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The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful' day Is crept into the bosom of the

And now loud-bowling wolves arouse the jades
That drag the tragic melancholy night;
Who with their drowsy, slow, and flagging wings
Clip dead men's graves, and from their misty jaws
Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air.

Kent, in the commentaries Cesar writ,
Is term’d the civil'st place of all this isle:
Sweet is the country, because full of riches;
The people liberal, valiant, active, wealthy.

Justice with favour have I always done;
Prayers and tears have mov'd me, gifts could never
When have I aught exacted at your hands,
Kent to maintain, the king, the realm, and you?
Large gists have I bestow'd on learned clerks,
Because my book preserred me to the king;
And-seeing ignorance is the curse of God,
Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven, -
Unless you be possess’d with dev’lish spirits,
You cannot but forbear to murder me.



Do but think,
How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown;
Within whose circuit is Elysium,
And all that poets feign of bliss and joy.

* Pitiful


So looks the pent-up lion o’er the wretch That trembles under his devouring paws: And so he walks, insulting o’er his prey; And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder. THE DUKE OF YORK ON THE GALLANT BEHAVIOUR

OF HIS SONS. My sons—God knows what hath bechanced them: But this I know,—they have demeaned themselves Like men born to renown, by life, or death. 'Three times did Richard make a lane to me; And thrice cried, -Courage, father! fight it out. And full as oft came Edward to my side, With purple falchion, painted to the hilt In blood of those that had encountr'd him: And when the hardiest warriors did retire, Richard cried-Charge! and give no foot of ground And cried,--A Crown, or else a glorious tomb! A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre! With this, we charg'd again; but out, alas! We bodg’d* again; as I have seen a swan With bootless labours swim against the tide, And spend her strength with over-matching waves. A FATHER'S PASSION ON THE MURDER OF A FAVOURITE




0, tyger's heart, wrapp'd in a woman's hide! How could'st thou drain the life-blood of the child, To bid the father wipe bis eyes withal, And yet be seen to bear a woman's face? Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible; Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. That face of his the hungry cannibals [blood. Would not have touch'd, would not have stain:d with But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,-0, ten times more,—than tygers of Hyrcania See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears: This cloth thou dipp’dst in blood of my sweet boy.

* i. e. We boggled, made bad, or bungling work of our attempt to rally.

And I with tears do wash the tlood away.
Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this:
And, if thou tellist the heavy story right,
Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears;
Yea, even my foes will shed fast-falling tcars;
And say,–Alas, it was a piteous deed!

Methought, he bore him* in the thickest troop
As doth a lion in a herd of neat;t
Or as a bear, encompass'd round with dogs;
Who having pinch'd a few, and made them cry
The rest stand all aloof, and bark at hin.


See, how the morning opes her golden gates,
And takes her farewell of the glorious sun!!
How well resembles it the prime of youth,
Trimm'd like a younker, prancing to his love!

This battle fares like to the morning's war,
When dying clouds contend with growing light;
Whạt time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day, or night. -

O God! methinks, it were a happy life,
To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,
To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run:
How many make the hour full complete,
How many hours bring about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the times:
So many hours must I tend my flock;

* Demeaned hiinself. + Neat cattle, cows, oren, &c.

# Aurora takes for a time her fare vell of the sun, wlica she dismisses hinn lo his diurnal course.

So many hours must I take my rest;
So many hours must I contemplate;
So many hours must I sport mysell;
So many days my ewes have been with young,
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean;
So many years ere I shall sheer the fleece;
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Pass'd over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave,
Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter chade
To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroidered canopy
To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery?
0, yes it doth: a thousand fold it doth.
And to conclude,-the shepherd's homely curds,
His cold tnin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince's delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,
When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.



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Look, as I blow this feather from my face, And as the air blows it to me again, Obeying with my wind when I do blow, And yielding to another when it blows, Commanded always by the greater gust; Such is the likeness of you common men.


Why, then I do but dream on sovereignty; Like one that stands upon a promontory, And spies a far-off shore where he would tread, Wishing his foot were equal with his eye; And chides the sea that sunders him from thence Saying-he'll lade it dry to have his way.

GLOSTER'S DEFORMITY. Why, love forswore me in my mother's womb: And, for I should not deal in her soft laws She did corrupt srail nature with some bribe To shrink mine arm up like a wither'd shrub; To make an envious mountain on my back, Where sits deformity to mock my body; To shape my legs of an unequal size; To disproportion me in every part, Like to a chaos, or an unlick'd bear whelp, That carries no impression like the dam. And am I then a man to be belov'd ?

GLOSTER'S DISSIMULATION. Why, I can smile, and murder while I smile; And cry, content, to that which grieves my heart; And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face to all occasions. "I'll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall; I'll slay more gazers than the basilisk; I'll play the orator as well as Nestor, Deceive more slily then Ulysses could And, like a Sinon, take another Troy; I can add colours to the chameleon; Change shapes, with Proteus, for advantages, And set the murd’rous Machiavel to school, Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?




I have not stopp'd mine ears to their demands, Nor posted off their suits with slow delays; My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds, My mildness hath allay'd their swelling griess, My mercy dry'd their water-flowing tears: I have not been desirous of their wealth, Nor much oppress'd them with great subsidies, Nor forward of revenge, though they much erra

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