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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.
    2765Ioues Mercurie and Herald for a king :
    Come muster men, my counsaile is my shield,
    We must be briefe when traitors braue the field. Exeunt.
    2770Enter Queene Margaret sola.
    Q.Mar. So now prosperitie begins to mellow
    And drop into the rotten mouth of Death:
    Here in these confines slilie haue I lurkt,
    To watch the waining of mine aduersaries:
    2775A dire induction am I witnesse to,
    And wil to Fraunce, hoping the consequence
    Wil prooue as bitter, blacke and tragical.
    Withdraw thee wretched Margaret, who comes here?
    Enter the Qu. and the Dutchesse of Yorke.
    2780Qu. Ah my young princes, ah my tender babes!
    My vnblowne flowers, new appearing sweets,
    If yet your gentle soules flie in the ayre
    And be not fixt in doome perpetual,
    Houer about me with your aierie winges,
    2785And heare your mothers lamentation.
    Qu.Mar. Houer about her, saie that right for right,
    Hath dimd your infant morne, to aged night.
    Quee. Wilt thou, O God, flie from such gentle lambes,
    And throw them in the intrailes of the Wolfe:
    2795When didst thou sleepe when such a deed was done?
    Q.Mar. When holie Harry died, and my sweet sonne.
    Dutch. Blind sight, dead life, poore mortal liuing ghost,
    Woes sceane, worlds shame, graues due by life vsurpt,
    2800Rest thy vnrest on Englands lawful earth,
    Vnlawfullie made drunke with innocents bloud.
    Qu. O that thou wouldst aswel affoord a graue,
    As thou canst yeeld a melancholie seate,
    Then would I hide my bones, not rest them here:
    2805O who hath anie cause to mourne but I!
    2805.1Duch. So manie miseries haue crazd my voice
    That my woe-wearied toong is mute and dumbe.
    Edward Plantagenet, whie art thou dead?
    Qu.Mar. If ancient sorrow be most reuerent,
    Giue mine the benefite of signorie,
    I3 And
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