Stand all apart. Cousin of Buckingham!

My gracious sovereign!

Give me thy hand.

Thus high, by thy advice

And thy assistance is King Richard seated.

But shall we wear these glories for a day,

Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them?

Still live they, and for ever let them last!

Ah, Buckingham, now do I play the touch,

To try if thou be current gold indeed.

Young Edward lives; think now what I would speak.

Say on, my loving lord.

Why, Buckingham, I say I would be King.

Why, so you are, my thrice-renowned lord.

Ha! Am I King? ’Tis so—but Edward lives.

True, noble Prince.

O bitter consequence,

That Edward still should live “true noble prince!”

Cousin, thou wast not wont to be so dull.

Shall I be plain? I wish the bastards dead,

And I would have it suddenly performed.

What sayst thou now? Speak suddenly, be brief.

Your Grace may do your pleasure.

Tut, tut, thou art all ice; thy kindness freezes.

Say, have I thy consent that they shall die?

Give me some little breath, some pause, dear lord,

Before I positively speak in this.

I will resolve you herein presently.

[_Aside_.] The King is angry. See, he gnaws his lip.

[_Aside_.] I will converse with iron-witted fools

And unrespective boys; none are for me

That look into me with considerate eyes.

High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect.

Boy!

My lord?

Know’st thou not any whom corrupting gold

Will tempt unto a close exploit of death?

I know a discontented gentleman

Whose humble means match not his haughty spirit.

Gold were as good as twenty orators,

And will, no doubt, tempt him to anything.

What is his name?

His name, my lord, is Tyrrel.

I partly know the man. Go, call him hither, boy.

[_Aside_.] The deep-revolving witty Buckingham

No more shall be the neighbour to my counsels.

Hath he so long held out with me, untired,

And stops he now for breath? Well, be it so.

How now, Lord Stanley, what’s the news?

Know, my loving lord,

The Marquess Dorset, as I hear, is fled

To Richmond, in the parts where he abides.

Come hither, Catesby. Rumour it abroad

That Anne my wife is very grievous sick;

I will take order for her keeping close.

Inquire me out some mean poor 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.

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.

Is thy name Tyrrel?

James Tyrrel, and your most obedient subject.

Art thou indeed?

Prove me, my gracious lord.

Dar’st thou resolve to kill a friend of mine?

Please you. But I had rather kill two enemies.

Why then thou hast it; two deep enemies,

Foes to my rest, and my sweet sleep’s disturbers,

Are they that I would have thee deal upon.

Tyrell, I mean those bastards in the Tower.

Let me have open means to come to them,

And soon I’ll rid you from the fear of them.

Thou sing’st sweet music. Hark, come hither, Tyrrel.

Go, by this token. Rise, and lend thine ear.

[_Whispers_.] There is no more but so. Say it is done,

And I will love thee, and prefer thee for it.

I will dispatch it straight.

My lord, I have considered in my mind

The late request that you did sound me in.

Well, let that rest. Dorset is fled to Richmond.

I hear the news, my lord.

Stanley, he is your wife’s son. Well, look unto it.

My lord, I claim the gift, my due by promise,

For which your honour and your faith is pawned:

Th’ earldom of Hereford, and the movables

Which you have promised I shall possess.

Stanley, look to your wife. If she convey

Letters to Richmond, you shall answer it.

What says your Highness to my just request?

I do remember me, Henry the Sixth

Did prophesy that Richmond should be King,

When Richmond was a little peevish boy.

A king perhaps—

My lord—

How chance the prophet could not at that time

Have told me, I being by, that I should kill him?

My lord, your promise for the earldom—

Richmond! When last I was at Exeter,

The Mayor in courtesy showed me the castle

And called it Rougemount, at which name I started,

Because a bard of Ireland told me once

I should not live long after I saw Richmond.

My lord—

Ay, what’s o’clock?

I am thus bold to put your Grace in mind

Of what you promised me.

Well, but what’s o’clock?

Upon the stroke of ten.

Well, let it strike.

Why let it strike?

Because that, like a jack, thou keep’st the stroke

Betwixt thy begging and my meditation.

I am not in the giving vein today.

Why then, resolve me whether you will or no.

Thou troublest me; I am not in the vein.

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 be gone

To Brecknock while my fearful head is on!