With that grim ferry-man which poets write of,
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.
The first that did greet my stranger soul,
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick;
Who cried aloud, “What scourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?”
And so he vanished: then came wandering by
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood; and he squeaked aloud,
“Clarence is come; false, fleeting, perjured Clarence,