Have no delight to pass away my hours,
Unless to see my shadow in the sun,
And descant on my own deformity:

Then, since this earth affords no joy to me,
But to command, to check, and o'erbear such
As are of happier person than myself;
Why, then, to me this restless world's but hell,
Till this mis-shapen trunk's aspiring head
Be circled in a glorious diadem—

But then 'tis fix'd on such a height ;-oh, I
Must stretch the utmost reaching of my soul!

I'll climb betimes, without remorse or drend,
And my first step shall be on Henry's head. [Exit.

SCENE III.

A Chamber in the Tower

KING HENRY, sleeping on a Couch.

Enter LIEUTENANT.

Lieut. Asleep so soon! but sorrow minds no sea

sons;

The morning, noon, and night, with her's the same; She's fond of any hour, that yields repose.

K. Hen. Who's there? Lieutenant! is it you? Come hither!

Lieut. You shake, my lord, and look affrighted! K. Hen. Oh! I have had the fearfull'st dream! such sights,

That, as I live,

I would not pass another hour so dreadful,
Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days.
Reach me a book-I'll try if reading can
Divert these melancholy thoughts.

Enter GLOSTER.

Glost. Good day, my lord; what, at your book so hard?

I disturb you.

K. Hen. You do indeed.

Glost. Friend, leave us to ourselves; we must confer.

K. Hen. What bloody scene has Roscius now to act? [Exit LIEUTENant. Glost. Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind: The thief does fear each bush an officer.

K. Hen. Where thieves, without controlment, rob and kill,

The traveller does fear each bush a thief:

The poor bird, that has been already lim'd,
With trembling wings misdoubts of every bush;
And I, the hapless male of one sweet bird,
Have now the fatal object in my eye,

By whom my young one bled, was caught, and kill'd.

Glost. Why, what a peevish fool was that of Crete,

That taught his son the office of a fowl!

And yet, for all his wings, the fool was drown'd: Thou shouldst have taught thy boy his prayers alone,

And then he had not broke his neck with climbing. K. Hen. Ah! kill me with thy weapon, not thy

words;

My breast can better brook thy dagger's point,

Than can my ears that piercing story;

But wherefore dost thou come? is't for my life?
Glost. Think'st thou I am an executioner ?

K. Hen. If murdering innocents be executing,
Then thou'rt the worst of executioners.

Glost. Thy son I kill'd for his presumption. K. Hen. Hadst thou been kill'd, when first thou didst presume,

Thou hadst not liv'd to kill a son of mine:

But thou wert born to massacre mankind.
How many old men's sighs, and widow's moans;
How many orphans' water-standing eyes;
Men for their sons, wives for their husbands' fate,
And children for their parents' timeless death,
Will rue the hour that ever thou wert born!
The owl shriek'd at thy birth-an evil sign!
The night-crow cry'd, foreboding luckless time;
Dogs howl'd, and hideous tempests shook down trees;
The raven rook'd her on the chimney top,
And chattering pies in dismal discord sung;
Thy mother felt more than a mother's pain,
And yet brought forth less than a mother's hope.
Teeth hadst thou in thy head, when thou wert born,
Which plainly said, thou cam'st to bite mankind;
And, if the rest be true, which I have heard,

Thou cam'st

Glost. I'll hear no more-Die, prophet, in thy speech;

For this, amongst the rest, I was ordain'd. [ Stabs him. K. Hen. Oh! and for much more slaughter after

this;

Just Heav'n forgive my sins, and pardon thee! [Dies. Glost. What! will the aspiring blood of Lancaster Sink in the ground?—I thought it would have mounted.

See how my sword weeps for the poor king's death! Oh may such purple tears be always shed,

From those, who wish the downfall of our house!
If any spark of life be yet remaining,

Down, down to hell, and say I sent thee thither;
I, that have neither pity, love, nor fear:
Indeed 'tis true, what Henry told me of;
For I have often heard my mother say,
I came into the world with my legs forward;
The midwife wonder'd, and the women cry'd,
Good Heaven bless us! he is born with teeth!
And so I was, which plainly signify'd,

That I should snarl, and bite, and play the dog.
Then since the Heav'ns have shaped my body so,
Let hell make crook'd my mind, to answer it;
I have no brother, am like no brother,

And this word love, which grey-beards call divine,
Be resident in men, like one another,
And not in me-I am-myself alone.

Clarence, beware, thou keep'st me from the light;
But if I fail not in my deep intent,

Thou'st not another day to live; which done, Heav'n take the weak King Edward to his mercy, And leave the world for me to bustle in:

But soft-I'm sharing spoil, before the field is won. Clarence still breathes, Edward still lives and

reigns;

When they are gone, then must I count my gains. [Exit.

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.

St. Paul's.

Enter TRESSEL, meeting LORD STANLEY.

Tressel. My lord, your servant; pray what brought you to St. Paul's?

Stanley. I came among the crowd, to see the corpse Of poor King Henry; 'tis a dismal sight; But yesterday I saw him in the Tower; His talk is still so fresh within my memory, That I could weep, to think how fate has us'd him. I wonder where's Duke Richard's policy,

In suffering him to lie expos'd to view;

Can he believe that men will love him for't? Tressel. O yes, sir, love him, as he loves his brothers.

When was you with King Edward, pray, my lord?
I hear he leaves his food, is melancholy;
And his physicians fear him mightily.

Stanley. 'Tis thought he'll scarce recover.
Shall we to court, and hear more news of him?
Tressel. I am oblig'd to pay attendance here:
The lady Anne has license to remove

King Henry's corpse to be interred at Chertsey,
And I'm engaged to follow her.

Stanley. Mean you King Henry's daughter in law?
Tressel. The same, sir, widow to the late Prince
Edward,

Whom Gloster kill'd at Tewksbury.

Stanley. Alas! poor lady! She's severely used!