Rich. But did'st thou see them dead
Tir. I did my Lord
Rich. And buried gentle Tirrell
Tir. The Chaplaine of the Tower hath buried them,
But where (to say the truth) I do not know
Rich. Come to me Tirrel soone, and after Supper,
When thou shalt tell the processe of their death.
Meane time, but thinke how I may do the good,
And be inheritor of thy desire.
Farewell till then
Tir. I humbly take my leaue
Rich. The Sonne of Clarence haue I pent vp close,
His daughter meanly haue I matcht in marriage,
The Sonnes of Edward sleepe in Abrahams bosome,
And Anne my wife hath bid this world good night.
Now for I know the Britaine Richmond aymes
At yong Elizabeth my brothers daughter,
And by that knot lookes proudly on the Crowne,
To her go I, a iolly thriuing wooer.
Enter Ratcliffe.
Rat. My Lord
Rich. Good or bad newes, that thou com'st in so
bluntly?
Rat. Bad news my Lord, Mourton is fled to Richmond,
And Buckingham backt with the hardy Welshmen
Is in the field, and still his power encreaseth
Rich. Ely with Richmond troubles me more neere,
Then Buckingham and his rash leuied Strength.
Come, I haue learn'd, that fearfull commenting
Is leaden seruitor to dull delay.
Delay leds impotent and Snaile-pac'd Beggery:
Then fierie expedition be my wing,
Ioues Mercury, and Herald for a King:
Go muster men: My counsaile is my Sheeld,
We must be breefe, when Traitors braue the Field.