Behold this pattern1 of thy butcheries; O, gentlemen, see, see! dead Henry's wounds Provokes this deluge most unnatural. O, God, which this blood mad'st, revenge his death! 3 Anne. Vouchsafe, diffused infection of a man, For these known evils, but to give me leave, By circumstance, to curse thy cursed self. Glo. Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me have Some patient leisure to excuse myself. Anne. Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst make No excuse current, but to hang thyself. Glo. By such despair, I should accuse myself. For doing worthy vengeance on thyself, That didst unworthy slaughter upon others. 1 Example. 2 This is from Holinshed. It was a tradition, very generally received, that the murdered body bleeds on the touch of the murderer. 3 Diffused anciently signified dark, obscure, strange, uncouth, or confused. Glo. Say, that I slew them not? Anne. Why, then they are not dead; But dead they are, and, devilish slave, by thee. Glo. I did not kill your husband. Anne. saw Thy murderous falchion smoking in his blood; Glo. I was provoked by her slanderous tongue, Glo. I grant ye. Anne. Dost grant me, hedge-hog? then, God grant me too, Thou mayst be damned for that wicked deed! Glo. The fitter for the King of heaven, that hath him. come. Glo. Let him thank me, that holp to send him thither; For he was fitter for that place than earth. Anne. And thou unfit for any place but hell. Glo. Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it. Anne. Some dungeon. Glo. Your bed-chamber. Anne. Il rest betide the chamber where thou liest' Glo. Anne. Thou wast the cause, and most accursed effect. Glo. Your beauty was the cause of that effect; Your beauty, which did haunt me in my sleep, To undertake the death of all the world, So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom. Anne. If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide, These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks. Glo. These eyes could not endure that beauty's wreck. You should not blemish it, if I stood by; As all the world is cheered by the sun, So I by that; it is my day, my life. Anne. Black night o'ershade thy day, and death thy life! Glo. Curse not thyself, fair creature; thou art both. To be revenged on him that loveth thee. Did it to help thee to a better husband. Anne. His better doth not breathe upon the earth. Glo. He lives, that loves you better than he could. Anne. Name him. Glo. Anne. Plantagenet. Why, that was he. Glo. The self-same name, but one of better nature. Anne. Where is he? Glo. Here. [She spits at him.] Anne. 'Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake! Glo. Never came poison from so sweet a place. Anne. Never hung poison on a fouler toad. Out of my sight! thou dost infect mine eyes. Glo. Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine. Anne. 'Would they were basilisks, to strike thee dead! Glo. I would they were, that I might die at once; For now they kill me with a living death. Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears, And twenty times made pause, to sob, and weep, And what these sorrows could not thence exhale, My tongue could never learn sweet soothing word; My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak. If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive, Lo! here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword; I lay it naked to the deadly stroke, And humbly beg the death upon my knee. [He lays his breast open; she offers at it with Nay, do not pause; for I did kill king Henry;— Nay, now despatch; 'twas I that stabbed young [She again offers at his breast. But 'twas thy heavenly face that set me on. [She lets fall the sword Take up the sword again, or take up me. Anne. Arise, dissembler: though I wish thy death, I will not be thy executioner. Glo. Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it. Glo. That was in thy rage. Speak it again, and, even with the word, This hand, which, for thy love, did kill thy love, To both their deaths shalt thou be accessary. Glo. Then never man was true. Anne. Well, well, put up your sword. [She puts on the ring. Glo. Look, how this ring encompasseth thy finger; Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart; Wear both of them, for both of them are thine. And if thy poor devoted servant may But beg one favor at thy gracious hand, Thou dost confirm his happiness forever. Anne. What is it? Glo. That it may please you leave these sad designs To him that hath more cause to be a mourner, 1 And presently repair to Crosby-place ;1 1 Crosby Place is now Crosby Square, in Bishopsgate Street. This magnificent house was built in 1466, by sir John Crosby, grocer and woolman. He died in 1475. The ancient hall of this fabric is still remaining, though divided by an additional floor, and encumbered with modern galleries, having been converted into a place of worship for Antinomians, &c. The upper part of it was lately the warehouse of an eminent packer. Sir J. Crosby's tomb is in the neighboring church of St. Helen the Great. |