Imatges de pÓgina

The hum of either army stilly sounds,
That the fix'd centinels almost receive
The secret whispers of each other's watch;
Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighings,
Piercing the night's dull ear-Hark! from the tents
The armourers accomplishing the knights,
With clink of hammer, closing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation; while some,
Like sacrifices, by their fires of watch,
With patience sit, and inly ruminate

The morning's danger-By yon heav'n, my stern
Impatience chides this tardy-gaited night,
Who, like a foul and ugly witch, does limp
So tediously away-I'll to my couch,
And once more try to sleep her into morning.

[Lies down; a Groan is heard. Ha! what means that dismal voice? sure 'tis The echo of some yawning grave,

That teems with an untimely ghost-'tis gone!
'Twas but my fancy, or perhaps the wind,
Forcing his entrance through some hollow cavern.
No matter what-I feel my eyes grow heavy. [Sleeps.

K. Hen. Oh! thou, whose unrelenting thoughts, not all

The hideous terrors of thy guilt can shake,
Whose conscience with thy body ever sleeps,
Sleep on; while I, by Heav'n's high ordinance,
In dreams of horror wake thy frightful soul:
Now give thy thoughts to me; let them behold
These gaping wounds, which thy death-dealing hand,
Within the Tower, gave my anointed body:
Now shall thy own devouring conscience gnaw
Thy heart, and terribly revenge my murder.

Lady A. Think on the wrongs of wretched Anne,
thy wife!

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E'en in the battle's heat remember me,

And edgeless fall thy sword!-despair, and die!


P. Ed. Richard, dream on, and see the wand'ring spirits

Of thy young nephews, murder'd in the Tower.
Could not our youth, our innocence, persuade
Thy cruel heart to spare our harmless lives?
Who, but for thee, alas! might have enjoy'd
Our many promis'd years of happiness.
No soul, save thine, but pities our misusage;
Oh, 'twas a cruel deed! therefore, alone,
Unpitying, unpitied shalt thou fall.

K. Hen. The morning's dawn has summon'd me away;

Now, Richard, wake, in all the hells of guilt!
And let that wild despair, which now does prey
Upon thy mangled thoughts, alarm the world.
Awake, Richard, awake! to guilty minds

A terrible example!

[All the GHOSTS sink.

Glost. Give me a horse !-bind up my wounds! Have mercy, Heaven!-Ha! soft! 'twas but a dream;

But then so terrible, it shakes my soul!

Cold drops of sweat hang on my trembling flesh;
My blood grows chilly, and I freeze with horror!
Oh, tyrant conscience! how dost thou afflict me!
When I look back, 'tis terrible retreating;
I cannot bear the thought, nor dare repent:
I am but man; and, fate, do thou dispose me!
Who's there?


Catesby. "Tis I, my lord; the early village cock Has thrice done salutation to the morn.

Your friends are up, and buckle on their armour.

Glost. Oh, Catesby, I have had such horrid dreams! Catesby. Shadows, my lord!-below the soldier's heeding.

Glost. Now, by my this day's hopes, shadows, tonight,

Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard,
Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers,
Arm'd all in proof, and led by shallow Richmond.
Catesby. Be more yourself, my lord: consider, sir,
Were it but known a dream had frighted you,
How would your animated foes presume on't!

Glost. Perish that thought!—no, never be it said
That fate itself could awe the soul of Richard!
Hence, babbling dreams! you threaten here in vain;
Conscience, avaunt! Richard's himself again!
Hark! the shrill trumpet sounds to horse! away!
My soul's in arms, and eager for the fray! [Exeunt.


A Wood.


Rich. Halt!

Sold. Halt!-halt!

Rich. How far into the morning is it, friends?
Sir R. Brack. Near four, my lord.

Rich. "Tis well

I am glad to find we are such early stirrers.

Sir W. Brand. Methinks the foes less forward than we thought them;

Worn as we are, we brave the field before them.

Rich. Come, there looks life in such a cheerful


If dreams should animate a soul resolv❜d,

I'm more than pleas'd with those I've had to-night:
Methought that all the ghosts of them, whose bodies
Richard murder'd, came mourning to my tent,
And rous'd me to revenge them.

Sir W. Brand. A good omen, sir.-[Trumpets sound
a distant March.] Hark! the trumpet of

The enemy! it speaks them on the march.

Rich. Why, then, let's on, my friends, to face

In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man,
As mild behaviour and humility:

But, when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Let us be tigers in our fierce deportment:
For me, the ransom of my bold attempt
Shall be this body on the earth's cold face;
But, if we thrive, the glory of the action
The meanest here shall share his part of.
Advance your standards, draw your willing swords;
Sound drums, and trumpets, boldly and cheerfully.
The word's St. George, Richmond, and victory.


Glost. Who saw the sun to-day?


Catesby. He has not yet broke forth, my lord.
Glost. Then he disdains to shine-for, by the

He should have brav'd the east an hour ago.

Not shine to-day! why, what is that to me,
More than to Richmond? for the self-same heav'n
That frowns on me, looks low'ring upon him.

Enter NORFOLK, with a Paper.

Nor. Prepare, my lord; the foe is in the field.

Glost. Come, bustle, bustle! caparison my horse; Call forth Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power; Myself will lead the soldiers to the plain.


Well, Norfolk, what think'st thou now?

Nor. That we shall conquer-but on my tent, This morning early, was this paper found.

Glost. [Reads.] Jockey of Norfolk, be not too bold,
For Dickon, thy master, is bought and sold.
A weak invention of the enemy!

Come, gentlemen, now each man to his charge,
And, ere we do bestride our foaming steeds,
Remember whom you are to cope withal;
A scum of Britons, rascals, runaways!
Whom their o'ercloy'd country vomits forth
To desperate adventures and destruction.


What says Lord Stanley? will he bring his power? Catesby. He does refuse, my lord-he will not stir. Glost. Off with his son George's head!

Nor. My lord, the foe's already past the marsh-
After the battle, let young Stanley die.
Glost. Why, after be it then.

A thousand hearts are swelling in my bosom:
Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head!
Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood!
And thou, our warlike champion, thrice renown'd,
St. George, inspire me with the rage of lions!
Upon them!-Charge! follow me!

[Exeunt. SOLDIERS driven across the Stage, by GLOSTER, &c. Glost. What, ho! young Richmond, ho! 'tis Richard calls!

I hate thee, Harry, for thy blood of Lancaster!
Now, if thou dost not hide thee from my sword,
Now, while the angry trumpet sounds alarms,
And dying groans transpierce the wounded air,

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