ET down, set down your honourable load,-
If honour may be shrouded in a hearse,-
Whilst I a while 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 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!
41

B

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, 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.

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.

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 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!

Gloster. Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine. Anne. Would they were basilisks, to strike thee dead! Gloster. I would they were, that I might die at once; For now they kill me with a living death.

Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears,
Sham'd their aspects with store of childish drops :
These eyes, which never shed remorseful tear,-
Not when my father York and Edward wept,
To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made,
When black-fac'd Clifford shook his sword at him :

Nor when thy warlike father, like a child,
Told the sad story of my father's death;
And twenty times made pause, to sob, and weep,
That all the standers-by had wet their cheeks,
Like trees bedash'd with rain: in that sad time,
My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear;

And what these sorrows could not thence exhale,
Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping.
I never su'd to friend, nor enemy;

My tongue could never learn sweet soothing word;
But now thy beauty is propos'd my fee,

My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak.
[She looks scornfully at him.
Teach not thy lip such scorn; for it was made
For kissing, lady, not for such contempt.
If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive,

Lo! here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword;
Which if thou please to hide in this true breast,
And let the soul forth that adoreth thee,

I lay it naked to the deadly stroke,

And humbly beg the death upon my knee.

[He lays his breast open; she offers at it with his sword. Nay, do not pause; for I did kill king Henry ;— But 'twas thy beauty that provoked me.

Nay, now despatch; 'twas I that stabb'd young Edward :[She again offers at his breast.

But 'twas thy heavenly face that set me on.

[She lets fall the sword.

Take up the sword again, or take up me.

Anne. Arise, dissembler: though I wish thy death,

I will not be thy executioner.

Gloster. Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it.

ACT IV. SCENE I.

Elizabeth. Go, go, poor soul, I envy not thy glory; To feed my humour, wish thyself no harm.

Anne. No! why ?-When he, that is my husband now, Came to me, as I follow'd Henry's corse;

When scarce the blood was well wash'd from his hands, Which issu'd from my other angel husband,

And that dead saint which then I weeping follow'd;

O, when, I say, I look'd on Richard's face,

This was my wish,-Be thou, quoth I, accurs'd,
For making me, so young, so old a widow !

And, when thou wed'st, let sorrow haunt thy bed;
And be thy wife (if any be so mad)

More miserable by the life of thee,

Than thou hast made me by my dear lord's death!
Lo, ere I can repeat this curse again,

Even in so short a space, my woman's heart
Grossly grew captive to his honey words,

And prov'd the subject of mine own soul's curse :
Which ever since hath held mine eyes from rest;
For never yet one hour in his bed

Did I enjoy the golden dew of sleep,

But with his timorous dreams was still awak'd.
Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick;
And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me.

Elizabeth. Poor heart, adieu; I pity thy complaining.
Anne. No more than with my soul I mourn for yours.
Dorset. Farewell, thou woful welcomer of glory!
Anne. Adieu, poor soul, that tak'st thy leave of it!
Duchess. Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune
[To Dorset.

guide thee !—