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I do wander every where,

Swifter than the moone's sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the

green;
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,

In those freckles live their savours; I must go seek some dew-drops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. Farewell, thou lob* of spirits, I'll be gone; Our queen, and all our elves, come here anon.

SHAKSPEARE.

DIRGE.

FEAR no more the heat o' the sun,

Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages ;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great,

Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to cloath and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic must
All follow this, and come to dust.

* Looby, lubber.

Fear no more the lightning flash,

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;

Thou hast finish'd joy and moan :
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have,
And renowned be thy grave!

SHAKSPEARE.

HUBERT AND ARTHUR.

Enter HUBERT and Executioners. Hub. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand Within the arras: when I strike my foot Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth; And bind the boy, which you shall find with me, Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.

Exec. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed. Hub. Uncleanly scruples ! Fear not you: look

to't. Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.

Enter ARTHUR. Arth. Good morrow, Hubert. Hub. Good morrow, little prince.

Arth. As little prince (having so great a title To be more prince) as may be. You are sad.

Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier.

Arth. Mercy on me!
Methinks no body should be sad but I:
Yet, I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my Christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be as merry as the day is long;
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practises more harm to me:
He is afraid of me, and I of him.
Is it my fault that I was Geoffrey's son ?
No, indeed is't not: and I would to heaven
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.

Hub. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate,
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead;
Therefore I will be sudden, and dispatch. [Aside.

Arth. Are you sick, Hubert ? you look pale to-day: In sooth, I would you were a little sick, That I might sit all night, and watch with you: I warrant, I love you more than you

Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom.Read here, young Arthur.

[Showing a paper. How now, foolish rheum !

[Aside. Turning dispiteous torture out of door ? I must be brief; lest resolution drop Out at mine eyes, in tender, womanish tears. Can you not read it ? is it not fair writ?

Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect :
Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes ?

Hub. Young boy, I must.
Arth. And will you ?
Hub. And I will.
Arth. Have you the heart ? When your head did

but ache,
I knit my handkerchief about your brows,

do me.

(The best I had, a princess wrought it me)
And I did never ask it you again :
And with my hand at midnight held your head;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time;
Saying, What lack you ? and, Where lies your grief :
Or, What good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still,
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
But you, at your sick service, had a prince.
Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning: Do, and if you will:
If heaven be pleased that you must use me ill,
Why, then you must.— Will you put out mine eyes ?
These
eyes,

that never did, nor never shall, So much as frown on you ?

Hub. I have sworn to do it;
And with hot irons must I burn them out.

Arth. Ay, none, but in this iron age, would do it!
The iron of itself, though heat red hot,
Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears,
And quench his fiery indignation,
Even in the matter of mine innocence:
Nay, after that, consume away in rust,
But for containing fire to harm mine eye.
Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron ?
And if an angel should have come to me,
And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes,
I would not have believed him: no tongue but Hubert's.

(HUBERT stamps, and the men enter. Hub. Come forth; do as I bid you.

Arth. O, save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out, Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.

Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.

Arth. Alas, what need you be so boisterous rough? I will not struggle, I will stand stone still.

For heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound !
Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
Nor look upon the iron angerly :
Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to.

Hub. Go, stand within ; let me alone with him.
Exec. I am best pleased to be from such a deed.

[Exeunt.
Arth. Alas, I then have chid away my friend :
He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart :
Let him come back, that his compassion may
Give life to yours.

Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself.
Arth. Is there no remedy?
Hub. None, but to lose your eyes.
Arth. O, heaven !- that there were but a mote in

yours,
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,
Any annoyance in that precious sense !
Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there,
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.

Hub. Is this your promise ? go to, hold your tongue.

Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes; Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert ! Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, So I may keep mine eyes : 0, spare mine eyes ; Though to no use but still to look on you ! Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold, And would not harm me.

Hub. I can heat it, boy.

Arth. No, in good sooth, the fire is dead with grief, Being create for comfort, to be used In undeserved extremes : see else yourself ;

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