K. Edu. Have I a tongue to doom my brother's death,

And shall that tongue give pardon to a slave? My brother kill'd no man,-his fault was thought,

And yet his punishment was bitter death. Who su'd to me for him? who, in my wrath, Kneel'd at my feet, and bade me be advis'd? Who spoke of brotherhood? who spoke of love? [Who told me how the poor soul did forsake The mighty Warwick, and did fight for me? Who told me, in the field at Tewksbury, 111 When Oxford had me down, he rescu'd me, And said, Dear brother, live, and be a king"]

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Had so much grace to put it in my mind. 120 But when your carters or your waiting-vassals Have done a drunken slaughter, and defac'd The precious image of our dear Redeemer, You straight are on your knees for pardon, pardon;

all

And I, unjustly too, must grant it you:—
But for my brother not a man would speak,-
Nor I, ungracious," speak unto myself
For him, poor soul.] The proudest of you
Have been beholding to him in his life;
Yet none of you would once beg for his life.-
O God, I fear thy justice will take hold
On me, and you, and mine, and yours for
this!-

Come, Hastings, help me to my closet.-
Ah, poor Clarence!

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Daugh. Why do you weep so oft, and beat your breast,

And cry, "O Clarence, my unhappy son!"
Son. Why do you look on us, and shake'
your head,

And call us orphans, wretches, castaways,
If that our noble father be alive?

Duch. My pretty cousins, you mistake me both;

I do lament the sickness of the king,

5 Ungracious, impious, without religious grace. Still, constantly.

Told me, the king, provok'd to it by the queen,
Devis'd impeachments to imprison him:
And when my uncle told me so, he wept,
And pitied me, and kindly kiss'd my cheek;
Bade me rely on him as on my father,
And he would love me dearly as his child.
Duch. Ah, that deceit should steal such
gentle shape,

And with a virtuous visor hide deep vice!
He is my son; ay, and therein my shame;
Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit. 30
Son. Think you my uncle did dissemble,
grandam?

Duch. Ay, boy.

Son. I cannot think it.-Hark! what noise is this?]

Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH, distractedly; RIVERS and DORSET following her.

Q. Eliz. O, who shall hinder me to wail and weep,

To chide my fortune, and torment myself? I'll join with black despair against my soul, And to myself become an enemy. [Duch. What means this scene of rude impatience?

Q. Eliz. To make an act of tragic violence:Edward, my lord, thy son, our king, is dead! Why grow the branches when the root is gone?

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Why wither not the leaves that want their sap?

1 Prayers, a dissyllable here.

2 Incapable, unable to comprehend.

4

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Clarence and Edward. O, what cause have I-
Thine being but a moiety of my moan-
To over-go thy plaints and drown thy cries!
Son. Ah, aunt, you wept not for our father's
death!

How can we aid you with our kindred tears? Daugh. Our fatherless distress was left unmoan'd;

Your widow-dolour likewise be unwept!

Q. Eliz. Give me no help in lamentation; I am not barren to bring forth complaints: All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes, That I, being govern'd by the watery moon, May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world!

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Ah for my husband, for my dear lord Edward! Children. Ah for our father, for our dear lord Clarence!

Duch. Alas for both, both mine, Edward and Clarence!

Q. Eliz. What stay had I but Edward? and he's gone.

Children. What stay had we but Clarence?? and he's gone.

Duch. What stays had I but they? and they are gone.

3 One false glass, i.e. her son Richard, Duke of Gloster. To over-go, to exceed.

Q. Eliz. Was never widow had so dear1 a loss!

Children. Were never orphans had so dear a loss!

Duch. Was never mother had so dear a loss!

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Alas, I am the mother of these griefs!
Their woes are parcell'd,2 mine is general.
She for an Edward weeps, and so do I;
I for a Clarence weep, so doth not she:
These babes for Clarence weep, and so do I;
I for an Edward weep, so do not they:-
Alas, you three, on me, thre fold distress'd,
Pour all your tears! I am your sorrow's nurse,
And I will pamper it with lamentation.]

Dor. Comfort, dear mother: God is much displeas'd

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That you take with unthankfulness his doing: In common worldly things 't is call'd ungrateful

With dull unwillingness to repay a debt Which with a bounteous hand was kindly lent;

Much more to be thus opposite with heaven, For it requires the royal debt it lent you.

Rie. Madam, bethink you, like a careful mother,

Of the young prince your son: send straight for him;

Let him be crown'd; in him your comfort lives:

Drown desperate sorrow in dead Edward's grave,

And plant your joys in living Edward's throne.

Enter GLOSTER, BUCKINGHAM, STANLEY, HASTINGS, RATCLIFF, and others.

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Hither to London, to be crown'd our king. Riv. Why with some little train, my Lord of Buckingham?

Buck. Marry, my lord, lest, by a multitude, The new-heal'd wound of malice should break out;

[Which would be so much the more dangerous By how much the state's green and yet ungovern'd:

Where every horse bears his commanding rein,

And may direct his course as please himself, As well the fear of harm as harm apparent," In my opinion, ought to be prevented.]

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Was crown'd in Paris but at nine months old. Third Cit. Stood the state so? No, no, good friends, God wot;3

For then this land was famously enrich'd With politic grave counsel; then the king 20 Had virtuous uncles to protect his grace.

First Cit. Why, so hath this, both by his father and mother.

Third Cit. Better it were they all came by his father,

Or by his father there were none at all;
For emulation now, who shall be nearest,
Will touch us all too near, if God prevent not.
O, full of danger is the Duke of Gloster!
And the queen's sons and brothers haught
and proud:

30

And were they to be rul'd, and not to rule,
This sickly land might solace as before.
First Cit. Come, come, we fear the worst;
all will be well.

Third Cit. When clouds are seen, wise men put on their cloaks;

When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand;
When the sun sets, who doth not look for night?
Untimely storms make men expect a dearth.
All may be well; but, if God sort it so,
'Tis more than we deserve, or I expect.
Sec. Cit. Truly, the hearts of men are full
of fear:

You cannot reason7 almost with a man
That looks not heavily and full of dread.

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