Dorf. I never did her any, to my knowledge. Enter Catesby. [Afide. Catef. Madam, his Majefty doth call for you, And for your Grace, and yours, my gracious Lord. Queen. Catesby, I come; Lords, will you go with me? Riv. We wait upon your Grace. [Exeunt all but Glocefter. With odd old Ends, ftoln forth of Holy Writ, But foft, here come my Executioners: 1 Vil. 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: When you have done, repair to Crosby Place, But, Sirs, be fudden in the Execution, H 4 Withal Withal obdurate, do not hear him plead ; For Clarence is well-spoken, and, perhaps, May move your Hearts to pity, if you mark him. Vl. Tut, tut, my Lord, we will not ftand to prate, Talkers are no good doers; be affur'd, We go to use our Hands, and not our Tongues. Glo. Your Eyes drop Mill-ftoncs, when Fools Eyes fall Tears. I like you Lads, about your business straight. Go, go, difpatch. Vil. We will, my Noble Lord. SCENE IV. Enter Clarence and Keeper. [Exeunt. Keep. Why looks your Grace fo heavily to day? Keep. What was your dream, my Lord, I pray you tell me. And in my Company my Brother Glofter, Upon the Hatches. There we look'd toward England, O Lord, methought, what pain it was to drown! Ineftimable Ineftimable Stones, unvalued Jewels All fcatter'd in the bottom of the Sea: Some lay in dead Mens Skulls, and in the holes. Clar. Methought I had, and often did I ftrive Keep. Awak'd you not in this fore Agony? I paft, methought, the melancholy Flood, For For Edward's fake; and fee how he requites me. O fpare my guiltlefs Wife, and my poor Children. My Soul is heavy, and I fain would fleep. Keep. I will, my Lord, God give your Grace good reft. Enter Brakenbury the Lieutenant. Brak. Sorrow breaks Seasons and repofing hours, Makes the Night Morning, and the Noon-tide Night: 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 reftless Cares: I Vil. Ho, who's here? Brak. What would'ft thou, Fellow? And how cam'st thou hither? a Vil. I would fpeak with Clarence, and I came hither on my Legs. Brak. What, fo brief? I vil. 'Tis better, Sir, than to be tedious: 2 Vil. What, fhall we ftab him as he fleeps? [Reads. [Exit. 1 Vil. No; he'll fay 'twas done cowardly, when he wakes. 2 Vil. Why he fhall never wake, until the great Judgment Day: 1 Vil. Why then he'll fay, we ftabb'd him fleeping. 2 Vil. The urging of that word Judgment, hath bred a kind of Remorfe in mc. 1 Vil. What? art thou afraid? 2 Vil. Not to kill him, having a Warrant. But to be damn'd for killing him, from the which 1 Vil. I thought thou hadst been resolute. 2 Vil. So I am, to let him live. 1 Vil. I'll back to the Duke of Glo'fter, and tell him fo. 2 Vil. Nay, prithee stay a little : I hope this paffionate Humour of mine will change; 2 Vil. Some certain dregs of Confcience are yet within me. 1 Vil. Where's thy Confcience now? a Vil. O, in the Duke of Glofter's Purfe. 1 Vil. When he opens his Purfe to give us our Reward, thy Confcience flies out. 2 Vil. 'Tis no matter, let it go; there's few or none will entertain it. I Vil. What if it come to thee again? à Vil. I'll not meddle with it, it makes a Man a Coward : A Man cannot fteal, but it accufeth him; a Man cannot fwear, but it checks him; a Man cannot lye with his Neigh bour's Wife, but it detects him. 'Tis a blufhing fhamefac'd Spirit, that mutinies in a Man's Bofom: It fills a Man full of Obftacles. It made me once reftore a Purfe of Gold that, by chance, I found. It beggars any Man that keeps it. It is turn'd out of Towrs and Cities for a dangerous thing, and every Man that means to live well, endeavours to truft to himself, and live without it. 1 Vil. 'Tis even now at my elbow, perfwading me not to kill the Duke. 2 Vil. Take the Devil in thy mind, and believe him not: He would infinuate with thee but to make thee figh. 1 Vil. I am ftrong fram'd, he cannot prevail with me. 2 Vil. Spoke like a tall Man, that refpects thy Reputation. Come, fhall me fall to work? 1 Vil. Take him on the Coftard, with the Hilt of thy Sword, and then throw him into the Malmfie-butt in the next Room. |