Sin, death, and hell have set their marks on him, And all their ministers attend on him.

Glo. What doth she say, my Lord of Buckingham?

Buck. Nothing that I respect, my gracious lord. Q. Mar. What, dost thou scorn me for my gentle counsel ?

And soothe the devil that I warn thee from?
O, but remember this another day,

When he shall split thy very heart with sorrow.
And say poor Margaret was a prophetess !—
Live each of you the subjects to his hate,
And he to yours, and all of you to God's!

[Exit.

Hast. My hair doth stand on end to hear her

curses.

Riv. And so doth mine: I muse why she's at liberty,

Glo. I cannot blame her: by God's holy mother, She hath had too much wrong; and I repent My part thereof that I have done to her.

Q. Eliz. I never did her any, to my knowledge. Glo. But you have all the vantage of her wrong. I was too hot to do somebody good,

That is too cold in thinking of it now.
Marry, as for Clarence, he is well repaid;
He is franked up to fatting for his pains;
God pardon them that are the cause of it!

Riv. A virtuous and a Christian-like conclusion,
To pray for them that have done scathe to us.
Glo. So do I ever: [Aside] being well advised,
For had I cursed now, I had cursed myself.

Enter CATESBY.

Cates. Madam, his majesty doth call for you,—

And for your grace,—and you, my noble lords. Q. Eliz. Catesby, we come. Lords, will you go with us?

Riv. We wait upon your grace.

[Exeunt all but GLOSTER.

Glo. I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl. The secret mischiefs that I set abroach

I lay unto the grievous charge of others.
Clarence, whom I, indeed, have laid in darkness,
I do beweep to many simple gulls;

Namely, to Hastings, Stanley, Buckingham;
And say it is the queen and her allies

That stir the king against the duke my brother
Now, they believe it; and withal whet me
To be revenged on Rivers, Vaughan, Grey:
But then I sigh; and, with a piece of scripture,
Tell them that God bids us do good for evil:
And thus I clothe my naked villany
With old odd ends stolen out of holy writ;
And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.
But, soft! here come my executioners.

Enter two Murderers.

How now, my hardy, stout, resolvéd mates!
Are you now going to dispatch this deed?

1 Murd. We are, my lord; and come to have the warrant,

That we may be admitted where he is.

me.

Glo. Well thought upon ;-I have it here about [Gives the warrant. When you have done, repair to Crosby Place. But, sirs, be sudden in the execution, Withal obdurate, do not hear him plead; For Clarence is well-spoken, and perhaps

May move your hearts to pity, if you mark him. 1 Murd. Tut, tut, my lord, we will not stand to prate;

Talkers are no good doers: be assured

We come to use our hands and not our tongues. Glo. Your eyes drop millstones, when fools' eyes drop tears:

I like you, lads ;—about your business straight;
Go, go, dispatch.

1 Murd. We will, my noble lord.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.-London.

A Room in the Tower.

Enter CLARENCE and BRAKENBURY.

Brak. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day? Clar. O, I have passed a miserable night, So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams, That, as I am a Christian faithful man, I would not spend another such a night, Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days,— So full of dismal terror was the time!

Brak. What was your dream, my lord? I pray you tell me.

Clar. Methought that I had broken from the Tower,

And was embarked to cross to Burgundy;

And, in my company, my brother Gloster,
Who from my cabin tempted me to walk
Upon the hatches: thence we looked toward
England,

And cited up a thousand fearful times,

During the wars of York and Lancaster

That had befall'n us. As we paced along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,

Methought that Gloster stumbled; and, in falling,
Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard
Into the tumbling billows of the main.

Lord, Lord, methought, what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noise of waters in mine ears!
What ugly sights of death within mine eyes!
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks
Ten thousand men that fishes gnawed upon ;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,

All scattered in the bottom of the sea:

;

Some lay in dead men's skulls; and, in those holes
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept,—
As 'twere in scorn of eyes,-reflecting gems,
That wooed the slimy bottom of the deep,

And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by.
Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death
To gaze upon the secrets of the deep?

Clar. Methought I had; and often did I strive To yield the ghost: but still the envious flood Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth To seek the empty, vast and wandering air, But smothered it within my panting bulk, Which almost burst to belch it in the sea. Brak. Awaked you not with this sore agony ? Clar. O, no, my dream was lengthened after life; O, then began the tempest to my soul, Who passed, methought, the melancholy flood, With that grim ferryman which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.

The first that there did greet my stranger soul Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick;

Who cried aloud, 'What scourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence ?'
And so he vanished: then came wandering by
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood; and he shrieked out aloud,
'Clarence is come' false, fleeting, perjured

Clarence ;

That stabbed me in the field by Tewksbury ;-
Seize on him, Furies, take him to your torments!'
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Environed me, and howléd in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that with the very noise
I trembling waked, and for a season after
Could not believe but that I was in hell,-
Such terrible impression made the dream.

Brak. No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you; I am afraid methinks to hear you tell it.

Clar. O Brakenbury, I have done those things Which now bear evidence against my soul,

For Edward's sake; and see how he requites me!-
O God! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee,
But thou wilt be avenged on my misdeeds,
Yet execute thy wrath in me alone,

O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children!-
Keeper, I prithee, sit by me awhile;

My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

rest!

Brak. I will, my lord: God give your grace good [Clarence sleeps. Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours,

Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide

night.

Princes have but their titles for their glories,

An outward honour for an inward toil;

And, for unfelt imaginations,