Come hither, Catesby. Rumor it abroad

Come hither, Catesby. Rumor it abroad
That Anne my wife is very grievous sick.
I will take order for her keeping close.
Inquire me out some mean poor gentleman,
Whom I will marry straight to Clarence’ daughter.
The boy is foolish, and I fear not him.

But I am in
So far in blood that sin will pluck on sin.
Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.

Look how thou dream’st! I say again, give out
That Anne my queen is sick and like to die.
About it, for it stands me much upon
To stop all hopes whose growth may damage me.
Catesby exits.
Aside.  I must be married to my brother’s daughter,
Or else my kingdom stands on brittle glass.
Murder her brothers, and then marry her—
Uncertain way of gain. But I am in
So far in blood that sin will pluck on sin.
Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.