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GOOD den,* sir Richard,-God-a-mercy, fellow; And if his name be George, I'll call him Peter: For new made honour doth forget men's names; 'Tis too respective,† and too sociable, For your conversion. Now your traveller,He and his tooth-pick at my worship's mess; And when my nightly stomach is suffic'd, Why then I suck my teeth, and catechise My picked man of countries:§——My dear sir, (Thus, leaning on mine elbow, I begin,) I shall beseech you-That is question now: And then comes answer like an ABC-book:||O sir, says answer, at your best command; At your employment; at your service, sir:No, sir, says question, I, sweet sir, at yours; And so, ere answer knows what question would, (Saving in dialogue of compliment; And talking of the Alps, and Appenines; . The Pyrenean, and the river Po,) It draws towards supper in conclusion so. But this is worshipful society,
• Good evening. Change of condition. Catechism.
§ My travelled fop.
And fits the mounting spirits, like myself:
DESCRIPTION OF ENGLAND.
That pale, that white-fac'd shore,
Whose foot spurns back the ocean's roaring tides,
DESCRIPTION OF AN ENGLISH ARMY.
His marches are expedient* to this town, His forces strong, his soldiers confident. With him along is come the mother-queen, An Ate, stirring him to blood and strife; With her her niece, the lady Blanch of Spain; With them a bastard of the king deceas'd: And all the unsettled humors of the land,Rash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries, With ladies' faces, and fierce dragons' spleens,Have sold their fortunes at their native homes, Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs, To make a hazard of new fortunes here. In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits, Than now the English bottoms have waft o'er, Did never float upon the swelling tide, To do offence and scath‡ in Christendom. The interruption of their churlish drums Cuts off more circumstance: they are at hand.
By how much unexpected, by so much We must awake endeavour for defence: For courage mounteth with occasion.
Immediate, expeditious. †The Goddess of Revenge.
What cracker is this same, that deafs our ears With this abundance of superfluous breath?
DESCRIPTION OF VICTORY BY THE FRENCH.
You men of Angiers, open wide your gates, And let young Arthur, duke of Bretagne, in; Who, by the hand of France, this day hath made Much work for tears in many an English mother, Whose sons lie scatter'd on the bleeding ground. Many a widow's husband grovelling lies, Coldly embracing the discolour'd earth; And victory, with little loss, doth play Upon the dancing banners of the French; Which are at hand, triumphantly display'd To enter conquerors.
VICTORY DESCRIBED BY THE ENGLISH.
Rejoice, you men of Angiers, ring your bells;
Their armours, that march'd hence so silver bright,
A COMPLETE LADY
If lusty love should go in quest of beauty,
POWERFUL EFFECTS OF SELF-INTEREST.
Rounded† in the ear
With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil,
That broker, that still breaks the pate of faith;
But the word maid,-cheats the poor maid of that;
A WOMAN'S FEARS.
Thou shalt be punish'd for thus frightening me,
And though thou now confess, thou didst but jest,
TOKENS OF GRIEF.
What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head? Why dost thou look so sadly on my son? What means that hand upon that breast of thine? Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum, Like a proud river peering§ o'er his bounds? Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words? Then speak again; not all thy former tale, But this one word, whether thy tale be true.
† Poised, balanced.
A MOTHER'S FONDNESS FOR A BEAUTIFUL CHILD.
If thou, that bid'st me be content, wert grim, Ugly, and sland'rous to thy mother's womb, Full of unpleasing blots, and sightless* stains, Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious,f Patch'd with foul moles, and eye-offending marks, I would not care, I then wonld be content; For then I should not love thee; no, nor thou Become thy great birth, nor deserve a crown. But thou art fair; and at thy birth, dear boy! Nature and fortune join'd to make thee great; Of nature's gifts thou may'st with lilies boast, And with the half-blown rose.
I will instruct my sorrows to be proud;
For grief is proud, and makes his owner stout.
COWARDICE AND PERJURY.
O Lymoges! O Austria! thou dost shame That bloody spoil: Thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward:
Thou little valiant, great in villany!
Thou ever strong upon the stronger side!
THE HORRORS OF A CONSPIRACY.
I had a thing to say,-But let it go:
The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day, + Portentous.
+ Do off.