Shakespeare's First Folio Part 397

Wid. To tell you plaine, I had rather lye in Prison

King. Why then thou shalt not haue thy Husbands Lands

Wid. Why then mine Honestie shall be my Dower, For by that losse, I will not purchase them

King. Therein thou wrong'st thy Children mightily

Wid. Herein your Highnesse wrongs both them & me: But mightie Lord, this merry inclination Accords not with the sadnesse of my suit: Please you dismisse me, eyther with I, or no

King. I, if thou wilt say I to my request: No, if thou do'st say No to my demand

Wid. Then No, my Lord: my suit is at an end

Rich. The Widow likes him not, shee knits her Browes

Clarence. Hee is the bluntest Wooer in Christendome

King. Her Looks doth argue her replete with Modesty, Her Words doth shew her Wit incomparable, All her perfections challenge Soueraigntie, One way, or other, shee is for a King, And shee shall be my Loue, or else my Queene.

Say, that King Edward take thee for his Queene?

Wid. 'Tis better said then done, my gracious Lord: I am a subiect fit to ieast withall, But farre vnfit to be a Soueraigne

King. Sweet Widow, by my State I sweare to thee, I speake no more then what my Soule intends, And that is, to enioy thee for my Loue

Wid. And that is more then I will yeeld vnto: I know, I am too meane to be your Queene, And yet too good to be your Concubine

King. You cauill, Widow, I did meane my Queene

Wid. 'Twill grieue your Grace, my Sonnes should call you Father

King. No more, then when my Daughters Call thee Mother.

Thou art a Widow, and thou hast some Children, And by G.o.ds Mother, I being but a Batchelor, Haue other-some. Why, 'tis a happy thing, To be the Father vnto many Sonnes: Answer no more, for thou shalt be my Queene

Rich. The Ghostly Father now hath done his Shrift

Clarence. When hee was made a Shriuer, 'twas for shift

King. Brothers, you muse what Chat wee two haue had

Rich. The Widow likes it not, for shee lookes very sad

King. You'ld thinke it strange, if I should marrie her

Clarence. To who, my Lord?

King. Why Clarence, to my selfe

Rich. That would be tenne dayes wonder at the least

Clarence. That's a day longer then a Wonder lasts

Rich. By so much is the Wonder in extremes

King. Well, ieast on Brothers: I can tell you both, Her suit is graunted for her Husbands Lands.

Enter a n.o.ble man

n.o.b. My gracious Lord, Henry your Foe is taken, And brought your Prisoner to your Pallace Gate

King. See that he be conuey'd vnto the Tower: And goe wee Brothers to the man that tooke him, To question of his apprehension.

Widow goe you along: Lords vse her honourable.

Exeunt.

Manet Richard.

Rich. I, Edward will vse Women honourably: Would he were wasted, Marrow, Bones, and all, That from his Loynes no hopefull Branch may spring, To crosse me from the Golden time I looke for: And yet, betweene my Soules desire, and me, The l.u.s.tfull Edwards t.i.tle buryed, Is Clarence, Henry, and his Sonne young Edward, And all the vnlook'd-for Issue of their Bodies, To take their Roomes, ere I can place my selfe: A cold premeditation for my purpose.

Why then I doe but dreame on Soueraigntie, Like one that stands vpon a Promontorie, And spyes a farre-off sh.o.r.e, where hee would tread, Wishing his foot were equall with his eye, And chides the Sea, that sunders him from thence, Saying, hee'le lade it dry, to haue his way: So doe I wish the Crowne, being so farre off, And so I chide the meanes that keepes me from it, And so (I say) Ile cut the Causes off, Flattering me with impossibilities: My Eyes too quicke, my Heart o're-weenes too much, Vnlesse my Hand and Strength could equall them.

Well, say there is no Kingdome then for Richard: What other Pleasure can the World affoord?

Ile make my Heauen in a Ladies Lappe, And decke my Body in gay Ornaments, And 'witch sweet Ladies with my Words and Lookes.

Oh miserable Thought! and more vnlikely, Then to accomplish twentie Golden Crownes.

Why Loue forswore me in my Mothers Wombe: And for I should not deale in her soft Lawes, Shee did corrupt frayle Nature with some Bribe, To shrinke mine Arme vp like a wither'd Shrub, To make an enuious Mountaine on my Back, Where sits Deformitie to mocke my Body; To shape my Legges of an vnequall size, To dis-proportion me in euery part: Like to a Chaos, or an vn-lick'd Beare-whelpe, That carryes no impression like the Damme.

And am I then a man to be belou'd?

Oh monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought.

Then since this Earth affoords no Ioy to me, But to command, to check, to o're-beare such, As are of better Person then my selfe: Ile make my Heauen, to dreame vpon the Crowne, And whiles I liue, t' account this World but h.e.l.l, Vntill my mis-shap'd Trunke, that beares this Head, Be round impaled with a glorious Crowne.

And yet I know not how to get the Crowne, For many Liues stand betweene me and home: And I, like one lost in a Thornie Wood, That rents the Thornes, and is rent with the Thornes, Seeking a way, and straying from the way, Not knowing how to finde the open Ayre, But toyling desperately to finde it out, Torment my selfe, to catch the English Crowne: And from that torment I will free my selfe, Or hew my way out with a b.l.o.o.d.y Axe.

Why I can smile, and murther whiles I smile, And cry, Content, to that which grieues my Heart, And wet my Cheekes with artificiall Teares, And frame my Face to all occasions.

Ile drowne more Saylers then the Mermaid shall, Ile slay more gazers then the Basiliske, Ile play the Orator as well as Nestor, Deceiue more slyly then Vlisses could, And like a Synon, take another Troy.

I can adde Colours to the Camelion, Change shapes with Proteus, for aduantages, And set the murtherous Macheuill to Schoole.

Can I doe this, and cannot get a Crowne?

Tut, were it farther off, Ile plucke it downe.

Enter.

Flourish. Enter Lewis the French King, his Sister Bona, his Admirall, call'd Bourbon: Prince Edward, Queene Margaret, and the Earle of Oxford.

Lewis sits, and riseth vp againe.

Lewis. Faire Queene of England, worthy Margaret, Sit downe with vs: it ill befits thy State, And Birth, that thou should'st stand, while Lewis doth sit

Marg. No, mightie King of France: now Margaret Must strike her sayle, and learne a while to serue, Where Kings command. I was (I must confesse) Great Albions Queene, in former Golden dayes: But now mischance hath trod my t.i.tle downe, And with dis-honor layd me on the ground, Where I must take like Seat vnto my fortune, And to my humble Seat conforme my selfe

Lewis. Why say, faire Queene, whence springs this deepe despaire?

Marg. From such a cause, as fills mine eyes with teares, And stops my tongue, while heart is drown'd in cares

Lewis. What ere it be, be thou still like thy selfe, And sit thee by our side.

Seats her by him.

Yeeld not thy necke to Fortunes yoake, But let thy dauntlesse minde still ride in triumph, Ouer all mischance.

Be plaine, Queene Margaret, and tell thy griefe, It shall be eas'd, if France can yeeld reliefe

Marg. Those gracious words Reuiue my drooping thoughts, And giue my tongue-ty'd sorrowes leaue to speake.