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HASTINGS.

The tender love I bear your grace, my lord,
Makes me most forward in this noble presence
To doom th' offenders: whosoe'er they be,
I say, my lord, they have deserved death.

GLOSTER.

Then be your eyes the witness of their evil :
Look how I am bewitched; behold mine arm
Is like a blasted sapling wither'd up;

And this is Edward's wife, that monstrous witch,
That by her witchcraft thus hath markèd me.

HASTINGS.

If they have done this deed, my noble lord.

GLOSTER.

Talk'st thou to me of 'ifs'?-Thou art a traitor :
Off with his head !-now, by Saint Paul I swear,
I will not dine until I see the same.

Lovel and Catesby, look that it be done;
The rest, that love me, rise, and follow me.

[Exeunt Council, with Gloster and Buckingham.
HASTINGS.

Woe, woe, for England! not a whit for me;
For I, too fond,' might have prevented this.
Stanley did dream the boar2 did raze his helm,
But I disdain'd it, and did scorn to fly.

1 Foolish.

2 The boar was Richard's badge.

Three times to-day my foot-cloth1 horse did stumble,
And started when he look'd upon the Tower,
As loth to bear me to the slaughter-house.
Oh! now I want the priest that spake to me:
I now repent I told the pursuivant,2
As too triumphing, how mine enemies
To-day at Pomfret bloodily were butcher'd,
And I myself secure in grace and favour.
O Margaret, Margaret, now thy heavy curse
Is lighted on poor Hastings' wretched head.

CATESBY.

Despatch, my lord; the duke would be at dinner;
Make a short shrift,' he longs to see your head.

HASTINGS.

O momentary grace of mortal men,

Which we more hunt for than the grace of Heaven! Who builds his hope in air of your good looks,

Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast,

Ready with every nod to tumble down
Into the fatal bowels of the deep.

The horse, covered with trappings, that he rode. 2 A herald of lower degree.

3 Lords Rivers, Vaughan, and Grey, whom Hastings had hated as the Queen's kindred.

4 Henry VI's Queen, Margaret of Anjou, who (in the play) had cursed Hastings.

5 Confession.

LOVEL.

Come, come, despatch; 'tis bootless to exclaim.

HASTINGS.

O bloody Richard !-miserable England!

I prophesy the fearfull'st time to thee,
That ever wretched age hath looked upon.

Come, lead me to the block; bear him my head;
They smile at me, who shortly shall be dead.

SHAKESPEARE, "King Richard III"

THE MURDER OF THE PRINCES IN THE TOWER.

1483.

Tyrrel is relating the deed to Richard.

TYRREL.

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
To do this piece of ruthless butchery,
Albeit they were flesh'd1 villains, bloody dogs,
Melting with tenderness and mild compassion,
Wept like two children in their death's sad story.

1 Used to murder.

"Oh thus," quoth Dighton, "lay the gentle babes,"-"Thus, thus," quoth Forrest, "girdling one another Within their alabaster innocent arms:

Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,

Which in their summer beauty kiss'd each other;
A book of prayers on their pillow lay,

Which once," quoth Forrest," almost chang'd my mind,
But, oh, the devil," there the villain stopp'd;
When Dighton thus told on,-" We smothered
The most replenishèd sweet work of Nature,
That, from the prime creation, e'er she framed."
Hence both are gone; with conscience and remorse
They could not speak; and so I left them both.
To bear these ti.iings to the bloody king.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN.

1513.

FROM Flodden ridge

The Scots beheld the English host
Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post,
And heedful watch'd them as they cross'd
The Till by Twisel Bridge.

' Meaning that the devil drove them on.

High sight it is, and haughty, while
They dive into the deep defile,
Beneath the castle's airy wall.
By rock, by oak, by hawthorn tree,
Troop after troop are disappearing;
Troop after troop their banners rearing,
Upon the eastern bank you see.
Still pouring down the rocky den,
Where flows the sullen Till,

And rising from the dim wood glen,
Standards on standards, men on men,
In slow succession still,

And sweeping o'er the Gothic arch,1
And pressing on, in ceaseless march,
To gain the opposing hill.

That morn, to many a trumpet clang,
Twisel! thy rock's deep echo rang;
And many a chief of birth and rank,
Saint Helen! at thy fountain drank,
Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see
In spring-tide bloom so lavishly,
Had then from many an axe its doom,
To give the marching columns room.

And why stands Scotland idly now,
Dark Flodden! on thy airy brow,
Since England gains the pass the while
And struggles through the deep defile?
1 The arch of the bridge.

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