Chris. At Pembroke, or at Ha'rford-west, in
Wales,

Stan. 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 other of great fame and worth:
And towards London do they bend their course,
If by the way they be not fought withal.

Stan. Well, hie thee to 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. [Gives papers to Sir Christopher.
[Exeunt.

Salisbury. An open place.

Enter the Sheriff, and Guard, with BUCKINGHAM, 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

Even for reyenge mock my destruction!
This is All-Souls' day, fellows, is it not?
Sher. It is, my Lord.

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

This is the day, which, in King Edwards 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 whom most I trusted;
This, this All-Souls' day to my fearful soul,
Is the determin'd respite of my wrongs,
That high All-seer which I dally'd 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:
Thus Margaret's curse falls heavy on my neck,
When he, quoth she, shall split thy heart with

sorrow,

Remember Margaret was a prophetess.

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

blame.

[Exeunt BUCKINGHAM,

&c.

SCENE

II.

Plain near Tamworth.

Enter, with drum and colours, RICHMOND, OXFORD, Sir James BLUNT, Sir Walter HERBERT, and Others, with forces, marching. Richm. Fellows in arms, and my most loving friends,

Bruis'd underneath the yoke of tyranny,
Thus far into the bowels of the land.
Have we march'd on without impediment;
And here receive we from our father Stanley
Lines of fair comfort and encouragement.
The wretched, bloody, and usurping boar,
That spoil'd your summer fields, and fruitful

vines,

Swills your warm blood like wash, and makes his trough

In your embowell'd bosoms,

this foul swine

Lies now even in the centre of this isle,

Near to the down of Leicester, as we learn:
From Tamworth thither, is but one day's march.
In God's name, cheerly on, courageous friends,
To reap the harvest of perpetual peace

By this one bloody trial of sharp war.

Oxf. Every man's conscience is a thousand

swords,

To fight against that bloody homicide.
Herb. I doubt not,

but his friends will turn

to us.

Blunt. He hath no friends, but who are friends

for fear;

Which, in his dearest need, will fly from him. Richm. All for our vantage. Then, in God's name, march:

True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings, King's it makes gods, and meaner creatures Kings.

[Exeunt.

SCEN E III.

Bosworth Field.

Enter King RICHARD, and forces; the Duke of NORFOLK, Earl of SURREY, and Others.

K. Rich. Here pitch our tents,

even here in

Bosworth field. My Lord of Surrey, why look ye so sad? Sur. My heart is

ten times lighter than my looks.

K. Rich. My Lord of Norfolk,

Nor. Here, most gracious Liege.

K. Rich. Norfolk, we must have knocks; Ha! must we not?

Nor. We must both give and take, my loving

Lord.

K. Rich. Up with my tent: Here will I lie to

night;

[Soldiers begin to set up the King's tent.

But where, to-morrow?

that.

Well, all's one for

Who hath descry'd the number of the traitors? Nor. Six or seven thousand is their utmost

power.

K. Rich. Why, our battalia trebles that ac

count:

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 survey the vantage of the ground;
Call for some men of sound direction:

Let's want no discipline, make no delay;
For, Lords, to-morrow is a busy day. [Exeunt.

Enter, on the other side of the field, RICHMOND, Sir William BRANDON, Oxford, and other lords. Some of the soldiers pitch RicuMOND'S Tent.

Richm. The weary sun hath made a golden ser, And, by the bright track of his fiery car, Gives token of a goodly day to-morrow. Sir William Brandon, you shall bear my standard.

Give me some ink and paper in my tent;
I'll draw the form and model of our battle,
Limit each leader to his several charge,
And part in just proportion our small power.
My Lord of Oxford, you, Sir William Bran-
don,

And you, Sir Walter Herbert, stay with me:
The Earl of Pembroke keeps his regiment;
Good captain Blunt, bear my good night to him,
And by the second hour in the morning
Desire the Earl to see 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 mista'en his colours much,
(Which, well I am assur'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 possible,

Sweet Blunt, make some good means to speak with him,

And give him from me this most needful note.