University of Virginia Library

SCENE the Second.

Enter Dutchess of Glocester in Mourning.
Dutch.
How slow alas the hours of Sorrow fly,
Whose Wings are dampt with Tears! my dear, dear Gloster,
I have more than a Widdows loss to mourn,
She but laments a Death; but I a Murder.

[Enter Gaunt.
Gaunt.
When Sister will you find the way to comfort?

Dutch.
When Gaunt has found the way to Vengeance, Comfort
Before that hour were Guilty.
Edwards seven Sons (whereof thy self art one)
Where as seven Viols of his sacred Blood,
Or seven fair Branches springing from one Stock;
Some of those Streams by natures course are dry'd,
Some of those Branches by the Destinies cut;
But Thomas, my dear Lord, my Life, my Gloster,
One flourishing Branch of that most Royal Stem,
Is hew'd and all his verdant Leaves disperst,
By envies hand and Murders bloody Axe.

Gaunt.
Sister, the part I have in Gloster's Blood,
Do's more sollicite me than your exclaims,
To stir against the Butchers of his life;
But since Revenge is Heav'ns Prerogative,
Put we our Quarrel to the will of Heav'n.

Enter York.
York.

Save ye Sister—very hot! oh! hot weather and hot
work: come Brother, the Lists are ready; the Fight will be worth
the while: besides your concern there is somewhat more than ordinary.
I'faith now I cou'd be content to have Harry scape; but for all
that I wou'd have the Traytor die.

Gaunt.
Cou'd my impartial eye but find him such,
Fell Mow-bray's Sword should come to late.

Dutch.
Where shall my Sorrows make their last complaint,
If York deny me too?

York.
What wou'd our Sister?

Dutch.
Revenge, and speedy for my Glosters death.

York.

Why there 'tis—Revenge, ho! a fine morsel for a Lady
fasting, Gloster was my Brother, true—but Gloster was a Traytor
and that's true too—I hate a Traytor more than I love a
Brother.

Dutch.

A Traytor York?

York.

'Tis somewhat a course name for a Kinsman, but yet to
my thinking, to raise an Army, execute Subjects, threaten the
King himself, and reduce him to answer particulars, has a very
strong smatch with it—go too, you are in fault, your complaints
are guilty; your very Tears are Treason. No remedy but
Patience.

Dutch.
Call it not patience, York, 'tis cold despair,
In suffering thus your Brother to be slaughter'd,
You shew the naked path to your own Lives;
Ah! had his fate been yours my Gloster wou'd
Have set a Nobler Prince upon your Lives.

York.
This Air grows infectious: will you to Brother.

Dutch.
But one word more, grief ever was a Talker,
But I will teach him silence; of you both
I take eternal leave. Comforts wait on you
When I am laid in Earth: to some dark Cell
Will I betake me, where this weary Life
Shall with the taper waste: there shall I greet,
No Visitant but Death—adieu! my Lords!
If this Farewell your Patience has abus'd,
Think 'twas my last, and let it be excus'd.

[Exeunt.