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.

KING.  Why stand ye, lords, and see this traitor perch’d
Upon our castle’s battlements so proud? 
Come down, young Bruce, set ope the castle-gates;
Unto thy sov’reign let thy knee be bow’d,
And mercy shall be given to thee and thine.

BRUCE.  O miserable thing! 
Comes mercy from the mouth of John our king? 
Why then, belike, hell will be pitiful. 
I will not ope the gates—­the gate I will;
The gate where thy shame and my sorrow sits. 
See my dead mother and her famish’d son!
    [Opens a casement, showing the dead bodies within.]
Open thy tyrant’s eyes, for to the world
I will lay open thy fell cruelties.