Clarence, Richard Duke of Gloucester, Thomas Marquis Dorset, and William Lord Hastings, suddenly murdered and piteously mangled. The bitterness of which murder some of the actors after in their latter days tasted and essayed by the very rod of justice and punishment of God. His body was homely interred with the other simple corpses in the church of the monastery of Black Monks in Tewkesbury. This was the last civil battle that was fought in king Edward's days, which was gotten the iii day of May, in the x year of his reign, and in the year of our Lord Mcccclxxi then being Saturday. And on the Monday next ensuing was Edmund duke of Somerset, John Longstrother, Prior of Saint John's, Sir Garveys Clifton, Sir Thomas Tresham, and xii other knights and gentlemen beheaded in the marketplace at Tewkesbury."

139.-THE BATTLE OF TOWTON.

SHAKSPERE.

[The great battle of Towton is thus described by Hall:-"This battle was sore fought, for hope of life was set on side on every part, and taking of prisoners was proclaimed as a great offence; by reason whereof every man determined either to conquer or to die in the field. This deadly battle and bloody conflict continued ten hours in doubtful victory, the one part sometime flowing and sometime ebbing; but, in conclusion, king Edward so courageously comforted his men, refreshing the weary and helping the wounded, that the other part was discomforted and overcome, and, like men amazed, fled toward Tadcasterbridge to save themselves. This conflict was in manner unnatural, for in

it the son fought against the father, the brother against the brother, the nephew against the uncle, and the tenant against his lord."]

Alarum. Enter King Henry.

K. Hen. This battle fares like to the morning's war,
When dying clouds contend with growing light;
What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day nor night.
Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea,
Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind ;
Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea
Forc'd to retire by fury of the wind:

Sometime, the flood prevails; and then, the wind :
Now, one the better; then, another best;
Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,
Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered :
So is the equal poise of this fell war.
Here on this molehill will I sit me down.
To whom God will, there be the victory!
For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too,
Have chid me from the battle; swearing both
They prosper best of all when I am thence.
'Would I were dead! if God's good will were so :
For what is in this world but grief and woe?

O God! methinks it were a happy life,

To be no better than a homely swain :

To sit upon a hill, as I do now,

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,

LL

Thereby to see the minutes how they run:
How many make the hour full complete,
How many hours bring about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the times:
So many hours must I tend my flock;
So many hours must I take my rest;
So many hours must I contemplate;
So many hours must I sport myself;

So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean;
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece;

So many minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Pass'd over to the end they were created,

Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.

Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!

Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade

To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,

Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy

To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery?
O, yes it doth; a thousand-fold it doth.

And to conclude,-the shepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,

His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,

Is far beyond a prince's delicates,

His viands sparkling in a golden cup,

His body couched in a curious bed,

When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.

Alarum.

Enter a Son that has killed his Father, dragging in the dead body.
Son. Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.

This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight,
May be possessed with some store of crowns
And I, that haply take them from him now,
May yet ere night yield both my life and them
To some man else, as this dead man doth me.
Who's this?-O God! it is my father's face,
Whom in this conflict I unawares have kill'd.
O heavy times, begetting such events!
From London by the king was I press'd forth;
My father, being the earl of Warwick's man,
Came on the part of York, press'd by his master;
And I, who at his hands receiv'd my life,
Have by my hands of life bereaved him.
Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did'
And pardon, father, for I knew not thee!
My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks,
And no more words till they have flow'd their fill.

K. Hen. O piteous spectacle! O bloody times!
Whiles lions war, and battle for their dens,

Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity.

Weep, wretched man, I'll aid thee, tear for tear;

And let our hearts, and eyes, like civil war,

Be blind with tears, and break o'ercharg'd with grief.

Enter a Father who has killed his Son, with the body in his arms

Fath. Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me,

Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold;
For I have bought it with an hundred blows.

But let me see :-is this our foreman's face?
Ah, no, no, no, it is mine only son!

Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee,

Throw up thine eyes; see, see, what showers arise,
Blown with the windy tempest of my heart,

Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart!
O, pity, God, this miserable age!

What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly,
Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural,
This deadly quarrel daily doth beget!
O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon,

And hath bereft thee of thy life too late!

K. Hen. Woe above woe! grief more than common grief!

O, that my death would stay these ruthful deeds!

O pity, pity, gentle Heaven, pity!

The red rose and the white are on his face,

The fatal colours of our striving houses:

The one, his purple blood right well resembles;
The other, his pale cheeks, methinks, present:
Wither one rose, and let the other flourish !
If you contend, a thousand lives must wither.

Son. How will my mother, for a father's death,
Take on with me, and ne'er be satisfied!

Fath. How will my wife, for slaughter of my son,

Shed seas of tears, and ne'er be satisfied!

K. Hen. How will the country, for these woeful chances, Mis-think the king, and not be satisfied!

Son. Was ever son so rued a father's death?

Fath. Was ever father so bemoan'd a son ?

K. Hen. Was ever king so griev'd for subjects' woe? Much is your sorrow; mine, ten times so much.

Son. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill.

[Exit with the body.

Fath. These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet;
My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre ;
For from my heart thine image ne'er shall go.

My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell

And so obsequious will thy father be,
Sad for the loss of thee, having no more,

As Priam was for all his valiant sons.

I'll bear thee hence; and let them fight that will
For I have murder'd where I should not kill.

[Exit, with the body.

140.-THE DEATH OF CLARENCE.

SCENE. A Room in the Tower.
Enter Clarence and Brakenbury.

Brak. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day?
Clar. O, I have pass'd a miserable night,
So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights,
That, as I am a christian faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night
Though 't were to buy a world of happy days:
So full of dismal terror was the time.

SHAKSPERE

I pray you tell me.

Brak. What was your dream, my lord?
Clar. Methought that I had broken from the Tower,
And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy;
And in my company my brother Gloster

Who from my cabin tempted me to walk

Upon the hatches; there we look'd toward England,
And cited up a thousand heavy times,
During the wars of York and Lancaster
That had befall'n us. As we pac'd along

Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,

Methought that Gloster stumbled; and, in falling,
Struck me, that thought to stay him, over-board,
Into the tumbling billows of the main.

O Lord! methought what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noise of water in mine ears!
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes!
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wracks:
A thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upon;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,

All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea.

Some lay in dead men's skulls; and in those holes
Where eyes did once inhabit there were crept,
As 't were in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems,
That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep,
And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.
Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death,
To gaze upon these secrets of the deep?

Clar. Methought I had; and often did I strive
To yield the ghost: but still the envious flood
Stopt in my soul, and would not let it forth
To find the empty, vast, and wand'ring air;
But smother'd it within my panting bulk,
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.

Brak. Awak'd you not in this sore agony?

Clar. 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 sour ferryman which poets writo 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; ho shriek'd out aloud,—
'Clarence is come, false, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence,-
That stabb'd me in the field by Tewkesbury ;—
Seize on him, furies, take him unto torment !'-
With that, methought, 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.
Brak. No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you;
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.

Clar. O, 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 caapease thee,
But thou wilt be reveng'd on my misdeeds,

Yet execute thy wrath on me alone :

O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children!

I pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me ;

My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

Brak. I will, my lord: God give your grace good rest !—

Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours,

Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide 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 titles, and low name,
There's nothing differs but the outward fame.

Enter the two Murderers.

1 Murd. Ho! who's here?

[Clarence retires.

Brak. What wouldst thou, fellow ? and how cam'st thou hither? 1 Murd. I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs. Brak. What, so brief?

2 Murd. "T is better, sir, than to be tedious :-let him see our

commission, and talk no more.

[A paper is delivered to Brakenbury, who reads it.

Brak. I am in this, commanded to deliver
The noble duke of Clarence to your hands:

I will not reason what is meant hereby,
Because I will be guiltless of the meaning.
There lies the duke asleep,-and there, the keys,