Gloucester.
With Mildness, have I exercis'd my Power:—
But,—when the Times require Severity;
Forbearance is Injustice.—Beaufort's Life,—
If he employs it well, is well preserv'd.—
Sore with the Provocations of the Day,
I have (I fear) with too great Bitterness
Reproach'd his Age:—But, let me not lie down,

In Wrath;—Nor rise, in Enmity:—Though, Malice
May keep Him waking, on his Pillow.—Oh, Eleanor;—
My Bed, alas, without Thee, is solitary,—
As is the Grave!—But, Sleep weighs down my Eye-lids;
And Nature, wearied, summons me to Rest.— Going in.
Angels, defend me!—What do I see?—My Uncle?—
And, in his Hand, a Dagger;—a bloody Dagger!—
Away, Illusion!—Phantom of the Brain!—
My Senses drouze;—and, Fancy mocks my Reason!—
It is beyond my wonted Hour.—Then,—welcome
Kind Sleep; Renewer of our daily Life:
Till, Death closing our Eyes for ever from the World,
We wake to One, Eternal, Day of Bliss!

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