Enter Brakenbury, the Lieutenant.
Brak. Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, 76
Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night.
Princes have but their titles for their glories,
An outward honour for an inward toil;
And, for unfelt imaginations, 80
They often feel a world of restless cares:
So that, between their titles and low name,
There's nothing differs but the outward fame.
Enter [the] two Murtherers.
1. Mur. Ho! who's here? 84
Brak. What wouldst thou, fellow? and how cam'st thou hither?
2. Mur. I would speak with Clarence, and
I came hither on my legs.
Brak. What! so brief? 88
1. Mur. 'Tis better, sir, than to be tedious.—
Let him see our commission, and talk no more.
Brak. I am, in this, commanded to deliver
The noble Duke of Clarence to your hands: 92
I will not reason what is meant hereby,
Because I will be guiltless from the meaning.
There lies the duke asleep, and there the keys.
I'll to the king, and signify to him 96
That thus I have resign'd to you my charge.
1. Mur. You may, sir; 'tis a point of wis-
dom: fare you well. Exit [Brakenbury].
2. Mur. What! shall we stab him as he 100
sleeps?
1. Mur. No; he'll say 'twas done cowardly,
when he wakes.
80 unfelt imaginations: i.e. what they imagine they might do but are unable to realize
