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D. of York. Oh, my dear lord! So I must call you
P. Ed. Ay, brother, to our grief, as it is yours! Too soon he dy'd, who might have better worn That title, which, in me, will lose its majesty.
Glost. How fares our cousin, noble Lord of York? D. of York. Thank you kindly, dear uncle-Oh, my lord,
You said that idle weeds were fast in growth;
D. of York. And, therefore, is he idle?
Glost. Oh, pretty cousin, I must not say so. D. of York. Nay, uncle, I don't believe the saying's true,
For, if it were, you'd be an idle weed.
Glost. How so, cousin?
D. of York. Because, I have heard folks say, you grew so fast,
Your teeth would gnaw a crust at two hours old:
Glost. Indeed! I find, the brat is taught this les
Who told thee this, my pretty, merry cousin?
Glost. My nurse, child! she was dead 'fore thou wert born.
D. of York. If 'twas not she, I can't tell who told
Glost. So subtle too! 'tis pity thou art short liv'd!
[Aside. P. Ed. My brother, uncle, will be cross in talk. Glost. Oh, fear not, my lord; we shall never quarrel.
P. Ed. I hope your grace knows how to bear with
D. of York. You mean to bear me, not to bear with me;
Uncle, my brother mocks both you and me :
He thinks that you should bear me on your shoulders.
To meet, and bid you welcome, at the Tower.
P. Ed. My Lord Protector will have it so.
D. of York. I shan't sleep in quiet, at the Tower. Glost. I'll warrant you; King Henry lay there, And he sleeps in quiet. [Aside.
P. Ed. What should you fear, brother?
D. of York. My uncle, Clarence' ghost, my lord; My grandmother told me he was kill'd there. P. Ed. I fear no uncles dead.
Glost. Nor any, sir, that live, I hope?
P. Ed. I hope so too; but come, my lords, To the Tower, since it must be so.
[Exeunt all but GLOSTER and BUCKINGHAM. Buck. Think you, my lord, this little, prating, York Was not instructed by his subtle mother,
To taunt and scorn you thus opprobriously?
Glost. No doubt-no doubt; oh, 'tis a shrewd young master :
Stubborn, bold, quick, forward, and capable!
Glost. So, Catesby, hast thou been tampering? What news?
Catesby. My lord, according to the instruction. given me,
Lady A. I do, my lord, and much it joys me too, To see you are become so penitent. Tressel, and Stanley, go along with me. Glost. Bid me farewell.
Lady A. Tis more than you deserve.
But, since you teach me how to flatter you,
Glost. No, to Whitefriars; there attend my com[Exeunt GUARDS, with the Body.
Was ever woman, in this humour, woo'd?
Was ever woman, in this humour, won?
Having Heaven, her conscience, and these bars, against me,
And I, no friends to back my suit withal,
The Presence Chamber.
Enter BUCKINGHAM, hastily, meeting LORD
Buck. Did you see the duke?
Stanley. What duke, my lord ?
Buck. His Grace of Gloster; did you see him? Stanley. Not lately, my lord-I hope no ill news? Buck. The worst that heart e'er bore, or tongue can utter,
Edward, the king, his royal brother,'s dead!
Stanley. "Tis sad, indeed! I wish by your impatience,
To acquaint him though, you think it so, to him.
Did the king, my lord, make any mention
Buck. He did; Duke Richard has the care of
Stanley. That sad news you are afraid to tell him
[Aside. Buck. He'll spare no toils, I'm sure, to fill his
place. Stanley. 'Pray, Heav'n, he's not too diligent !
My lord, is not that the Duchess of York,
Enter DUCHESS OF YORK.
Duch. of York. Good day, my lords; how takes the king his rest?
Buck. Alas, madam! too well-he sleeps for ever!
Am I still left the last, in life, and woe?
But now, my last support is gone.-First, Clarence,
And bring new comfort to your latter days.
Duch. of York. 'Twere new,
indeed! for yet of him,
Unless a churlish disposition may
Be counted from a child a mother's comfort.
Where is the queen, my lord?
Buck. I left her with her kinsmen, deep in sorrow, Who have, with much ado, persuaded her
To leave the body.—Madam, they are here.
Enter QUEEN, RIVERS, and Dorset.
Queen. Why do you thus oppose my grief? unless, To make me rave, and weep, the faster? ha! My mother too, in tears! fresh sorrow strikes My heart, at sight of every friend that lov'd My Edward, living! Oh, mother, he's dead! Edward, my lord, thy son, our king, is dead! Oh, that my eyes could weep away my soul ! Then I might follow, worthy of his hearse.
Stanley. Your duty, madam, of a wife, is dead, And now, the mother's only, claims your care. Think on the prince, your son-send for him, straight, And let his coronation clear your eyes,