Act 1, Scene 2

ANNE

Set down, set down your honourable load,
If honour may be shrouded in a hearse,
Whilst I awhile obsequiously lament
Th’ untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster.
Poor key-cold figure of a holy king,
Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster.
Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood,
Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost
To hear the lamentations of poor Anne,
Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughtered son,
Stabbed by the selfsame hand that made these wounds.
Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life
I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes.
O, cursed be the hand that made these holes;
Cursed the heart that had the heart to do it;
Cursed the blood that let this blood from hence.
More direful hap betide that hated wretch
That makes us wretched by the death of thee
Than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads,
Or any creeping venomed thing that lives.
If ever he have child, abortive be it,
Prodigious, and untimely brought to light,
Whose ugly and unnatural aspect
May fright the hopeful mother at the view,
And that be heir to his unhappiness.
If ever he have wife, let her be made
More miserable by the death of him
Than I am made by my young lord and thee.
Come now towards Chertsey with your holy load,
Taken from Paul’s to be interred there;
And still, as you are weary of this weight,
Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry’s corse.

RICHARD

Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it down.

ANNE

What black magician conjures up this fiend
To stop devoted charitable deeds?

RICHARD

Villains, set down the corse or, by Saint Paul,
I’ll make a corse of him that disobeys!

GENTLEMAN

My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass.

RICHARD

Unmannered 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.
Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell!
Thou hadst but power over his mortal body;
His soul thou canst not have; therefore begone.

RICHARD

Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst.

ANNE

Foul devil, for God’s sake, hence, and trouble us not;
For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell,
Filled it with cursing cries and deep exclaims.
If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds,
Behold this pattern of thy butcheries.
O, gentlemen, see, see dead Henry’s wounds
Open their congealed mouths and bleed afresh!
Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity,
For ’tis thy presence that exhales this blood
From cold and empty veins where no blood dwells.
Thy deeds, inhuman and unnatural,
Provokes this deluge most unnatural.
O God, which this blood mad’st, revenge his death!
O earth, which this blood drink’st, revenge his death!
Either heaven with lightning strike the murderer dead,
Or earth gape open wide and eat him quick,
As thou dost swallow up this good King’s blood,
Which his hell-governed arm hath butchered.

RICHARD

Lady, you know no rules of charity,
Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.

ANNE

Villain, thou know’st nor law of God nor man.
No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.

RICHARD

But I know none, and therefore am no beast.

ANNE

O wonderful, when devils tell the truth!

RICHARD

More wonderful when angels are so angry.
Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman,
Of these supposed crimes to give me leave,
By circumstance, but to acquit myself.

ANNE

Vouchsafe, diffused infection of a man,
Of these known evils but to give me leave,
By circumstance, to accuse thy cursed self.

RICHARD

Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me have
Some patient leisure to excuse myself.

ANNE

Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst make
No excuse current but to hang thyself.

RICHARD

By such despair I should accuse myself.

ANNE

And by despairing shalt thou stand excused
For doing worthy vengeance on thyself
That didst unworthy slaughter upon others.

RICHARD

Say that I slew them not?

ANNE

Then say they were not slain.
But dead they are, and, devilish slave, by thee.

RICHARD

I did not kill your husband.

ANNE

Why then he is alive.

RICHARD

Nay, he is dead, and slain by Edward’s hand.

ANNE

In thy foul throat thou liest. Queen Margaret saw
Thy murd’rous falchion smoking in his blood,
The which thou once didst bend against her breast,
But that thy brothers beat aside the point.

RICHARD

I was provoked by her sland’rous tongue,
That laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoulders.

ANNE

Thou wast provoked by thy bloody mind,
That never dream’st on aught but butcheries.
Didst thou not kill this King?

RICHARD

I grant ye.

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.

RICHARD

The better for the King of Heaven that hath him.

ANNE

He is in heaven, where thou shalt never come.

RICHARD

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.

RICHARD

Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it.

ANNE

Some dungeon.

RICHARD

Your bed-chamber.

ANNE

Ill rest betide the chamber where thou liest!

RICHARD

So will it, madam, till I lie with you.

ANNE

I hope so.

RICHARD

I know so. But, gentle Lady Anne,
To leave this keen encounter of our wits,
And fall something into a slower method:
Is not the causer of the timeless deaths
Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward,
As blameful as the executioner?

ANNE

Thou wast the cause and most accursed effect.

RICHARD

Your beauty was the cause of that effect:
Your beauty, that did haunt me in my sleep
To undertake the death of all the world,
So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom.

ANNE

If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide,
These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks.

RICHARD

These eyes could not endure that beauty’s wrack;
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.

ANNE

Black night o’ershade thy day, and death thy life.

RICHARD

Curse not thyself, fair creature; thou art both.

ANNE

I would I were, to be revenged on thee.

RICHARD

It is a quarrel most unnatural,
To be revenged on him that loveth thee.

ANNE

It is a quarrel just and reasonable,
To be revenged on him that killed my husband.

RICHARD

He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband,
Did it to help thee to a better husband.

ANNE

His better doth not breathe upon the earth.

RICHARD

He lives that loves thee better than he could.

ANNE

Name him.

RICHARD

Plantagenet.

ANNE

Why, that was he.

RICHARD

The selfsame name, but one of better nature.

ANNE

Where is he?

RICHARD

Here.

RICHARD

Why dost thou spit at me?

ANNE

Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake.

RICHARD

Never came poison from so sweet a place.

ANNE

Never hung poison on a fouler toad.
Out of my sight! Thou dost infect mine eyes.

RICHARD

Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine.

ANNE

Would they were basilisks to strike thee dead!

RICHARD

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 aspects 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 bedashed with rain. In that sad time
My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear;
And what these sorrows could not thence exhale,
Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping.
I never sued to friend nor enemy;
My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing word;
But now thy beauty is proposed my fee,
My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak.

RICHARD

Teach not thy lip such scorn; for it was made
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 breast
And let the soul forth that adoreth thee,
I lay it naked to the deadly stroke,
And humbly beg the death upon my knee,

RICHARD

Nay, do not pause, for I did kill King Henry—
But ’twas thy beauty that provoked me.
Nay, now dispatch; ’twas I that stabbed young Edward—
But ’twas thy heavenly face that set me on.

RICHARD

Take up the sword again, or take up me.

ANNE

Arise, dissembler. Though I wish thy death,
I will not be thy executioner.

RICHARD

Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it.

ANNE

I have already.

RICHARD

That was in thy rage.
Speak it again, and even with the word,
This hand, which for thy love did kill thy love,
Shall for thy love kill a far truer love.
To both their deaths shalt thou be accessary.

ANNE

I would I knew thy heart.

RICHARD

’Tis figured in my tongue.

ANNE

I fear me both are false.

RICHARD

Then never was man true.

ANNE

Well, well, put up your sword.

RICHARD

Say then my peace is made.

ANNE

That shalt thou know hereafter.

RICHARD

But shall I live in hope?

ANNE

All men, I hope, live so.

RICHARD

Vouchsafe to wear this ring.

ANNE

To take is not to give.

RICHARD

Look how my 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 servant may
But beg one favour at thy gracious hand,
Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever.

ANNE

What is it?

RICHARD

That it may please you leave these sad designs
To him that hath most cause to be a mourner,
And presently repair to Crosby Place;
Where, after I have solemnly interred
At Chertsey monastery this noble King,
And wet his grave with my repentant tears,
I will with all expedient duty see you.
For divers unknown reasons, I beseech you,
Grant me this boon.

ANNE

With all my heart, and much it joys me too
To see you are become so penitent.
Tressel and Berkeley, go along with me.

RICHARD

Bid me farewell.

ANNE

’Tis more than you deserve;
But since you teach me how to flatter you,
Imagine I have said farewell already.

RICHARD

Sirs, take up the corse.

GENTLEMAN

Towards Chertsey, noble lord?

RICHARD

No, to White Friars; there attend my coming.

RICHARD

Was ever woman in this humour wooed?
Was ever woman in this humour won?
I’ll have her, but I will not keep her long.
What, I that killed her husband and his father,
To take her in her heart’s extremest hate,
With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes,
The bleeding witness of her hatred by,
Having God, her conscience, and these bars against me,
And I no friends to back my suit at all,
But the plain devil and dissembling looks?
And yet to win her, all the world to nothing!
Ha!
Hath she forgot already that brave prince,
Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months since,
Stabbed in my angry mood at Tewksbury?
A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman,
Framed in the prodigality of nature,
Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right royal,
The spacious world cannot again afford.
And will she yet abase her eyes on me,
That cropped the golden prime of this sweet prince,
And made her widow to a woeful bed?
On me, whose all not equals Edward’s moiety?
On me, that halt and am misshapen thus?
My dukedom to a beggarly denier,
I do mistake my person all this while!
Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot,
Myself to be a marvellous proper man.
I’ll be at charges for a looking-glass,
And entertain a score or two of tailors
To study fashions to adorn my body.
Since I am crept in favour with myself,
I will maintain it with some little cost.
But first I’ll turn yon fellow in his grave,
And then return lamenting to my love.
Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass,
That I may see my shadow as I pass.