uce made open this wide gap.

BRUCE. Had I not reason, think you, to make wide
The window, that should let so much woe forth?
Where sits my mother, martyr'd by herself,
Hoping to save her child from martyrdom?
Where stands my brother, martyr'd by himself,
Because he would not taste his mother's blood?
For thus I gather this:--my mother's teeth and chin
Are bloody with the savage cookery
Which her soft heart, through pity of her son,
Respectless made her practise on herself;
And her right hand, with offering it the child,
Is with her own pure blood stain'd and defil'd.
My little brother's lips and chin alone
Are tainted with the blood; but his even teeth,
Like orient pearl or snow-white ivory,
Have not one touch of blood, one little spot:
Which is an argument the boy would not
Once stir his lips to taste that bloody food
Our cruel-gentle mother minister'd:
But as it seem'd (for see his pretty palm
Is bloody too) he cast it on the ground,
For on this side the blessed relics lie,
By famine's rage divided from this shrine.
Sad woful mother in Jerusalem!
Who, when thy son and thou didst faint for food,
Buried his sweet flesh in thy hungry womb,
How merciless wert thou, if we compare
Thy fact and this! For my poor lady mother
Did kill herself to save my dying brother;
And thou, ungentle son of Miriam,
Why didst thou beg life when thy mother lack'd?
My little brother George did nobly act
A more courageous part: he would not eat,
Nor beg to live. It seem'd he did not cry:
Few tears stand on his cheek, smooth is each eye;
But when he saw my mother bent to die,
He died with her. O childish valiancy--

KING. Good Bruce, have done. My heart cannot contain
The grief it holds: my eyes must show'r down rain.

LEI. Which showers are even as good
As rain in harvest, or a swelling flood
When neighbouring meadows lack the mower's scythe.

_A march for burial, with drum and fife. Enter_
OXFORD. MATILDA _borne with nuns, one carrying
a white pendant--these words written in gold:
"Amoris Castitatis et Honoris Honos." The_ QUEEN
_following the bier, carrying a garland of flowers.
Set it in the midst of the stage_.

RICH. List, Leicester: hear'st thou not a mournful march?

LEI. Yes, Richmond, and it seemeth old De Vere.

OX. Lords, by your leave, is not our sovereign here?

KING. Yes, good old Aubrey.

OX. Ah, my gracious lord!
That you so much your high state should neglect!
Ah! God in heave