Tendering my person's safety, hath appointed
This conduct to convey me to the Tower.
Gloster. Upon what cause?

Clarence.

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Because my name is George.

Gloster. Alack, my lord, that fault is none of yours;

He should, for that, commit your godfathers.

O, belike his majesty hath some intent

That you

should be new-christen'd in the Tower.

But what's the matter, Clarence? may I know?

Clarence. Yea, Richard, when I know; for I protest,

As yet I do not: but, as I can learn,

He hearkens after prophecies and dreams,

And from the cross-row plucks the letter G,
And says a wizard told him that by G
His issue disinherited should be;

And, for my name of George begins with G,
It follows in his thought that I am he.
These, as I learn, and such like toys as these,
Have mov'd his highness to commit me now.

Gloster. Why, this it is, when men are rul'd by women!

'T is not the king that sends you to the Tower; My Lady Grey, his wife, Clarence, 't is she

That tempers him to this extremity.

Was it not she, and that good man of worship,

Anthony Woodeville, her brother there,

That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower,
From whence this present day he is deliver'd?
We are not safe, Clarence, we are not safe.

Clarence. By heaven, I think there is no man secure
But the queen's kindred, and night-walking heralds
That trudge betwixt the king and Mistress Shore.
Heard you not what an humble suppliant
Lord Hastings was to her for his delivery?
Gloster. Humbly complaining to her deity

Got my lord chamberlain his liberty.

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I'll tell you what; I think it is our way,
If we will keep in favour with the king,
To be her men and wear her livery.

The jealous o'er-worn widow and herself,

Since that our brother dubb'd them gentlewomen,

Are mighty gossips in our monarchy.

Brakenbury. I beseech your graces both to pardon me; His majesty hath straitly given in charge

That no man shall have private conference,
Of what degree soever, with your brother.

Gloster. Even so; an please your worship, Brakenbury, You may partake of any thing we say.

We speak no treason, man: we say the king
Is wise and virtuous; and his noble queen
Well struck in years, fair, and not jealous;
We say that Shore's wife hath a pretty foot,

A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue;
And that the queen's kindred are made gentlefolks.
How say you, sir? can you deny all this?

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Brakenbury. With this, my lord, myself have nought to do.

Gloster. Naught to do with Mistress Shore? I tell thee, fellow,

He that doth naught with her, excepting one,

Were best to do it secretly, alone.

Brakenbury. What one, my lord?

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Gloster. Her husband, knave. Would'st thou betray me? Brakenbury. I beseech your grace to pardon me, and withal

Forbear your conference with the noble duke.

Clarence. We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will obey. Gloster. We are the queen's abjects, and must obey.—

Brother, farewell: I will unto the king;

And whatsoe'er you will employ me in,

Were it to call King Edward's widow sister,

I will perform it to enfranchise you.

Meantime, this deep disgrace in brotherhood

Touches me deeper than you can imagine.

Clarence. I know it pleaseth neither of us well.

Gloster. Well, your imprisonment shall not be long; I will deliver you, or else lie for you.

Meantime, have patience.

Clarence.

I must perforce.

Farewell.

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[Exeunt Clarence, Brakenbury, and Guard.

Gloster. Go, tread the path that thou shalt ne'er return,

Simple, plain Clarence!-I do love thee so,

That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven,
If heaven will take the present at our hands.
But who comes here? the new-deliver'd Hastings?

Enter HASTINGS.

Hastings. Good time of day unto my gracious lord! Gloster. As much unto my good lord chamberlain ! Well are you welcome to this open air.

How hath your lordship brook'd imprisonment?

Hastings. With patience, noble lord, as prisoners must;
But I shall live, my lord, to give them thanks
That were the cause of my imprisonment.

Gloster. No doubt, no doubt; and 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 eagle should be mew'd,
While 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;

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'T is very grievous to be thought upon. Where is he? in his bed?

Hastings. He is.

Gloster. Go you before, and I will follow you.

He cannot live, I hope; and must not die

[Exit Hastings.

Till George be pack'd with post-horse 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.

SCENE II. The Same. Another Street.

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[Exit.

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

The 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 selfsame 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 wolves, to 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 the 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!

1 Gentleman. My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass.