Reading The Tragedy of Richard the Third — William Shakespeare

Direct reading · Original

Section 106

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Rich.

I would they were, that I might dye at once:

For now they kill me with a liuing death.

Those eyes of thine, from mine haue drawne salt Teares;

Sham'd their Aspects with store of childish drops:

These eyes, which neuer shed remorsefull teare,

No, when my Father Yorke, and Edward wept,

To heare the pittious moane that Rutland made

When black‑fac'd Clifford shooke his sword at him.

Nor when thy warlike Father like a Childe,

Told the sad storie of my Fathers death,

Aod twenty times, made pause to sob and weepe:

That all the standers by had wet their cheekes

Like Trees bedash'd with raine. In that sad time,

My manly eyes did scorne an humble teare:

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