DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
King Henry the Sixth Mr. Maywood Humphry, Duke of Gloucester, Protector Holland. Cardinal Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester Pope. Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March Powell. Richard Plantagenet, afterwards Duke of York Kean. Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset Penley. William De-la-pole, Duke of Suffolk Rae. Old Lord Clifford of Cumberland Bengough. Young Clifford, his son Wallack. Earl of Buckingham [Duke of Buckingham] T. P. Cooke. Earl of Salisbury R. Phillips. Earl of Warwick, his son Barnard. The Lord Vernon Fisher. The Lord Say Gattie. Earl of Rutland, infant son to York Miss C. Carr. Page to the Queen Master Phillips Horner, an armourer [Thomas Horner] Mr. Wewitzer. Peter, his man Knight. Keeper of a prison Kent. Jack Cade, a Kentish rebel, head of the rioters Munden. Bevis [George] Smith. John Holland Minton. Dick, a butcher Oxberry. Tom, a cobbler Hughes. Smith, a weaver Coveney. Clerk of Chatham Maddocks. First Clown [Clown 1] Ebsworth. Second Clown [Clown 2] Cooke. Messengers, Messrs. Buxton, Marshall Miller.
Margaret of Anjou, Queen of England Mrs. Glover. [Commons], [Soldier], [Sonne], [Others], [One], [Voices], [Trumpet], [Messenger]

Title page Rodwell, Printer, Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.

PREFACE.

To all who are in the least familiar with the Historical Drama of Shakspeare, the difficulty of the present attempt must be obvious. The valuable materials which lie dispersed through the three parts of Henry the Sixth are at the same time so heterogeneous and unwieldy as to be scarcely capable of being moulded into a theatrical form. And, though the rules of the Historic Drama are extremely loose and indulgent, and the critical unities of time and place, little operative in the most regular productions of our Theatre, are wholly excluded from any share of influence in this its most peculiar province, it seems at least requisite that one principal object of action and interest should be distinctly traced from the commencement to the termination of the Poem. This principal object is more or less prominently conspicuous in all the historical plays of Shakspeare which have obtained and held

possession of the stage. In King John, it is the usurpation of the crown, connected with the imprisonment and death of Arthur, and followed by its just result in the distraction of the realm, and the degradation of the dastardly usurper. The life, deposition, and murder, of Richard the Second, are all connected by a natural and easy chain of events, affording one great and salutary lesson of morality. The conquest of France by Henry the Fifth, the consummation of ambition and its downfall, in the person of Richard the Third, are objects equally great in themselves, and susceptible of high dramatic effect from their simplicity and and the powerful interest which they excite, and which never flags so long as they are kept in view. The same may be said of the divorce of Queen Katherine, the leading feature in the play of Henry the Eighth, an incident, than which it is scarcely possible to conceive any more important in its associations and consequences, or more calculated to call forth the deepest impressions of pathos and dignity. In most of them, also, some principal and striking personage commands the admiration, and awakens the sympathy, even while it may forfeit the esteem, of the hearer. If, in the two immortal plays, entitled, the first and second parts of Henry the Fourth, the course

of events is without that unity of interest which is observable in the others, its absence is much more than compensated by the powerful varieties of character, and the rich veins of inimitable humour and transcendent poetry, which run through them; and the character of Prince Henry forms throughout a rallying point, the most conspicuous and attractive,

The three parts of Henry the Sixth are all equally deficient in both these particulars. The characters with which they are filled, are sketched by the master's hand, but they are, for the most part, only sketches of character. Fine poetical passages, which unequivocally proclaim their origin, are scattered over the extensive surface; but still they are only passages, and they are but thinly scattered. The beauties of these plays, especially of the two last parts (the genuineness of the first, is still, perhaps, a subject of controversy) are, however, Shakspeare's beauties, and necessarily excite the strongest desire, that, if capable by any process of being preserved to the use for which they were first intended, they should not be lost to that use, nor be converted, from objects of general and public enjoyment, to those of casual, unfrequent, and private admiration; and this debt appeared to be still due from our national stage, which has in

almost every respect but this, rendered so just a homage to the first of poets, and which has so lately reaped the reward of its services in the full success attending its revivals of others of his plays, long senselessly abandoned and considered as useless to the purposes of theatrical representation.

Such are the motives which have suggested the present experiment,—an experiment which confidently anticipates the indulgence of a public equally alive to poetical feelings and patriotic impressions. In executing this undertaking, the first point to be aimed at was that of supplying the deficiency of a leading object, which it was immediately obvious must be sought for in the second part, so decidedly superior to the two others, especially, regard being had to the spoliations most unwarrantably committed by Cibber* ^note for the purpose of adding to

another play, in itself a perfect whole, and at expense of some of the finest scenes, and of one of the most nobly imagined and highly and highly finished characters, of the author, which were wantonly sacrificed to make room for the admission of this gratuitous plunder. The fine contrast, which a late admirable writer has pointed out, between the characters of Henry the Sixth, and Richard the Second, may suffice to explain why the former is as little calculated, as the latter appears to be expressly fitted, for such an object as that now sought for. “Both,” observes Mr. Hazlitt, “were kings, and both unfortunate. Both lost their crowns owing to their mismanagement and imbecility; the one from a thoughtless, wilful abuse of power, the other from an indifference to it. The manner in which they bear their misfortunes, corresponds exactly to the causes which led to them. The one is always lamenting the loss of his power which he has not the spirit to regain

the other seems only to regret that he had ever been king, and is glad to be rid of the power with the trouble—the effeminacy of the one is that of a voluptuary, proud, revengeful, impatient of contradiction, and inconsolable in his misfortunes; the effeminacy of the other is that of an indolent, good-natured mind, naturally averse to the turmoils of ambition and the cares of greatness, and who wishes to pass his time in monkish indolence and contemplation. Richard bewails the loss of the kingly power only as it was the means of gratifying his pride and luxury; Henry regards it only as a means of doing right, and is less desirous of the advantages to be derived from possessing it, than afraid of exercising it wrong. In knighting a young soldier, he gives him ghostly advice:—

It then required no long deliberation to fix the choice on that source of action which runs through the whole of the second part of Henry the Sixth, (interrupted as it is, and confounded with lesser rivulets in its progress,) originating in the claims of the Duke of York to the crown of England, carried on to his assumption of royal dignity, and short-lived conquest of

the throne, and terminating (abruptly indeed, but not violently or improbably,) in his downfall and destruction. The subject is in itself of grandeur and importance sufficient for the historic drama. Though not the actual possessor of the throne of England, Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, had an undoubted and indefeazible right to the splendid inheritance; and, at least upon the stage, the distinction between the sovereign de facto and de jure, a distinction, on account of which the noblest and richest blood of the nation was poured forth in torrents during the whole latter half of the fifteenth century, may be admitted without any prejudice to the dignity of the latter. The nature of his claims is presented by Shakspeare himself, in that singularly affecting scene which displays his last interview with the dying Mortimer, with an accuracy and minuteness of genealogical detail, which it would be scarcely thought advisable to retain in the representation. It is Mortimer who speaks thus to his nephew.

The reason moved these warlike lords to this,
Was, for that young king Richard thus removed,
Leaving no heir begotten of his body,
I was the next by birth and parentage:
For by my mother I derlved am
From Lyonel Duke of Clarence, the third son
To the third Edward; whereas Bolinbroke
From John of Gaunt doth bring his pedigree,
Being but the fourth of that heroick line.
But mark—as in this haughty great attempt
They laboured to plant the rightful heir,
I lost my liberty, and they their lives.
Long after this, when Henry the Fifth
After his father Bolinbroke did reign,
Thy father, Earl of Cambridge, (then derived
From famous Edmund Langley, Duke of York,
Marrying my sister, that thy mother was,
Again, in pity of my hard distress,
Levied an army, willing to redeem
And re-instal me in the diadem:
But, as the rest, so fell that noble Earl,
And was beheaded. Thus the Mortimers,
In whom the title rested, were supprest.”

The character of the principal personage, if not sufficiently strong and decided for the bold canvas of the theatre, and so far resembling that of his crook-backed progeny as to suffer in the comparison, while its points of dissimilarity were such as to weaken its dramatic interest, is, however, possessed of a certain identity, and deficient neither in energy, courage, nor talent. “All the males of the house

of Mortimer,” says Hume, “were extinct; but Anne, the sister of the last earl of Marche, having espoused the earl of Cambridge, beheaded in the reign of Henry V., had transmitted her latent, but not forgotten, claim to her son, Richard, Duke of York. This prince thus descended by hIs mother from Philippa, only daughter of the Duke of Clarence, second son of Edward III., stood plainly in the order of succession before the Duke of Lancaster, third son of that monarch; and that claim could not, in many respects, have fallen into more dangerous hands than those of the Duke of York. Richard was a man of colour and abilities, of a prudent conduct and mild dispositions; he had enjoyed an opportunity of displaying these virtues in his government of France; and, though recalled from that command by the intrigues and superior interest of the Duke of Somerset, he had been sent to suppress a rebellion in Ireland; had succeeded much better in that enterprise than his rival in the defence of Normandy; and had even been able to attach to his person and family the whole Irish nation whom he was sent to subdue. In the right of his father, he bore the rank of first prince of the blood, and by his station he gave a lustre to his title derived from the family of Mortimer, which, though of

great nobility, was equalled by other families in the kingdom, and had been eclipsed by the royal descent of the house of Lancaster. He possessed an immense fortune from the union of so many successions, those of Cambridge and York on the one hand, with those of Mortimer on the other; which last inheritance had before been augmented by an union of the estates of Clarence and Ulster with the patrimonial possessions of the family of Marche. The alliances too of Richard, by his marrying the daughter of Ralph Nevil, Earl of Westmoreland”— the father and grandfather of the Earls of Salisbury and of Warwick—“had widely extended his interest among the nobility, and had procured him many connexions in that formidable order.” And, in another place, after noticing the insurrection of Cade, who “took the name of John Mortimer, intending (as is supposed) to pass himself for a son of that Sir John Mortimer who had been sentenced to death by parliament, and executed, in the beginning of this reign, without any trial or evidence, merely upon an indictment of high treason given in against him,” the historian adds, “It was imagined by the court, that the Duke of York had secretly instigated Cade to this attempt, in order to try, by that experiment, the dispositions of the people towards

his title and family; and, as the event had so far succeeded to his wish, the ruling party had greater reason than ever to apprehend the future consequences of his pretensions. At the same time they heard that he intended to return from Ireland; and, fearing that he meant to bring an armed force along with him, they issued orders, in the king's name, for opposing him, and for debarring him entrance into England. But the Duke refuted his enemies by coming attended with no more than his ordinary retinue: the precautions of the ministers served only to shew him their jealousy and malignity against him: he was sensible that his title, by being dangerous to the king, was also become dangerous to himself: he now saw the impossibility of remaining in his present situation, and the necessity of proceeding forward in support of his claim.” These passages are sufficient to point out a strong and important feature of distinction between Richard, Duke of York, and King Richard the Third, considered in the light of dramatic characters. The ambition of the son creates the food it lives on—that the father is the inevitable, and almost imperceptible, result of the circumstances in which he is placed. Those circumstances, however, are such as to give birth to all the varieties of passion and sentiment; and

the compiler of these scenes could reckon on that great actor who had already, as it were, incorporated himself with the one, as the no less faithful and able representative of the other.

The next point was to strengthen the leading object which had thus been selected by investing the principal personage of the drama with all those graces of declamation and poetry which could be collected from other parts of the three plays without injury to historical truth or dramatic consistency. This was a hazardous experiment, for which success alone can constitute an adequate apology. Another resource remained, hardly less violent, which was that of interweaving with those flowers of poetry, which are too sparingly scattered through the play by its original author, a few additional beauties, selected from works of contemporary writers long abandoned and lost to all theatrical purposes, They are not numerous, and their excellence will, it is hoped, supersede the necessity of a further excuse. But it may be contended that, if interpolation is admissible in any of the works of Shakspeare, it is better, as in this instance, to borrow from Shakspeare himself. The well-known beauties of his dramas are already appropriated to other possessors. The great majority of his works

still retain their station on the stage, and he who should consider any as absolutely proscribed, would find his desponding opinion scarcely to be supported or justified, when set in opposition to the late successes of Richard the Second, and Timon of Athens. The present compiler has already, indeed, shewn that he has some right to complain of the liberties previously taken with that public property which he has endeavoured to restore to the public use; and still, so long as Cibber's tragedy keeps possession of our stage, that stage must continue to be deprived of more than one of the finest dramatic characters of the author— among others, the striking and novel exhibition of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, in the infancy, boyhood, and youth of his ambitious thoughts. But he claims at least to be free from the weakness and presumption of inserting any passages of his own composition, except such very few lines, here and there, as seemed indispensable to the connection of the piece. In aiming to give a new but characteristic form to a gothic fabric, he has abstained from adding any thing of his own but the mere cement. Where he could not preserve the original ornaments, he has ventured only to furnish a few others of the same date and fashion—but still, humble as his contribution

has been, he cannot deny that the success of the attempt has yielded him the most sensible pleasure—a pleasure which is not abated by the reflection that that success is far less the result of any skill of his own than to the active and powerful exertions of dramatic talent by which it has been supported.

To Mr, Kean, the whole of the ardent and important duties attending the preparation and arrangement of the play for performance were entrusted by the committee of management at the express desire of the compiler; and the public who applauded its representation, will render justice to the liberality with which the means were furnished, and the judgment and talent with which they were employed. The earnest zeal, the accurate discrimination, and transcendent powers, which marked the performance of the principal character will be most fully appreciated when they are most critically understood; but their best tribute will, after all, be found in the admiration, applause, and sympathy of the great mass of hearers. The character is of his own original and absolute creation. In the play of Shakspeare it can hardly be said to have any distinct and tangible existence. That which it now possesses, this consummate actor alone has given to it.

Of the representative of Queen Margaret it is impossible to speak in terms too warmly expressive of the admiration, mingled with regret, which could not but be experienced from considering the painful nature of the task necessarily imposed on her, contrasted with the strength of feeling and genius which enabled her to surmount it. The obstacle to the display of talent presented by the imbecillity of the wretched Henry, is essentially inherent in the character, and with difficulty, if at all, to be surmounted; but it is on that very account that the greater thanks are due to the zealous exertions of the performer.

The glorious remonstrance, and affecting resignation of Duke Humphry, the agonized and appalling death bed of Beaufort, the energetic and heart-felt curse of Suffolk, the chivalrous valour, the fierce and desperate vengeance of Clifford,—all points of the highest interest, the greatest conceivable force and beauty, in themselves,—were supported by their respective representatives in a manner which those who have frequently witnessed their arduous exertions on former occasions, may have been taught to expect from them, but which the author of this compilation would be deficient in gratitude if he did not acknowledge as very far surpassing his most sanguine

hopes. It was impossible to behold them, and not to be in imagination transported to that calamitous period of the English history, of which “all that we can discover with certainty through the deep cloud which covers it, is a scene of horror and bloodshed, savage manners, arbitrary executions, and treacherous, dishonourable conduct in all parties.”

With respect to the comic parts of the play, the general usage of Shakspeare, the nature of the historic drama, and the peculiar truth of character and felicity of humour which distinguish the passages themselves, are more than enough to justify their retention as component parts of the piece; and it is hoped that they are so arranged as to appear to spring easily, and almost necessarily, out of the main action, and to be at least not without their effect in conducing to its completion. And, in adverting to the manner in which they have been performed, it would be most unjust to conclude this hasty preface, without adding to the names already memorized those of the several gentlemen who sustained the principal shares in this part of the drama, particularly of Mr. Harley, who (in consequence of the regretted indisposition of the performer originally pointed out for it) undertook the part of the Kentish rebel at so short a notice, and

supported it with such distinguished ability. That all have not been here particularized to whom thanks and applause are due, will, it is hoped, be ascribed solely to the difficulty— not the smallest attending his labours—which the compiler of the play must be supposed to find, in selecting the objects, when his gratitude has been so amply merited by all.

One word only in addition to what has been said as to the principle of this compilation.

The object of concentrating into one play the entire action, commencing with the pretensions of Richard to the crown, and terminating with his death, necessarily embraced a more extended period of time than that occupied by either of the parts of Henry the Sixth, taken singly. The basis, however, of the present Drama is the second part, nothing having been added to it from any of the works of Shakspeare, except the two or three introductory and concluding scenes, which are taken from the first and third parts, and nothing struck out of it, except such passages as appeared either less susceptible of dramatic effect, or less immediately connected with the principal object, than those which are retained.—sacrifices, which it was quite impossible to avoid, so as to bring the whole wishin the limits prescribed by the custom of

the stage in representation. The compiler is not aware of any instance in which the language of Shakspeare has been altered, except where the reason for alteration is obvious and decissive; and such instances will be found, upon comparison, to be of very rare occurrence.

These observations are in some measure called for by the mistakes which some critics appear to have fallen into with respect both to historical facts, and to Shakspeare. With regard to the latter in particular, while one complains that the character of Richard is altogether unfit for the principal part, and recommends the substitution of the feeble Henry, as more prominent in itself, and better calculated to call forth the actor's powers, another asserts, (without any attempt at proving it) that Mr. Kean has missed one of the most brilliant opportunities ever offered to his exertions in this very character. A third, forgetting the continuance of action which runs through all the three parts of Henry the Sixth and ignorant that not a line is taken from any other play of Shakspeare, asks (with peculiar felicity of illustration) what we should think of a selection from Raphael's pictures put into one picture, or an opera made out of scenes of different operas of Mozart, Paesiello, or Cimarosa?

—and politely adds, that a true painter or musician would “laugh in your face” at such a proposal. A fourth, (imagining that the first of the three plays begins with the commencement of the present Drama, and that the last ends with the termination of it,) wonders how any body could think of compressing the substance of that for which Shakspeare thought fifteen acts not too large an allowance of space, into the narrow limits of five. A fifth severely reprehends the compiler for modernizing Shakspeare, (whom he has scarcely ventured to touch,) and with the same breath, (to shew his own competency to judge of the liberties supposed to have been taken,) quotes, as “his favourite passage” in the original, the short scene between York and Rutland, for which the compiler has to apologize, as being the only considerable insertion of his own composition—one which he judged necessary for the sake of introducing the highly characteristic and powerful scene of savage barbarity which follows, and in which he scrupulously himself to what that necessity demanded.

He has now only to express hls deep regret that, whatever might otherwise have been his disposition to benefit by the profundity of these several suggestions, their utter, and (with

great deference he speaks it) somewhat ludicrous, contrariety absolutely deprives him of the opportunity of doing so; and he therefore trusts that the gentlemen will do him the justice of ascribing his neglect of their kind admonitions, to the difficulty in which they have placed him, and not to any over-weening preference of his own conceptions.

Main text ACT I. SCENE I. THE TEMPLE GARDEN. Enter, from the Temple Hall, Richard Plantagenet, Warwick, Somerset, Young Clifford, Vernon, and others.

Plant.
Now valiant gentlemen, what means this silence?
Dare no man answer in a case of truth?
Say—was not wrangling Somerset in the error?

Cliff.
Faith! I have been a truant in the law.
I never yet could frame my will unto it,
And therefore frame the law unto my will.

Som.
Judge you, my lord of Warwick, then between us.

War.
Between two hawks, which flies the highest pitch,—
Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth,—
Between two blades, which bears the better temper,—
Between two horses, which doth bear him best,—
Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye,—
I have, perhaps, some shallow spirit of judgment.
But in these nice, sharp quillets of the law,
Good faith—I am no wiser than a daw.

Plant.
Tut—tut—here is a mannerly forbearance—
Since ye are tongue-tied, and so loth to speak,
In dumb significance proclaim your thoughts:
Let him that is a true born gentleman,
And stands upon the honour of his birth,
From off this briar pluck a white rose with me.

Som.
Let him that is no coward and no flatterer,
But dares maintain the party of the truth,
Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me.

War.
I love no colours; and, without all colour
Of base insinuating flattery,
I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet.

Cliff.
Prick not your fingers as you pluck it off,
Lest, bleeding, you do paint the white rose red,
As red as this I pluck for Somerset.

Plant.
Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset?

Som.
Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet?

Plant.
Aye—sharp and piercing to maintain his truth,
While thy consuming canker eats his falsehood.

Som.
Well—I'll find friends to wear my blushing rose,
Where false Plantagenet dares not be seen.

Plant.
Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand,
I scorn thee and thy faction, peevish boy.

Cliff.
Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet.

Plant.
Proud churl, I will.

Som.
Away, away, good Clifford—
We grace the yeoman by conversing with him.

War.
Now, by my faith, thou wrong'st him, Somerset—
His grandsire was great Edward's issue, Clarence.
Spring crestless yeomen from so deep a root?

Plant.
He bears him on his place's privilege,
Or durst not for his craven heart say thus.

Som.
By him that made me, I'll maintain my words.
Thy father, Cambridge, was he not attainted?
His treason yet lives guilty in thy blood,
And, till thou be restored, thou'rt but a yeoman.

Plant.
My father was attainted—yet no traitor—
Died, by the headsman's axe,—yet still no traitor—
And that I'll prove on—better men than Somerset.
And, by my soul, this pale and angry rose,
As cognizance of my blood-drinking hate,
Will I, for ever, and my faction wear,
Until it wither with me to my grave,
Or flourish to the height of my degree.

Som.
Go forward—and be choak'd with thy ambition—
And so farewell, until I meet thee next. [Ex. Somerset, Clifford, &c

Plant.
How am I braved!—yet must perforce endure it.

War.
This blot shall be wiped out before the king,
Who, if he bids thee not arise as York,
I will not live to be accounted Warwick.
—Meet me an hour hence, and we'll to the council. Plant.
First to my uncle's prison, aged March,
There drink fresh spirit from his fast bleeding wrongs.
Thence, in an hour's space, will I call for thee. [Exeunt severally. SCENE II. A PRISON. Mortimer, (brought on in a chair) Keeper.

Mort.
Kind keeper of my weak declining age,
Let dying Mortimer here rest himself!—
Even like a man new haled from the rack,
So fare my limbs with long imprisonment;
And these grey locks, the pursuivants of death,

These eyes, like lamps, whose wasting oil is spent,
These pithless arms, like to a wither'd vine,
That droops his sapless branches to the ground,
Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer.
But tell me, keeper, will my nephew come?

Keep.
Aye, my good lord, we sent unto the temple,
And answer was return'd that he would come.

Mort.
Enough—my soul shall then be satisfied.
His wrongs do equal mine—like me obscured,
Deprived of honour and inheritance,
Even by this upstart house of Bolingbroke!
But Death, kind umpire of man's miseries,
With sweet enlargement doth dismiss me hence—
I would his troubles had so fair an ending. Enter Plantagenet.

Keep.
My Lord, your loving nephew now is come.

Mort.
Richard Plantagenet—friend, is he come?

Plant.
Aye, noble uncle; thus ignobly used,
Your nephew, late despised Richard, comes.

Mort.
Direct mine arms, I may embrace his neck,
And in his bosom spend my latest gasp.
And now declare, sweet stem from York's great stock,
Why didst thou say thou wert of late despised?

Plant.
First lean thine aged back against mine arm,
And I will tell thee why. It chanced to-day,
Some words did grow 'twixt me and Somerset,
Amongst which terms he used his lavish tongue,
And did upbraid me with my father's death;
Which obloquy set bars before my tongue,
Else with the like I had requited him.
Therefore, good uncle, for my father's sake,
In honour of a true Plantagenet,
Declare the cause for which my father died.

Mort.
The same, fair nephew, that imprison'd me,
And hath detain'd me, all my flowering youth,
Within a loathsome dungeon, there to pine.
For when the young king Richard was removed,
To make way for ambitious Bolingbroke,
I was the next of Edward's royal line.
For me thy father died, striving for me
To quell the proud usurper's happier son.
In him died all the hopes of Mortimer.
And now—my fainting words do warrant death—
Thou art mine heir!—the rest I'd have thee gather—
But yet be wary in thy studious care:
Strong fixed is the house of Lancaster,
And like a mountain, not to be removed,
But by long tedious mining under ground.
—And now is Mortimer removing hence,
As princes from their courts, when they are cloy'd
With long continuance in a settled place.

Plant.
Oh uncle! would some part of my young years,
Might but redeem the passage of your age.

Mort.
Then shouldst thou wrong me, as that slaughterer doth,
Which giveth many wounds where one would kill.
Mourn not—except thou sorrow for my good:
And so farewell! and fair befall thy hopes;
And prosperous be thy life in peace and war! [Mortimer is borne off by attendants.

Plant.
And peace—no war—befall thy parting soul!
In prison hast thou spent thy pilgrimage,
And like a hermit, overpast thy days!
Here lies the dusky torch of Mortimer,
Choak'd with th' ambition of a meaner race.

Fortune, not reason, rules the state of things;
Reward goes backward, Honour on his head—
As cedars beaten with continual storms,
So great men flourish.—
Man is a torch borne in the wind—a dream
But of a shadow, summ'd with all his substance:
And as great seamen using all their wealth
And skill in Neptune's deep invisible paths,
In tall ships richly built and ribb'd with brass,
To put a girdle round about the world;
When they have done it, (coming near their haven)
Are fain to give a warning piece, and call
A poor stay'd fisherman, that never past
His country's sight, to waft and guide them in;
So, when we wander furthest through the waves
Of glassy glory, and the gulphs of state,
Topp'd with all titles, spreading all our reaches,
As if each private arm would sphere the earth,
We must to Virtue for her guide resort,
Or we shall shipwreck in our safest port.* ^note