Exeunt.
Abbot. A wofull Pageant haue we here beheld
Carl. The Woes to come, the Children yet vnborne,
Shall feele this day as sharpe to them as Thorne
Aum. You holy Clergie-men, is there no Plot
To rid the Realme of this pernicious Blot
Abbot. Before I freely speake my minde herein,
You shall not onely take the Sacrament,
To bury mine intents, but also to effect
What euer I shall happen to deuise.
I see your Browes are full of Discontent,
Your Heart of Sorrow, and your Eyes of Teares.
Come home with me to Supper, Ile lay a Plot
Shall shew vs all a merry day.
Exeunt.
Actus Quintus. Scena Prima.
Enter Queene, and Ladies.
Qu. This way the King will come: this is the way
To Iulius C?sars ill-erected Tower:
To whose flint Bosome, my condemned Lord
Is doom'd a Prisoner, by prowd Bullingbrooke.
Here let vs rest, if this rebellious Earth
Haue any resting for her true Kings Queene.
Enter Richard, and Guard.
But soft, but see, or rather doe not see,
My faire Rose wither: yet looke vp; behold,
That you in pittie may dissolue to dew,
And wash him fresh againe with true-loue Teares.
Ah thou, the Modell where old Troy did stand,
Thou Mappe of Honor, thou King Richards Tombe,
And not King Richard: thou most beauteous Inne,
Why should hard-fauor'd Griefe be lodg'd in thee,
When Triumph is become an Ale-house Guest
Rich.
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