Enter the Sheriff, and Buckingham with Halberds led to Execution.
W ILL not King Richard let me fpeak with him?
Sher. No, good my Lord, therefore be patient. Buck. Haftings, and Edward's Children, Gray and Rivers, Holy King Henry, and thy fair Son Edward,
Vaughan, and all that have mifcarried
By under-hand corrupted foul Injustice,
If that your moody difcontented Souls,
Do through the Clouds behold this present hour,
Even for revenge mock my Deftruction.
This is All-Souls Day, Fellow, is it not?
Buck. Why then All-Souls Day is my Body's Doomsday.
This is the Day, which in King Edward's time
I wifht might fall on me, when I was found
Falfe to his Children, and his Wife's Allies.
This is the Day wherein I wifht to fall
By the falle Faith of him whom most I trusted.
This, this All-Souls Day to my fearful Soul,
Is the determin'd refpite of my Wrongs:
That high All-feer, which I dallied with,
Hath turn'd my feigned Prayer on my Head,
And given in earneft, what I begg❜d in jeft.
Thus doth he force the Swords of wicked Men
To turn their own points in their Mafters Bofoms.
Thus Margaret's Curfe falls heavy on my Neck:
When he, quoth the, will fplit thy Heart with Sorrow,
Remember Margaret was a Prophetess:
Come lead me, Officers, to the Block of Shame,
Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame.
[Exeunt Buckingham with Officers.
Enter Richmond, Oxford, Blunt, Herbert, and others, with Drum and Colours.
Richm. Fellows in Arms, and my most loving Friends, Brus'd underneath the Yoak of Tyranny. Thus far into the Bowels of the Land, Have we marcht on without Impediment; And here receive we from our Father Stanley Lines of fair Comfort and Encouragement: The wretched, bloody and ufurping Boar, That fpoil'd our Summer-Fields, and fruitful Vines, Swills your warm Blood like Wafh, and makes his Trough In your embowell'd Bofoms; This foul Swine
Is now even in the Center of this Ifle,
Near to the Town of Leicester, as we learn:
From Tamworth thither, is but one Day's march.
In God's Name cheerly on, couragious Friends,
To reap the Harveft of perpetual Peace,
By this one bloody trial of fharp War.
Oxf. Every Man's Confcience is a thoufand Men,
To fight against this guilty Homicide.
Herb. I doubt not but his Friends will turn to us.
Blunt. He hath no Friends, but what are Friends for fear, Which in his deareft need will fly from him.
Richm. All for our vantage, then in God's Name march, True hope is fwift, and flies with Swallow's Wings, Kings it makes Gods, and meaner Creatures Kings.
[Exeunt. Enter King Richrrd in Arms, with Norfolk, Ratcliff, and the Earl of Surrey,
K. Rich. Here pitch our Tent, even here in Bosworth-field. My Lord of Surrey, why look you fo fad?
Sur. My Heart is ten times lighter than my Looks.
K. Rich. My Lord of Norfolk.
Nor. Here, moft gracious Liege.
K. Rich. Norfolk, we must have knocks:
Nor. We must both give and take, my loving Lord.
K. Rich. Up with my Tent, here will I lye to Night,
But where to Morrow? well all's one for that.
Who hath defcry'd the number of the Traitors?
Nor. Six or feven thoufand is their utmost Power.
K. Rich. Why our Battalia trebles that account:
Besides, the King's Name is a Tower of Strength,
Which they upon the adverse Faction want.
Up with the Tent: Come, Noble Gentlemen,
Let us furvey the vantage of the Ground.
Call for fome Men of found Direction:
Let's lack no Difcipline, make no delay,
For, Lords, to Morrow is a bufie Day.
Enter Richmond, Sir William Brandon, Oxford, and
Richm. The weary Sun hath made a Golden fet,
And by the bright Tract of his fiery Car,
Gives token of a goodly Day to Morrow.
Sir William Brandon, you fhall bear my Standard:
Give me fome Ink and Paper in my Tent;
I'll draw the Form and Model of our Battel,
Limit each Leader to his feveral Charge,
And part in juft proportion our fmall Power.
My Lord of Oxford, you Sir William Brandon,
And Sir William Herbert ftay with me;
The Earl of Pembrook keeps his Regiment;
Good Captain Blunt, bear my good Night to him,
And by the fecond hour in the Morning,
Defire the Earl to fee me in my Tent.
Yet one thing more, good Captain, do for me:
Where is Lord Stanley quarter'd, do you know?
Blunt. Unless I have mifta'en his Colours much,
(Which well I am affur'd I have not done)
His Regiment lies, half a mile at least,
South from the mighty Power of the King.
Richm. If without Peril it be poffible,
Sweet Blunt, make fome good means to fpeak with him,
And give him from me this moft needful Note.
Blunt. Upon my felf, my Lord, I'll undertake it.
And fo-God give you quiet reft to Night.
Richm. Good Night, good Captain Blunt.
Let us confult upon to Morrow's Bufinefs;
Into my Tent, the Dew is raw and cold.
[They withdraw into the Tent. Enter King Richard, Ratcliff, Norfolk and Catesby. K. Rich. What is't a Clock?
Catesby. It's Supper time, my Lord, it's nine a Clock. K. Rich. I will not Sup to Night,
Give me fome Ink and Paper:
What, is my Beaver eafier than it was?
And all my Armour laid into my Tent?
Catef. It is, my Liege; and all things are in readiness. K. Rich. Good Norfolk hye thee to thy Charge, Ufe careful Watch, chufe trufty Centinels.
K. Rich. Stir with the Lark to Morrow, gentle Norfolk Nor. I warrant you, my Lord.
K. Rich. Ratcliff.
Rat. My Lord.
K. Rich. Send out a Purfuivant at Aims
To Stanley's Regiment; bid him bring his Power
Before Sun-rifing, left his Son George fall
Into the blind Cave of eternal Night.
Fill me a Bowl of Wine; give me a Watch:
Saddle white Surrey for the Field to Morrow:
Look that my Staves be found, and not too heavy. Ratcliff. Rat. My Lord.
K. Rich. Saw'ft the melancholy Lord Northumberland ?
Rat. Thomas the Earl of Surrey, and himself,
Much about Cock-fhut time, from Troop to Troop
Went through the Army, cheering up the Soldiers.
K. Rich. So, I am fatisfy'd; give me a Bowl of Wine, I have not that alacrity of Spirit,
Nor cheer of Mind that I was wont to have.
Set it down. Is Ink and Paper ready?
Rat. It is, my Lord.
K. Rich. Bid my Guard watch. Leave me.
Ratcliff, about the mid of Night come to my Tent,
And help to Arm. Leave me, I fay. [Exit Ratcliff.
Enter Derby to Richmond in his Tent.
Derby. Fortune and Victory fit on thy Helm.
Rich. All comfort that the dark Night can afford,
Be to thy Perfon, noble Father-in-Law,
Tell me, how fares our noble Mother?
Derby. I, by Attorney, blefs thee from thy Mother,
Who prays continually for Richmond's good;
So much for that. The filent Hours fteal on,
And flaky Darkness breaks within the Eaft.
In brief, for fo the Seafon bids us be,
Prepare thy Battel early in the Morning,
And put thy Fortune to th' Arbitrement
Of bloody Stroaks, and mortal staring War:
I, as I may, (that which I would, I cannot)
With best advantage will deceive the time,
And aid thee in this doubtful fhock of Arms.
But on thy fide I may not be too forward,
1 Left being feen, thy Brother, tender George,
Be executed in his Father's fight.
Farewel; the leifure, and the fearful time
Cuts off the ceremonious Vows of Love.
And ample enterchange of fweet Difcourfe,
Which fo long fundred Friends fhould dwell upon:
God give us leifure for these rites of Love.
Once more Adieu, be valiant, and fpeed well.
Richm. Good Lords, conduct him to his Regiment:
I'll ftrive, with troubled Noife, to take a Nap,
Left leaden flumber poize me down to morrow,
When I fhould mount with Wings of Victory:
Once more, good Night, kind Lords and Gentlemen.
[Exeunt. Manet Richmond.
O thou, whofe Captain I account my felf,
Look on my Forces with a gracious Eye:
Put in their Hands thy brufing Irons of wrath,
That they may crush down with a heavy fall,
Th' ufurping Helmets of our Adverfaries.
Make us thy Minifters of Chaftifement,
That we may praise thee in thy Victory:
To thee I do commend my watchful Soul,
E'er I let fall the Windows of mine Eyes:
Sleeping, and waking, oh defend me ftill.
Enter the Ghost of Prince Edward, Son to Henry the Sixth
Ghoft. Let me fit heavy on thy Soul to morrow:
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