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Glo. If any spark of life be yet remaining, Down, down to hell; and say-I sent thee thither.

[Stabbing him again. !

!

King Richard the Third.

A

TRAGEDY,

BY

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

ACCURATELY PRINTED

FROM THE TEXT OF

MR. STEEVENS'S LAST EDITION.

King Edward the Fourth.

Edward, Prince of Wales, after

wards K. Edward V.

Richard, duke of York,

George, Duke of Clarence,

-}

Sons to the king.

Richard, Duke of Glo'ster, after-> Brothers to the king.

wards King Richard III.

A young son of Clarence.

Henry, earl of Richmond, afterwards K. Henry VII.
Cardinal Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury.

Thomas Rotheram, Archbishop of York. John Morton,

Bishop of Ely.

Duke of Buckingham.

Duke of Norfolk: Earl of Surrey, his son.
Earl Rivers, brother to King Edward's Queen:
Marquis of Dorset, and Lord Grey, her sons.

Earl of Oxford. Lord Hastings. Lord Stanley. Lord

Lovel.

Sir Thomas Vaughan. Sir Richard Ratcliff.
Sir William Catesby. Sir James Tyrrel.

Sir James Blunt. Sir Walter Herbert.

Sir William Brandon.

Sir Robert Brakenbury, Lieutenant of the Tower.
Christopher Urswick, a Priest. Another Priest.
Lord Mayor of London. Sheriff of Wiltshire.

Elizabeth, Queen of King Edward IV.

Margaret, widow of King Henry VI.

Dutchess of York, mother to King Edward IV. Clarence,

and Glo'ster.

Lady Anne, widow of Edward Prince of Wales, son to King Henry VI.; afterwards married to the duke of

Glo'ster.

A young daughter of Clarence.

Lords, and other Attendants; two Gentlemen, a Pursuivant, Scrivener, Citizens, Murderers, Messengers, Ghosts, Soldiers, &e.

SCENE, England.

LIFE AND DEATH

OF

KING RICHARD III.

ACTI. SCENE I.

LONDON. A STREET.

Enter Glo'ster.

Glo. Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds, that lowr'd upon our house, In the deep bosom of the ocean bury'd. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments; Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front; And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds, To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, -He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber, To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

But I,-that am not shap'd for sportive tricks,

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