Why looks your Grace so heavily today?

O, I have passed a miserable night,

So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights,

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!

What was your dream, my lord? I pray you tell me.

Methoughts that I had broken from the Tower,

And was embarked to cross to Burgundy;

And in my company my brother Gloucester,

Who from my cabin tempted me to walk

Upon the hatches. Thence we looked toward England,

And cited up a thousand heavy times,

During the wars of York and Lancaster,

That had befall’n us. As we paced along

Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,

Methought that Gloucester stumbled, and in falling,

Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard

Into the tumbling billows of the main.

O Lord, methought what pain it was to drown,

What dreadful noise of waters in my ears;

What sights of ugly death within my eyes.

Methoughts I saw a thousand fearful wracks;

A thousand men that fishes gnawed upon;

Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,

Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,

All scattered in the bottom of the sea.

Some lay in dead men’s skulls, and in the holes

Where eyes did once inhabit there were crept—

As ’twere in scorn of eyes—reflecting gems,

That wooed the slimy bottom of the deep,

And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by.

Had you such leisure in the time of death

To gaze upon these secrets of the deep?

Methought I had; and often did I strive

To yield the ghost, but still the envious flood

Stopped in my soul, and would not let it forth

To find the empty, vast, and wand’ring air,

But smothered it within my panting bulk,

Who almost burst to belch it in the sea.

Awaked you not in this sore agony?

No, no, my dream was lengthened after life.

O, then began the tempest to my soul.

I passed, methought, the melancholy flood,

With that sour 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 spake aloud, “What scourge for perjury

Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?”

And so he vanished. Then came wand’ring by

A shadow like an angel, with bright hair

Dabbled in blood; and he shrieked out aloud

“Clarence is come—false, fleeting, perjured Clarence,

That stabbed me in the field by Tewksbury!

Seize on him, Furies! Take him unto torment!”

With that, methoughts, a legion of foul fiends

Environed me, and howled in mine ears

Such hideous cries that with the very noise

I trembling waked, and for a season after

Could not believe but that I was in hell,

Such terrible impression made my dream.

No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you;

I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.

Ah, Keeper, Keeper, I have done these things,

That now give evidence against my soul,

For Edward’s sake, and see how he requites me.

O God, if my deep prayers cannot appease Thee,

But Thou wilt be avenged on my misdeeds,

Yet execute Thy wrath in me alone;

O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children!

Keeper, I prithee sit by me awhile.

My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

I will, my lord; God give your Grace good rest.

Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours,

Makes the night morning, and the noontide 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 restless cares,

So that between their titles and low name,

There’s nothing differs but the outward fame.

Ho, who’s here?

What wouldst thou, fellow? And how cam’st thou hither?

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

What, so brief?

’Tis better, sir, than to be tedious. Let him see our commission, and

talk no more.

I am in this commanded to deliver

The noble Duke of Clarence to your hands.

I will not reason what is meant hereby,

Because I will be guiltless of the meaning.

There lies the Duke asleep, and there the keys.

I’ll to the King and signify to him

That thus I have resigned to you my charge.

You may, sir; ’tis a point of wisdom. Fare you well.

What, shall I stab him as he sleeps?

No. He’ll say ’twas done cowardly, when he wakes.

Why, he shall never wake until the great Judgement Day.

Why, then he’ll say we stabbed him sleeping.

The urging of that word “judgement” hath bred a kind of remorse in me.

What, art thou afraid?

Not to kill him, having a warrant, but to be damned for killing him,

from the which no warrant can defend me.

I thought thou hadst been resolute.

So I am—to let him live.

I’ll back to the Duke of Gloucester and tell him so.

Nay, I prithee stay a little. I hope this passionate humour will

change. It was wont to hold me but while one tells twenty.

How dost thou feel thyself now?

Faith, some certain dregs of conscience are yet within me.

Remember our reward, when the deed’s done.

Zounds, he dies! I had forgot the reward.

Where’s thy conscience now?

O, in the Duke of Gloucester’s purse.

So, when he opens his purse to give us our reward, thy conscience flies

out.

’Tis no matter; let it go. There’s few or none will entertain it.

What if it come to thee again?

I’ll not meddle with it; it makes a man coward. A man cannot steal 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

shamefaced spirit that mutinies in a man’s bosom. It fills a man 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 a dangerous thing; and every man that means to live well

endeavours to trust to himself and live without it.

Zounds, ’tis even now at my elbow, persuading me not to kill the Duke.

Take the devil in thy mind, and believe him not. He would insinuate

with thee but to make thee sigh.

I am strong-framed; he cannot prevail with me.

Spoke like a tall man that respects thy reputation. Come, shall we fall

to work?

Take him on the costard with the hilts of thy sword, and then throw him

in the malmsey-butt in the next room.

O excellent device—and make a sop of him.

Soft, he wakes.

Strike!

No, we’ll reason with him.

Where art thou, keeper? Give me a cup of wine.

You shall have wine enough, my lord, anon.

In God’s name, what art thou?

A man, as you are.

But not as I am, royal.

Nor you as we are, loyal.

Thy voice is thunder, but thy looks are humble.

My voice is now the King’s, my looks mine own.

How darkly and how deadly dost thou speak!

Your eyes do menace me; why look you pale?

Who sent you hither? Wherefore do you come?

To, to, to—

To murder me?

Ay, ay.

You scarcely have the hearts to tell me so,

And therefore cannot have the hearts to do it.

Wherein, my friends, have I offended you?

Offended us you have not, but the King.

I shall be reconciled to him again.

Never, my lord; therefore prepare to die.

Are you drawn forth among a world of men

To slay the innocent? What is my offence?

Where is the evidence that doth accuse me?

What lawful quest have given their verdict up

Unto the frowning judge? Or who pronounced

The bitter sentence of poor Clarence’ death?

Before I be convict by course of law,

To threaten me with death is most unlawful.

I charge you, as you hope to have redemption,

By Christ’s dear blood shed for our grievous sins,

That you depart, and lay no hands on me.

The deed you undertake is damnable.

What we will do, we do upon command.

And he that hath commanded is our King.

Erroneous vassals! The great King of kings

Hath in the table of his law commanded

That thou shalt do no murder. 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.

And that same vengeance doth He hurl on thee

For false forswearing, and for murder too.

Thou didst receive the sacrament to fight

In quarrel of the house of Lancaster.

And like a traitor to the name of God

Didst break that vow, and with thy treacherous blade

Unrippedst the bowels of thy sovereign’s son.

Whom thou wast sworn to cherish and defend.

How canst thou urge God’s dreadful law to us,

When thou hast broke it in such dear degree?

Alas, for whose sake did I that ill deed?

For Edward, for my brother, for his sake.

He sends you not to murder me for this,

For in that sin he is as deep as I.

If God will be avenged for the deed,

O, know you yet He doth it publicly;

Take not the quarrel from His powerful arm;

He needs no indirect or lawless course

To cut off those that have offended Him.

Who made thee then a bloody minister

When gallant-springing, brave Plantagenet,

That princely novice, was struck dead by thee?

My brother’s love, the devil, and my rage.

Thy brother’s love, our duty, and thy faults,

Provoke us hither now to slaughter thee.

If you do love my brother, hate not me.

I am his brother, and I love him well.

If you are hired for meed, go back again,

And I will send you to my brother Gloucester,

Who shall reward you better for my life

Than Edward will for tidings of my death.

You are deceived. Your brother Gloucester hates you.

O no, he loves me, and he holds me dear.

Go you to him from me.

Ay, so we will.

Tell him when that our princely father York

Blessed his three sons with his victorious arm,

And charged us from his soul to love each other,

He little thought of this divided friendship.

Bid Gloucester think of this, and he will weep.

Ay, millstones, as he lessoned us to weep.

O, do not slander him, for he is kind.

Right, as snow in harvest. Come, you deceive yourself.

’Tis he that sends us to destroy you here.

It cannot be, for he bewept my fortune,

And hugged me in his arms, and swore with sobs

That he would labour my delivery.

Why, so he doth, when he delivers you

From this earth’s thraldom to the joys of heaven.

Make peace with God, for you must die, my lord.

Have you that holy feeling in your souls

To counsel me to make my peace with God,

And are you yet to your own souls so blind

That you will war with God by murd’ring me?

O sirs, consider: they that set you on

To do this deed will hate you for the deed.

What shall we do?

Relent, and save your souls.

Relent? No, ’tis cowardly and womanish.

Not to relent is beastly, savage, devilish.

Which of you—if you were a prince’s son,

Being pent from liberty, as I am now—

If two such murderers as yourselves came to you,

Would not entreat for life? Ay, you would beg,

Were you in my distress.

My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks.

O, if thine eye be not a flatterer,

Come thou on my side, and entreat for me;

A begging prince what beggar pities not?

Look behind you, my lord.

Take that, and that! [_Stabs him._] If all this will not do,

I’ll drown you in the malmsey-butt within.

A bloody deed, and desperately dispatched.

How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands

Of this most grievous murder.

How now? What mean’st thou that thou help’st me not?

By heavens, the Duke shall know how slack you have been.

I would he knew that I had saved his brother.

Take thou the fee, and tell him what I say,

For I repent me that the Duke is slain.

So do not I. Go, coward as thou art.

Well, I’ll go hide the body in some hole

Till that the Duke give order for his burial.

And when I have my meed, I will away,

For this will out, and then I must not stay.