No Fear Shakespeare
Richard III
Get this No Fear to go!
Act 4, Scene 1, Page 4
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ANNE
No? Why? When he that is my husband now
Came to me, as I followed Henry’s corse,
When scarce the blood was well washed from his hands
Which issued from my other angel husband
And that dear saint which then I weeping followed—
O, when, I say, I looked on Richard’s face,
This was my wish: be thou, quoth I, accursed
For making me, so young, so old a widow;
And, when thou wedd’st, let sorrow haunt thy bed;
And be thy wife, if any be so mad,
More miserable by the life of thee
Than thou hast made me by my dear lord’s death.
Lo, ere I can repeat this curse again,
Within so small a time my woman’s heart
Grossly grew captive to his honey words
And proved the subject of mine own soul’s curse,
Which hitherto hath held my eyes from rest,
For never yet one hour in his bed
Did I enjoyed the golden dew of sleep,
But with his timorous dreams was still awaked.
Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick,
And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me.
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ANNE
No? Why? The man I’m married to now came to me when he’d barely washed the blood off his hands from killing my first husband, that angel, as well as my husband’s sainted father, whose corpse I was following to burial. I’m telling you, when I looked at Richard’s face, this is what I wished: “I want you to be cursed for making me a widow so young. And when you get married, let sorrow haunt your bed. And I hope your wife—if any woman is crazy enough to marry you—is more miserable about the fact that you’re alive as you have made me by killing my husband!” And then what? Before I even had time to repeat the curse, my woman’s heart was taken captive by his sweet, slick words. I became the victim of my own curse. Since I married him, I have not had one hour’s sleep in his bed. Every night I’m awakened by his terrified dreams. It doesn’t matter if I sleep, though. He hates me because of who my father is. He will, no doubt, get rid of me soon.
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QUEEN ELIZABETH
Poor heart, adieu. I pity thy complaining.
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QUEEN ELIZABETH
Poor dear, goodbye. I pity your situation.
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ANNE
No more than from my soul I mourn for yours.
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ANNE
No more than I do yours.
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DORSET
Farewell, thou woeful welcomer of glory.
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DORSET
Goodbye. I know you’re unhappy with the glory of becoming queen.
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ANNE
Adieu, poor soul that tak’st thy leave of it.
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ANNE
(to ELIZABETH) And goodbye to you, the poor soul who has to leave that glory behind.
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