With tearful eyes add water to the sea,
And give more strength to that which hath too much;
While, in his moan, the ship splits on the rock,
Which industry and courage might have saved?
Ah, what a shame! ah, what a fault were this!

Say, Warwick was our anchor; What of that?
And Montague our top-mast; What of him?
Our slaughter'd friends the tackles; What of these?
Why, is not Oxford here another anchor?
And Somerset another goodly mast;
The friends of France our shrouds and tacklings?
And, though unskilful, why not Ned and I
For once allow'd the skilful pilot's charge?
We will not from the helm, to sit and weep;
But keep our course, though the rough wind say—No,
From shelves and rocks that threaten us with wreck.
As good to chide the waves, as speak them fair.

And what is Edward, but a ruthless sea?
What Clarence, but a quicksand of deceit?
And Richard, but a ragged fatal rock?
All these the enemies to our poor bark.
Say, you can swim; alas, 't is but a while:
Tread on the sand; why, there you quickly sink:
Bestride the rock; the tide will wash you off:
Or else you famish:—that's a threefold death.
This speak I, lords, to let you understand,
In case some one of you would fly from us,
That there's no hoped-for mercy with the brothers,
More than with ruthless waves, with sands, and rocks.
Why, courage, then! what cannot be avoided,
'T were childish weakness to lament, or fear.


K. Hen. Wherefore dost thou come? is't for my life?

Glo. Think'st thou I am an executioner?

K. Hen. A persecutor, I am sure, thou art:
If murdering innocents be executing,
Why then thou art an executioner.

Glo. Thy son I kill'd for his presumption.

K. Hen. Hadst thou been kill'd, when first thou didst presume, Thou hadst not lived to kill a son of mine. And thus I prophesy,—.that many a thousand,

Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear;

And many an old man's sigh, and many a widow's,

And many an orphan's water-standing eye,—

Men for their sons, wives for their husbands' fate,

And orphans for their parents' timeless death,—

Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast horn.

The owl shriek'd at thy birth, an evil sign;

The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time;

Dogs howl'd, and hideous tempests shook down trees;

The raven rook'd her on the chimney's top;

And chattering pies in dismal discords sung.

Thy mother felt more than a mother's pain,

And yet brought forth less than a mother's hope;

To wit,—an indigest deformed lump,

Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree.

Teeth hadst thou in thy head, when thou wast born,

To signify,—thou cam'st to bite the world:

And, if the rest be true which I have heard,

Thou cam'st

Glo. I '11 hear no more;—Die, prophet, in thy speech;

\Stdba him. For this, amongst the rest, was I ordain'd.



Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds, that lour'd upon our house,
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now,—instead of mounting barbed steeds,
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,—
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber,
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I,—that am not shaped for sportive tricks,

Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;

I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty,

To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;

I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,

Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,

Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time

Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,

And that so lamely and unfashionable,

That dogs bark at me, as I halt by them ;—

Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,

Have no delight to pass away the time;

Unless to spy my shadow in the sun,

And descant on mine own deformity;

And therefore,—since I cannot prove a lover,

To entertain these fair well-spoken days,—

I am determined to prove a villain,

And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

Richmond's Address To His Followers.

Fellows in arms, and my most loving friends,
Bruised underneath the yoke of tyranny,
Thus far into the bowels of the land
Have we march'd on without impediment;
And here receive we from our father Stanley
Lines of fair comfort and encouragement.
The wretched, bloody, and usurping boar,
That spoil'd your summer fields, and fruitful vines,
Swills your warm blood like wash, and makes his trough
In your embowell'd bosoms, this foul swine
Lies now even in the centre of this isle,
Near to the town of Leicester, as we learn:
From Tamworth thither, is but one day's march.
In God's name, cheerly on, courageous friends,
To reap the harvest of perpetual peace
By this one bloody trial of sharp war.

The weary sun hath made a golden set,
And, by the bright track of his fiery car,
Gives token of a goodly day to-morrow.—
Sir William Brandon, you shall bear my standard.—
Give me some ink and paper in my tent;—
I 'll draw the form and model of our battle,
Limit each leader to his several charge,
And part in just proportion our small power.


Give me another horse,—bind up my wounds,—
Have mercy, Jesu !—Soft; I did but dream.—.

O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me !—
The lights burn blue.—It is now dead midnight.
Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.
What do I fear? myself? there 's none else by:
Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I.

Is there a murderer here? No ;—Yes; I am:

Then fly,—What, from myself? Great reason: Why \

Lest I revenge. What? Myself on myself?

1 love myself. Wherefore? for any good, That I myself have done unto myself?

O, no: alas, I rather hate myself,

For hateful deeds committed by myself.

I am a villain: Yet I lie, I am not.
Fool, of thyself speak well:—Fool, do not flatter.
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale,
And every tale condemns me for a villain.
Perjury, perjury, in the highest degree;
Murder, stern murder, in the direst degree;
All several sins, all used in each degree;
Throng to the bar, crying all,—Guilty! guilty!
I shall despair.—There is no creature loves me;
And, if I die, no soul will pity me :—
Nay, wherefore should they? since that I myself
Find in myself no pity to myself.
Methought the souls of all that I had murder'd
Came to my tent; and every one did threat
To-morrow's vengeance on the head of Richard.



K. Hen. Things done well,
And with a care, exempt themselves from fear:
Things done without example, in their issue
Are to be fear'd. Have you a precedent

Of this commission? I believe, not any.
We must not rend our subjects from our laws,
And stick them in our will. Sixth part of each?
A trembling contribution! Why, we take,
From every tree, lop, bark, and part o' the timber;
And, though we leave it with a root, thus hack'd,
The air will drink the sap. To every county,
Where this is question'd, send our letters, with
Free pardon to each man that has denied
The force of this commission: Pray, look to't:
I put it to your care.

Wol. A word with you. [_To the Secretary.

Let there be letters writ to every shire,
Of the king's grace and pardon. The grieved Commons
Hardly conceive of me; let it be noised,
That, through our intercession, this revokement
And pardon comes: I shall anon advise you
Further in the proceeding.


All good people, You that thus far have come to pity me, Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me. I have this day received a traitor's judgment, And by that name must die; Yet, heaven bear witness, And, if I have a conscience, let it sink me, Even as the axe falls, if I be not faithful! The law I bear no malice for my death; It has done, upon the premises, but justice. But those that sought it I could wish more Christians: Be what they will, I heartily forgive them: Yet let them look they glory not in mischief, Nor build their evils on the graves of great men; For then my guiltless blood must cry against them.

For further life in this world I ne'er hope, Nor will I sue, although the king have mercies More than I dare make faults. You few that loved me, And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham, His noble friends, and fellows, whom to leave Is only bitter to him, only dying, Go with me, like good angels, to my end; And, as the long divorce of steel falls on me,

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