Act 1 - Scene 2
The same. Another street.
Enter the corpse of KING HENRY the Sixth, Gentlemen with halberds to guard it; LADY ANNE being the
Set down, set down your honourable load,
If honour may be shrouded in a hearse,
Whilst I awhile obsequiously
The untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster.
Poor key-cold figure of a holy king!
Pale ashes of the house
Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood!
Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost,
the lamentations of Poor Anne,
Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughter'd son,
Stabb'd by the selfsame hand
that made these wounds!
Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life,
I pour the helpless balm of my poor
Cursed be the hand that made these fatal holes!
Cursed be the heart that had the heart to do it!
the blood that let this blood from hence!
More direful hap betide that hated wretch,
That makes us wretched
by the death of thee,
Than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads,
Or any creeping venom'd thing that lives!
ever he have child, abortive be it,
Prodigious, and untimely brought to light,
Whose ugly and unnatural
May fright the hopeful mother at the view;
And that be heir to his unhappiness!
If ever he have
wife, let her he made
A miserable by the death of him
As I am made by my poor lord and thee!
now towards Chertsey with your holy load,
Taken from Paul's to be interred there;
And still, as you are
weary of the weight,
Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry's corse.
Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it down.
What black magician conjures up this fiend,
To stop devoted charitable deeds?
Villains, set down the corse; or, by Saint Paul,
I'll make a corse of him that disobeys.
My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass.
Unmanner'd dog! stand thou, when I command:
Advance thy halbert higher than my breast,
Or, by Saint
Paul, I'll strike thee to my foot,
And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness.
What, do you tremble? are you all afraid?
Alas, I blame you not; for you are mortal,
And mortal eyes cannot
endure the devil.
Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell!
Thou hadst but power over his mortal body,
soul thou canst not have; therefore be gone.
Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst.
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