Outside the Tower.
(Queen Elizabeth; Duchess of York; Marquess Dorset; Duchess Anne of Gloucester; Lady Margaret Plantagenet; Lieutenant Brakenbury; Stanley)
The dowager Queen, accompanied by the Duchess of York and Lady Anne (who is now Richard’s wife) tries to be let into the Tower to see her children, but Brakenbury is forced to refuse them access, by Richard’s orders. Stanley arrives to summon Anne to her coronation as Queen. Stanley and the Queen urge Dorset to escape England and join Richmond on the Continent. Lady Anne feels that she has brought her own misery upon herself, and is fairly certain that Richard will kill her soon. The Duchess offers her best hopes for them own, but there is little of it. (105 lines)
Enter the Queen Elizabeth, the Duchess of York, and Marquess Dorset at one door; Anne Duchess of Gloucester leading Lady Margaret Plantagenet, Clarence’s young daughter, at another door.
Who meets us here? My niece Plantagenet,
Led in the hand of her kind aunt of Gloucester?
Now, for my life, she’s wand’ring to the Tower,
On pure heart’s love, to greet the tender Prince.
Daughter, well met.
God give your Graces both
A happy and a joyful time of day!
As much to you, good sister! Whither away?
No farther than the Tower, and as I guess,
Upon the like devotion as yourselves,
To gratulate the gentle Princes there.
Kind sister, thanks, we’ll enter all together.
Enter the Lieutenant Brakenbury.
And in good time, here the Lieutenant comes.
Master Lieutenant, pray you, by your leave,
How doth the Prince and my young son of York?
Right well, dear madam. By your patience,
I may not suffer you to visit them,
The King hath strictly charg’d the contrary.
The King? Who’s that?
I mean the Lord Protector.
The Lord protect him from that kingly title!
Hath he set bounds between their love and me?
I am their mother, who shall bar me from them?
I am their father’s mother, I will see them.
Their aunt I am in law, in love their mother;
Then bring me to their sights. I’ll bear thy blame,
And take thy office from thee on my peril.
No, madam, no; I may not leave it so:
I am bound by oath, and therefore pardon me.
Let me but meet you, ladies, an hour hence,
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.
Ah, cut my lace asunder,
That my pent heart may have some scope to beat,
Or else I swoon with this dead-killing news!
Despiteful tidings, O unpleasing news!
Be of good cheer. Mother, how fares your Grace?
O Dorset, speak not to me, get thee gone!
Death and destruction dogs thee at thy heels;
Thy mother’s name is ominous to children.
If thou wilt outstrip death, go cross the seas,
And live with Richmond, from the reach of hell.
Go hie thee, hie thee from this slaughter-house,
Lest thou increase the number of the dead,
And make me die the thrall of Margaret’s curse,
Nor mother, wife, nor England’s counted queen.
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.
O ill-dispersing wind of misery!
O my accursed womb, the bed of death!
A cockatrice hast thou hatch’d to the world,
Whose unavoided eye is murderous.
Come, madam, come, I in all haste was sent.
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 ere men can say, “God save the Queen!”
Go, go, poor soul, I envy not thy glory,
To feed my humor wish thyself no harm.
No! Why? When he that is my husband now
Came to me as I follow’d Henry’s corse,
When scarce the blood was well wash’d from his hands
Which issued from my other angel husband,
And that dear saint which then I weeping follow’d—
O, when, I say, I look’d on Richard’s face,
This was my wish: “Be thou,” quoth I, “accurs’d
For making me, so young, so old a widow!
And when thou wed’st, let sorrow haunt thy bed;
And be thy wife—if any be so mad—
More miserable by the life of thee
Than thou hast made me by my dear lord’s death!”
Lo, ere I can repeat this curse again,
Within so small a time, my woman’s heart
Grossly grew captive to his honey words,
And prov’d the subject of mine own soul’s curse,
Which hitherto hath 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 awak’d.
Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick,
And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me.
Poor heart, adieu, I pity thy complaining.
No more than with my soul I mourn for yours.
Farewell, thou woeful welcomer of glory!
Adieu, poor soul, that tak’st thy leave of it!
Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune guide thee!
Go thou to Richard, and good angels tend thee!
To Queen Elizabeth.
Go thou to sanctuary, and good thoughts possess thee!
I to my grave, where peace and rest lie with me!
Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen,
And each hour’s joy wrack’d with a week of teen.
Stay, yet look back with me unto the Tower.
Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes
Whom envy hath immur’d within your walls—
Rough cradle for such little pretty ones!
Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow
For tender princes—use my babies well!
So foolish sorrows bids your stones farewell.