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BOLING. Good aunt, stand up.

I do not sue to stand,

DUCH. Pardon is all the suit I have in hand. BOLING. I pardon him, as God shall pardon

me.

DUCH. O happy vantage of a kneeling knee! Yet am I sick for fear: speak it again; Twice saying pardon, doth not pardon twain, But makes one pardon strong.

BOLING.

I pardon him.

DUCH.

With all

my

A god on earth thou art.

heart

K. RICHARD II., A. 5, s. 3.

THE MOTHER'S AGONY.

Q. MARGARET. O, Ned! sweet Ned! speak to thy mother, boy!

Canst thou not speak?-O traitors! murderers !

They, that stabb'd Cæsar, shed no blood at all,
Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame,
If this foul deed were by, to equal it.

He was a man: this, in respect, a child;
And men ne'er spend their fury on a child.
What's worse than murderer, that I may name

it ?

:

No, no; my heart will burst, an if I speak :-
And I will speak, that so my
heart may burst.-
Butchers and villains, bloody cannibals!

How sweet a plant have you untimely cropp'd!
You have no children, butchers! if
you had,

The thought of them would have stirr'd up

remorse:

But, if you ever chance to have a child,

Look in his youth to have him so cut off,

As, deathsmen! you have rid this sweet young prince!

K. EDWARD. Away with her; go, bear her hence perforce.

Q. MAR. Nay, never bear me hence, despatch me here;

Here sheath thy sword, I'll pardon thee my death:

What! wilt thou not?-then, Clarence, do it thou.

CLARENCE. By heaven, I will not do thee so much ease.

Q. MAR. Good Clarence, do; sweet Clarence, do thou do it.

CLAR. Didst thou not hear me swear, I would not do it?

Q. MAR. Ay, but thou usest to forswear thyself:

'Twas sin before, but now 'tis charity.

What! wilt thou not? where is that devil's butcher,

Hard-favour'd Richard? Richard, where art

thou?

Thou art not here: Murder is thy alms-deed;
Petitioners for blood thou ne'er put'st back.

K. HENRY VI., PART III., A. 5, s. 5.

THE MOTHER'S BLESSING AND

ADVICE.

Be thou blest, Bertram! and succeed thy father In manners, as in shape! thy blood, and virtue, Contend for empire in thee; and thy goodness Share with thy birth-right! Love all, trust a few,

Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use; and keep thy friend Under thy own life's key: be check'd for silence, But never tax'd for speech. What heaven more will,

That thee may furnish, and my prayers pluck down,

Fall on thy head! Farewell.

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, A. 1, s. 1.

THE MOTHER'S MALEDICTION. EITHER thou wilt die, by God's just ordinance, Ere from this war thou turn a conqueror; Or, I with grief and extreme age shall perish, And never look upon thy face again. Therefore, take with thee my most heavy curse; Which, in the day of battle, tire thee more, Than all the complete armour that thou wears't! My prayers on the adverse party fight: And there the little souls of Edward's children Whisper the spirits of thine enemies, And promise them success and victory. Bloody thou art, bloody will be thy end; Shame serves thy life, and doth thy death attend.

K. RICHARD III., A. 4, s. 4.

THE MOTHER'S PLEADING AGAINST

THE FATHER'S REASONING.

WHY, York, what wilt thou do?

Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more sons? or are we like to have?
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age,

And rob me of a happy mother's name?
Is he not like thee? is he not thine own?
Hadst thou groan'd for him,
As I have done, thou'dst be more pitiful.
But now I know thy mind; thou dost suspect,
That I have been disloyal to thy bed,

And that he is a bastard, not thy son:

Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind:

He is as like thee as a man may be,
Not like to me, or any of my kin,
And yet I love him.

K. RICHARD II., A. 5, s. 2.

THE MURDER OF THE INNOCENT. RUTLAND. Ah, whither shall I fly to 'scape their hands?

Ah, tutor! look, where bloody Clifford comes!

Enter CLIFFORD and Soldiers.

CLIFFORD. Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy life.

As for the brat of this accursed duke,

-

Whose father slew my father, he shall die.

TUTOR. And I, my lord, will bear him company.

CLIF. Soldiers, away with him.

TUT. Ah, Clifford! murder not this innocent child,

Lest thou be hated both of God and man.

[Exit, forced off by Soldiers.

CLIF. How now! is he dead already? Or,

is it fear,

That makes him close his eyes?—I'll open them.

RUT. So looks the pent up lion o'er the

wretch

That trembles under his devouring paws:
And so he walks, insulting o'er his prey;
And so he comes, to rend his limbs asunder.-
Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword,
And not with such a cruel threat'ning look.
Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die ;-
I am too mean a subject for thy wrath,
Be thou reveng'd on men, and let me live.

CLIF. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy; my
father's blood

Hath stopp'd the passage where thy words should enter.

RUT. Then let my father's blood open it again;

He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him. CLIF. Had I thy brethren here, their lives, and thine,

Were not revenge sufficient for me;

No, if I digg'd up thy forefathers' graves,
And hung their rotten coffins up in chains,
It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart.
The sight of any of the house of York
Is as a fury to torment my soul;
And till I root out their accursed line,
And leave not one alive, I live in hell.
Therefore-

[Lifting his hand.

RUT. O, let me pray before I take my death: :

To thee I pray; Sweet Clifford, pity me!
CLIF. Such pity as my rapier's point affords.
RUT. I never did thee harm; Why wilt thou
slay me?

CLIF. Thy father hath.

RUT.

But 'twas ere I was born.

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