holy Harry died, and my sweet son. Blind sight, dead life, poor mortal living ghost, Woe's scene, world's shame, grave's due by life usurp'd, Brief abstract and record of tedious days, Rest thy unrest on England's lawful earth, Unlawfully made drunk with innocents' blood! O, that thou wouldst as well afford a grave As thou canst yield a melancholy seat! Then would I hide my bones, not rest them here. O, who hath any cause to mourn but I? If ancient sorrow be most reverend, Give mine the benefit of seniory, And let my woes frown on the upper hand. If sorrow can admit society, Tell o'er your woes again by viewing mine: I had an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him; I had a Harry, till a Richard kill'd him: Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him; Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard killed him; I had a Richard too, and thou didst kill him; I had a Rutland too, thou holp'st to kill him. Thou hadst a Clarence too, and Richard kill'd him. From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept A hell-hound that doth hunt us all to death: That dog, that had his teeth before his eyes, To worry lambs and lap their gentle blood, That foul defacer of God's handiwork, That excellent grand tyrant of the earth, That reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls, Thy womb let loose, to chase us to our graves. O upright, just, and true-disposing God, How do I thank thee, that this carnal cur Preys on the issue of his mother's body, And makes her pew-fellow with others' moan! O Harry's wife, triumph not in my woes! God witness with me, I have wept for thine. Bear with me; I am hungry for revenge, And now I cloy me with beholding it. Thy Edward he is dead, that stabb'd my Edward: Thy other Edward dead, to quit my Edward; Young York he is but boot, because both they Match not the high perfection of my loss: Thy Clarence he is dead that kill'd my Edward; And the beholders of this tragic play, The adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey, Untimely smother'd in their dusky graves. Richard yet lives, hell's black intelligencer, Only reserved their factor, to buy souls And send them thither: but at hand, at hand, Ensues his piteous and unpitied end: Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends roar, saints pray. To have him suddenly convey'd away. Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I prey, That I may live to say, The dog is