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but there is no lingering: either he must die

or great King Richard vows my tragedy.

then betwixt two evils it is good to choose the least:

let danger fright faint fools, I will save mine own

and let him fall to black destruction.

He draws the curtains. [Woodstock discovered in his bed]

he sleeps upon his bed. the time serves fitly,

I will call the murderers in. sound music there,

to rock his senses in eternal slumbers. Music [within]

sleep, Woodstock, sleep. thou never more shalt wake.

this town of calais shall forever tell,

within her castle walls plain Thomas fell. Exit

Thunder and lightning. Enter the Ghost of the Black Prince.

1st Ghost

night horror and the eternal shrieks of death

intended to be done this dismal night

hath shook fair England's great cathedral,

and from my tomb elate at canterbury

the ghost of Edward the black prince is come

to stay King Richard's rage, my wanton son.

Thomas of Woodstock, wake! thy brother calls thee.

thou royal issue of King Edward's loins,

thou art beset with murder, rise and fly.

if here thou stay, death comes and thou must die.

still dost thou sleep? oh, I am nought but air!

had I the vigour of my former strength

when thou beheldest me fight at crecy field

where, hand to hand, I took King John of France

and his bold sons my captive prisoners,

I would shake these stiff supporters of thy bed

and drag thee from this dull security.

oh, yet for pity wake! prevent thy doom!

thy blood upon my son will surely come,

for which, dear brother Woodstock, haste and fly,

prevent his ruin and thy tragedy.

Woodstock

oh! Thunder. Exit Ghost

Enter Edward the Third's Ghost.

2nd Ghost

sleepest thou so soundly and pale death so nigh?

Thomas of Woodstock, wake, my son, and fly!

thy wrongs have roused thy royal father's ghost

and from his quiet grave King Edward is come

to guard thy innocent life, my princely son,

behold me here: sometime fair England's lord.

seven warlike sons I left, yet being gone

no one succeeded in my Kingly throne,

Richard of Bordeaux, my accursed grandchild,

cut off your titles to the Kingly state

and now your lives and all would ruinate:

murders his grandsire's sons: his father's brothers:

becomes a landlord to my Kingly titles,

rents out my crown's revenues, racks my subjects

that spent their bloods with me in conquering France,

beheld me ride in state through London streets

and at my stirrup lowly footing by

four captive Kings to grace my victory.

yet that nor this his riotous youth can stay

till death hath taken his uncles all away.

thou fifth of Edward's sons, get up and fly!

haste thee to England, close and speedily!

thy brothers York and Gaunt are up in arms,

go join with them: prevent thy further harms.

the murderers are at hand: awake, my son!

this hour fortells thy sad destruction. Exit Ghost

Woodstock

oh, good angels, guide me, stay thou blessed

spirit,

thou royal shadow of my Kingly father,

return again! I know thy reverend looks.

with thy dear sight once more recomfort me,

put by the fears my trembling heart foretells

and here is made apparent to my sight

by dreams and visions of this dreadful night.

upon my knees I beg it. ha! protect me, heaven!

the doors are all made fast! it was but my fancy:

all is whist and still, and nothing here appears

but the vast circuit of this empty room.

thou blessed hand of mercy, guide my senses!

afore my god, methoughts as here I slept

I did behold in lively form and substance

my father Edward and my warlike brother

both gliding by my bed, and cried to me

to leave this place, to save my life, and fly.

lighten my fears, dear lord. I here remain

a poor old man, thrust from my native country

kept and imprisoned in a foreign Kingdom.

if I must die, bear record, righteous heaven,

how I have nightly waked for England's good,

and yet to right her wrongs would spend my blood.

send thy sad doom, King Richard: take my life.

Enter Lapoole and the Murderers

I wish my death might ease my country's grief.

Lapoole