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Whose bright out-shining beams thy cloudy wrath
Hath in eternal darkness folded up.

Your aiery buildeth in our aiery's nest :

O God, that see'st it, do not suffer it;

As it was won with blood, lost be it so!

Buck. Peace, peace, for shame, if not for charity. Q. Mar. Urge neither charity nor shame to me; Uncharitably with me have you dealt,

And shamefully by you my hopes are butcher'd.
My charity is outrage, life my shame,-

And in my shame still live my sorrow's rage!
Buck. Have done, have done.

Q. Mar. O princely Buckingham, I kiss thy hand, In sign of league and amity with thee:

Now fair befal thee, and thy noble house!
Thy garments are not spotted with our blood,
Nor thou within the compass of my curse.

Buck. Nor no one here; for curses never pass
The lips of those, that breathe them in the air.
Q. Mar. I'll not believe but they ascend the sky,
And there awake God's gentle-sleeping peace.
O Buckingham, beware of yonder dog;

Look, when he fawns, he bites; and, when he bites,
His venom tooth will rankle to the death:

Have not to do with him, beware of him;
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 sooth 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 of his hate,
And he to yours, and all of you to God's!


Hast. My hair doth stand on end to hear her curses. Riv. And so doth mine; I muse, why she's at liber


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. Yet 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 frank'd up to fatting for his pains;
God pardon them, that are the cause thereof!

Riv. A virtuous and a christian-like conclusion,
To pray for them, that have done scath to us.
Glo. So do I ever, being well advis'd ;-
For had I curs'd now, I had curs'd myself.



Cates. Madam, his majesty doth call for you,— And for your grace,—and you, my noble lords. Q. Eliz. Catesby, I come :-Lords, will you go with


Riv. Madam, we will attend 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 Stanley, Hastings, Buckingham;
And tell them-'tis the queen and her allies,'
That stir the king against the duke my brother.
Now they believe it; and withal whet me
To be reveng'd 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 villainy

With old odd ends, stol'n forth of holy writ;
And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.

Enter two Murderers.

But soft, here come my executioners.—
How now, my hardy, stout, resolved mates?
Are you now going to despatch this thing?

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

That we may be admitted where he is.

Glo. Well thought upon, I have it here about me:

[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


Talkers are no good doers; be assur'd,

We go to use our hands, and not our tongues.

Glo. Your eyes drop mill-stones, when fools' eyes

drop tears:

I like you, lads ;--about your business straight;

Go, go, despatch.

1 Murd. We will, my noble lord.


SCENE IV.-The same. A Room in the Tower.


Brak. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day?
Clar. O, I have pass'd a miserable night,
So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights,
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 embark'd to cross to Burgundy;

And, in my company, my brother Gloster:

Who from my cabin tempted me to walk

Upon the hatches; thence we look'd toward England,
And cited up a thousand heavy times,
During the wars of York and Lancaster
That had befall'n us. As we pac'd along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,

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

O Lord! methought, what pain it was to drown!

What dreadful noise of water in mine ears
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes.
Methought, I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;
A thousand men, that fishes gnaw'd upon;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,

All scatter'd 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 woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep,
And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.
Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death,
To gaze upon these 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 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; O, 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

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