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March all one way; and be no more oppos'd
Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies:
The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knise,
No more shall cut his master.



envy that

Yea, there thou makost me sad, and mak'st me sia In


lord Northumberland
Should be the father of so bless'd a son.
A son, who is the theme of honour's tongue;
Amongst a grove, the very straightest plant;
Who is sweet fortune's minion, and her pride;
Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him,
See riot and dishonour stain the brow
Of my young Harry.

I know you all, and will awhile uphold
The unyok'd humour of


idleness: Yet herein will I imitate the sun; Who doth permit the base contagious clouds To smother up his beauty from the world, That, when he please again to be himself, Being wanted, he may be more wonder'd at, By breaking through the foul and ugly mists of vapours that did seem to strangle him. If all the year were playing holidays, To sport would be as. tedious as to work; But, when they seldom come, they wish’d-for comc, And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents. So, when this loose behaviour I throw off, And pay the debt I never promised, By how much better than my word I am, By so much shall I falsify men's hopes;* And, like bright metal on a sullenf ground, My reformation, glittering o'er my fault, Shall show more goodly, and attract more eyes, Than that which hath no foil to set it off. I'li so offend, to make offence a skill; Redeeming time, when men think least I will

* Expectations. + Dull.



But, I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil,
Breathless and saint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dress’d,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin new reap'd,
Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest home;
He was perfumed like a milliner;
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box,* which ever and anon
He gave his nose, and took't away again;-
Who, therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in snuff:-and still he smil'd, and talk'd;
And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He call'd them-untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly' unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms
He questioned me; among the rest demanded
My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf.
I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold,
To be so pester'd with a popinjay,t
Out of my grieff and my impatience,
Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what;.
He should, or he should not;,for he made me mad,
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds, (God save thr.

And telling me, the sovereign’st thing on earth
Was permaceti, for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
That villanous salt-petre should be digg'd
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tallş fellow had destroy'd
So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.

* A small box for musk or other perfumes.
+ Parrot.
# Pain.



I'll read you matter deep and dangerous;
As full of peril, and advent'rous spirit,
As to o’erwalk a current, roaring loud,
On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.


By heaven, methinks, it were an easy leap, To pluck bright honour from the pale-fac'd moon Or dive into the bottom of the deep, Where fathom-line could never touch the ground And pluck up downward honour by the locks; So he, that doth redeem her thence, might wear, Without corrival,* all her dignities: But out upon this half-fac'd fellowship!t


O my good lord, why are you thus alone? For what offence have I, this fortnight, been A banish'd woman from my Harry's bed? Tell me, sweet lord, what is't that takes from thee Thy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep? Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth: And start so often when thou sit'st alone? Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks And given my treasures, and my rights of thee, To thick-ey'd musing, and cursd melancholy? In thy faint slumbers, I by thee have watch’d, And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars: Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed; Cry, Courage!-to the field! And thou hast talk’! Or sallies, and retires; of trenches, tents, of pallisadoes, frontiers, parapets; of basilisks, of cannon, culverin; of prisoners ransom, and of soldiers slain, And all the 'currents of a heady fight. Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war, And thus hath so bestirr'd thee in thy sleep,

* A rival. + Friendship # Occurrencos.

That beads* of sweat have stood upon thy brow,
Like bubbles in a late disturbed stream;
And in thy face strange motions have appear'd,
Such as we see when men restrain their breath
On some great sudden haste. 0, what portents are

Some heavy business hath my lord in hand,
And I must know it, else he loves me not.



I cannot blame him: at my nativity,
The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,
Of burning cressets;t and,

my birth,
The frame and huge foundation of the earth
Shak'd like a coward.

Why, so it would have done
At the same season, if your mother's cat had
But kitten’d, though yourself had ne'er been born.

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Diseased nature oftentinies breaks forth
In strange eruptions; ost the teeming earth
Is with a kind of cholic pinch'd and vex'd
By the imprisoning of unruly wind
Within her womb, which, for enlargement striving,
Shakes the old beldame earth, and topplest down
Steeples and moss-grown towers.

Marry, and I am glad of it with all my

I had rather be a kitten, and cry-mew,
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers:
I had rather hear a brazen cansticks turn'd,
Or a dry wheel grate on an axletree;
And that would set my teeth nothing on edge,

* Drops.

† Lights set cross ways upon beacons, and also upon poles, which were used in processions, &c. Tumbles.

& Candlestick

Nothing so much as mincing poetry;
'Tis like the forc'd gait of a shuffling nag.

I'll give thrice so much land
To any well-deserving friend;
But, in the way of bargain, mark ye me,
I'll cavil on the ninth part of a hair.


She bids you

Upon the wanton rushes lay you down,
And rest your gentle head upon her lap,
And she will sing the song that pleaseth you,
And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep,
Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness:
Making such difference 'twixt wake and sleep,
As is the difference 'twixt day and night,
The hour before the heavenly-harness'd team
Begins his golden progress in the east.

Had I so lavish of my presence been,
So common-hackney'd in the eyes of men,
So stale and cheap to vulgar company:
Opinion, that did help me to the crown,
Had still kept loyal to possession;*
And left me in reputeless banishment,
A fellow of no mark, nor likelihood.
By being seldom seen, I could not stir,
But, like a comet, I was wonder'd at:
That men would tell their children, This is he;
Others would say,—Where?_which is Bolingbrokc!
And then I stole all courtesy from heaven,
And dress'd myself in such humility,
That I did pluck allegiance from men's hearts,
Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths,
Even in the presence of the crowned king.
Thus did I keep my person fresh, and new;
My presence, like a robe pontifical,

* True to him that had then possession of the crown

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