Shooter's Hill. SHOOTER'S HILL. EALTH! I seek thee; dost thou love HEALTH The mountain-top or quiet vale, Or deign o'er humbler hills to rove I seek thee where, with all his might, That gilds the foxglove's pendent bells; To hide me from the public eye, O'er eastward uplands, gay or rude, I start, with strength and hope renewed, Now measure vales with straining eyes, Sweet health, I seek thee! hither bring Ay, there's the scene!' beyond the sweep The dark-browed wood, the headlong steep, Here, Thames, I watch thy flowing tides, For where the Mole all silent glides * * - and peace is wealth to me! * * * Robert Broomfield. 1 Box Hil, and the beautiful neighborhood of Dorking, in Surrey. Shrewsbury. SHREWSBURY. OTSPUR. My cousin Vernon! welcome, by my HOTSPUR. soul. VERNON. 'Pray God my news be worth a welcome, lord. The Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong, VER. And further, I have learned, The King himself in person is set forth, Or hitherwards intended speedily, With strong and mighty preparation. HOT. He shall be welcome too. Where is his son, The nimble-footed mad-cap Prince of Wales, And his comrades that daffed the world aside, And bid it pass? VER. All furnished, all in arms; All plumed like estridges, that wing the wind, Glittering in golden coats like images; As full of spirit as the month of May, And vaulted with such ease into his seat, And witch the world with noble horsemanship. KING HENRY. How bloodily the sun begins to peer Above yon busky hill! the day looks pale At his distemperature. PRINCE HENRY. The southern wind Doth play the trumpet to his purposes; And, by his hollow whistling in the leaves, K. HEN. Then with the losers let it sympathize; For nothing can seem foul to those that win. HOT. O Harry, thou hast robbed me of my youth. I better brook the loss of brittle life Than those proud titles thou hast won of me; They wound my thoughts, worse than thy sword my But Thought 's the slave of Life, and Life Time's fool; And food for [Dies. P. HEN. For worms, brave Percy. Fare thee well, great heart! Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk ! A kingdom for it was too small a bound; But now, two paces of the vilest earth Is room enough. This earth, that bears thee dead, Bears not alive so stout a gentleman. If thou wert sensible of courtesy, I should not make so dear a show of zeal. - He sees FALLSTAFF on the ground. What! old acquaintance! could not all this flesh William Shakespeare. Shurton Bars. WRITTEN AT SHURTON BARS, NEAR BRIDGEWATER. ND hark, my love! The sea-breeze moans AN Through yon reft house! O'er rolling stones In bold ambitious sweep, The onward-surging tides supply |