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Buck. Alas, madam! too well—he sleeps for ever!
Duch. of York. Dead! Good Heav'n, support me!
Buck. Madam, 'twas my unhappy lot, to hear
His last departing groans, and close his eyes !
Duch, of York. Another taken from me too! why,
Am I suill left the last, in life, and woe?
First, I bemoan'd a noble husband's death,
Yet liv'd, with looking on his images :
But now, my last support is gone. -- First, Clarence,
Now, Edward, is for ever taken from me,
And I must now of force, sink down with sorrow !
Buck. Your youngest son, the noble Richard, lives,
His love, I know, will feel his mother's cares,
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 Icave 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,
the mother's only, claims your care.
Think on the prince, your son-send for him, straight,
And let his coronation clear your eyes,
Bury your griefs in the dead Edward's grave-
Revive your joys, on living Edward's throne.
Queen. Alas! that thought, but adds to my affic-
tions ! New tears for Edward, gone, and fears for Edward,
An helpless child, in his minority,
Is in the trust of his stern uncle, Gloster-
A man, that frowns on me, and all of mine.
Buck. Judge not so hardly, madam, of his love : Your son will find in him, a father's care.
Enter GLOSTER, behind. Glost. Why, ah! these tears look well-Sorrow's
And every one at court must wear it now :-
I'll not be out of fashion. [Aside. Queen. My lord, just Heaven knows, I never hated
But would, on any terms, embrace his friendship.
Buck. These words would make him weep“I know
See, where he comes, in sorrow for our loss.
Glost. My lords, good morrow--Cousin of Buck-
ingham, I am yours.
[Weeps. Buck. Good morning to your grace.
We meet, like men that had forgot to speak.
Buck. We may remember ; but our argument,
Is now too mournful to admit such talk.
Glost. It is, indeed! Peace be with him, that made
Sister, take comfort ; 'tis true, we've all cause
To mourn the dimming of our shining star;
But sorrow never could revive the dead;
And if it could, hope would prevent our tears;
So we must weep, because we weep in vain.
Madam, my mother, I do cry you mercy,
My grief was blind-I did not see your grace;
Most humbly, on my knees, I crave your blessing.
Duch. of York. Thou hast it, and may thy charit-
Heart and tongue love one another! may Heav'n
Endow thy breast with meekness, and obedience !
Glost. Amen, and make me die a good old man!
That's the old but-end of a mother's blessing ;-
I marvel, that her grace did leave it out! (Aside,
Buck. My lords, I think 'twere fit, that, now,
Forthwith, from Ludlow, should be sent for, home,
In order to his coronation.
Glost. By all means, my lord ;-Come, let's in, to
And appoint, who shall be the messengers :
Madam, and you, my sister, please you, go
To give your sentiments on this occasion.
Queen. My lord, your wisdom needs no help from
My glad consent you have, in all that's just,
Or for the people's good, though I suffer by't.
Glost. 'Please you to retire, madam; we shall pro-
What you'll not think the people's wrongs, nor yours.
Queen. May. Heaven prosper all your good intent!
[Exeunt all but GLOSTER and BUCKINGHAM. Glost. Amen, with all my heart !—for mine's the
crown, And is not that a good one?--ha! pray'd she not
Buck. I hope she prophesy'd-you now stand fair.
Glost. Now, by St. Paul, I feel it here! methinks
The massy weight on't, galls my laden brow:
What think'st thou, cousin, wer't not an easy matter
To get Lord Stanley's hand, to help it on?
Buck. My lord, I doubt that; for his father's sake,
He loves the prince too well-he'll scarce be won
To any thing against him.
Glost. Poverty, the reward of honest fools, O’ertake him fort! What think'st thou, then, of
Buck. He shall be try'd, my lord; I'll find out
Who shall at subtle distance sound his thoughts
But we must still suppose the worst may happen:
What, if we find him cold in our design?
Glost. Chop off his head !-something we'll soon
determine: But haste, and find out Catesby, 'That done, follow me to the council chamber ; We'll not be seen together much, nor have It known, that we confer in private, therefore, Away, good cousin. Buck. I am gone, my lord.
[Erit. Glost. Thus far, we run before the wind ; My fortune smiles, and gives me all that I dare ask. The conquer'd Lady Anne is bound in vows; Fast as the priest can make us, we are one. The king, my brother, sleeps without his pillow, And I'm left guardian of his infant heir. Let me seeThe prince will soon be here-let him ! the crown! Oh, yes, he shall have twenty--globes, and sceptres
too ! New ones made to play withal, but no coronationNo, nor any court-flies about him-no kinsmen. Hold ye—where shall be keep his court:-- the
Tower ? Ay-the Tower.
Prince EDWARD, GLOSTER, BUCKINGHAM, LORD
STANLEY, TRESSEL, and ATTENDANTS, disco
Glost. Now, my royal cousin, welcome to Lon-
don ! -
Welcome to all those honour'd dignities,
Which, by your father's will, and by your birth,
You stand the undoubted heir possessed of!
And, if my plain simplicity of heart,
May take the liberty to show itself,
You're farther welcome to your uncle's care
And love-Why do you sigh, my lord?
That weary way has made you melancholy.
P. Ed. No, uncle ; but our crosses on the way,
Have made it tedious, wearisome, and heavy:
I want more uncles here to welcome me.
Tressel. More uncles ! what means his highness?
Stanley. Way, sir, the careful Duke of Gloster,
has Secur’d his kinsmen on the way.-Lord Rivers, Gray, Sir Thomas Vaughan, and others of his friends, Are prisoners now in Pomtret Castle : On what pretence it boots nut, there they are ; Let the devil and the duke alone to accuse them, Glost. My lord, the Mayor of London comes to