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Like heralds 'twixt two dreadful battles set.
His passion is so ripe, it needs must break:

Old men, and beldams, in the streets
Do prophesy upon it dangerously:
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;
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.
Who, with his shears and measure in his hand
Standing on slippers, (which his nimble haste
Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet,)
Told of a many thousand warlike French,
That were embattled and rank'd in Kent:
Another lean unwash'd artificer
Cuts off his tale, and talks of Arthur's death.



It is the curse of kings, to be attended By slaves, that take their humours for a warrant To break within the bloody house of life: And, on the winking of authority, To understand a law; to know the meaning, Of dangerous majesty, when, perchance, it frowns More upon humour than advis'd respect.*

A VILLAIN'S LOOK, AND READY ZEAL. How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds, Makes deeds ill done! Hadst not thou been by, A fellow by the hand of nature mark’d, Quoted,t and sign'd, to do a deed of shame, This murder had not come into my mind. Hadst thou but shook thy head, or made a pause, When I spake darkly what I purposed; Or turn’d an eye of doubt upon my face,

* Deliberate consideration. + Observed

As bid me tell my tale in express words;
Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off,
And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me.

Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes,
For villany is not without such rheum;*
And he, long traded in it, makes it seem
Like rivers of remorset and innocency.

If thou didst but consent
To this most cruel act, do but despair,
And, if thou want'st a cord, the smallest thread
That ever spider twisted from her womb
Will serve to strangle thee; a rush will be
A beam to hang thee on; or would'st thou drowa

Put but a little water in a spoon,
And it shall be as all the ocean,
Enough to stifle such a villain up.



Let me wipe off this honourable dew,
That silverly doth progress on thy cheeks;
My heart hath melted at a lady's tears,
Being an ordinary inundation:
But this effusion of such manly drops,
This shower, blown up by tempest of the soul,
Startles mine eyes, and makes me more amaz'd
Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven
Figurd quite o'er with burning meteors.
Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury,
And with a great heart heave away this storm:
Commend these waters to those baby eyes,
That never saw the giant world enragd;
Nor met with fortune other than at feasts,
Full warm of blood, of mirth, of gossipping,
* Moisture.

† Pity.




the drums: and let the tongue of war Plead for our interest.

Do but start
An echo with the clamour of thy drum,
And even at hand a drum is ready brac'd,
'That shall reverberate all as loud as thine;
Sound but another, and another shall,
As loud as thine, rattle the welkin's* ear,
And mock the deep-mouth'd thunder.


It is too late; the life of all his blood Is touch'd corruptibly; and his pure brain [house,) (Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling. Doth, by the idle comments that it makes, Foretell the ending of mortality.


Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow room; It would not out at windows, nor at doors. There is so hot a summer in my bosom, That all my bowels crumble up to dust: I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen Upon a parchment; and against this fire Do I shrink up, Poison'd,-ill fare:--dead, forsook, cast off: And none of you will bid the winter come, To thrust his icy fingers in my maw; Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course Through my burn'd bosom; nor entreat the north To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips And comfort me with cold.


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,
Fome 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.




THE purest treasure mortal times afford,
Is-spotless reputation; that away,
Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay.


That which in mean men we entitle-patienco, Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.


All places that the eye of heaven visits,
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens,
Teach thy necessity to reason thus;
There is no virtue like necessity.
Think not, the king did banish thee;
But thou the king: Wo doth the heavier sit,
Where it perceives it is but faintly borne.
Go, say—I sent thee forth to purchase honour,
And not-the king exil'd thee: or suppose,
Devouring pestilence hangs in our air,
And thou art flying to a fresher clime.
Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it
To lie that way thou go'st, not whence thou com’st,
Suppose the singing birds, musicians;
The grass whereon thou tread'st, the presence

The flowers, fair ladies; and thy steps, no more
Than a delightful measure, or a dance:
For gnarlingt sorrow bath less

to bite
The man that mocks at it, and sets it light.
* Presence chamber at court. # Growling.



0, who can hold a fire in his hand,
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite
By bare imagination of a feast?
Or wallow naked in December snow,
By thinking on fantastic summer's heat?
0, no! the apprehension of the good,
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse:
Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more,
Than when it bites, but lanceth not the sore.


Ourself, and Bushy, Bagot here, and Green, Observ'd his courtship to the common people:How he did seem to dive into their hearts, With humble and familiar courtesy; What reverence he did throw away on slaves; Wooing poor craftsmen, with the craft of smiles, And patient underbearing of his fortune, As ?twere, to banish their affects with him. Off goes his bonnet to an oyster wench; A brace of draymen bid-God speed him well, And had the tribute of his supple knee, With-Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends ;-As were our England in reversion his, And he our subjects' next degree in hope.

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This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
TI earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise;
This fortress, built by nature for herself,
Against infection, and the hand of war;
This happy breed of men, this little world:
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands.

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