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Into the tumbling billows of the main.
eyes did once inhabit, there were crept (As 'twere in scorn of eyes,) reflecting gems, That woo'd the slimy bottom of tae deep, And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.
Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death, Το gaze upon
these secrets of the deep? Clar. Methought, I had: and cften 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 wand'ring air: But smother'd it within my panting bulk, * Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.
Brak. Awak'd you not with this sore agony?
Clar. O, no, my dream was lengthen’d after life; 0, then began the tempest to my soul! I pass’d, 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 cry'd aloud,-What scourge for perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence? And so he vanish'd: Then came wand'ring by A shadow like an angel, with bright hair Dabbled in blood: and he shriek'd out aloud, Clarence is come,-false, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence, That stabb’d me in the field by Tewksbury ;Seize on him, furies, take him to your torments! With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that with the very noise,
Brak. No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you ! I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.
Clar. 0, Brakenbury, I have done these things That now give 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 aveng'd on my misdeeds, Yet execute thy wrath on me alone: O, spare my guiltless wife, and my poor children!
Sorrow breaks seasons, and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night.
THE CARES OF GREATNESS.
Princes have their titles for their glories,
A MURDERER'S ACCOUNT OF CONSCIENCE. I'll not meddle with it, it is a dangerous thing, it makes a man a coward: a man cannot steal but it accuseth him; a man cannot swear, but it checks him; a man cannot lie with his neighbour's wife, but it detects him; 'Tis a blushing shame-fac'd spirit, that mutinies in a man's bosom; it fills one full of obstacles; it made me once restore a purse of gold, that by chance I found; it beggars any man that keeps it; it is turned out of all towns and cities for a dangerous thing; and every man, that means to live well, endeavours to trust to himself, and live without it.
Ah, that deceit should steal sueh gentle shapes, d with a virtuous visor hide deep vice!
SUBMISSION TO HEAVEN OUR DUTY.
In common worldly things, 'tis call'd-ungrateful, With dull unwillingness to repay a debt, Which with a bounteous hand was kindly lent; Much more to be thus opposite with heaven, For it requires the royal debt it lent you. THE DUCHESS OF YORK'S LAMENTATION ON THE MIS
FORTUNES OF HER FAMILY.
Duch. Accursed and unquiet wrangling days! How many of you have mine eyes beheld? My husband lost his life to get the crown; And often up and down my sons were tost, For me to joy, and weep, their gain, and loss: And being seated, and domestic broils Clean overblown, themselves, the conquerors, Make war upon themselves: brother to brother, Blood to blood, self 'gainst self; 0, preposterous And frantic courage, end thy damned spleen; Or let me die to look on death no more!
ACT III. .
DESCRIPTION OF THE MURDER OF THE TWO YOUNG
PRINCES IN THE TOWER.
The tyrannous and bloody act is done; The most arch deed of piteous massacre, That ever yet this land was guilty of.
Dighton, and Forrest, whom I did suborn
Come, I have learn’d, that fearful commenting
QUEEN MARGARET'S EXPROBATION.
queen in jest, only to fill the scene.
Where is thy husband now? Where be thy brothers?
CHARACTER OF KING RICHARD BY HIS MOTHER.
Techy* and wayward was thy infancy; Thy school-days, frightful, desperate, wild, and furi
ous; Thy prime of manhood, daring, bold, and venturous; Thy age confirm’d, proud, subtle, sly, and bloody.
True hope is swist, and flies with swallow's wings, Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings.
A FINE EVENING.
The weary sun hath made a golden set, And, by the bright tract of his fiery car, Gives token of a goodly day to-morrow.
The silent hours steal on,
* Touchy, fretful.