hich she calls on Suffolk to curse his enemies,
and then shrinks back overcome by the violence of the spirit she had
herself evoked, and terrified by the vehemence of his imprecations; the
transition in her mind from the extremity of rage to tears and melting
fondness, have been pronounced, and justly, to be in Shakspeare's own
manner.

Go, speak not to me--even now begone.
O go not yet! Even thus two friends condemn'd
Embrace, and kiss, and take ten thousand leaves,
Loather a hundred times to part than die:
Yet now farewell; and farewell life with thee!

which is followed by that beautiful and intense burst of passion from
Suffolk--

'Tis not the hand I care for, wert thou hence;
A wilderness is populous enough,
So Suffolk had thy heavenly company:
For where thou art, there is the world itself,
With every several pleasure in the world;
And where thou art not, desolation!

In the third part of Henry the Sixth, Margaret, engaged in the terrible
struggle for her husband's throne, appears to rather more advantage. The
indignation against Henry, who had pitifully yielded his son's
birthright for the privilege of reigning unmolested during his own life,
is worthy of her, and gives rise to a beautiful speech. We are here
inclined to sympathize with her; but soon after follows the murder of
the Duke of York; and the base revengeful spirit and atrocious cruelty
with which she insults over him, unarmed and a prisoner,--the bitterness
of her mockery, and the unwomanly malignity with which she presents him
with the napkin stained with the blood of his youngest son, and "bids
the father wipe his eyes withal," turn all our sympathy into aversion
and horror. York replies in the celebrated speech, beginning--

She-wolf of France, and worse than wolves of France,
Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth--

and taunts her with the poverty of her father, the most irritating topic
he could have chosen.

Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult?
It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen,
Unless the adage must be verified,
That beggars, mounted, ride their horse to death.
'Tis beauty, that doth oft make women proud;
But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small.
'Tis virtue that doth make them most admired;
The contrary doth make thee wondered at.
'Tis government that makes them seem divine,
The want thereof makes the