King Richard III | Page 5

so shall Clarence too; For they
that were your enemies are his, And have prevail'd as much on him as
you.
HASTINGS. More pity that the eagles should be mew'd Whiles kites
and buzzards prey at liberty.
GLOSTER. What news abroad?
HASTINGS. No news so bad abroad as this at home,-- The king is
sickly, weak, and melancholy, And his physicians fear him mightily.
GLOSTER. Now, by Saint Paul, that news is bad indeed. O, he hath
kept an evil diet long, And overmuch consum'd his royal person: 'Tis
very grievous to be thought upon. What, is he in his bed?
HASTINGS. He is.
GLOSTER. Go you before, and I will follow you.

[Exit HASTINGS.]
He cannot live, I hope; and must not die Till George be pack'd with
posthorse up to heaven. I'll in, to urge his hatred more to Clarence With
lies well steel'd with weighty arguments; And, if I fail not in my deep
intent, Clarence hath not another day to live; Which done, God take
King Edward to his mercy, And leave the world for me to bustle in! For
then I'll marry Warwick's youngest daughter: What though I kill'd her
husband and her father? The readiest way to make the wench amends Is
to become her husband and her father: The which will I; not all so
much for love As for another secret close intent, By marrying her,
which I must reach unto. But yet I run before my horse to market:
Clarence still breathes; Edward still lives and reigns: When they are
gone, then must I count my gains.
[Exit.]

SCENE II. London. Another street.
[Enter the corpse of King Henry the Sixth, borne in an open coffin,
Gentlemen bearing halberds to guard it; and Lady Anne as mourner.]
ANNE. Set down, set down your honourable load,-- If honour may be
shrouded in a hearse,-- Whilst I awhile obsequiously lament Th'
untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster.-- Poor key-cold figure of a holy
king! Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster! Thou bloodless remnant of
that royal blood! Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost, To hear the
lamentations of poor Anne, Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughter'd son,
Stabb'd by the self-same hand that made these wounds! Lo, in these
windows that let forth thy life, I pour the helpless balm of my poor
eyes:-- O, cursed be the hand that made these holes! Cursed the heart
that had the heart to do it! Cursed the blood that let this blood from
hence! More direful hap betide that hated wretch That makes us
wretched by the death of thee, Than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads,
Or any creeping venom'd thing that lives! If ever he have child,
abortive be it, Prodigious, and untimely brought to light, Whose ugly
and unnatural aspect May fright the hopeful mother at the view; And
that be heir to his unhappiness! If ever he have wife, let her be made
More miserable by the death of him Than I am made by my young lord
and thee!-- Come, now towards Chertsey with your holy load, Taken
from Paul's to be interred there; And still, as you are weary of this

weight, Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry's corse.
[The Bearers take up the Corpse and advance.]
[Enter GLOSTER.]
GLOSTER. Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it down.
ANNE. What black magician conjures up this fiend, To stop devoted
charitable deeds?
GLOSTER. Villains, set down the corse; or, by Saint Paul, I'll make a
corse of him that disobeys!
FIRST GENTLEMAN. My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass.
GLOSTER. Unmanner'd dog! stand thou, when I command: Advance
thy halberd higher than my breast, Or, by Saint Paul, I'll strike thee to
my foot And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness.
[The Bearers set down the coffin.]
ANNE. What, do you tremble? are you all afraid? Alas, I blame you
not; for you are mortal, And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil.--
Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell! Thou hadst but power over his
mortal body, His soul thou canst not have; therefore, be gone.
GLOSTER. Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst.
ANNE. Foul devil, for God's sake, hence and trouble us not; For thou
hast made the happy earth thy hell, Fill'd it with cursing cries and deep
exclaims. If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds, Behold this pattern
of thy butcheries.-- O, gentlemen, see, see! dead Henry's wounds Open
their congeal'd mouths and bleed afresh! Blush, blush, thou lump of
foul deformity; For 'tis thy presence that exhales this blood From cold
and empty veins, where no blood dwells; Thy deeds, inhuman and
unnatural, Provokes this deluge most unnatural.-- O God, which this
blood mad'st, revenge