Enter OFFICER. Offi. Sir, here's a gentleman brings a warrant, For his access to King Henry's presence. Lieut. I come to him. [Exit, with OFFICER. Stanley. His business may require your privacy; I'll leave you, sir, wishing you all the good That can be wish'd-not wronging him I serve. [Exit. K. Hen. Farewell! Who can this be! a sudden coldness, Like the damp hand of death, has seiz'd my limbs : I fear some heavy news! Enter LIEUTENANT. Who is it, good Lieutenant ? Lieut. A gentleman, sir, from Tewksbury: he seems A melancholy messenger-for, when I ask'd What news, his answer was a deep-fetch'd sigh: I would not urge him, but I fear 'tis fatal. Enter TRESSEL. [Exit. K. Hen. Fatal indeed! his brow's the title-page, That speaks the nature of a tragic volume. Say, friend, how does my queen! my son ! Thou tremblest, and the whiteness of thy cheek Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand. Ev'n such a man, so faint, so spiritless, So dull, so dead in look, so woe begone, Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night, And would have told him half his Troy was burn'd. But Priam found the fire, ere he his tongue, And I my poor son's death, ere thou relat'st it. Now wouldst thou say-your son did thus, and thus, And thus your queen! so fought the valiant Ox ford; Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds; Thou hast a sigh, to blow away this praise, But for my lord, your son K. Hen. Why, he is dead!-yet speak, I charge thee! Tell thou thy master his suspicion lies, And I will take it as a kind disgrace, And thank thee well, for doing me such wrong. Tressel. 'Would it were wrong to say; but, sir, your fears are true. K. Hen. Yet for all this, say not my son is dead. Tressel. Sir, I am sorry I must force you to Believe, what 'would to Heav'n I had not seen! But in this last battle, near Tewksbury, Your son, whose active spirit lent a fire, Still made his way, where danger stood to oppose him. A braver youth, of more courageous heat, Ne'er spurr'd his courser at the trumpet's sound. Where both your queen and son were made his prisoners. K. Hen. Yet hold! for, oh! this prologue lets me in To a most fatal tragedy to come. Died he a prisoner, say'st thou ? how? by grief? For having stirred his subjects to rebellion? While I, now speaking with my father's mouth, At which crook'd Richard, Clarence, and the rest, In bloody state I saw him on the earth, From whence, with life, he never more sprung up. K. Hen. Oh! hadst thou stabb'd, at every word's deliverance, Sharp poniards in my flesh, while this was told, Thy wounds had given less anguish than thy words. Oh, Heav'ns! methinks I see my tender lamb Gasping beneath the ravenous wolves' fell gripe! But say, did all-did they all strike him, say'st thou? Tressel. All, sir: but the first wound Duke Richard gave. K. Hen. There let him stop! be that his last of ills! Oh, barbarous act! unhospitable men! Against the rigid laws of arms, to kill him! Or wallow, naked, in December's snow, C If thou wilt soothe my sorrow, then I'll thank thee; Ay! now thou'rt kind indeed! these tears oblige me. Tressel. Alas, my lord, I fear more èvils towards you! K. Hen. Whý, let it come; I scarce shall feel it now; My present woes have beat me to the ground; Tressel. A word does that; it comes in Gloster's form. K. Hen. Frightful indeed! give me the worst that threatens. Tressel. After the murder of your son, stern Richard, As if unsated with the wounds he had given, With unwash'd hands went from his friends in haste; And, being asked by Clarence of the cause, He, low'ring, cried, Brother, I must to the Tower; I've business there; excuse me to the king: Before you reach the town, expect some news: This said, he vanish'd-and, I hear, is arriv'd. K. Hen. Why, then the period of my woes is set; For ills, but thought by him, are half perform❜d. し Enter LIEUTENANT, with an Order. Lieut. Forgive me, sir, what I'm compell'd t' obey: An order for your close confinement. K. Hen. Whence comes it, good Lieutenant ? Lieut. Sir, from the Duke of Gloster. K. Hen. Good night to all then! I obey it. And now, good friend, suppose me on my death-bed, And take of me thy last, short-living, leave. Nay, keep thy tears, till thou hast seen me dead: And when, in tedious winter nights, with good Old folks, thou sitt'st up late, To hear them tell the dismal tales Of times long past, ev'n now with woe remember'd, Before thou bidd'st good night, to quit their grief, Tell thou the lamentable fall of me, And send thy hearers weeping to their beds. [Exeunt. SCENE II. The Tower. Enter GLOSTER. Glost. Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by the sun of York; And all the clouds, that low'r'd upon our house, In the deep bosom of the ocean buried: Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths, Our stern alarms are chang'd to merry meetings; But I, that am not made for sportive tricks, |