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K. Rich. You have a daughter call'd—Elizabeth, Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious.

Q. Eliz. And must she die for this? O, let her live. And I'll corrupt her manners, stain her beauty; Slander myself, as false to Edward's bed; Throw over her the veil of infamy: So she may live unscarr'd of bleeding slaughter, I will confess she was not Edward's daughter.

K. Rich. Wrong not her birth, she is of royal blood.

Q. Eliz. To save her life, I'll say—she is not so.

A'. Rick. Her life is safest only in her birth.

Q. Eliz. And only in that safety died her brothers.

K. Rich. Lo, at their births good stars were opposite.

Q. Eliz. No, to their lives bad friends were contrary.

JT. Rich. All unavoided is the doom of destiny.

Q. Eliz. True, when avoided grace makes destiny: My babes were destin'd to a fairer death, If grace had bless'd thee with a fairer life.

K. Rich. You speak, as if that I had slain my cousins.

Q. Eliz. Cousins, indeed; and by their uncle

cozen'd

Of comfort, kingdom, kindred, freedom, life.
Whose hands soever lanc'd their tender hearts,
Thy head, all indirectly, gave direction:
No doubt the murderous knife was dull and blunt.
Till it was whetted on thy stone-hard heart",

To revel in the entrails of my lambs.
But that still use of grief makes wild grief tame,
My tongue should to thy ears not name my boys,
Till that my nails were anchor'd in thine eyes;
And I, in such a desperate bay of death,
Like a poor bark, of sails and tackling reft,
Rush all to pieces on thy rocky bosom.

K. Rich. Madam, so thrive I in my enternrize,
And dangerous success of bloody wars,
As I intend more good to you and yours,
Than ever you or yours by me were harm'd!

Q. Eiiz. What good is cover'd with the face of

heaven, To be discover'd, that can do me good?

K. Rich. The advancement of your children, gentle lady.

Q. Eliz. Up to some scaffold, there to lose their heads?

K. Rich. No, to the dignity and height of fortune, The high imperial type of this earth's glory.

Q. Eliz. Flatter my sorrows with report of it; Tell me, what state, what dignity, what honour. Canst thou demise to any child of mine?

K. Rich. Even all I have; ay, and myself and all, Will I withal endow a child of thine; So in the Lethe of thy angry soul Thou drown the sad remembrance of those wrongs, Which, thou supposest, I have done to thee.

Q. Eliz. Be brief, lest that the process of thy kindness Last longer telling than thy kindness' date.

K. Rich. Then know, that, from my soul, I love

thy daughter. Q. Eliz. My daughter's mother thinks it with her

soul.'

K. Rich. What do you think?
Q. Eliz. That thou dost love my daughter, from

thy soul:

So, fromjhy soul's love, didst thou love her brothers; And, from my heart's love, I do thank thee for it.

K. Rich. Be not so hasty to'confound my meaning: I mean, that with my soul I love thy daughter, And do intend to make her queen of England.

Q. Eliz. Well then, who dost thou mean shall be

her king? K. Rich. Even he, that makes her queen; Who

else should be? Q. Eliz. What, thou? K. Rich. Even so: What think you

of it, madam?

Q. Eliz. How canst thou woo her?
K. Rich. That I would learn of you,

As one being best acquainted with her humour.
Q. Eliz. And wilt thou learn of me?
K. Rich. Madam, with all my heart.

Q. Eliz. Send to her, by the man that slew her

brothers,

A pair of bleeding hearts; thereon engrave,
Edward, and York; then, haply, will she weep:
Therefore present to her,—as sometime Margaret
Did to thy father, steep'd in Rutland's blood,—

A handkerchief; which, say to her, did drain

The purple sap from her sweet brother's body,

And bid her wipe her weeping eyes withal.

If this inducement move her not to love,

Send her a letter of thy noble deeds;

Tell her, thou mad'st away her uncle Clarence,

Her uncle Rivers; ay, and, for her sake,

Mad'st quick conveyance with her good aunt Anne.

K. Rich. You mock me, madam; this is not the

way To win you daughter.

Q. Elit. There is no other way;

Unless thou could'st put on some other shape,
And not be Richard that hath done all this.

K. Rich. Say, that I did all this for love of her?

Q. Eliz. Nay, then indeed, she cannot choose but

have thee, Having bought love with such a bloody spoil.

K. Rich. Look, what is done cannot be now

amended:

Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes,
Which after-hours give leisure to repent.
If I did take the kingdom from your sons,
To make amends, I'll give it to your daughter.
If I have kill'd the issue of your womb,
To quicken your increase, I will beget
Mine issue of your blood upon your daughter.
A grandam's name is little less in love,
Than is the doting title of a mother;
They are as children, but one step below,

Even of your mettle, of your very blood;

Of all one pain,—save for a night of groans

Endur'd of her, for whom you bid like sorrow.

Your children were vexation to your youth,

But mine shall be a comfort to your age.

The loss, you have, is but—a son being king,

And, by that loss, your daughter is made queen.

I cannot make you what amends I would,

Therefore accept such kindness as I can.

Dorset your son, that, with a fearful soul,

Leads discontented steps in foreign soil,

This fair alliance quickly shall call home

To high promotions and great dignity:

The king, that calls your beauteous daughter,—wife,

Familiarly shall call thy Dorset—brother;

Again shall you be mother to a king,

And all the ruins of distressful times

Repair'd with double riches of content.

What! we have many goodly days to see:

The liquid drops of tears that you have shed,

Shall come again, transform'd to orient pearl;

Advantaging their loan, with interest

Of ten-times-double gain of happiness.

Go then, my mother, to thy daughter go;

Make bold her bashful years with your experience;

Prepare her ears to hear a wooer's tale;

Put in her tender heart the aspiring flame

Of golden sov'reignty; acquaint the princess

With the sweet silent hours of marriage joys:

And when this arm of mine hath chastised

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