Abbildungen der Seite

On his own Perfon, after his fuccessful Addresses.

My dukedom to a beggarly denier,
I do mistake my perfon all this while :
Upon my life, fhe finds, although I cannot,
Myfelf to be a marv'llous, proper man.
I'll be at charges for a looking-glafs,
And entertain a fcore or two of taylors,
To study fashions to adorn my body:
Since I am crept in favour with myself,
I will maintain it with fome little cost.

SCENE IV. Queen Margaret's Execration.

The worm of conscience still begnaw thy foul;
Thy friends fufpect for traitors, while thou liv'it,
And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends:
No fleep clofe up that deadly eye of thine,
Unless it be when fome tormenting dream
Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils!
Thou elvish-markt, abortive, rooting hog!
Thou that was feald in thy nativity
(3) The flave of nature, and the fon of hell!
Thou flander of thy heavy mother's womb!

(3) The flave of nature.] She afterwards fays,

Sin, death, and hell have fet their marks upon him.


Mr. Warburton obferves, "that the expreffion in the text is ftrong and noble, and alludes to an ancient custom of masters branding of their flaves: by which it is infinuated, that his mif-fhapen perfon was a mark that nature had fet upon him to ftigmatize his ill conditions." It has been long fince obferved


Diftortum vultum fequitur diffortio morum.
A face diftorted generally proclaims
Distorted manners,

Thou loathed iffue of thy father's loins!
(4) Thou rag of honour, thou detested.-

High Birth.

I was born fo high,
Our airy buildeth in the cedar's top,

And dallies with the wind, and scorns the fun.

Richard's Hypocrify.

(5) But then I figh, and with a piece of fcripture, Tell them, that God bids us do good for evil;

And thus I cloath my naked villany

With old odd ends, ftol'n forth of holy writ,
And feem a faint, when most I play the devil.

SCENE V. The Tower.

Clarence's Dream.

Clarence and Brakenbury.

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 Glofter;
Who from my cabin tempted me to walk

Upon the hatches. Thence we look'd tow'rd England,


(4) Rag, &c.] Richard fpeaking of Richmond and his followers in the laft act of this play fays,

Lash hence these over-weaning rags of France,
These famish'd beggars weary of their lives,

(5) See Merchant of Venice, p. 162. n. 11. and p. 141. preced ing.

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 Glo'fler ftumbled; and in falling
Struck me, (that fought to stay him) overboard
Into the tumbling billows of the main.

Lord, lord, methought, what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noife of waters in my ears!
What fights of ugly death within mine eyes!
I thought, I faw a thousand fearful wrecks;
A thousand men, that fishes gnaw'd upon!
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Ineftimable ftones, unvalued jewels;

Some lay in dead mens' skulls; and in those holes,
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept,
As 'twere in fcorn of eyes, reflecting gems;
That woo'd the flimy bottom of the deep
And mock'd the dead bones that lay fcatter'd by.
Brak. Had you fuch leifure in the time of death,
To gaze upon the fecrets of the deep?

Clar. Methought I had; and often did I ftrive
To yield the ghoft: but still the envious flood
Kept in my foul, and would not let it forth
To find the empty, vaft, and wand'ring air?
But fmother'd it within my panting bulk,
-Which almost burst to belch it in the fea.

Brak. Awak'd you not with this fad agony?
Clar. No, no, my dream was lengthen'd after life.
O then began the tempest to my foul:

I paft, methought, the melancholy flood,
With that grim ferry-man which poets write of,
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.

The first that there did greet my stranger foul,
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick,
Who cry'd aloud-What fcourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford falfe Clarence?
And fo he vanish'd. Then came wand'ring by
A fhadow like an angel, with bright hair,


Dabbled in blood, and he shriek'd out aloud—
Clarence is come, falfe 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
Inviron'd me, and howled in mine ears

Such hideous cries, that with the very noife
I, trembling, wak'd; and for a season after
Could not believe but that I was in hell:
Such terrible impreffion made my dream.
Brak. No marvel, lord, that it affrighted you:
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.

Clar. Ah! Brakenbury, I have done those things That now give evidence against my soul,

For Edward's fake: and, fee, how he requites me! O God! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee, But thou wilt be aveng'd on my mifdeeds,

Yet execute thy wrath on me alone;

O, fpare my guiltlefs wife, and my poor children!


Sorrow breaks feafons and repofing hours, Makes night morning, and the noon-tide night.

Greatness, its Cares.

(6) 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 endless cares;
So that between their titles, and low name,
There's nothing differs but the outward fame.

(6) See pages 60, 61, &c. and the notes foregoing.


SCENE V. The Murderers Account of Confcience.

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 fwear, but it checks him; a man cannot lye with his neighbour's wife, but it detects him. 'Tis a blufhing fhame-fac'd fpirit, that mutinies in a man's bofom; itfills one full of obftacles. It made me once restore a purfe of gold that by chance I found. It beggars any man that keeps it. It is turned out of towns and cities for a dangerous thing; and every man that means to live well, endeavours to truft to himself, and live without it.


Duchefs of York on the Misfortunes of her Family.

Accurfed and unquiet wrangling days!
How many of you have mine eyes beheld?
My husband loft his life to get the crown,
And often up and down my fons were tofs'd,
For me to enjoy and weep their gain and lofs.
And being feated, and domestic broils
Clean overblown, themselves, the conquerors,
Make war upon themselves, blood against blood;
Self against felf; O moft prepofterous

And frantic outrage! and thy damned spleen!
Or let me die to look on death no more.


Ah! that deceit should steal fuch gentle shape,

And with a virtuous vizor hide deep vice!


« ZurückWeiter »