Dut. So many miseries haue craz'd my voyce, That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute. Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead? Mar. Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet, Edward for Edward, payes a dying debt

Qu. Wilt thou, O God, flye from such gentle Lambs, And throw them in the intrailes of the Wolfe? When didst thou sleepe, when such a deed was done? Mar. When holy Harry dyed, and my sweet Sonne

Dut. Dead life, blind sight, poore mortall liuing ghost, Woes Scene, Worlds shame, Graues due, by life vsurpt, Breefe abstract and record of tedious dayes, Rest thy vnrest on Englands lawfull earth, Vnlawfully made drunke with innocent blood

Qu. Ah that thou would'st assoone affoord a Graue, As thou canst yeeld a melancholly seate: Then would I hide my bones, not rest them heere, Ah who hath any cause to mourne but wee? Mar. If ancient sorrow be most reuerent, Giue mine the benefit of signeurie, And let my greefes frowne on the vpper hand If sorrow can admit Society. I had an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him: I had a Husband, till a Richard kill'd him: Thou had'st an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him: Thou had'st a Richard, till a Richard kill'd him

Dut. I had a Richard too, and thou did'st kill him; I had a Rutland too, thou hop'st to kill him

Mar. Thou had'st a Clarence too, And Richard kill'd him. From forth the kennell of thy wombe hath crept A Hell-hound that doth hunt vs all to death: That Dogge, that had his teeth before his eyes, To worry Lambes, and lap their gentle blood: That foule defacer of Gods handy worke: That reignes in gauled eyes of weeping soules: That excellent grand Tyrant of the earth, Thy wombe let loose to chase vs to our graues. O vpright, iust, and true-disposing God, How do I thanke thee, that this carnall Curre Prayes on the issue of his Mothers body, And makes her Pue-fellow with others mone

Dut. Oh Harries wife, triumph not in my woes: God witnesse with me, I haue wept for thine

Mar. Beare with me: I am hungry for reuenge, And now I cloy me with beholding it. Thy Edward he is dead, that kill'd my Edward, The other Edward dead, to quit my Edward: Yong Yorke, he is but boote, because both they Matcht not the high perfection of my losse. Thy Clarence he is dead, that stab'd my Edward, And the beholders of this franticke play, Th' adulterate Hastings, Riuers, Vaughan, Gray, Vntimely smother'd in their dusky Graues. Richard yet liues, Hels blacke Intelligencer, Onely reseru'd their Factor, to buy soules, And send them thither: But at hand, at hand Insues his pittious and vnpittied end. Earth gapes, Hell burnes, Fiends roare, Saints pray, To haue him sodainly conuey'd from hence: Cancell his bond of life, deere God I pray, That I may liue and say, The Dogge is dead

Qu. O thou did'st prophesie, the time would come, That I should wish for thee to helpe me curse That bottel'd Spider, that foule bunch-back'd Toad

Mar. I call'd thee then, vaine flourish of my fortune: I call'd thee then, poore Shadow, painted Queen, The presentation of but what I was; The flattering Index of a direfull Pageant; One heau'd a high, to be hurl'd downe below: A Mother onely mockt with two faire Babes; A dreame of what thou wast, a garish Flagge To be the ayme of euery dangerous Shot; A signe of Dignity, a Breath, a Bubble; A Queene in ieast, onely to fill the Scene. Where is thy Husband now? Where be thy Brothers? Where be thy two Sonnes? Wherein dost thou Ioy? Who sues, and kneeles, and sayes, God saue the Queene? Where be the bending Peeres that flattered thee? Where be the thronging Troopes that followed thee? Decline all this, and see what now thou art. For happy Wife, a most distressed Widdow: For ioyfull Mother, one that wailes the name: For one being sued too, one that humbly sues: For Queene, a very Caytiffe, crown'd with care: For she that scorn'd at me, now scorn'd of me: For she being feared of all, now fearing one: For she commanding all, obey'd of none. Thus hath the course of Iustice whirl'd about, And left thee but a very prey to time, Hauing no more but Thought of what thou wast. To torture thee the more, being what thou art, Thou didst vsurpe my place, and dost thou not Vsurpe the iust proportion of my Sorrow? Now thy proud Necke, beares halfe my burthen'd yoke, From which, euen heere I slip my wearied head, And leaue the burthen of it all, on thee. Farwell Yorkes wife, and Queene of sad mischance, These English woes, shall make me smile in France

William Shakespeare
Classic Literature Library

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