2. SCENE II. London. A Room of State in the Palace.
I will converse with iron-witted fools
[Descends from his throne.]
And unrespective boys; none are for me
That look into me with considerate eyes:
High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect.
Know'st thou not any whom corrupting gold
Will tempt unto a close exploit of death?
I know a discontented gentleman
Whose humble means match not his haughty spirit:
Gold were as good as twenty orators,
And will, no doubt, tempt him to anything.
What is his name?
His name, my lord, is Tyrrel.
I partly know the man: go, call him hither, boy.
The deep-revolving witty Buckingham
No more shall be the neighbour to my counsels:
Hath he so long held out with me untir'd,
And stops he now for breath?--well, be it so.
How now, Lord Stanley! what's the news?
Know, my loving lord,
The Marquis Dorset, as I hear, is fled
To Richmond, in the parts where he abides.
Come hither, Catesby: rumour it abroad
That Anne, my wife, is very grievous sick;
I will take order for her keeping close:
Inquire me out some mean poor gentleman,
Whom I will marry straight to Clarence' daughter;--
The boy is foolish, and I fear not him.--
Look how thou dream'st!--I say again, give out
That Anne, my queen, is sick and like to die:
About it; for it stands me much upon,
To stop all hopes whose growth may damage me.
I must be married to my brother's daughter,
Or else my kingdom stands on brittle glass:--
Murder her brothers, and then marry her!
Uncertain way of gain! But I am in
So far in blood that sin will pluck on sin:
Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.
[Re-enter PAGE, with TYRREL.]
Is thy name Tyrrel?
James Tyrrel, and your most obedient subject.