_Queen._ Stay, yet look back with me, unto the Tower; Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes, Whom envy hath immured within your walls; Rough cradle for such little pretty ones; Rude, rugged nurse, old sullen playfellow, For tender princes! The other passage is the account of their death by _Tyrrel_:— Dighton and Forrest, whom I did suborn To do this piece of ruthless butchery, Albeit they were flesh’d villains, bloody dogs, Wept like to children in their death’s sad story: O thus! quoth Dighton, lay the gentle babes; Thus, thus! quoth Forrest, girdling one another, Within their innocent alabaster arms; Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, And in that summer-beauty kiss’d each other; A book of prayers on their pillow lay, Which once, quoth Forrest, almost changed my mind. But Oh the Devil!—there the villain stopped: When Dighton thus told on—we smothered The most replenished sweet work of nature, That from the prime creation ere she framed. These are those wonderful bursts of feeling, done to the very height of nature which our Shakespeare alone could give. We do not insist on the repetition of these last passages as proper for the stage; we should indeed be loth to trust them with almost any actor; but we should wish them to be retained, at least in preference to the fantoccini exhibition of the young Princes, bandying childish wit with their uncle. We have taken the present opportunity to offer these remarks on the necessity of acting the plays of our great Bard, in spirit and substance, instead of burlesquing them, because we think the stage has acquired in Mr. Kean an actor capable of doing singular justice to many of his finest delineations of character. FINE ARTS—THE LOUVRE _The Morning Chronicle_] [_March 24, 1814._ ‘If Blücher, if the Cossacks, get to Paris,—to Paris, the seat of Bonaparte’s pride and insolence,—what mercy will they shew to it, or why should they shew it any mercy? Will they spare the precious works of art, to decorate the palace of a monster whom they justly detest? Will they treat the Thuileries more tenderly than the French Officers, only eight months ago, openly threatened to treat Berlin? Is Paris, Bonaparte’s Paris, more sacred than Moscow? or are the slaves of the Corsican more inviolable than the brave and virtuous citizens of Hamburgh? No, no; the indignant warriors will cry,— “Away to Heav’n respective Lenity, And fire-eyed Fury be my conduct now.”