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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)

    of Richard the third.
    A Cocatrice hast thou hatch to thc world,
    2535Whose vnauoided eye is murtherous.
    Stan. Come Madam, I in all hast was sent.
    Duch. And I in all vnwillingnes will go,
    I would to God that the inclusiue verge,
    Of golden mettall that must round my browe,
    2540were red hotte steele to seare me to the braine,
    Annointed let me be with deadlie poyson,
    And die, ere men can say, God saue the Queene.
    Qu. Alas poore soule, I enuie not thy glorie,
    To feede my humor, wish rhy selfe no harme.
    2545Duch.glo. No, when he that is my husband now,
    Came to me as I followed Henries course,
    When scarse the bloud was well washt from his handes,
    Which issued from my other angel husband,
    And that dead saint, which then, I weeping followed,
    2550O, when I say, I lookt on Richatds face,
    This was my wish, be thou quoth I accurst,
    For making me so young, so olde a widow,
    And when thou wedst, let sorrow haunt thy bed,
    And be thy wife, if any be so madde,
    2555As miserable by the death of thee,
    As thou hast made me by my deare Lordes death,
    Loe, eare I can repeate this curse againe,
    Euen in so short a space, my womans hart,
    Grosselie grewe captiue to his honie wordes,
    2560And prou'd the subiecte of my owne soules curse,
    Which euer since hath kept my eyes from sleepe,
    For neuer yet, one houre in his bed,
    Haue I enioyed the golden dew of sleepe,
    But haue bene waked by his timerous dreames,
    2565Besides, he hates me for my father Warwicke,
    And will no doubt, shortlie be rid of me.
    Qu. Alas poore soule, I pittie thy complaints.
    Duch. glo. No more then from my soule I mourne for yours.
    2570Dor. Farewell, thou wofull welcomer of glorie.
    Duch.glo. Adew poore soule, thou takst thy leaue of it.
    Du.yor. Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune guide thee.