Speeches (Lines) for Boy
in "Richard III"

Total: 7

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# Act, Scene, Line
(Click to see in context)
Speech text

1

II,2,1271

(stage directions). [Enter the DUCHESS OF YORK, with the two children of CLARENCE]

Boy. Tell me, good grandam, is our father dead?


2

II,2,1273

Duchess of York. No, boy.

Boy. Why do you wring your hands, and beat your breast,
And cry 'O Clarence, my unhappy son!'


3

II,2,1282

Duchess of York. My pretty cousins, you mistake me much;
I do lament the sickness of the king.
As loath to lose him, not your father's death;
It were lost sorrow to wail one that's lost.

Boy. Then, grandam, you conclude that he is dead.
The king my uncle is to blame for this:
God will revenge it; whom I will importune
With daily prayers all to that effect.


4

II,2,1290

Duchess of York. Peace, children, peace! the king doth love you well:
Incapable and shallow innocents,
You cannot guess who caused your father's death.

Boy. Grandam, we can; for my good uncle Gloucester
Told me, the king, provoked by the queen,
Devised impeachments to imprison him :
And when my uncle told me so, he wept,
And hugg'd me in his arm, and kindly kiss'd my cheek;
Bade me rely on him as on my father,
And he would love me dearly as his child.


5

II,2,1301

Duchess of York. Oh, that deceit should steal such gentle shapes,
And with a virtuous vizard hide foul guile!
He is my son; yea, and therein my shame;
Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit.

Boy. Think you my uncle did dissemble, grandam?


6

II,2,1303

Duchess of York. Ay, boy.

Boy. I cannot think it. Hark! what noise is this?
[Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH, with her hair about her]
ears; RIVERS, and DORSET after her]


7

II,2,1334

Duchess of York. Ah, so much interest have I in thy sorrow
As I had title in thy noble husband!
I have bewept a worthy husband's death,
And lived by looking on his images:
But now two mirrors of his princely semblance
Are crack'd in pieces by malignant death,
And I for comfort have but one false glass,
Which grieves me when I see my shame in him.
Thou art a widow; yet thou art a mother,
And hast the comfort of thy children left thee:
But death hath snatch'd my husband from mine arms,
And pluck'd two crutches from my feeble limbs,
Edward and Clarence. O, what cause have I,
Thine being but a moiety of my grief,
To overgo thy plaints and drown thy cries!

Boy. Good aunt, you wept not for our father's death;
How can we aid you with our kindred tears?


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