your grace,

On our entreaties to amend your fault!

Glo. Else wherefore breathe I in a christian land?
Buck. Know, then, it is your fault, that you resign
The supreme seat, the throne majestical,
The sceptred 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 blemish'd stock:
Whilst, 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 shoulder'd' 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 suit come I to move your grace.
Glo. 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 season'd with your faithful love to me,
Then, on the other side, I check'd my friends.
Therefore-to speak, and to avoid the first;
And, then in speaking, not to incur the last,-
Definitely thus I answer you.

Your love deserves my thanks; but my desert
Unmeritable, shuns your high request.
First, ir 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 vapor of my glory smother'd.
But, God be thank'd, there is no need of me;
(And much I need to help you, if need were;)
The royal tree hath left us royal fruit,
Which, mellow'd 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 what you would lay on me,
The right and fortune of his happy stars,-
Which, God defend, that I should wring from him!
Buck. My lord, this argues conscience in your

A care-craz'd 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 all his thoughts
To base declension and loath'd 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 proffer'd benefit of dignity:

If not to bless us and the land withal,
Yet to draw forth your noble ancestry
From the corruption of abusing time,
Unto a lineal true-derived course.

May. Do, good my lord: your citizens entreat you. Buck. Refuse not, mightly lord, this proffer'd love. Cate. O make them joyful, grant their lawful suit. Glo. 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.
Buck. 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'r you accept our suit or no,
Your brother's son shall never reign our king;
But we will plant some other in your throne,
To the disgrace and downfall of your house.
And, in this resolution here we leave you;
Come, citizens, we will entreat no inore.

[Exeunt BUCKINGHAM and Citizens. Cate. Call them again, sweet prince, accept their suit;

If you deny them, all the land will rue it.

Glo. Will you enforce me to a world of cares?
Well, call them again; I am not made of stone,
But penetrable to your kind entreaties, [Ex. CATE.
Albeit against my conscience and my soul.-
Re-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'r 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 he knows, and you may partly see,
How far I am from the desire of this.

May. God bless your grace! we see it, and will say it.

Glo. In saying so, you shall but say the truth. Buck. Then I salute you with this royal title,— Long live king Richard, England's worthy king!

All. Amen.

Stan. 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.
Come, madam, you must straight to Westminster.
[To the DUCHESS OF GLOSTER.
There to be crowned Richard's royal queen.
Q. Eliz. 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! Dor. Be of good cheer: Mother, how fares your grace?

Q. Eliz. O Dorset, speak not to me, get thee gone, Death and destruction dog thee at the 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. Stan. 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.

O my accursed womb, the bed of death;
Duch. O ill-dispersing wind of misery!—
A cockatrice hast thou hatch'd to the world,
Whose unavoided eye is murderous!

Stan. 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 brain!

Anointed let me be with deadly venom;
And die, ere men can say-God save the queen!
Q. Eliz. Go, go, poor soul, I envy not thy glory;
To feed my humor, wish thyself no harm.

Anne. No! why?-When he, that is my husband

now,

Came to me, as I follow'd Henry's corse;
When scarce the blood was well-wash'd from his
hands,

Which issued from my other angel husband,
And that dead saint which then I weeping follow'd;
This was my wish,-Be thou, quoth I, accurs'd,
O, when, I say, I look'd on Richard's face,
For making me so young, so old a widow!
And, when thou wed'st, let sorrow haunt thy bed;
More miserable by the life of thee,
And be thy wife (if any be so mad)
Than thou hast made me by my dear lord's death!

Lo, ere I can repeat this curse again,
Even in so short a space, my woman's heart
Grossly grew captive to his honey words,
And prov'd the subject of mine own soul's curse:
Which ever since hath held mine 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 awak'd.
Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick;
And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me.

Q. Eliz. Poor heart, adieu; I pity thy complaining.

Anne. No more than with my soul I mourn for

yours.

Dor. Farewell, thou woful welcomer of glory! Anne. Adieu, poor soul, that tak'st thy leave

of it!

Duch. Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune guide thee![TO DORSET.

Go thou to Richard, and good angels tend thee![To ANNE. Go thou to sanctuary, and good thoughts possess thee![To Q. ELIZABETH. I to my grave, where peace and rest lie with me! Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen, And each hour's joy wreck'd with a week of teen.'

Q. Eliz. Stay yet; look back, with me, unto the
Tower.-

Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes,
Whom envy hath immur'd within your walls!
Rough cradle for such little pretty ones!
Rude ragged nurse! old sullen play-fellow
For tender princes, use my babies well!
So foolish sorrow bids your stones farewell.
[Exeunt.

4 Sorrow.

Page.

His name, my lord, is-Tyrrel. K. Rich. I partly know the man; Go, call him hither, boy. [Exit Page.

The deep-revolving witty" Buckingham
No more shall be the neighbor to my counsels:
Hath he so long held out with me untir'd,
And stops he now for breath ?-well, be it so.-
Enter STANLEY.

How now, lord Stanley? what's the news?
Stan.
Know, my loving lord,
The marquis Dorset, as I hear, is fled
To Richmond, in the parts where he abides.

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 some mean-born 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.Re-enter Page, with TYRREL.

For which your honor and your faith is pawn'd; The earldom of Hereford, and the movables,

Which you have promised I shall possess.

K. Rich. Stanley, look to your wife; if she convey Letters to Richmond, you shall answer it. Buck. What says your highness to my just request?

K. Rich. I do remember me,-Henry the sixth Did prophesy, that Richmond should be king, When Richmond was a little peevish' boy. A king!-perhaps

Buck. My lord,

K. Rich. How chance, the prophet could not at that time,

Have told me, I being by, that I should kill him? Buck. My lord, your promise for the earldom,K. Rich. Richmond!-When last I was at Exeter.

The mayor in courtesy show'd me the castle,

It is of great consequence to my designs.
1 Act.
2 Foolish.

Betwixt thy begging and my meditation.
I am not in the giving vein to-day.
Buck. Why, then resolve me whe'r you will, or no.
K. Rich. Thou troublest me; I am not in the vein.
[Exeunt KING RICHARD and Train.
Buck. 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 begone
To Brecknock, while my fearful head is on. [ [Exit.
SCENE III.-The same

Enter TYRREL.

Tyr. 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 suborn To do this piece of ruthless butchery, Albeit they were flesh'd villains, bloody dogs, Melting with tenderness and mild compassion, Wept like two children, in their death's 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, Which in their summer beauty kiss'd 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 stopp'd;
When Dighton thus told on,-we smothered
The most replenished sweet work of nature,
That, from the prime creation, ere she framed.
Hence both are gone with conscience and remorse,
They could not speak; and so I left them both,
To bear these tidings to the bloody king.

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
Beget your happiness, be happy then,
For it is done.

K. Rich. But didst thou see them dead?
Tyr. I did, my lord.

K. Rich. And buried, gentle Tyrrel?
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;

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 CATFSBY.

Cute. My lord,

K. Rich. Good news, or bad, that thou com'st in so bluntly?

Cate. Bad news, my lord: Morton is fled to And Buckingham, back'd with the hardy Welshmen, Richmond; Is in the field, and still his power increaseth.

near,

K. Kich. Ely with Richmond troubles me more Than Buckingham and his rash-levied strength. Come,-I have learn'd, 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. 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 have craz'd my voice,
That
Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead?
my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute,—

Edward for Edward pays a dying debt.
Q. Mar. Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet.

Q. Eliz. 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? Q. Mar. When holy Harry died, and my sweet

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,
Unlawfully made drunk with innocent blood!
[Sitting down.
Q. Eliz. Ah, that thou wouldst as soon afford a
grave,

The country in which Richmond had taken refuge.
Bishop of Ely.