BRUCE. Will not my bitter bannings[366] and sad plaints, My just and execrable execrations, My tears, my prayers, my pity-moving moans Prevail, thou glorious bright lamp of the day, To cause thee keep an obit for their souls, And dwell one month with the Antipodes? Bright sun, retire; gild not this vault of death With thy illustrate rays: retire, retire, And yield black night thy empery awhile-- A little while, till as my tears be spent, My blood be likewise shed in raining drops By the tempestuous rage of tyrant John. Learn of thy love, the morning: she hath wept Shower upon shower of silver-dewy tears; High trees, low plants, and pretty little flowers Witness her woe: on them her grief appears, And as she drips on them, they do not let, By drop and drop, their mother earth to wet. See these hard stones, how fast small rivulets Issue from them, though they seem issueless, And wet-eyed woe on everything is view'd, Save in thy face, that smil'st at my distress. O, do not drink these tears thus greedily, Yet let the morning's mourning garment dwell Upon the sad earth. Wilt thou not, thou churl? Then surfeit with thy exhalations speedily; For all earth's venomous infecting worms Have belch'd their several poisons on the fields, Mixing their simples in thy compound draught. Well, Phoebus, well, drink on, I say, drink on; But when thou dost ungorge thee, grant me this, Thou pour thy poisons on the head of John. _Drum. Enter_ CHESTER, MOWBRAY, _Soldiers, at one door_:[367] LEICESTER, RICHMOND, _at another: Soldiers_. BRUCE. How now, my lords! were ye last night so pleased With the beholding of that property[368] Which John and other murderers have wrought Upon my starved mother and her son, That you are come again? Shall I again Set open shop, show my dead ware, dear-bought Of a relentless merchant, that doth trade On the red sea, swoll'n mighty with the blood Of noble, virtuous, harmless innocents? Whose coal-black vessel is of ebony, Their shrouds and tackle (wrought and woven by wrong) Stretch'd with no other gale of wind but grief, Whose sighs with full blasts beateth on her shrouds; The master murder is, the pilot shame, The mariners, rape, theft and perjury; The burden, tyrannous oppression, Which hourly he in England doth unlade. Say, shall I open shop and show my wares? LEI. No, good Lord Bruce, we have enough of that. _Drum. Enter_ KING, HUBERT, _Soldiers_. KING. To Windsor welcome, Hubert. Soft, methinks Bruce and our lords are at a parley now? BRUCE. Chester and Mowbray, you are John's sworn friends; Will you see more? speak, answer me, my lords. I am no niggard, you shall have your fill. BOTH. We have too much, and surfeit with the woe. BRUCE. Are you all full? there comes a ravening kite, That both at quick, at dead, at all will smite. He shall, he must; ay, and by'r Lady, may Command me to give over holiday, And set wide open what you would not see.