Be he unto me! this do I beg of heaven,
When I am cold in love, to you, or yours.

[Embracing Rivers, &c.
K. Edw. A pleasing cordial, princely Buckingham,
Is this thy vow unto iny sickly heart.
There wanteth now our brother Gloster here,
To make the blessed period of this peace.
Buck. And, in good time, here comes the noble

duke.

Enter GLOSTER. Glo. Good-morrow to my sovereign king, and

queen; And, princely peers, a happy time of day! K. Edw. Happy, indeed, as we have spent the

day:-
Brother, we have done deeds of charity;
Made peace of enmity, fair love of hate,
Between these swelling wrong-incensed peers.

Glo. A blessed labour, my most sovereign liege.--Among this princely heap, if

any

here,
By false intelligence, or wrong surmise,
Hold me a foe;
If I unwittingly, or in my rage,
Have aught committed that is hardly borne
By any in this presence, I desire
To reconcile me to his friendly peace:
'Tis death to me, to be at enmity;
I hate it, and desire all good men's love.-
First, madam, I entreat true

you, Which I will purchase with my duteous service; Of

you, my noble cousin Buckingham, If ever any grudge were lodg'd between us;Of you, lord Rivers,—and lord Grey, of you,That all without desert have frown'd on me; Dukes, earls, lords, gentlemen; indeed, of all. I do not know that Englishman alive,

peace of

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.

Q. Eliz. A holy-day shall this be kept hereafter:-
I would to God, all strifes were well compounded. -
My sovereign lord, I do beseech your highness
To take our brother Clarence to your grace.

Glo. Why, madam, have I offer'd love for this, To be so flouted in this royal presence? Who knows not, that the gentle duke is dead?

[They all start. You do him injury, to scorn his corse. K. Edw. Who knows not, he is dead! who knows

he is? Q. Eliz. All-seeing heaven, what a world is this! Buck. Look I so pale, lord Dorset, as the rest? Dor. Ay, my good lord; and no man in the pre

sence, But his red colour hath forsook his cheeks. K. Edw. Is Clarence dead ? the order was re

vers'd. Glo. But he, poor man, by your first order died, And that a winged Mercury did bear; Some tardy cripple bore the countermand, That came too lag to see him buried :God grant, that some, less noble, and less loyal, Nearer in bloody thoughts, and not in blood, Deserve not worse than wretched Clarence did,

rrent from suspicion!

Enter STANLEY. Stan. A boon, my sovereign, for my service done! K. Edw. I pr’ythee, peace; my soul is full of Stan. I will not rise, unless your highness hear me. K. Edw. Then say at once, what is it thou re

And yet go

Slan. The forfeit, sovereign, of my servant's life; Who slew to-day a riotous gentleman, Lately attendant on the duke of Norfolk.

K.Edw.Havelatongue todoom my brother's death, And shall 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 sued to me for him? who, in my wrath, Kneelid at my feet, and bade me be advis’d? Who spoke of brotherhood? who spoke of love? Who told me, how the poor soul did forsake The mighty Warwick, and did fight for me? Who told me, in the field at Tewksbury, When Oxford had me down, he rescu'd me, And said, 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 numb-cold night? All this from my remembrance brutish wrath Sinfully pluck'd, and not a man of you Had so much grace to put it in But, when your carters, or your waiting-vassals, Have done a drunken slaughter, and defac’d The precious image of our dear Redeemer, You straight are on your knees for pardon, pardon; And I, unjustly too, must grant it you:But for my brother, not a man would speak,Nor I (ungracious) speak unto myself For him, poor soul. The proudest of you all Have been beholden to hiin in his life; Yet none of you would once plead for his life.

O God! I fear, thy justice will take hold
On me, and you, and mine, and yours, for this.
Come, Hastings, help me to my closet. O,
Poor Clarence!

[Exeunt King, Queen, Hastings, Rivers,

Dorset, and GREY. . Glo. This is the fruit of rashness !—Mark'd you

not, How that the guilty kindred of the queen Look'd pale, when they did hear of Clarence' death? O! they did urge it still unto the king: God will revenge it. Come, lords; will you go, To comfort Edward with our company? Buck. We wait upon your grace.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The same.

Enter the Duchess of York, with a Son and Daughter

of Clarence. Son. Good grandam, tell us, is our father dead? Duch. No, boy. Daugh. Why do you weep so oft? and beat your

breast; And cry-O Clarence, my unhappy son!

Son. Why do you look on us, and shake your head, And call us-orphans, wretches, cast-aways, If that our noble father be alive?

Duch. My pretty cousins, you mistake me both; I do lament the sickness of the king,

As loath to lose him, not your father's death;
It were lost sorrow, to wail one that's lost.

Son. Then, grandam, you conclude that he is dead.
The king my uncle is to blame for this:
God will revenge it; whom I will importune
With earnest prayers all to that effect.

Daugh. And so will I.
Duch. Peace, children, peace! the king doth love

you well:

6

Incapable and shallow innocents,
You cannot guess who caus’d your father's death.

Son. Grandam, we can: for my good uncle Gloster
Told me, the king, provok'd to't by the queen,
Devis'd impeachments to imprison him:
And when my uncle told me so, he wept,
And pitied me, and kindly kiss'd my cheek;
Bade me rely on him, as on my father,
And he would love me dearly as his child.
Duch. Ah, that deceit should steal such gentle

shapes,
And with a virtuous visor hide deep vice!
He is my son, ay, and therein my shame,
Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit.

Son. Think you, my uncle did dissemble, grandam?
Duch. Ay, boy.
Son. I cannot think it. Hark! what noise is this?

Enter Queen ELIZABETH, distractedly; Rivers, and

Dorset following her.
Q. Eliz. Ah! who shall hinder me to wail and weep?
To chide my fortune, and torment myself?
I'll join with black despair against my soul,
And to myself become an enemy.

Duch. What means this scene of rude impatience?
Q. Eliz. To make an act of tragick violence:-

Incapable and shallow innocents,]' Incapable is unintelligent.