That late Requeft that you did found me in.'
K.Rich. Well, let that reft; Dorfet is fled to Richmond. Buck. I hear the News, my Lord.
K. Rich. Stanly, he is your Wife's Son; well, look unto it. Buck. My Lord, I claim the Gift, my due by Promife, For which your Honour and your Faith is pawn'd. Th' Earldom of Hereford, and the Moveables, Which you have promised I fhall poffefs.
K. Rich. Stanly, look to your Wife; if she convey
Letters to Richmond, you fhall answer it.
Buck. What fays your Highnefs to my just request?
K. Rich. I do remember me, Henry the Sixth
Did Prophefe, that Richmond should be King,
When Richmond was a little peevish Boy.
A King perhaps.
Buck. May it please you to refolve me in my Suit.
K. Rich. Thou troubleft me, I am not in the Vein. [Exit.
Buck. And is it thus? repays he my deep Service
With fuch contempt? made I him King for this?
O let me think on Haftings, and be
gone
To Brecnock, while my fearful Head is on.
Enter Tirrel.
Tir. 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 fuborn
To do this piece of ruthful Butchery,
Albeit they were flefht Villains, bloody Dogs,
Melted with Tenderness, and mild Compaffion,
Wept like to Children, in their deaths fad Story:
O thus, quoth Dighton, lay the gentle Babes,
Thus, thus, quoth Forreft, girdling one another
Within their Alablafter innocent Arms:
Their Lips were four red Rofes on a Stalk,
And in their Summer Beauty kifs'd each other.
A Book of Prayers on their Pillow lay,
Which once, quoth Forrest, almost chang'd
my mind
But oh the Devil-there the Villain stopt:,
When Dighton thus told on, we fmothered
The most replenished sweet Work of Nature,
That from the prime Creation e'er fhe framed.
Hence both are gone with Confcience and Remorse,
They could not fpeak, and fo I left them both,
To bear thefe Tydings to the bloody King.
Enter King Richard.
And here he comes. All health, my Sovereign Lord.
K. Rich. Kind Tirrel- -am I happy in thy News?
Tir. If to have done the thing you gave in charge
Beget your happiness, be happy then,
K. Rich. But did't thou fee them dead?
Tir. I did, my Lord.
K. Rich. And buried, gentle Tirrel?
Tir. The Chaplain of the Tower hath buried them,
But where, to fay the Truth, I do not know.
K. Rich. Come to me Tirrel foon, foon after Supper,
When thou shalt tell the procefs of their Death.
Mean time- but think how I may do thee good,
And be Inheritor of thy defire.
Farewel 'till then.
Tir. I humbly take my leave.
K Rich. The Son of Clarence have I pent up close,
His Daughter meanly have I match'd in Marriage,
The Sons of Edward fleep in Abraham's Bofom,
And Anne my Wife hath bid this World good Night.
Now, for I know the Briton 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.
K Rich. Good or bad News, that thou com'ftin so bluntly? Rat. Bad News, my Lord, Morton is fled to Richmond; And Buckingham, backt with the hardy Welshmen,
Is in the Field, and ftill his Power encreaseth.
K. Rich. Ely with Richmond troubles me more near,
Than Buckingham and his rafh levied Strength.
Come, I have learn'd that fearful commenting
Is leaden Servitor to dull delay,
Delay leads impotent and Snail'd-pac'd Beggary:
Then fiery Expedition be my Wing.
Jove's Mercury, and Herald for a King:
Go mufter Men; my Council is my Shield,
We must be brief, when Traitors brave the Field.
Q. Mar. So now Profperity begins to mellow,
And drop into the rotten mouth of Death:
Here in these Confines flily have I lurkt,
To watch the waining of mine Enemies.
A dire Induction am I witness to,
And will to France, hoping the Confequence
Will prove as bitter, black and tragical.
Withdraw thee wretched Margaret, who comes here?
Enter Dutchess and Queen.
Queen. 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 fixt in doom perpetual,
Hover about me with your airy Wings,
And hear your Mother's Lamentation.
Mar. Hover about her, fay, that right for right
Hath dimm'd your infant Morn to aged Night.
Dutch. So many miferies have craz'd my Voice,
That my woe-wearied Tongue is ftill and mute.
Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead?
Q. Mar. Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet, Edward for Edward pays a dying Debt.
Queen. Wilt thou, O God, fly from fuch gentle Lambs, And throw them in the Intrails of the Wolf?
Why didft thou sleep when fuch a Deed was done?
Q Mar. When Holy Henry dy'd, and my fweet Son.
Dutch. Dead Life, blind Sight, poor mortal living Ghoff,
Woes Scene, Worlds fhame, Graves due, by Life ufurpt,
Brief abstract and record of tedious Days,
Reft thy unrest on England's lawful Earth,
Unlawfully made drunk with innocent Blood.
Queen. Ah that thou wouldst as foon afford a Grave
As thou canft yield a melancholly Seat;
Then would I hide my Bones, not reft them here.
Ah who hath any caufe to mourn but we?
.Mar. If ancient Sorrow be moft reverent,
Give mine the benefit of Signeury;
And let my Griefs frown on the upper hand,
If Sorrow can admit Society.
I had an Edward 'till a Richard kill'd him:
I had a Husband 'till a Richard kill'd him:
Thou had'ft an Edward, 'till a Richard kill'd him:
Thou had'ft a Richard 'till a Richard kill'd him.
Dutch. I had a Richard too, and thou didst kill him :
I had a Rutland too, thou holp'ft 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 reigns in gauled Eyes of weeping Souls:
That excellent grand Tyrant of the Earth,
Thy Womb let loofe to chafe us to our Graves.
O upright, juft, and true difpofing God,
How do I thank thee, that this carnal Cur
Preys on the Iffue of his Mother's Body,
And makes Her, Pue-fellow with others moan.
Dutch. Oh 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.
The other Edward dead, to quit my Edward:
Young York, he is but boot, because both they
Match'd not the high perfection of my Lofs.
Thy Clarence he is dead that stab'd my Edward;
And the beholders of this frantick Play,
Th'adulterate Haftings, Rivers, Vaughan, Gray,
Untimely fmother'd in their dusky Graves.
Richard yet lives, Hell's black Intelligencer,
Only referv'd their Factor to buy Souls,
And fend them thither: But at hand, at hand
Infues his piteous and unpitied End.
Earth gapes, Hell burns, Fiends roar, Saints pray,
To have him fuddenly convey'd from hence:
Cancel his Bond of Life, dear God, I pray,
That I may live and fay, the Dog is dead.
Queen. O thou didst Prophefie the time would come,
That I fhould wish for thee to help me Curfe
That bottel'd Spider, that foul bunch-back'd Toad.
2. Mar. I call'd thee then, vain flourish of my Fortune:
I call'd thee then, poor fhadow, painted Queen,
The Reprefentation 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 waft, a garish Flag
To be the aim of ev'ry dang'rous Shot;
A fign of Dignity, a Breath, a Bubble;
A Queen in Jeft, only to fill the Scene.
Where is thy Husband now? where be thy Brothers?
Where be thy two Sons? wherein doft thou joy?
Who fues and kneels, and fays, God fave the Queen?
Where be the bending Peers that flatter'd thee?
Where be the thronging Troops that follow'd thee?
Decline all this, and fee now what thou art.
For happy Wife, a most distressed Widow;
For joyful Mother, one that wails the Name;
For one being fu'd to, one that humbly fues;
For Queen, a very Caytiff crown'd with Care;
For the that fcorn'd at me, now scorn'd of me;
For the being fear'd of all, now fearing one;
For the commanding all, obey'd of none,
Thus hath the courfe of Juftice whirl'd about,
And left thee but a very prey to Time,
Having no more but thought of what thou waft,
To torture thee the more, being what thou art.
Thou didft ufurp my Place, and doft thou not
Ufurp the juft proportion of my Sorrow?
Now thy proud Neck bears half my burthen'd Yoak,
From which, even here I flip my wearied Head
D 4
|