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Though standing naked on a mountain top,
Where biting cold would never let grass grow.


And banished I am, if but from thee. Go, speak not to me; even now be gone.0, go not yet!-Even thus two friends condemn'd Embrace, and kiss, and take ten thousand leaves, Lother a hundred times to part than die. Yet now farewell; and farewell life with thee!

Suf. Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished, Once by the king, and three times thrice by thee. 'Tis not the land I care for, wert thou hence; A wilderness is populous enough, So Suffolk had thy heavenly company: For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world; And where thou art not, desolation. DYING WITH THE PERSON BELOVED PREFERABLE TO

PARTING. If I depart from thec, I cannot live: And in thy sight to die, what were it else, But like a pleasant slumber in thy lap? Here could I breathe my soul into the air, As mild and gentle as the cradle-babe, Dying with the mother's dug between its lips. THE DEATH-BED HORRORS OF A GUILTY CONSCIENCE.

Bring me unto my trial when you will. Died he not in his hed? where should he die? Can I make men live, whe’r they will or no? 0! torture me no more, I will confess.Alive again? then show me where he is; I'll give a thousand pound to look upon him,He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them,Comb down his hair; look! look! it stands upright, Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul!-Give me some drink; and bid the apothecary Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.



The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful* day Is crept into the bosom of the sea; And now loud-bowling wolves arouse the jades That drag the tragic melancholy night; Who with their drowsy, slow, and Nagging wings Clip dead men's graves, and from their misty jaws Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air.


Kent, in the commentaries Cesar writ,
Is term'd the civil'st place of all this isle:
Sweet is the country, because full of riches;
The people liberal, valiant, aetive, wealthy.

Justice with favour have I always done;
Prayers and tears have mov'd me, gifts could never.
When have I aught exacted at your hands,
Kent to maintain, the king, the realm, and you?
Large gists have I bestow'd on learned clerks,
Because my book preferred me to the king;
And-seeing ignorance is the curse of God,
Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven,--
Unless you be possess'd with dev'lish spirits,
You cannot but forbear to murder me.



Do but think,
How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown;
Within whose circuit is Elysium,
And all that poets feign of bliss and joy.

* Pitiful


So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch
That trembles under his devouring paws:
And so he walks, insulting o'er his prey;
And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder.

My sons-

God knows what hath bechanced them: But this I know,—they have demeaned themselves Like men born to renown, by life, or death. Three times did Richard make a lane to me; And thrice cried,--Courage, father! fight it out. And full as oft came Edward to my side, With purple falchion, painted to the hilt In blood of those that had encountr'd him; And when the hardiest warriors did retire, Richard cried-Charge! and give no foot of ground. And cried,--A Crown, or else a glorious tomb! Asceptre, or an earthly sepulchre! With this, we charg'd again; but out, alas! We bodg’d* again; as I have seen a swan With bootless labours swim against the tide, And spend her strength with over-matching waves. A FATHER'S PASSION ON THE MURDER OF A FAVOURITE

CHILD. 0, tyger's heart, wrapp'd in a woman's hide! How could'st thou drain the life-blood of the child, To bid the father wipe his eyes withal, And yet be seen to bear a woman's face? Wo

Comen are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible; Thou stern, obdurate, finty, rough, remorseless. That face of his the hungry cannibals (blood: Would not have touch’d,

would not have staind with But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,0, ten times more,-than tygers of Hyrcania. See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears: This cloth thou dipp’dst in blood of my sweet boy.

*i e. We boggled, made bad, or bungling work of our attempt to rally.

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And I with tears do wash the blood away.
Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this:
And, if thou tell'st the heavy story right,
Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears;
Yea, even my foes will shed fast-falling tears;.
And say,-Alas, it was a piteous deed!

ACT II. THE DUKE OF YORK IN BATTLE. Methought, he bore him* in the thickest troop, As doth a lion in a herd of neat;t Or as a bear, encompassd round with dogs; Who having pinch'd a few, and made them cry, The rest stand all aloof, and bark at him.


See, how the morning opes her golden gates, And takes her farewell of the glorious sun! How well resembles it the prime of youth, Trimm'd like a younker, prancing to his love!

THE MORNING'S DAWN. This battle fares like to the morning's war, When dying clouds contend with growing light; What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails, Can neither call it perfect day, or night.

THE BLESSINGS OF A SHEPHERD'S LIFE. O God! methinks, it were a happy life, To be no better than a homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run: How many make the hour full complete, How many hours bring about the day, How many days will finish up the year, How many years a mortal man may live. When this is known, then to divide the times: So many hours must I tend my flock;

* Demeaned himself. + Neat cattle, cows, oxen, &c.

# Aurora takes for a time her farewell of the sun, when she dismisses him to his diurnal course.

So many

So many hours must I take my rest;
So many hours must I contemplate;

hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean;
So many years ere I shall sheer the fleece:
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Pass'd over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave,
Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroidered canopy
To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery?
O, yes it doth: a thousand fold it doth.
And to conclude,-the shepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince's delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,
When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.



Look, as I blow this feather from my face,
And as the air blows it to me again,
Obeying with my wind when I do blow,
And yielding to another when it blows,
Commanded always by the greater gust;
Such is the likeness of you common men.

Why, then I do but dream on sovereignty;
Like one that stands upon a promontory,
And spies a far-off shore where he would tread,
Wishing his foot were equal with his eye;
And chides the sea that sanders him from thence,
Saying-he'll lade it dry to have his way.

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