Poor key-cold figure of a holy king,Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster,Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood,Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghostTo hear the lamentations of poor Anne,Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughtered son,Stabbed by the selfsame hand that made these wounds.Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life,I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes.Oh, curs`ed be the hand that made these holes,Cursed the heart that had the heart to do it,Cursed the blood that let this blood from hence.More direful hap betide that hated wretchThat makes us wretched by the death of theeThan I can wish to wolves, to spiders, toads,Or any creeping venomed thing that lives.If ever he have child, abortive be it,Prodigious, and untimely brought to light,Whose ugly and unnatural asp`ectMay fright the hopeful mother at the view,And that be heir to his unhappiness.If ever he have wife, let her be madeMore miserable by the death of himThan I am made by my young lord and thee.Come now towards Chertsey with your holy load,Taken from Paul’s to be interr`ed there.And still as you are weary of this weight,Rest you while I lament King Henry’s corpse.Enter Richard duke of Gloucester.
Richard
Stay, you that bear the corpse, and set it down.
Anne
What black magician conjures up this fiendTo stop devoted charitable deeds?Richard
Villains, set down the corpse, or by Saint Paul,I’ll make a corpse of him that disobeys.Gentleman
My lord, stand back and let the coffin pass.
Richard
Unmannered dog, stand thou when I command.Advance thy halberd higher than my breast,Or by Saint Paul, I’ll strike thee to my footAnd spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness.The bearers set down the hearse.
Anne
What, do you tremble? Are you all afraid?Alas, I blame you not, for you are mortal,And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil.Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell.Thou hadst but power over his mortal body;His soul thou canst not have. Therefore be gone.Richard
Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst.
Anne