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0, let me think on Hastings; and be gone To Brecknock, while my fearful head is on.
SCENE III.-The same.
, from the prime creation, e'er she fram'.-
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
K. Rich. But didst thou see them dead?
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 supper, When thou shalt tell the process of their death. Mean time, but think how I may do thee good, And be inheritor of thy desire. Farewell, till then. Tyr. I humbly take my leave.
[Exit. K. Rich. The son of Clarence have I penn’d up close; His daughter meanly have I match'd 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 Bretagne 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 CATESBY. Cate. My lord, K. Rich. Good news or bad, that thou com'st in so
bluntly ? Cate. Bad news, my lord: Morton is fled to Rich
mond; And Buckingham, back’d with the hardy Welshmen, Is in the field, and still his power encreaseth.
K. Rich. Ely with Richmond troubles me more near,
Than Buckingham and his rash-levied strength.
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 hath craz'd my voice,
That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute;-
Q. Mar. Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet,
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, Woe'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, As thou canst yield a melancholy seat; Then would I hide my bones, not rest them here! Ah, who hath any cause to mourn, but we?
[Sitting down by her. Q. Mar. If ancient sorrow be most reverent, Give mine 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
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 tragick play, The adulterate 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 convey'd from hence :