DUCHESS
Who meets us here? My niece Plantagenet
Led in the hand of her kind aunt of Gloucester?
Now, for my life, she’s wandering to the Tower,
On pure heart’s love, to greet the tender Prince.
Daughter, well met.
ANNE
God give your Graces both
A happy and a joyful time of day.
QUEEN ELIZABETH
As much to you, good sister. away?
ANNE
No farther than the Tower, and, as I guess,
Upon the like devotion as yourselves,
To gratulate the gentle Princes there.
QUEEN ELIZABETH
Kind sister, thanks; we’ll enter all together.
QUEEN ELIZABETH
And in good time, here the Lieutenant comes.
Master Lieutenant, pray you, by your leave,
How the Prince and my young son of York?
BRAKENBURY
Right well, dear madam. By your patience,
I may not suffer you to visit them.
The King strictly charged the contrary.
QUEEN ELIZABETH
The King? Who’s that?
BRAKENBURY
I mean the Lord Protector.
QUEEN ELIZABETH
The Lord protect him from that kingly title!
he set bounds between their love and me?
I am their mother; who shall bar me from them?
DUCHESS
I am their father’s mother. I will see them.
ANNE
Their aunt I am in law, in love their mother.
Then bring me to their sights. I’ll bear blame,
And take office from , on my peril.
BRAKENBURY
No, madam, no. I may not leave it so.
I am bound by oath, and therefore pardon me.
STANLEY
Let me but meet you, ladies, one hour ,
And I’ll salute your Grace of York as mother
And reverend looker-on of two fair queens.
Come, madam, you must straight to Westminster,
There to be crowned Richard’s royal queen.
QUEEN ELIZABETH
Ah, cut my lace asunder
That my pent heart may have some scope to beat,
Or else I swoon with this dead-killing news!
ANNE
Despiteful tidings! O unpleasing news!
DORSET
Be of good cheer, mother. How fares your Grace?
QUEEN ELIZABETH
O Dorset, speak not to me; get gone.
Death and destruction dog at heels;
mother’s name is ominous to children.
If wilt outstrip death, go, cross the seas,
And live with Richmond, from the reach of hell.
Go, hie , hie from this slaughter-house,
Lest increase the number of the dead,
And make me die the thrall of Margaret’s curse,
Nor mother, wife, nor England’s counted Queen.
STANLEY
Full of wise care is this your counsel, madam.
Take all the swift advantage of the hours;
You shall have letters from me to my son
In your behalf, to meet you on the way.
Be not ta’en tardy by unwise delay.
DUCHESS
O ill-dispersing wind of misery!
O my accursed womb, the bed of death!
A cockatrice hatched to the world,
Whose unavoided eye is murderous.
STANLEY
Come, madam, come. I in all haste was sent.
ANNE
And I with all unwillingness will go.
O, would to God that the inclusive verge
Of golden metal that must round my brow
Were red-hot steel, to sear me to the brains.
Anointed let me be with deadly venom,
And die men can say “God save the Queen.”
QUEEN ELIZABETH
Go, go, poor soul; I envy not glory.
To feed my , wish thyself no harm.
ANNE
No? Why? When he that is my husband now
Came to me as I followed Henry’s corse,
When scarce the blood was well washed from his hands
Which issued from my other angel husband,
And that dear saint which then I weeping followed;
O, when, I say, I looked on Richard’s face,
This was my wish: “Be ,” quoth I, “accursed
For making me, so young, so old a widow;
And when wedd’st, let sorrow haunt bed;
And be wife, if any be so mad,
More miserable by the life of
Than made me by my dear lord’s death.”
Lo, I can repeat this curse again,
Within so small a time, my woman’s heart
Grossly grew captive to his honey words,
And proved the subject of mine own soul’s curse,
Which hitherto held my eyes from rest;
For never yet one hour in his bed
Did I enjoy the golden dew of sleep,
But with his timorous dreams was still awaked.
Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick,
And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me.
QUEEN ELIZABETH
Poor heart, adieu; I pity complaining.
ANNE
No more than with my soul I mourn for yours.
DORSET
Farewell, woeful welcomer of glory.
ANNE
Adieu, poor soul, that tak’st leave of it.
DUCHESS
Go to Richmond, and good fortune guide .
Go to Richard, and good angels tend .
Go to sanctuary, and good thoughts possess .
I to my grave, where peace and rest lie with me.
Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen,
And each hour’s joy wracked with a week of teen.
QUEEN ELIZABETH
Stay, yet look back with me unto the Tower.
Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes
Whom envy immured within your walls—
Rough cradle for such little pretty one,
Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow
For tender princes, use my babies well.
So foolish sorrows bids your stones farewell.