And, when I start, the envious people laugh,
And bid me be advised how I tread.

Act III.

Silent Resentment Deepest.

Smooth runs the water, where the brook is deep; And in his simple show he harbours treason.

A Guilty Countenance.

Upon thy eye-balls murderous tyranny Sits in grim majesty, to fright the world.

Description of a Murdered Person.

See how the blood is settled in his face!
Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost,*
Of ashy semblance, meagre, pale, and bloodless,
Being all descended to the labouring heart;
Who, in the conflict that it holds with death,
Attracts the same for aidance 'gainst the enemy;
Which with the heart there cools and ne'er returneth
To blush and beautify the cheek again.

But see, his face is black and full of blood;
His eyeballs further out than when he liv'd,
Staring full ghastly like a strangled man :

His hair uprear'd, his nostrils stretch'd with struggling;
His hands abroad display'd, as one that grasp'd
And tugg'd for life, and was by strength subdued.
Look on the sheets, his hair, you see is sticking;
His well-proportion'd beard made rough and rugged,
Like to the summer's corn by tempest lodged.

It cannot be, but he was murder'd here ;
The least of all these signs were probable.

*The body of a person who has died a natural death is here

meant.

A good Conscience.

What stronger breast-plate than a heart untainted? Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel just; And he but naked though lock'd up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.

Suffolk's remorseless Hatred of his Enemies.

Would curses kill, as doth the mandrake's groan,
I would invent as bitter-searching terms,
As curst, as harsh, and horrible to hear,
Deliver'd strongly through my fixed teeth,
With full as many signs of deadly hate,
As lean-faced Envy in her loathsome cave:
My tongue should stumble in mine earnest words:
Mine eyes shall sparkle like the beaten flint
My hair be fixed on end, as one distract;
Ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban:
And even now my burden'd heart would break,
Should I not curse them. Poison be their drink!
Gall, worse than gall, the daintiest that they taste!
Their sweetest shade, a grove of cypress trees!
Their chiefest prospect, murdering basilisks!
Their softest touch, as smart as lizard's stings;
Their music frightful as the serpent's hiss;
And boding screech-owls make the concert full!
All the foul terrors in dark-seated hell.

Parting Lovers.

And banished I am, if but from thee.

Go, speak not to me; even now be gone.

O, go not yet!-Even thus two friends condemn'd

Embrace, and kiss, and take ten thousand leaves,
Loather a hundred times to part than die.
Yet now, farewell! and farewell life with thee!

Death preferable to separation from a Lover.
If I depart from thee, I cannot live:
And in thy sight to die, what were it else,
But like a pleasant slumber in thy lap?
Here could I breathe my soul into the air,
As mild and gentle as the cradle-babe,
Dying with mother's dug between its lips.

The Death-bed Horrors of a Guilty Conscience.
Bring me unto my trial when you will.

Died he not in his bed? where should he die?
Can I make men live, whe'r they will or no?—
O! torture me no more, I will confess.-
Alive again? then show me where he is;
I'll give a thousand pound to look upon him.-
He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them.-
Comb down his hair; look! look! it stands upright,
Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul!-
Give me some drink and bid the apothecary
Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.

Acr IV.
Night.

The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day
Is crept into the bosom of the sea;

And now loud howling wolves arouse the jades
That drag the tragic melancholy night;

Who with their drowsy, slow, and flagging wings
Clip dead men's graves, and from their misty jaws.
Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air.

Kent,

:

Kent, in the commentaries Cæsar writ, Is term'd the civil'st place of all this isle Sweet is the country, because full of riches The people liberal, valiant, active, wealthy.

Lord Say's Apology for himself.

;

Justice with favour have I always done;
Prayers and tears have moved me, gifts could never.
When have I aught exacted at your hands,
Kent to maintain, the king, the realm, and you?
Large gifts have I bestow'd on learned clerks,
Because my book preferr❜d me to the king:
And-seeing ignorance is the curse of God,
Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven,—
Unless you be possess'd with devilish spirits,
You cannot but forbear to murder me.

The Third Part of King Henry the Sixth continues the history of that monarch and Queen Margaret from the battle of St. Albans. It records the battles of Wakefield, Towton, Barnet, and Tewksbury, and concludes with the murder of King Henry the Sixth in the Tower by the Duke of Glo'ster, afterwards Richard the Third, and the occupation of the throne by Edward the Fourth.

Аст І.

The Transports of a Crown.

Do but think,

How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown;

Within whose circuit is Elysium,
And all that poets feign of bliss and joy.

A Hungry Lion described.

So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch
That trembles under his devouring paws:
And so he walks, insulting o'er his prey:
And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder.

The Duke of York on the gallant Behaviour of his
Sons.

My sons-God knows what hath bechanced them:
But this I know,-They have demean'd themselves
Like men born to renown, by life or death.
Three times did Richard make a lane to me;
And thrice cried,—“Courage, father! fight it out!”
And full as oft came Edward to my side,
With purple falchion, painted to the hilt
In blood of those that had encounter'd him :
And when the hardiest warriors did retire,
Richard cried "Charge! and give no foot of ground!"
And cried-" A crown, or else a glorious tomb!

A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre!”

With this, we charged again: but, out, alas!
We bodg'd* again; as I have seen a swan
With bootless labour swim against the tide,
And spend her strength with overmatching waves.

A Father's Passion on the Murder of a Favourite Child.
O, tiger's heart, wrapp'd in a woman's hide!
How couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child,
To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,

* That is, we boggled, made bad or bungling work of our attempt to rally.