Графични страници
PDF файл

Who is to bear me, like a thunderholt,
Against the bosom of the prince of Wales:
Harry to Harry shall, hot horse to horse,
Meet, and ne'er part, till one drop down a corse,-..
0, that Glendower were come!

Tell your nephew,
The prince of Wales doth join with all the world
In praise of Henry Percy: By my hopes,
This present enterprise set off his head,
I do not think a braver gentleman,
More active-valiant, or more valiant-young,
More daring, or more bold, is now alive,
To grace this latter age with noble deeds.
For my part I may speak it to my shame,
I have a truant been to chivalry,
And so, I hear, he doth account lue too:
Yet this before my father's majesty,
I am content, that he shall take the odds
or his great name and estimatio..,
And will, to save the blood on either side,
Try fortune with him in a single fight.

FALSTAFF'S CATECHISM. Well, 'tis no matter: Honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on? how then? Can honour set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then? No. What is honour: A word. What is in that word? Honour, What is that honour? Air. A trim reckoning!Who hath it? He that died o’Wednesday.. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. Is it insensible then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the Jiving? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it: therefore I'II none of it. Honour is a mere escutcheon,* and so ends my catechism.

* Painted heraldry in funerals.

O gentlemen, the time of life is short;
To spend that shortness basely were too long.
Ir life did ride upon a dial's point,
Still ending at the arrival of an hour.



Brave Percy, fare thee well. Ill weav'd ambition, how much art thou shrunk! When that this body did contain a spirit, A kingdom for it was too small a bound; But now, two paces of the vilest earth Is room enough: This earth, that bears thee dead Bears not alive so stout a gentleman. If thou wert sensible of courtesy, I should not make so dear a show of zeal: But let my favours* hide thy mangled face; And even, in thy behall, I'll thank myself For doing thee these fair rites of tenderness. Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heaven' Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave, But not remember'd in thy epitaph!





I, FROM the orient to the drooping west,
Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold
The acts commenced on this ball of earth:
Upon my tongues continual slanders ride;
The which in every language I pronounce,
Stuffing the ears of men with salse reports.
I speak of peace, while covert enmity,
Under the smile of safety, wounds the world

* Scarf, with which he covers Peroy's face.

And who but Rumour, who but only I,
Make fearful musters, and prepar'd defence;
Whilst the big year, swoln with sonie ot her, grief,
Is thought with child by the stern tyrant war,
And no such matter? Rumour is a pipe
Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures;
And of so easy and so plain a stop,
That the blunt monster with uncounted heads,
The still-discordant wavering multitude
Can play upon it.



Contention, like a horse
Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose,
And bears down all before him.


Aster him, came, spurring hard, A gentleman alınost forespent* with speed, That stoppd by me to breathe his bloodied horse. He ask'd the way to Chester; and of him I did demand, what news from Shrewsbury. He told me, that rebellion had bad luck, And that young Harry Percy's spur was cold; With that, he gave his able horse the head, And, bending forward, struck his armed heels Against the panting sides of his poor jade Up to the rowei-head; and, starting so. He spena'd in running to devour the way, Staying no longer question.


This man's brow, like to a title-leaf, Foretells the nature of a tragic volume: So looks the strand, whereon the imperious food Hath lest a witness'd usurpation.tThou tremblest; and the whiteness in thy check Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand. Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless,

* Exhausted. + An attestation of its ravage.

So dull, so dead in look, so wo-begone,
Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night,
And wnuld have told him, half his Troy was

I see a strange confession in thine eye,
Thou shak'st thy head, and bold’st it fear, or sin,
To speak a truth. If he be slain, say so:
The tongue offends not that reports his death:
And he doth sin that does belie the dead;
Not he, which says the dead is not alive.
Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news
Hath but a losing office; and his tongue
Sounds ever after as a sullen bell,
Remember'd knolling a departing friend.


As the wretch, whose fever-weaken'd joiuts, Like strengthless hinges buckle under life, Impatient of his tit, breaks like a fire Out of his keeper's arms; even so my limbs, Weaken’d with grief, being now enrag'd with grier Are thrice themselves: hence therefore, thou nice*

crutch; A scaly gauntlet now, with joints of steel, Must glove this hand: and hence, thou sickly quois,“ Thou art a guard too wanton for the head, Which princes, flesh'd with conquest, aim to hit Now bind my brows with iron; and approach The ragged’st hour that time and spite dare bring, To frown upon the enrag'd Northumberland! Let heaven kiss earth! Now let not nature's hand Keep the wild flood confin’d! let order die! And let this world no longer be a stage, To feed contention in a lingering act; But let one spirit of the firsi-born Cain Reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set On bloody courses, the rude scene may end, And darkness be the burier of the dead.


An habitation giddy and unsure Hath he, that buildeth on the vulgar heart. * Trifling.

+ Cap.

O thou fond many!* with what loud applause
Didst thou beat heaven with blessing Bolingbroke,
Before he was what thou would'st have him be?
And being now trimm'at in thine own desires,
Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of him,
That thou provok'st thyself to cast him up.



Sleep: gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber: Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody. O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile, In loathsome beds; and leav'st the kingly couch, A watch-case, or a common 'laurum bell? Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast Seal

up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge; And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With deafʼning clamours in the slippery clouds, That, with the hurly,f death itself awakes? Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose To the wet sea-boy, in an hour so rude; And, in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances, and means to boot, Deng it to a king?

* Multitude. + Dressed. # Noise.


« ПредишнаНапред »