Cursed be the hand that made these fatal holes! May fright the hopeful mother at the view; As miserable by the death of him As I am made by my poor lord and thee! Come, now towards Chertsey with your holy load, And still, as you are weary of the weight, Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry's corse. Enter GLOUCESTER. Glou. Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it down. Anne. What black magician conjures up this fiend, To stop devoted charitable deeds? Glou. Villains, set down the corse; or, by Saint Paul, I'll make a corse of him that disobeys. Gent. My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass. Glou. Unmanner'd dog! stand thou, when I command: Advance thy halberd higher than my breast, Or, by Saint Paul, I'll strike thee to my foot, And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness. Anne. What do you tremble? are you all afraid? Alas, I blame you not; for you are mortal, And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil. 40 Thou hadst but power over his mortal body, His soul thou canst not have; therefore, be gone. Anne. Foul devil, for God's sake, hence, and trouble us not; For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell, 50 For 'tis thy presence that exhales this blood From cold and empty veins, where no blood dwells; O God, which this blood madest, revenge his death! Glou. But I know none, and therefore am no beast. Anne. Vouchsafe, defused infection of a man, For these known evils, but to give me leave, By circumstance, to curse thy cursed self. Glou. Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me have Some patient leisure to excuse myself. 577 60 71 80 Anne. Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst make No excuse current, but to hang thyself. Glou. By such despair, I should accuse myself. Anne. And, by despairing, shouldst thou stand excused; For doing worthy vengeance on thyself, Which didst unworthy slaughter upon others. Glou. Say that I slew them not? Anne. 99 Why, then he is alive. Glou. Nay, he is dead, and slain by Edward's hand. saw Thy murderous falchion smoking in his blood; Glou. I was provoked by her slanderous tongue, 100 I grant ye. Didst thou not kill this king? Glou. Anne. Dost grant me, hedgehog? then, God grant me too Thou mayst be damned for that wicked deed! O, he was gentle, mild, and virtuous! Glou. The fitter for the King of heaven, that hath him. Anne. He is in heaven, where thou shalt never come. Glou. Let him thank me, that holp to send him thither; For he was fitter for that place than earth. Anne. And thou unfit for any place but hell. Glou. Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it. Anne. Some dungeon. Glou. Your bed-chamber. Anne. Il rest betide the chamber where thou liest! Glou. Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward, As blameful as the executioner? Anne. Thou art the cause, and most accursed effect. Your beauty, which did haunt me in my sleep To undertake the death of all the world, So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom. 111 121 These nails should rend that beauty from my checks, wreck; You should not blemish it, if I stood by: As all the world is cheered by the sun, So I by that; it is my day, my life. 130 Anne. Black night o'ershade thy day, and death thy life! Glou. Curse not thyself, fair crenture; thou art both. To be revenged on him that loveth you. Anne. It is a quarrel just and reasonable, To be revenged on him that slew my husband. Did it to help thee to a better husband. Anne. His better doth not breathe upon the earth. 140 Why, that was he. Glou. The selfsame name, but one of better nature. Anne. Where is he? Here. [She spitteth at him.] Why dost thou spit at me? Anne. Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake! 150 Glou. Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine. Anne. Would they were basilisks, to strike thee dead! Glou. I would they were, that I might die at once; For now they kill me with a living death. Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears, Shamed their aspect with store of childish drops: These eyes, which never shed remorseful tear, No, when my father York and Edward wept, To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made When black-faced Clifford shook his sword at him; Nor when thy warlike father, like a child, Told the sad story of my father's death, And twenty times made pause to sob and weep, That all the standers-by had wet their cheeks, Like trees bedash'd with rain: in that sad time My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear; And what these sorrows could not thence exhale, 160 170 My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing words; For kissing, lady, not for such contempt. If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive, Lo, here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword; Which if thou please to hide in this true bosom, I lay it naked to the deadly stroke, And humbly beg the death upon my knee. [He lays his breast open: she offers at it with his sword. Nay, do not pause; for I did kill King Henry, But 'twas thy beauty that provoked me. Nay, now dispatch; 'twas I that stabb'd young Edward, But 'twas thy heavenly face that set me on. 180 [Here she lets fall the sword. Take up the sword again, or take up me. Anne. Arise, dissembler: though I wish thy death, I will not be the executioner. Glou. Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it. Glou Speak it again, and, even with the word, Tush, that was in thy rage: That hand, which, for thy love, did kill thy love, 100 To both their deaths thou shalt be accessary. Anne. That shall you know hereafter. Glou. Vouchsafe to wear this ring. Anne. To take is not to give. Glou. Look, how this ring encompasseth thy finger, Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart; Wear both of them, for both of them are thine. And if thy poor devoted suppliant may But beg one favour at thy gracious hand, Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever. Anne. What is it? 200 210 Glou. That it would please thee leave these sad designs To him that hath more cause to be a mourner, For divers unknown reasons, I beseech you, Anne. With all my heart; and much it joys me too, 220 To see you are become so penitent. Tressel and Berkeley, go along with me. Glon. Bid me farewell. Anne. 'Tis more than you deserve; [Exeunt Lady Anne, Tressel, and Berkeley. Towards Chertsey, noble lord? Glou. Sirs, take up the corse. |