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As doth this water from my tatter'd robes!
Tell Isabel the queen, I look'd not thus,

When for her sake I ran at tilt in France,

And there unhorsed the duke of Cleremont.

Light. O, speak no more, my lord! this breaks my heart. Lie on this bed and rest yourself awhile.

Edw.

These looks of thine can harbour naught but death;

I see my tragedy written in thy brows.

Yet stay awhile; forbear thy bloody hand,
And let me see the stroke before it comes,
That even then when I shall lose my life,

My mind may be more steadfast on my God.

Light. What means your highness to mistrust me thus? Edw. What mean'st thou to dissemble with me thus? Light. These hands were never stain'd with innocent Nor shall they now be tainted with a king's.

[blood, Edw. Forgive my thought, for having such a thought. One jewel have I left, receive thou this.

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Still fear I, and I know not what's the cause,

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But every joint shakes as I give it thee.

O, if thou harbor'st murder in thy heart,

Let this gift change thy mind, and save thy soul.
Know that I am a king: O, at that name

I feel a hell of grief. Where is my crown?
Gone, gone, and do I still remain alive?

Light. You're overwatched, my lord; lie down and rest.
Edw. But that grief keeps me waking, I should sleep;

For not these ten days have these eyelids closed.

Now as I speak they fall, and yet with fear

Open again. O wherefore sitt'st thou here?

Light. If thou mistrust me, I'll be gone, my lord.

Edw. No, no, for if thou mean'st to murder me,
Thou wilt return again; and therefore stay.

Light. He sleeps.

Edw. O, let me not die; yet stay, O, stay awhile.
Light. How now, my lord?

Edw.

Something still buzzeth in mine ears,

And tells me if I sleep I never wake;

This fear is that which makes me tremble thus.
And therefore tell me, wherefore art thou come?
Light. To rid thee of thy life; Matrevis, come.
Edw. I am too weak and feeble to resist :
Assist me, sweet God, and receive my soul.

["The reluctant pangs of abdicating royalty in Edward furnished hints which Shakespeare scarce improved in his Richard the Second; and the death-scene of Marlowe's king moves pity and terror beyond any scene ancient or modern with which I am acquainted." CHARLES LAMB.]

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XVII CENTURY.

BEN JONSON.

FROM CATILINE.

Petreius. The straits and needs of Catiline being such,
As he must fight with one of the two armies
That then had near inclosed him, it pleas'd fate
To make us the object of his desperate choice,
Wherein the danger almost pois'd the honour;
And, as he rose, the day grew black with him,
And fate descended nearer to the earth,

As if she meant to hide the name of things
Under her wings, and make the world her quarry.
At this we roused, lest one small minute's stay
Had left it to be inquired what Rome was;
And (as we ought) arm'd in the confidence
Of our great cause, in form of battle stood,
Whilst Catiline came on, not with the face
Of any man, but of a public ruin;
His countenance was a civil war itself;
And all his host had, standing in their looks,
The paleness of the death that was to come;
Yet cried they out like vultures, and urged on,
As if they would precipitate our fates.
Nor stay'd we longer for 'em, but himself
Struck the first stroke, and with it fled a life,
Which out, it seem'd a narrow neck of land
Had broke between two mighty seas, and either
Flowed into other; for so did the slaughter;
And whirl'd about, as when two violent tides
Meet and not yield. The furies stood on hills,
Circling the place, and trembling to see men

Do more than they; whilst pity left the field,
Griev'd for that side, that in so bad a cause
They knew not what a crime their valour was.
The sun stood still, and was, behind the cloud
The battle made, seen sweating, to drive up

His frighted horse, whom still the noise drove backward:
And now had fierce Enyo, like a flame,

Consum'd all it could reach, and then itself,
Had not the fortune of the commonwealth,
Come, Pallas-like, to every Roman thought;
Which Catiline seeing, and that now his troops

Covered the earth they 'ad fought on with their trunks,

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Ambitious of great fame, to crown his ill,

Collected all his fury, and ran in

(Arm'd with a glory high as his despair)

Into our battle, like a Libyan lion

Upon his hunters, scornful of our weapons,

Careless of wounds, plucking down lives about him,
Till he had circled on himself with death:

Then fell he too, t' embrace it where it lay.
And as in that rebellion gainst the gods,
Minerva holding forth Medusa's head,
One of the giant brethren felt himself
Grow marble at the killing sight; and now,

Almost made stone, began to inquire what flint,

What rock, it was that crept through all his limbs ;
And, ere he could think more, was that he fear'd:
So Catiline, at the sight of Rome in us,
Became his tomb; yet did his look retain
Some of his fierceness, and his hands still mov'd,
As if he labour'd yet to grasp the state
With those rebellious parts.

TO CELIA.

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst, that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine:

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not wither'd be.

But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me:

Since when, it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.

EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH L. H.

Underneath this stone doth lie
As much beauty as could die:
Which in life did harbour give
To more virtue than doth live.

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ON THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKESPEARE.

This figure that thou here seest put,
It was for gentle Shakespeare cut,
Wherein the graver had a strife
With nature, to outdo the life;

O could he but have drawn his wit,

As well in brass, as he hath hit

His face; the print would then surpass

All that was ever writ in brass:
But since he cannot, reader, look
Not on his picture but his book.