King Richard III - 5

He wonders to what end you have assembled
Such troops of citizens to come to him,
His Grace not being warned thereof before.
He fears, my lord, you mean no good to him.
BUCKINGHAM.
Sorry I am my noble cousin should
Suspect me that I mean no good to him.
By heaven, we come to him in perfect love,
And so once more return and tell his Grace.
[_Exit Catesby._]
When holy and devout religious men
Are at their beads, ’tis much to draw them thence,
So sweet is zealous contemplation.
Enter Richard aloft, between two Bishops. Catesby reenters.
MAYOR.
See where his Grace stands ’tween two clergymen!
BUCKINGHAM.
Two props of virtue for a Christian prince,
To stay him from the fall of vanity;
And, see, a book of prayer in his hand,
True ornaments to know a holy man.
Famous Plantagenet, most gracious Prince,
Lend favourable ear to our requests,
And pardon us the interruption
Of thy devotion and right Christian zeal.
RICHARD.
My lord, there needs no such apology.
I do beseech your Grace to pardon me,
Who, earnest in the service of my God,
Deferred the visitation of my friends.
But, leaving this, what is your Grace’s pleasure?
BUCKINGHAM.
Even that, I hope, which pleaseth God above,
And all good men of this ungoverned isle.
RICHARD.
I do suspect I have done some offence
That seems disgracious in the city’s eye,
And that you come to reprehend my ignorance.
BUCKINGHAM.
You have, my lord. Would it might please your Grace,
On our entreaties, to amend your fault.
RICHARD.
Else wherefore breathe I in a Christian land?
BUCKINGHAM.
Know then, it is your fault that you resign
The supreme seat, the throne majestical,
The sceptered office of your ancestors,
Your state of fortune, and your due of birth,
The lineal glory of your royal house,
To the corruption of a blemished stock;
Whiles in the mildness of your sleepy thoughts,
Which here we waken to our country’s good,
The noble isle doth want her proper limbs;
Her face defaced with scars of infamy,
Her royal stock graft with ignoble plants,
And almost shouldered in the swallowing gulf
Of dark forgetfulness and deep oblivion;
Which to recure, we heartily solicit
Your gracious self to take on you the charge
And kingly government of this your land,
Not as Protector, steward, substitute,
Or lowly factor for another’s gain,
But as successively, from blood to blood,
Your right of birth, your empery, your own.
For this, consorted with the citizens,
Your very worshipful and loving friends,
And by their vehement instigation,
In this just cause come I to move your Grace.
RICHARD.
I cannot tell if to depart in silence
Or bitterly to speak in your reproof
Best fitteth my degree or your condition.
If not to answer, you might haply think
Tongue-tied ambition, not replying, yielded
To bear the golden yoke of sovereignty,
Which fondly you would here impose on me;
If to reprove you for this suit of yours,
So seasoned with your faithful love to me,
Then, on the other side, I checked my friends.
Therefore, to speak, and to avoid the first,
And then, in speaking, not to incur the last,
Definitively thus I answer you:
Your love deserves my thanks, but my desert
Unmeritable shuns your high request.
First, if all obstacles were cut away,
And that my path were even to the crown
As the ripe revenue and due of birth,
Yet so much is my poverty of spirit,
So mighty and so many my defects,
That I would rather hide me from my greatness,
Being a bark to brook no mighty sea,
Than in my greatness covet to be hid,
And in the vapour of my glory smothered.
But, God be thanked, there is no need of me,
And much I need to help you, were there need.
The royal tree hath left us royal fruit,
Which, mellowed by the stealing hours of time,
Will well become the seat of majesty,
And make, no doubt, us happy by his reign.
On him I lay that you would lay on me,
The right and fortune of his happy stars,
Which God defend that I should wring from him.
BUCKINGHAM.
My lord, this argues conscience in your Grace;
But the respects thereof are nice and trivial,
All circumstances well considered.
You say that Edward is your brother’s son;
So say we too, but not by Edward’s wife.
For first was he contract to Lady Lucy
Your mother lives a witness to his vow,
And afterward by substitute betrothed
To Bona, sister to the King of France.
These both put off, a poor petitioner,
A care-crazed mother to a many sons,
A beauty-waning and distressed widow,
Even in the afternoon of her best days,
Made prize and purchase of his wanton eye,
Seduced the pitch and height of his degree
To base declension and loathed bigamy.
By her, in his unlawful bed, he got
This Edward, whom our manners call the Prince.
More bitterly could I expostulate,
Save that, for reverence to some alive,
I give a sparing limit to my tongue.
Then, good my lord, take to your royal self
This proffered benefit of dignity,
If not to bless us and the land withal,
Yet to draw forth your noble ancestry
From the corruption of abusing times
Unto a lineal true-derived course.
MAYOR.
Do, good my lord. Your citizens entreat you.
BUCKINGHAM.
Refuse not, mighty lord, this proffered love.
CATESBY.
O, make them joyful; grant their lawful suit.
RICHARD.
Alas, why would you heap those cares on me?
I am unfit for state and majesty.
I do beseech you, take it not amiss;
I cannot, nor I will not, yield to you.
BUCKINGHAM.
If you refuse it, as in love and zeal
Loath to depose the child, your brother’s son—
As well we know your tenderness of heart
And gentle, kind, effeminate remorse,
Which we have noted in you to your kindred,
And equally indeed to all estates—
Yet know, whe’er you accept our suit or no,
Your brother’s son shall never reign our king,
But we will plant some other in the throne,
To the disgrace and downfall of your house.
And in this resolution here we leave you.
Come, citizens; zounds, I’ll entreat no more.
[_Exeunt Buckingham, the Mayor and citizens._]
CATESBY.
Call him again, sweet Prince; accept their suit.
If you deny them, all the land will rue it.
RICHARD.
Will you enforce me to a world of cares?
Call them again. I am not made of stones,
But penetrable to your kind entreaties,
Albeit against my conscience and my soul.
Enter Buckingham and the rest.
Cousin of Buckingham, and sage grave men,
Since you will buckle Fortune on my back,
To bear her burden, whe’er I will or no,
I must have patience to endure the load.
But if black scandal or foul-faced reproach
Attend the sequel of your imposition,
Your mere enforcement shall acquittance me
From all the impure blots and stains thereof,
For God doth know, and you may partly see,
How far I am from the desire of this.
MAYOR.
God bless your Grace! We see it, and will say it.
RICHARD.
In saying so, you shall but say the truth.
BUCKINGHAM.
Then I salute you with this royal title:
Long live King Richard, England’s worthy King!
ALL.
Amen.
BUCKINGHAM.
Tomorrow may it please you to be crowned?
RICHARD.
Even when you please, for you will have it so.
BUCKINGHAM.
Tomorrow, then, we will attend your Grace;
And so most joyfully we take our leave.
RICHARD.
[_To the Bishops_.] Come, let us to our holy work again.
Farewell, my cousin, farewell, gentle friends.
[_Exeunt._]


ACT IV
SCENE I. London. Before the Tower

Enter Queen Elizabeth, the Duchess of York and Marquess of Dorset, at
one door; Anne Duchess of Gloucester with Clarence’s young Daughter at
another door.
DUCHESS.
Who meets us here? My niece Plantagenet
Led in the hand of her kind aunt of Gloucester?
Now, for my life, she’s wandering to the Tower,
On pure heart’s love, to greet the tender Prince.
Daughter, well met.
ANNE.
God give your Graces both
A happy and a joyful time of day.
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
As much to you, good sister. Whither away?
ANNE.
No farther than the Tower, and, as I guess,
Upon the like devotion as yourselves,
To gratulate the gentle Princes there.
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Kind sister, thanks; we’ll enter all together.
Enter Brakenbury.
And in good time, here the Lieutenant comes.
Master Lieutenant, pray you, by your leave,
How doth the Prince and my young son of York?
BRAKENBURY.
Right well, dear madam. By your patience,
I may not suffer you to visit them.
The King hath strictly charged the contrary.
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
The King? Who’s that?
BRAKENBURY.
I mean the Lord Protector.
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
The Lord protect him from that kingly title!
Hath he set bounds between their love and me?
I am their mother; who shall bar me from them?
DUCHESS.
I am their father’s mother. I will see them.
ANNE.
Their aunt I am in law, in love their mother.
Then bring me to their sights. I’ll bear thy blame,
And take thy office from thee, on my peril.
BRAKENBURY.
No, madam, no. I may not leave it so.
I am bound by oath, and therefore pardon me.
[_Exit._]
Enter Stanley.
STANLEY.
Let me but meet you, ladies, one hour hence,
And I’ll salute your Grace of York as mother
And reverend looker-on of two fair queens.
[_To Anne._] Come, madam, you must straight to Westminster,
There to be crowned Richard’s royal queen.
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Ah, cut my lace asunder
That my pent heart may have some scope to beat,
Or else I swoon with this dead-killing news!
ANNE.
Despiteful tidings! O unpleasing news!
DORSET.
Be of good cheer, mother. How fares your Grace?
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
O Dorset, speak not to me; get thee gone.
Death and destruction dog thee at thy heels;
Thy mother’s name is ominous to children.
If thou wilt outstrip death, go, cross the seas,
And live with Richmond, from the reach of hell.
Go, hie thee, hie thee from this slaughter-house,
Lest thou increase the number of the dead,
And make me die the thrall of Margaret’s curse,
Nor mother, wife, nor England’s counted Queen.
STANLEY.
Full of wise care is this your counsel, madam.
Take all the swift advantage of the hours;
You shall have letters from me to my son
In your behalf, to meet you on the way.
Be not ta’en tardy by unwise delay.
DUCHESS.
O ill-dispersing wind of misery!
O my accursed womb, the bed of death!
A cockatrice hast thou hatched to the world,
Whose unavoided eye is murderous.
STANLEY.
Come, madam, come. I in all haste was sent.
ANNE.
And I with all unwillingness will go.
O, would to God that the inclusive verge
Of golden metal that must round my brow
Were red-hot steel, to sear me to the brains.
Anointed let me be with deadly venom,
And die ere men can say “God save the Queen.”
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Go, go, poor soul; I envy not thy glory.
To feed my humour, wish thyself no harm.
ANNE.
No? Why? When he that is my husband now
Came to me as I followed Henry’s corse,
When scarce the blood was well washed from his hands
Which issued from my other angel husband,
And that dear saint which then I weeping followed;
O, when, I say, I looked on Richard’s face,
This was my wish: “Be thou,” quoth I, “accursed
For making me, so young, so old a widow;
And when thou wedd’st, let sorrow haunt thy bed;
And be thy wife, if any be so mad,
More miserable by the life of thee
Than thou hast made me by my dear lord’s death.”
Lo, ere I can repeat this curse again,
Within so small a time, my woman’s heart
Grossly grew captive to his honey words,
And proved the subject of mine own soul’s curse,
Which hitherto hath held my eyes from rest;
For never yet one hour in his bed
Did I enjoy the golden dew of sleep,
But with his timorous dreams was still awaked.
Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick,
And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me.
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Poor heart, adieu; I pity thy complaining.
ANNE.
No more than with my soul I mourn for yours.
DORSET.
Farewell, thou woeful welcomer of glory.
ANNE.
Adieu, poor soul, that tak’st thy leave of it.
DUCHESS.
[_To Dorset._] Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune guide thee.
[_To Anne._] Go thou to Richard, and good angels tend thee.
[_To Queen Elizabeth._] Go thou to sanctuary, and good thoughts possess
thee.
I to my grave, where peace and rest lie with me.
Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen,
And each hour’s joy wracked with a week of teen.
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Stay, yet look back with me unto the Tower.
Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes
Whom envy hath immured within your walls—
Rough cradle for such little pretty one,
Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow
For tender princes, use my babies well.
So foolish sorrows bids your stones farewell.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE II. London. A Room of State in the Palace
The trumpets sound a sennet. Enter Richard in pomp, Buckingham,
Catesby, Ratcliffe, Lovell, a Page and others.
KING RICHARD.
Stand all apart. Cousin of Buckingham!
BUCKINGHAM.
My gracious sovereign!
KING RICHARD.
Give me thy hand.
[_Here he ascendeth the throne. Sound trumpets._]
Thus high, by thy advice
And thy assistance is King Richard seated.
But shall we wear these glories for a day,
Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them?
BUCKINGHAM.
Still live they, and for ever let them last!
KING RICHARD.
Ah, Buckingham, now do I play the touch,
To try if thou be current gold indeed.
Young Edward lives; think now what I would speak.
BUCKINGHAM.
Say on, my loving lord.
KING RICHARD.
Why, Buckingham, I say I would be King.
BUCKINGHAM.
Why, so you are, my thrice-renowned lord.
KING RICHARD.
Ha! Am I King? ’Tis so—but Edward lives.
BUCKINGHAM.
True, noble Prince.
KING RICHARD.
O bitter consequence,
That Edward still should live “true noble prince!”
Cousin, thou wast not wont to be so dull.
Shall I be plain? I wish the bastards dead,
And I would have it suddenly performed.
What sayst thou now? Speak suddenly, be brief.
BUCKINGHAM.
Your Grace may do your pleasure.
KING RICHARD.
Tut, tut, thou art all ice; thy kindness freezes.
Say, have I thy consent that they shall die?
BUCKINGHAM.
Give me some little breath, some pause, dear lord,
Before I positively speak in this.
I will resolve you herein presently.
[_Exit._]
CATESBY.
[_Aside_.] The King is angry. See, he gnaws his lip.
KING RICHARD.
[_Aside_.] I will converse with iron-witted fools
And unrespective boys; none are for me
That look into me with considerate eyes.
High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect.
Boy!
PAGE.
My lord?
KING RICHARD.
Know’st thou not any whom corrupting gold
Will tempt unto a close exploit of death?
PAGE.
I know a discontented gentleman
Whose humble means match not his haughty spirit.
Gold were as good as twenty orators,
And will, no doubt, tempt him to anything.
KING RICHARD.
What is his name?
PAGE.
His name, my lord, is Tyrrel.
KING RICHARD.
I partly know the man. Go, call him hither, boy.
[_Exit Page._]
[_Aside_.] The deep-revolving witty Buckingham
No more shall be the neighbour to my counsels.
Hath he so long held out with me, untired,
And stops he now for breath? Well, be it so.
Enter Stanley.
How now, Lord Stanley, what’s the news?
STANLEY.
Know, my loving lord,
The Marquess Dorset, as I hear, is fled
To Richmond, in the parts where he abides.
KING RICHARD.
Come hither, Catesby. Rumour it abroad
That Anne my wife is very grievous sick;
I will take order for her keeping close.
Inquire me out some mean poor gentleman,
Whom I will marry straight to Clarence’ daughter.
The boy is foolish, and I fear not him.
Look how thou dream’st! I say again, give out
That Anne, my Queen, is sick and like to die.
About it, for it stands me much upon
To stop all hopes whose growth may damage me.
[_Exit Catesby._]
I must be married to my brother’s daughter,
Or else my kingdom stands on brittle glass.
Murder her brothers, and then marry her—
Uncertain way of gain! But I am in
So far in blood that sin will pluck on sin.
Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.
Enter Tyrrel.
Is thy name Tyrrel?
TYRREL.
James Tyrrel, and your most obedient subject.
KING RICHARD.
Art thou indeed?
TYRREL.
Prove me, my gracious lord.
KING RICHARD.
Dar’st thou resolve to kill a friend of mine?
TYRREL.
Please you. But I had rather kill two enemies.
KING RICHARD.
Why then thou hast it; two deep enemies,
Foes to my rest, and my sweet sleep’s disturbers,
Are they that I would have thee deal upon.
Tyrell, I mean those bastards in the Tower.
TYRREL.
Let me have open means to come to them,
And soon I’ll rid you from the fear of them.
KING RICHARD.
Thou sing’st sweet music. Hark, come hither, Tyrrel.
Go, by this token. Rise, and lend thine ear.
[_Whispers_.] There is no more but so. Say it is done,
And I will love thee, and prefer thee for it.
TYRREL.
I will dispatch it straight.
[_Exit._]
Enter Buckingham.
BUCKINGHAM.
My lord, I have considered in my mind
The late request that you did sound me in.
KING RICHARD.
Well, let that rest. Dorset is fled to Richmond.
BUCKINGHAM.
I hear the news, my lord.
KING RICHARD.
Stanley, he is your wife’s son. Well, look unto it.
BUCKINGHAM.
My lord, I claim the gift, my due by promise,
For which your honour and your faith is pawned:
Th’ earldom of Hereford, and the movables
Which you have promised I shall possess.
KING RICHARD.
Stanley, look to your wife. If she convey
Letters to Richmond, you shall answer it.
BUCKINGHAM.
What says your Highness to my just request?
KING RICHARD.
I do remember me, Henry the Sixth
Did prophesy that Richmond should be King,
When Richmond was a little peevish boy.
A king perhaps—
BUCKINGHAM.
My lord—
KING RICHARD.
How chance the prophet could not at that time
Have told me, I being by, that I should kill him?
BUCKINGHAM.
My lord, your promise for the earldom—
KING RICHARD.
Richmond! When last I was at Exeter,
The Mayor in courtesy showed me the castle
And called it Rougemount, at which name I started,
Because a bard of Ireland told me once
I should not live long after I saw Richmond.
BUCKINGHAM.
My lord—
KING RICHARD.
Ay, what’s o’clock?
BUCKINGHAM.
I am thus bold to put your Grace in mind
Of what you promised me.
KING RICHARD.
Well, but what’s o’clock?
BUCKINGHAM.
Upon the stroke of ten.
KING RICHARD.
Well, let it strike.
BUCKINGHAM.
Why let it strike?
KING RICHARD.
Because that, like a jack, thou keep’st the stroke
Betwixt thy begging and my meditation.
I am not in the giving vein today.
BUCKINGHAM.
Why then, resolve me whether you will or no.
KING RICHARD.
Thou troublest me; I am not in the vein.
[_Exit followed by all save Buckingham._]
BUCKINGHAM.
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. London. Another Room in the Palace
Enter Tyrrel.
TYRREL.
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, who I did suborn
To do this piece of ruthless butchery,
Albeit they were fleshed villains, bloody dogs,
Melted with tenderness and mild compassion,
Wept like two children in their deaths’ 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,
And in their summer beauty kissed each other.
A book of prayers on their pillow lay,
Which once,” quoth Forrest, “almost changed my mind.
But, O, the devil—” There the villain stopped;
When Dighton thus told on: “We smothered
The most replenished sweet work of nature
That from the prime creation e’er she framed.”
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.
KING RICHARD.
Kind Tyrrel, am I happy in thy news?
TYRREL.
If to have done the thing you gave in charge
Beget your happiness, be happy then,
For it is done.
KING RICHARD.
But didst thou see them dead?
TYRREL.
I did, my lord.
KING RICHARD.
And buried, gentle Tyrrel?
TYRREL.
The chaplain of the Tower hath buried them,
But where, to say the truth, I do not know.
KING RICHARD.
Come to me, Tyrrel, soon, at after-supper,
When thou shalt tell the process of their death.
Meantime, but think how I may do thee good,
And be inheritor of thy desire.
Farewell till then.
TYRREL.
I humbly take my leave.
[_Exit._]
KING RICHARD.
The son of Clarence have I pent up close;
His daughter meanly have I matched in marriage;
The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham’s bosom,
And Anne my wife hath bid the world good night.
Now, for I know the Breton Richmond aims
At young Elizabeth, my brother’s daughter,
And by that knot looks proudly on the crown,
To her go I, a jolly thriving wooer.
Enter Ratcliffe.
RATCLIFFE.
My lord!
KING RICHARD.
Good or bad news, that thou com’st in so bluntly?
RATCLIFFE.
Bad news, my lord. Morton is fled to Richmond,
And Buckingham, backed with the hardy Welshmen,
Is in the field, and still his power increaseth.
KING RICHARD.
Ely with Richmond troubles me more near
Than Buckingham and his rash-levied strength.
Come, I have learned that fearful commenting
Is leaden servitor to dull delay;
Delay leads impotent and snail-paced 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. London. Before the Palace
Enter old Queen Margaret.
QUEEN MARGARET.
So now prosperity begins to mellow,
And drop into the rotten mouth of death.
Here in these confines slily have I lurked
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?
[_Retires._]
Enter Duchess of York and Queen Elizabeth.
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
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 fixed in doom perpetual,
Hover about me with your airy wings
And hear your mother’s lamentation.
QUEEN MARGARET.
[_Aside_.] Hover about her; say that right for right
Hath dimmed your infant morn to aged night.
DUCHESS.
So many miseries have crazed my voice
That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute.
Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead?
QUEEN MARGARET.
[_Aside_.] Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet;
Edward for Edward pays a dying debt.
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
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?
QUEEN MARGARET.
[_Aside_.] When holy Harry died, and my sweet son.
DUCHESS.
Dead life, blind sight, poor mortal living ghost,
Woe’s scene, world’s shame, grave’s due by life usurped,
Brief abstract and record of tedious days,
Rest thy unrest on England’s lawful earth,
[_Sitting_.] Unlawfully made drunk with innocent blood.
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Ah, that thou wouldst as soon afford a grave
As thou canst yield a melancholy seat,
Then would I hide my bones, not rest them here.
[_Sitting_.] Ah, who hath any cause to mourn but we?
QUEEN MARGARET.
[_Coming forward._]
If ancient sorrow be most reverend,
Give mine the benefit of seigniory,
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 killed him;
I had a husband, till a Richard killed him.
Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard killed him;
Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard killed him.
DUCHESS.
I had a Richard too, and thou didst kill him;
I had a Rutland too; thou holp’st to kill him.
QUEEN MARGARET.
Thou hadst a Clarence too, and Richard killed 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 excellent grand tyrant of the earth,
That reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls;
That foul defacer of God’s handiwork
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 others’ moan!
DUCHESS.
O Harry’s wife, triumph not in my woes!
God witness with me, I have wept for thine.
QUEEN MARGARET.
Bear with me. I am hungry for revenge,
And now I cloy me with beholding it.
Thy Edward he is dead, that killed my Edward;
The other Edward dead, to quit my Edward;
Young York, he is but boot, because both they
Matched not the high perfection of my loss.
Thy Clarence he is dead that stabbed my Edward;
And the beholders of this frantic play,
Th’ adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey,
Untimely smothered in their dusky graves.
Richard yet lives, hell’s black intelligencer,
Only reserved 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.”
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
O, thou didst prophesy the time would come
That I should wish for thee to help me curse
That bottled spider, that foul bunch-backed toad!
QUEEN MARGARET.
I called thee then, vain flourish of my fortune;
I called thee then, poor shadow, painted queen,
The presentation of but what I was,
The flattering index of a direful pageant;
One heaved a-high to be hurled down below,
A mother only mocked with two fair babes;
A dream of what thou wast; a garish flag,
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 are thy two sons? Wherein dost thou joy?
Who sues, and kneels, and says, “God save the Queen?”
Where be the bending peers that flattered thee?
Where be the thronging troops that followed thee?
Decline all this, and see what now thou art:
For happy wife, a most distressed widow;
For joyful mother, one that wails the name;
For one being sued to, one that humbly sues;
For Queen, a very caitiff crowned with care;
For she that scorned at me, now scorned of me;
For she being feared of all, now fearing one;
For she commanding all, obeyed of none.
Thus hath the course of justice wheeled about
And left thee but a very prey to time,
Having no more but thought of what thou wast