The Tragedy of Richard the Third Read Online

I muse why she's at liberty.

GLOU.

I cannot blame her; by God's holy Mother,

She hath had too much wrong, and I repent

My part thereof that I have done to her.

[Q. ELIZ.]

I never did her any to my knowledge.

GLOU.

Yet you have all the vantage of her wrong.

I was too hot to do somebody good

That is too cold in thinking of it now.

Marry, as for Clarence, he is well repaid;

He is frank'd up to fatting for his pains –

God pardon them that are the cause thereof!

RIV.

A virtuous and a Christian-like conclusion –

To pray for them that have done scathe to us.

GLOU.

So do I ever –

(speaks to himself)

being well advis'd;

For had I curs'd now, I had curs'd myself.

Enter Catesby.

GATE.

Madam, his Majesty doth call for you,

And for your Grace, and yours, my gracious lord.

Q. ELIZ.

Catesby, I come. Lords, will you go with me?

RIV.

We wait upon your Grace.

Exeunt all but Gloucester.

GLOU.

I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl.

The secret mischiefs that I set abroach

I lay unto the grievous charge of others.

Clarence, who I indeed have cast in darkness,

I do beweep to many simple gulls –

Namely, to Derby, Hastings, Buckingham –

And tell them 'tis the Queen and her allies

That stir the King against the Duke my brother.

Now they believe it, and withal whet me

To be reveng'd on Rivers, Dorset, Grey.

But then I sigh, and, with a piece of scripture,

Tell them that God bids us do good for evil:

And thus I clothe my naked villainy

With odd old ends stol'n forth of holy writ,

And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.

Enter two Murtherers.

But soft, here come my executioners.

How now, my hardy, stout, resolved mates,

Are you now going to dispatch this thing?

[1. MUR.]

We are, my lord, and come to have the warrant,

That we may be admitted where he is.

GLOU.

Well thought upon, I have it here about me.

[Gives the warrant.]

When you have done, repair to Crosby Place.

But, sirs, be sudden in the execution,

Withal obdurate, do not hear him plead;

For Clarence is well-spoken, and perhaps

May move your hearts to pity if you mark him.

[1. MUR.]

Tut, tut, my lord, we will not stand to prate;

Talkers are no good doers. Be assur'd;

We go to use our hands, and not our tongues.

GLOU.

Your eyes drop millstones, when fools' eyes fall tears.

I like you, lads, about your business straight.

Go, go, dispatch.

[1. MUR.]

We will, my noble lord.

[Exeunt.]

Scene IV

Enter Clarence and Keeper.

KEEP.

Why looks your Grace so heavily to-day?

CLAR.

O, I have pass'd a miserable night,

So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights,

That, as I am a Christian faithful man,

I would not spend another such a night

Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days –

So full of dismal terror was the time.

KEEP.

What was your dream, my lord? I pray you tell me.

CLAR.

Methoughts that I had broken from the Tower

And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy,

And in my company my brother Gloucester,

Who from my cabin tempted me to walk

Upon the hatches. [Thence] we look'd toward England,

And cited up a thousand heavy times,

During the wars of York and Lancaster,

That had befall'n us. As we pac'd along

Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,

Methought that Gloucester stumbled, and in falling

Strook me (that thought to stay him) overboard

Into the tumbling billows of the main.

O Lord, methought what pain it was to drown!

What dreadful noise of [waters] in [my] ears!

What sights of ugly death within [my] eyes!

Methoughts I saw a thousand fearful wracks;

A thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upon;

Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,

Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,

All scatt'red in the bottom of the sea:

Some lay in dead men's skulls, and in the holes

Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept

(As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems,

That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep,

And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatt'red by.

KEEP.

Had you such leisure in the time of death

To gaze upon these secrets of the deep?

CLAR.

Methought I had, and often did I strive

To yield the ghost; but still the envious flood

Stopp'd in my soul, and would not let it forth

To find the empty, vast, and wand'ring air,

But smother'd it within my panting bulk,

Who almost burst to belch it in the sea.

KEEP.

Awak'd you not in this sore agony?

CLAR.

No, no, my dream was lengthen'd after life.

O then began the tempest to my soul!

I pass'd (methought) the melancholy flood,

With that sour ferryman which poets write of,

Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.

The first that there did greet my stranger soul

Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick,

Who spake aloud, »What scourge for perjury

Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?«

And so he vanish'd. Then came wand'ring by

A shadow like an angel, with bright hair

Dabbled in blood, and he shriek'd out aloud,

»Clarence is come – false, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence,

That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury:

Seize on him, Furies, take him unto torment!«

With that ([methoughts]) a legion of foul fiends

Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears

Such hideous cries that with the very noise

I, trembling, wak'd, and for a season after

Could not believe but that I was in hell,

Such terrible impression made my dream.

KEEP.

No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you;

I am afraid (methinks) to hear you tell it.

CAR.

Ah, Keeper, Keeper, I have done these things

(That now give evidence against my soul)

For Edward's sake, and see how he requites me!

O God! if my deep pray'rs cannot appease thee,

But thou wilt be aveng'd on my misdeeds,

Yet execute thy wrath in me alone!

O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children!

Keeper, I prithee sit by me awhile.

My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

KEEP.

I will, my lord. God give your Grace good rest!

[Clarence sleeps.]

Enter Brakenbury, the Lieutenant.

BRAK.

Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours,

Makes the night morning and the noontide night:

Princes have but their titles for their glories,

An outward honor for an inward toil,

And for unfelt imaginations

They often feel a world of restless cares;

So that between their titles and low name

There's nothing differs but the outward fame.

Enter two Murtherers.

1. MUR.

Ho, who's here?

BRAK.

What wouldst thou, fellow? and how cam'st thou hither?

[1.] MUR. I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs.

BRAK. What, so brief?

[2.] MUR. 'Tis better, sir, than to be tedious. Let him see our commission, and talk no more.

[Brakenbury] reads [it].

BRAK.

I am in this commanded to deliver

The noble Duke of Clarence to your hands.

I will not reason what is meant hereby,

Because I will be guiltless from the meaning.

There lies the Duke asleep, and there the keys.

I'll to the King and signify to him

That thus I have resign'd to you my charge.

1. MUR. You may, sir, 'tis a point of wisdom. Fare you well.

Exit [Brakenbury with Keeper].

2. MUR. What, shall [I] stab him as he sleeps?

1. MUR. No, he'll say 'twas done cowardly when he wakes.

2. MUR. Why, he shall never wake until the great Judgment Day.

1. MUR. Why, then he'll say we stabb'd him sleeping.

2. MUR.