Death Speech of Richard III

RICHARD

I lie here on this cold, moist earth,

The wine of my body spills from this gaping wound,

As if it cannot leave my body fast enough—

I haven’t much time.

I wait for the clouds to spread wide,

And allow the eternal glow to cast upon me,

And call my tired soul to the Promised Land—

Alas, the light still does not come.

The sky is painted deep gray,

The stones of my heart hover high above my head,

Waiting to crumble like an avalanche down a mountainside—

If by tyrant they mean savior, then tyrant was I.

I killed my King and my wife, my kin, and my kin’s kin,

I sent children to the Tower under false pretenses,

And slaughtered he who helped me rise—

Killed for the good of the realm, the Yorkist kind.

Cursed is he who emerged early from his mother’s womb,

The one who was sent to this earth deformed and lame,

Cheated of a pleasing feature and strong stature—

Cursed is me, the unlovable dog, it’s not meant to be.

The wind grows colder, and the sky has started to fade,

I’ll close my eyes and wait thirstily,

‘Til He takes me from my wretched earth—

And to my final resting place.

In the dark I see the ghosts of Clarence, Edward, and Anne,

Hastings, Rivers, Grey, and Vaughn,

The two princes, Harry the Sixth, and Buckingham—

My heart yearns only for Plantagenet, blood of York.

I’m haunted by their ghostly sight,

And have none left to vouch for my goodwill,

Dear God, I beseech you. Have mercy on my soul—

Richard Gloucester, the Yorkist King who fell.