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Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet,
Which with usurping steps do trample thee.
Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies:
And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower,
Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder;
Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch
Throw death upon thy sovereign's enemies.-
Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords;
This earth shall have a feeling, and these stones
Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king
Shall falter under foul rebellious arms.
SUN RISING AFTER A DARK NIGHT.
Know'st thou not,
That when the searching eye of heaven is hid
Behind the globe, and lights the lower world,
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen,
In murders, and in outrage, bloody here;
But when, from under this terrestrial ball,
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,
And darts his light through every guilty hole,
Then murders, treasons, and detested sins,
The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their backs,
Stand bare and naked, trenabling at themselves?
VANITY OF POWER AND MISERY OF KINGS.
No matter where; of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let's choose executors, and talk of wills: And yet not so,-for what can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's, And nothing can we call our own, but death; And that small model of the barren earth, Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For heaven's sakė, let us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings:How some have been depos'd, some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos’d; e poison’d by their wives, some sleeping kill'd;
der'd:-For within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king,
Keeps death his court: and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp; •
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be fear’d, and kill with looks;
Insusing him with sell and vain conceit,-
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable: and humour'd thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall, and-farewell king!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence; throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but nistook me all this while:
I live with bread like you, feel want, taste grief,
Need friends:-Subjected thus,
How can you say to me-I am a king?
In winter's tedious nights, sit by the fire
With good old folks; and let them tell thee tales
Of wosul ages, long ago betid:*
And ere thou bid good night, to quitt their grief,
Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,
And send the hearers weeping to their beds.
York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Boling.
broke, Mounte: upon a hot and fiery steed, Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know, With slow, but stately pace, kept on his course, While all tongues cried—God save thee, Bolingo
broke! You would have thought the very windows spake, So many greedy looks of young and old Through casements darted their desiring eyes Unon his visage: and that all the walls, With painted imag'ry,t had said at once,* Passed.
† Be even with tham * Tapestry hung from the window..
Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!
Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,
Bespake them thus,- 1 thank you, countrymen:
And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.
Duch. Alas, poor Richard! where rides he the
York. As in a theatre, the
of men, After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage, Are idly bent* on him that enters next, Thinking his prattle to be tedious: Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes Did scowl on Richard; no man cried, God save him; No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home: But dust was thrown upon his sacred head; Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,His face still combating with tears and smiles, The badges of his grief and patience,-That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted, And barbarism itself have pitied him,
Who are the violets now,
That strew the green lap of the new-come spring.
A SOLILOQUY IN PRISON,
I have been studying how I may compare
This prison, where I live, unto the world:
And, for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it;-Yet I'li hammer it out.
My brain I'll prove the female to my soul;
My soul, the father: and these two beget
A generation of still-breeding thoughts,
And these same thoughts people this little worldt
In humors, like the people of this world,
For no thought is contented.
Thoughts tending to content, flatter themselves,That they are not the first of fortune's slaves,
Carelessly turned. + His own body,
Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars,
Who, sitting in the stocks refuge their shame,-
That many have, and others must sit there:
And in this thought they find a kind of ease,
Bearing their own misfortune on the back
of such as have before endur'd the like,
Thus play I, in one person, many people,
And none contented: Sometimes am I king;
Then treason makes'me wish myself a beggar,
And so I am: Then crushing penury
Persuades me I was better when a king;
Then I am king'd again: and by-and-by,
Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke,
And straight am nothing:--But, whatc'er I am,
Nor I, nor any man, that but man is,
With nothing shall be pleas'd, till he be casid
With being nothing.
PLACE AFTER CIVIL WAR. SO shaken as we are, so wan with care, Find we a time for frighted peace to paint, And breathe short-winded accents of new broils To be commenc'd in strands* asar remote. No more the thirsty Erinnyst of this soil Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood; No more shall trenching war channel her fields, Nor bruise ber flow'rets with the armed hoofs Of hostile paces: those opposed eyes, Which, like the meteors of a troubled hearen, All of one nature, of one substance bred, Did lately meet in the intestine shock And furious close of civil butchery, Shall now, in mutual, well-beseeming ranks,
• Strands, banks of the sea. + The fury of discord.
March all one way; and be no more oppos’d
Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies:
The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,
No more shall cut his master.
KING HENRY'S CHARACTER OF PERCY, AND OF
HIS SON PRINCE HENRY, Yea, there thou makost me sad, and mak'st me sin In envy that my
Should be the father of so bless'd a son:
A son, who is the theme of honour's tongue;
Amongst a grove, the very straightest plant;
Who is sweet fortune's minion, and her pride;
Whilst I, by looking on the praise of bim,
See riot and dishonour stain the brow
Of my young Harry.
PRINCE HENRY'S SOLILOQUY.
I know you all, and will awhile uphold
The unyok'd humour of your idleness:
Yet herein will I initate the sun;
Who doth permit the base contagious clouds
To smother up his beauty from the world,
That, when he please again to be himself,
Being wanted, he may be more wonder'd at,
By breaking through the soul and ugly mists
or vapours that did seem to strangle him.
If all the year were playing holidays,
To sport would be as tedicus as to work;
But, when they seldom come, they wish'd-for come,
And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents.
So, when this loose behaviour I throw off,
the debt I never promised,
By how much better than my word I am,
By so much shall I falsify men's hopes;**
And, like bright metal on a sullenf ground,
My reformation, glittering o'er my fault,
Shall show more goodly, and attract more eyes,
Than that which hath no foil to set it off.
I'll so offend, to make offence a skill;
Redeeming time, when men think least I will.