Richard III

Scena Secunda

Sound a Sennet. Enter Richard in pompe, Buckingham, Catesby, Ratcliffe, Louel.

Rich. Stand all apart. Cousin of BuckinghamBuck. My gracious SoueraigneRich. Giue me thy hand.Sound.Thus high, by thy aduice, and thy assistance,Is King Richard seated:But shall we weare these Glories for a day?Or shall they last, and we reioyce in them?  Buck. Still liue they, and for euer let them last   Rich. Ah Buckingham, now doe I play the Touch,To trie if thou be currant Gold indeed:Young Edward liues, thinke now what I would speakeBuck. Say on my louing LordRich. Why Buckingham, I say I would be KingBuck. Why so you are, my thrice-renowned LordRich. Ha? am I King? 'tis so: but Edward liuesBuck True, Noble Prince   Rich. O bitter consequence!That Edward still should liue true Noble Prince.Cousin, thou wast not wont to be so dull.Shall I be plaine? I wish the Bastards dead,And I would haue it suddenly perform'd.What say'st thou now? speake suddenly, be briefeBuck. Your Grace may doe your pleasure   Rich. Tut, tut, thou art all Ice, thy kindnesse freezes:Say, haue I thy consent, that they shall dye?  Buc. Giue me some litle breath, some pawse, deare Lord,Before I positiuely speake in this:I will resolue you herein presently.

Exit Buck[ingham].

Catesby. The King is angry, see he gnawes his Lippe   Rich. I will conuerse with Iron-witted Fooles,And vnrespectiue Boyes: none are for me,That looke into me with considerate eyes,High-reaching Buckingham growes circumspect.BoyPage. My Lord   Rich. Know'st thou not any, whom corrupting GoldWill tempt vnto a close exploit of Death?  Page. I know a discontented Gentleman,Whose humble meanes match not his haughtie spirit:Gold were as good as twentie Orators,And will (no doubt) tempt him to any thing   Rich. What is his Name?  Page. His Name, my Lord, is Tirrell   Rich. I partly know the man: goe call him hither,Boy.

Enter.

The deepe reuoluing wittie Buckingham,No more shall be the neighbor to my counsailes.Hath he so long held out with me, vntyr'd,And stops he now for breath? Well, be it so.Enter Stanley.How now, Lord Stanley, what's the newes?  Stanley. Know my louing Lord, the Marquesse DorsetAs I heare, is fled to Richmond,In the parts where he abides   Rich. Come hither Catesby, rumor it abroad,That Anne my Wife is very grieuous sicke,I will take order for her keeping close.Inquire me out some meane poore Gentleman,Whom I will marry straight to Clarence Daughter:The Boy is foolish, and I feare not him.Looke how thou dream'st: I say againe, giue out,That Anne, my Queene, is sicke, and like to dye.About it, for it stands me much vponTo stop all hopes, whose growth may dammage me.I must be marryed to my Brothers Daughter,Or else my Kingdome stands on brittle Glasse:Murther her Brothers, and then marry her,Vncertaine way of gaine. But I am inSo farre in blood, that sinne will pluck on sinne,Teare-falling Pittie dwells not in this Eye.

Enter Tyrrel.

Is thy Name Tyrrel?  Tyr. Iames Tyrrel, and your most obedient subiect   Rich. Art thou indeed?  Tyr. Proue me, my gracious Lord   Rich. Dar'st thou resolue to kill a friend of mine?  Tyr. Please you:But I had rather kill two enemies   Rich. Why then thou hast it: two deepe enemies,Foes to my Rest, and my sweet sleepes disturbers,Are they that I would haue thee deale vpon:Tyrrel, I meane those Bastards in the Tower   Tyr. Let me haue open meanes to come to them,And soone Ile rid you from the feare of them   Rich. Thou sing'st sweet Musique:Hearke, come hither Tyrrel,Goe by this token: rise, and lend thine Eare,Whispers.There is no more but so: say it is done,And I will loue thee, and preferre thee for it   Tyr. I will dispatch it straight.

Enter.

Enter Buckingham.

  Buck. My Lord, I haue consider'd in my minde,The late request that you did sound me inRich. Well, let that rest: Dorset is fled to RichmondBuck. I heare the newes, my Lord   Rich. Stanley, hee is your Wiues Sonne: well, lookevnto it   Buck. My Lord, I clayme the gift, my due by promise,For which your Honor and your Faith is pawn'd,Th' Earledome of Hertford, and the moueables,Which you haue promised I shall possesse   Rich. Stanley looke to your Wife: if she conueyLetters to Richmond, you shall answer it   Buck. What sayes your Highnesse to my iust request?  Rich. I doe remember me, Henry the SixtDid prophecie, that Richmond should be King,When Richmond was a little peeuish Boy.A King perhapsBuck. May it please you to resolue me in my suit   Rich. Thou troublest me, I am not in the vaine.

Enter

   Buck. And is it thus? repayes he my deepe seruiceWith such contempt? made I him King for this?O let me thinke on Hastings, and be goneTo Brecnock, while my fearefull Head is on.

Enter.

Enter Tyrrel.

  Tyr. The tyrannous and bloodie Act is done,The most arch deed of pittious massacreThat euer yet this Land was guilty of:Dighton and Forrest, who I did suborneTo do this peece of ruthfull Butchery,Albeit they were flesht Villaines, bloody Dogges,Melted with tendernesse, and milde compassion,Wept like to Children, in their deaths sad Story.O thus (quoth Dighton) lay the gentle Babes:Thus, thus (quoth Forrest) girdling one anotherWithin their Alablaster innocent Armes:Their lips were foure red Roses on a stalke,And in their Summer Beauty kist each other.A Booke of Prayers on their pillow lay,Which one (quoth Forrest) almost chang'd my minde:But oh the Diuell, there the Villaine stopt:When Dighton thus told on, we smotheredThe most replenished sweet worke of Nature,That from the prime Creation ere she framed.Hence both are gone with Conscience and Remorse,They could not speake, and so I left them both,To beare this tydings to the bloody King.

Enter Richard.

And heere he comes. All health my Soueraigne LordRic. Kinde Tirrell, am I happy in thy Newes   Tir. If to haue done the thing you gaue in charge,Beget your happinesse, be happy then,For it is doneRich. But did'st thou see them deadTir. I did my LordRich. And buried gentle Tirrell   Tir. The Chaplaine of the Tower hath buried them,But where (to say the truth) I do not know   Rich. Come to me Tirrel soone, and after Supper,When thou shalt tell the processe of their death.Meane time, but thinke how I may do the good,And be inheritor of thy desire.Farewell till thenTir. I humbly take my leaue   Rich. The Sonne of Clarence haue I pent vp close,His daughter meanly haue I matcht in marriage,The Sonnes of Edward sleepe in Abrahams bosome,And Anne my wife hath bid this world good night.Now for I know the Britaine Richmond aymesAt yong Elizabeth my brothers daughter,And by that knot lookes proudly on the Crowne,To her go I, a iolly thriuing wooer.

Enter Ratcliffe.

Rat. My Lord   Rich. Good or bad newes, that thou com'st in sobluntly?  Rat. Bad news my Lord, Mourton is fled to Richmond,And Buckingham backt with the hardy WelshmenIs in the field, and still his power encreaseth   Rich. Ely with Richmond troubles me more neere,Then Buckingham and his rash leuied Strength.Come, I haue learn'd, that fearfull commentingIs leaden seruitor to dull delay.Delay leds impotent and Snaile-pac'd Beggery:Then fierie expedition be my wing,Ioues Mercury, and Herald for a King:Go muster men: My counsaile is my Sheeld,We must be breefe, when Traitors braue the Field.

Exeunt.

Scena Tertia

Enter old Queene Margaret

   Mar. So now prosperity begins to mellow,And drop into the rotten mouth of death:Heere in these Confines slily haue I lurkt,To watch the waining of mine enemies.A dire induction, am I witnesse to,And will to France, hoping the consequenceWill proue as bitter, blacke, and Tragicall.Withdraw thee wretched Margaret, who comes heere?

Enter Dutchesse and Queene.

  Qu. Ah my poore Princes! ah my tender Babes:My vnblowed Flowres, new appearing sweets:If yet your gentle soules flye in the Ayre,And be not fixt in doome perpetuall,Houer about me with your ayery wings,And heare your mothers Lamentation   Mar. Houer about her, say that right for rightHath dim'd your Infant morne, to Aged night   Dut. So many miseries haue craz'd my voyce,That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute.Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead?  Mar. Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet,Edward for Edward, payes a dying debt   Qu. Wilt thou, O God, flye from such gentle Lambs,And throw them in the intrailes of the Wolfe?When didst thou sleepe, when such a deed was done?  Mar. When holy Harry dyed, and my sweet Sonne   Dut. Dead life, blind sight, poore mortall liuing ghost,Woes Scene, Worlds shame, Graues due, by life vsurpt,Breefe abstract and record of tedious dayes,Rest thy vnrest on Englands lawfull earth,Vnlawfully made drunke with innocent blood   Qu. Ah that thou would'st assoone affoord a Graue,As thou canst yeeld a melancholly seate:Then would I hide my bones, not rest them heere,Ah who hath any cause to mourne but wee?  Mar. If ancient sorrow be most reuerent,Giue mine the benefit of signeurie,And let my greefes frowne on the vpper handIf sorrow can admit Society.I had an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him:I had a Husband, till a Richard kill'd him:Thou had'st an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him:Thou had'st a Richard, till a Richard kill'd him   Dut. I had a Richard too, and thou did'st kill him;I had a Rutland too, thou hop'st to kill him   Mar. Thou had'st a Clarence too,And Richard kill'd him.From forth the kennell of thy wombe hath creptA Hell-hound that doth hunt vs all to death:That Dogge, that had his teeth before his eyes,To worry Lambes, and lap their gentle blood:That foule defacer of Gods handy worke:That reignes in gauled eyes of weeping soules:That excellent grand Tyrant of the earth,Thy wombe let loose to chase vs to our graues.O vpright, iust, and true-disposing God,How do I thanke thee, that this carnall CurrePrayes on the issue of his Mothers body,And makes her Pue-fellow with others mone   Dut. Oh Harries wife, triumph not in my woes:God witnesse with me, I haue wept for thine   Mar. Beare with me: I am hungry for reuenge,And now I cloy me with beholding it.Thy Edward he is dead, that kill'd my Edward,The other Edward dead, to quit my Edward:Yong Yorke, he is but boote, because both theyMatcht not the high perfection of my losse.Thy Clarence he is dead, that stab'd my Edward,And the beholders of this franticke play,Th' adulterate Hastings, Riuers, Vaughan, Gray,Vntimely smother'd in their dusky Graues.Richard yet liues, Hels blacke Intelligencer,Onely reseru'd their Factor, to buy soules,And send them thither: But at hand, at handInsues his pittious and vnpittied end.Earth gapes, Hell burnes, Fiends roare, Saints pray,To haue him sodainly conuey'd from hence:Cancell his bond of life, deere God I pray,That I may liue and say, The Dogge is dead   Qu. O thou did'st prophesie, the time would come,That I should wish for thee to helpe me curseThat bottel'd Spider, that foule bunch-back'd Toad   Mar. I call'd thee then, vaine flourish of my fortune:I call'd thee then, poore Shadow, painted Queen,The presentation of but what I was;The flattering Index of a direfull Pageant;One heau'd a high, to be hurl'd downe below:A Mother onely mockt with two faire Babes;A dreame of what thou wast, a garish FlaggeTo be the ayme of euery dangerous Shot;A signe of Dignity, a Breath, a Bubble;A Queene in ieast, onely to fill the Scene.Where is thy Husband now? Where be thy Brothers?Where be thy two Sonnes? Wherein dost thou Ioy?Who sues, and kneeles, and sayes, God saue the Queene?Where be the bending Peeres that flattered thee?Where be the thronging Troopes that followed thee?Decline all this, and see what now thou art.For happy Wife, a most distressed Widdow:For ioyfull Mother, one that wailes the name:For one being sued too, one that humbly sues:For Queene, a very Caytiffe, crown'd with care:For she that scorn'd at me, now scorn'd of me:For she being feared of all, now fearing one:For she commanding all, obey'd of none.Thus hath the course of Iustice whirl'd about,And left thee but a very prey to time,Hauing no more but Thought of what thou wast.To torture thee the more, being what thou art,Thou didst vsurpe my place, and dost thou notVsurpe the iust proportion of my Sorrow?Now thy proud Necke, beares halfe my burthen'd yoke,From which, euen heere I slip my wearied head,And leaue the burthen of it all, on thee.Farwell Yorkes wife, and Queene of sad mischance,These English woes, shall make me smile in France   Qu. O thou well skill'd in Curses, stay a-while,And teach me how to curse mine enemies   Mar. Forbeare to sleepe the night, and fast the day:Compare dead happinesse, with liuing woe:Thinke that thy Babes were sweeter then they were,And he that slew them fowler then he is:Bett'ring thy losse, makes the bad causer worse,Reuoluing this, will teach thee how to CurseQu. My words are dull, O quicken them with thine   Mar. Thy woes will make them sharpe,And pierce like mine.

Exit Margaret.

  Dut. Why should calamity be full of words?  Qu. Windy Atturnies to their Clients Woes,Ayery succeeders of intestine ioyes,Poore breathing Orators of miseries,Let them haue scope, though what they will impart,Helpe nothing els, yet do they ease the hart   Dut. If so then, be not Tongue-ty'd: go with me,And in the breath of bitter words, let's smotherMy damned Son, that thy two sweet Sonnes smother'd.The Trumpet sounds, be copious in exclaimes.

Enter King Richard, and his Traine.

  Rich. Who intercepts me in my Expedition?  Dut. O she, that might haue intercepted theeBy strangling thee in her accursed wombe,From all the slaughters (Wretch) that thou hast done   Qu. Hid'st thou that Forhead with a Golden CrowneWhere't should be branded, if that right were right?The slaughter of the Prince that ow'd that Crowne,And the dyre death of my poore Sonnes, and Brothers.Tell me thou Villaine-slaue, where are my Children?  Dut. Thou Toad, thou Toade,Where is thy Brother Clarence?And little Ned Plantagenet his Sonne?  Qu. Where is the gentle Riuers, Vaughan, Gray?  Dut. Where is kinde Hastings?  Rich. A flourish Trumpets, strike Alarum Drummes:Let not the Heauens heare these Tell-tale womenRaile on the Lords Annointed. Strike I say.Flourish. Alarums.Either be patient, and intreat me fayre,Or with the clamorous report of Warre,Thus will I drowne your exclamations   Dut. Art thou my Sonne?  Rich. I, I thanke God, my Father, and your selfeDut. Then patiently heare my impatience   Rich. Madam, I haue a touch of your condition,That cannot brooke the accent of reproofeDut. O let me speakeRich. Do then, but Ile not heareDut. I will be milde, and gentle in my wordsRich. And breefe (good Mother) for I am in hast   Dut. Art thou so hasty? I haue staid for thee(God knowes) in torment and in agony   Rich. And came I not at last to comfort you?  Dut. No by the holy Rood, thou know'st it well,Thou cam'st on earth, to make the earth my Hell.A greeuous burthen was thy Birth to me,Tetchy and wayward was thy Infancie.Thy School-daies frightfull, desp'rate, wilde, and furious,Thy prime of Manhood, daring, bold, and venturous:Thy Age confirm'd, proud, subtle, slye, and bloody,More milde, but yet more harmfull; Kinde in hatred:What comfortable houre canst thou name,That euer grac'd me with thy company?  Rich. Faith none, but Humfrey Hower,That call'd your GraceTo Breakefast once, forth of my company.If I be so disgracious in your eye,Let me march on, and not offend you Madam.Strike vp the DrummeDut. I prythee heare me speakeRich. You speake too bitterly   Dut. Heare me a word:For I shall neuer speake to thee againeRich. So   Dut. Either thou wilt dye, by Gods iust ordinanceEre from this warre thou turne a Conqueror:Or I with greefe and extreame Age shall perish,And neuer more behold thy face againe.Therefore take with thee my most greeuous Curse,Which in the day of Battell tyre thee moreThen all the compleat Armour that thou wear'st.My Prayers on the aduerse party fight,And there the little soules of Edwards Children,Whisper the Spirits of thine Enemies,And promise them Successe and Victory:Bloody thou art, bloody will be thy end:Shame serues thy life, and doth thy death attend.

Enter.

  Qu. Though far more cause, yet much lesse spirit to curseAbides in me, I say Amen to herRich. Stay Madam, I must talke a word with you   Qu. I haue no more sonnes of the Royall BloodFor thee to slaughter. For my Daughters (Richard)They shall be praying Nunnes, not weeping Queenes:And therefore leuell not to hit their liues   Rich. You haue a daughter call'd Elizabeth,Vertuous and Faire, Royall and Gracious?  Qu. And must she dye for this? O let her liue,And Ile corrupt her Manners, staine her Beauty,Slander my Selfe, as false to Edwards bed:Throw ouer her the vaile of Infamy,So she may liue vnscarr'd of bleeding slaughter,I will confesse she was not Edwards daughterRich. Wrong not her Byrth, she is a Royall PrincesseQu. To saue her life, Ile say she is not soRich. Her life is safest onely in her byrthQu. And onely in that safety, dyed her BrothersRich. Loe at their Birth, good starres were oppositeQu. No, to their liues, ill friends were contraryRich. All vnauoyded is the doome of Destiny   Qu. True: when auoyded grace makes Destiny.My Babes were destin'd to a fairer death,If grace had blest thee with a fairer life   Rich. You speake as if that I had slaine my Cosins?  Qu. Cosins indeed, and by their Vnckle couzend,Of Comfort, Kingdome, Kindred, Freedome, Life,Whose hand soeuer lanch'd their tender hearts,Thy head (all indirectly) gaue direction.No doubt the murd'rous Knife was dull and blunt,Till it was whetted on thy stone-hard heart,To reuell in the Intrailes of my Lambes.But that still vse of greefe, makes wilde greefe tame,My tongue should to thy eares not name my Boyes,Till that my Nayles were anchor'd in thine eyes:And I in such a desp'rate Bay of death,Like a poore Barke, of sailes and tackling reft,Rush all to peeces on thy Rocky bosome   Rich. Madam, so thriue I in my enterprizeAnd dangerous successe of bloody warres,As I intend more good to you and yours,Then euer you and yours by me were harm'd   Qu. What good is couer'd with the face of heauen,To be discouered, that can do me good   Rich. Th' aduancement of your children, gentle Lady  Qu. Vp to some Scaffold, there to lose their heads   Rich. Vnto the dignity and height of Fortune,The high Imperiall Type of this earths glory   Qu. Flatter my sorrow with report of it:Tell me, what State, what Dignity, what Honor,Canst thou demise to any childe of mine   Rich. Euen all I haue; I, and my selfe and all,Will I withall indow a childe of thine:So in the Lethe of thy angry soule,Thou drowne the sad remembrance of those wrongs,Which thou supposest I haue done to thee   Qu. Be breefe, least that the processe of thy kindnesseLast longer telling then thy kindnesse date   Rich. Then know,That from my Soule, I loue thy DaughterQu. My daughters Mother thinkes it with her soule   Rich. What do you thinke?  Qu. That thou dost loue my daughter from thy souleSo from thy Soules loue didst thou loue her Brothers,And from my hearts loue, I do thanke thee for it   Rich. Be not so hasty to confound my meaning:I meane that with my Soule I loue thy daughter,And do intend to make her Queene of EnglandQu. Well then, who dost y meane shallbe her King   Rich. Euen he that makes her Queene:Who else should bee?  Qu. What, thou?  Rich. Euen so: How thinke you of it?  Qu. How canst thou woo her?  Rich. That I would learne of you,As one being best acquainted with her humour   Qu. And wilt thou learne of me?  Rich. Madam, with all my heart   Qu. Send to her by the man that slew her Brothers.A paire of bleeding hearts: thereon ingraueEdward and Yorke, then haply will she weepe:Therefore present to her, as sometime MargaretDid to thy Father, steept in Rutlands blood,A hand-kercheefe, which say to her did dreyneThe purple sappe from her sweet Brothers body,And bid her wipe her weeping eyes withall.If this inducement moue her not to loue,Send her a Letter of thy Noble deeds:Tell her, thou mad'st away her Vnckle Clarence,Her Vnckle Riuers, I (and for her sake)Mad'st quicke conueyance with her good Aunt Anne   Rich. You mocke me Madam, this not the wayTo win your daughter   Qu. There is no other way,Vnlesse thou could'st put on some other shape,And not be Richard, that hath done all thisRic. Say that I did all this for loue of her   Qu. Nay then indeed she cannot choose but hate theeHauing bought loue, with such a bloody spoyle   Rich. Looke what is done, cannot be now amended:Men shall deale vnaduisedly sometimes,Which after-houres giues leysure to repent.If I did take the Kingdome from your Sonnes,To make amends, Ile giue it to your daughter:If I haue kill'd the issue of your wombe,To quicken your encrease, I will begetMine yssue of your blood, vpon your Daughter:A Grandams name is little lesse in loue,Then is the doting Title of a Mother;They are as Children but one steppe below,Euen of your mettall, of your very blood:Of all one paine, saue for a night of groanesEndur'd of her, for whom you bid like sorrow.Your Children were vexation to your youth,But mine shall be a comfort to your Age,The losse you haue, is but a Sonne being King,And by that losse, your Daughter is made Queene.I cannot make you what amends I would,Therefore accept such kindnesse as I can.Dorset your Sonne, that with a fearfull souleLeads discontented steppes in Forraine soyle,This faire Alliance, quickly shall call homeTo high Promotions, and great Dignity.The King that calles your beauteous Daughter Wife,Familiarly shall call thy Dorset, Brother:Againe shall you be Mother to a King:And all the Ruines of distressefull Times,Repayr'd with double Riches of Content.What? we haue many goodly dayes to see:The liquid drops of Teares that you haue shed,Shall come againe, transform'd to Orient Pearle,Aduantaging their Loue, with interestOften-times double gaine of happinesse.Go then (my Mother) to thy Daughter go,Make bold her bashfull yeares, with your experience,Prepare her eares to heare a Woers Tale.Put in her tender heart, th' aspiring FlameOf Golden Soueraignty: Acquaint the PrincesseWith the sweet silent houres of Marriage ioyes:And when this Arme of mine hath chastisedThe petty Rebell, dull-brain'd Buckingham,Bound with Triumphant Garlands will I come,And leade thy daughter to a Conquerors bed:To whom I will retaile my Conquest wonne,And she shalbe sole Victoresse, Cćsars Cćsar   Qu. What were I best to say, her Fathers BrotherWould be her Lord? Or shall I say her Vnkle?Or he that slew her Brothers, and her Vnkles?Vnder what Title shall I woo for thee,That God, the Law, my Honor, and her Loue,Can make seeme pleasing to her tender yeares?  Rich. Inferre faire Englands peace by this AllianceQu. Which she shall purchase with stil lasting warreRich. Tell her, the King that may command, intreatsQu. That at her hands, which the kings King forbidsRich. Say she shall be a High and Mighty QueeneQu. To vaile the Title, as her Mother dothRich. Say I will loue her euerlastingly   Qu. But how long shall that title euer last?  Rich. Sweetly in force, vnto her faire liues end   Qu. But how long fairely shall her sweet life last?  Rich. As long as Heauen and Nature lengthens itQu. As long as Hell and Richard likes of itRich. Say, I her Soueraigne, am her Subiect lowQu. But she your Subiect, lothes such SoueraigntyRich. Be eloquent in my behalfe to herQu. An honest tale speeds best, being plainly toldRich. Then plainly to her, tell my louing taleQu. Plaine and not honest, is too harsh a styleRich. Your Reasons are too shallow, and to quicke   Qu. O no, my Reasons are too deepe and dead,Too deepe and dead (poore Infants) in their graues,Harpe on it still shall I, till heart-strings breake   Rich. Harpe not on that string Madam, that is past.Now by my George, my Garter, and my CrowneQu. Prophan'd, dishonor'd, and the third vsurptRich. I sweare   Qu. By nothing, for this is no Oath:Thy George prophan'd, hath lost his Lordly Honor;Thy Garter blemish'd, pawn'd his Knightly Vertue;Thy Crowne vsurp'd, disgrac'd his Kingly Glory:If something thou would'st sweare to be beleeu'd,Sweare then by something, that thou hast not wrong'dRich. Then by my SelfeQu. Thy Selfe, is selfe-misvs'dRich. Now by the WorldQu. 'Tis full of thy foule wrongsRich. My Fathers deathQu. Thy life hath it dishonor'dRich. Why then, by Heauen   Qu. Heauens wrong is most of all:If thou didd'st feare to breake an Oath with him,The vnity the King my husband made,Thou had'st not broken, nor my Brothers died.If thou had'st fear'd to breake an oath by him,Th' Imperiall mettall, circling now thy head,Had grac'd the tender temples of my Child,And both the Princes had bene breathing heere,Which now two tender Bed-fellowes for dust,Thy broken Faith hath made the prey for Wormes.What can'st thou sweare by nowRich. The time to come   Qu. That thou hast wronged in the time ore-past:For I my selfe haue many teares to washHeereafter time, for time past, wrong'd by thee.The Children liue, whose Fathers thou hast slaughter'd,Vngouern'd youth, to waile it with their age:The Parents liue, whose Children thou hast butcher'd,Old barren Plants, to waile it with their Age.Sweare not by time to come, for that thou hastMisvs'd ere vs'd, by times ill-vs'd repast   Rich. As I entend to prosper, and repent:So thriue I in my dangerous AffayresOf hostile Armes: My selfe, my selfe confound:Heauen, and Fortune barre me happy houres:Day, yeeld me not thy light; nor Night, thy rest.Be opposite all Planets of good luckeTo my proceeding, if with deere hearts loue,Immaculate deuotion, holy thoughts,I tender not thy beautious Princely daughter.In her, consists my Happinesse, and thine:Without her, followes to my selfe, and thee;Her selfe, the Land, and many a Christian soule,Death, Desolation, Ruine, and Decay:It cannot be auoyded, but by this:It will not be auoyded, but by this.Therefore deare Mother (I must call you so)Be the Atturney of my loue to her:Pleade what I will be, not what I haue beene;Not my deserts, but what I will deserue:Vrge the Necessity and state of times,And be not peeuish found, in great Designes   Qu. Shall I be tempted of the Diuel thus?  Rich. I, if the Diuell tempt you to do goodQu. Shall I forget my selfe, to be my selfeRich. I, if your selfes remembrance wrong your selfeQu. Yet thou didst kil my Children   Rich. But in your daughters wombe I bury them.Where in that Nest of Spicery they will breedSelues of themselues, to your recomforture   Qu. Shall I go win my daughter to thy will?  Rich. And be a happy Mother by the deed   Qu. I go, write to me very shortly,And you shal vnderstand from me her mind.

Exit Q[ueene].