K. Edw. Why then, thy Husband's Lands I freely give thee. Gray. I take my leave with many thousand Thanks. Glo. The match is made, the feals it with a Curtfie. K. Edw. But ftay thee, 'tis the fruits of Love I mean. Gray. The fruits of Love, I mean, my loving Liege. K. Edw. Ay, but I fear me in another fenfe. What Love, think'ft thou, I fue fo much to get? Gray. My Love'till Death, my humble Thanks, my Prayers. That Love which Virtue begs, and Virtue grants.

K. Edw. No, by my troth, I did not mean fuch Love. Gray. Why then you mean not as I thought you did. K. Edw. But now you partly may perceive my Mind. Gray. My Mind will never grant what I perceive Your Highnels aims at, if I aim aright.

K. Edw. To tell thee plain, I aim to lye with thee. Gray. To tell you plain, I had rather lye in Prifon. K. Edw. Why then thou shalt not have thy Husband's Lands.

Gray. Why then mine Honefty fhall be my Dower, For by that Lofs I will not purchase them.

K. Edw. Therein thou wrong'ft thy Children mightily. Gray. Herein your Highness wrongs both them and me: But, mighty Lord, this merry inclination

Accords not with the fadnefs of my Suit;
Please you difmifs me, either with Ay, or No.

K. Edw. Ay; if thou wilt fay Ay to my request;
No; if thou doft say No to my demand.

Gray. Then No, my Lord; my Suit is at an end. Glo. The Widow likes him not, fhe knits her Brows. Clar. He is the bluntest Wooer in Chriftendom. K. Edw. Her Looks do argue her repleat with Modefty, Her Words do fhew her Wit incomparable,

All her Perfections challenge Sovereignty,

One way or other fhe is for a King,

And the fhall be my Love, or elfe my Queen.
Say, that King Edward take thee for his Queen?
Gray. 'Tis better faid than done, my gracious Lord;
I am a Subject fit to jeft withal,

But far unfit to be a Sovereign,

K. Edw. Sweet Widow, by my State I fwear to thee,

I

I speak no more than what my Soul intends,
And that is, to enjoy thee for my Love.

Gray. And that is more than I will yield unto:
I know I am too mean to be your Queen,

And yet too good to be your Concubine.

K. Edw. You cavil, Widow, I did mean my Queen. Gray. 'Twill grieve your Grace, my Sons fhall call you K. Edw. No more than when my Daughters

Call thee Mother.

Thou art a Widow, and thou haft fome Children,
And by God's Mother, I being but a Batchelor,
Have other fome. Why, 'tis a happy thing,
To be the Father unto many Sons:

Answer no more, for thou shalt be my Queen.

[Father.

Glo. The Ghoftly Father now hath done his Shrift.
Clar. When he was made a Shriver, it was for a shift.
K. Edw. Brother, you mufe what Chat we two have had.
Glo. The Widow likes it not, for the looks fad.

K. Edw. You'ld think it ftrange, if I fhould marry her.
Clar. To whom, my Lord?

K. Edw. Why Clarence, to my felf.

Gle. That would be ten days wonder at the leaft Cla. That's a day longer than a Wonder lafts. Glo. By fo much is the Wonder in extreams. K. Edw. Well, jeft on, Brothers, I can tell you both, Her fuit is is granted for her Husband's Lands. Enter a Nobleman.

Nob. My gracious Loid, Henry your Foe is taken, And brought your Prifoner to your Palace Gate.

K. Edw. See that he be convey'd unto the Tower: And go we, Brothers, to the Man that took him, To queftion of his Apprehenfion.

Widow, go you along: Lords, ufe her honourably.

Manet Gloucefter.

[Exeunt.

Glo. Ay, Edward will ufe Women honourably.
Would he were wafted, Marrow, Bones, and all,
That from his Loins ro hopeful Branch may fpring,
To cross me from the golden time I look for:
And yet, between my Soul's defire and me,
The luftful Edward's Title buried,

Is Clarence, Henry, and his Son young Edward,
And all the unlook'd for Iffue of their Bodies,
To take their Rooms e'er I can place my felf:
A cold premeditation for my purpose.
Why then I do but dream on Sovereignty,
Like one that ftands upon a Promontory,
And spys a far-off shore, where he would tread,
Withing his Foot were equal with his Eye,
And chides the Sea that funders him from thence,
Saying, he'll lave it dry to have his way:
So do I with the Crown, being fo far off,
And fo I chide the means that keep me from it,
And fo (I fay) I'll cut the Caufes off,
Flattering me with Impoffibilities:

My Eye's too quick, my Heart o'er-weens too much,
Unlefs my Hand and Strength could equal them.
Well, fay there is no Kingdom then for Richard;
What other pleasure can the World afford?
I'll make my Heaven in a Lady's lap,
And deck my Body in gay Ornaments,

And 'witch fweet Ladies with my Words and Looks.
Oh miferable thought! and more unlikely,
Than to accomplish twenty Golden Crowns.
Why, Love forfwore me in my Mother's Womb:
And, for I fhould not deal in her foft Laws,
She did corrupt frail Nature with fome Bribe,
To fhrink mine Arm like to a wither'd fhrub,
To make an envious Mountain on my Back,
Where fits Deformity to mock my Body;
To fhape my Legs of an unequal fize,
To difproportion me in every part:
Like to a Chaos, or unlick'd Bear whelp
That carries no impreffion like the Dam.
And am I then a Min to be belov'd?

Oh monftrous Fault, to harbour fuch a Thought.
Then fince this Earth affords no Joy to me,
But to command, to check, to o'er-bear fuch
As are of better Perfon than my felf;

I'll make my Heaven to dream upon the Crown,
And wiles I live t'account this World but Hell,
Until this mis-fhap'd Trunk that bears this Head,

Be

Be round impaled with a glorious Crown.
And yet I know not how to get the Crown,
For many Lives ftand between me and home:
And I, like one loft in a thorny Wood,
That rents the Thorns, and is rent with the Thorns,
Seeking a way, and straying from the way,
Not knowing how to find the open Air,
But toiling defperately to find it out,
Torment my felf to catch the English Crown;
And from that torment I will free my felf,
Or hew my way out with a bloody Ax.
Why I can fmile, and murther whiles I fmile,
And cry, Content, to that which grieves my Heart,
And wet my Cheeks with artificial Tears,
And frame my Face to all Occafions.

I'll drown more Sailors than the Mermaid fhall,
I'll flay more Gazers than the Bafilısk,
I'll play the Orator as well as Neftor,
Deceive more flily than Ulysses could,
And like a Sinon, take another Troy.
I can add Colours to the Camelion,
Change fhapes with Proteus for Advantages,
And ft the murtherous Matchevil to School.
Can I do this, and cannot get a Crown?
Tut, were it farther off, I'll pluck it down.

[Exit,

Flourish. Enter King Lewis, Bona, Bourbon, Prince of Wales, Queen Margaret, and the Earl of Oxford. Lewis fits, and rifeth up again.

K. Lew. Fair Queen of England, worthy Margaret,
Sit down with us; it ill befits thy State,

And Birth, that thou should'st stand, whiles Lewis fits.
Queen. No, mighty King of France; now Margaret
Muft ftrike her Sail, and learn a while to ferve,
Where Kings command. I was, I must confefs,
Great Albion's Queen, in former golden Days:
But now mifchance hath trod my Title down,
And with dishonour laid me on the Gronud,

Where

Where I must take like feat unto my Fortune,
And to my humble feat confirm my self.

K. Lew. Why fay, fair Queen, whence fprings this deep despair?

Queen. From fuch a caufe as fills mine Eyes with Tears, And ftops my Tongue, while Heart is drown'd in Cares. K. Lew. Whate'er it be, be thou ftill like thy felf, And fit thee by our fide, [Seats her by him.

Yield not thy Neck to Fortune's yoak,

But let thy dauntless Mind ftill ride in triumph
Over all mifchance.

Be plain, Queen Margaret, and tell thy Grief,

It fhall be eas'd, if France can yield relief.

Queen. Thole gracious Words revive my drooping Thoughts. And give my Tongue-ty'd Sorrows leave to fpeak.

Now therefore be it known to Noble Lewis,

That Henry, fole poffeffor of my Love,

Is, of a King, become a banish'd Man,
And forc'd to live in Scotland a Forlorn;
While proud ambitious Edward, Duke of York,
Ufurps the Regal Title, and the Seat
Of England's true anointed lawful King.
This is the Caufe that I, poor Margaret,
With this my Son Prince Edward, Henry's Heir,
Am come to crave thy juft and lawful Aid:
And if thou fail us, all our hope is done,
Scotland hath Will to help, but cannot help:
Our People, and our Peers, are both mif-led,
Our Treasure feiz'd, our Soldiers put to flight,
And, as thou feeft, our Selves in heavy plight.

K. Lew. Renowned Queen, with patience calm the Storm, While we bethink a means to break it off.

Queen. The more we ftay, the ftronger grows our Foe. K. Lew. The more I ftay, the more I'll fuccour thee. Queen. O, but impatience waiteth on true Sorrow. And fee where comes the breeder of my Sorrow.

Enter Warwick.

K. Lew. What's he approacheth boldly to our presence? Queen. Our Earl of Warwick, Edward's greatest Friend. K. Lew. Welcome, brave Warwick, what brings thee to France? [He defcends. She arifeth. Queen.