King Richard III - 1

THE TRAGEDY OF KING RICHARD III
by William Shakespeare


Contents
ACT I
Scene I. London. A street
Scene II. London. Another street
Scene III. London. A Room in the Palace
Scene IV. London. A Room in the Tower
ACT II
Scene I. London. A Room in the palace
Scene II. Another Room in the palace
Scene III. London. A street
Scene IV. London. A Room in the Palace
ACT III
Scene I. London. A street
Scene II. Before Lord Hasting’s house
Scene III. Pomfret. Before the Castle
Scene IV. London. A Room in the Tower
Scene V. London. The Tower Walls
Scene VI. London. A street
Scene VII. London. Court of Baynard’s Castle
ACT IV
Scene I. London. Before the Tower
Scene II. London. A Room of State in the Palace
Scene III. London. Another Room in the Palace
Scene IV. London. Before the Palace
Scene V. A Room in Lord Stanley’s house
ACT V
Scene I. Salisbury. An open place
Scene II. Plain near Tamworth
Scene III. Bosworth Field
Scene IV. Another part of the Field
Scene V. Another part of the Field


Dramatis Personæ

RICHARD, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, afterwards KING RICHARD III.
LADY ANNE, widow to Edward, Prince of Wales, son to King Henry VI.;
afterwards married to the Duke of Gloucester
KING EDWARD THE FOURTH, brother to Richard
QUEEN ELIZABETH, Queen to King Edward IV.
Sons to the king:
EDWARD, PRINCE OF WALES, afterwards KING EDWARD V.
RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK
GEORGE, DUKE OF CLARENCE, brother to Edward and Richard
BOY, son to Clarence
GIRL, daughter to Clarence
DUCHESS OF YORK, mother to King Edward IV., Clarence, and Gloucester
QUEEN MARGARET, widow to King Henry VI.
DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM
LORD HASTINGS, the Lord Chamberlain
LORD STANLEY, the Earl of Derby
EARL RIVERS, brother to Queen Elizabeth
LORD GREY, son of Queen Elizabeth by her former marriage
MARQUESS OF DORSET, son of Queen Elizabeth by her former marriage
SIR THOMAS VAUGHAN
SIR WILLIAM CATESBY
SIR RICHARD RATCLIFFE
LORD LOVELL
DUKE OF NORFOLK
EARL OF SURREY
HENRY, EARL OF RICHMOND, afterwards KING HENRY VII.
EARL OF OXFORD
SIR JAMES BLUNT
SIR WALTER HERBERT
SIR WILLIAM BRANDON
CHRISTOPHER URSWICK, a priest
THOMAS ROTHERHAM, ARCHBISHOP OF YORK
CARDINAL BOURCHIER, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY
John Morton, BISHOP OF ELY
SIR ROBERT BRAKENBURY, Lieutenant of the Tower
SIR JAMES TYRREL
Another Priest
LORD MAYOR OF LONDON
SHERIFF OF WILTSHIRE
Lords, and other Attendants; two Gentlemen, a Pursuivant, Scrivener,
Citizens, Murderers, Messengers, Ghosts, Soldiers, &c.
SCENE: England


ACT I
SCENE I. London. A street

Enter Richard, Duke of Gloucester, alone.
RICHARD.
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this son of York;
And all the clouds that loured upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths,
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments,
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamped, and want love’s majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time
Into this breathing world scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them—
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun,
And descant on mine own deformity.
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain,
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence and the King
In deadly hate the one against the other;
And if King Edward be as true and just
As I am subtle, false, and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mewed up
About a prophecy which says that “G”
Of Edward’s heirs the murderer shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul. Here Clarence comes.
Enter Clarence, guarded and Brakenbury.
Brother, good day. What means this armed guard
That waits upon your Grace?
CLARENCE.
His Majesty,
Tend’ring my person’s safety, hath appointed
This conduct to convey me to the Tower.
RICHARD.
Upon what cause?
CLARENCE.
Because my name is George.
RICHARD.
Alack, my lord, that fault is none of yours.
He should, for that, commit your godfathers.
O, belike his Majesty hath some intent
That you should be new-christened in the Tower.
But what’s the matter, Clarence? May I know?
CLARENCE.
Yea, Richard, when I know, for I protest
As yet I do not. But, as I can learn,
He hearkens after prophecies and dreams,
And from the cross-row plucks the letter G,
And says a wizard told him that by “G”
His issue disinherited should be.
And for my name of George begins with G,
It follows in his thought that I am he.
These, as I learn, and such like toys as these,
Hath moved his Highness to commit me now.
RICHARD.
Why, this it is when men are ruled by women.
’Tis not the King that sends you to the Tower;
My Lady Grey his wife, Clarence, ’tis she
That tempers him to this extremity.
Was it not she and that good man of worship,
Antony Woodville, her brother there,
That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower,
From whence this present day he is delivered?
We are not safe, Clarence; we are not safe.
CLARENCE.
By heaven, I think there is no man secure
But the Queen’s kindred, and night-walking heralds
That trudge betwixt the King and Mistress Shore.
Heard you not what an humble suppliant
Lord Hastings was to her for his delivery?
RICHARD.
Humbly complaining to her deity
Got my Lord Chamberlain his liberty.
I’ll tell you what: I think it is our way,
If we will keep in favour with the King,
To be her men and wear her livery.
The jealous o’er-worn widow and herself,
Since that our brother dubbed them gentlewomen,
Are mighty gossips in our monarchy.
BRAKENBURY.
I beseech your Graces both to pardon me.
His Majesty hath straitly given in charge
That no man shall have private conference,
Of what degree soever, with your brother.
RICHARD.
Even so; an please your worship, Brakenbury,
You may partake of anything we say.
We speak no treason, man. We say the King
Is wise and virtuous, and his noble Queen
Well struck in years, fair, and not jealous.
We say that Shore’s wife hath a pretty foot,
A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue;
And that the Queen’s kindred are made gentlefolks.
How say you, sir? Can you deny all this?
BRAKENBURY.
With this, my lord, myself have naught to do.
RICHARD.
Naught to do with Mistress Shore? I tell thee, fellow,
He that doth naught with her, excepting one,
Were best to do it secretly alone.
BRAKENBURY.
What one, my lord?
RICHARD.
Her husband, knave! Wouldst thou betray me?
BRAKENBURY.
I do beseech your Grace to pardon me, and withal
Forbear your conference with the noble Duke.
CLARENCE.
We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will obey.
RICHARD.
We are the Queen’s abjects and must obey.
Brother, farewell. I will unto the King,
And whatsoe’er you will employ me in,
Were it to call King Edward’s widow “sister,”
I will perform it to enfranchise you.
Meantime, this deep disgrace in brotherhood
Touches me deeper than you can imagine.
CLARENCE.
I know it pleaseth neither of us well.
RICHARD.
Well, your imprisonment shall not be long.
I will deliver or else lie for you.
Meantime, have patience.
CLARENCE.
I must perforce. Farewell.
[_Exeunt Clarence, Brakenbury and guard._]
RICHARD.
Go tread the path that thou shalt ne’er return.
Simple, plain Clarence, I do love thee so
That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven,
If heaven will take the present at our hands.
But who comes here? The new-delivered Hastings?
Enter Lord Hastings.
HASTINGS.
Good time of day unto my gracious lord.
RICHARD.
As much unto my good Lord Chamberlain.
Well are you welcome to the open air.
How hath your lordship brooked imprisonment?
HASTINGS.
With patience, noble lord, as prisoners must;
But I shall live, my lord, to give them thanks
That were the cause of my imprisonment.
RICHARD.
No doubt, no doubt; and so shall Clarence too,
For they that were your enemies are his,
And have prevailed as much on him as you.
HASTINGS.
More pity that the eagles should be mewed,
Whiles kites and buzzards prey at liberty.
RICHARD.
What news abroad?
HASTINGS.
No news so bad abroad as this at home:
The King is sickly, weak, and melancholy,
And his physicians fear him mightily.
RICHARD.
Now, by Saint John, that news is bad indeed.
O, he hath kept an evil diet long,
And overmuch consumed his royal person.
’Tis very grievous to be thought upon.
Where is he, in his bed?
HASTINGS.
He is.
RICHARD.
Go you before, and I will follow you.
[_Exit Hastings._]
He cannot live, I hope, and must not die
Till George be packed with post-horse up to heaven.
I’ll in to urge his hatred more to Clarence
With lies well steeled with weighty arguments;
And, if I fail not in my deep intent,
Clarence hath not another day to live;
Which done, God take King Edward to his mercy,
And leave the world for me to bustle in.
For then I’ll marry Warwick’s youngest daughter.
What though I killed her husband and her father?
The readiest way to make the wench amends
Is to become her husband and her father;
The which will I, not all so much for love
As for another secret close intent,
By marrying her which I must reach unto.
But yet I run before my horse to market.
Clarence still breathes; Edward still lives and reigns.
When they are gone, then must I count my gains.
[_Exit._]
SCENE II. London. Another street
Enter the corse of King Henry the Sixth, with Halberds to guard it,
Lady Anne, being the mourner, Tressel and Berkeley and other Gentlemen.
ANNE.
Set down, set down your honourable load,
If honour may be shrouded in a hearse,
Whilst I awhile obsequiously lament
Th’ untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster.
Poor key-cold figure of a holy king,
Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster.
Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood,
Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost
To hear the lamentations of poor Anne,
Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughtered son,
Stabbed by the selfsame hand that made these wounds.
Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life
I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes.
O, cursed be the hand that made these holes;
Cursed the heart that had the heart to do it;
Cursed the blood that let this blood from hence.
More direful hap betide that hated wretch
That makes us wretched by the death of thee
Than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads,
Or any creeping venomed thing that lives.
If ever he have child, abortive be it,
Prodigious, and untimely brought to light,
Whose ugly and unnatural aspect
May fright the hopeful mother at the view,
And that be heir to his unhappiness.
If ever he have wife, let her be made
More miserable by the death of him
Than I am made by my young lord and thee.
Come now towards Chertsey with your holy load,
Taken from Paul’s to be interred there;
And still, as you are weary of this weight,
Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry’s corse.
[_They take up the bier._]
Enter Richard, Duke of Gloucester.
RICHARD.
Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it down.
ANNE.
What black magician conjures up this fiend
To stop devoted charitable deeds?
RICHARD.
Villains, set down the corse or, by Saint Paul,
I’ll make a corse of him that disobeys!
GENTLEMAN.
My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass.
RICHARD.
Unmannered dog, stand thou, when I command!
Advance thy halberd higher than my breast,
Or by Saint Paul I’ll strike thee to my foot
And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness.
[_They set down the bier._]
ANNE.
What, do you tremble? Are you all afraid?
Alas, I blame you not, for you are mortal,
And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil.
Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell!
Thou hadst but power over his mortal body;
His soul thou canst not have; therefore begone.
RICHARD.
Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst.
ANNE.
Foul devil, for God’s sake, hence, and trouble us not;
For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell,
Filled it with cursing cries and deep exclaims.
If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds,
Behold this pattern of thy butcheries.
O, gentlemen, see, see dead Henry’s wounds
Open their congealed mouths and bleed afresh!
Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity,
For ’tis thy presence that exhales this blood
From cold and empty veins where no blood dwells.
Thy deeds, inhuman and unnatural,
Provokes this deluge most unnatural.
O God, which this blood mad’st, revenge his death!
O earth, which this blood drink’st, revenge his death!
Either heaven with lightning strike the murderer dead,
Or earth gape open wide and eat him quick,
As thou dost swallow up this good King’s blood,
Which his hell-governed arm hath butchered.
RICHARD.
Lady, you know no rules of charity,
Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.
ANNE.
Villain, thou know’st nor law of God nor man.
No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.
RICHARD.
But I know none, and therefore am no beast.
ANNE.
O wonderful, when devils tell the truth!
RICHARD.
More wonderful when angels are so angry.
Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman,
Of these supposed crimes to give me leave,
By circumstance, but to acquit myself.
ANNE.
Vouchsafe, diffused infection of a man,
Of these known evils but to give me leave,
By circumstance, to accuse thy cursed self.
RICHARD.
Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me have
Some patient leisure to excuse myself.
ANNE.
Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst make
No excuse current but to hang thyself.
RICHARD.
By such despair I should accuse myself.
ANNE.
And by despairing shalt thou stand excused
For doing worthy vengeance on thyself
That didst unworthy slaughter upon others.
RICHARD.
Say that I slew them not?
ANNE.
Then say they were not slain.
But dead they are, and, devilish slave, by thee.
RICHARD.
I did not kill your husband.
ANNE.
Why then he is alive.
RICHARD.
Nay, he is dead, and slain by Edward’s hand.
ANNE.
In thy foul throat thou liest. Queen Margaret saw
Thy murd’rous falchion smoking in his blood,
The which thou once didst bend against her breast,
But that thy brothers beat aside the point.
RICHARD.
I was provoked by her sland’rous tongue,
That laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoulders.
ANNE.
Thou wast provoked by thy bloody mind,
That never dream’st on aught but butcheries.
Didst thou not kill this King?
RICHARD.
I grant ye.
ANNE.
Dost grant me, hedgehog? Then, God grant me too
Thou mayst be damned for that wicked deed.
O, he was gentle, mild, and virtuous.
RICHARD.
The better for the King of Heaven that hath him.
ANNE.
He is in heaven, where thou shalt never come.
RICHARD.
Let him thank me that holp to send him thither,
For he was fitter for that place than earth.
ANNE.
And thou unfit for any place but hell.
RICHARD.
Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it.
ANNE.
Some dungeon.
RICHARD.
Your bed-chamber.
ANNE.
Ill rest betide the chamber where thou liest!
RICHARD.
So will it, madam, till I lie with you.
ANNE.
I hope so.
RICHARD.
I know so. But, gentle Lady Anne,
To leave this keen encounter of our wits,
And fall something into a slower method:
Is not the causer of the timeless deaths
Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward,
As blameful as the executioner?
ANNE.
Thou wast the cause and most accursed effect.
RICHARD.
Your beauty was the cause of that effect:
Your beauty, that did haunt me in my sleep
To undertake the death of all the world,
So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom.
ANNE.
If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide,
These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks.
RICHARD.
These eyes could not endure that beauty’s wrack;
You should not blemish it if I stood by.
As all the world is cheered by the sun,
So I by that; it is my day, my life.
ANNE.
Black night o’ershade thy day, and death thy life.
RICHARD.
Curse not thyself, fair creature; thou art both.
ANNE.
I would I were, to be revenged on thee.
RICHARD.
It is a quarrel most unnatural,
To be revenged on him that loveth thee.
ANNE.
It is a quarrel just and reasonable,
To be revenged on him that killed my husband.
RICHARD.
He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband,
Did it to help thee to a better husband.
ANNE.
His better doth not breathe upon the earth.
RICHARD.
He lives that loves thee better than he could.
ANNE.
Name him.
RICHARD.
Plantagenet.
ANNE.
Why, that was he.
RICHARD.
The selfsame name, but one of better nature.
ANNE.
Where is he?
RICHARD.
Here.
[_She spits at him._]
Why dost thou spit at me?
ANNE.
Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake.
RICHARD.
Never came poison from so sweet a place.
ANNE.
Never hung poison on a fouler toad.
Out of my sight! Thou dost infect mine eyes.
RICHARD.
Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine.
ANNE.
Would they were basilisks to strike thee dead!
RICHARD.
I would they were, that I might die at once;
For now they kill me with a living death.
Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears,
Shamed their aspects with store of childish drops.
These eyes, which never shed remorseful tear,
No, when my father York and Edward wept
To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made
When black-faced Clifford shook his sword at him;
Nor when thy warlike father, like a child,
Told the sad story of my father’s death,
And twenty times made pause to sob and weep,
That all the standers-by had wet their cheeks
Like trees bedashed with rain. In that sad time
My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear;
And what these sorrows could not thence exhale,
Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping.
I never sued to friend nor enemy;
My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing word;
But now thy beauty is proposed my fee,
My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak.
[_She looks scornfully at him._]
Teach not thy lip such scorn; for it was made
For kissing, lady, not for such contempt.
If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive,
Lo, here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword,
Which if thou please to hide in this true breast
And let the soul forth that adoreth thee,
I lay it naked to the deadly stroke,
And humbly beg the death upon my knee,
[_He kneels and lays his breast open; she offers at it with his
sword._]
Nay, do not pause, for I did kill King Henry—
But ’twas thy beauty that provoked me.
Nay, now dispatch; ’twas I that stabbed young Edward—
But ’twas thy heavenly face that set me on.
[_She falls the sword._]
Take up the sword again, or take up me.
ANNE.
Arise, dissembler. Though I wish thy death,
I will not be thy executioner.
RICHARD.
Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it.
ANNE.
I have already.
RICHARD.
That was in thy rage.
Speak it again, and even with the word,
This hand, which for thy love did kill thy love,
Shall for thy love kill a far truer love.
To both their deaths shalt thou be accessary.
ANNE.
I would I knew thy heart.
RICHARD.
’Tis figured in my tongue.
ANNE.
I fear me both are false.
RICHARD.
Then never was man true.
ANNE.
Well, well, put up your sword.
RICHARD.
Say then my peace is made.
ANNE.
That shalt thou know hereafter.
RICHARD.
But shall I live in hope?
ANNE.
All men, I hope, live so.
RICHARD.
Vouchsafe to wear this ring.
ANNE.
To take is not to give.
[_He places the ring on her hand._]
RICHARD.
Look how my ring encompasseth thy finger;
Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart;
Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.
And if thy poor devoted servant may
But beg one favour at thy gracious hand,
Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever.
ANNE.
What is it?
RICHARD.
That it may please you leave these sad designs
To him that hath most cause to be a mourner,
And presently repair to Crosby Place;
Where, after I have solemnly interred
At Chertsey monastery this noble King,
And wet his grave with my repentant tears,
I will with all expedient duty see you.
For divers unknown reasons, I beseech you,
Grant me this boon.
ANNE.
With all my heart, and much it joys me too
To see you are become so penitent.
Tressel and Berkeley, go along with me.
RICHARD.
Bid me farewell.
ANNE.
’Tis more than you deserve;
But since you teach me how to flatter you,
Imagine I have said farewell already.
[_Exeunt Lady Anne, Tressel and Berkeley._]
RICHARD.
Sirs, take up the corse.
GENTLEMAN.
Towards Chertsey, noble lord?
RICHARD.
No, to White Friars; there attend my coming.
[_Exeunt Halberds and Gentlemen with corse._]
Was ever woman in this humour wooed?
Was ever woman in this humour won?
I’ll have her, but I will not keep her long.
What, I that killed her husband and his father,
To take her in her heart’s extremest hate,
With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes,
The bleeding witness of her hatred by,
Having God, her conscience, and these bars against me,
And I no friends to back my suit at all,
But the plain devil and dissembling looks?
And yet to win her, all the world to nothing!
Ha!
Hath she forgot already that brave prince,
Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months since,
Stabbed in my angry mood at Tewksbury?
A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman,
Framed in the prodigality of nature,
Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right royal,
The spacious world cannot again afford.
And will she yet abase her eyes on me,
That cropped the golden prime of this sweet prince,
And made her widow to a woeful bed?
On me, whose all not equals Edward’s moiety?
On me, that halt and am misshapen thus?
My dukedom to a beggarly denier,
I do mistake my person all this while!
Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot,
Myself to be a marvellous proper man.
I’ll be at charges for a looking-glass,
And entertain a score or two of tailors
To study fashions to adorn my body.
Since I am crept in favour with myself,
I will maintain it with some little cost.
But first I’ll turn yon fellow in his grave,
And then return lamenting to my love.
Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass,
That I may see my shadow as I pass.
[_Exit._]
SCENE III. London. A Room in the Palace
Enter Queen Elizabeth, the Marquess of Dorset, Lord Rivers and Lord
Grey.
RIVERS.
Have patience, madam. There’s no doubt his Majesty
Will soon recover his accustomed health.
GREY.
In that you brook it ill, it makes him worse.
Therefore, for God’s sake, entertain good comfort,
And cheer his Grace with quick and merry eyes.
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
If he were dead, what would betide on me?
GREY.
No other harm but loss of such a lord.
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
The loss of such a lord includes all harms.
GREY.
The heavens have blessed you with a goodly son
To be your comforter when he is gone.
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Ah, he is young, and his minority
Is put unto the trust of Richard Gloucester,
A man that loves not me, nor none of you.
RIVERS.
Is it concluded he shall be Protector?
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
It is determined, not concluded yet;
But so it must be, if the King miscarry.
Enter Buckingham and Stanley, Earl of Derby.
GREY.
Here come the Lords of Buckingham and Derby.
BUCKINGHAM.
Good time of day unto your royal Grace.
STANLEY.
God make your Majesty joyful as you have been.
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
The Countess Richmond, good my Lord of Derby,
To your good prayer will scarcely say amen.
Yet, Derby, notwithstanding she’s your wife,
And loves not me, be you, good lord, assured
I hate not you for her proud arrogance.
STANLEY.
I do beseech you, either not believe
The envious slanders of her false accusers,
Or if she be accused on true report,
Bear with her weakness, which I think proceeds
From wayward sickness, and no grounded malice.
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Saw you the King today, my Lord of Derby?
STANLEY.
But now the Duke of Buckingham and I
Are come from visiting his Majesty.
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
What likelihood of his amendment, lords?
BUCKINGHAM.
Madam, good hope; his Grace speaks cheerfully.
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
God grant him health! Did you confer with him?
BUCKINGHAM.
Ay, madam; he desires to make atonement
Between the Duke of Gloucester and your brothers,
And between them and my Lord Chamberlain;
And sent to warn them to his royal presence.
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Would all were well—but that will never be.
I fear our happiness is at the height.
Enter Richard, Duke of Gloucester and Hastings.
RICHARD.
They do me wrong, and I will not endure it!
Who is it that complains unto the King
That I, forsooth, am stern and love them not?
By holy Paul, they love his Grace but lightly
That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours.
Because I cannot flatter and look fair,
Smile in men’s faces, smooth, deceive, and cog,
Duck with French nods and apish courtesy,
I must be held a rancorous enemy.
Cannot a plain man live and think no harm,
But thus his simple truth must be abused
With silken, sly, insinuating Jacks?
GREY.
To who in all this presence speaks your Grace?
RICHARD.
To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace.
When have I injured thee? When done thee wrong?
Or thee? Or thee? Or any of your faction?
A plague upon you all! His royal Grace,
Whom God preserve better than you would wish,
Cannot be quiet scarce a breathing while
But you must trouble him with lewd complaints.
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Brother of Gloucester, you mistake the matter.
The King, on his own royal disposition,
And not provoked by any suitor else,
Aiming, belike, at your interior hatred
That in your outward action shows itself
Against my children, brothers, and myself,
Makes him to send, that he may learn the ground
Of your ill will, and thereby to remove it.
RICHARD.
I cannot tell. The world is grown so bad
That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch.
Since every Jack became a gentleman,
There’s many a gentle person made a Jack.
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Come, come, we know your meaning, brother Gloucester.
You envy my advancement, and my friends’.