Original subtitles

God save King Edward,

fourth of that name.

Once more we sit in England's royal throne.

Repurchased with the blood of enemies.

Hail the House of York!

Brother Richard,

will you stand by us?

My liege, it is the Earl of Richmond.

He is the house of Lancaster.

I am the Queen!

Where's Richard gone?

To make a bloody supper

in the Tower.

Ripped By mstoll

Now is the winter of our discontent

made glorious summer by this sun of York.

And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house,

in the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Grim-visage'd war hath smooth 'd his wrinkled front.

And now,

instead of mounting barded steeds

to fright the souls of fearful adversaries,

he capers nimbly in a lady's chamber,

to the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

But I,

that am not shaped for sportive tricks,

nor made to court an amorous looking-glass...

I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty...

I,

That am curtail'd of this fair proportion,

cheated of feature by dissembling Nature,

deformed, unfinish'd,

sent before my time into this breathing world, scarce half made up,

and that so lamely and unfashionable that dogs

bark at me as I halt by them.

Why, I,

in this weak and piping time of peace,

have no delight to pass away the time...

Unless to spy my shadow in the sun

and descant on mine own deformity.

And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,

to entertain these fair well-spoken days,

I am determined to prove a villain,

and hate the idle pleasures of these days.

Plots have I laid,

inductions dangerous,

to set the King my brother and Clarence

in deadly hate, the one against the other.

And if King Edward be as true and just

as I am subtle, false and treacherous...

Then this day should Clarence closely be mew'd up,

about a prophecy, which says that "G" of Edward's heirs

the murderer shall be.

Dive, thoughts, down to my soul, here Clarence comes.

Brother, what means this armed guard

that waits upon Your Grace?

His Majesty,

tend'ring my person's safety,

hath appointed this conduct to convey me to the Tower.

Upon what cause?

Because my name is George.

Alack, my lord, that fault is none of yours.

He should, for this, commit your godfathers.

He hearkens after prophecies and dreams,

and says a wizard told him

that by "G" his issue disinherited should be.

And, for my name of George begins with

it follows in his thoughts that I am he.

This it is, when men are rul'd by women.

'Tis not the King that sends you to the Tower.

Elizabeth his wife, 'tis she that

tempers him to this extremity.

We are not safe, Clarence. We are not safe!

I beseech Your Graces both to pardon me.

His Majesty hath straitly given in charge that no man shall have private conference,

of what degree soever, with his brother.

We speak no treason, man.

We say the King is wise and virtuous,

and his noble Queen

well struck in years, fair, and not jealous.

How say you, sir? Can you deny all this?

I do beseech Your Grace to pardon me,

and withal forbear your conference with the noble Duke.

We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will obey.

Brother, farewell.

I will unto the King.

Meantime, this deep disgrace

touches me deeper than you can imagine.

I know it pleaseth neither of us well.

Well, your imprisonment will not be long.

Meantime, be patient.

I must perforce.

Farewell.

Go, tread the path that thou shalt ne'er return.

Simple, plain Clarence!

I do love thee so,

that shortly I will send thy soul

to Heaven.

Good time of day to you, Lord Chamberlain.

What news? The King is sickly, weak and melancholy,

and his physicians fear him mightily.

He broke the feast and has retired to bed.

O, he hath kept an evil diet long,

and over-much consum'd his royal person.

Where is he, is he in his bed? He is.

Go you before, and I will follow you.

He cannot live, I hope, and must not die

till George be pack'd with post-horse up to Heaven.

I'll in, to urge his hatred more.

And, if I fail not in my deep intent,

dear George hath not another day to live.

How now, my hardy, stout, resolved mates.

Are you now tomorrow to dispatch this thing?

We are, my lord,

and we come to have the warrant, that we may be admitted where he is.

Well thought upon. I have it here about me.

But, sirs, be sudden in the execution,

do not hear him plead.

My brother is well-spoken, and perhaps may move your

hearts to pity, if you mark him.

Tut, tut, my lord, we will not stand to prate.

Talkers are no good doers, be assur'd

we go to use our hands and not our tongues.

Your eyes drop millstones when fools' eyes drop tears.

I like you, lads. About your business straight.

Go, go, dispatch.

We will, my noble lord.

O, cursed be the hand that made those fatal holes.

Cursed be the heart that had the heart to do it.

More direful hap betide that hated wretch

than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads.

If ever he have wife, let her be made more miserable by the death of him

than I by my husband and father in law, King Henry.

What black magician

conjures up this fiend?

Avaunt,

thou dreadful minister of Hell!

Sweet saint, for charity be not so curst.

O villain, thou know'st no law of God nor man.

No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.

But I know none, and therefore am no beast.

O wonderful, when devils tell the truth!

More wonderful, when angels are so angry.

Fairer than tongue can name thee,

let me have some patient leisure to excuse myself.

I shall not grant excuses to the thing

that killed my husband, my father,

and my King.

Dead,

dead they are, and, devilish slave, by thee.

I did not kill your husband.

Why then, is he alive?

Nay, he is dead, and by King Edward's hand.

In thy foul throat thou liest.

Queen Margaret saw thy murd'rous dagger

smoking in his blood,

didst thou not kill the King?

I grant ye, yea.

Dost grant me,

hedgehog!

He was gentle,

mild, and virtuous.

Better for the King of Heaven that hath him.

He is in Heaven, where thou shalt never come.

He was fitter for that place than Earth.

And thou unfit for any place but Hell.

Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it.

Some dungeon? Your bed-chamber.

Is not the causer of these timeless deaths

as blameful as the executioner?

Thou wast the cause,

and most accurs'd effect.

Your beauty was the cause of that effect.

Your beauty, that did haunt me in my sleep

to undertake the death of all the world,

so I might live one hour

in your sweet bosom.

If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide.

These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks.

These eyes could not endure sweet beauty's wrack.

You should not blemish it if I stood by.

It is a quarrel most unnatural,

to be reveng'd on him that loveth thee.

It is a quarrel just and reasonable,

to be reveng'd on him that kill'd my husband.

He that bereft thee, of thy husband, lady,

did it to help thee to a better husband.

Better doth not breathe upon the Earth.

He lives that loves thee better than he could.

Where is he? Here.

Why dost thou spit on me?

Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake.

Never came poison from so sweet a place.

Never hung poison on a fouler toad.

Out of my sight! O thou dost infect my eyes.

Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine.

If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive,

teach not thy mouth such scorn, for it was made

for kissing, lady, not for such contempt.

Lo, here I lend thee this sharp-pointed blade,

which if thou choose to hide in this true breast,

and let the soul forth that adoreth thee,

I lay it naked unto the deadly stroke.

Nay, do not pause,

for I did kill King Henry.

Nay, now dispatch,

'twas I that stabb'd your husband.

Take up the knife again, or take up me.

Arise, dissembler. Though I wish thy death,

I will not be thy executioner.

Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it.

Well, well, put up your blade.

Then say my peace is made.

That shall you know hereafter.

But shall I live in hope?

All men, I hope, live so.

Vouchsafe to wear this ring.

To take is not to give.

Look how my ring encompasseth thy finger.

Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart.

And if thy poor devoted servant may but beg one favor at thy gracious hand,

thou dost confirm his happiness forever.

That it may please you presently,

repair to Westminster.

I will with all expedient duty see you there.

I beseech you, come, Anne.

Bid me farewell.

Much it joys me, to see you are become so penitent.

Was ever woman in this humor woo'd?

Was ever woman in this humor won?

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

What,

I that kill'd her husband and her father.

To take her in her extremest hate,

curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes,

and yet to win her, all the world to nothing!

Ha!

And will she yet debase her eyes to look on me?

On me, that halts and am misshapen thus?

I do mistake my person all this while.

Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot,

myself to be a marvelous proper man.

I'll be at charges for a looking-glass,

and entertain a score or two of tailors

to study fashions to adorn my body.

Since I have crept in favor with myself,

I will maintain it at some little cost.

Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass,

that I may see my shadow as I pass.

Have patience, sister, there's no doubt His Majesty

will soon recover his accustom'd health.

If he were dead, what would betide on me, brother?

No other harm but loss of such a lord.

The loss of such a lord includes all harms.

The heavens have bless'd you with a goodly son, mother,

to be your comforter when he is gone.

Ah, he is young, and his minority is put unto the trust of Richard Gloucester,

a man that loves not me, nor none of you.

Is it concluded that he shall be Protector?

So it must be, if the King miscarry.

Here come the lords of Buckingham and Stanley.

Good time of day unto Your Royal Grace.

What likelihood of his amendment, lords?

Madam, good hope, His Grace speaks cheerfully.

- Did you confer with him? - Ay, madam,

he desires to make atonement between the Duke of Gloucester

and your brother and son.

And between them and my lord Hastings.

He has sent to bring them to his royal presence.

Would all were well,

but that will never be.

They do me wrong, and I will not accept it!

Who are they that do complain unto the King

that I, forsooth, am stern, and love them not?

Oh, by holy Paul, they love His Grace but lightly,

that fill his ears with such dissentious rumors.

Because I cannot flatter, or look fair,

smile in men's faces, smooth, deceive and cog,

I must be held a rancorous enemy?

To who, in all this presence, speaks Your Grace?

To thee, that hast not honesty nor grace, Lord Grey.

When have I injur'd thee?

When done thee wrong? Or thee, Lord Rivers? Or thee, Elizabeth?

Or any of your faction?

And a plague upon you all! His Royal Grace

cannot rest, scarce a-breathing while

but you must trouble him with lewd complaints.

Come, come, we know your meaning, brother Gloucester.

You envy my advancement and my friends'.

God grant we never may have need of you.

Meantime, God grants that we have need of you.

Our brother George, imprison'd by your means,

myself disgrac'd,

and the nobility held in contempt.

I never did incense His Majesty against the Duke of Clarence,

but have been an earnest advocate to plead for him.

You do me shameful injury,

falsely to draw me in such vile suspects.

By Heaven, I will acquaint His Majesty of those gross taunts which oft I have endur'd.

Tell him, and spare not.

Look, what I have said I will avouch it in Edward's presence.

Ere you were queen, ay, or your husband king,

I was the pack-horse in his great affairs.

To royalize his blood, I spilt mine own.

Would to God my heart were flint, like Edward's.

I am too childish-foolish for this world.

Hear me!

You wrangling pirates,

that fall out in sharing that which you have pilled from me.

Which of you trembles not, that looks on me?

Ah, gentle villain! Do not turn away.

Foul wrinkled witch,

what mak'st thou in my sight?

A husband and a son thou ow'st to me.

And thou a kingdom.

All of you, allegiance.

This sorrow I have by right is yours.

And all the pleasures you usurp

are mine.

Give way, dull clouds, to my quick curses.

Edward, thy son that now is Prince of Wales

for Edward my son that was Prince of Wales,

die in his youth by untimely violence.

Long die thy happy days before thy death.

Cease thy curses, thou wretched wither'd hag!

And leave thee out? For thou shalt hear me.

If Heaven have any grievous plague in store,

O, let them keep it till thy sins be ripe.

And then hurl down their indignation of thee,

the troubler of the poor world's peace.

No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine,

unless whilst some tormenting dream

affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils.

Thou elvish-mark'd, abortive, rooting hog,

the slave of Nature and the son of Hell...

Margaret! Margaret.

Thus have you breath'd your curse against yourself.

Poor painted Queen, vain flourish of my fortune.

Why strew'st thou sugar on that bottled spider,

whose deadly web ensnareth thee about?

Fool, fool. Thou whet'st a knife to kill thyself.

The day will come when thou shalt wish for me

to help thee curse that poisonous bunch-back'd toad.

Dispute not with her. She is lunatic!

Witness my son, now in the shade of death,

whose bright outshining beams thy cloudy wrath

hath in eternal darkness folded up.

Peace, peace,

for shame, if not for charity.

O Buckingham,

take heed of yonder dog! Look when he fawns, he bites. And when he bites,

his venom tooth will rankle to the death.

Have naught to do with him. Beware of him.

What doth she say, my lord of Buckingham?

Nothing that I respect, my gracious lord.

What,

dost thou scorn me for my gentle counsel,

and soothe the devil that I warn thee from?

O, but remember this another day,

when he shall split thy very heart with sorrow,

and say, "Poor Margaret

"was a prophetess."

Live, each of you,

the subjects to his hate,

and he to yours,

and all of you to God's.

My hair doth stand on end to hear her curses.

And so doth mine. I muse why she's at liberty.

She hath had too much wrong.

And I do repent my part thereof that I have done to her.

I never did her any, to my knowledge.

Yet you have all the vantage of her wrong.

Madam, His Majesty doth call for you,

and for you, My Grace, and you, my gracious lords.

I come. Lords, will you go with me?

We wait upon Your Grace.

The secret mischiefs that I set abroach

I lay unto the grievous charge of others.

And Clarence, whom I, indeed, have laid in darkness,

I do beweep to many simple gulls,

namely to Stanley, Hastings, Buckingham.

And tell them 'tis the Queen and her allies

that stir the King against the Duke my brother.

Now they believe it, and withal whet me

to be reveng'd on Rivers and on Grey.

But then I sigh, and, with a piece of scripture, tell them that

God bids us do good for evil.

And thus I clothe my naked villainy

with old odd ends stol'n forth of holy writ,

and seem a saint,

when most I play the devil.

Why looks Your Grace so heavily today?

O, I have pass'd a miserable night,

so full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights,

that, as I am a Christian faithful man,

I would not spend another such a night

though 'twere to buy a world of happy days.

What was your dream, my lord?

I pass'd, methought,

the melancholy flood,

with that sour ferryman poets write of,

unto the kingdom of perpetual night.

The first

that there did greet my stranger-soul,

a shadow like an angel, with bright hair,

dabbled in blood.

And he shriek'd out aloud,

"Clarence is come,

"that stabb'd me in the woods by Tewkesbury!

"Seize on him, Furies! Take him to your torment!"

With that, methought a legion of foul fiends

environ'd me, and howled in mine ears

such hideous cries, with the very noise

I trembling wak'd,

and for a season after

could not believe

but that I was in Hell.

No marvel, my lord, though it affrighted you.

I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.

Ah, keeper, keeper, I have done these things,

that now give evidence against my soul, for Edward's sake,

and see how he requites me.

Keeper, prithee sit by me awhile.

My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

I will, my lord.

God give Your Grace good rest.

What would'st thou, fellows? And how cam'st thou hither?

We would speak to Prince George,

and I came hither on my legs.

What, so brief?

'Tis better, sir, than to be tedious.

See our commission,

we talk no more.

In God's name, who sent you hither?

Wherefore come you?

To murder me?

Wherein, my friends, have I offended you?

Offended us you have not, but the King.

I am his brother, and I love him well.

If you be hir'd for money,

back again, and I will send you to my brother Gloucester,

and he will reward you better for my life

than Edward will for tidings of my death.

You are deceiv'd,

your brother Gloucester hates you.

Make peace with God, for you must die, my lord.

My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks.

Enough!

If all this will not do, I'll drown you in the bucket.

No! Please...

Why, so, now have I done a good day's work.

You peers, continue this united league.

Rivers and Hastings,

dissemble not your hatred. Swear your love.

By Heaven, my soul is purg'd from grudging hate,

and with my hand I seal my true heart's love.

So thrive I, as I truly swear the like.

Madam, yourself is not exempt from this.

Nor you, step-son Grey. Buckingham, nor you.

You have been factious, one against the other.

And what you do, do it unfeignedly.

So thrive I and mine.

This interchange of love shall be inviolable.

And in good time,

here comes the Duke of Gloucester.

Good morrow to my sovereign King and Queen and princely peers,

a happy time of day.

Happy indeed, as we have spent the day making peace of enmity, fair love of hate,

between these swelling, wrong-incensed peers.

A blessed labor, my most sovereign lord.

If I unwittingly, or in my rage,

have aught committed that is hardly borne by any in this presence,

I desire to reconcile me to his friendly peace.

There is no Englishman alive with whom my soul is any jot at odds.

I would to God all strifes were well compounded.

My sovereign lord, I do beseech Your Highness

to bring our brother Clarence to Your Grace.

Why, madam, have I offer'd love for this,

to be so flouted in this royal presence?

Who knows not that the gentle Duke is dead?

You do him injury to scorn his corpse!

Who knows not he is dead!

Who knows he is?

All Heaven, what a world is this?

Is Clarence dead?

The order was revers'd!

But he, poor man, by your first order died,

and that a winged Mercury did bear.

Some tardy cripple bore the countermand, and came too lag to see him buried.

Who sued to me for him?

Who, in my wrath, kneel'd at my feet, and bade me be advis'd?

Who spoke of brotherhood? Who spoke of love?

All of this from my remembrance brutish wrath

sinfully pluck'd, and not a man of you

had so much grace to put it in my mind.

Nor I, ungracious, spake unto myself

for him, poor soul.

O God, I fear thy justice will take hold on me

and you, and mine and yours for this.

Elizabeth, help me to my closet.

Ah, poor George!

This is the fruit of rashness.

Mark'd you not

how that the guilty kindred of the Queen

look'd pale when they did hear of Clarence' death?

O, they did urge it still unto the King.

God will revenge it.

Come, lords.

We wait upon Your Grace.

Ah! Who shall hinder me to wail and weep,

to chide my fortune, and torment myself?

What means this scene of rude impatience?

My lord, thy son,

their father, our King, is dead.

If you will live, lament. If die, be brief,

that our swift-winged souls may catch the King's,

and like obedient subjects follow him

to his new kingdom of ne'er-changing night.

Ah,

so much interest have I in thy sorrow

as I had title in thy noble husband.

I have bewept a worthy husband's death,

and liv'd with looking on his images.

But now two mirrors of his princely semblance

are crack'd in pieces by malignant death.

And I, for comfort, have but one false glass,

which grieves me when I see my shame in him.

Thou art a widow, yet thou art a mother.

Thou hast the comfort of thy children left.

But death hath snatch'd my husband from my side

and pluck'd two crutches from my feeble hands.

Clarence and Edward.

Pour all your tears.

I am your sorrow's nurse,

and I will pamper it with lamentations.

Madam, bethink you, like a careful mother,

of the young prince your son.

Send straight for him.

Let him be crown 'd.

In him your comfort lives.

Sister, sister, have comfort. All of us have cause

to wail the dimming of our shining star,

but none can help our harms by wailing them.

Madam my mother, I do cry you mercy. I did not see Your Grace.

I crave your blessing.

God bless thee, and put meekness in thy breast.

Love, charity, obedience,

and true duty.

Amen.

You here that bear this heavy load of moan,

now cheer each other in each other's love.

Meseemeth good, that with some little train,

forthwith from Ludlow the young prince be fetched

hither to London, to be crown'd our King.

Why with some little train, my lord of Buckingham?

Marry, my lord, lest by a multitude

the new-heal'd wound of malice should break out,

which would be so much the more dangerous

by how much the estate is green and yet ungovern'd.

Then be it so, and go we to determine

who they shall be that shall straight to Ludlow.

Madam, and you my sister,

will you go to give your censures in this business?

With all my heart.

Cousin of Buckingham.

My lord, whoever journeys to the prince,

for God's sake let not us two stay at home.

For by the way I'll sort occasion

to part the Queen's proud kindred from the prince.

My other self,

my counsel's consistory,

my oracle, my prophet,

my dear cousin.

As a child, I will follow your direction.

Toward Ludlow then, for we'll not leave behind.

Prince Edward.

Your Majesty.

At Northampton they do rest tonight.

Tomorrow, or next day, they will be here.

I long with all my heart to see Prince Edward,

I hope he is much grown since last I saw him.

Ah, but I hear no, they say his royal brother

has almost overta'en him in his growth.

Ay, mother, but I would not have it so.

Why, my good cousin? It is good to grow.

Grandam, one night as we did sit at supper,

my uncle Rivers talk'd how I did grow

more than my brother.

"Ay," quoth my uncle Richard,

"Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace."

Good faith, good faith,

the saying did not hold in him that did object the same to thee!

He was the wretched'st thing when he was young,

so long a-growing, and so leisurely,

that if his rule were true, he should be gracious.

Parlous boy, go to, you are too shrewd.

What news?

Such news, madam, as grieves me to report.

How doth the prince?

Oh, well, madam, and in health.

Then what is thy news?

- Lord Rivers and Lord Grey are sent to Pomfret, prisoners. -

Who hath committed them?

The mighty Dukes, Gloucester and Buckingham.

For what offense?

The sum of all I can I have disclos'd.

Accursed and unquiet wrangling days,

how many of you have mine eyes beheld!

Farewell, daughter.

Come, come, my boy,

we will to sanctuary.

Madam, farewell.

Stay...

I will go with you.

Welcome, sweet prince, to London.

Welcome, dear cousin, my thoughts' sovereign.

The weary way hath made you melancholy.

No, uncle.

I want more uncles here to welcome me.

Where are my uncles Rivers and Grey?

Those uncles which you want were dangerous.

Your Grace attended to their sugar'd words,

but look'd not on the poison of their hearts.

God keep you from them, and from such false friends!

My lord, the Mayor of London comes to greet you!

God bless Your Grace with health and happy days!

I thank you, good my lord,

and thank you all.

My lord.

My good lord Stanley.

The Queen, your mother and your brother York have taken sanctuary.

The tender prince would fain have come with me to meet Your Grace,

but by his mother was perforce withheld.

Fie, what an indirect and peevish course is this of hers!

Your Holiness...

Will Your Grace

persuade the Queen to send the Duke of York

unto his princely brother presently?

If she refuse, Lord Hastings, go with him.

And from her jealous arms pluck him perforce.

God in Heaven forbid we should infringe

the holy privilege of blessed sanctuary!

You are too ceremonious and traditional.

You break not sanctuary in seizing him!

The benefit thereof is always granted to those

whose dealings have deserv'd the place,

and those who have the wit to claim the place.

Oft have I heard of sanctuary men,

but sanctuary children, never till now.

My lord,

you shall o'er-rule my mind for once.

Come on, Lord Hastings.

Say, uncle Gloucester, when our brother comes,

where shall we sojourn till our coronation?

If I may counsel you, some day or two,

Your Highness shall repose you at the Tower.

Then after where you please that shall be thought most fit

for your best health and recreation.

I do not like the Tower, of any place.

Did Julius Caesar build that place, my lord?

He did, my lord, begin that place,

which since, succeeding ages have re-edified.

So wise so young, they say,

do never live long.

Brother!

And in good time here comes the Duke of York.

Richard of York,

how fares our loving brother?

Well, my dread lord,

so must I call you now.

How fares my cousin,

noble lord of York?

I thank you, gentle uncle.

Oh, my lord,

you said that idle weeds are fast in growth.

I did, my lord, but meant no harm.

I pray you, uncle, give me this dagger.

What, would you have my weapon, little lord?

I would, that I might thank you as you call me.

How?

Little.

My brother York will still be cross in talk.

Uncle, Your Grace knows how to bear with him.

You mean to bear me,

not to bear with me.

Uncle, my brother mocks both you and me,

because that I am little like an ape,

he thinks that you should bear me on your shoulders!

With what a sharp-provided wit he reasons,

so cunning and so young, is wonderful!

My lord, will't please you pass along

myself and my good cousin Buckingham will to your mother,

to entreat of her to meet you at the Tower and welcome you.

What, will you go to the Tower, my lord?

My Lord Protector needs will have it so.

I shall not sleep in quiet at the Tower.

Why, what should you fear?

My uncle Clarence' angry ghost.

My grandam told me he was murder'd there.

I fear no uncles dead.

Nor none that live, I hope?

And if they live, I hope I need not fear.

Go I unto the Tower.

Come, brother.

'Tis a parlous boy,

bold, ingenious,

quick,

forward, capable.

He is all the mother's, from the top to toe.

Well, let them rest.

Come hither, Catesby.

Go now, gentle Catesby,

sound thou Hastings

how he doth stand affected to our purpose,

for the instalment of this noble Duke

in the seat royal of this famous isle.

Tell him, Catesby,

that his ancient knot of

dangerous adversaries

tomorrow shall be let blood at Pomfret castle.

What shall we do if we perceive

Lord Hastings shall not yield to our complots?

Chop off his head, man.

And look you, when I am King,

claim thou of me the earldom of Hereford,

and all the moveables

thereof of which the King my brother was possess'd.

Uh...

I'll claim that promise at Your Grace's hand.

Your Majesty.

Catesby, what news in this our tott'ring state?

It is a reeling world indeed, my lord,

and, I believe, will never stand upright

till Richard wear the garland of the realm.

How, wear the garland?

Dost thou mean the crown?

Ay, my good lord.

I'll have this crown of mine cut from my shoulders

before I'll see the crown so foul misplac'd.

But canst thou guess that he doth aim at it?

Av. upon my life,

and thereupon he sends you this good news

that tomorrow night Rivers and Grey,

the kindred of the Queen,

must die at Pomfret.

Indeed, I am no mourner for that news.

Today shalt thou behold two subjects die

for truth, for duty,

and for loyalty.

God spare the princes from the pack of you.

A knot you are of damned blood-suckers!

Dispatch, the limit of your lives is out.

Oh, now Margaret's curse is fall'n upon our heads.

Make haste, the hour of death is expiate.

Pomfret! Pomfret!

We give our guiltless blood to drink.

Now, noble peers,

the cause why we are met

is to determine of the coronation

of young Edward.

Are all things ready for that royal time?

They are, and wants but nomination.

Tomorrow, then, I judge a happy day.

Who knows the Lord Protector's mind herein?

Who is most inward with the noble Duke?

Your Grace, we think,

should soonest know his mind.

We know each other's faces, for our hearts

he knows no more of mine than I of yours.

Lord Hastings, you and he are near in love.

Oh!

I thank His Grace, I know he loves me well

but for his purpose in the coronation

I have not sounded him.

But you, my noble lords, may name the time,

and in the Duke's behalf I'll give my voice.

In happy time, here comes the Duke himself.

My noble lords and cousins all, good morrow.

I have been long a sleeper,

but I trust my absence doth neglect no great design

which by my presence might have been concluded.

Had not you come upon your cue, my lord,

William Lord Hastings had pronounc'd your part.

I mean your voice for crowning of the King.

Oh?

Than Lord Hastings no man might be so bold.

His lordship knows me well,

and loves me well.

My lord of Ely, last time I was in Holborn

I saw good strawberries in your garden there,

I do beseech you, send for some of them.

Marry, I will, my lord, with all my heart.

Cousin of Buckingham, a word with you.

We have not yet set down this day of triumph.

Tomorrow, in my judgment, is too sudden.

Where is my lord Duke of Gloucester?

I have sent for these strawberries.

His Grace looks cheerfully and smooth today,

I think there's never a man in Christendom

can lesser hide his love and hate than he,

for by his face straight shall you know his heart.

What of his heart perceive you in his face

by any livelihood he show'd today?

Marry, that with no man here he is offended,

for were he, he had shown it in his looks.

I pray God he be not, I say.

I pray you all,

tell me how they should be treated

that do conspire my death

through devilish plots

of damned witchcraft,

that have prevail'd

upon my body with their hellish charms?

The tender love I bear Your Grace

leads me to say they have deserved death.

Then let your eyes be the witness to their evil.

See how I am bewitch'd!

Behold, mine arm

is like a blasted sapling

wither'd up!

And this is Edward's wife,

that monstrous witch,

that by her witchcraft thus have marked me.

If by this deed she have, my noble lord...

If?

If?

Thou protector of this damned strumpet!

Talk'st thou to me of it's!

Thou art a traitor.

Off with his head!

Now by Saint Paul I shall not dine

until I see the same!

Catesby, look that it be done.

All the rest that love me, rise and follow me.

The manner

and the purpose of his treasons,

my lords, you might signify unto the citizens,

who haply may misconstrue us in him and wail his death.

I'll acquaint our duteous citizens with all

your just proceedings in this cause.

Go, cousin Buckingham,

to the Mayor and citizens at Guildhall.

There, at your meet'st advantage of the time,

infer the bastardy of Edward's children.

O Catesby!

Please...

I dance attendance here.

I think the Duke will not be spoke withal.

Now, Catesby, what says your lord to my request?

He is within,

with two right reverend fathers,

divinely bent in meditation.

And in no worldly suits

would he be draw to move him from his holy exercise.

Return, good Catesby, to the gracious Duke,

tell him myself,

the Mayor and aldermen,

in deep design, in matter of great moment,

are come to have some conference with His Grace.

I'll signify so much unto him straight.

Ah-ha, my lords,

this prince is not an Edward.

He is not lolling on a lewd love-bed,

but on his knees at meditation.

Happy were England,

would this virtuous prince

take on His Graces the sovereignty thereof.

God defend His Grace should say us nay!

I fear he will.

Now, Catesby, what says His Grace?

He wonders to what end you have assembled

such troops of citizens to come to him.

He fears, my lord, you mean no good to him.

By Heaven, we come to him in perfect love,

and so once more return and tell His Grace.

When holy and devout religious men are at their beads,

"tis much to draw them thence,

so sweet is zealous contemplation. Mmm-hmm.

See where His Grace kneels,

'tween two clergymen!

And see, a book of prayer in his hand!

Famous Plantagenet,

most gracious prince,

lend favorable ears to our requests,

and pardon us the interruption of thy devotion

and right Christian zeal.

I do suspect that I have done some offense

which seems disgracious in the city's eye.

We heartily solicit your gracious self

to take on you the charge

and kingly government of this, your land,

your right of birth, your empery, your own.

God be thank'd, there is no need of me.

The royal tree hath left us royal fruit.

The dear prince, safely in the Tower stowed,

who will bring us all happiness by his reign.

On him I lay that you would lay on me.

You say that Edward is your brother's son.

Mmm.

So say we too.

But not by Edward's wife.

For first,

he was contract to Lady Bona.

This Elizabeth, a poor widow,

seduc'd the pitch and height of his degree

to base declension and loath'd bigamy.

By her, in his unlawful bed,

he got this little Edward, whom we call a prince.

Aye.

Then, good my lord, take to your royal self

this proffer'd benefit of dignity.

Do, my good lord, your citizens entreat you.

Alas, why would you heap this care on me?

I am unfit for state and majesty.

I cannot and I will not yield to you.

If you refuse it,

as well we know your tenderness of heart,

and gentle, kind, effeminate remorse.

Yet know,

your brother's son shall never reign our King,

but we will plant some other in the throne

to the disgrace and downfall of this, your House,

and with this resolution here we leave you.

Come, citizens. Zounds...

I'll entreat no more.

O, do not swear, my lord of Buckingham!

Call him again, sweet prince. Accept their suit!

If you deny them, all the land will rue it.

Will you entreat me to a world of cares?

Call them again. Lord Buckingham!

I am not made of stone.

My cousin of Buckingham, and sage grave men,

if you do buckle fortune on my back,

I must have patience to endure the load.

But God doth know,

and you may partly see,

how far I am from the desire of this.

God bless Your Grace, we see it, and will say it.

And in saying so, you do but say the truth.

Then I salute you with this royal title.

Long live Richard, England's worthy King!

Long live Richard, England's worthy King!

Tomorrow may it please you to be crown'd?

Even when you please, for you will have it so.

And so most joyfully we take our leave.

And I will to my holy work again.

Farewell, my cousin.

Farewell, gentle friends.

Open this gate!

Who meets us here?

God give Your Graces both a happy and a joyful time of day.

As much to you, good sister.

What make you here?

As I guess, upon the like devotion as yourselves,

to gratulate the gentle princes here.

Kind sister, thanks. We'll enter all together.

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!

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.

No, madam, no, I may not leave it so.

I am bound by oath, and therefore pardon me.

Come, madam, you must straight to Westminster,

there to be crowned Richard's royal Queen.

Cut my lace asunder

or else I swoon with this dead-killing news.

Spiteful tidings.

O unpleasing news!

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 am sent.

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 your glory.

Go thou to Richard, and good angels tend thee.

Stand all apart!

Cousin of Buckingham?

My gracious sovereign.

Give me thy hand.

God save King Richard, third of that name.

God save the King!

Richard!

Buckingham.

Thus high, by thy advice and thy assistance, is King Richard seated.

But shall we wear these glories for a day,

or shall they last, and we rejoice in them?

Still live they, and forever let them last.

Young Edward lives.

I say I would be King.

Why so you are, my thrice-renowned lord.

Cousin, thou wast not wont to be so dull.

Shall I be plain?

I wish the bastards dead,

and I would have it suddenly perform'd.

What say'st thou now? Speak suddenly.

Your Grace may do your pleasure.

Tut, tut,

thou art all ice, thy kindness freezes.

Say, have I thy consent that they shall die?

Give me some little breath, some pause, dear lord,

before I positively speak in this.

I will resolve you herein presently.

Catesby. My lord?

Know'st thou not any whom corrupting gold

might tempt unto a close exploit of death?

I know a discontented gentleman.

Gold will, no doubt, tempt him to anything.

What is his name?

His name, my lord, is Tyrrel.

I partly know the man. Have him sent for.

The deep-revolving, witty Buckingham

- no more shall be the neighbor to my counsels. -

Hath he so long held out with me, untir'd,

and stops he now for breath!

Well, be it so.

How now, Stanley, what's the news?

Know, my loving lord, that the Earl of Richmond,

Henry Tudor, is on the move in France.

He comes to claim your crown,

has followers and marches toward the coast.

Stanley,

Richmond is thy wife's son.

Well, look unto it.

Come hither, Catesby.

Rumor it abroad that Anne my wife is very grievous sick.

I will take order for her keeping close.

Look how thou dream'st! I say again,

give out that Anne, my Queen, is sick and like to die.

For it stands upon me to stop all hopes whose growth may damage me.

About it!

Is thy name Tyrrel?

James Tyrrel... Hmm.

And your most obedient subject.

Art thou indeed?

Prove me, my gracious lord.

Dar'st thou resolve to kill a friend of mine?

So please you, I'd rather kill two enemies.

Why then thou hast it, two deep enemies...

Foes to my unrest, my sweet sleep's disturbers,

are they that I would have thee deal upon.

Tyrrel, I mean those bastards in the Tower.

Let me have open means to come to them,

and soon I'll rid you of the fear of them.

Say it is done, and I will love thee, and prefer thee for it.

I will dispatch it straight.

My lord, I have consider'd in my mind

the late request that you did sound...

Well, let that rest.

My lord, I claim the gift, my due by promise...

The earldom of Hereford,

and the moveables which you have promised I shall possess...

Stanley, look to your wife.

If she convey letters to Richmond,

you shall answer it.

What says Your Highness to my just demand?

I do remember me, Henry the VI

did prophesy that Richmond should be King, when Richmond was

a little peevish boy.

A King...

Perhaps... Perhaps...

My lord, your promise for the earldom...

Richmond!

When I was last at Exeter,

the Mayor in courtesy show'd me the castle,

and call'd it Rougemont, at which name I started,

because a bard of Ireland told me once

I should not live long after I saw "Richmond."

My lord.

I am not in the giving vein today.

My lord?

Leave us.

All health, my sovereign lord?

Kind Tyrrel am I hapy by thy news?

Brakenbury is burying them.

Come to me again, Tyrrel, in the morning.

Meantime, but think how I may do thee good.

Now,

for I know the Breton Richmond aims at Young Elizabeth, my brother's daughter...

And by that knot looks proudly at the crown...

To her I'll go, a jolly thriving wooer.

My lord.

Good or bad news, that thou com'st in so bluntly?

Bad, my lord.

The Bishop of Ely flies to France

to join with Richmond's power there,

and Buckingham,

back'd with the hardy Welshmen,

takes to the field, and still his power increaseth.

Ely with Richmond touches me

more near than Buckingham with his rash-levied strength.

Go, muster men.

My counsel is my shield.

We must be brief, when traitors brave the field!

Ah!

My poor princes!

Ah, my tender babes.

If yet your gentle souls fly in the air,

hover about me with your airy wings.

So many miseries have craz'd my voice

that my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute.

Wilt thou, O God, fly from such gentle lambs,

and throw them in the entrails of the wolf?

Dead life, blind sight, poor mortal living ghost.

Rest thy unrest on England's lawful earth,

unlawfully made drunk with innocent blood.

Ah,

that thou wouldst as soon afford a grave

as thou canst yield a melancholy seat.

Ah, who hath any cause to mourn but we?

I call'd thee, once, poor shadow, painted queen.

Where is thy husband now? Where be thy brother?

Where be the thronging troops that follow'd thee?

Decline all this, and see what now thou art.

For happy wife, a most distressed widow.

For joyful mother, one that wails the name.

O, thou didst prophesy the time would come

that I should wish for thee to help me curse

that bottled spider, that foul bunch-back'd toad.

I had a husband, till a Richard kill'd him.

Thou hadst two sons, till a Richard kill'd them.

I had a husband, and thou didst kill him.

I had an Edmund too and thou didst kill him.

Thou hadst a Clarence too, and Richard kill'd him.

From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept

a hell-hound that doth hunt us all to death!

O, Harry's wife, triumph not in my woes.

God witness, I have wept enough for thee.

Bear with me,

I am hungry for revenge.

Clarence, Hastings, Rivers, Grey and Anne,

untimely smother'd in their dusky graves.

Richard yet lives,

Hell's black intelligencer.

Cancel his bond of life, dear God I pray,

that I may live and say,

"The dog is dead."

O thou, well skill'd in curses,

stay awhile and teach me how to curse mine enemies.

Forbear to sleep the nights, and fast the days.

Compare dead happiness with living woe.

Think that thy babes were sweeter than they were.

And he that slew them fouler than he is.

Revolving this will teach thee how to curse.

My words are dull.

O quicken them with thine.

Thy woes will make them sharp and pierce like mine.

If so, then be not tongue-tied, go with me.

And with the breath of bitter words,

let's smother my damned son,

that thy two sweet sons smother'd.

Most mighty sovereign,

on the western coast rideth a puisant navy to our shores.

'Tis thought that Richmond is their admiral.

And there they hull expecting but the aid of Buckingham to welcome them ashore.

Some light-footed friend post to the Duke of Norfolk,

Ratcliffe, thyself or Catesby.

Catesby, fly to the Duke. Ratcliffe, come hither.

Post to Salisbury,

and whenst thou com'st thither...

Unmindful villain!

Why stay'st thou here and go'st not to the Duke?

Tell me what Your Highness' pleasure is,

what would you have me deliver to the Duke?

Bid him straight to levy the greatest strength and power he can make,

and meet me suddenly at Salisbury. I go.

What, should it please you, shall I do at Salisbury?

Why, what wouldst thou there before I go?

Your Highness told me I should post before.

My mind is chang'd.

Stanley, what's the news with you?

Richmond is on the seas.

He makes for England, here to claim the crown.

Is the chair empty?

Is the sword unsway'd?

Is the King dead?

The empire unpossess'd?

What heir of York is there alive but we?

And who is England's King but great York's heir?

Then tell me...

What makes he upon the seas!

Unless for that, my liege, I cannot guess.

Thou wilt revolt and fly to him, I fear.

He is thy step-son.

No, my good lord. Therefore mistrust me not.

Where is thine army then to beat him back?

Are they now upon the western shore?

Safe-conducting the rebels from their ships?

No, my good lord, my friends are in the north.

Cold friends to me.

What do they in the north

when they should serve their sovereign in the west?

They have not been commanded, mighty King.

Pleaseth Your Majesty to give me leave,

I'll muster up my friends, and meet Your Grace

where and what time Your Majesty shall please.

Ay, ay.

Thou wouldst be gone, to join with Richmond.

But I'll not trust thee.

Most mighty sovereign,

you have no cause to hold my friendship doubtful.

I never was, nor never will be, false.

Go then, and muster men.

But leave behind your son, George Stanley.

Look your heart be firm,

or else his head's assurance is but frail.

So deal with him as I prove true to you.

My liege, the Duke of Buckingham is taken.

That is the best news.

That the Earl of Richmond is with mighty power

landed at Milford is colder tidings, yet they must be told.

Away, away!

For while we reason here, a royal battle might be won and lost

Halt!

Who intercepts me in my expedition?

O, she that should have intercepted thee

by strangling thee in her accursed womb

from all the slaughters, wretch, that thou hast done.

Tell me, thou villain-slave, where are my children?

Thou toad, thou toad, where is thy brother Clarence?

Where are the gentle Rivers, the sweet Grey?

Where is kind Hastings?

A husband and a son thou owest to me.

Strike, strike alarum, drums!

Let not the heavens hear these tell-tale women.

Strike, I say!

Art thou my son?

Ay, I thank God, my father, and yourself.

O, let me speak.

Do then, but I'll not listen.

I will be mild and gentle in my words.

And brief, good mother, for I am in haste.

Art thou so hasty?

I have stay'd for thee,

God knows, in torment and in agony.

Thou cam'st on Earth to make the Earth my Hell.

A grievous burden was thy birth to me.

Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy.

Thy school-days frightful, desp'rate, wild, and furious.

Thy prime of manhood daring, bold, and venturous.

Thy age confirm'd, proud, subtle, sly, and bloody.

More mild, and yet more harmful, kind in hatred.

What comfortable hour canst thou name

that ever grac'd me with thy company?

If I be so disgracious in your eye,

let me march on and not offend you, madam.

Strike up the drum!

I prithee, hear me speak.

You speak too bitterly.

Hear me a word...

...for I shall never speak to thee again.

Either thou wilt die by God's just ordinance,

ere from the battle thou return conqueror.

Or I with grief shall perish,

and nevermore behold thy face again.

Therefore, take with thee my most grievous curse,

which in the day of battle tire thee more

than all the complete armor that thou wear'st.

My prayers on the adverse party fight,

and there the little souls of Edward's children

whisper the spirits of thine enemies

and promise them success and victory.

Bloody thou art, bloody will be thy end.

Shame serves thy life and doth thy death attend!

Though far more cause, yet much less spirit to curse abides in me,

I say amen to her.

Stay, madam,

I must talk a word with you.

You have a daughter call'd Elizabeth...

Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious.

But must she die for this?

O let her live,

and I'll corrupt her manners, stain her beauty,

so she may live unscarr'd of bleeding slaughter.

I will confess she was not Edward's daughter.

Her life is safest only in her birth.

And only in that safety died her brothers.

You speak as if that I had slain my cousins.

Cousins, indeed!

And by their uncle cozen'd of comfort,

kingdom, kindred, freedom, life.

Madam, know that from my soul I love thy daughter

and do intend to make her Queen of England.

Well then, who dost thou mean shall be her King?

Even he that makes her Queen. Who else should be?

What, thou?

Even so. How think you of it?

How canst thou woo her?

That would I learn of you, as one that are best acquainted with her humor.

What were I best to say?

Her father's brother would be her lord?

Or shall I say her uncle?

Or he that slew her brothers and her uncles?

But in your daughter's womb, I bury them.

Where, in that nest of spicery,

they will breed selves of themselves, to your recomforture.

Under what title shall I woo for thee,

that God, the law, my honor and her love

can make seem pleasing to her tender years?

Say she shall be a high and mighty Queen.

To wail the title, as her mother doth.

- I swear... - What can'st thou swear by now?

God and fortune, bar me happy hours!

Day, yield me not thy light, nor, night, thy rest!

Be opposite, all planets of good luck,

to my proceeding if with dear heart's love,

I tender not thy beauteous, princely daughter.

In her consists my happiness and thine.

Without her follows to myself, and thee,

death, desolation, ruin, and decay.

It cannot be avoided but by this,

it will not be avoided but by this.

Look, what is done cannot be now amended.

If I did take the kingdom from your sons,

to make amends I'll give it to your daughter.

Therefore, dear mother...

I must call you so...

Be the attorney of my love to her,

plead what I will be, not what I have been.

Shall I be tempted of the devil thus?

Ay, if the devil tempt you to do good.

I go.

Write to me very shortly,

and you shall understand from me her mind.

Bear her my true love's kiss...

And so, farewell.

Relenting fool, shallow, changing woman.

Your Majesty?

Your Majesty?

Strike alarums, drums!

Greetings, gentle Blunt.

Tell Richmond this from me,

that in the sty of this most deadly boar

my son George Stanley is frank'd up in hold.

If I revolt, off goes young George's head.

The fear of that holds off my present aid.

So get thee gone, commend me to thy holy lord.

Withal say the Queen hath heartily consented

that he should espouse Elizabeth her daughter.

But tell me, where is princely Richmond now?

At Pembroke in Wales.

And towards Bosworth does he bend his power,

if by the way they be not fought withal.

Well, hie thee to thy lord, I kiss his hand.

My letter will resolve him of my mind.

Farewell.

Will not King Richard let me speak with him?

No, my good lord...

Therefore be patient.

This is All Souls' Day, Catesby, is it not?

It is.

Why then, All Souls' Day is my body's doomsday.

Thus Margaret's curse falls heavy on my neck.

"When he," quoth she, "shall

"split thy heart with sorrow."

Come, Catesby, lead me to the block of shame.

Wrong hath but wrong,

and blame the due of blame.

Lead off, executioner.

The weary sun hath made a golden set,

and by the bright track of his fiery car

gives token of a goodly day tomorrow.

Where is Lord Stanley quarter'd, do you know?

His regiment lies half a mile at least south

from the mighty power of the King's camp.

Sweet Blunt,

make some good means to speak with him,

and give him from me this most needful note.

Upon my life, my lord, I'll undertake it.

Good night, good captain Blunt.

Come, gentlemen,

let us consult upon tomorrow's business.

Into my tent, the dew is raw and cold.

I will not sup tonight.

Fill me a bowl of wine.

Is my visor easier than it was?

Is all my armor laid into my tent?

It is, my liege, and all things are in readiness.

Fortune and victory sit on thy helm.

All comfort that the dark night can afford

be to thy person, noble father-in-law.

In brief, for so the season bids us be.

Prepare thy battle early in the morning.

With best advantage I'll deceive the time,

and aid thee in this doubtful shock of arms.

But on thy side I may not be too forward,

lest, being seen, thy brother, tender George,

be executed in his father's sight.

Ratcliffe...

Send out a messenger to Stanley's regiment.

Bid him bring his power before sun-rising,

lest his son George fall

into the blind cave of eternal night.

O thou,

whose captain I account myself,

look on my forces with a gracious eye,

make us thy ministers of chastisement,

that we may praise thee in the victory.

To thee I do commend my watchful soul.

When I was mortal, my anointed body

by thee was punched full of deadly holes.

Harry the VI bids thee despair and die!

Poor George Clarence, by thee betrayed to death.

Tomorrow in the battle, think on me,

and fall thy edgeless sword.

Despair and die.

The first was I that help'd thee to the crown.

The last was I that felt thy tyranny.

Dream on, dream on of bloody deeds and death,

fainting, despair, despairing yield thy breath.

Richard...

Thy Wife,

that wretched Anne, thy wife.

Never slept a quiet hour with thee.

Now fills thy sleep with perturbations.

Tomorrow in the battle, think on me.

Despair and die.

Dream on thy cousins, smother'd in the Tower.

Let us be lead within thy bosom, Richard,

and weigh thee down to ruin, shame, and death.

Thy nephews' souls bid thee despair and die.

Jesu!

O coward conscience,

how dost thou afflict me!

Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.

What do I fear? Myself?

There's none else by.

Is there a murderer here?

No?

Yes...

I am!

My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,

and every tongue brings in a several tale,

and every tale condemns me for a villain.

I shall despair.

There is no creature loves me.

And if I die,

no soul will pity me...

And wherefore should they,

since I myself find in myself

no pity to myself?

My lord?

Your friends are up and buckle on their armor.

Catesby, I have dream'd a fearful dream!

Will our friends prove all true?

No doubt, my lord.

O by the Apostle Paul,

shadows tonight have struck more terror

to the soul of Richard than can the presence

of ten thousand soldiers.

'Tis not yet near day.

Come, armor me.

How have you slept, my lord?

The sweetest sleep and fair bounding dreams

that ever entered in a drowsy head.

How far into the morning is it?

Upon the stroke of four.

Then 'tis time to arm and give direction.

Come, Ratcliffe, bustle!

Caparison my horse,

I will lead my men

forth onto the plains.

Go, gentlemen,

every man unto his charge!

Our strong arms be our conscience,

our swords our law.

Remember whom you are to cope withal.

A sort of vagabonds,

rascals and runaways.

A scum of Bretons

and base lackey peasants.

Loving countrymen,

remember this...

If you do swear to put a tyrant down,

you sleep in peace,

the tyrant being slain.

And who doth lead them but a paltry fellow,

long kept in Bretagne

at our brother's cost?

A milksop...

If you do free your children from the sword,

your children's children requite it in your age.

One that never in his life felt so much cold

as o'er shoes in snow?

Let's whip these stragglers

o'er the seas again.

In the name of God

and all these rights...

Shall we let them enjoy our lands?

Nay! Lie with our wives?

Nay! Ravage our daughters!

Draw your willing swords!

For if we thrive,

the gain of our attempt

the least of you shall share his part thereof.

Advance our standards!

Set upon our foes!

Sound drums and trumpets,

boldly and cheerfully!

God, and Saint George!

Richmond and victory!

Let us to it pell-mell.

If not to Heaven,

then hand in hand to Hell!

Rescue, rescue, rescue!

The King's horse is slain!

Rescue or else the day is lost!

A horse!

A horse!

My kingdom for a horse!

Withdraw, my lord,

I'll help you to a horse.

Slave!

I think there be six Richmonds in the field.

Five have I slain today,

instead of him.

A horse! A horse!

My kingdom for a horse!

Your arm, my lord.

Argh!

Catesby!

God

and your arms be prais'd,

victorious friends.

The day is ours,

the bloody dog is dead.

Courageous Richmond,

well hast thou acquit thee.

But tell me,

is young George Stanley living?

Father!

Great God of Heaven,

say amen to all.

Amen!

My brother, Henry.

Lo, here,

this long-usurped royalty.

Wear it,

enjoy it,

and make much of it.

Proclaim a pardon to the soldiers fled,

that in submission will return to us.

And then, as we have ta' en the sacrament,

we will unite

the white rose and the red.

God save King Henry,

seventh of that name!

God save the King!

England hath long been mad,

and scarr'd herself.

The brother blindly shed the brother's blood,

the son, compell'd, been butcher to the sire.

All this divided York and Lancaster,

divided in their dire division.

O now,

let Richmond and Elizabeth,

the true succeeders of each royal House,

by God's fair ordinance conjoin together.

Now civil wounds are stopp'd,

peace lives again.

That she may long live here.

God say amen.

Amen.

Ripped By mstoll