K. Rich. Hoyday, a Riddle, neither good nor bad: Stan. Richmond is on the Seas. K. Rich. There let him fink, and be the Seas on him, Stan. I know not, mighty Sovereign, but by guess. Stan. Stir'd up by Dorset, Buckingham, and Morton, ? K. Rich. Is the Chair empty is the Sword unfway'd? Is the King dead? the Empire unpoffefs'd? What Heir of York is there alive, but we? And who is England's King, but great York's Heir? Stan. Unless for that, my Liege, I cannot guess. Stan. No, my good Lord, therefore miftruft me not. Are they not now upon the Western Shore, Stan No, my good Lord, my Friends are in the North. I'll mufter up my Friends, and meet your Grace, K. Rich. Ay, thou would'ft be gone, to join with RichBut I'l not truft thee. Stan. Moft mighty Sovereign, You have no caule to hold my Friendship doubtful, (mond: K. Rich. Go then, and muster Men; but leave behind Your Son George Stanley: Look your Heart be firm, Or elfe his Head's affurance is but frail. Stan. Stan. So deal with him, as I prove true to you. Enter a Messenger. [Exit Stanley. Mef. My gracious Sovereign, now in Devonshire, Si Edward Courtney, and the haughty Prelate, With many more Confederates are in Ams. Mef. In Kent, my Liege, the Guilfords are in Arms, Flock to the Rebels, and their Power grows ftrong. Mef. My Lord, the Army of great Buckingham. K. Rich. Out on ye, Owls, nothing but Songs of Death. K. Rich. I cry thee Mercy; There is my Purfe, to cure that Blow of thine. Mef. Such Proclamation hath been made, my Lord. Mef. Sir Thomas Lovel, and Lord Marquels Dorfet, Hois'd Sail, and made his Courfe again for Britain. K. Rich. March on, march on, fince we are up in Arms, If not to fight with Foreign Enemies, M 3 Yet 1 Yet to beat down thefe Rebels here at Home. Enter Catesby. Catef. My Liege, the Duke of Buckingham is taken, Is colder News, but yet it m ft be toid. K. Rich. Away towards Salisbury; while we reafon here, A Royal Barrel might be won and loft: Some one take order that Buckingham be brought To Salisbury, the reft march on with me. SCENE IV. Enter Derby, and Sir Chriftopher. [Exeunt. Derby. Sir Chriftopher, tell Richmond this from me, And many other of great Name and Worth: And towards London do they bend their Power, If by the way they be not fought withal. Derby. Well, hye thee to thy Lord: I kifs his Hand, My Letter will refolve him of my Mind. Farewel. [Exeunt. ACT ACT V. SCENE I. Enter the Sheriff, and Buckingham with Halberds led to Execution. Buck W ILL not King Richard let me fpeak with him? Sher. No, good my Lord, therefore be patient. Buck. Haftings, and Edward's Children, Gray and Rivers, By under-hand corrupted foul Injuftice, Do through the Clouds behold this prefent hour, This is All-Souls Day, Fellow, is it not? Sher. It is. Buck. Why then All-Souls Day is my Body's Doomsday. This is the Day, which in King Edward's time I wifht might fall on me, when I was found Come lead me, Officers, to the Block of Shame, [Exeunt Buckingham with Officers. Enter Richmond, Oxford, Blunt, Herbert, and others, with Drum and Colours. Richm. Fellows in Arms, and my most loving Friends, Brus'd underneath the Yoak of Tyranny. Thus far into the Bowels of the Land, Have we marcht on without Impediment; And here receive we from our Father Stanley Lines of fair Comfort and Encouragement: The wretched, bloody and ufurping Boar, That fpoil'd our Summer-Fields, and fruitful Vines, Swills your warm Blood like Wafh, and makes his Trough In your embowell'd Bofoms; This foul Swine Is now even in the Center of this Ifle, Near to the Town of Leicester, as we learn: To reap By this one bloody trial of fharp War. Oxf. Every Man's Confcience is a thousand Men, To fight against this guilty Homicide. Herb. I doubt not but his Friends will turn to us. Blunt. He hath no Friends, but what are Friends for fear, Which in his deareft need will fly from him. Richm. All for our vantage, then in God's Name march, True hope is swift, and flies with Swallow's Wings, Kings it makes Gods, and meaner Creatures Kings. [Exeunt. Enter King Richrrd in Arms, with Norfolk, Ratcliff, and the Earl of Surrey. K. Rich. Here pitch our Tent, even here in Bosworth-field. My Lord of Surrey, why look you fo fad? Sur. My Heart is ten times lighter than my Looks. K. Rich. My Lord of Norfolk. Nor. Here, moft gracious Liege. K. Kich. Norfolk, we muft have knocks: Ha, muft we not? ! Nor. We must both give and take, my loving Lord. K. Rich. |