And sit for aye enthronized in heaven!
Come, death, and with thy fingers close my eyes,
Or if I live, let me forget myself.

Berkley Castle. The KING is left alone with LIGHTBORN, a murderer.

Edw. Who's there? what light is that? wherefore com'st thou ?

Light. To comfort you, and bring you joyful news.
Edw. Small comfort finds poor Edward in thy looks.
Villain, I know thou com'st to murder me.
Light. To murder you, my most gracious lord!
Far is it from my heart to do you harm.
The queen sent me to see how you were used,
For she relents at this your misery :

And what eyes can refrain from shedding tears,
To see a king in this most piteous state?
Edw. Weep'st thou already? list awhile to me
And then thy heart, were it as Gurney's1 is,
Or as Matrevis', hewn from the Caucasus,
Yet will it melt, ere I have done my tale.
This dungeon where they keep me is the sink
Wherein the filth of all the castle falls.
Light. O villains!

Edw. And there in mire and puddle have I stood
This ten days' space; and, lest that I should sleep,
One plays continually upon a drum.

They give me bread and water, being a king;
So that, for want of sleep and sustenance,
My mind 's distempered, and my body 's numbed,
And whether I have limbs or no I know not.
O, would my blood dropped out from every vein,
As doth this water from my tattered robes.
Tell Isabel, the queen, I looked not thus,
When for her sake I ran at tilt in France,
And there unhorsed the duke of Cleremont.

1 His keepers.

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 stained with innocent blood,

Nor shall they now be tainted with a king's.
Edw. Forgive my thought for having such a thought.
One jewel have I left; receive thou this.
Still fear I, and I know not what's the cause,
But every joint shakes as I give it thee.

O, if thou harbourest 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 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 eyes' lids closed.
Now as I speak they fall, and yet with fear
Open again. O wherefore sitt'st thou here?
Light. If you 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 week and feeble to resist :

Assist me, sweet God, and receive my soul !

[This tragedy is in a very different style from "mighty Tamburlaine." The reluctant pangs of abdicating royalty in Edward furnished hints which Shakspeare 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.]

THE ARRAIGNMENT OF PARIS, A DRAMATIC PASTORAL:

BY GEORGE PEELE, 1584.

FLORA dresses IDA HILL to honour the coming of the
Three Goddesses.

Flora. Not Iris, in her pride and bravery,
Adorns her arch with such variety;

Nor doth the milk-white way, in frosty night,
Appear so fair and beautiful in sight,

As doth these fields, and groves, and sweetest bowers,

Bestrew'd and deck'd with parti-colour'd flowers.
Along the bubbling brooks and silver glide,
That at the bottom doth in silence slide;
The watery flowers and lilies on the banks,
Like blazing comets, burgeon all in ranks ;
Under the hawthorn and the poplar tree,
Where sacred Phoebe may delight to be,

The primrose, and the purple hyacinth,
The dainty violet, and the wholesome minth,
The double daisy, and the cowslip, queen
Of summer flowers, do overpeer the green;
And round about the valley as ye pass,
Ye may ne see for peeping flowers the grass.
They are at hand by this,

Juno hath left her chariot long ago,

And hath return'd her peacocks by her rainbow;
And bravely, as becomes the wife of Jove,
Doth honour by her presence to our grove.
Fair Venus she hath let her sparrows fly,
To tend on her and make her melody;
Her turtles and her swans unyoked be,
And flicker near her side for company.
Pallas hath set her tigers loose to feed,
Commanding them to wait when she hath need.
And hitherward with proud and stately pace,
To do us honour in the sylvan chase,

They march, like to the pomp of heaven above,
Juno the wife and sister of King Jove,
The warlike Pallas, and the Queen of Love.

The Muses and Country Girls assemble to welcome the Goddesses.

Pomona. with country store, like friends, we venture forth :

Think'st, Faunus, that these goddesses will take our gifts in worth?

Faun. Yea, doubtless, for shall tell thee, dame, 'twere better give a thing,

A sign of love, unto a mighty person or a king, Than to a rude and barbarous swain, both bad and basely born,

For gently takes the gentleman that oft the clown will scorn.

The Welcoming Song.

Country Gods. O Ida, O Ida, O Ida, happy hill!
This honour done to Ida may it continue still!
Muses. Ye country gods that in this Ida won
Bring down your gifts of welcome,
For honour done to Ida.

Gods. Behold, in sign of joy we sing,
And signs of joyful welcome bring,
For honour done to Ida.

Pan. The God of Shepherds, and his mates,
With country cheer salutes your states,
Fair, wise, and worthy, as you be,
And thank the gracious ladies three,
For honour done to Ida.

Par. Enone, while we bin dispos'd to walk,
Tell me what shall be subject of our talk?
Thou hast a sort of pretty tales in store,
Dare say no nympth in Ida woods hath more :
Again, beside thy sweet alluring face,
In telling them thou hast a special grace.
Then, prythee, sweet, afford some pretty thing,
Some toy that from thy pleasant wit doth spring.
En. Paris, my heart's contentment, and my choice,
Use thou thy pipe, and I will use my voice;
So shall thy just request not be denied,
And time well-spent, and both be satisfied.
Par. Well, gentle nympth, although thou do me
wrong,

That can ne tune my pipe unto a song,
Me list this once, none, for thy sake,
This idle task on me to undertake.

[They sit under a tree together.
En. And whereon, then, shall be my roundelay ?
For thou hast heard my store long since, 'dare say;
How Saturn did divide his kingdom tho

To Jove, to Neptune, and to Dis below: