K. Rich. Come hither, Catesby, rumor it abroad,
That Anne, my Wife, is very grievous Sick;
I will take order for her keeping close.
Inquire me out fome mean poor Gentleman,
Whom I will marry ftraight to Clarence Daughter:
The Boy is foolish, and I fear not him.
Look how thou dream'ft-I fay again, give out,
That Anne, my Queen, is fick, and like to die.
About it; for it ftands me much upon
To ftop all hopes, whofe growth may damage me.
I must be married to my Brother's Daughter,
Or elfe my Kingdom ftands on brittle Glafs:
Murther her Brothers, and than 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.
Tir. James Tirrel, and your moft obedient Subject.
K. Rich. Art thou indeed?
Tir. Prove me, my gracious Lord.
K. Rich. Dar'ft thou refolve to kill a Friend of mine?
Tir. Please you:
But I had rather kill two Enemies.
K. Rich. Why then thou haft it; two deep Enemies,
Foes to my Reft, and my fweet fleeps difturbers,
Are they that I would have thee deal upon;
Tirrel, I mean thofe Baftards in the Tower.
Tir. Let me have open means to come to them,
And foon I'll rid you from the fear of them.
K. Rich, Thou fing'ft fweet Mufick :
Hark, come hither Tirrel,
Go by this token; rife, and lend thine Ear,
There is no more but fo; fay it is done,
And I will love thee, and prefer thee for it.
Tir. I will dispatch it ftraight.
Buck. My Lord, I have confider'd in my mind,
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. Stanley, he is your Wife's Son; well, look unto it. Buck. My Lord, I claim the Gift, my due by Promise, 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. Stanley, look to your Wife; if the convey
Letters to Richmond, you fhall answer it.
Buck. What fays your Highnefs to my juft request?
K. Rich. I do remember me, Henry the Sixth
Did Prophefie, that Richmond fhould 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.
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 A& is done,
The moft Arch-deed of piteous Maffacre
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:
Oihus, quoth, Dighton, lay the gentle Babes,
Thus, thus, quoth Forrest, 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 ftopt:
When Dighton thus told on, we smothered
The most replenished fweet Work of Nature,
That from the prime Creation e'er fhe framed.
Hence both are gone with Confcience and Remorse,
They could not peak, and fo I left them both,
To bear thefe Tydings to the bloody King.
Enter King Richard.
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'ft 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 clofe,
His Daughter meanly have I match'd in Marriage,
The Sos of Edward fleep in Abraham's Bofum,
And Anne my Wife had 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'ft in fo bluntly? Rat. Bad News, my Lord, Morton is fled to Richmont, And Buckingham, backt 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 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. [Exeunt.
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.
Q. Mar. Hover about her, fay, that right for right
Hath dim'd your infant Morn to aged Night.
Dutch. So many Miferies have craz'd my Voice, That my woe-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.
Queen. Wilt thou, O God, fly from fuch gentle Lambs, And throw them in the Intrails of the Wolf?
Why didft thou fleep when fuch a Deed was done?
O. Mar. When Holy Henry dy'd, and my fweet Son. Dutch. Dead Life, blind Sight, poor mortal living Ghost, Woes Scene, Worlds fhame, Graves due, by Life ufurpt, Brief abftract and record of tedious Days,
Reft thy unreft on England's lawful Eaith,
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?
0. Mar. If ancient Sorrow be moft reverent,
Give mine the benefit of Seigneury;
And let my Griefs frown on the upper band,
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.
0. Mar. Thou hadst a Clarence too,
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 ftab'd my Edward;
And the beholders of this frantick Play,
Th'adulterate Haftings, Rivers, Vaughan, Gray,
Untimely fmother'd in their dusky Grave.
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,
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