To reconcile me to his friendly Peace:
'Tis death to me to be at Enmity;

I hate it, and defire all good Mens love.
First, Madam, I intreat true peace of you,
Which I will purchafe with my duteous Service.
of you my noble Coufin Buckingham,

If ever any grudge were lodg'd between us.
Of you, and you, Lord Rivers and of Derfet,
That all without defert have frown'd on me:
Of you Lord Woodvil, and Lord Scales of you,
Dukes, Earls, Lords, Gentlemen, indeed of all.
I do not know that Englishman alive,
With whom my Soul is any jot at odds,
More than the Infant that is born to night;
I thank my God for my Humility.

Queen. A Holy-day fhall this be kept hereafter:
I would to God all ftrifes were well compounded.
My Sovereign Lord, I do befeech your Highness
To take our Brother Clarence to your Grace.

Glo. Why, Madam, have I offer'd Love for this, To be fo flouted in this Royal Prefence?

Who knows not that the gentle Duke is dead?[They all start. You do him injury to scorn his Coarfe.

K. Edw. Who knows not he is dead!

Who knows he is?

Queen. All-feeing Heav'n, what a World is this?
Buck. Look I fo pale, Lord Dorset, as the reft?

Dorf. Ay, my good Lord; and no Man in the prefence,

But his red Colour hath forfook his Cheeks.

K.Ed. Is Clarence dead? the Order was revers'd. Glo. But he, poor Man, by your firft Order died, And that a winged Mercury did bear:

Some tardy Cripple bare the Countermand,

That come too lag to fee him buried.

God grant, that fome lefs Noble, and lefs Loyal,
Nearer in bloody Thoughts, and not in Blood,
Deferve no worfe than wretched Clarence did,
And yet go currant from fufpicior.

Enter Earl of Derby.

Derby. Aboon, my Soveraign, for my Service done. K. Edw. I prithee peace, my Soul is full of forrow. VOL. IV.

I

Derby.

Derby. I will not rife, unless your Highness hear me. K. Edw. Then fay at once, what is it thou request'ft. Derby. The forfeit, Soveraign, of my Servant's Life, Who flew to day a riotous Gentleman,

Lately attendant on the Duke of Norfolk

K. Edw. Have I a Tongue to doom my Brother's death? And fhall that Tongue give pardon to a Slave?

My Brother kill'd no Man, his fault was Thought,
And yet his punishment was bitter Death.
Who fued to me for him? Who, in my wrath,
Kneel'd at my Feet; and bid me be advis'd?
Who fpoke of Brotherhood? who spoke in love?
Who told me, how the poor Soul did forfake
The mighty Warwick, and did fight for me:
Who told me in the Field at Tewksbury,
When Oxford had me down, he rescued me?
And faid, dear Brother live, and be a King?
Who told me, when we both lay in the Field,
Frozen almost to death, how he did lap me
Even in his Garments, and did give himself,
All thin and naked, to the num cold Night?
All this from my Remembrance, brutish wrath
Sinfully pluckt, and not a Man of you
Had fo much Grace to put it in my Mind.
But when your Carters, or your waiting Vaffals
Have done a drunken Slaughter, and defac'd
The precious Image of our dear Redeemer,
You ftraight are on your Knees for Pardon, Pardor,
And I, unjustly too, muft grant it you.
But for my Brother, not a Man would speak,.
Nor I, ungracious, fpake unto my felf
For him, poor Soul. The proudeft of you all,
Have been beholding to him in his Life:
Yet none of you, would once beg for his Life.
O God! I fear thy Juftice will take hold
On me, and you; and mine, and yours for this.
Come Hastings help me to my Clofer.

Ah poor Clarence. [Exeunt fome with the King and Queen.
Glo. This is the fruits of Rafhnefs: Mark'd you not,
How that the kindred of the Queen

Look'd

Look'd pale, when they did hear of Clarenee's Death?
O! they did urge it ftill unto the King,
God will revenge it. Come, Lords, will you go,
To comfort Edward with our Company?
Buck. We wait upon your Grace.

SCENE II.

[Exeunt.

Enter the Dutchess of York, with the two Children of
Clarence.

Son. Good Grandam tell us, is our Father dead?

Dutch. No, Boy.

Daugh. Why do you weep fo oft? and beat your Breaft?
And cry, O Clarence! my unhappy Son?

Son. Why do you look on us, and thake your Head,
And call us Orphans, Wretches, Caftaways,
If that our Noble Father were alive?

Dutch. My pretty Coufins, you miftake me both,

I do lament the Sicknefs of the King,

As loth to lose him, not your Father's Death;
It were loft Sorrow to wail one that's loft.

Son. Then you conclude, my Grandam, he is dead:
The King mine Uncle is to blame for it.

God will revenge it, whom I will importune
With earnest Prayers, all to that effect.
Daugh. And fo will I.

Dutch. Peace, Children, peace; the King doth love you Incapable and fhallow Innocents,

You cannot guefs who caus'd your Father's Death.
Son. Grandam, we can; for my good Uncle Glofter
Told me, the King, provok'd to it by the Queen,
Devis'd Impeachments to imprifon him;
And when my Uncle told me fo, he wept,
And pitied me, and kindly kift my Check;
Bad me rely on him, as on my Father,
And he would love me dearly as a Child.

[well

Dutch. Ah! that Deceit fhould fteal fuch gentle Shape, And with a virtuous Vizard hide deep Vice. He is my Son, ay, and therein my Shame, Yet from my Dugs he drew not this deceit.

I 2

Son.

Son. Think you my Uncle did diffemble, Grandam?
Dutch. Ay, Boy.

Son. I cannot think it. Hark, what noife is this?
Enter the Queen with her Hair about her Ears, Rivers
and Dorfet after her.

Queen. Ah! who shall hinder me to wail and weep?
To chide my Fortune and torment my felf?
I'll join with black Defpair against my Soul,
And to my felf become an Enemy-

Dutch. What means this Scene of rude Impatience?
Queen. To make an act of Tragick Violence.
Edward, my Lord, thy Son, our King is dead.
Why grow the Branches, when the Root is gone?
Why wither not the Leaves that want their Sap?
will live, lament; if die, be brief;

If you

That our fwift-winged Souls may catch the King's,
Or like obedient Subje&s follow him,

To his new Kingdom of ne'er changing Night.

Dutch. Ah, fo much intereft have I in thy Sorrow,
As I had Title to 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 femblance,
Are crack'd in pieces, by malignant Death,
And I for comfort have but one falfe Glafs,
That grieves me when I fee my Shame in him.
Thou art a Widow, yet thou art a Mother,
And haft the comfort of thy Children left;
But Death hath foatch'd my Husband from mine Arms,
And pluckt two Crutches from my feeble Hands,
Clarence and Edward. O, what caufe have I,
(Thine being but a moiety of my moan)

To over-go thy Woes, and drown thy Cries.

Son. Ah Aunt! you wept not for our Father's Death;
How can we aid you with our Kindred Tears?
Daugh. Our Fatherlefs diftrefs was left unmoan'd,
Your Widow dolour likewife be unwept.

Queen. Give me no help in Lamentation,
I am not barren to bring forth Complaints:
All Springs reduce their currents to mine Eyes,
That I being govern'd by the watry Moon,

May

May fend forth plenteous Tears to drown the World.. Ah, for my Husband-for my dear Lord Edward

Chil. Ah, for our Father, for our dear Lord Clarence.
Dutch. Alas, for both, both mine, Edward and Clarence.
Queen. What ftay had I, but Edward? and he's gone.
Chil. What ftay had we, but Clarence? and he's gone.
Dutch. What ftays had I, but they? and they are gone.
Queen. Was never Widow had fo dear a Lofs.

Chil. Were never Orphans had fo dear a Lofs.
Dutch. Was never Mother had fo dear a Lofs.
Alas! I am the Mother of thefe Griefs,
Their Woes are parcell'd, mine is general.
She for an Edward weeps, and fo do I;
I for a Clarence weep, fo doth not the;
Thefe Babes for Clarence weep, fo do not they.
Alas! you three, on me threefold diftreft
Pour all your Tears, I am your Sorrows Nurfe,
And I will pamper it with Lamentation.

Dorf. Comfort, dear Mother; God is much difpleas'd, ' That you take with unthankfulness his doing.

In common worldly Things 'tis call'd ungrateful,
With dull unwillingness to repay a Debt,
Which with a bounteous Hand was kindly lent:
Much more to be thus oppofite with Heav'n,
For it requires the Royal Debt it lent you.

Rivers. Madam, bethink you like a careful Mother
Of the young Prince your Son; fend ftraight for him,
Let him be crown'd, in him your comfort lives.
Drown defperate Sorrow in dead Edward's Grave,
And plant your Joys in living Edward's Throne.
Enter Gloucefter, Buckingham, Derby, Haftings and

Ratcliff.

Glo. Sifter, have comfort, all of us have caufe
To wail the dimming of our fhining Star:
But none can help our harms by wailing them.
Madam, my Mother, I do cry you Mercy,
I did not fee your Grace. Humbly on my Knee

I crave your Bleffing.

Dutch. God bless thee, and put Meeknefs in thy Braft, Love, Charity, Obedience, and true Duty.