Obrázky na stránke
PDF
ePub

From KING RICHARD III.

79.-Clarence's Dream.-Act I. Sc. 4.

CLARENCE and BRAKENBURY.

Brak. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day?
Clar. O, I have pass'd 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 't were 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 Gloster:

Who from my cabin tempted me to walk

Upon the hatches; there we look'd toward England,
And cited up a thousand heavy times,

During the wars of York and Lancaster
That had befall'n us. As we pac'd along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,

Methought that Gloster 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 water in mine ears!
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes!
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wracks;
A thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upon;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,

All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea.

Some lay in dead men's skulls; and in those holes
Where eyes did once inhabit there were crept,
As 't were 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 these secrets of the deep?
Clar. Methought I had; and often did I strive

To yield the ghost: but still the envious flood
Stopt in my soul, and would not let it forth
To find the empty, vast, and wand'ring air:

But smother'd it within my panting bulk,
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.
Brak. Awak'd you not in this sore agony?
Clar. No, no, my dream was lengthen'd after life:
O, then began the tempest to my soul!
I pass'd, 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 vanish'd: Then came wandering by
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood; and he shriek'd out aloud,-
"Clarence is come,-false, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence,-
That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury ;-
Seize on him, furies, take him unto torment!".
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Environ'd me, and howled 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, though it affrighted you;
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.
Clar. O, Brakenbury, 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 aveng'd on my misdeeds,
Yet execute thy wrath on me alone:

O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children!
I pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me;
My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

From KING HENRY VIII.

80.- Wolsey and Cromwell.-Act III. Sc. 2.

Wol. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hopes, 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
This 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 open'd: O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.—

*

*

*

*

* * Why, how now, Cromwell?

Crom. I have no power to speak, sir.

Wol.

Crom.

Wol.

What, amaz'd

At my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder
A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep,
I am fallen indeed.

How does your grace?

Why, well;

Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.
I know myself now; and I feel within me
A peace above all earthly dignities,

A still and quiet conscience. The king has cur'd me,
I humbly thank his grace; and from these shoulders,
These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken

A load would sink a navy, too much honour:
O, 't is a burden, Cromwell, 't is a burden,
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven.

[blocks in formation]

*

*

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear

In all my miseries; but thou hast forc'd me

Out of thy honest truth to play the woman.

Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And,-when I am forgotten, as I shall be ;
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of,-say, I taught thee;
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,—
Found thee a way, out of his wrack, to rise in ;

A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition;
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't?
Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not :
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,

Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king;

And,-Prithee, lead me in :

There take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny; 't is the king's: my robe,
And my integrity to heaven, is all

I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I serv❜d my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.

81.-Death of Queen Katharine.-Act IV. Sc. 2.

KATHARINE and CAPUCIUS.

Kath. Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver

This to my lord the king.

Cap.
Most willing, madam.
Kath. In which I have commended to his goodness
The model of our chaste loves, his young daughter:
The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on her!-
Beseeching him, to give her virtuous breeding;
(She is young, and of a noble modest nature;
I hope, she will deserve well;) and a little
To love her for her mother's sake, that lov'd him,
Heaven knows how dearly. My next poor petition
Is, that his noble grace would have some pity
Upon my wretched women, that so long
Have follow'd both my fortunes faithfully:
Of which there is not one, I dare avow,
(And now I should not lie,) but will deserve,
For virtue, and true beauty of the soul,
For honesty, and decent carriage,

A right good husband, let him be a noble ;

And, sure, those men are happy that shall have them.

Cap.

The last is, for my men ;-they are the poorest,
But poverty could never draw them from me;—
That they may have their wages duly paid them,
And something over to remember me by ;
If heaven had pleas'd to have given me longer life,
And able means, we had not parted thus.
These are the whole contents :-And, good my lord,
By that you love the dearest in this world,
As you wish christian peace to souls departed,
Stand these poor people's friend, and urge the king
To do me this last right.

By heaven, I will;
Or let me lose the fashion of a man!

Kath. I thank you, honest lord. Remember me
In all humility unto his highness:

Say, his long trouble now is passing

Out of this world: tell him, in death I bless'd him,
For so I will.-Mine eyes grow dim.—Farewell,
My lord.—Griffith, farewell.-Nay, Patience,
You must not leave me yet. I must to bed;
Call in more women.-When I am dead, good wench,
Let me be us'd with honour; strew me over
With maiden flowers, that all the world may know
I was a chaste wife to my grave: embalm me,
Then lay me forth: although unqueen'd, yet like
A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me.
I can no more.

Hor.

C.-TRAGEDIES.

From HAMLET.

82.- Hamlet and the Ghost.-Act I. Sc. 4.

HAMLET, HORATIO, and MARCELLUS.

Enter GHOST.

Look, my lord, it comes!

Ham. Angels and ministers of grace defend us!

Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damnʼd,

Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell,

Be thy intents wicked, or charitable,

Thou com'st in such a questionable shape,

That I will speak to thee; I'll call thee, Hamlet,

King, father, royal Dane: O, answer me:

« PredošláPokračovať »