Brak. No marvel, Lord, that it affrighted you; I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.

Clar. Ah! Brakenbury, I have done thofe 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 guiltlefs wife, and my poor children!
I pr'ythee, Brakenbury, ftay by me;

[reft!

[Afide.

My foul is heavy, and I fain would fleep.

Brak. I will, my Lord. God give your Grace good

Sorrow breaks feasons and repofing hours,

Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night.

An outward honour, for an inward toil;
And, for unfelt imaginations,

Princes have but their titles for their glories,

They often feel a world of restless cares :
So that between their titles, and low name,
There's nothing differs but the outward fame.
SCENE VI.

1 Vil. Ho, who's there?

Enter the two Villains.

Brak. In God's name, what art thou? how cam'ft thou hither?

2 Vil. I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs.

Brak. What, fo brief?

1 Vil. 'Tis better, Sir, than to be tedious. Let him fee our commiffion, and talk no more.

Brak. [Reads.] I am in this commanded to deliver The Noble Duke of Clarence to your hands.

I will not reafon what is meant hereby,
Because I will be guiltlefs of the meaning.
There lies the Duke asleep, and there the keys.
I'll to the King, and fignify to him,

That thus I have refign'd to you my charge.

[Exit.

1 Vil You may, Sir, 'tis a point of wifdom: fare you well.

2 Vil. What, fhall we stab him as he fleeps? 1 Vil. No; he'll fay, 'twas done cowardly when he wakes.

2 Vil. When he wakes! why, fool, 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 remorie in me.

1 Vil. What? art thou afraid?

2 Vil. Not to kill him, having a warrant for it: but to be damn'd for killing him, from the which no warrant can defend me.

fo.

1 Vil. I'll back to the Duke of Glo'fter, and tell him

2 Vil. Nay, pr'ythee, ftay a little: I hope this holy humour of mine will change; it was wont to hold me but while one would tell twenty.

1 Vil. How doft thou feel thyself now?

2 Vil. 'Faith, fome certain dregs of confcience are yet within me.

1 Vil. Remember the reward when the deed's done. 2 Vil. Come, he dies. I had forgot the reward. 1 Vil. Where's thy conscience now?

2 Vil. O, in the Duke of Glo'fter's purse.

1 Vil. When he opens his purse to give us our reward, thy conscience flies out.

2 Vil. 'Tis no matter, let it go; there's few or none will entertain it.

1 Vil. What if it come to thee again?

2 Vil. I'll not meddle with it; it is a dangerous thing, it makes a man a coward. A man cannot fteal, but it accuseth him; a man cannot swear, but it checks him; a man cannot lie with his neighbour's wife, but it detects him. 'Tis a blushing fhame-fac'd spirit, that mutinies in a man's bofom: It fills one full of obftacles. 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 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, perfuading me not to kill the Duke.

2 Vil. Take the devil in thy mind, and believe it not: It would infinuate with thee but to make thee figh. 1 Vil. I am strong-fram'd, he cannot prevail with me.

2 Vil, Spoke like a tall fellow, that refpects his reputation. Come, fhall we fall to work?

1 Vil. Take him over the coftard with the hilt of thy fword, and then throw him into the malmfie-but in the

next room.

2 Vil. O excellent device, and make a fop of him, 1 Vil. Soft, he wakes. Shall I ftrike?

2 Vil. No; we'll reafon with him.

Clar. Where art thou, keeper? give me a cup of

wine.

2 Vil. You fhall have wine enough, my Lord, anon. Clar. In God's name, what art thou?

1 Vil. A man, as you are.

Clar. But not, as I am, royal.

1 Vil. Nor you, as we are, loyal.

Clar. Thy voice is thunder, but thy looks are humble.

1 Vil. My voice is now the King's, my looks mine

own.

Clar. How darkly and how deadly doft thou speak? Your eyes do menace me: why look you pale? Who fent you hither? wherefore do you come? Both. To, to, to

Clar. To murther me?

Both. Ay, ay.

Clar. You fcarcely have the hearts to tell me fo! And therefore cannot have the hearts to do it. Wherein, my friends, have I offended you?

1 Vil. Offended us you have not, but the King. Clar. I fhall be reconcil'd to him again.

2 Vil. Never, my Lord; therefore prepare to die.
Clar. Are you call'd forth from out a world of men,
To flay the innocent? what's my offence?
Where is the evidence that doth accufe me?
What lawful quest have giv'n their verdict up
Unto the frowning judge? or who pronounc'd
The bitter fentence of poor Clarence' death?
Before I be convict by courfe of law,

To threaten the with death, is moft unlawful.
I charge you, as you hope to have redemption,
That you depart, and lay no hands on me.
The deed you undertake is damnable.

1 Vil. What we will do, we do upon command. 2 Vil. And he that hath commanded, is our King. Clar. Erroneous vaffals! the great King of Kings Hath in the table of his law commanded,

That thou shalt do no murther; will you then
Spurn at his edict, and fulfil a man's?

Take heed, for he holds vengeance in his hand,
To hurl upon their heads that break his law.

2 Vil. And that fame vengeance doth he hurl on thee For falfe forfwearing, and for murther too. Thou didst receive the facrament, to fight

In quarrel of the houfe of Lancaster,

i Vil. And, like a traitor to the name of God, Didft break that vow, and with thy treacherous blade Unripp'dft the bowels of thy Sovereign's fon.

2 Vil. Whom thou wert iworn to cherish and defend. 1 Vil. How canft thou urge God's dreadful law to us, When thou haft broke it in fuch high degree?

Clar. Alas! for whofe fake did I that ill deed?
For Edward, for my brother, for his fake.
He fends you not to murther me for this;
For in that fin he is as deep as I.

If God will be avenged for the deed *,
Take not the quarrel from his powerful arm.
He needs no indirect nor lawless course,
To cut off thofe that have offended him.

1 Vil. Who made thee then a bloody minifter, When gallant-fpringing brave Plantagenet, 1 hat princely novice, was ftruck dead by thee? Clar. My brother's love, the devil, and my rage. 1 Vil. Thy brother's love, our duty, and thy fault, Provoke us hither now, to flaughter thee.

Clar. If you do love my brother, hate not me.

I am his brother, and I love him well.

If you are hir'd for meed, go back again,
And I will fend you to my brother Glo'ster,
Who will reward you better for my life,
Than Edward will for tidings of my death.

for the deed,

O, know you yet, he doth it publicly;
Take not the quarrel, &c.

2 Vil. You are deceiv'd; your brother Glo'ster hates

you.

Clar. Oh, no, he loves me, and he holds me dear. Go you to him from me.

Both. Ay, fo we will.

Clar. Tell him, when that our princely father York Blefs'd his three fons with his victorious arm,

And charg'd us from his foul to love each other,
He little thought of this divided friendship.
Bid Glo'fter think on this, and he will weep.

1 Vil. Ay, milftones, as he leffon'd us to weep.
Clar. O do not flander him, for he is kind.

1 Vil. As fnow in harveft :- you deceive yourself; 'Tis he that fends us to destroy you here.

Clar. It cannot be, for he bewept my fortune, And hugg'd me in his arms, and fwore with fobs. That he would labour my delivery.

2 Vil. Why, fo he doth, when he delivers you From this earth's thraldom to the joys of heav'n.

2 Vil. Make peace with God, for you rauft die, my Lord.

Clar. Have you that holy feeling in your foul,
To counfel me to make my peace with God,
And are you yet to your own fouls fo blind,
That you will war with God, by murd'ring me !
(Sirs, confider, they that fet you on

To do this deed, will hate you for the deed.
2 Vil. What fhall we do?

Clar. Relent, and fave your fouls *.

Vil. Relent? 'tis cowardly and womanish, Clar. Not to relent, is beastly, favage, devilish, My friend, I fpy fome pity in thy looks..

O, if thine eye be not a flatterer,

and fave your fouls.

Which of you, if you were a prince's fon,
Being pan from liberty, as I am now,

If two tuch murtherers as yourselves came to you,
Would not intreat for life? hr! you would beg
Were you in my distress

1 Vil. Relent? &c.