"I have not that alacrity of spirit,
Nor cheer of mind, that I was wont to have."
Then, in a vision, as he lies sleeping on his couch, with his armour on and his sword-hilt grasped in his hand, he sees, one by one, the spectres of all those he has done to death. He wakens in terror. His conscience has a thousand tongues, and every tongue condemns him as a perjurer and assassin:—
"I shall despair.—There is no creature loves me;
And if I die no soul shall pity me."
These are such pangs of conscience as would sometimes beset even the strongest and most resolute in those days when faith and superstition were still powerful, and when even one who scoffed at religion and made a tool of it had no assurance in his heart of hearts. There is in these words, too, a purely human sense of loneliness and of craving for affection, which is valid for all time.
Most admirable is the way in which Richard summons up his manhood and restores the courage of those around him. These are the accents of one who will give despair no footing in his soul:—
"Conscience is but a word that cowards use,
Devis'd at first to keep the strong in awe;"
and there is in his harangue to the soldiers an irresistible roll of fierce and spirit-stirring martial music; it is constructed like strophes of the Marseillaise:—
"Remember whom you are to cope withal;—
A sort of vagabonds, rascals, runaways.
(Que veut cette horde d'esclaves?)
You having lands, and bless'd with beauteous wives,
They would restrain the one, distain the other.
(Égorger vos fils, vos compagnes.)
Let's whip these stragglers o'er the seas again."
But there is a ferocity, a scorn, a popular eloquence in Richard's words, in comparison with which the rhetoric of the Marseillaise seems declamatory, even academic. His last speeches are nothing less than superb:—
"Shall these enjoy our lands? lie with our wives?
Ravish our daughters?—[Drum afar off.] Hark; I hear their
drum.
Fight, gentlemen of England! fight, bold yeomen!
Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head!
Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood:
Amaze the welkin with your broken staves!
Enter a Messenger.
What says Lord Stanley? will he bring his power?
Mess. My lord, he doth deny to come.
K. Rich. Off with his son George's head!
Norfolk. My lord, the enemy is pass'd the marsh:
After the battle let George Stanley die.
K. Rich. A thousand hearts are great within my bosom.
Advance our standards! set upon our foes!
Our ancient word of courage, fair Saint George,
Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons!
Upon them! Victory sits on our helms.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
K. Rich. A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!
Catesby. Withdraw, my lord; I'll help you to a horse.
K. Rich. Slave! I have set my life upon a cast,
And I will stand the hazard of the die.
I think there be six Richmonds in the field;
Five have I slain to-day, instead of him.—
A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!"