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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 bro'her 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 tiines, During the wars of York and Lancaster, That had befallin 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 water in my ears ! What sights of ugly death within mine eyes! Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks; A thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upon;, Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, Inestiinable stones, uuvalued jewels; All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea. Seme lay in dead men's sculls; and in those holes Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept, As 'twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems, That wood the slimy bottom of ihe deep, And mock'd the dead bones that lay scaiter'd by.

Brak. Had you such leisure in the tinie of death,
To gaze upon the secreis 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 forih
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 with this sore agony?
CLAR. O no; my dream was lengthen'd after life;

O then began the tempest to my soul :
I pass’d, methought, the melancholy floed,
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 cry'd 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' 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 to your torments!”.
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, that it affrighted you;
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.

CLAR. O, Brakenbury, I have done those things
That rrow 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 atone :
0 spare my guiltless wife, and my poor children !
1 prithee, Brakenbury, stay by me:
My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep,

SHAKSPEARE.

N

1

CHAPTER XXIII.

QUEEN MAR.

Then, I see, Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman;
Drawn with a team of little atomies,
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep:
Her waggon-spekes made of long spinners' legs;
The cover of the wings of grasshoppers ;
'The traces of the smallest spider's web;
The collars of the no. nshine's watery beams;
Her whip of cricket's bones; the lash of filin ;
Her waggoner a-small.gray-coated gnat, ,
Not half so big as. a round little worm,
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid.
Jler chariot is an empty hazel-nut,
Made by the joiner squirrel, or old gruh,
Time out of mind the fairies' coachmakers.
And in this state she gallops, night by night,
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love:
On courriers' knees, that dream on curtsies straight:
O’er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees :
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream :
Sometimes she gallops o’er a courtier's nose,
And then dreans he of smelling out a suit:
And sour:etimes comes she with a title-pig's tail,
Tickling the parson as he lies asleep;

Then dreams he of another benefice.
Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And then he dreams of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep, and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes;
And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,
And sleeps again.

SNAKSPEARE.

CHAPTER XXIV.

APOTHECARY.

I do remember an apothecary,
And hereabouts he dwells, whom late I noted
In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows,
Culling of simples; meagre were his looks;
Sharp misery had worn him to the bones:
And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,
An alligator stuff'd, and other skins
Of ill-shap'd fishes; and about his shelves
A beggarly account of empty boxes ;
Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,
Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses,
Were thinly scatter'd to make up a show.
Noting this penury, to myself I said,
An' if a man did need a poison now,
Whose sale is present death in Mantua,
Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.
Oh, this same thought did but fore-run my need,
And this same needy man must sell it me.
As I remember, this should be the house.

SHAKSPEARS.

CHAPTER XXV.

ODE TO EVENING.

Ir aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, cbaste Eve, to sooth thy modest ear,

Like thy own solemn springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales;
O Nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-baird sun
Sits on yon' western tent, whose cloudy skirts

With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed :

Now air is hush’d, save where the weak-ey'd bat,
With short shrill shrieks flits by on leathern wing,

Or where the beetle winds

His small but sullen hora,
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum;

Now teach me, maid compos’d,

To breathe some soften'd strain,
Whose numbers, stealing through thy dark’ning vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit,

As musing slow, I hail

Thy genial lov'd return!
For when thy folding star arising shows
His paly circlet, at'hiş warning lamp

The fragrant Hours, and Elves

Who slept in flow'rs the day, And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the fresh’ning dew, and, lovelier still,

The pensive Pleasures sweet

Prepare thy shadowy car.
Then lead, calm vot'ress, where some sheety lake
Cheers tbe lone heath, or some time-hallow'd pile,

Or upland fallous gray

Reflect its last cool gleam,
But when chill blast'rịng winds, or driving rain,
Forbid my willing feel; be mine the hui,

That from the mountain's side

Views wilds, and swelling floods,
And hamlers brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o’er all

Thy dewy fiogers draw

The gradual duskyweil.
While Spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!

While Summer loves to sport
Beneath iby ling’ring light;

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