Will not King Richard let me speak with him?

No, my good lord; therefore be patient.

Hastings, and Edward’s children, Grey, and Rivers,

Holy King Henry, and thy fair son Edward,

Vaughan, and all that have miscarried

By underhand, corrupted foul injustice,

If that your moody discontented souls

Do through the clouds behold this present hour,

Even for revenge mock my destruction.

This is All-Souls’ day, fellow, is it not?

It is.

Why, then All-Souls’ day is my body’s doomsday.

This is the day which, in King Edward’s time,

I wished might fall on me when I was found

False to his children and his wife’s allies.

This is the day wherein I wished to fall

By the false faith of him whom most I trusted.

This, this All-Souls’ day to my fearful soul

Is the determined respite of my wrongs.

That high All-Seer which I dallied with

Hath turned my feigned prayer on my head

And given in earnest what I begged in jest.

Thus doth He force the swords of wicked men

To turn their own points in their masters’ bosoms.

Thus Margaret’s curse falls heavy on my neck:

“When he,” quoth she, “shall split thy heart with sorrow,

Remember Margaret was a prophetess.”

Come lead me, officers, to the block of shame;

Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame.