CATESBY.
[Aside.] The King is angry. See, he gnaws his lip.
KING RICHARD.
[Aside.] I will converse with iron-witted fools
And unrespective boys; none are for me
That look into me with considerate eyes.
High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect.
Boy!
PAGE.
My lord?
KING RICHARD.
Know’st thou not any whom corrupting gold
Will tempt unto a close exploit of death?
PAGE.
I know a discontented gentleman
Whose humble means match not his haughty spirit.
Gold were as good as twenty orators,
And will, no doubt, tempt him to anything.
KING RICHARD.
What is his name?
PAGE.
His name, my lord, is Tyrrel.
KING RICHARD.
I partly know the man. Go, call him hither, boy.
[Exit Page.]
[Aside.] The deep-revolving witty Buckingham
No more shall be the neighbour to my counsels.
Hath he so long held out with me, untired,
And stops he now for breath? Well, be it so.