Dighton, and Forrest, whom I did suborn Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, Which, in their summer beauty, kiss'd each other. Which once, quoth Forrest, almost chang'd my mind; Enter King RICHARD. And here he comes:-All health, my sovereign lord! K. Rich. Kind Tyrrel! am I happy in thy news? Tyr. If to have done the thing you gave in charge Beget your happiness, be happy then, For it is done. K. Rich. But didst thou see them dead? Tyr. I did, my lord. K. Rich. And buried, gentle Tyrrel? Tyr. The chaplain of the Tower hath buried them; But where, to say the truth, I do not know. K. Rich. Come to me, Tyrrel, soon, at after supper When thou shalt tell the process of their death. I humbly take my leave. [Exit. Mean time, but think how I may do thee good, Cate. My lord, Enter CATESBY. K. Rich. Good news or bad, that thou com'st in so bluntly? Cate. Bad news, my lord: Morton is fled to Richmond; And Buckingham, back'd with the hardy Welshmen, Is in the field, and still his power encreaseth. K. Rich. Ely with Richmond troubles me more near, Delay leads impotent and snail-pac'd beggary: Jove's Mercury, and herald for a king! Go, muster men: My counsel is my shield; We must be brief, when traitors brave the field. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. The same. Before the palace. Enter Queen Margaret. Q. Mar. So, now prosperity begins to mellow, And will to France; hoping, the consequence Withdraw thee, wretched Margaret! who comes here? Enter Queen ELIZABETH and the Duchess of York. Q. Eliz. Ah, my poor princes! ah, my tender babes! My unblown flowers, new-appearing sweets! If yet your gentle souls fly in the air, And be not fix'd in doom perpetual, Hover about me with your airy wings, And hear your mother's lamentation! Q. Mar. Hover about her; say, that right for right Hath dimm'd your infant morn to aged night. Duch. So many miseries have craz'd my voice, That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute,— Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead? Q. Mar. Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet, Edward for Edward pays a dying debt. Q. Eliz. Wilt thou, O God, fly from such gentle lambs, And throw them in the entrails of the wolf? When didst thou sleep, when such a deed was done? Q. Mar. When holy Harry died, and my sweet son. Duch. Dead life, blind sight, poor mortal-living ghost, Woe's scene, world's shame, grave's due by life usurp'd, |