ACT ONE
Scene One
RICHARD, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER.
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lourâd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths,
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments,
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged War hath smoothâd his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a ladyâs chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stampâd, and want loveâs majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtailâd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinishâd, 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 â
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 determined 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 mewâd up,
About a prophecy, which says that âGâ
Of Edwardâs heirs the murderer shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here Clarence comes.
Enter DUKE OF CLARENCE, guarded.
Brother, good day; what means this armed guard
That waits upon your grace?
CLARENCE.
His Majesty
Tendering my personâs safety, hath appointed
This conduct to convey me to the Tower.
RICHARD.
Upon what cause?
CLARENCE.
Because my name is George.
RICHARD.
Alack, my lord, that fault is none of yours;
He should, for that, commit your godfathers.
But whatâs 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 says a wizard told him that by âGâ
His issue disinherited should be.
And, for my name of George begins with âGâ,
It follows in his thought that I am he.
RICHARD.
Why, this it is, when men are ruled by women:
âTis not the King that sends you to the Tower;
Elizabeth, his wife, Clarence, âtis she
That tempers him to this extremity,
That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower,
From whence this present day he is deliverâd.
We are not safe, Clarence; we are not safe.
Enter CATESBY.
CATESBY.
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 his brother.
CLARENCE.
We know thy charge, Catesby, and will obey.
RICHARD.
We are the Queenâs abjects, and must obey.
Brother, farewell: I will unto the King;
And whatsoever you will employ me in,
Were it to call King Edwardâs woman âsisterâ,
I will perform it to enfranchise you.
Meantime, this deep disgrace in brotherhood
Touches me deeper than you can imagine.
CLARENCE.
I know it pleaseth neither of us well.
RICHARD.
Well, your imprisonment shall not be long;
Meantime, have patience.
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