[CLARENCE reposes himself on a chair.]

Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours,
Makes the night morning and the noontide night.
Princes have but their titles for their glories,
An outward honour for an inward toil;
And, for unfelt imaginations,
They often feel a world of restless cares:
So that, between their tides and low name,
There's nothing differs but the outward fame.

[Enter the two MURDERERS.]

FIRST MURDERER.
Ho! who's here?

BRAKENBURY.
What wouldst thou, fellow, and how cam'st thou hither?

FIRST MURDERER.
I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs.

BRAKENBURY.
What, so brief?

SECOND MURDERER.
'Tis better, sir, than to be tedious.--Let
him see our commission and talk no more.