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The Mayor should lose his title with his office!
Well, who knows ? he may be won.
Lord M. Ah, my

lord !
Buck. See, he comes forth-my friends, be resolute;
I know he's cautious to a fault: but do not
Leave him, till our honest suit be granted.

Enter Gloster, with a Book.
Glost. Cousin of Buckingham,
I do beseech your grace to pardon me,
Who, earnest in my zealous meditation,
So long deferr’d the service of my friends.
Now do I fear I've done some strange offence;
That looks disgracious in the city's eye. If so,
"Tis just you should reprove my ignorance.

Buck. You have, my lord: we wish your grace, On our entreaties, would amend your fault.

Glost. Else wherefore breathe I in a christian land?
Buck. Know then, it is your

fault that you resign
The scepter's office of your ancestors,
Fair England's throne, your own due right of birth,
To the corruption of a blemish'd stock;
In this just canse, I come, to move your highness,
That on your gracious self you'd take the charge,
And kingly government of this your land,
Not as protector, steward, substitute,
Or lowly factor for another's gain;
But as successively from blood to blood,
Your own by right of birth, and lineal glory.

Glost. I cannot tell, if to depart in silence,
Or bitterly to speak in your reproof,
Fits best with my degree, or your condition;
Therefore, to speak in just refusal of your suit,
And then in speaking not to check my friends,
Definitively thus I answer you:
Your love deserves my thanks; but my desert,
Unmerilable, shuns your fond request;
For, Heav'n be thank’d, there is no need of me;

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The royal stock has left us royal fruit,
Which, mellow'd by the stealing hours of time,
Will well become the seat of majesty,
And make us (no doubt) happy by his reign.
On him I lay whal you would lay on me,
The right and fortune of his happier stars ;
Which Heav'n forbid my thoughts should rob him of!
Lord M. Upon our knees, my lord, we beg your

gra To wear this precious robe of dignity, Which on a child must sit too loose and heavy; 'Tis yours, befitting both your wisdom and your birth.

Catesby. My lord, this coldness is unkind, Nor suits it with such ardent loyalty. Buck. Oh, make them happy! grant their lawful

Glost. Alas! why would you heap this care on me!
I am unfit for state and majesty.
I thank


your loves, but must declare
(I do beseech you take it not amiss)
I will not, dare not, must not, yield to you.

Buck. If you refuse us, through a soft remorse, Loath to depose the child, your brother's son (As well we know your tenderness of heart); Yet know, tho' you deny us to the last, Your brother's son shall never reign our king, But we will plant some other on the throne, To the disgrace and downfall of your house: And, thus resolv'd, I bid you, sir, farewell. My lord, and gentlemen, I beg your pardon; For this vain trouble—my intent was good, I would have serv'd my country and my king: But 'twill not be-farewell, till next we meet. Lord M. Be not too rash, my lord: his grace re

lents. Buck. Away, you but deceive yourselves. (Exit. Catesby. Sweet prince, accept their suit. Lord M. If you deny us, all the land will rue it.

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Glost. Call him again-[Exit Catesby.) you will

enforce me to
A world of cares -I am not made of stone,
But penetrable to your kind entreaties;
Tho', Heav'n knows, against my own inclining.

Cousin of Buckingham, and sage, grave, men,

will buckle fortune on my back,
To bear her burden, whether I will or no,
I must have patience to endure the load;
But, if black scandal or foul-fac'd reproach
Attend the sequel of your imposition,
Your mere enforcement shall acquittance me;
For Heaven knows, as you may partly see,
How far I am from the desire of this.
Lord M. Heaven guard your grace! we see it, and

will say it. Glost. You will but

say the truth, my lord. Buck. My heart's so full, it scarce has vent for

words; My knee will better speak my duty, now! Long live our sovereign, Richard, king of England. Glost. Indeed, your words have touch'd me nearly,

cousin! Pray rise—I wish you could recall them. Buck. It would be treason, now, my lord; 10

morrow, If it so please your majesty, from council Orders shall be given for your coronation.

Glost. E'en when you please, for you will have it so.

Buck, To-morrow then we will attend your majesty. And now we take our leaves with joy.

Glost. Cousin, adieu—my loving friends, farewell. I must unto my holy work again.

[Exeunt all but RicHARD. Why, now my golden dream is outAmbition, like an early friend, throws back

My curtains with an eager hand, o'erjoy'd
To tell me what I dreamt is true-A crown!
Thou bright reward of ever-daring minds !
Oh! how thy awful glory wraps my soul!
Nor can the means that got thee dim thy lustre !
For, not men's love, fear pays the adoration,
And fame not more survives from good than evil

deeds. Th' aspiring youth, that fir'd the Ephesian dome, Outlives, in fame, the pious fool that rais’d it. Conscience, lie still; more lives will yet be drain'd; Crowns got with blood, must be with blood maintain'd.




The TowER.


CHESS OF YORK, and LADY ANNE, discovered.

P. Ed. Pray, madam, do not leave me yet, For I have many more complaints to tell you.

Queen. And I unable to redress the least; What wouldst thou say, my child?

P. Ed. Oh, mother, since I have lain i' the Tower, My rest has still been broke with frightful dreams, Or shocking news has wak'd me into tears :

I'm scarce allow'd a friend to visit me;
All my old honest servants are turn’d off,
And in their room are strange illnatur'd fellows,
Who look so bold as they were all my masters;
And I'm afraid they'll shortly take you

from me.
Duch. of York. Oh, mournful hearing!
Lady A. Oh, unhappy prince!

D. of York. Dear brother, why do you weep so? You make me cry too!

Queen. Alas, poor innocence !

P. Ed. 'Would I but knew at what my uncle aims;
If 'twere my crown, I'd freely give it him,
So he'd but let me 'joy my life in quiet.

D. of York. Why, will my uncle kill us, brother?
P. Ed. I hope he won't; we never injur'd him.
Queen. I cannot bear to see them thus. [Weeping.

Stanley. Madam, I hope your majesty will pardon
What I am griev'd to tell, unwelcome news !
Queen. Ah me! more sorrow yet! my lord, we've

long Despair'd of happy tidings; pray, what is't? Stanley. On Tuesday last, your noble kinsmen,

Grey, and Sir Thomas Vaughan, at Pomfret,
Were executed on a public scaffold.

Duch. of York. Oh dismal tidings !
P. Ed. Oh poor uncles! I doubt my turn is next,
Lady A. Nor mine, I fear far off.

Queen. Why then let's welcome blood and massacre,
Yield all our throats to the fell tiger's rage,
And die lamenting one another's wrong;
Oh! I foresaw this ruin of our house, [Wecpsa

Enter Catesby.
Catesby. Madam, the king
Has sent me to inform your majesty,

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