K. Rich. Well, let that rest. Dorset is fled to Buck. I hear the news, my lord.

[Richmond. K. Rich. Stanley, he is your wife's son :-Well,

look to it. Buck. My lord, I claim the gift, my due by promise, For which your honour and your faith is pawn'd; The earldom of Hereford, and the moveables, Which you have promised I shall possess.

K. Rich. Stanley, look to your wife ; if she convey Letters to Richmond, you shall answer it.

Buck. What says your highness to my just request?

K. Rich. I do remember me,--Henry the sixth
Did prophecy, that Richmond should be king,
When Richmond was a little peevish boy.
A king !--perhaps-

Buck. My lord,
K. Rich. How chance, the prophet could not at

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

Buck. My lord, your promise for the earldom,

K. Rich. Richmond !--When last I was at Exeter,
The mayor in courtesy show'd me the castle,
And call'd it-Rouge-mont: at which name, I started;
Because a bard of Ireland told me once,
I should not live long after I saw Richmond.

Buck. My lord,
K. Rich.

Ay, what's o'clock?
Buck.

I am thus bold To put your grace in mind of what you promis’d me.

K. Rich. Well, but what is't o'clock?
Buck.

Upon the stroke

Of ten.

K. Rich. Well, let it strike.
Buck.

Why, let it strike? (stroke K. Rich. Because that, like a Jack,' thou keep'st the

· A Jack of the clock-house. Richard likens Buckingham to one of those automatons, and bids him not suspend the stroke on the clock bell, but strike, that the hour may be past, and himself be at liberty to pursue his meditations.-SIR J. HAWKINS.

Betwixt thy begging and my meditation.
I am not in the giving vein to-day.

Buck. Why, then resolve me whe'r you will, or no.
K. Rich. Thou troublest me; I am not in the vein.

[Exeunt King RICHARD and train. Buck. And is it thus ? repays he my deep service With such contempt? made Ì him king for this ? o, let me think on Hastings; and be gone To Brecknock,' while my fearful head is on. [Exit.

SCENE III.-The same.

Enter TYRREL. Tyr. The tyrannous and bloody act is done; The most arch deed of piteous massacre, That ever yet this land was guilty of. Dighton, and Forrest, whom I did suborn To do this piece of ruthless butchery, Albeit they were flesh'd villains, bloody dogs, Melting with tenderness, and mild compassion, Wept like two children, in their death's sad story. O thus, quoth Dighton, lay the gentle babes, – Thus, thus, quoth Forrest, girdling one another, Within their alabaster innocent arms : Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, Which, in their summer beauty, kiss'd each other. A book of prayers on their pillow lay; Which once, quoth Forrest, almost chang'd my mind ; But, O, the devil—there the villain stopp'd; When Dighton thus told on, we smothered The most replenished sweet work of nature, That, from the prime creation, e'er she fram'd. Hence both are gone with conscience and remorse, They could not speak; and so I left them both, To bear this tidings to the bloody king.

In Wales, where his estate lay.

Enter King RICHARD. And here he comes:-All health, my sovereign lord ?

K. Rich. Kind Tyrrel! am I happy in thy news?

Tyr. If to have done the thing you gave in charge
Beget your happiness, be happy then,
For it is done.

K. Rich. But didst thou see them dead ?
Tyr. I did, my lord.
K. Rich.

And buried, gentle Tyrrel? Tyr. The chaplain of the Tower hath buried them; But where, to say the truth, I do not know.

K. Rich. Come to me Tyrrel, soon, at after supper, When thou shalt tell the process of their death. Mean time, but think how I may do thee good, And be inheritor of thy desire. Farewell, till then. Tyr.

I humbly take my leave. [Exit. K. Rich. The son of Clarence have I pen'd up

close;
His daughter meanly have I match'd in marriage;
The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham's bosom,
And Anne my wife hath bid the world good night.
Now, for I know the Bretagne Richmond' aims
At young Elizabeth, my brother's daughter,
And, by that knot, looks proudly on the crown,
To her go I, a jolly thriving wooer.

Enter CATESBY.
Cate. My lord,
K. Rich. Good news or bad, that thou com’st in so
bluntly?

[mond; Cate. Bad news, my lord: Morton is fled to RichAnd Buckingham, back'd with the hardy Welshmen, Is in the field, and still his power encreaseth.

· Richmond was at this time in exile at the court of the duke of Bretagne,

K. Rich. Ely with Richmond troubles me more

near

Than Buckingham and his rash-levied strength.
Come, I have learn'd, that fearful commenting
Is leaden servitor to dull delay;'
Delay leads impotent and snail-pac'd beggary:
Then fiery expedition be my wing,
Jove's Mercury, and herald for a king!
Go, muster men: My counsel is my shield;
We must be brief, when traitors brave the field.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.—The same. Before the palace.

Enter Queen MARGARET. Q. Mar. So, now prosperity begins to mellow, And drop into the rotten mouth of death. Here in these confines slily have I lurk’d, To watch the waning of mine enemies. A dire induction ? am I witness to, And will to France; hoping, the consequence 3 Will prove as bitter, black, and tragical. Withdraw thee, wretched Margaret! who comes here? Enter Queen ELIZABETH and the Duchess of YORK.

Q. Eliz. 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 fix'd in doom perpetual, Hover about me with your airy wings, And hear your mother's lamentation !

Q. Mar. Hover about her; say, that right for right Hath dimm'd your infant morn to aged night.

son.

Duch. So many miseries have craz’d my voice, That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute,Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead ?

Q. Mar. Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet, Edward for Edward pays a dying debt. Q. Eliz. 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?" Q. Mar. When holy Harry died, and my sweet

[come, Q. Eliz. O, thou didst prophecy, the time would That I should wish for thee to help me curse That bottled spider, that foul bunch-back’d toad. Q. Mar. I call’d thee then, vain flourish of my

fortune; I call’d thee then, poor shadow, painted queen; The presentation of but what I was, The flattering index of a direful pageant, One heav'd a high, to be hurld down below: A mother only mock'd 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 be thy two sons? wherein dost thou joy? Who

sues, and kneels, and says—God save the queen ? Where be the bending peers that flatter'd thee? Where be the thronging troops that follow'd 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 crown’d with care:

When, before the present occasion, didst thou ever sleep during the commission of such an action?

? Run through all this from first to last.