after-hours give leisure to repent.
If I did take the kingdom from your sons,
To make amends, I'll give it to your daughter.
If I have kill'd the issue of your womb,
To quicken your increase, I will beget
Mine issue of your blood upon your daughter.
A grandam's name is little less in love,
Than is the doating title of a mother;
They are as children, but one step below,
Even of your mettle, of your very blood;
Of all one pain,-save for a night of groans
Endur'd of her, for whom you bid like sorrow.
Your children were vexation to your youth,
But mine shall be a comfort to your age.
The loss, you have, is but-a son being king,
And, by that loss, your daughter is made queen.
I cannot make you what amends I would,
Therefore accept such kindness as I can.
Dorset, your son, that, with a fearful soul,
Leads discontented steps in foreign soil,
This fair alliance quickly shall call home
To high promotions and great dignity:

The king, that calls your beauteous daughter-wife,
Familiarly shall call thy Dorset-brother;

Again shall you be mother to a king,

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Q. Eliz. What were I best to say? her father's
brother

Would be her lord? Or shall I say, her uncle?
Or, he that slew her brothers, and her uncles?
Under what title shall I woo for thee,
That God, the law, my honour, and her love,
Can make seem pleasing to her tender years?
K. Rich. Infer fair England's peace by this al-
liance.

Q. Eliz. Which she shall purchase with still
lasting war.

K. Rich. Tell her, the king, that may command,

entreats.

Q. Eliz. That at her hands, which the king's
King forbids.2

K. Rich. Say she shall be a high and mighty

queen.

Q. Eliz. To wail the title as her mother doth.
K. Rich. Say, I will love her everlastingly.
Q. Eliz. But how long shall that title, ever, last?
K. Rich. Sweetly in force unto her fair life's end.
Q. Eliz. But how long fairly shall her sweet life
last?

K. Rich. As long as Heaven, and nature length-
ens it.

Q. Eliz. As long as hell, and Richard likes of it.
K. Rich. Say, I, her sovereign, am her subject

low.

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my crown,

Q. Eliz. Profan'd, dishonour'd, and the third
usurp'd.

K. Rich. I swear.
Q. Eliz. By nothing; for this is no oath.
Thy George, profan'd, hath lost its holy honour;
Thy garter, blemish'd, pawn'd his knightly virtue;
Thy crown, usurp'd, disgrac'd his kingly glory:
If something thou would'st swear to be believ'd,
Swear then by something that thou hast not wrong'd.
K. Rich. Now by the world,-
Q. Eliz.

'Tis full of thy foul wrongs.

K. Rich. My father's death,-
Q. Eliz.

Thy life hath that dishonour'd.

K. Rich. Then, by myself,-
Q. Eliz.

Thyself is self-misus'd.

K. Rich. Why then, by God,-
Q. Eliz.

God's wrong is most of all.
If thou had'st fear'd to break an oath by him,

(3) The ensigns of the order of the Garter.

The unity, the king thy brother made,

Had not been broken, nor my brother slain.
If thou hadst fear'd to break an oath by him,
The imperial metal, circling now thy head,
Had grac'd the tender temples of my child;
And both the princes had been breathing here,
Which now, two tender bed-fellows for dust,
Thy broken faith hath made a prey for worms.
What canst thou swear by now?

K. Rich.

By the time to come. Q. Eliz. That thou hast wronged in the time o'erpast;

For I myself have many tears to wash
Hereafter time, for time past, wrong'd by thee.
The children live, whose parents thou hast slaugh-
ter'd,

Ungovern'd youth, to wail it in their age:
The parents live, whose children thou hast butcher'd,
Old barren plants, to wail it with their age.
Swear not by time to come: for that thou hast
Misus'd ere us'd, by times ill-us'd o'erpast.

K. Rich. As I intend to prosper and repent!
So thrive I in my dangerous attempt
Of hostile arms! myself myself confound!
Heaven, and fortune, bar me happy hours !
Day, yield me not thy light; nor, night, thy rest!
Be opposite all planets of good luck

To my proceeding, if, with pure heart's love,
Immaculate devotion, holy thoughts,

I tender not thy beauteous princely daughter!
In her consists my happiness, and thine;
Without her, follows to myself, and thee,
Herself, the land, and many a Christian soul,
Death, desolation, ruin, and decay:
It cannot be avoided but by this;
It will not be avoided, but by this.
Therefore, dear mother (I must call you so,)
Be the attorney of my love to her.
Plead what I will be, not what I have been;
Not my deserts, but what I will deserve:
Urge the necessity and state of times,
And be not peevish' found in great designs.

Q. Eliz. Shall I be tempted of the devil thus?
K. Rich. Ay, if the devil tempt thee to do good.
Q. Eliz. Shall I forget myself, to be myself?
K. Rich. Ay, if yourself's remembrance wrong
yourself.

Q. Eliz. But thou didst kill my children.
K. Rich. But in your daughter's womb I bury

them:

2

Where, in that nest of spicery, they shall breed
Selves of themselves, to your recomforture.

Q. Eliz. Shall I go win my daughter to thy will?
K. Rich. And be a happy mother by the deed.
Q. Eliz. I go.-Write to me very shortly,

/ And you shall understand from me her mind.
K. Rich, Bear her my true love's kiss, and so
farewell. [Kissing her. Exit Q. Eliz.
Relenting fool, and shallow, changing-woman!
How now? what news?

Enter Rateliff; Catesby following. Rat. Most mighty sovereign, on the western coast Rideth a puissant navy; to the shore Throng many doubtful hollow-hearted friends, Unarm'd, and unresolv'd to beat them back: 'Tis thought that Richmond is their admiral; And there they hull, expecting but the aid Of Buckingham, to welcome them ashore.

K. Rich. Some light-foot friend post to the duke of Norfolk:

Ratcliff, thyself,-or Catesby; where is he?

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Cate. Here, my good lord. K. Rich. Catesby, fly to the duke. Cate. I will, my lord, with all convenient haste. K. Rich. Ratcliff, come hither: Post to Salisbury ; When thou com'st thither,-Dull unmindful villain, [To Catesby.

Why stay'st thou here, and go'st not to the duke! Cate. First, mighty liege, tell me your highness' pleasure,

What from your grace I shall deliver to him.
K. Rich. O, true, good Catesby ;-Bid him levy
straight

The greatest strength and power he can make,
And meet me suddenly at Salisbury.
Cate. I go.

(Eril.

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

isbury!

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Nor none so bad, but well may be reported.

K. Rich. Heyday, a riddle! neither good nor bad!

What need'st thou run so many miles about, When thou may'st tell thy tale the nearest way? Once more, what news?

Stan.

Richmond is on the seas, K. Rich. There let him sink, and be the seas on him!

White-liver'd runagate, what doth he there?
Stan. I know not, mighty sovereign, but by guess.
K. Rich. Well, as you guess?

Stan. Stirr'd up by Dorset, Buckingham, and
Morton,

He makes for England, here to claim the crown. K. Rich. Is the chair empty? is the sword un sway'd?

Is the king dead? the empire unpossess'd?
What heir of York is there alive, but we?
And who is England's king, but great York's heir?
Then, tell me, what makes he upon the seas ?

Stan. Unless for that, my liege, I cannot guess.
K. Rich. Unless for that he comes to be your

liege,

You cannot guess wherefore the Welshman comes. | Thou wilt revolt, and fly to him, I fear.

Stan. No, mighty liege; therefore mistrust me not. K. Rich. Where is thy power then, to beat him

back?

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