Shakespeare's First Folio Part 432

Rich. I, if your selfes remembrance wrong your selfe

Qu. Yet thou didst kil my Children

Rich. But in your daughters wombe I bury them.

Where in that Nest of Spicery they will breed Selues of themselues, to your recomforture

Qu. Shall I go win my daughter to thy will?

Rich. And be a happy Mother by the deed

Qu. I go, write to me very shortly, And you shal vnderstand from me her mind.

Exit Q[ueene].

Rich. Beare her my true loues kisse, and so farewell.

Relenting Foole, and shallow-changing Woman.

How now, what newes?

Enter Ratcliffe.

Rat. Most mightie Soueraigne, on the Westerne Coast Rideth a puissant Nauie: to our Sh.o.r.es Throng many doubtfull hollow-hearted friends, Vnarm'd, and vnresolu'd to beat them backe.

'Tis thought, that Richmond is their Admirall: And there they hull, expecting but the aide Of Buckingham, to welcome them ash.o.r.e

Rich. Some light-foot friend post to y Duke of Norfolk: Ratcliffe thy selfe, or Catesby, where is hee?

Cat. Here, my good Lord

Rich. Catesby, flye to the Duke

Cat. I will, my Lord, with all conuenient haste

Rich. Catesby come hither, poste to Salisbury: When thou com'st thither: Dull vnmindfull Villaine, Why stay'st thou here, and go'st not to the Duke?

Cat. First, mighty Liege, tell me your Highnesse pleasure, What from your Grace I shall deliuer to him

Rich. O true, good Catesby, bid him leuie straight The greatest strength and power that he can make, And meet me suddenly at Salisbury

Cat. I goe.

Enter.

Rat. What, may it please you, shall I doe at Salisbury?

Rich. Why, what would'st thou doe there, before I goe?

Rat. Your Highnesse told me I should poste before

Rich. My minde is chang'd: Enter Lord Stanley.

Stanley, what newes with you?

Sta. None, good my Liege, to please you with y hearing, Nor none so bad, but well may be reported

Rich. Hoyday, a Riddle, neither good nor bad: What need'st thou runne so many miles about, When thou mayest tell thy Tale the neerest way?

Once more, what newes?

Stan. Richmond is on the Seas

Rich. There let him sinke, and be the Seas on him, White-liuer'd Runnagate, what doth he there?

Stan. I know not, mightie Soueraigne, but by guesse

Rich. Well, as you guesse

Stan. Stirr'd vp by Dorset, Buckingham, and Morton, He makes for England, here to clayme the Crowne

Rich. Is the Chayre emptie? is the Sword vnsway'd?

Is the King dead? the Empire vnpossest?

What Heire of Yorke is there aliue, but wee?

And who is Englands King, but great Yorkes Heire?

Then tell me, what makes he vpon the Seas?

Stan. Vnlesse for that, my Liege, I cannot guesse

Rich. Vnlesse for that he comes to be your Liege, You cannot guesse wherefore the Welchman comes.

Thou wilt reuolt, and flye to him, I feare

Stan. No, my good Lord, therefore mistrust me not

Rich. Where is thy Power then, to beat him back?

Where be thy Tenants, and thy followers?

Are they not now vpon the Westerne Sh.o.r.e, Safe-conducting the Rebels from their s.h.i.+ppes?

Stan. No, my good Lord, my friends are in the North

Rich. Cold friends to me: what do they in the North, When they should serue their Soueraigne in the West?

Stan. They haue not been commanded, mighty King: Pleaseth your Maiestie to giue me leaue, Ile muster vp my friends, and meet your Grace, Where, and what time your Maiestie shall please

Rich. I, thou would'st be gone, to ioyne with Richmond: But Ile not trust thee

Stan. Most mightie Soueraigne, You haue no cause to hold my friends.h.i.+p doubtfull, I neuer was, nor neuer will be false

Rich. Goe then, and muster men: but leaue behind Your Sonne George Stanley: looke your heart be firme, Or else his Heads a.s.surance is but fraile

Stan. So deale with him, as I proue true to you.

Exit Stanley.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. My gracious Soueraigne, now in Deuons.h.i.+re, As I by friends am well aduertised, Sir Edward Courtney, and the haughtie Prelate, Bishop of Exeter, his elder Brother, With many moe Confederates, are in Armes.

Enter another Messenger

Mess. In Kent, my Liege, the Guilfords are in Armes, And euery houre more Compet.i.tors Flocke to the Rebels, and their power growes strong.

Enter another Messenger.

Mess. My Lord, the Armie of great Buckingham

Rich. Out on ye, Owles, nothing but Songs of Death,