Our stern alarums cnanged to merry meetings;
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled
front;

And now, instead of mounting barbéd steeds,
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber,
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;

I that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty

To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I that am curtailed of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them ;-
Why I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Iave no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun,
And descant on mine own deformity.
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain,
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence and the King
In deadly hate the one against the other:
And if King Edward be as true and just
As I am subtle, false, and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mewed up,
About a prophecy, which says that “G

Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be."-
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul! here Clarence

comes.

Enter CLARENCE, guarded, and BRAKENBURY. Brother good day. What means this arméd guard

That waits upon your grace?

His majesty,

Clar. Tendering my person's safety, hath appointed This conduct to convey me to the Tower. Glo. Upon what cause?

Clar. Because my name is George. Glo. Alack, my lord, that fault is none of yours: He should for that commit your godfathers :O, belike his majesty hath some intent That you shall be new christened in the Tower. But what's the matter, Clarence: may I know? Clar. Yea, Richard, when I know; for I protest As yet I do not. But, as I can learn, He hearkens after prophecies and dreams; And from the cross-row plucks the letter G,

And says, a wizard told him that "by G
His issue disinherited should be:"
And for my name of George begins with G,
It follows in his thought that I am he.
These, as I learn, and such like toys as these,
Have moved his highness to commit me now.
Glo. Why this it is when men are ruled by

women.

'Tis not the King that sends you to the Tower:
My Lady Grey his wife, Clarence, 't is she
That tempers him to this extremity.
Was it not she, and that good man of worship
Antony Woodeville, her brother there,
That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower:
From whence this present day he is delivered?
We are not safe, Clarence; we are not safe.

Clar. By Heaven, I think there is no man secure But the Queen's kindred, and night-walking heralds

That trudge betwixt the King and Mistress Shore:
Heard you not what an humble suppliant
Lord Hastings was to her, for his delivery?

Glo. Humbly complaining to her deity
Got my lord chamberlain his liberty.
I'll tell you what,--I think it is our way,
If we will keep in favour with the King,
To be her men and wear her livery.
The jealous o'er worn widow and herself,
Since that our brother dubbed them gentlewomen,
Are mighty gossips in this monarchy.

Brak. I beseech your graces both to pardon me: His majesty hath straitly given in charge That no man shall have private conference, Of what degree soever, with his brother.

Glo. Even so? An please your worship, Brakenbury,

You may partake of anything we say.
We speak no treason, man: we say the King
Is wise and virtuous, and his noble Queen
Well struck in years, fair, and not jealous:
We say that Shore's wife hath a pretty foot,
A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing-pleasing

tongue;

And the Queen's kindred are made gentlefolks:
How say you, sir; can you deny all this?
Brak. With this, my lord, myself have nought

to do.

Glo. Naught to do with Mistress Shore? I tell thee, fellow,

He that doth naught with her, excepting one, Were best to do it secretly, alone.

Brak. What one, my lord? Glo. Her husband, knave:- wouldst thou betray me?

Brak. I beseech your grace to pardon me; and

withal

Forbear your conference with the noble duke.