Imatges de pÓgina
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Anne. Dost grant me, hedge-hog? then, God grant

me too,

Thou may'st be damned for that wicked deed!
O, he was gentle, mild, and virtuous.

Glo. The fitter for the King of heaven that hath him. Anne. He is in heaven, where thou shalt never come. Glo. 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.

Glo. Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it. Anne. Some dungeon.


Your bed-chamber.

Anne. Il rest betide the chamber where thou liest!
Glo. So will it, madam, till I lie with you.
Anne. I hope so.


I know so. But, gentle lady Anne, -

To leave this keen encounter of our wits,

And fall somewhat into a slower method; 3

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 accurs'd effect.

Glo. Your beauty was the cause of that effect;
Your beauty, which 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.
Glo. These eyes could not endure that beauty's wreck,
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!

a slower method ;] As quick was used for spritely, so slower was put for serious.

Glo. Curse not thyself, fair creature; thou art both.
Anne. I would I were, to be reveng'd on thee.
Glo. It is a quarrel most unnatural,
To be reveng'd on him that loveth thee.

Anne. It is a quarrel just and reasonable,
To be reveng❜d on him that kill'd my husband.
Glo. 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.
Glo. He lives, that loves you better than he could.
Anne. Name him.




Why, that was he.

Glo. The self-same name, but one of better nature. Anne. Where is he?


Here: [She spits at him.] Why

dost thou spit at me?

Anne. 'Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake! Glo. 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.

Glo. Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine. Anne. 'Would they were basilisks, to strike thee dead! Glo. 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, Sham'd their aspects with store of childish drops: These which never shed remorseful tear, +Not, when my father York and Edward wept, To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made, When black-fac'd 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 bedash'd with rain: in that sad time,

+"No, when," &c. - MALONE.

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 su'd to friend, nor enemy;

My tongue could never learn sweet soothing word;
But now thy beauty is propos'd my fee,

My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak.
[She looks scornfully at him.
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.

[He lays his Breast open; she offers at it with his Sword.

Nay, do not pause; for I did kill king Henry;

But 'twas thy beauty that provoked me.

Nay, now despatch; 'twas I that stabb'd young Ed[She again offers at his Breast.


But 'twas thy heavenly face that set me on.

[She lets fall the Sword,

Take up the sword again, or take up me.

Anne. Arise, dissembler: though I wish thy death,

I will not be thy executioner.

Glo. Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it.
Anne. I have already.


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.

4 But 'twas thy beauty -] Shakspeare countenances the observe ation, that no woman can ever be offended with the mention of her beauty. JOHNSON.

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Vouchsafe to wear this ring.

Anne. To take, is not to give. [She puts on the Ring. Glo. Look, how this 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?

Glo. That it may please you leave these sad designs To him that hath more cause to be a mourner,

And presently repair to Crosby-place:


Where after I have solemnly interr'd,

At Chertsey monast'ry, 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 Berkley, go along with me.

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5 ·Crosby-place:] A house near Bishopsgate-street, belonging to the duke of Gloster, now Crosby-square, where part of the house is yet remaining.

Glo. Bid me farewell.


'Tis more than you deserve:

But, since teach me how to flatter you, you

Imagine I have said farewell already.

[Exeunt Lady ANNE, TRESSEL, and BERKLEY.

Glo. Take up the corse, sirs. †


Towards Chertsey, noble lord?

[Exeunt the rest, with the Corse.

Glo. No, to White-Friars; there attend my coming.

Was ever woman in this humour woo'd?

Was ever woman in this humour won?

I'll have her, but I will not keep her long.


What! I, that kill'd 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;

With God, her conscience, and these bars against me, And I no friends to back my suit withal,

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,

Stabb'd in my angry mood at Tewksbury?

A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman,

Fram'd in the prodigality of nature,

Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right royal,

The spacious world cannot again afford:

And will she yet debase her eyes on me,

That cropp'd the golden prime of this sweet prince,

And made her widow to a woful bed?

On me, whose all not equals Edward's moiety?
On me, that halt, and am mis-shapen thus?

My dukedom to a beggarly denier,

+ "Sirs, take up the corse."




"all the world to nothing, ah!"— MALONE.

a beggarly denier,] A denier is the twelfth part of a French sous, and appears to have been the usual request of a beggar.

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