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But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloster,-
One phial full of Edward's sacred blood,

One flourishing branch of his most royal root,-
Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt;
Is hack'd down, and his summer leaves all faded,
By envy's hand, and murder's bloody axe.
Ah, Gaunt! his blood was thine; that bed, that
womb,

That mettle, that self-mould, that fashion'd thee, Made him a man; and though thou liv'st, and breath'st,

Yet art thou slain in him: thou dost consent
In some large measure to thy father's death,
In that thou seest thy wretched brother die,
Who was the model of thy father's life.
Call it not patience, Gaunt, it is despair:
In suffering thus thy brother to be slaughter'd,
Thou show'st the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee:
That which in mean men we entitle―patience,
Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
What shall I say? to safeguard thine own life,
The best way is to 'venge my Gloster's death.

K. RICHARD II., A. 1, s. 2.

THE WIDOW'S WAIL.

The WIFE. Ah! who shall hinder me to wail

and weep,

To chide my fortune, and torment myself?
I'll join with black despair against my soul,
And to myself become an enemy.

To make an act of tragick violence :

Edward, my lord, thy son, our king, is dead.— Why grow the branches, when the root is gone?

Why wither not the leaves, that want their sap? If you will live, lament; if die, be brief;

That our swift-winged souls may catch the king's;

Or, like obedient subjects, follow him

To his new kingdom of perpetual rest.

The MOTHER. Ah, so much interest have I in thy sorrow

As I had title in thy noble husband!

I have bewept a worthy husband's death,
And liv'd by looking on his images:

But now, two mirrors of his princely semblance
Are crack'd in pieces by malignant death;
And I for comfort have but one false glass,
That grieves me when I see my shame in him.
Thou art a widow; yet thou art a mother,
And hast the comfort of thy children left thee:
But death hath snatch'd my husband from my

arms,

And pluck'd two crutches from my feeble hands,
Clarence and Edward. O, what cause have I,
(Thine being but a moiety of my grief,)
To over-go thy plaints, and drown thy cries?
The WIFE. Give me no help in lamentation,
I am not barren to bring forth laments:
All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes,
That I, being govern'd by the wat'ry moon,
May send forth plenteous tears to drown the
world!

Ah, for my husband, for my dear lord Edward!
The MOTHER. Was never mother, had so

dear a loss.

Alas! I am the mother of these griefs;
Their woes are parcell'd, mine are general.
She for an Edward weeps, and so do I;
I for a Clarence weep, so doth not she:

These babes for Clarence weep, and so do I:
I for an Edward weep, so do not they :-
Alas! you three, on me, threefold distress'd,
Pour all your tears, I am your sorrow's nurse,
And I will pamper it with lamentations.

K. RICHARD III., A. 2, s. 2.

THE WIFE.

You are my true and honourable wife;
As dear to me, as are the ruddy drops
That visit my sad heart.

JULIUS CESAR, A. 2, s. 1.

THE WIFE CONFESSOR.

COME, come, no longer will I be a fool,
To put the finger in the eye and weep,

Whilst man, and master, laugh my woes to

scorn.

Come, sir, to dinner; Dromio, keep the gate:-
Husband, I'll dine above with you to-day,
And shrive you of a thousand idle pranks :
Sirrah, if any ask you for your master,

Say, he dines forth, and let no creature enter.-
Come, sister:-Dromio, play the porter well.

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Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant Can tickle where she wounds!-My dearest husband,

I something fear my father's wrath; but nothing,
(Always reserv'd my holy duty,) what
His rage can do on me: You must be gone;
And I shall here abide the hourly shot
Of angry eyes; not comforted to live,
But that there is this jewel in the world,
That I may see again.

CYMBELINE,

A. 1, s. 2.

THE WIFE'S PATTERN.

BRUTUS, my lord! You have ungently
Stole from my bed: And yesternight, at supper,
You suddenly arose and walked about,
Musing, and sighing, with your arms across :
And when I ask'd you what the matter was,
You star'd upon me with ungentle looks:
I urg'd you
further; then you scratch'd your
head,

And too impatiently stamp'd with your foot:
Yet I insisted, yet you answer'd not;

But, with an angry wafture of

your hand,

Gave sign for me to leave you: So I did;
Fearing to strengthen that impatience,

Which seem'd too much enkindled; and, withal,
Hoping it was but an effect of humour,

Which sometime hath his hour with every man.
It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep;
And, could it work so much upon your shape,
As it hath much prevail'd on your condition,
I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord,
Make me acquainted with your cause of grief.
Brutus is wise, and, were he not in health,
He would embrace the means to come by it.
Is Brutus sick? and is it physical

To walk unbraced, and suck up the humours

Of the dank morning? What! is Brutus sick;
And will he steal out of his wholesome bed,
To dare the vile contagion of the night ?
And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air
To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus ;
You have some sick offence within your mind,
Which, by the right and virtue of my place,
I ought to know of: And, upon my knees,
I charm you, by my once commended beauty,
By all your vows of love, and that great vow
Which did incorporate and make us one,
That you unfold to me, yourself, your half,
Why you are heavy; tell me, Brutus,
Is it excepted, I should know no secrets
That appertain to you? Am I yourself,
But, as it were, in sort, or limitation;
To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,
And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the
suburbs

Of your good pleasure? If it be no more,
Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife.
I grant, I am a woman; but, withal,
A woman that lord Brutus took to wife:
I grant, I am a woman; but, withal,
A woman well-reputed; Cato's daughter.
Think you, I am no stronger than my sex,
Being so father'd, and so husbanded?

Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose them:
I have made strong proof of my constancy,
Giving myself a voluntary wound

Here, in the thigh: Can I bear that with patience,

And not my husband's secrets.

Render me worthy of this noble wife!

O ye gods,

JULIUS CESAR, A. 2, s. 1.

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