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  • Title: Richard the Third (Quarto 1, 1597)
  • Editor: Adrian Kiernander

  • Copyright Internet Shakespeare Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-proift purposes; for all other uses contact the Coordinating Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editor: Adrian Kiernander
    Peer Reviewed

    Richard the Third (Quarto 1, 1597)

    The Tragedie
    I may not suffer you to visite him,
    The King hath straightlie charged the contrarie.
    Qu. The King? whie, whose that?
    Lieu. I crie you mercie, I meane the Lord protector.
    2495Qu. The Lord protect him from that Kinglie title:
    Hath he set boundes betwixt their loue and me:
    I am their mother, who should keepe me from them?
    Du.yor. I am their Fathers, Mother, I will see them.
    2500Duch.glo. Their aunt I am in law, in loue their mother:
    Then feare not thou, Ile beare thy blame,
    And take thy office from thee on my perill.
    Lieu. I doe beseech your graces all to pardon me:
    I am bound by oath, I may not doe it. Enter L. Stanlie.
    Stan. Let me but meete you Ladies an houre hence,
    And Ile salute your grace of Yorke, as Mother :
    And reuerente looker on, of two faire Queenes.
    2510Come Madam, you must go with me to Westminster,
    There to be crowned, Richards royall Queene.
    Qu O cut my lace in sunder, that my pent heart,
    May haue some scope to beate, or else I sound,
    With this dead killing newes.
    Dor. Madam, haue comfort, how fares your grace?
    Qu O Dorset speake not to me, get thee hence,
    Death and destruction dogge thee at the heeles,
    2520Thy Mothers name is ominous to children,
    If thou wilt outstrip death, go crosse the seas,
    And liue with Richmond, from the reach of hell,
    Go hie thee, hie thee from this slaughter house,
    Least thou increase the number of the dead,
    2525 And make me die the thrall of Margarets cursse,
    Nor Mother, Wife, nor Englands counted Queene.
    Stan. Full of wise care is this your counsell Madam,
    Take all the swift aduantage of the time,
    You shall haue letters from me to my sonne,
    2530To meete you on the way, and welcome you,
    Be not tane tardie, by vnwise delaie:
    Duch. yor. O ill dispersing winde of miserie,
    O my accursed wombe, the bed of death,
    A Coca