That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,
And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,
Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,
And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody?
Oh, thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile,
In loathsome beds,-and leav'st the kingly couch,
A watch-case, or a common larum-bell?
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast

up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge, -
And in the visitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deafʼning clamours in the slippery clouds,
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes,-
Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,
And, in the calmest, and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king ?—Then, happy, low, lie down:
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

Thomas OF CLARENCE, the LORD CHIEF JUSTICE, and the Pages. P. Humph. What would your grace?

K. Hen. Humphrey, my son of Gloster. Where is the prince your brother ? P. Humph. I think, he's gone to hunt, my lord, at

Windsor. K. Hen. And how accompanied ? P. Humph. I do not know, my lord. K. Hen. Is not his brother, Thomas of Clarence,

with him?

P. Humph. No, my good lord; he is in presence here.

P. Thon. What would my lord and father?
K. Hen. Nothing but well to thee, Thomas of

How chance, thou art not with the prince thy bro-

ther? He loves thee, and thou dost neglect him, Thomas; Thou hast a better place in his affection, Than all thy brothers : cherish it, my boy: And noble offices thou may'st effect Of mediation, after I am dead, Between his greatness and thy other brethren. Therefore, omit him not; blunt not his love; Nor lose the good advantage of his grace, By seeming cold, or careless of his will: For he is gracious, if he be observ'd; He hath a tear for pity, and a hand Open as day for melting charity: Yet, notwithstanding, being incens'd, he's Aint ; As humorous as winter, and as sudden As flaws congealed in the spring of day. His temper, therefore, must be well observ'd:Chide him for faults, and do it reverently, When you perceive his blood inclin’d to mirth: But, being moody, give him line and scope; Till that his passions, like a whale on ground, Confound themselves with working. Learn this,

Thomas, And thou shalt prove a shelter to thy friends ; A hoop of gold, to bind thy brothers in; That the united vessel of their blood, Mingled with venom of suggestion, (As force perforce, the age will pour it in,) Shall never leak, though it do work as strong As aconitum, or rash gunpowder. P. Thom. I shall observe him with all care and



K. Hen. Why art thou not at Windsor with him,

P. Thom. He is not there to day; he dines in Lon.

don. K. Hen. And how accompanied ? P. Thom. With Poins, and other his continual fol

lowers. K. Hen. Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds; And he, the noble image of my youth, Is overspread with them: Therefore my grief Stretches itself beyond the hour of death; The blood weeps from my heart, when I do shape, In forms imaginary, the unguided days, And rotten times, that

shall look upon When I am sleeping with my ancestors. Ch. Just. My gracious lord, you look beyond him

quite : The prince but studies his companions, Like a strange tongue: wherein, to gain the language, 'Tis needful, that the most immodest word Be look'd upon and learn'd; which once attain’d, Comes to no further use, But to be known, and hated. So, like gross terms, The prince will, in the perfectness of time, Cast off his followers: and their memory Shall as a pattern or a measure live, By which his grace must mete the lives of others; Turning past evils to advantages. K. Hen. 'Tis seldom, when the bee doth leave her

comb In the dead carrion.

Enter EARL OF WESTMORELAND, with Letters. Who's here?-Westmoreland ?

West. Health to my sovereign ! and new happiness Added to that which I am to deliver ! Prince John, your son, doth kiss your grace's hand: Mowbray, the bishop Scroop, Hastings, and all,

Are brought to the correction of your law ;
There is not now a rebel's sword unsheath’d,
But peace puts forth her olive every where.
The manner how this action hath been borne,
Here, at more leisure, may your highness read;
With every course, in his particular.

K. Hen. O Westmoreland, thou art a summer bird,
Which ever in the haunch of winter sings
The lifting up of day.-
And wherefore should these good news make me

Will fortune never come with both hands full?
I should rejoice now at this happy news ;
And now my sight fails, and my brain is giddy:--
O me! come near me, now I am much ill.

[Sinks down.
P. Humph. Comfort, your majesty!
P. Thom. O my royal father!
Ch. Just. Be patient, princes ; you do know these

Are with his highness very ordinary.
Stand from him, give him air; he'll straight be well.
P. Thom. No, no; he cannot long hold out these

pangs. Ch. Just. Speak lower, princes, for the king reco



K. Hen. I pray you, bear me to my couch, my

[They support the King to his Couch. Softly, prayLet there be no noise made, my gentle friends; Unless some dull and favourable hand Will whisper music to my weary spirit. West. Call for the music in the other room.

[Exeunt Pages. K. Hen. Set me the crown upon my pillow here.

(WESTMORELAND puts the Crown on the Pillow. P. Thom. His eye is hollow, and he changes much. Ch. Just. Less noise, less noise. [Music without.

P. Hen. Who'saw my brother Clarences
P. Thom. I am here, brother.
P. Hen. How doth the king ?
P. Humph. Exceeding ill.

P. Hen. Heard he the good news yet?
Tell it him.

P. Humph. He alter'd much upon the hearing it.
West. Not so much noise, my lords :---sweet prince,

speak low;
The king your father is dispos’d to sleep.

P. Thom. Let us withdraw into the other room.
West. Will't please your grace to go along with us?
P. Hen. No; I will sit and watch here by the
king. -

(Exeunt all but the Prince,
Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow,
Being so troublesome a bedfellow?
O polish'd perturbation; golden care!
That keep’st the ports of slumber open wide
To many a watchful night!, sleep with it now!
Yet not so sound, and half so deeply sweet,
As he, whose brow, with homely biggin bound,
Snores out the watch of night. O majesty!
When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit
Like a rich armour worn in heat of day,
That scalds with safety. By his gates of breath
There lies a downy feather, which stirs not:
Did he suspire, that light and weightless down
Perforce must move.--My gracious lord ! my fa-

This sleep is sound, indeed; this is a sleep,
That from this golden rigol hath divorc'd
So many English kings. Thy due, from me,
Is tears, and heavy sorrows of the blood,
Which nature, love, and filial tenderness,
Shall, O dear father, pay thee plenteously:
My due, from thee, is this imperial crown;

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