4. SCENE IV. London. A Room in the Tower.
No, no, my dream was lengthen'd after life;
O, then began the tempest to my soul!
I pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood
With that grim ferryman which poets write of,
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.
The first that there did greet my stranger soul
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick;
Who spake aloud, 'What scourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?'
And so he vanish'd: then came wandering by
A shadow like an Angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood; and he shriek'd out aloud
"Clarence is come,--false, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence,--
That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury;--
Seize on him, Furies, take him to your torments!"
With that, methoughts, a legion of foul fiends
Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries that, with the very noise,
I trembling wak'd, and for a season after
Could not believe but that I was in hell,--
Such terrible impression made my dream.
No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you;
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.
Ah, Brakenbury, I have done these things
That now give evidence against my soul,
For Edward's sake; and see how he requites me!--
O God! If my deep prayers cannot appease thee,
But thou wilt be aveng'd on my misdeeds,
Yet execute thy wrath in me alone,--
O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children!--
Keeper, I prithee sit by me awhile;
My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.
I will, my lord; God give your grace good rest!--
[CLARENCE reposes himself on a chair.]
Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours,
Makes the night morning and the noontide night.
Princes have but their titles for their glories,
An outward honour for an inward toil;
And, for unfelt imaginations,
They often feel a world of restless cares:
So that, between their tides and low name,
There's nothing differs but the outward fame.
[Enter the two MURDERERS.]
Ho! who's here?
What wouldst thou, fellow, and how cam'st thou hither?
I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs.