King Richard III

SCENE III. London. Another Room in the Palace

Enter Tyrrel.

TYRREL.
The tyrannous and bloody act is done,
The most arch deed of piteous massacre
That ever yet this land was guilty of.
Dighton and Forrest, who I did suborn
To do this piece of ruthless butchery,
Albeit they were fleshed villains, bloody dogs,
Melted with tenderness and mild compassion,
Wept like two children in their deaths’ sad story.
“O, thus,” quoth Dighton, “lay the gentle babes;”
“Thus, thus,” quoth Forrest, “girdling one another
Within their alabaster innocent arms.
Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,
And in their summer beauty kissed each other.
A book of prayers on their pillow lay,
Which once,” quoth Forrest, “almost changed my mind.
But, O, the devil—” There the villain stopped;
When Dighton thus told on: “We smothered
The most replenished sweet work of nature
That from the prime creation e’er she framed.”
Hence both are gone with conscience and remorse
They could not speak; and so I left them both
To bear this tidings to the bloody King.

Enter King Richard.

And here he comes. All health, my sovereign lord.

KING RICHARD.
Kind Tyrrel, am I happy in thy news?

TYRREL.
If to have done the thing you gave in charge
Beget your happiness, be happy then,
For it is done.

KING RICHARD.
But didst thou see them dead?

TYRREL.
I did, my lord.

KING RICHARD.
And buried, gentle Tyrrel?

TYRREL.
The chaplain of the Tower hath buried them,
But where, to say the truth, I do not know.

KING RICHARD.
Come to me, Tyrrel, soon, at after-supper,
When thou shalt tell the process of their death.
Meantime, but think how I may do thee good,
And be inheritor of thy desire.
Farewell till then.

TYRREL.
I humbly take my leave.

[Exit.]

KING RICHARD.
The son of Clarence have I pent up close;
His daughter meanly have I matched in marriage;
The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham’s bosom,
And Anne my wife hath bid the world good night.
Now, for I know the Breton Richmond aims
At young Elizabeth, my brother’s daughter,
And by that knot looks proudly on the crown,
To her go I, a jolly thriving wooer.

Enter Ratcliffe.

RATCLIFFE.
My lord!

KING RICHARD.
Good or bad news, that thou com’st in so bluntly?

RATCLIFFE.
Bad news, my lord. Morton is fled to Richmond,
And Buckingham, backed with the hardy Welshmen,
Is in the field, and still his power increaseth.

KING RICHARD.
Ely with Richmond troubles me more near
Than Buckingham and his rash-levied strength.
Come, I have learned that fearful commenting
Is leaden servitor to dull delay;
Delay leads impotent and snail-paced beggary;
Then fiery expedition be my wing,
Jove’s Mercury, and herald for a king!
Go, muster men. My counsel is my shield.
We must be brief when traitors brave the field.

[Exeunt.]