Enter a Messenger.

Mess. My gracious sovereign, now in Devonshire,
As I by friends am well advertised,

Sir Edward Courtney, and the haughty prelate
Bishop of Exeter, his brother there,

With many moe confederates, are in arms.

Enter another Messenger.

500

Sec. Mess. My liege, in Kent, the Guildfords are in arms; And every hour more competitors

Flock to their aid, and still their power increaseth.

Enter another Messenger.

Third Mess. My lord, the army of the Duke of Buckingham

K. Rich. Out on you, owls! nothing but songs of death? [He striketh him.

Take that, until thou bring me better news. Third Mess. The news I have to tell your majesty Is, that by sudden floods and fall of waters, Buckingham's army is dispersed and scatter'd; And he himself wander'd away alone,

No man knows whither.

K. Rich.

I

cry thee mercy:

510

There is my purse to cure that blow of thine.
Hath any well-advised friend proclaim'd
Reward to him that brings the traitor in?

Third Mess. Such proclamation hath been made, my liege.

Enter another Messenger.

Fourth Mess. Sir Thomas Lovel and Lord Marquis

Dorset,

520

'Tis said, my liege, in Yorkshire are in arms.
Yet this good comfort bring I to your grace,
The Breton navy is dispersed by tempest:
Richmond, in Dorsetshire, sent out a boat
Unto the shore, to ask those on the banks
If they were his assistants, yea or no ;
Who answer'd him, they came from Buckingham
Upon his party: he, mistrusting them,

Hoised sail and made away for Brittany.

K. Rich. March on, march on, since we are up in arms;

If not to fight with foreign enemies,

Yet to beat down these rebels here at home.

Re-enter Catesby.

531

Cate. My liege, the Duke of Buckingham is taken;
That is the best news: that the Earl of Richmond
Is with a mighty power landed at Milford,

Is colder tidings, yet they must be told. K. Rich. Away towards Salisbury! while we reason here, A royal battle might be won and lost : Some one take order Buckingham be brought To Salisbury; the rest march on with me.

540

[Flourish. Exeunt.

Scene V.

Lord Derby's house.

Enter Derby and Sir Christopher Urswick.

Der. Sir Christopher, tell Richmond this from me :
That in the sty of this most bloody boar
My son George Stanley is frank'd up in hold:
If I revolt, off goes young George's head;
The fear of that withholds my present aid.

But, tell me, where is princely Richmond now?
Chris. At Pembroke, or at Ha'rford-west, in Wales.
Der. What men of name resort to him?
Chris. Sir Walter Herbert, a renowned soldier ;

Sir Gilbert Talbot, Sir William Stanley;
Oxford, redoubted Pembroke, Sir James Blunt,
And Rice ap Thomas, with a valiant crew,
And many moe of noble fame and worth:

10

And towards London they do bend their course,
If by the way they be not fought withal.
Der. Return unto thy lord; commend me to him:
Tell him the queen hath heartily consented
He shall espouse Elizabeth her daughter.
These letters will resolve him of my mind.
Farewell.

[Exeunt. 20

Act Fifth.

Scene I.

Salisbury. An open place.

Enter the Sheriff, and Buckingham, with halberds,
led to execution.

Buck. Will not King Richard let me speak with him?
Sher. No, my good lord; therefore be patient.
Buck. Hastings, and Edward's children, Rivers, Grey,
Holy King Henry, and thy fair son Edward,
Vaughan, and all that have miscarried

By underhand corrupted foul injustice,
If that your moody discontented souls

Do through the clouds behold this present hour,
Even for revenge mock my destruction!

This is All-Souls' day, fellows, is it not?
Sher. It is, my lord.

IO

Buck. Why, then All-Souls' day is my body's dooms

day.

This is the day that, in King Edward's time,
I wish'd might fall on me when I was found
False to his children or his wife's allies;
This is the day wherein I wish'd to fall
By the false faith of him I trusted most;
This, this All-Souls' day to my fearful soul
Is the determined respite of my wrongs:
That high All-seer that I dallied with
Hath turn'd my feigned prayer on my head,
And given in earnest what I begg'd in jest.
Thus doth he force the swords of wicked men
To turn their own points on their masters' bosoms:
Now Margaret's curse is fallen upon my head;
When he,' quoth she, shall split thy heart with

sorrow,

Remember Margaret was a prophetess.'

20

Come, sirs, convey me to the block of shame ;
Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame.

[Exeunt.