Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now.
But there is little reason in your grief;
Therefore 'twere reason you had manners now.
Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege.
'Tis true, to hurt his master, no man else.
This is the prison. What is he lies here?
O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!
The earth had not a hole to hide this deed.
Murder, as hating what himself hath done,
Doth lay it open to urge on revenge.
Or, when he doom'd this beauty to a grave,
Found it too precious-princely for a grave.
Sir Richard, what think you? have you beheld,
Or have you read or heard? or could you think?
Or do you
almost think, although you see,
That you do see? could thought, without this object,
Form such another?
This is the very top,
The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest,
Of murder's arms: this is the bloodiest
The wildest savagery, the vilest stroke,
That ever wall-eyed wrath or staring rage
Presented to the
tears of soft remorse.
All murders past do stand excused in this:
And this, so sole and so unmatchable,
Shall give a holiness,
To the yet unbegotten sin of times;
And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest,
Exampled by this
It is a damned and a bloody work;
The graceless action of a heavy hand,
If that it be the work of any
If that it be the work of any hand!
We had a kind of light what would ensue:
It is the shameful work of
The practise and the purpose of the king:
From whose obedience I forbid my soul,
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