V.-ENTRY OF BOLINGBROKE AND RICHARD

INTO LONDON.

DUKE AND DUCHESS OF YORK.

Duch. My lord, you told me you would tell the rest, When weeping made you break the story off, Of our two cousins coming into London.

York. Where did I leave?

Duch. At that sad stop, my lord,

Where rude, misgovern'd hands, from window-tops,
Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head.
York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke,
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,

Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,

With slow, but stately pace, kept on his course:
While all tongues cried, God save thee, Bolingbroke;
You would have thought the very windows spake,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage; and that all the walls
With painted imagery had said at once,
Jesu preserve thee! welcome Bolingbroke!
While he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,
Bespoke them thus: I thank you, countrymen ;
And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.

Duch. Alas! poor Richard, where rides he the while?
York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men,

After a well-graced actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious:

Ev'n so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did scowl on Richard: no man cried, God save him!
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home:
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head;
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off
(His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,)

That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.

But heaven hath a hand in these events,

To whose high will we bound our calm contents.

Shakespeare.

VI.-THE FALL OF BUCKINGHAM.

1st. Gent.

Stay there, sir,

And see the noble ruin'd man you speak of.

(Enter BUCKINGHAM from his arraignment.) 2nd. Gent. Let's stand close, and behold him. Buck. All good people, You that thus far have come to pity me,

Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me.

I have this day receiv'd a traitor's judgment,

And by that name must die! Yet, heaven bear witness,
And, if I have a conscience, let it sink me,

Even as the axe falls, if I be not faithful!
The law I bear no malice for my death,
It has done, upon the premises, but justice;

But those, that sought it, I could wish more Christians:
Be what they will, I heartily forgive them:

Yet let them look they glory not in mischief,

Nor build their evils on the graves of great men;

For then my guiltless blood must cry against them.
For further life in this world I ne'er hope,

Nor will I sue, although the king have mercies

More than I dare make faults. You few, that lov'd me,
And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham,

His noble friends, and fellows, whom to leave
Is only bitter to him, only dying,

Go with me, like good angels, to my end;
And, as the long divorce of steel falls on me,
Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice,

And lift my soul to heaven.-Lead on, o'God's name.

Shakespeare.

VII.-CLARENCE'S DREAM.

Brak. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day?
Clar. O, I have passed a miserable night,
So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams,
That as I am a Christian faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night,
Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days;
So full of dismal terror was the time!

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 Glo'ster,

Who from my cabin tempted me to walk
Upon

the hatches. Thence we look'd tow'rd England, And cited up a thousand heavy times,

During the wars of York and Lancaster,
That had befall'n us. As we pass'd along

Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,

Methought that Glo'ster 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 sights of ugly death within my 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 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.
Brak. Had you 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 wandering air;
But smother'd it within my panting bulk,
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.
Brak. Awaked you not with this sore agony ?
Clar. No, no; my dream was lengthen'd after life;
O then began the tempest of 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 cried 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, perjured 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
Environ'd me, and howl'd in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that with the very noise
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 sake; and see how he requites me!
O God! if my deep pray'rs cannot appease Thee,
But Thou wilt be avenged on my misdeeds,
Yet execute Thy wrath on me alone :

O spare my guiltless wife, and my poor children!
I prithee, Brakenbury, stay by me:

My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

Shakespeare.

VIIL-THE FALL OF WOLSEY.

Wol. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him : The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; And,-when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, These many summers in a sea of glory; But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me, Weary, and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp, and glory of this world, I hate ye; I feel my heart new opened: O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspéct of princes, and our ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.—

Shakespeare.

IX.-THE BATTLE OF THE LEAGUE.

THE king is come to marshal us, all in his armour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant

crest.

He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.

Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to

wing,

Down all our line, a deafening shout, God save our Lord

the King!'