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ACT I

       Table of Contents

      SCENE I. London. A street

       [Enter GLOSTER.]

       GLOSTER

       Now is the winter of our discontent

       Made glorious summer by this sun of York;

       And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house

       In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

       Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;

       Our bruisèd arms hung up for monuments;

       Our stern alarums chang’d to merry meetings,

       Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.

       Grim-visag’d war hath smooth’d his wrinkled front;

       And now,—instead of mounting barbèd steeds

       To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,—

       He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber

       To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

       But I,—that am not shap’d for sportive tricks,

       Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;

       I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty

       To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;

       I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion,

       Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,

       Deform’d, unfinish’d, sent before my time

       Into this breathing world scarce half made up,

       And that so lamely and unfashionable

       That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;—

       Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,

       Have no delight to pass away the time,

       Unless to spy my shadow in the sun,

       And descant on mine own deformity:

       And therefore,—since I cannot prove a lover,

       To entertain these fair well-spoken days,—

       I am determinèd to prove a villain,

       And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

       Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,

       By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams,

       To set my brother Clarence and the king

       In deadly hate the one against the other:

       And if King Edward be as true and just

       As I am subtle, false, and treacherous,

       This day should Clarence closely be mew’d up,—

       About a prophecy which says that G

       Of Edward’s heirs the murderer shall be.

       Dive, thoughts, down to my soul:—here Clarence comes.

       [Enter CLARENCE, guarded, and BRAKENBURY.]

       Brother, good day: what means this armèd guard

       That waits upon your grace?

       CLARENCE

       His majesty,

       Tendering my person’s safety, hath appointed

       This conduct to convey me to the Tower.

       GLOSTER

       Upon what cause?

       CLARENCE

       Because my name is George.

       GLOSTER

       Alack, my lord, that fault is none of yours;

       He should, for that, commit your godfathers:—

       O, belike his majesty hath some intent

       That you should be new-christen’d in the Tower.

       But what’s the matter, Clarence? may I know?

       CLARENCE

       Yea, Richard, when I know; for I protest

       As yet I do not: but, as I can learn,

       He hearkens after prophecies and dreams;

       And from the cross-row plucks the letter G,

       And says a wizard told him that by G

       His issue disinherited should be;

       And, for my name of George begins with G,

       It follows in his thought that I am he.

       These, as I learn, and such like toys as these,

       Hath mov’d his highness to commit me now.

       GLOSTER

       Why, this it is when men are rul’d by women:—

       ‘Tis not the king that sends you to the Tower;

       My Lady Grey his wife, Clarence, ‘tis she

       That tempers him to this extremity.

       Was it not she and that good man of worship,

       Antony Woodville, her brother there,

       That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower,

       From whence this present day he is deliver’d?

       We are not safe, Clarence; we are not safe.

       CLARENCE

       By heaven, I think there is no man is secure

       But the queen’s kindred, and night-walking heralds

       That trudge betwixt the king and Mistress Shore.

       Heard you not what an humble suppliant

       Lord Hastings was to her for his delivery?

       GLOSTER

       Humbly complaining to her deity

       Got my Lord Chamberlain his liberty.

       I’ll tell you what,—I think it is our way,

       If we will keep in favour with the king,

       To be her men and wear her livery:

       The jealous o’er-worn widow, and herself,

       Since that our brother dubb’d them gentlewomen,

       Are mighty gossips in our monarchy.

       BRAKENBURY

       I beseech your graces both to pardon me;

       His majesty hath straitly given in charge

       That no man shall have private conference,

       Of what degree soever, with your brother.

       GLOSTER

       Even so; an’t please your worship, Brakenbury,

       You may partake of any thing we say:

       We speak no treason, man;—we say the king

       Is wise and virtuous; and his noble queen

       Well struck in years, fair, and not jealous;—

       We say that Shore’s wife hath a pretty foot,

       A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue;

       And that the queen’s kindred are made gentlefolks:

       How say you, sir? can you deny all this?

       BRAKENBURY

       With this, my lord, myself have naught to do.

       GLOSTER

      

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