WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE: Richard III Read this extract, and then answer the question that follows it: Anne: And I with all unwillingness will go. O, would to God that the inclusive verge Of golden metal that must round my brow Were red-hot steel, to sear me to the brains! Anointed let me be with deadly venom, And die ere men can say 'God save the Queen!' Queen Elizabeth: Go, go, poor soul; I envy not thy glory. To feed my humour, wish thyself no harm. Anne: No, why? When he that is my husband now Came to me, as I follow'd Henry's corse; When scarce the blood was well wash'd from his hands Which issued from my other angel husband, And that dear saint which then I weeping follow'd O, when, I say, I look'd on Richard's face, This was my wish: 'Be thou' quoth I ‘accurs'd For making me, so young, so old a widow; And when thou wed'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 prov'd 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 enjoy the golden dew of sleep, But with his timorous dreams was still awak'd. Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick; And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me. Queen Elizabeth: Poor heart, adieu! I pity thy complaining. Anne: No more than with my soul I mourn for yours. Dorset: Farewell, thou woeful welcomer of glory! Anne: Adieu, poor soul, that tak'st thy leave of it! Duchess: [To Dorset] Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune guide thee! [To Anne] Go thou to Richard, and good angels tend thee! [To Queen Elizabeth] Go thou to sanctuary, and good thoughts possess thee! I to my grave, where peace and rest lie with me! Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen, And each hour's joy wreck'd with a week of teen. Queen Elizabeth: Stay, yet look back with me unto the Tower. Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes Whom envy hath immur'd within your walls, Rough cradle for such little pretty ones. Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow For tender princes, use my babies well. So foolish sorrows bids your stones farewell.