Shakespeare's First Folio Part 407

Qu. Ah, that thy Father had beene so resolu'd

Rich. That you might still haue worne the Petticoat, And ne're haue stolne the Breech from Lancaster

Prince. Let Aesop fable in a Winters Night, His Currish Riddles sorts not with this place

Rich. By Heauen, Brat, Ile plague ye for that word

Qu. I, thou wast borne to be a plague to men

Rich. For G.o.ds sake, take away this Captiue Scold

Prince. Nay, take away this scolding Crooke-backe, rather

Edw. Peace wilfull Boy, or I will charme your tongue

Clar. Vntutor'd Lad, thou art too malapert

Prince. I know my dutie, you are all vndutifull: Lasciuious Edward, and thou periur'd George, And thou mis-shapen d.i.c.ke, I tell ye all, I am your better, Traytors as ye are, And thou vsurp'st my Fathers right and mine

Edw. Take that, the likenesse of this Rayler here.

Stabs him.

Rich. Sprawl'st thou? take that, to end thy agonie.

Rich[ard]. stabs him.

Clar. And ther's for twitting me with periurie.

Clar[ence]. stabs him.

Qu. Oh, kill me too

Rich. Marry, and shall.

Offers to kill her.

Edw. Hold, Richard, hold, for we haue done too much

Rich. Why should shee liue, to fill the World with words

Edw. What? doth shee swowne? vse meanes for her recouerie

Rich. Clarence excuse me to the King my Brother: Ile hence to London on a serious matter, Ere ye come there, be sure to heare some newes

Cla. What? what?

Rich. Tower, the Tower.

Enter.

Qu. Oh Ned, sweet Ned, speake to thy Mother Boy.

Can'st thou not speake? O Traitors, Murtherers!

They that stabb'd Caesar, shed no blood at all: Did not offend, nor were not worthy Blame, If this foule deed were by, to equall it.

He was a Man; this (in respect) a Childe, And Men, ne're spend their fury on a Childe.

What's worse then Murtherer, that I may name it?

No, no, my heart will burst, and if I speake, And I will speake, that so my heart may burst.

Butchers and Villaines, bloudy Caniballes, How sweet a Plant haue you vntimely cropt: You haue no children (Butchers) if you had, The thought of them would haue stirr'd vp remorse, But if you euer chance to haue a Childe, Looke in his youth to haue him so cut off.

As deathsmen you haue rid this sweet yong Prince

King. Away with her, go beare her hence perforce

Qu. Nay, neuer beare me hence, dispatch me heere: Here sheath thy Sword, Ile pardon thee my death: What? wilt thou not? Then Clarence do it thou

Cla. By heauen, I will not do thee so much ease

Qu. Good Clarence do: sweet Clarence do thou do it

Cla. Did'st thou not heare me sweare I would not do it?

Qu. I, but thou vsest to forsweare thy selfe.

'Twas Sin before, but now 'tis Charity What wilt y not? Where is that diuels butcher Richard?

Hard fauor'd Richard? Richard, where art thou?

Thou art not heere; Murther is thy Almes-deed: Pet.i.tioners for Blood, thou ne're put'st backe

Ed. Away I say, I charge ye beare her hence, Qu. So come to you, and yours, as to this Prince.

Exit Queene.

Ed. Where's Richard gone

Cla. To London all in post, and as I guesse, To make a b.l.o.o.d.y Supper in the Tower

Ed. He's sodaine if a thing comes in his head.

Now march we hence, discharge the common sort With Pay and Thankes, and let's away to London, And see our gentle Queene how well she fares, By this (I hope) she hath a Sonne for me.

Enter.

Enter Henry the sixt, and Richard, with the Lieutenant on the Walles.

Rich. Good day, my Lord, what at your Booke so hard?

Hen. I my good Lord: my Lord I should say rather, Tis sinne to flatter, Good was little better: 'Good Gloster, and good Deuill, were alike, And both preposterous: therefore, not Good Lord

Rich. Sirra, leaue vs to our selues, we must conferre

Hen. So flies the wreaklesse shepherd from y Wolfe: So first the harmlesse Sheepe doth yeeld his Fleece, And next his Throate, vnto the Butchers Knife.

What Scene of death hath Rossius now to Acte?

Rich. Suspition alwayes haunts the guilty minde, The Theefe doth feare each bush an Officer, Hen. The Bird that hath bin limed in a bush, With trembling wings mis...o...b..eth euery bush; And I the haplesse Male to one sweet Bird, Haue now the fatall Obiect in my eye, Where my poore yong was lim'd, was caught, and kill'd

Rich. Why what a peeuish Foole was that of Creet, That taught his Sonne the office of a Fowle, And yet for all his wings, the Foole was drown'd

Hen. I Dedalus, my poore Boy Icarus, Thy Father Minos, that deni'de our course, The Sunne that sear'd the wings of my sweet Boy.

Thy Brother Edward, and thy Selfe, the Sea Whose enuious Gulfe did swallow vp his life: Ah, kill me with thy Weapon, not with words, My brest can better brooke thy Daggers point, Then can my eares that Tragicke History.