Shakespeare's First Folio Part 423

Purs. I thanke your Honor.

Exit Pursuiuant.

Enter a Priest.

Priest. Well met, my Lord, I am glad to see your Honor

Hast. I thanke thee, good Sir Iohn, with all my heart.

I am in your debt, for your last Exercise: Come the next Sabboth, and I will content you

Priest. Ile wait vpon your Lords.h.i.+p.

Enter Buckingham.

Buc. What, talking with a Priest, Lord Chamberlaine?

Your friends at Pomfret, they doe need the Priest, Your Honor hath no shriuing worke in hand

Hast. Good faith, and when I met this holy man, The men you talke of, came into my minde.

What, goe you toward the Tower?

Buc. I doe, my Lord, but long I cannot stay there: I shall returne before your Lords.h.i.+p, thence

Hast. Nay like enough, for I stay Dinner there

Buc. And Supper too, although thou know'st it not.

Come, will you goe?

Hast. Ile wait vpon your Lords.h.i.+p.

Exeunt.

Scena Tertia.

Enter Sir Richard Ratcliffe, with Halberds, carrying the n.o.bles to death at Pomfret.

Riuers. Sir Richard Ratcliffe, let me tell thee this, To day shalt thou behold a Subiect die, For Truth, for Dutie, and for Loyaltie

Grey. G.o.d blesse the Prince from all the Pack of you, A Knot you are, of d.a.m.ned Blood-suckers

Vaugh. You liue, that shall cry woe for this heereafter

Rat. Dispatch, the limit of your Liues is out

Riuers. O Pomfret, Pomfret! O thou b.l.o.o.d.y Prison!

Fatall and ominous to n.o.ble Peeres: Within the guiltie Closure of thy Walls, Richard the Second here was hackt to death: And for more slander to thy dismall Seat, Wee giue to thee our guiltlesse blood to drinke

Grey. Now Margarets Curse is falne vpon our Heads, When shee exclaim'd on Hastings, you, and I, For standing by, when Richard stab'd her Sonne

Riuers. Then curs'd shee Richard, Then curs'd shee Buckingham, Then curs'd shee Hastings. Oh remember G.o.d, To heare her prayer for them, as now for vs: And for my Sister, and her Princely Sonnes, Be satisfy'd, deare G.o.d, with our true blood, Which, as thou know'st, vniustly must be spilt

Rat. Make haste, the houre of death is expiate

Riuers. Come Grey, come Vaughan, let vs here embrace.

Farewell, vntill we meet againe in Heauen.

Exeunt.

Scaena Quarta.

Enter Buckingham, Darby, Hastings, Bishop of Ely, Norfolke, Ratcliffe, Louell, with others, at a Table.

Hast. Now n.o.ble Peeres, the cause why we are met, Is to determine of the Coronation: In G.o.ds Name speake, when is the Royall day?

Buck. Is all things ready for the Royall time?

Darb. It is, and wants but nomination

Ely. To morrow then I iudge a happie day

Buck. Who knowes the Lord Protectors mind herein?

Who is most inward with the n.o.ble Duke?

Ely. Your Grace, we thinke, should soonest know his minde

Buck. We know each others Faces: for our Hearts, He knowes no more of mine, then I of yours, Or I of his, my Lord, then you of mine: Lord Hastings, you and he are neere in loue

Hast. I thanke his Grace, I know he loues me well: But for his purpose in the Coronation, I haue not sounded him, nor he deliuer'd His gracious pleasure any way therein: But you, my Honorable Lords, may name the time, And in the Dukes behalfe Ile giue my Voice, Which I presume hee'le take in gentle part.

Enter Gloucester.

Ely. In happie time, here comes the Duke himselfe

Rich. My n.o.ble Lords, and Cousins all, good morrow: I haue beene long a sleeper: but I trust, My absence doth neglect no great designe, Which by my presence might haue beene concluded

Buck. Had you not come vpon your Q my Lord, William, Lord Hastings, had p.r.o.nounc'd your part; I meane your Voice, for Crowning of the King

Rich. Then my Lord Hastings, no man might be bolder, His Lords.h.i.+p knowes me well, and loues me well.

My Lord of Ely, when I was last in Holborne, I saw good Strawberries in your Garden there, I doe beseech you, send for some of them

Ely. Mary and will, my Lord, with all my heart.

Exit Bishop.

Rich. Cousin of Buckingham, a word with you.

Catesby hath sounded Hastings in our businesse, And findes the testie Gentleman so hot, That he will lose his Head, ere giue consent His Masters Child, as wors.h.i.+pfully he tearmes it, Shall lose the Royaltie of Englands Throne

Buck. Withdraw your selfe a while, Ile goe with you.

Exeunt.

Darb. We haue not yet set downe this day of Triumph: To morrow, in my iudgement, is too sudden, For I my selfe am not so well prouided, As else I would be, were the day prolong'd.

Enter the Bishop of Ely.

Ely. Where is my Lord, the Duke of Gloster?