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On his own Person, after his successful Addreses.

My dukedom to a beggarly denier,
I do mistake my person all this while :
Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot,
Myself to be a marv'llous, proper mani
I'll be at charges for a looking-glass,
And entertain a score or two of taylors,
To study fashions to adorn my body:
Since I am crept in favour with myself,
I will maintain it with some little cost.

SCENE IV. Queen Margaret's Execration.

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


(3) The slave of nalure.] She afterwards says,

Sin, death, and hell have set their marks upon bim.

Mr. Warburton observes, “ that the expression in the text is strong and noble, and alludes to an ancient custom of masters branding of their faves : by which it is infinuated, that his mis-tapen person was a mark that nature had set upon him to Itigmatize his ill conditions.” It has been long since observed that

Distortum vultum fequitur distortio morum.
A face distorted generally proclaims
Distorted manners,

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

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High Birth.

I was born fo high,
Our airy buildeth in the cedar's top,
And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun,

Richard's Hypocrisy.
(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


naked villany
With old odd ends, stol'n forth of holy writ,
And seem 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 speaking of Richmond and his followers in the last act of this play fays,

Lash hence these over-weaning rags of France,

These familh'd beggars weary of their lives, (5) See Merchant of Venice, p. 162. a. i1. and p. 141. preceding.

Where eyes

And cited up a thousand heavy times,
During the wars of rork and Lancaster,
That had befall’n us. As we pac'd along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
Methought that Glofter stumbled ; and in falling
Struck me, (that sought to stay him) overboard
Into the tumbling billows of the main.
Lord, lord, methought, what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noise of waters in my ears !
What fights of ugly death within mine eyes !
I thought, 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;
Some lay in dead mens' skulls; and in those holes,

did once inhabit, there were crept,
As 'twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems;
That woo'd the flimy bottom of the deep
And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.
Brak. Had


such leisure in the time of death, To gaze upon the 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 find 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 fad agony?

Clar. No, no, my dream was lengthen'd'after life. O then began the tempest to my soul : I pait, 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 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,


Dabbled in blood, and he shriek'd out aloud
Clarence is come, false 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

I, trembling, wak’d; and for a season after
Could not believe but that I was in hell:
Such terrible impression 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 appeale thee, But thou wilt be aveng'd on my misdeeds, Yet execute thy wrath on me alone ; O, fpare my guiltless wife, and my poor children!


Sorrow breaks seasons 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 Conscience.

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 swear, but it checks hiin ; a man cannot lye with his neighbour's wife, but it detects him. 'Tis a blushing shame-fac'd spirit, that mutinies in a man's bosom; it fills one full of obstacles. It made me once restore a purse of gold that by chance I found. It beggars any man that keeps it. It is turned out of towns and cities for dangerous thing; and every man that means

to live well, endeavours to trust to himself, and live with

out it.

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Duchess of York on 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,
And often up and down my fons were toss’d,
For me to enjoy and weep their gain and loss.
And being seated, and domestic broils
Clean overblown, themselves, the conquerors,
Make war upon themselves, blood against blood;
Self against self; O most preposterous
And frantic outrage! and thy damned spleen !
Or let me die to look on death no more.


Ah! that deceit should steal such gentle shape, And with a virtuous vizor hide deep vice!


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