With Cain go wander through the shade of night,
And never show thy head by day nor light.-
Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe,

That blood should sprinkle me, to make me grow.
Come, mourn with me for what I do lament,
And put on sullen black, incontinent :
I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land,

To wash this blood off from my guilty hand.-
March sadly after; grace my mournings here,
In weeping after this untimely bier.

[Exeunt.

THIS play is one of those which Shakspeare has, apparently, revised ; but as success in works of invention is not always proportionate to labor, it is not finished at last with the happy force of some other of his tragedies, nor can it be said much to affect the passions, or enlarge the understanding. JOHNSON.