Cla. Did'st thou not heare me sweare I would not do it?
Qu. I, but thou vsest to forsweare thy selfe.
'Twas Sin before, but now 'tis Charity
What wilt y not? Where is that diuels butcher Richard?
Hard fauor'd Richard? Richard, where art thou?
Thou art not heere; Murther is thy Almes-deed:
Petitioners for Blood, thou ne're put'st backe
Ed. Away I say, I charge ye beare her hence,
Qu. So come to you, and yours, as to this Prince.
Exit Queene.
Ed. Where's Richard gone
Cla. To London all in post, and as I guesse,
To make a bloody Supper in the Tower
Ed. He's sodaine if a thing comes in his head.
Now march we hence, discharge the common sort
With Pay and Thankes, and let's away to London,
And see our gentle Queene how well she fares,
By this (I hope) she hath a Sonne for me.
Enter.
Enter Henry the sixt, and Richard, with the Lieutenant on the
Walles.
Rich. Good day, my Lord, what at your Booke so
hard?
Hen. I my good Lord: my Lord I should say rather,
Tis sinne to flatter, Good was little better:
'Good Gloster, and good Deuill, were alike,
And both preposterous: therefore, not Good Lord
Rich. Sirra, leaue vs to our selues, we must conferre
Hen. So flies the wreaklesse shepherd from y Wolfe:
So first the harmlesse Sheepe doth yeeld his Fleece,
And next his Throate, vnto the Butchers Knife.
What Scene of death hath Rossius now to Acte?
Rich. Suspition alwayes haunts the guilty minde,
The Theefe doth feare each bush an Officer,
Hen. The Bird that hath bin limed in a bush,
With trembling wings misdoubteth euery bush;
And I the haplesse Male to one sweet Bird,
Haue now the fatall Obiect in my eye,
Where my poore yong was lim'd, was caught, and kill'd