Qu. My daughters Mother thinkes it with her soule
Rich. What do you thinke? Qu. That thou dost loue my daughter from thy soule So 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 England
Qu. 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 ingraue Edward and Yorke, then haply will she weepe: Therefore present to her, as sometime Margaret Did to thy Father, steept in Rutlands blood, A hand-kercheefe, which say to her did dreyne The 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 way To 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 this
Ric. Say that I did all this for loue of her
Qu. Nay then indeed she cannot choose but hate thee Hauing 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 beget Mine 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 groanes Endur'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 soule Leads discontented steppes in Forraine soyle, This faire Alliance, quickly shall call home To 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 interest Often-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 Flame Of Golden Soueraignty: Acquaint the Princesse With the sweet silent houres of Marriage ioyes: And when this Arme of mine hath chastised The 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, Cęsars Cęsar