K. Rich. Discomfortable cousin! know'st thou not,

That when the searching eye of heaven is hid Behind the globe, and lights the lower world, Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen 40 In murders and in outrage, boldly here;

But when, from under this terrestrial ball,
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,2
And darts his light through every guilty hole,
Then murders, treasons, and detested sins,
45 The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their backs,
Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves?
So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke,—
Who all this while hath revell'd in the night,
Whilst we were wandering with the antipodes,”-
50 Shall see us rising in our throne, the east,
His treasons will sit blushing in his face,
Not able to endure the sight of day,
But, self-affrighted, tremble at his sin.
Not all the water in the rough rude sea
55 Can wash the balm* from an anointed" king,
The breath of worldly men cannot depose
The deputy elected by the Lord :

For every man that Bolingbroke hath press'd
To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown,
60 God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay
A glorious angel: then, if angels fight,

Weak men must fall; for heaven still guards the right.

LV.

A KING IN DESPAIR.

[King Richard, while at the front of a castle in Wales, is expecting the approach of Bolingbroke and rebel forces. Sir Stephen Scroop breaks to the King the evil news that the rebels find support on all hands. The Duke of Aumerle, son of the Duke of York, is present.]

K. Rich. Too well, too well, thou tell'st a tale so ill. Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? Where is Bagot? What is become of Bushy? where is Green ?1 That they have let the dangerous enemy

5 Measure our confines" with such peaceful steps ? If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it.

*

I warrant they have made peace with Bolingbroke. Scroop. Peace have they made with him, indeed, my lord.

K. Rich. O villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption !

10 Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!

15

Snakes, in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting my heart!

Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas! Would they make peace? terrible hell make war Upon their spotted souls for this offence!

Scroop. Sweet love, I see, changing his property, Turns to the sourest and most deadly hateAgain uncurse their souls; their peace is made With heads, and not with hands: those whom you

curse

Have felt the worst of death's destroying wound,

20 And lie full low, grav'd in the hollow ground.

K

Aum. Is2 Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire, dead?

Scroop. Yea, all of them at Bristol lost their heads.

Aum. Where is the Duke, my father, with his power?

K. Rich. No matter where; of comfort no man speak :

25 Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs ;*

Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let's choose executors," and talk of wills: And yet not so,-for what can we bequeath, 30 Save our deposèd bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's, And nothing can we call our own but death, And that small model of the barren earth, Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings:How some have been deposed; some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd;" Some poison'd by their wives; some sleeping kill'd 40 All murder'd :—for within the hollow crown

That rounds the mortal temples of a king,

Keeps Death his court; and there the antick sits,
Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp;
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,

45 To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks;
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,—
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable," and humour'd thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin

50 Bores through his castle-wall, and-farewell, king!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence; throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty;
For you have but mistook me all this while :
55 I live with bread like you, feel want,
Taste grief, need friends:-subjected thus,
How can you say to me—I am a king?

dan'-ger-ous

From Richard II.-Shakspeare.

re-demp'-tion ex-ec'-u-tors

LVI.

CASSIUS'S CONTEMPT FOR CESAR.

[Casca meets Cassius in a street, in Rome, at night, and relates a disturbance in the heavens appearing to show that the powers above were displeased. Cassius seizes the occasion to engage Casca in a plot against Cæsar.]

Cassius. Now could I, Casca, name to thee a man Most like this dreadful night;

That thunders, lightens, opens graves and roars
As doth the lion in the Capitol,"

**

5 A man no mightier than thyself, or me,

In personal action; yet prodigious grown,
And fearful, as these strange eruptions are.

Casca. 'Tis Cæsar that you mean; is it not,
Cassius ?

Cas. Let it be who it is; for Romans now 10 Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors;

But, woe the while! our fathers' minds are dead,
And we are govern'd with our mothers' spirits;
Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish.

Casca. Indeed, they say, the senators to-morrow 15 Mean to establish Cæsar as a king;

And he shall wear his crown by sea and land,
In every place, save here in Italy.

Cas. I know where I will wear this dagger then ; Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius:

20 Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong; Therein, ye gods, you tyrants1 do defeat:

Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass,
Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron,
Can be retentive to the strength of spirit;
25 But life, being weary of those worldly bars,
Never lacks power to dismiss itself.

30

If I know this, know all the world besides,
That part of tyranny, that I do bear,

I can shake off at pleasure.

Casca.

So can I:

So every bondman in his own hand bears
The power to cancel his captivity.

Cas. And why should Cæsar be a tyrant, then?
Poor man! I know he would not be a wolf,
25 But that he sees the Romans are but sheep:
He were no lion, were not Romans hinds."
Those that with haste will make a mighty fire,
Begin it with weak straws: what trash is Rome,
What rubbish, and what offal,* when it serves
40 For the base matter to illuminate

So vile a thing as Cæsar!
Where hast thou led me?

But, O grief,

I, perhaps, speak this Before a willing bondman; then I know