RICHARD

Speak thou for me, and tell them what I did. Thus do I hope to shake King Henries head. Armed as we are, let's stay within this House. You are old enough now, And yet me thinks you lose: Father tear the Crown from the Usurper's Head. About that which concerns your Grace and us, The Crown of England, Father, which is yours. Three glorious Suns, each one a perfect Sun, Not separated with the racking Clouds, But severed in a pale clear-shining Sky. See, see, they join, embrace, and seem to kiss, As if they vowed some League inviolable. Now are they but one Lamp, one Light, one Sun: In this, the Heaven figures some event. I cannot weep: for all my bodies moisture Scarce serves to quench my Furnace-burning heart: Nor can my tongue unload my hearts great burden, For selfsame wind that I should speak withal, Is kindling coals that fires all my breast, And burns me up with flames, that tears would quench To weep, is to make less the depth of grief: Tears then for Babes; Blows, and Revenge for me. Richard, I bear thy name, I'll venge thy death, Or die renowned by attempting it. Nay, if thou be that Princely Eagles Bird, Show thy descent by gazing against the Sun: For Chair and Dukedom, Throne and Kingdom say, Either that is thine, or else thou were't not his. Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recompt Our baleful news, and at each words deliverance Stab Poniards in our flesh, till all were told, The words would add more anguish then the wounds. Oh valiant Lord, the Duke of York is slain. 'Twas odds belike, when valiant Warwick fled; Oft have I herd his praises in Pursuit, But never till now, his Scandal of Retire. I know it well Lord Warwick, blame me not, It's love I bear thy glories make me speak: But in this troublous time, what's to be done? Shall we go throw away our Coats of Steel, And wrap our bodies in black mourning Gowns, Numbering our Ave-maries with our Beads? Or shall we on the Helmets of our Foes Tell our Devotion with revengeful Arms? If for the last, say I, and to it Lords. I, now me thinks I hear great Warwick speak; Never may he live to see a Sunshine day, That cries Retire, if Warwick bid him stay. Then Clifford, were thy heart as hard as Steel, As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds, I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine. Are you there Butcher? Oh, I cannot speak. 'Twas you that killed young Rutland, was it not? For Gods sake Lords give signal to the fight. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently, Break off the parley, for scarce I can refrain The execution of my big-swollen heart Upon that Clifford, that cruel Child-killer. I Like a Dastard, and a treacherous Coward, As thou didst kill our tender Brother Rutland, But ere Sunset, I'll make thee curse the deed. Then Executioner unsheath thy sword: By him that made us all, I am resolved, That Clifford's Manhood, lies upon his tongue. Iron of Naples, hid with English gilded, Whose Father bears the Title of a King, (As if a Channel should be called the Sea) Shamest thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught, To let thy tongue detect thy baseborn heart. Ah Warwick, why hast y u withdrawn thy self? Thy Brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk, Broached with the Steely point of Clifford's Lance: And in the very pangs of death, he cried, Like to a dismal Clangor herd from far, Warwick, revenge; Brother, revenge my death. So underneath the belly of their Steeds, That stained their Fetlocks in his smoking blood, The Noble Gentleman gave up the ghost. Brother, Give me thy hand, and gentle Warwick, Let me embrace thee in my weary arms: I that did never weep, now melt with woe, That Winter should cut off our Springtime so. Now Clifford, I have singled thee alone, Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York, And this for Rutland, both bound to revenge, Were't thou environed with a Brazen wall. Nay Warwick, single out some other Chase, For I my self will hunt this Wolf to death. Whose soul is that which takes his heavy leave? A deadly groan, Like life and death's departing. See who it is. Revoke that doom of mercy, for it's Clifford, Who not contented that he lopped the Branch In hewing Rutland, when his leaves put forth, But set his murdering knife unto the Root, From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring, I mean our Princely Father, Duke of York. Oh would he did, and so (perhaps) he does, It's but his policy to counterfeit, Because he would avoid such bitter taunts Which in the time of death he gave our Father. Clifford, ask mercy, and obtain no grace. Thou didst love York, and I am son to York. Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloucester, For Gloucesters Dukedom is too ominous. Your Highness shall do well to grant her suit: It were dishonour to deny it her. Yea, is it so: I see the Lady hath a thing to grant, Before the King will grant her humble suit. Silence. I Widow? then I'll warrant you all your Lands, And if what pleases him, shall pleasure you: Fight closer, or good faith you'll catch a Blow. God forbid that, for he'll take vantages. Nay then whip me: he'll rather give her two. You shall have four, if you'll be ruled by him. I, good leave have you, for you will have leave, Till Youth take leave, and leave you to the Crutch. He plies her hard, and much Rain wears the Marble. The Match is made, she seals it with a Curtsy. The Widow likes him not, she knits her Brows. The Ghostly Father now hath done his Shrift. The Widow likes it not, for she looks very sad. That would be ten days wonder at the least. By so much is the Wonder in extremes. I, Edward will use Women honourably: Would he were wasted, Marrow, Bones, and all, That from his Loins no hopeful Branch may spring, To cross me from the Golden time I look for: And yet, between my Souls desire, and me, The lustful Edwards Title buried, Is Clarence, Henry, and his Son young Edward, And all the unlooked-for Issue of their Bodies, To take their Rooms, ere I can place my self: A cold premeditation for my purpose. Why then I do but dream on Sovereignty, Like one that stands upon a Promontory, And spies a far-off shore, where he would tread, Wishing his foot were equal with his eye, And chides the Sea, that sunders him from thence, Saying he'll lade it dry, to have his way: So do I wish the Crown, being so far off, And so I chide the means that keeps me from it, And so (I say) I'll cut the Causes off, Flattering me with impossibilities: My Eyes too quick, my Heart o're-weenes too much, Unless my Hand and Strength could equal them. Well, say there is no Kingdom then for Richard: What other Pleasure can the World afford? I'll make my Heaven in a Ladies Lap, And deck my Body in gay Ornaments, And witch sweet Ladies with my Words and Looks. O miserable Thought! and more unlikely Then to accomplish twenty Golden Crowns. Why Love forswore me in my Mother's Womb: And for I should not deal in her soft Laws, She did corrupt frail Nature with some Bribe, To shrink mine Arm up Like a withered Shrub, To make and envious Mountain on my Back, Where sits Deformity to mock my Body; To shape my Legs of and unequal size, To disproportion me in every partly: Like to a Chaos, or and vn-lick'd Bear-whelp, That carries no impression Like the Dam. And am I then a man to be beloved? O monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought. Then since this Earth affords no Joy to me, But to command, to check, to o're-beare such, As are of better Person then my self: I'll make my Heaven, to dream upon the Crown, And while I live, account this World but Hell, Until my mis-shap'd Trunk, that bears this Head, Be round impaled with a glorious Crown. And yet I know not how to get the Crown, For many Lives stand between me and home: And I, Like one lost in a Thorny Wood, That rends the Thorns, and is rend with the Thorns, Seeking a way, and straying from the way, Not knowing how to find the open Air, But toiling desperately to find it out, Torment my self, to catch the English Crown: And from that torment I will free my self, Or hew my way out with a bloody Axe. Why I can smile, and murder while I smile, And cry, Content, to that which grieves my Heart, And wet my Cheeks with artificial Tears, And frame my Face to all occasions. I'll drown more Sailors then the Mermaid shall, I'll slay more gazers then the Basilisk, I'll play the Orator as well as Nestor, Deceive more slyly then Ulysses could, And Like a Synon, take another Troy. I can add Colours to the Chameleon, Change shapes with Proteus, for advantages, And set the murderous Machevill to School. Can I do this, and cannot get a Crown? Tut, were it farther off, I'll pluck it down. Now tell me Brother Clarence, what think you Of this new Marriage with the Lady Grey ? Hath not our Brother made a worthy choice? And his well-chosen Bride. And shall have your will, because our King: Yet hasty Marriage seldom proves well. Not I: no: God forbid, that I should wish them severed, Whom God hath joined together: I, and 'twere pity, to sunder them, That yoke so well together. And Warwick, doing what you gave in charge, Is now dishonoured by this new Marriage. And yet me thinks, your Grace hath not done well, To give the Heir and Daughter of Lord Scales Unto the Brother of your loving Bride; She better would have fitted me, or Clarence: But in your Bride you bury Brotherhood. I hear, yet say not much, but think the more. Not I: My thoughts aim at a further matter: I stay not for the love of Edward, but the Crown. I, in despite of all that shall withstand you. Now my Lord Hastings, and Sir William Stanley Leave off to wonder why I drew you hither, Into this chiefest Thicket of the Park. Thus stand the case: you know our King, my Brother, Is prisoner to the Bishop here, at whose hands He hath good usage, and great liberty, And often but attended with weak guard, Come hunting this way to disport himself. I have advertised him by secret means, That if about this hour he make this way, Under the colour of his usual game, He shall here find his Friends with Horse and Men, To set him free from his Captivity. Brother, the time and case, requires hast, Your horse stands ready at the Parke-corner. Well guest believe me, for that was my meaning But wherefore stay we? it's no time to talk. Come then away, lets would no more ado. The Gates made fast? Brother, I Like not this. For many men that stumble at the Threshold, Are well foretold, that danger lurks within. But when the Fox hath once God in his Nose, He'll soon find means to make the Body follow. A wise stout Captain, and soon persuaded. Brother, this is Sir John Montgomery, Our trusty friend, unless I be deceived. Why Brother, wherefore stand you on nice points? And fearless minds climb soonest unto Crowns. Brother, we will proclaim you out of hand, The bruit thereof will bring you many friends. Away betimes, before his forces join, And take the great-grown Traitor unawares: Brave Warriors, march amain towards Coventry. See how the surly Warwick men the Wall. I thought at least he would have said the King, Or did he make the Jest against his will? I, by my faith, for a poor Earl to give, I'll do thee service for so good a gift. Alas, that Warwick had no more forecast, But while he thought to steal the single Ten, The King was slyly fingered from the Deck: You left poor Henry at the Bishops Palace, And ten to one you'll meet him in the Tower. Come Warwick, Take the time, kneel down, kneel down: Nay when? strike now, or else the Iron cools. The Gates are open, let us enter too. Thou and thy Brother both shall buy this Treason Even with the dearest blood your bodies bear. Two of thy Name, both Dukes of Somerset, Have sold their Lives unto the House of York, And thou shalt be the third, if this Sword hold. Welcome good Clarence, this is Brotherlike. The Queen is valued thirty thousand strong, And Somerset, with Oxford, fled to her: If she have time to breathe, be well assured Her faction will be full as strong as ours. It is, and lo where youthful Edward comes. That you might still have worn the Petticoat, And never have stolen the Breech from Lancaster. By Heaven, Brat, I'll plague you for that word. For Gods sake, take away this Captive Scold. Sprawlest thou? take that, to end thy agony. Marry, and shall. Why should she live, to fill the World with words. Clarence excuse me to the King my Brother: I'll hence to London on a serious matter, Ere you come there, be sure to hear some news. Tower, the Tower. Good day, my Lord, what at your Book so hard? Sirrah, leave us to our selves, we must confer. Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind, The Thief does fear each bush and Officer, Why what a peevish Fool was that of Creet, That taught his Son the office of a Foul, And yet for all his wings, the Fool was drowned. Thinkest thou I am and Executioner? Thy Son I killed for his presumption. I'll hear no more: Die Prophet in thy speech, For this (amongst the rest) was I ordained. What? will the aspiring blood of Lancaster Sink in the ground? I thought it would have mounted. See how my sword weeps for the poor Kings death. Oh may such purple tears be always shed From those that wish the downfall of our house. If any spark of Life be yet remaining, Down, down to hell, and say I sent thee thither. I that have neither pity, love, nor fear, Indeed it's true that Henry told me of: For I have often herd my Mother say, I came into the world with my Legs forward. Had I not reason (think you) to make hast, And seek their Ruin, that usurped our Right? The Midwife wondered, and the Women cri'de Oh Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth, And so I was, which plainly signified, That I should snarl, and bite, and play the dog: Then since the Heavens have shaped my Body so, Let Hell make crooked my Mind to answer it. I have no Brother, I am Like no Brother: And this word [Love] which Gray-beards call Divine, Be resident in men Like one another, And not in me: I am my self alone. Clarence beware, thou keept'st me from the Light, But I will sort a pitchy day for thee: For I will buzz abroad such Prophecies, That Edward shall be fearful of his life, And then to purge his fear, I'll be thy death. King Henry, and the Prince his Son are gone, Clarence thy turn is next, and then the rest, Counting my self but bade, till I be best. I'll throw thy body in another room, And Triumph Henry, in thy day of Doom. I'll blast his Harvest, if your head were laid, For yet I am not looked on in the world. This shoulder was ordained so thick, to heave, And heave it shall some weight, or break my back, Work thou the way, and that shalt execute. And that I love the tree from ̄ whence y u sprangest: Witness the loving kiss I give the Fruit, To say the truth, so Judas kissed his master, And cried all hail, when as he meant all harm. Found Drums and Trumpets, and the King will fly. Brother, though I be youngest, give me leave. Your Right depends not on his life, or death. No: God forbid your Grace should be for sworn. I'll prove the contrary, if you'll hear me speak. And Oath is of no moment, being not took Before a true and lawful Magistrate, That hath authority over him that swears. Henry had none, but did usurp the place. Then seeing 'twas he that made you to depose, Your Oath, my Lord, is vain and frivolous. Therefore to Arms: and Father do but think, How sweet a thing it is to wear a Crown, Within whose Circuit is Elizium, And all that Poets feign of Bliss and Joy. Why do we linger thus? I cannot rest, Until the White Rose that I wear, be died Even in the lukewarm blood of Henries heart. I, with five hundred, Father, for a need. A Woman's general: what should we fear? I cannot joy, until I be resolved Where our right valiant Father is become. I saw him in the Battle range about, And watched him how he singled Clifford forth Me thought he boar him in the thickest troop, As does a Lion in a Herd of Neat, Or as a Bear encompassed round with Dogs: Who having pinched a few, and made them cry, The rest stand all aloof, and bark at him. So fared our Father with his Enemies, So fled his Enemies my Warlike Father: Me thinks it's prize enough to be his Son. See how the Morning opens her golden Gates, And takes her farewell of the glorious Sun How well resembles it the prime of Youth, Trimmed Like a Younker, prancing to his Love? Nay, bear three Daughters: By your leave, I speak it, You love the Breeder better then the Male. But what art thou, whose heavy Looks foretell Some dreadful story hanging on thy Tongue? Say how he died, for I will hear it all. What, not and Oath? Nay then the world go's hard When Clifford cannot spare his Friends and oath: I know by that he's dead, and by my Soul, If this right hand would buy two hours life, That I (in all despite) might rail at him, This hand should chop it off: & with the issuing Blood Stifle the Villain, whose unstaunched thirst York, and young Rutland could not satisfy