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She is a woman,
be woo'd; She is a woman, therefore may be won.
Every night he comes
With music of all sorts, and songs compos'd
To her unworthiness : it nothing steads us,
To chide him from our caves ; for he persists,
As if his life lay on 't.
Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung,
With feigning voice, verses of feigning love;
And stol'n the impression of her fantasy
With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gauds, conceits,
Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweet-meats ; messengers
Of strong prevailment in unharden'd youth.
By your gracious patience,
I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver
Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what
What conjuration, and what mighty magic,
(For such proceeding I am charg'd withal,)
I won his daughter with.
My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs :
Sheswore, --In faith,'twas strange, 'twas passing strange;
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful :
She wish'd she had not heard it; yet she wish'd
That heaven had made her such a man: she thank'd
And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her.
If this inducement move her not to love,
Send her a letter of thy noble deeds.
Say, that upon the altar of her beauty
You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart:
Write, till your ink be dry; and with your tears
Moist it again ; and frame some feeling line,
That may discover such integrity.
But, though I lov'd you well, I woo'd you not ;
And yet, good faith; I wish'd myself a man;
Or, that we women had men's privilege
Of speaking first.
I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap,
ornaments, And witch sweet ladies with my words and looks. What ! I, that kill'd her husband, and his father, To take her in her heart's extremest hate : With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes, The bleeding witness of her hatred by; With God, her conscience, and these bars against
me, And I no friend to back my suit withal, But the plain devil, and dissembling looks, And yet to win her,—all the world to nothing ! Ha ! Why should you think that I should woo in scorn ? Scorn and derision never come in tears : Look, when I vow, I weep; and vows so born, In their nativity all truth appears.
Gentle lady, When I did first impart my love to you, I freely told you,
all the wealth I had Ran in my veins, I was a gentleman : And then I told you true,
Peace ; thou know'st not gold's effect: Tell me her father's name, and 'tis enough ; For I will board her, though she chides as loud As thunder, when the clouds in autumn crack.
Say, that she rail; Why, then I'll tell her plain,
She sings as sweetly as a nightingale :
Say, that she frown: I'll say, she looks as clear
As morning roses newly wash'd with dew :
Say, she be mute, and will not speak a word ;
Then I'll commend her volubility,
And say—she uttereth piercing eloquence.
If she do frown 'tis not in hate of you,
But rather to beget more love in you:
If she do chide, tis not to have you gone;
For why, the fools are mad if left alone.
Take no repulse, whatever she doth
For, get you gone, she doth not mean, away.
Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces ;
Tho' ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces.
That man that hath a tongue I say is no man,
If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.
That which in mean men we entitle patience,
Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
Am I a coward?
Who calls me villain? breaks my plate across ?
Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face?
Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i the
As deep as to the lungs ? Who does me this ?
Ha! Why I should take it ; for it cannot be,
But I am pigeon-liver'd, and lack gall
To make oppression bitter ; or, ere this,
I should have fatted all the region kites
With this slave's offal.
Like peasant foot-boys do they keep the walls,
And dare not take up arms like gentlemen.
Reproach and everlasting shame.
Sits mocking in our plumes.
Proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart, his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse :
We would not die in that man's company,
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
I speak not this, as doubting any here:
For, did I but suspect a fearful man,
He should have leave to go away betimes ;
Lest, in our need, he might infect another,
And make him of like spirit to himself.
If any such be here, as God forbid !
Let him depart, before we need his help.
Go, prick thy face, and over-red thy fear,
Thou lily-liver'd boy. What soldiers, patch?
Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine
Are counsellers to fear. What soldiers, whey-face?
You are the hare of whom the proverb goes,
Whose valour plucks dead lions by the beard.
Art thou afear'd To be the same in thine own act and valour, As thou art in desire? Would'st thou have that Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem; Letting I dare not wait
I would ?
You souls of geese, That bear the shapes of men, how have you run From slaves that apes would beat ? Pluto and hell ! All hurt behind; backs red, and faces pale With flight and agued fear! Mind, and charge home, Or, by the fires of heaven, I'll leave the foe, And make my wars on you.
O, that a mighty man, of such descent,
Of such possessions, and so high esteem,
Should be infused with so foul a spirit !
But, I remember, when the fight 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,
Shew'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 ·
his nose: and still he smild and talk'd;
And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He call'd them—untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corpse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
I know him a notorious liar, Think him a great way fool, solely a coward; Yet these fix'd evils sit so fit in him, That they take place, when virtue's steely bones Look bleak in the cold wind: withal, full oft we see Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly. Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass, That I may see my
shadow as I pass.
Let me not live, quoth he, After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses All but new things disdain ; whose judgments are Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies Expire before their fashions.