Tyrrel

The tyrannous and bloody act is done,

The most arch deed of piteous massacre

That ever yet this land was guilty of.

Dighton and Forrest, who I did suborn

To do this piece of ruthless butchery,

Albeit they were fleshed villains, bloody dogs,

Melted with tenderness and kind compassion

Wept like two children in their deaths' sad story

“O, thus,” quoth Dighton, “lay the gentle babes:”

“Thus, thus,” quoth Forrest, “girdling one another

Within their alabaster innocent arms:

Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,

Which in their summer beauty kissed each other.

A book of prayers on their pillow lay;

Which once,” quoth Forrest, “almost changed my mind;

But O! the devil” — there the villain stopped:

When Dighton thus told on: “We smothered

The most replenished sweet work of nature,

That from the prime creation e'er she framed.”

Hence both are gone with conscience and remorse;

They could not speak; and so I left them both,

To bear this tidings to the bloody king.

And here he comes. Enter KING RICHARD. All health, my sovereign lord!

King Richard

Kind Tyrrel, am I happy in thy news?

Tyrrel

If to have done the thing you gave in charge

Beget your happiness, be happy then,

For it is done.

King Richard

But didst thou see them dead?

Tyrrel

I did, my lord.

King Richard

And buried, gentle Tyrrel?

Tyrrel

The chaplain of the Tower hath buried them;

But where ( to say the truth) I do not know.

King Richard

Come to me, Tyrrel, soon at after-supper,

When thou shalt tell the process of their death.

Meantime, but think how I may do thee good,

And be inheritor of thy desire.

Farewell till then.

Tyrrel

I humbly take my leave

King Richard

The son of Clarence have I pent up close;

His daughter meanly have I matched in marriage;

The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham's bosom,

And Anne my wife hath bid this world good night.

Now, for I know the Breton Richmond aims

At young Elizabeth, my brother's daughter,

And, by that knot, looks proudly on the crown,

To her go I, a jolly thriving wooer. Enter CATESBY.

Catesby

My lord!

King Richard

Good or bad news, that thou comest in so bluntly?

Catesby

Bad news, my lord: Morton is fled to Richmond;

And Buckingham, backed with the hardy Welshmen,

Is in the field, and still his power increaseth.

King Richard

Ely with Richmond troubles me more near

Than Buckingham and his rash-levied strength.

Come, I have learned that fearful commenting

Is leaden servitor to dull delay;

Delay leads impotent and snail-paced beggary:

Then fiery expedition be my wing,

Jove's Mercury, and herald for a king!

Go, muster men: my counsel is my shield;

We must be brief when traitors brave the field. Exeunt.