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HIENRY IV AND RICHARD II. York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke, Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed, Which his aspiring rider seemed to know, With slow, but stately pace, kept on his course, While all tongues cried-God save thee, Bolingbroke! You would have thought the very windows spake, So many greedy looks of young and old Through casements darted their desiring eyes Upon his visage ; and that all the walls, With painted imagery, had said at onceJesu 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—I thank you, Countrymen : And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.

Duch. Alas! poor Richard! where rid he the while ?

York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men, After a well graced 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, steeled The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted, And barbarism itself have pitied him.


Nay then, farewell, I have touche, the highest point of all my greatness ; And from that full meridian of my glory, I haste now to my setting : I shall fall Like a bright exhalation in the evening, And no man see me more. So farewell to the little good you bear me. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon hiin: The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness was a ripening,-nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, These many summers in a sea of glory; But far beyond my depth : my high blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate yo; I feel my heart new opened: 0, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours. There is, hetwixt that smile we would aspire to, The sweet aspect of princes, and our ruin, More pangs and fears than war or women have;.

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Nerer to hope again.

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear, In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me Out of thy honest truth to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell, And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me must more be heard-say, I taught thee,--Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. Mark but my fall, and that which ruined me : Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition ; By that sin fell the angels : how can man then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by it ? Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,
Thy God's, and Truth's, then if thou fall'st, o Cromwell.

There take an inventory of all I have,

And my integrity to heaven, is all .
I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell.
Had I but served God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me to mine enemies.


Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

Or to take up arms against a sea of trouble
And, by opposing, end them ?—To die—to sleep-
No more ;—and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks

Devoutly to be wished. To die,—to sleep ;-
To sleep! perchance to dream; aye, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause :—there's the respect,
That makes calamity of so long life :
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bure bodkin ? who would fardels bear,
To groan and sweat under a weary life ;
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns,-puzzles the will;
And makes us rather bear the ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of!
This conscience does make cowards of us all ;

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.


Tomorrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

Life's but a walking shadow ; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing

I have lived long enough: my way of life
Is fallen into the sere, the yellow leaf :
And that which should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have ; but in their stead,
Curses, not loud, but deep; mouth-honour, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny, but dare not

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