Quiet untroubled Soul,

Awake, awake:

[To Richm.

Arm, fight, and conquer, for fair England's fake.

Enter the Ghosts of the two young Princes.
Ghofts. Dream on thy Coufins

Smother'd in the Tower:

Let us be laid within thy Bofom, Richard,

[To K. Rich.

And weigh thee down to ruin, fhame, and death.
Thy Nephews Souls bid thee defpair and die.
Sleep Richmond,

Sleep in Peace, and wake in Joy,

Good Angels guard thee from the Boar's annoy,
Live, and beget a happy race of Kings.

Edward's unhappy Sons do bid thee flourish.
Enter the Ghost of Anne his Wife.

Ghoft. Richard, thy Wife,

That wretched Anne, thy Wife,

That never flept a quiet Hour with thee,
Now fills thy fleep with perturbations,
To morrow in the Battel think on me,
And fall thy edglefs Sword, defpair and die.

Thou quiet Soul,

[To Richm.

[To K. Rich.

[To Richm.

Sleep thou a quiet Sleep:

Dream of fuccefs, and happy Vidory,

Thy Adverfary's Wife doth pray for thee.
Enter the Ghoft of Buckingham.

Ghoft. The firft was I,

[To K. Rich,

That help'd thee to the Crown:

The laft was I, that felt thy Tyranny.

O, in the Battel think on Buckingham,

And die in terror of thy guiltinefs.

Dream on, dream on, of bloody Deeds and Death,
Fainting defpair; defpairing yield thy breath.

I dy'd for hope,

E'er I could lend thee aid;

[To Richm

But cheer thy Heart, and be thou not dismay'd:

God, and good Angels fight on Richmond's fide,

And Richard falls in height of all his Pride. [The Ghosts vanish.

[K. Richard ftarts out of his Dream.

K. Rich. Give me another Horse, bind up my Wounds: Have mercy, Jefu Soft, I did but dream.

O coward Confcience! how doft thou afflict me?
The Lights burn blue--- It is not dead Mid-night----
Cold fearful Drops ftand on my trembling Flesh :
What? do I fear my felf? There's none else by,
Richard loves Richard, that is, I am I.

Is there a Murtherer here? No; Yes, I am:
Then fly? what from my felf? Great reafon; why?
Left I revenge.
What? my felf upon my self?
Alack, I love my felf. Wherefore? For any good
That I my felf have done upon my felf?
O no. Alas, I rather hate my self,
For hateful Deeds committed by my felf.
I am a Villain; yet I lie, I am not.

Fool, of thy felf fpeak-well Fool, do not flatter.
My Confcience hath a thousand several Tongues,
And every Tongue brings in a feveral Tale,
And every Tale condemns me for a Villain;
Perjury, in the high'ft degree,

Murther, ftern Murther, in the dir'ft degree,
All feveral Sins, all us'd in each degree,
Throng all to th' Bar, crying all, Guilty, guilty.
I fhall defpair, there is no Creature loves me;
And if I die, no Soul fhall pity me.

Nay, wherefore fhould they? fince that I my felf
Find in my felf no pity to my felf.

Methought, the Souls of all that I had murther'd
Came to my Tent, and every one did threat
To morrows Vengeance on the head of Richard.
Enter Ratcliff.

Rat. My Lord. ·

K. Rich. Who's there?

Rat. Ratcliff, my Lord, 'tis I; the early Village Cock Hath twice done Salutation to the Morn;

Your Friends are up, and buckle on their Armour.
K. Rich. O Rarcliff, I fear, I fear-

Rat. Nay, good my Lord, be not afraid of fhadows.
K. Rich. By the Apostle Paul, fhadows to night
Have ftruck more terrour to the Soul of Richard,
Than can the fubftance of ten thousand Soldiers
Armed in proof, and led by fhallow Richmond.

'Tis not yet near Day. Come, go with me, Under our Tents; I'll play the Eaves-dropper, To hear if any Man fhrink from me.

[Exeunt K. Richard and Ratcliff.

Enter the Lords to Richmond fitting in his Tent.

Lords. Good morrow, Richmond.

Richm. Cry you mercy, Lords, and watchful Gen

tlemen,

That you have ta'en a tardy Sluggard here.
Lords. How have you flept, my Lord?
Richm. The fweetest Sleep,

And fairest boading Dreams,

That ever entred in a drowfie Head,

Have I fince your departure had, my Lords.

Methought their Souls, whofe Bodies Richard murther'd,
Came to my Tent, and cried on Victory.
I promise you my Heart is very jocund,
In the remembrance of fo fair a Dream.
How far into the Morning is it, Lords?
Lords. Upon the ftroak of four.

Richm. Why then 'tis time to Arm, and give direction.
More than I have faid, loving Countrymen,
The leifure and enforcement of the time
Forbids to dwell upon; yet remember this,
God, and our good Caufe, fight upon our fide,
The Prayers of holy Saints, and wronged Souls,
Like high rear'd Bulwarks, ftand before our Faces.
Richard except, thofe whom we fight against,
Had rather have us win, than him they follow.
For, what is he they follow? Truly Gentlemen,
A bloody Tyrant, and a Homicide:

One rais'd in Blood, and one in Blood eftablish'd;
One that made means to come by what he hath,
And flaughter'd thofe that were the means to help him;
A bafe foul Stone, made precious by the foil
Of England's Chair, where he is falfely fet.
One that hath ever been God's Enemy;
Then if you fight against God's Eremy,
God will in juftice ward you as his Soldiers. -

If

If you do fwear to put a Tyrant down,
You fleep in Peace, the Tyrant being flain:
If you do fight against your Countries Foes,
Your Countries Fat fhall pay your pains the hire.
you do fight in fafeguard of your Wives,
Your Wives fhall welcome home the Conquerors,
If you do free your Children from the Sword,
Your Childrens Children quits it in your Age.
Then in the Name of God and all these rights,
Advance your Standards, draw your willing Swords.
For me, the ransom of my bold attempt,
Shall be this cold Corps on the Earth's cold face.
But if I thrive, the gain of my attempt,
The leaft of you fhall fhare his part thereof.
Sound Drums and Trumpets boldly, and chearfully,
God, and Saint George, Richmond, and Victory.

Enter King Richard, Ratcliff, and Catesby. K. Rich. What faid Northumberland, as touching Rich mond?

Rat. That he was never trained up in Arms.

K. Rich. He faid the truth; and what faid Surrey then. Rat. He fmil'd and faid, the better for our purpose. K. Rich. He was in the right, and fo indeed it is. Tell the Clock there. [Clock Strikes. Give me a Kalender-who faw the Sun to day? Rat. Not I, my Lord.

K. Rich. Then he difdains to shine; for, by the Book,

He should have brav'd the Eaft an hour ago-
A black Day will it be to fome body, Ratcliff.

Rat. My Lord.

K. Rich. The Sun will not be seen to day,
The Sky doth frown and lowre upon our Ármy...---
I would thefe dewy Tears were from the Ground----
Not shine to day? why what is that to me

More than to Richmond? for the felf-fame Heav'n
That frowns on me, looks fadly upon him.

Enter Norfolk.

Norf. Arm, arm, my Lord, the Foes vaunt in the Field K. Rich. Come, bustle, buftle----Caparison my Horfe. up Lord Stanley, bid him bring his Power,

Call

I will lead forth my Soldiers to the Plain,
And thus my Battel fhall be ordered.
My Foreward fhall be drawn in length,
Confifting equally of Horfe and Foot:
Our Archers fhall be p aced in the midft;
John Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Earl of Surrey,
Shall have the leading of the Foot and Horse.
They thus directed, we will follow

In the main Battel, whofe puiffance on either fide
Shall be well winged with our chiefest Horse:
This, and St. George to boot.

What think'ft thou, Norfolk?

Nor. A good Direction, warlike Sovereign.

This found I on my Tent this Morning.

Giving a Strowl.

Jocky of Norfolk, be not fo bold.
For Dickon thy Mafter is bought and fold.

K. Rich. Athing devised by the Enemy.
Go Gentlemen, every Man to his Charge,
Let not our babling Dreams affright our Souls,
For Confcience is a Word that Cowards ufe,
Devis'd at firft to keep the ftrong in awe,
Our strong Arms be our Confcience, Swords our Law.
March on, join bravely, let us to't pell mell,
If not to Heav'o, then hand in hand to Hell.
What shall I fay more than I have inferr'd?
Remember whom you are to cope withal,
A fort of Vagabonds, Rafcals, Run-aways,
Afcum of Britain's, and base Lackey-Peasants,
Whom their o'er-cloyed Country vomits forth
To defperate Adventures, and affur'd Destruction.
You fleeping fafe, they bring you to unrest:
You having Lands, and bleft with beauteous Wives,
They would reftrain the one, diftain the other.
And who doth lead them, but a paltry Fellow?
Long kept in Britain at our Mother's Coft,
A Milk-fop, one that never in his Life
Felt fo much Cold, as over Shooes in Snow:
Let's whip thefe Stragglers o'er the Seas again,
Lah hence thefe over-weening Rags of Frances
VOL. IV.

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