Page 1130 - Shakespeare - Vol. 1

Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils.
Thou elvish-mark’d, abortive, rooting hog,
Thou that wast seal’d in thy nativity
The slave of Nature, and the son of hell; [230]
Thou slander of thy heavy mother’s womb,
Thou loathed issue of thy father’s loins,
Thou rag of honour, thou detested -

RICHARD

Margaret!

MARGARET

Richard!

RICHARD

Ha?

MARGARET

I call thee not.

RICHARD

I cry thee mercy then, for I did think [235]
That thou hadst call’d me all these bitter names.

MARGARET

Why so I did, but look’d for no reply.
O, let me make the period to my curse!

RICHARD

’Tis done by me, and ends in ‘Margaret’.

ELIZABET H

Thus have you breath’d your curse against yourself. [240]

MARGARET

Poor painted queen, vain flourish of my fortune:
Why strew’st thou sugar on that bottled spider,
Whose deadly web ensnareth thee about?
Fool, fool; thou whet’st a knife to kill thyself.
The day will come that thou shalt wish for me [245]