Read 1.4.1-84 of Richard III.
Enter Clarence, Brakenbury.
Why looks your grace so heavily today?
Oh, I have passed a miserable night,
So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams,
That as I am a Christian, faithful man
I would not spend another such a night
Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days,
So full of dismal terror was the time.
What was your dream? I long to hear you tell it.
Methoughts I was embarked for Burgundy,
And in my company my brother Gloucester
Who from my cabin tempted me to walk
Upon the hatches; thence we looked toward England
And cited up a thousand fearful times
During the wars of York and Lancaster
That had befallen us. As we paced along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches
Methought that Gloucester stumbled, and in stumbling
Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard
Into the tumbling billows of the main.
Lord, Lord, methought what pain it was to drown,
What dreadful noise of waters in my ears,
What ugly sights of death within my eyes:
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wracks,
Ten thousand men that fishes gnawed upon,
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels;
Some lay in dead men's skulls, and in those holes
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept,
As 'twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems
Which wooed the slimy bottom of the deep
And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by.
Had you such leisure in the time of death
To gaze upon the secrets of the deep?
Methought I had, for still the envious flood
Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth
To seek the empty, vast and wandering air,
But smothered it within my panting bulk
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.
Awaked you not with this sore agony?
Oh no, my dream was lengthened after life.
Oh, then began the tempest to my soul,
Who passed, 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, renown├Ęd Warwick,
Who cried aloud, "What scourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?"
And so he vanished; then came wandring by
A shadow like an angel in bright hair,
Dabbled in blood, and he squeaked out aloud,
"Clarence is come, false, fleeting, perjured Clarence
That stabbed me in the field by Tewkesbury.
Seize on him, Furies, take him to your torments."
With that, methoughts, a legion of foul fiends
Environed me about and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries that with the very noise
I trembling waked, and for a season after
Could not believe but that I was in hell,
Such terrible impression made the dream.
No marvel, my lord, though it affrighted you.
I promise you, I am afraid to hear you tell it.
O Brakenbury, I have done those things
Which now bear evidence against my soul
For Edward's sake, and see how he requites me.
I pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me;
My soul is heavy and I fain would sleep.
I will, my lord, God give your grace good rest.
[Clarence sleeps.]
Sorrow breaks seasons, and reposing hours
Makes the night morning and the noontide night.
Princes have but their titles for their glories,
An outward honor for an inward toil,
And for unfelt imagination
They often feel a world of restless cares;
So that betwixt their titles and low names
There's nothing differs but the outward fame.