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Queen Margaret's Execrations on Gloster.
The worm of conscience still be-gnaw thy soul !
I was born so high,
Our aiery buildeth in the cedar's top,
And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun.
But then I sigh, and, with a piece of Scripture,
With old odd ends stolen forth of Holy Writ;
Clarence's Dream; Scene between Clarence and
BRAKENBURY. What was your dream, my lord? 1 tell me.
CLARENCE. Methought that I had broken from the Tower,
And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy :
And, in my company, my brother Gloster;
Upon the hatches; thence we look'd toward England,
During the wars of York and Lancaster,
That had befallen us. As we paced along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
O Lord! methought what pain it was to drown!
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. BRAKENBURY. Had you such leisure in the time of death
To gaze upon these secrets of the deep?
CLARENCE. 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.
BRAKENBURY. Awak'd you not with this sore agony ? CLARENCE. O, no, my dream was lengthen'd after life;
O, then began the tempest to my
I pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood,
The first that there did greet my stranger soul
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.
CLARENCE. O, Brakenbury, I have done these things,— That now give evidence against my soul,—
For Edward's sake; and see, how he requites me!
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 but their titles for their glories,
An outward honour for an inward toil :
And, for unfelt imaginations,
They often feel a world of restless cares:
Ah, that deceit should steal such gentle shapes, And with a virtuous visor hide deep vice!
Submission to Heaven our Duty.
In common worldly things, 'tis call'd ungrateful,
The Duchess of York's Lamentation for the Misfortunes of her Family.
Accursed and unquiet wrangling days!
How many of you have mine eyes beheld!
My husband lost his life to get the crown;
The Vanity of Trust in Man.
O momentary grace of mortal man,
Which we more hunt for than the grace of God!
Who builds his hope in air of your
When holy and devout religious men
Are at their beads, 'tis hard to draw them thence; So sweet is zealous contemplation.
Description of the Murder of the two young Princes in the Tower.
The tyrannous and bloody act is done;
Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,