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ACT V. DYING SPEECH OF THE EARL OF WARWICK. Ah, who is nigh? come to me, friend, or foe, And tell me, who is victor, York, or Warwick? Why ask I that? my mangled body shows, My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows, That I must yield my body to the earth, And, by my fall the conquest to my foe. Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge, Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle, Under whose shade the ramping lion slept; Whose top-branch over-peerd Jove's spreading tree, And kept low shrubs from winter's powerful wind. These eyes, that now are dimm'd with death's black Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun, sveil, To search the secret treasons of the world: The wrinkles in my brows now fill'd with blood, Were liken'd oft to kingly sepulchres; For who liv'd king, but I could dig his grave? And who durst smile, when Warwick bent his brow? Lo, now my glory's sniear'd in dust and blood! My parks, my walks, my manors that I had, Even now forsake me; and, of all my lands, Is nothing left me, but my body's length! QUEEN MARGARET'S SPEECH BEFORE THE BATTLE OF
· TEWKSBURY. Lords, knights, and gentlemen, what I should say, My tears gainsay *; for every word I speak, Ye see, I drink the water of mine eyes. Treign, Therefore, no more but this :-Henry, your soveIs prisoner to the foe; his state usurp'd, His realm a slaughter-house, his subjects slain, His statutes cancell’d, and his treasure spent; And yonder is the wolf, that makes this spoil. You fight in justice: then, in God's name, lords, Be valiant, and give signal to the fight.
* Unsay, deny.
OMENS ON THE BIRTH OF RICHARD III. The owl shriek'd at thy birth, an evil sign; The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time; Dogs howl'd, and hideous tempests shook down trees; The raven rook'd * her on the chimney's top, And chattering pies in dismal discords sung. Thy mother felt more than a mother's pain, And yet brought forth less than a mother's hope; To wit,—an indigest deformed lump, Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree. Teeth hadst thou in thy head, when thou wast born, To signify, thou cam'st to bite the world.
King Richard III.
ACT I. THE DUKE OF GLOSTER ON HIS OWN DEFORMITY. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments; Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measurest. Grim-visay'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front; And now,-instead of mounting barbed I steeds, To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber, To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I, that am not shap'd for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty, To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, * To rook, signified to squat down or lodge on any thing. Dances.
Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time
GLOSTER'S LOVE FOR LADY ANNE,
Myself to be a marvellous proper man.
QUEEN MARGARET'S EXECRATIONS ON GLOSTER.
I was born so high,
CLARENCE'S DREAM. 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,
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?