King John, ed. by C.E. Moberly

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Page 67 - This England never did, (nor never shall,) Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself. Now these her princes are come home again, Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them : Nought shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true.
Page 47 - Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths: And when they talk of him, they shake their heads And whisper one another in the ear; And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer's wrist, 190 Whilst he that hears makes fearful action, With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes. I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus, The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool, With open mouth swallowing a tailor's news...
Page 90 - But how could I forget thee? Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To be my most grievous loss!
Page 55 - Be great in act, as you have been in thought; Let not the world see fear and sad distrust Govern the motion of a kingly eye: Be stirring as the time ; be fire with fire ; Threaten the threatener and outface the brow Of bragging horror : so shall inferior eyes, 50 That borrow their behaviours from the great, Grow great by your example and put on The dauntless spirit of resolution.
Page 40 - Have you the heart ? When your head did but ache, I knit my handkerchief about your brows (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, 45 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...
Page 43 - To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet, To smooth the ice, or add another hue Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, Is wasteful, and ridiculous excess.
Page 26 - ... greatness. What a fool art thou, A ramping fool ; to brag, and stamp, and swear, Upon my party ! Thou cold-blooded slave, Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side ? Been sworn my soldier? bidding me depend Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength ? And dost thou now fall over to my foes ? Thou wear a lion's hide ! doff it for shame, And hang a calfs-skin on those recreant limbs.
Page 37 - Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form ; Then, have I reason to be fond of grief.

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