Tyr. The tyrannous and bloodie Act is done, The most arch deed of pittious massacre That euer yet this Land was guilty of: Dighton and Forrest, who I did suborne To do this peece of ruthfull Butchery, Albeit they were flesht Villaines, bloody Dogges, Melted with tendernesse, and milde compassion, Wept like to Children, in their deaths sad Story. O thus (quoth Dighton) lay the gentle Babes: Thus, thus (quoth Forrest) girdling one another Within their Alablaster innocent Armes: Their lips were foure red Roses on a stalke, And in their Summer Beauty kist each other. A Booke of Prayers on their pillow lay, Which one (quoth Forrest) almost chang'd my minde: But oh the Diuell, there the Villaine stopt: When Dighton thus told on, we smothered The most replenished sweet worke of Nature, That from the prime Creation ere she framed. Hence both are gone with Conscience and Remorse, They could not speake, and so I left them both, To beare this tydings to the bloody King. Enter Richard.
And heere he comes. All health my Soueraigne Lord
Ric. Kinde Tirrell, am I happy in thy Newes
Tir. If to haue done the thing you gaue in charge, Beget your happinesse, be happy then, For it is done
Rich. But did'st thou see them dead
Tir. I did my Lord
Rich. And buried gentle Tirrell
Tir. The Chaplaine of the Tower hath buried them, But where (to say the truth) I do not know
Rich. Come to me Tirrel soone, and after Supper, When thou shalt tell the processe of their death. Meane time, but thinke how I may do the good, And be inheritor of thy desire. Farewell till then
Tir. I humbly take my leaue
Rich. The Sonne of Clarence haue I pent vp close, His daughter meanly haue I matcht in marriage, The Sonnes of Edward sleepe in Abrahams bosome, And Anne my wife hath bid this world good night. Now for I know the Britaine Richmond aymes At yong Elizabeth my brothers daughter, And by that knot lookes proudly on the Crowne, To her go I, a iolly thriuing wooer. Enter Ratcliffe.
Rat. My Lord
Rich. Good or bad newes, that thou com'st in so bluntly? Rat. Bad news my Lord, Mourton is fled to Richmond, And Buckingham backt with the hardy Welshmen Is in the field, and still his power encreaseth
Rich. Ely with Richmond troubles me more neere, Then Buckingham and his rash leuied Strength. Come, I haue learn'd, that fearfull commenting Is leaden seruitor to dull delay. Delay leds impotent and Snaile-pac'd Beggery: Then fierie expedition be my wing, Ioues Mercury, and Herald for a King: Go muster men: My counsaile is my Sheeld, We must be breefe, when Traitors braue the Field.
Enter old Queene Margaret
Mar. So now prosperity begins to mellow, And drop into the rotten mouth of death: Heere in these Confines slily haue I lurkt, To watch the waining of mine enemies. A dire induction, am I witnesse to, And will to France, hoping the consequence Will proue as bitter, blacke, and Tragicall. Withdraw thee wretched Margaret, who comes heere? Enter Dutchesse and Queene.
Qu. Ah my poore Princes! ah my tender Babes: My vnblowed Flowres, new appearing sweets: If yet your gentle soules flye in the Ayre, And be not fixt in doome perpetuall, Houer about me with your ayery wings, And heare your mothers Lamentation
Mar. Houer about her, say that right for right Hath dim'd your Infant morne, to Aged night