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And love the high imbowed roof,
With antique pillars massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voic'd quire below,
In service high, and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear
Dissolve me into ecstacies,
And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell,
Where I may sit and rightly spell
Of ev'ry star that Heav'n doth show,
And ev'ry herb that sips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choose to live.
All the world's à stage,
And all the men and women merely players :
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts;
His acts being seven Ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms:
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly 10 school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad
Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then the soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Eren in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly, with good capon lio'd,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles op nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide
For his shrunk shanks ; and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.
THE ENTRY OF BOLINGBROKE AND RICHARD
DUKE AND DUCHESS OF Yokk.
Duch. My Lord, you told me you would tell the rest,
When weeping made you break the story off,
Of our two cousins coming into London,
YORK. Where did I leave?
Duch. At that sad stop, my Lord,
Where rude misgovern's hands, from window-tops,
Threw dust and rubbish on king Richard's head.
YORK. Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke,
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
Which his aspiring rider seem'd 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 imag'ry had said at once,
Jesu preserve thee! welcome Bolingbroke!
Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,
Bespoke them thus : I thank you, countrymen;
And thus still doing, thus be pass' along
Duch. Alas! poor Richard, where rides he the while?
York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men,
After a well-grac'd 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 cry'd, God save him!
No joy ful tongue gave him his welcome bome;
But dust was throwo 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,
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.
But Heaven hath a hand in these events,
To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
-Reason thus with life:
If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing
That none but fools would reck; a breath thou art,
Servile to all the skyey influences,
That do this habitation, where thou keep'st,
Hourly afflict : merely thou art Death's fool;
For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun,
And yet runs low'rd him still. Thou art not noble;
For all th' accommodations that thou bear'st,,
Are nurs'd by baseness: thou’rt by no means valiant;
For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork
Of a poor worin.. Thy best of rest is sleep,
And that thou oft provok’st; yet grossly fear'st
Thy death, which is no more.
Thou’rt not thyself;
For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains,
That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not;
For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get;
And what thou hast, forgett'st. Thou art not certain;
For thy complexion shifts to strange effects,
After the moon.
If thou art rich, thou’rt poor ;
For, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows,
Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey,
And death unloadeth thee. Friend thou hast none;
For thy own bowels, which do call thee sire,
The mere effusion of thy proper loins,
Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum,
For ending thee no sooner.
Thou hast nor youth nor age;
But as it were an after dinner's sleep,
Dreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms
Of palsied Eld; and when thou'rt old and rich,
Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor bounty,
To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in this
That bears the name of life? yet in this life
Lie hid more thousand deaths; yet death we fear,
That makes these odds all even.
HOTSPUR's DESCRIPTION OF A FOP.
I do remember, when the figlot was done, When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, 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 perfum'd 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 be simild and talk'd;
And as the soldiers' bare dead bodies by,
He call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holyday and lady terms
He question'd me: amongst the rest demanded
My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf.
I then, all smarting with my wounds, being gall’d
To be so pester'd with a popinjay,
Out of my grief, and my impatience,
Answered, neglectingly, I know not what:
He should, or 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 the mark !)
And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth
Was spermaceti, for an inward bruise
And that it was great pity, so it was,
That villanous saltpetre should be digg'd
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd
So cowardly: and but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.
BRAK. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day?
Clar. O, I have pass'd a miserable night, So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams,