Page 217 - Shakespeare - Vol. 2

PEMBROKE

Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege.

BASTARD
’Tis true, to hurt his master, no manners else.

SALISBURY
This is the prison. [Seeing Arthur.] What is he lies here?

PEMBROKE
O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty! [35]
The earth had not a hole to hide this deed.

SALISBURY

Murther, as hating what himself hath done,
Doth lay it open to urge on revenge.

BIGOT
Or, when he doom’d this beauty to a grave,
Found it too precious-princely for a grave. [40]

SALISBURY
Sir Richard, what think you? You have 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, [45]

The heighth, the crest, or crest unto the crest,
Of murther’s arms: this is the bloodiest shame,
The wildest savagery, the vildest stroke,
That ever wall-ey’d wrath or staring rage
Presented to the tears of soft remorse. [50]

PEMBROKE

All murthers past do stand excus’d in this:
And this, so sole and so unmatchable,
Shall give a holiness, a purity,