To have him fuddenly convey'd from hence:
Cancel his Bond of Life, dear God, I pray,
That I may live and fay, the Dog is dead.

Queen. O thou didft Prophefie the time would come,
That I should wish for thee to help me Curfe
That bottel'd Spider, that foul bunch-back'd Toad.

0. Mar. I call'd thee then, vain flourish of my Fortune : I call'd thee then, poor Shadow, painted Queen, The representation of but what I was;

The flattering Index of a direful Pageant,
One heav'd a high to be hurl'd down below:
A Mother only mock'd with two fair Babes;
A dream of what thou waft, a garish Flag
To be the aim of every dang'rous Shot;
A fign of Dignity, a Breath, a Bubble;
A Queen in Jeft, only to fill the Scene.

Where is thy Husband now? where be thy Brothers?
Where be thy two Sons? wherein doft thou Joy?
Who fues and kneels, and fays, God fave the Queen ?
Where be the bending Peers that flatter'd thee?
Where be the thronging Troops that follow'd thee?
Decline all this, and fee now what thou art.
For happy Wife, a most distress'd Widow;
For joyful Mother, one that wails the Name;
For one being fu'd to, one that humbly fues;
For Queen, a very Caytiff crown'd with Care;
For the that fcorn'd at me, now fcorn'd of me;
For the being fear'd of all, now fearing one;
For the commanding all, obeyed of none.
Thus hath the course of Justice whirl'd about,
And left thee but a very prey to Time,
Having no more but thought of what thou waft,
To torture thee the more, being what thou art.
Thou didft ufurp my Place, and doft thou not
Ulurp the juft proportion of my Sorrow?
Now thy proud Neck bears half my burthen'd Yoak,
From which, even here I flip my wearied Head,
And leave the burthen of it all on thee.

Farewel York's Wife, and Queen of fad Mifchance,
Thefe English Woes fhall make me fmile in France.

Queen

Queen. O thou well skill'd in Curfes, stay a while, And teach me how to curfe mine Enemies.

Q. Mar. Forbear to fleep the Night, and faft the Day: Compare dead Happiness with living Woe;

Think that thy Babes were fweeter than they were,
And he that flew them fouler than he is:
Bett'ring thy lofs makes the bad Causer worse,
Revolving this, will teach thee how to curfe.

Queen. My Words are dull, O quicken them with thine.
Q. Mar. Thy Woes will make them sharp,

And pierce like mine.

Exit Margaret. Dutch. Why should Calamity be full of Words? Queen. Windy Attorneys to their Client's Woes, Airy fucceeders of inteftine Joys,

Poor breathing Orators of Miseries,

Let them have scope, though what they will impart
Help nothing elfe, yet they do eafe the Heart.

Dutch. If fo, then be not Tongue-ty'd; go with me,
And in the breath of bitter Words, let's fmother
My damned Son, that thy two sweet Sons fmother'd.
The Trumpet founds, be copious of exclaims.

Enter King Richard and his Train.

K. Rich. Who intercepts me in my Expedition?
Dutch. O fhe that might have intercepted thee,
By ftrangling thee in her accurfed Womb,

From all the flaughters, Wretch, that thou haft done.
Queen. Hid'st thou that Forehead with a Golden Crown,
Where't should be branded, if that right were right?
The flaughter of the Prince that ow'd that Crown,
And the dire death of my poor Sons and Brothers.
Tell me, thou Villain-flave, where are my Children?
Dutch. Thou Toad, thou Toad,

Where is thy Brother Clarence?

And little Ned Plantagenet his Son?

Queen. Where is the gentle Rivers, Vaughan, Gray?
Dutch. Where is kind Haftings?

K. Rich. A flourish, Trumpets; ftrike Alarum Drums: Let not the Heav'ns hear thefe Tell-tale Women

Rail on the Lord's Anointed. Strike, I fay.

Either be patient, and intreat me fair,

[Flourish, Alarums.

i

Or

Or with the clamorous reports of War
Thus will I drown your Exclamations.
Dutch. Art thou my Son?

K. Rich. Ay, I thank God, my Father, and your felf,
Dutch. Then patiently hear my Impatience.

K. Rich. Madam, I have a touch of your Condition, That cannot brook the accent of Reproof.

Dutch. O let me speak.

K. Rich. Do then, but I'll not hear.

Dutch. I will be mild and gentle in my Words.
K. Rich. And brief, good Mother, for I am in hafte.
Dutch. Art thou fo hafty? I have ftaid for thee,
God knows, in Torment and in Agony.

K. Rich. And came I not at laft to comfort you?
Dutch. No by the holy Rood, thou know'ft it well,
Thou cam'ft on Earth to make the Earth my Hell.
A grievous burthen was thy Birth to me,

Tetchy and wayward was thy Infancy;

Thy School-days frightful, defperate, wild and furious,
Thy prime of Manhood, daring, bold and venturous:
Thy Age confirm'd, proud, fubtle, fly and bloody,
More mild, but yet more harmful, kind in hatred:
What comfortable hour can't thou name,
That ever grac'd me with thy Company?

K. Rich. Faith none but Humphry Hower,

That call'd your Grace

To breakfat once, forth of my Company.
If I be fo difgracious in your Eye,

Let me march on and not offend you, Madam.
Strike up the Drum.

Dutch. I prithee hear me fpeak.

K. Rich. You fpeak too bitterly.
Dutch. Hear me a Word,

For I fhall never fpeak to thee again.

K. Rich. So.

Dutch. Either thou wilt die by God's juft Ordinance, E'er from this War thou turn a Conqueror;

Or I with Grief and extream Age fhall perish,
And never more behold thy Face again.

Therefore take with thee my moft grievous Curfe,
Which, in the Day of Battel, tire thee more,

Than

Than all the compleat Armor that thou wear.
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 Succefs and Victory,

Bloody thou art, bloody will be thy end:

Shame ferves thy Life, and doth thy Death attend. [Exit.
Queen. Tho' far more Caufe, yet much lefs Spirit to curse
Abides in me, I fay Amen to her.

K. Rich. Stay, Madam, I muft talk a Word with you.
Queen. I have no more Sons of the Royal Blood
For thee to flaughter; for my Daughters, Richard,
They shall be praying Nuns, not weeping Queens;
And therefore level not to hit their Lives.

K. Rich. You have a Daughter call'd Elizabeth,
Virtuous and Fair, Royal and Gracious.

Queen. And muft the die for this? O let her live,
And I'll corrupt her Manners, ftain her Beauty,
Slander my felf as falfe to Edward's Bed:
Throw over her the Vail of Infamy,

So the may live unscarr'd of bleeding Slaughter,
I will confefs fhe was not Edward's Daughter.

K. Rich. Wrong not her Birth, fhe is a Royal Princefs
Queen. To fave her Life I'll fay fhe is not fo.

K. Rich. Her Life is fafeft only in her Birth.

Queen. And only in that fafety dy'd her Brothers.
K. Rich. Lo, at their Birth good Stars were oppofire.
Queen. No, to their Lives ill Friends were contrary.
Q. Rich. All unavoided is the doom of Deftiny.
Queen. True; when avoided Grace makes Destiny.
My Babes were deftin'd to a fairer Death,

If Grace had bleft thee with a fairer Life.

K. Rich. You fpeak as if that I had flain my Coufins? Queen. Coufins indeed, and by their Uncle cozen'd, Of Comfort, Kingdom, Kindred, Freedom, Life. Whofe Hands foever lanch'd 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 Intrails of my Lambs.

But that ftill ufe of Grief makes wild Grief tame,

My

My Tongue fhould to thy Ears not name my Boys,
Till that my Nails were anchor'd in thine Eyes;
And I in fuch a defp'rate Bay of Death,
Like a poor Bark of Sails and Tackling reft,
Rush all to pièces on thy Rocky Bofom.

K. Rich. Madam, fo thrive I in my Enterprize,
And dangerous fuccefs of bloody Wars,
As I intend more good to you and yours,
Than ever you or yours by me were harm'd.

Queen. What good is cover'd with the Face of Heav'n, To be difcover'd, that can do me good?

K. Rich. Th'Advancement of your Children, gentle Lady. Queen. Up to fome Scaffold, there to lofe their Heads. K. Rich. Unto the dignity and heighth of Fortune, The high Imperial Type of this Earth's Glory. Queen. Flatter my Sorrow with report of it; Tell me, what State, what Dignity, what Honour Canft thou devife to any Child of mine?

K. Rich. Ev'n all I have; ay, and my self and all, Will I withal endow a Child of thine:

So in the Lethe of thy angry Soul

Thou drown the fad remembrance of those Wrongs,
Which thou supposest I have done to thee.

Queen. Be brief, left that the process of thy kindness
Laft longer telling, than thy kindness date.

K. Rich. Then know,

That from my Soul I love thy Daughter.

Queen. My Daughter's Mother thinks it with her Soul. K. Rich. What do you think?

Queen. That thou doft love my Daughter from thy Soul. So from thy Soul's love didft thou love her Brothers, And from my Heart's love, I do thank thee for it. K. Rich. Be not fo hafty to confound my meaning; mean, that with my Soul I love thy Daughter, And do intend to make her Queen of England.

Queen. Well then, who doft thou mean fhall be her King. K. Rich. Even he that makes her Queen;

Who elfe fhould be ?

Queen. What, thou!

K. Rich. Even fo; how think you of it?

Queen.