Hear me, you wrangling pirates, that do fall out In sharing that which you have pill'd from me!

Which of you trembles not that looks on me?

If not, that, I being queen, you bow like subjects, Yet that, by you deposed, you quake like rebels?

O gentle villain, do not turn away!

Foul wrinkled witch, what makest thou in my sight?

But repetition of what thou hast marr'd; That will I make before I let thee go.

Wert thou not banished on pain of death?

I was.

But I do find more pain in banishment Than death can yield me here by my abode.

A husband and a son thou owest to me; And thou a kingdom; all of you allegiance: The sorrow that I have, by right is yours, And all the pleasures you usurp are mine.

What were you snarling all before I came, Ready to catch each other by the throat, And turn you now all your hatred now on me?

Can curses pierce the cloud and enter heaven?

Why, then, give way, dull clouds, to my quick curses!

Thy son, that now is Prince of Wales, For our son, that was Prince of Wales, Die in his youth by like untimely violence!

Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen, Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self!

And see another, as I see thee now, Deck'd in thy rights, as thou art stall'd in mine!

Long mayst thou live to wail thy children's death; And, after many hours of grief, Die neither mother, wife, nor England's queen!

Have done thy charm, thou hateful wither'd hag!

And leave out thee?

Stay, dog, for thou shalt hear me.

If heaven have any grievous plague in store Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee, O, let them keep it till thy sins be ripe, And then hurl down their indignation On thee, the troubler of the poor world's peace!

The worm of conscience still begnaw thy soul!

No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine, Unless it be that some tormenting dream Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils!

Thou elvish-mark'd, abortive, rooting hog!

Thou that wast seal'd in thy nativity The slave of nature and the son of hell!

Thou slander of thy mother's heavy womb!

Thou loathed issue of thy father's loins!

Thou rag of honour!

thou detested - Margaret.

- Richard!

I call thee not.

I cry thee mercy then, for I had thought That thou hadst call'd me all these bitter names.