Now, noble peers, the cause why we are met

Is to determine of the coronation.

In God’s name speak. When is the royal day?

Is all things ready for that royal time?

It is, and wants but nomination.

Tomorrow, then, I judge a happy day.

Who knows the Lord Protector’s mind herein?

Who is most inward with the noble Duke?

Your Grace, we think, should soonest know his mind.

We know each other’s faces; for our hearts,

He knows no more of mine than I of yours,

Or I of his, my lord, than you of mine.

Lord Hastings, you and he are near in love.

I thank his Grace, I know he loves me well;

But for his purpose in the coronation

I have not sounded him, nor he delivered

His gracious pleasure any way therein.

But you, my honourable lords, may name the time,

And in the Duke’s behalf I’ll give my voice,

Which I presume he’ll take in gentle part.

In happy time, here comes the Duke himself.

My noble lords and cousins all, good morrow.

I have been long a sleeper; but I trust

My absence doth neglect no great design

Which by my presence might have been concluded.

Had you not come upon your cue, my lord,

William Lord Hastings had pronounced your part—

I mean your voice for crowning of the King.

Than my Lord Hastings no man might be bolder.

His lordship knows me well and loves me well.

My lord of Ely, when I was last in Holborn

I saw good strawberries in your garden there;

I do beseech you, send for some of them.

Marry, and will, my lord, with all my heart.

Cousin of Buckingham, a word with you.

Catesby hath sounded Hastings in our business,

And finds the testy gentleman so hot

That he will lose his head ere give consent

His master’s child, as worshipfully he terms it,

Shall lose the royalty of England’s throne.

Withdraw yourself awhile. I’ll go with you.

We have not yet set down this day of triumph.

Tomorrow, in my judgement, is too sudden,

For I myself am not so well provided

As else I would be, were the day prolonged.

Where is my lord the Duke of Gloucester?

I have sent for these strawberries.

His Grace looks cheerfully and smooth this morning.

There’s some conceit or other likes him well

When that he bids good morrow with such spirit.

I think there’s never a man in Christendom

Can lesser hide his love or hate than he,

For by his face straight shall you know his heart.

What of his heart perceive you in his face

By any livelihood he showed today?

Marry, that with no man here he is offended,

For were he, he had shown it in his looks.

I pray you all, tell me what they deserve

That do conspire my death with devilish plots

Of damned witchcraft, and that have prevailed

Upon my body with their hellish charms?

The tender love I bear your Grace, my lord,

Makes me most forward in this princely presence

To doom th’ offenders, whosoe’er they be.

I say, my lord, they have deserved death.

Then be your eyes the witness of their evil.

Look how I am bewitched! Behold, mine arm

Is like a blasted sapling withered up!

And this is Edward’s wife, that monstrous witch,

Consorted with that harlot, strumpet Shore,

That by their witchcraft thus have marked me.

If they have done this deed, my noble lord—

If? Thou protector of this damned strumpet,

Talk’st thou to me of “ifs”? Thou art a traitor.

Off with his head! Now by Saint Paul I swear

I will not dine until I see the same.

Lovell and Ratcliffe, look that it be done.

The rest that love me, rise and follow me.

Woe, woe, for England! Not a whit for me,

For I, too fond, might have prevented this.

Stanley did dream the boar did raze his helm,

And I did scorn it and disdain to fly.

Three times today my foot-cloth horse did stumble,

And started when he looked upon the Tower,

As loath to bear me to the slaughter-house.

O, now I need the priest that spake to me;

I now repent I told the pursuivant,

As too triumphing, how mine enemies

Today at Pomfret bloodily were butchered,

And I myself secure in grace and favour.

O Margaret, Margaret, now thy heavy curse

Is lighted on poor Hastings’ wretched head.

Come, come, dispatch. The Duke would be at dinner:

Make a short shrift. He longs to see your head.

O momentary grace of mortal men,

Which we more hunt for than the grace of God!

Who builds his hope in air of your good looks

Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast,

Ready with every nod to tumble down

Into the fatal bowels of the deep.

Come, come, dispatch. ’Tis bootless to exclaim.

O bloody Richard! Miserable England,

I prophesy the fearfull’st time to thee

That ever wretched age hath looked upon.

Come, lead me to the block. Bear him my head.

They smile at me who shortly shall be dead.