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        ANNE. All men, I hope, live so.

        GLOUCESTER. Vouchsafe to wear this ring.

        ANNE. To take is not to give. [Puts on the ring]

        GLOUCESTER. Look how my 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 favour at thy gracious hand,

          Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever.

        ANNE. What is it?

        GLOUCESTER. That it may please you leave these sad designs

          To him that hath most cause to be a mourner,

          And presently repair to Crosby House;

          Where-after I have solemnly interr'd

          At Chertsey monast'ry this noble king,

          And wet his grave with my repentant tears-

          I will with all expedient duty see you.

          For divers unknown reasons, I beseech you,

          Grant me this boon.

        ANNE. With all my heart; and much it joys me too

          To see you are become so penitent.

          Tressel and Berkeley, go along with me.

        GLOUCESTER. Bid me farewell.

        ANNE. 'Tis more than you deserve;

          But since you teach me how to flatter you,

          Imagine I have said farewell already.

                                   Exeunt two GENTLEMEN With LADY ANNE

        GLOUCESTER. Sirs, take up the corse.

        GENTLEMEN. Towards Chertsey, noble lord?

        GLOUCESTER. No, to White Friars; there attend my coming.

                                             Exeunt all but GLOUCESTER

          Was ever woman in this humour woo'd?

          Was ever woman in this humour won?

          I'll have her; but I will not keep her long.

          What! I that kill'd her husband and his father-

          To take her in her heart's extremest hate,

          With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes,

          The bleeding witness of my hatred by;

          Having God, her conscience, and these bars against me,

          And I no friends to back my suit at all

          But the plain devil and dissembling looks,

          And yet to win her, all the world to nothing!

          Ha!

          Hath she forgot already that brave prince,

          Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months since,

          Stabb'd in my angry mood at Tewksbury?

          A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman-

          Fram'd in the prodigality of nature,

          Young, valiant, wise, and no doubt right royal-

          The spacious world cannot again afford;

          And will she yet abase her eyes on me,

          That cropp'd the golden prime of this sweet prince

          And made her widow to a woeful bed?

          On me, whose all not equals Edward's moiety?

          On me, that halts and am misshapen thus?

          My dukedom to a beggarly denier,

          I do mistake my person all this while.

          Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot,

          Myself to be a marv'llous proper man.

          I'll be at charges for a looking-glass,

          And entertain a score or two of tailors

          To study fashions to adorn my body.

          Since I am crept in favour with myself,

          I will maintain it with some little cost.

          But first I'll turn yon fellow in his grave,

          And then return lamenting to my love.

          Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass,

          That I may see my shadow as I pass. Exit

      SCENE 3

      London. The palace

      Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH, LORD RIVERS, and LORD GREY

      Enter BUCKINGHAM and DERBY