Brak. I beseech your grace to pardon me; and, withal, Forbear your conference with the noble duke. Clar. We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will obey. Glo. We are the queen's abjects, and must Brother, farewell; I will unto the king; Clar. I know it pleaseth neither of us well. I will deliver you, or else lie for you: Meantime, have patience. Clar. I must perforce; farewell. [Exeunt CLARENCE, BRAKENBURY, and Guard. Glo. Go, tread the path that thou shalt ne'er return, Simple, plain Clarence! I do love thee so, Enter HASTINGS. Hast. Good time of day unto my gracious lord! Glo. As much unto my good lord chamberlain ! Well are you welcome to this open air. How hath your lordship brook'd imprisonment? Hast. With patience, noble lord, as prisoners must: But I shall live, my lord, to give them thanks Glo. No doubt, no doubt, and so shall Clarence too; For they that were your enemies are his, Hast. More pity that the eagle should be While kites and buzzards prey at liberty. Glo. What news abroad? Hast. No news so bad abroad as this at home; The king is sickly, weak, and melancholy, And his physicians fear him mightily. Glo. Now, by Saint Paul, this news is bad indeed. O, he hath kept an evil diet long, And over-much consumed his royal person; 'Tis very grievous to be thought upon. What, is he in his bed? Glo 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, For then I'll marry Warwick's youngest daughter. 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 I must count my gains. [Exit. SCENE II.-The same. 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,— 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, Whose ugly and unnatural aspect May fright the hopeful mother at the view; If ever he have wife, let her be made Than I am made by my young lord, and thee! Come now, toward 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. Glo. Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it down. Anne. What black magician conjures up this fiend, To stop devoted charitable deeds? Glo. Villains, set down the corse; or, by Saint Paul, I'll make a corse of him that disobeys! 1 Gent. My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass. Glo. Unmanner'd dog! stand thou, when I command: Advance thy halberd higher than my breast, Alas, I blame you not; for you are mortal, therefore be gone. Glo. Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst. Anne. Foul devil, for God's sake, hence, and trouble us fot; For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell, O, gentlemen, see, see! dead Henry's wounds Thy deed, inhuman and unnatural, Provokes this deluge most unnatural. O God, which this blood mad'st, revenge his death! O earth, which this blood drink'st, revenge his death! Either, Heaven, with lightning strike the murderer dead; Or, earth, gape open wide and eat him quick, As thou dost swallow up this good king's blood, Which his hell-govern'd arm hath butchered! Glo. Lady, you know no rules of charity, Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses. Anne. Villain, thou know'st no law of God nor man; No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity. Glo. But I know none, and therefore am no beast. Anne. O wonderful, when devils tell the truth! Glo. More wonderful, when angels are so angry! Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman, Of these supposed crimes to give me leave, By circumstance, but to acquit myself. |