So now prosperity begins to mellow,

And drop into the rotten mouth of death.

Here in these confines slily have I lurked

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?

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 fixed in doom perpetual,

Hover about me with your airy wings

And hear your mother’s lamentation.

[_Aside_.] Hover about her; say that right for right

Hath dimmed your infant morn to aged night.

So many miseries have crazed my voice

That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute.

Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead?

[_Aside_.] Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet;

Edward for Edward pays a dying debt.

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?

[_Aside_.] When holy Harry died, and my sweet son.

Dead life, blind sight, poor mortal living ghost,

Woe’s scene, world’s shame, grave’s due by life usurped,

Brief abstract and record of tedious days,

Rest thy unrest on England’s lawful earth,

[_Sitting_.] Unlawfully made drunk with innocent blood.

Ah, that thou wouldst as soon afford a grave

As thou canst yield a melancholy seat,

Then would I hide my bones, not rest them here.

[_Sitting_.] Ah, who hath any cause to mourn but we?

If ancient sorrow be most reverend,

Give mine the benefit of seigniory,

And let my griefs frown on the upper hand.

If sorrow can admit society,

Tell o’er your woes again by viewing mine.

I had an Edward, till a Richard killed him;

I had a husband, till a Richard killed him.

Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard killed him;

Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard killed him.

I had a Richard too, and thou didst kill him;

I had a Rutland too; thou holp’st to kill him.

Thou hadst a Clarence too, and Richard killed him.

From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept

A hell-hound that doth hunt us all to death:

That dog, that had his teeth before his eyes,

To worry lambs and lap their gentle blood;

That excellent grand tyrant of the earth,

That reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls;

That foul defacer of God’s handiwork

Thy womb let loose to chase us to our graves.

O upright, just, and true-disposing God,

How do I thank thee that this carnal cur

Preys on the issue of his mother’s body,

And makes her pew-fellow with others’ moan!

O Harry’s wife, triumph not in my woes!

God witness with me, I have wept for thine.

Bear with me. I am hungry for revenge,

And now I cloy me with beholding it.

Thy Edward he is dead, that killed my Edward;

The other Edward dead, to quit my Edward;

Young York, he is but boot, because both they

Matched not the high perfection of my loss.

Thy Clarence he is dead that stabbed my Edward;

And the beholders of this frantic play,

Th’ adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey,

Untimely smothered in their dusky graves.

Richard yet lives, hell’s black intelligencer,

Only reserved their factor to buy souls

And send them thither. But at hand, at hand

Ensues his piteous and unpitied end.

Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends roar, saints pray,

To have him suddenly conveyed from hence.

Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I pray,

That I may live to say “The dog is dead.”

O, thou didst prophesy the time would come

That I should wish for thee to help me curse

That bottled spider, that foul bunch-backed toad!

I called thee then, vain flourish of my fortune;

I called thee then, poor shadow, painted queen,

The presentation of but what I was,

The flattering index of a direful pageant;

One heaved a-high to be hurled down below,

A mother only mocked with two fair babes;

A dream of what thou wast; a garish flag,

To be the aim of every dangerous shot;

A sign of dignity, a breath, a bubble;

A queen in jest, only to fill the scene.

Where is thy husband now? Where be thy brothers?

Where are thy two sons? Wherein dost thou joy?

Who sues, and kneels, and says, “God save the Queen?”

Where be the bending peers that flattered thee?

Where be the thronging troops that followed thee?

Decline all this, and see what now thou art:

For happy wife, a most distressed widow;

For joyful mother, one that wails the name;

For one being sued to, one that humbly sues;

For Queen, a very caitiff crowned with care;

For she that scorned at me, now scorned of me;

For she being feared of all, now fearing one;

For she commanding all, obeyed of none.

Thus hath the course of justice wheeled about

And left thee but a very prey to time,

Having no more but thought of what thou wast

To torture thee the more, being what thou art.

Thou didst usurp my place, and dost thou not

Usurp the just proportion of my sorrow?

Now thy proud neck bears half my burdened yoke,

From which even here I slip my weary head,

And leave the burden of it all on thee.

Farewell, York’s wife, and Queen of sad mischance.

These English woes shall make me smile in France.

O thou well skilled in curses, stay awhile,

And teach me how to curse mine enemies.

Forbear to sleep the night, and fast the days;

Compare dead happiness with living woe;

Think that thy babes were sweeter than they were,

And he that slew them fouler than he is.

Bettering thy loss makes the bad-causer worse.

Revolving this will teach thee how to curse.

My words are dull. O, quicken them with thine!

Thy woes will make them sharp and pierce like mine.

Why should calamity be full of words?

Windy attorneys to their clients’ woes,

Airy succeeders of intestate joys,

Poor breathing orators of miseries,

Let them have scope, though what they do impart

Help nothing else, yet do they ease the heart.

If so, then be not tongue-tied. Go with me,

And in the breath of bitter words let’s smother

My damned son, that thy two sweet sons smothered.

The trumpet sounds. Be copious in exclaims.

Who intercepts me in my expedition?

O, she that might have intercepted thee,

By strangling thee in her accursed womb,

From all the slaughters, wretch, that thou hast done.

Hid’st thou that forehead with a golden crown

Where should be branded, if that right were right,

The slaughter of the Prince that owed that crown,

And the dire death of my poor sons and brothers?

Tell me, thou villain-slave, where are my children?

Thou toad, thou toad, where is thy brother Clarence,

And little Ned Plantagenet his son?

Where is the gentle Rivers, Vaughan, Grey?

Where is kind Hastings?

A flourish, trumpets! Strike alarum, drums!

Let not the heavens hear these tell-tale women

Rail on the Lord’s anointed. Strike, I say!

Either be patient and entreat me fair,

Or with the clamorous report of war

Thus will I drown your exclamations.

Art thou my son?

Ay, I thank God, my father, and yourself.

Then patiently hear my impatience.

Madam, I have a touch of your condition,

That cannot brook the accent of reproof.

O, let me speak!

Do then, but I’ll not hear.

I will be mild and gentle in my words.

And brief, good mother, for I am in haste.

Art thou so hasty? I have stayed for thee,

God knows, in torment and in agony.

And came I not at last to comfort you?

No, by the Holy Rood, thou know’st it well

Thou cam’st on earth to make the earth my hell.

A grievous burden was thy birth to me;

Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy;

Thy school-days frightful, desp’rate, wild, and furious;

Thy prime of manhood daring, bold, and venturous;

Thy age confirmed, proud, subtle, sly, and bloody,

More mild, but yet more harmful, kind in hatred.

What comfortable hour canst thou name

That ever graced me with thy company?

Faith, none but Humphrey Hower, that called your Grace

To breakfast once, forth of my company.

If I be so disgracious in your eye,

Let me march on and not offend you, madam.

Strike up the drum.

I prithee, hear me speak.

You speak too bitterly.

Hear me a word,

For I shall never speak to thee again.

So.

Either thou wilt die by God’s just ordinance

Ere from this war thou turn a conqueror,

Or I with grief and extreme age shall perish

And never more behold thy face again.

Therefore take with thee my most grievous curse,

Which in the day of battle tire thee more

Than all the complete armour that thou wear’st.

My prayers on the adverse party fight;

And there the little souls of Edward’s children

Whisper the spirits of thine enemies

And promise them success and victory.

Bloody thou art; bloody will be thy end.

Shame serves thy life and doth thy death attend.

Though far more cause, yet much less spirit to curse

Abides in me, I say amen to her.

Stay, madam, I must talk a word with you.

I have no more sons of the royal blood

For thee to slaughter. For my daughters, Richard,

They shall be praying nuns, not weeping queens,

And therefore level not to hit their lives.

You have a daughter called Elizabeth,

Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious.

And must she die for this? O, let her live,

And I’ll corrupt her manners, stain her beauty,

Slander myself as false to Edward’s bed,

Throw over her the veil of infamy.

So she may live unscarred of bleeding slaughter,

I will confess she was not Edward’s daughter.

Wrong not her birth; she is a royal princess.

To save her life I’ll say she is not so.

Her life is safest only in her birth.

And only in that safety died her brothers.

Lo, at their births good stars were opposite.

No, to their lives ill friends were contrary.

All unavoided is the doom of destiny.

True, when avoided grace makes destiny.

My babes were destined to a fairer death,

If grace had blessed thee with a fairer life.

You speak as if that I had slain my cousins.

Cousins, indeed, and by their uncle cozened

Of comfort, kingdom, kindred, freedom, life.

Whose hand soever lanced their tender hearts,

Thy head, all indirectly, gave direction.

No doubt the murd’rous knife was dull and blunt

Till it was whetted on thy stone-hard heart,

To revel in the entrails of my lambs.

But that still use of grief makes wild grief tame,

My tongue should to thy ears not name my boys

Till that my nails were anchored in thine eyes,

And I, in such a desp’rate bay of death,

Like a poor bark of sails and tackling reft,

Rush all to pieces on thy rocky bosom.

Madam, so thrive I in my enterprise

And dangerous success of bloody wars,

As I intend more good to you and yours

Than ever you or yours by me were harmed!

What good is covered with the face of heaven,

To be discovered, that can do me good?

Th’ advancement of your children, gentle lady.

Up to some scaffold, there to lose their heads.

Unto the dignity and height of fortune,

The high imperial type of this earth’s glory.

Flatter my sorrows with report of it.

Tell me what state, what dignity, what honour,

Canst thou demise to any child of mine?

Even all I have—ay, and myself and all

Will I withal endow a child of thine;

So in the Lethe of thy angry soul

Thou drown the sad remembrance of those wrongs

Which thou supposest I have done to thee.

Be brief, lest that the process of thy kindness

Last longer telling than thy kindness’ date.

Then know, that from my soul I love thy daughter.

My daughter’s mother thinks it with her soul.

What do you think?

That thou dost love my daughter from thy soul.

So from thy soul’s love didst thou love her brothers,

And from my heart’s love I do thank thee for it.

Be not so hasty to confound my meaning.

I mean that with my soul I love thy daughter,

And do intend to make her Queen of England.

Well, then, who dost thou mean shall be her king?

Even he that makes her Queen. Who else should be?

What, thou?

Even so. How think you of it?

How canst thou woo her?

That would I learn of you,

As one being best acquainted with her humour.

And wilt thou learn of me?

Madam, with all my heart.

Send to her, by the man that slew her brothers,

A pair of bleeding hearts; thereon engrave

“Edward” and “York.” Then haply will she weep.

Therefore present to her—as sometimes Margaret

Did to thy father, steeped in Rutland’s blood—

A handkerchief, which, say to her, did drain

The purple sap from her sweet brothers’ body,

And bid her wipe her weeping eyes withal.

If this inducement move her not to love,

Send her a letter of thy noble deeds;

Tell her thou mad’st away her uncle Clarence,

Her uncle Rivers, ay, and for her sake

Mad’st quick conveyance with her good aunt Anne.

You mock me, madam; this is not the way

To win your daughter.

There is no other way,

Unless thou couldst put on some other shape,

And not be Richard, that hath done all this.

Say that I did all this for love of her?

Nay, then indeed she cannot choose but hate thee,

Having bought love with such a bloody spoil.

Look what is done cannot be now amended.

Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes,

Which after-hours gives leisure to repent.

If I did take the kingdom from your sons,

To make amends I’ll give it to your daughter.

If I have killed the issue of your womb,

To quicken your increase I will beget

Mine issue of your blood upon your daughter.

A grandam’s name is little less in love

Than is the doting title of a mother;

They are as children but one step below,

Even of your mettle, of your very blood;

Of all one pain, save for a night of groans

Endured of her, for whom you bid like sorrow.

Your children were vexation to your youth,

But mine shall be a comfort to your age.

The loss you have is but a son being King,

And by that loss your daughter is made Queen.

I cannot make you what amends I would;

Therefore accept such kindness as I can.

Dorset your son, that with a fearful soul

Leads discontented steps in foreign soil,

This fair alliance quickly shall call home

To high promotions and great dignity.

The King, that calls your beauteous daughter wife,

Familiarly shall call thy Dorset brother;

Again shall you be mother to a king,

And all the ruins of distressful times

Repaired with double riches of content.

What, we have many goodly days to see.

The liquid drops of tears that you have shed

Shall come again, transformed to orient pearl,

Advantaging their loan with interest

Of ten times double gain of happiness.

Go then, my mother, to thy daughter go.

Make bold her bashful years with your experience;

Prepare her ears to hear a wooer’s tale;

Put in her tender heart th’ aspiring flame

Of golden sovereignty; acquaint the Princess

With the sweet silent hours of marriage joys,

And when this arm of mine hath chastised

The petty rebel, dull-brained Buckingham,

Bound with triumphant garlands will I come

And lead thy daughter to a conqueror’s bed;

To whom I will retail my conquest won,

And she shall be sole victoress, Caesar’s Caesar.

What were I best to say? Her father’s brother

Would be her lord? Or shall I say her uncle?

Or he that slew her brothers and her uncles?

Under what title shall I woo for thee,

That God, the law, my honour, and her love

Can make seem pleasing to her tender years?

Infer fair England’s peace by this alliance.

Which she shall purchase with still-lasting war.

Tell her the King, that may command, entreats.

That at her hands, which the King’s King forbids.

Say she shall be a high and mighty queen.

To vail the title, as her mother doth.

Say I will love her everlastingly.

But how long shall that title “ever” last?

Sweetly in force unto her fair life’s end.

But how long fairly shall her sweet life last?

As long as heaven and nature lengthens it.

As long as hell and Richard likes of it.

Say I, her sovereign, am her subject low.

But she, your subject, loathes such sovereignty.

Be eloquent in my behalf to her.

An honest tale speeds best being plainly told.

Then plainly to her tell my loving tale.

Plain and not honest is too harsh a style.

Your reasons are too shallow and too quick.

O no, my reasons are too deep and dead—

Too deep and dead, poor infants, in their graves.

Harp not on that string, madam; that is past.

Harp on it still shall I till heart-strings break.

Now, by my George, my Garter, and my crown—

Profaned, dishonoured, and the third usurped.

I swear—

By nothing, for this is no oath.

Thy George, profaned, hath lost his lordly honour;

Thy Garter, blemished, pawned his knightly virtue;

Thy crown, usurped, disgraced his kingly glory.

If something thou wouldst swear to be believed,

Swear then by something that thou hast not wronged.

Now, by the world—

’Tis full of thy foul wrongs.

My father’s death—

Thy life hath that dishonoured.

Then, by myself—

Thyself is self-misused.

Why, then, by God—

God’s wrong is most of all.

If thou didst fear to break an oath with Him,

The unity the King my husband made

Thou hadst not broken, nor my brothers died.

If thou hadst feared to break an oath by Him,

Th’ imperial metal circling now thy head

Had graced the tender temples of my child,

And both the Princes had been breathing here,

Which now, two tender bedfellows for dust,

Thy broken faith hath made a prey for worms.

What canst thou swear by now?

The time to come.

That thou hast wronged in the time o’erpast;

For I myself have many tears to wash

Hereafter time, for time past wronged by thee.

The children live whose fathers thou hast slaughtered,

Ungoverned youth, to wail it in their age;

The parents live whose children thou hast butchered,

Old barren plants, to wail it with their age.

Swear not by time to come, for that thou hast

Misused ere used, by times ill-used o’erpast.

As I intend to prosper and repent,

So thrive I in my dangerous affairs

Of hostile arms! Myself myself confound!

Heaven and fortune bar me happy hours!

Day, yield me not thy light, nor, night, thy rest!

Be opposite all planets of good luck

To my proceeding if with dear heart’s love,

Immaculate devotion, holy thoughts,

I tender not thy beauteous princely daughter.

In her consists my happiness and thine;

Without her follows to myself and thee,

Herself, the land, and many a Christian soul,

Death, desolation, ruin, and decay.

It cannot be avoided but by this;

It will not be avoided but by this.

Therefore, dear mother—I must call you so—

Be the attorney of my love to her;

Plead what I will be, not what I have been;

Not my deserts, but what I will deserve.

Urge the necessity and state of times,

And be not peevish found in great designs.

Shall I be tempted of the devil thus?

Ay, if the devil tempt you to do good.

Shall I forget myself to be myself?

Ay, if your self’s remembrance wrong yourself.

Yet thou didst kill my children.

But in your daughter’s womb I bury them,

Where, in that nest of spicery, they will breed

Selves of themselves, to your recomforture.

Shall I go win my daughter to thy will?

And be a happy mother by the deed.

I go. Write to me very shortly,

And you shall understand from me her mind.

Bear her my true love’s kiss; and so, farewell.

Relenting fool, and shallow, changing woman!

How now, what news?

Most mighty sovereign, on the western coast

Rideth a puissant navy; to our shores

Throng many doubtful hollow-hearted friends,

Unarmed, and unresolved to beat them back.

’Tis thought that Richmond is their admiral;

And there they hull, expecting but the aid

Of Buckingham to welcome them ashore.

Some light-foot friend post to the Duke of Norfolk.

Ratcliffe, thyself, or Catesby. Where is he?

Here, my good lord.

Catesby, fly to the Duke.

I will my lord, with all convenient haste.

Ratcliffe, come hither. Post to Salisbury.

When thou com’st thither—

[_To Catesby._] Dull, unmindful villain,

Why stay’st thou here, and go’st not to the Duke?

First, mighty liege, tell me your Highness’ pleasure,

What from your Grace I shall deliver to him.

O, true, good Catesby. Bid him levy straight

The greatest strength and power that he can make,

And meet me suddenly at Salisbury.

I go.

What, may it please you, shall I do at Salisbury?

Why, what wouldst thou do there before I go?

Your Highness told me I should post before.

My mind is changed.

Stanley, what news with you?

None good, my liege, to please you with the hearing;

Nor none so bad but well may be reported.

Hoyday, a riddle! Neither good nor bad.

What need’st thou run so many miles about

When thou mayst tell thy tale the nearest way?

Once more, what news?

Richmond is on the seas.

There let him sink, and be the seas on him!

White-livered runagate, what doth he there?

I know not, mighty sovereign, but by guess.

Well, as you guess?

Stirred up by Dorset, Buckingham, and Morton,

He makes for England, here to claim the crown.

Is the chair empty? Is the sword unswayed?

Is the King dead? The empire unpossessed?

What heir of York is there alive but we?

And who is England’s King but great York’s heir?

Then tell me, what makes he upon the seas?

Unless for that, my liege, I cannot guess.

Unless for that he comes to be your liege,

You cannot guess wherefore the Welshman comes.

Thou wilt revolt and fly to him, I fear.

No, my good lord; therefore mistrust me not.

Where is thy power, then, to beat him back?

Where be thy tenants and thy followers?

Are they not now upon the western shore,

Safe-conducting the rebels from their ships?

No, my good lord, my friends are in the north.

Cold friends to me. What do they in the north,

When they should serve their sovereign in the west?

They have not been commanded, mighty King.

Pleaseth your Majesty to give me leave,

I’ll muster up my friends, and meet your Grace

Where and what time your Majesty shall please.

Ay, ay, thou wouldst be gone to join with Richmond.

But I’ll not trust thee.

Most mighty sovereign,

You have no cause to hold my friendship doubtful.

I never was nor never will be false.

Go then, and muster men, but leave behind

Your son George Stanley. Look your heart be firm,

Or else his head’s assurance is but frail.

So deal with him as I prove true to you.

My gracious sovereign, now in Devonshire,

As I by friends am well advertised,

Sir Edward Courtney, and the haughty prelate,

Bishop of Exeter, his elder brother,

With many more confederates, are in arms.

In Kent, my liege, the Guilfords are in arms,

And every hour more competitors

Flock to the rebels, and their power grows strong.

My lord, the army of great Buckingham—

Out on you, owls! Nothing but songs of death?

There, take thou that till thou bring better news.

The news I have to tell your Majesty

Is, that by sudden floods and fall of waters,

Buckingham’s army is dispersed and scattered,

And he himself wandered away alone,

No man knows whither.

I cry thee mercy.

There is my purse to cure that blow of thine.

Hath any well-advised friend proclaimed

Reward to him that brings the traitor in?

Such proclamation hath been made, my lord.

Sir Thomas Lovell and Lord Marquess Dorset,

’Tis said, my liege, in Yorkshire are in arms.

But this good comfort bring I to your Highness:

The Breton navy is dispersed by tempest.

Richmond, in Dorsetshire, sent out a boat

Unto the shore, to ask those on the banks

If they were his assistants, yea or no?—

Who answered him they came from Buckingham

Upon his party. He, mistrusting them,

Hoised sail, and made his course again for Brittany.

March on, march on, since we are up in arms,

If not to fight with foreign enemies,

Yet to beat down these rebels here at home.

My liege, the Duke of Buckingham is taken.

That is the best news. That the Earl of Richmond

Is with a mighty power landed at Milford

Is colder tidings, yet they must be told.

Away towards Salisbury! While we reason here

A royal battle might be won and lost.

Someone take order Buckingham be brought

To Salisbury; the rest march on with me.