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A book of prayers on their pillow lay :
They could not speak; and so I left them both,
Enter King Richard.
K, Rich. Kind Tyrrel ! an I happy in thy news?
Tyr. If to have done the thing you gave in charge
K. Rich. But didst thou see them dead ? "
And buried, gentle Tyrrel ?
them; But where, to say the truth, I do not know. K. Rich. Come to me, Tyrrel, soon, at after sup
Tyr. I humbly take my leave... [Exit.
* The country in which Richmond had taken refage. VOL. VII.
Enter Catesby. Cate. My lord, K. Rich. Good news or bad, that thou com’st in
so bluntly?... Cate. Bad news, my lord: Morton* is fed to
. Richmond; And Buckingham, back*d with the hardy Welchmen, Is in the field, and still his power increaseth. K. Rich. Ely with Richmond troubles me more
near, Than Buckingham and his rash-levied strength. Come, I have learn'd, that fearful commenting Is leaden servitor to dull delay; Delay leads impotent and snail-pac'd beggary: Then fiery expedition by my wing, 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.
Enter Queen Margaret.
Enter Queen Elizabeth and the Duchess of York.
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, Brief abstract and record of tedious days, Rest thy unrest on England's lawful earth,
(Sitting down. Unlawfully made drunk with innocent blood ! Q. Eliz. Ah, that thou would'st as soon afford a
grave, As thou canst yield a melancholy seat; Then would I hide my bones, not rest them here! Ah, who hath any cause to mourn, but we?
[Sitting down by her. Q. Mar. If ancient sorrow be most reverent, Give mine the benefit of seniory*, And let my griefs frown on the upper hand.
. * Seniority.