If ancient sorrow be most reverend,
Give mine the benefit of seniory,
And let my woes frown on the upper
If sorrow can admit society,
Sitting down with them
Tell o'er your woes again by viewing mine:
I had an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him;
I had a Harry, till a
Richard kill'd him:
Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him;
Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard
DUCHESS OF YORK
I had a Richard too, and thou didst kill him;
I had a Rutland too, thou holp'st to kill him.
Thou hadst a Clarence too, and Richard kill'd him.
From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept
hound that doth hunt us all to death:
That dog, that had his teeth before his eyes,
To worry lambs and
lap their gentle blood,
That foul defacer of God's handiwork,
That excellent grand tyrant of the earth,
reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls,
Thy womb let loose, to chase us to our graves.
O upright, just,
and true-disposing God,
How do I thank thee, that this carnal cur
Preys on the issue of his mother's body,
makes her pew-fellow with others' moan!
DUCHESS OF YORK
O Harry's wife, triumph not in my woes!
God witness with me, I have wept for thine.
Bear with me; I am hungry for revenge,
And now I cloy me with beholding it.
Thy Edward he is dead, that
stabb'd my Edward:
Thy other Edward dead, to quit my Edward;
Young York he is but boot, because both
Match not the high perfection of my loss:
Thy Clarence he is dead that kill'd my Edward;
beholders of this tragic play,
The adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey,
Untimely smother'd in their
Richard yet lives, hell's black intelligencer,
Only reserved their factor, to buy souls
them thither: but at hand, at hand,
Ensues his piteous and unpitied end:
Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends
roar, saints pray.
To have him suddenly convey'd away.
Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I prey,
may live to say, The dog is dead!
O, thou didst prophesy the time would come
That I should wish for thee to help me curse
spider, that foul bunch-back'd toad!
I call'd thee then vain flourish of my fortune;
I call'd thee then poor shadow, painted queen;
of but what I was;
The flattering index of a direful pageant;
One heaved a-high, to be hurl'd down below;
mother only mock'd with two sweet babes;
A dream of what thou wert, a breath, a bubble,
A sign of dignity,
a garish flag,
To be the aim of every dangerous shot,
A queen in jest, only to fill the scene.
Where is thy
husband now? where be thy brothers?
Where are thy children? wherein dost thou, joy?
Who sues to
thee and cries 'God save the queen'?
Where be the bending peers that flatter'd thee?
Where be the thronging
troops that follow'd thee?
Decline all this, and see what now thou art:
For happy wife, a most distressed
For joyful mother, one that wails the name;
For queen, a very caitiff crown'd with care;
being sued to, one that humbly sues;
For one that scorn'd at me, now scorn'd of me;
For one being fear'd
of all, now fearing one;
For one commanding all, obey'd of none.
Thus hath the course of justice wheel'd