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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.

England, bound in with the triumphant sea,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of wat'ry Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With inky blots, and rotten parchment-bonds;
That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
Grief.

Each substance of a grief hath twenty
dows,

The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their

backs,

Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves?

On the Vanity of Power, and Misery of Kings.

No matter where; of comfort no man speak;
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.
Let's choose executors, and talk of wills;
And not yet so-for what can we bequeath,
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all, are Bolingbroke's,
And nothing can we call our own, but death;
sha-And that small model of the barren earth,

Which show like grief itself, but are not so: For sorrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears, Divides one thing entire to many objects; Like perspectives, which, rightly gaz'd upon, Show nothing but confusion; eyed awry, Distinguish form.

Hope deceitful.

I will despair, and be at enmity With cozening hope; he is a flatterer, A parasite, a keeper back of death, Who gently would dissolve the bands of life, Which false hope lingers in extremity.

The Prognostics of War.

The bay-trees in our country all are wither'd, And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven; The pale-fac'd moon looks bloody on the earth; And lean-look'd prophetswhisperfearful change: Rich men look sad, and fuffians dance and leap.

Richard to England, on his Arrival. As a long-parted mother with her child Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles meeting;

in

So weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth,
And do thee favor with my royal hands.
Feed not thy sovereign's foe, my gentle earth,
Nor with thy sweets comfort his rav'nous sense:
But let thy spiders that suck up thy venom,
And heavy gaited toads, lie in their way,
Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet
Which with usurping steps do trample thee.
Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies:
And when they from thy bosom pluck a flow'r,
Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder ;
Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch
Throw death upon thy sov reign's enemies.
Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords;
This earth shall have a feeling, and these stones
Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king
Shall falter under foul rebellious arms.

The Sun rising after a dark Night.
-Know'st thou not,
That when the searching eye of heaven is hid
Behind the globe, and lights the lower world,
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen,
In murders, and in outrage, bloody here;
But when from under this terrestrial ball
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,
And darts his light through every guilty hole,
Then murders, treasons, and detested sins,

Which serves as paste and covering to our bones. For Heav'n's sake, let us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings: How some have been depos'd, some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd; Some poison'd by their wives; some sleeping

kill'd;

All murder'd:-For within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king,
Keeps Death his court: and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp;
Allowing him a breath, a little scene
To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks;
Infusing him with self and vain conceit;
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable: and humnor'd thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin
Bores thro' his castle walls, and, farewell king!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn rev'rence; throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty;
For you have but mistook me all this while :
live with bread like you, feel want, taste grief,
: subjected thus,

Need friends:

How can you say to me-I am a king?

Melancholy Stories.

In winter's tedious nights, sit by the fire, With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales Of woful ages long ago betid:

And, ere thou bid good night, to quit their grief,
Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,
And send the hearers weeping to their beds.
A Description of Bolingbroke's and Richard's
Entry into London.

broke!

Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke, Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed, Which his aspiring rider seemed to knowWith slow, but stately pace, kept on his course; While all tongues cried, God save thee, Boling[spake, You would have thought the very windows So many greedy looks of young and old Through casements darted their desiring eyes Upon his visage; and that all the walls, With painted imagery, 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 he pass'd along.

Duch. Alas, poor Richard! where rides he | And now-instead of mounting barbed steeds

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: [eyes
Even so, or with much more contempt, men's
Did scowl on Richard; no man cried, God
save him!

No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home;
But dust was thrown 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,
steel'd

The hearts of men, they must perforce have
melted,

And barbarism itself have pitied him.

Violets.

Who are the violets now

That strew the green lap of the new-come spring?

King Richard's Soliloquy in Prison.
I have been studying how I may compare
This prison, where I live, unto the world:
And, for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it-yet I'll hammer it out.
My brain I'll prove the female to my soul;
My soul, the father; and these two beget
A generation of still-breeding thoughts,
And these same thoughts people this little world;
In humors, like the people of this world,
For no thought is contented-

Thoughts tending to content, flatter themselves
That they are not the first of fortune's slaves,
Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars,
Who, sitting in the stocks, refuge their shame-
That many have, and others must sit there:
And in this thought they find a kind of ease,
Bearing their own misfortune on the back
Of such as have before endur'd the like.
Thus play I, in one prison, many people,
And none contented. Sometimes am I a king;
Then treason makes me wish myself a beggar;
And so I am: then crushing penury
Persuades me I was better when a king;
Then am I king'd again: and, by and by,
Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke,
And straight am nothing.-But, whate'er I am,
Nor I, nor any man, that but man is,
With nothing shall be pleas'd, till he be cas'd
With being nothing.

$32. THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING RICHARD III. SHAKSPEARE.

Richard, on his own Deformity.
Now are our brows bound with victorious
wreaths;

Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings:
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled

front;

To fright the souls of fearful adversaries-
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber,
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am not shap'd for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an am'rous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's
majesty;

To strut before a wanton, ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable,
That dogs bark at me, as I halt by them-
Why I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun,
And descant on my own deformity:
And therefore-since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair, well-spoken days-
I am determined to prove a villain,
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

Richard's Love for Lady Anne.
Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn
salt tears,
[drops;
Sham'd their aspects with store of childish
These eyes, which never shed remorseful tear-
Not, when my father York and Edward wept,
To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made,
When black-fac'd Clifford shook his sword at
him;

Nor when thy warlike father, like a child,
Told the sad story of my father's death;
And twenty times made pause to sob and weep,-
That all the standers-by had wet their cheeks,
Like trees bedash'd with rain: in that sad time,
My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear;
And what these sorrows could not thence exhale,
Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with
weeping.

I never sued to friend, nor enemy;
My tongue could never learn sweet soothing
words;

But now thy beauty is propos'd my fee,
My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue
to speak.

On his own Person, after his successful
Addresses.

My dukedom to a beggarly denier,
I do mistake my person all this while:
Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot,
Myself to be a marvellous proper man.
I'll be at charges for a looking-glass;
And entertain a score or two of tailors,
To study fashions to adorn my body:
Since I have crept in favor with myself,
I will maintain it with some little cost.

Queen Margaret's Execration.

The worm of conscience still begnaw thy soul. Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou liv'st. And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends! No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine, Unless it be when some tormenting dream Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils!

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Brak. What was your dream, my lord? I pray you tell me. [Tower, Clar. Methought, that I had broken from the And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy, And, in my company, my brother Glo'ster; Who from my cabin tempted me to walk Upon the hatches; thence we look'd toward England,

A shadow like an angel, with bright hair Dabbled in blood; and he shriek'd out aloud"Clarence is come, false, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence

That stabb'd me in the field by Tewkesbury; Seize on him, furies, take him to your torments!"

With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Inviron'd me, and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise,
I trembling wak'd; and, for a season after,
Could not believe but that I was in hell:

Such terrible impression made my dream.
Brak. No marvel, lord, that it affrighted you;
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.

Clar. O, Brakenbury, I have done those things That now give evidence against my soul, For Edward's sake; and see how he requites me! O God! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee, But thou wilt be aveng'd on my misdeeds, Yet execute thy wrath on me alone: O spare my guiltless wife, and my poor children!

Sorrow.

Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours,
Makes the night morning, and the noontide
Greatness, its Cures. [night.
Princes have but their titles for their glories,
An outward honor for an inward toil;
And, for unfelt imaginations,

They often feel a world of restless cares; [ing So that, between their titles and low name, fall-There's nothing differs but the outward fame. Duchess of York on the Misfortunes of her Family.

And cited up a thousand heavy times,
During the wars of York and Lancaster,
That had befall'n us. As we pac'd along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
Methought that Glo'ster stumbled; and in
Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard,
Into the tumbling billows of the main.
O Lord! methought, what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noise of water in my ears!
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes!
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;
A thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upon;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,
All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea, [holes,
Some lay in dead men's skulls; and, in those
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept
(As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems,
That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep,
And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.
Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of
To gaze upon these secrets of the deep? [death,
Clar. Methought I had; and often did I strive
To yield the ghost; but still the envious flood
Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth
To seek the empty, vast, and wand'ring air;
But smother'd it within my panting bulk,
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.

Brak. Awak'd you not with this sore agony?
Clar. O no, my dream was lengthen'd after
O, then began the tempest of my soul! [life:
I pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood,
With that grim ferryman which poets write of,
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.
The first that there did greet my stranger soul,
Was my great father-in-law, renowned War-
wick;

Who cried aloud-"What scourge for perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?" And so he vanish'd. Then came wand'ring by

Accursed and unquiet wrangling days! How many of you have mine eyes beheld! My husband lost his life to get the crown, And often up and down my sons were toss'd, And being seated, and domestic broils For me to joy and weep their gain and loss: Make war upon themselves; brother to brother, Clean overblown, themselves, the conquerors, Blood to blood, selfagainst self:-O preposterous And frantic outrage! end thy damned spleen; Or let me die to look on death no more. Deceit.

Ah! that deceit should steal such gentle shapes, And with a virtuous vizor hide deep vice!

Submission to Heaven, our Duty.
In common worldly things, 'tis call'd un-
grateful,

With dull unwillingness to pay a debt,
Which with a bounteous hand was kindly lent;
Much more, to be thus opposite with Heaven,
For it requires the royal debt it lent

you.

The Vanity of Trust in Man.

O momentary grace of mortal men, Which we more hunt for than the grace of God. Who builds his hope in air of your fair looks, Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast; Ready, with every nod, to tumble down Into the fatal bowels of the deep. Contemplation.

When holy and devout religious men Are at their beads, 'tis hard to draw them thence, So sweet is zealous contemplation.

Description of the Murder of the two young
Princes in the Tower.

The tyrannous and bloody act is done; The most arch-deed of piteous massacre, That ever yet this land was guilty of. Dighton and Forrest, whom I did suborn To do this piece of ruthless butchery, Albeit they were flesh'd villains, bloody dogs, Melting with tenderness and mild compassion, Wept like two children, in their death's sad [babes!" story. "O thus," quoth Dighton, "lay the gentle "Thus, thus," quoth Forrest, "girdling one another

Within their alabaster innocent arms;
Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,
Which in their summer beauty kiss'd each
other.

A book of prayers on their pillow lay;
Which once," quoth Forrest, "almost chang'd
my mind;

But, O the devil!"-there the villain stopp'd; When Dighton thus told on-"We smothered The most replenished sweet work of nature, That from the prime creation e'er she fram'd." Hence both are gone with conscience and re

morse:

They could not speak; and so I left them both To bear these tidings to the bloody king. Expedition.

Come, I have learn'd that fearful commentIs leaden servitor to dull delay; [ing Delay leads impotent and snail-pac'd beggary: Then fiery expedition be my wing, Jove's Mercury, and herald for a king!

Queen Margaret's Exprobration.

I call'd thee then, poor shadow, painted queen; One heav'd a-high to be hurl'd down below: A mother only mock'd with two fair babes; A dream of what thou wast; a garish flag, To be the aim of ev'ry dang'rous shot; A sign of dignity, a breath, a bubble; A queen in jest, only to fill the scene. [thers? Where is thy husband now? where be thy broWhere be thy two sons? wherein dost thou joy? Who sues, and kneels, and says, God save the queen?

Where be the bending peers that flatter'd thee? Where be the thronging troops that follow'd

thee?

Decline all this, and see what now thou art:
For happy wife, a most distressed widow;
For joyful mother, one that wails the name;
For one being sued to, one that humbly sues;
For queen, a very caitiff crown'd with care;
For one that scorn'd at me, now scorn'd of me;
For one being fear'd of all, now fearing one,
For one commanding all, obey'd of none.
Thus hath the course of justice wheel'd about,
And left thee but a very prey to time:
Having no more but thought of what thou wert,
To torture thee the more, being what thou art.
His Mother's Character of King Richard.
Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy:
Thy school-days frightful, desp'rate, wild, and
furious;
[turous;
Thy prime of manhood, daring, bold, and ven-

Thy age confirm'd, proud, subtle, sly, and bloody.

Hope.

True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings: [kings. Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures A fine Evening.

The weary sun hath made a golden set;
And by the bright track of his fiery car,
Gives token of a goodly day to-morrow.
Day-break.

The silent hours steal on,
And flaky darkness breaks within the east.
Richmond's Prayer.

O thou! whose captain I account myself,
Look on my forces with a gracious eye:
Put in their hands thy bruising irons of wrath,
That they may crush down with a heavy fall
Th' usurping helmets of our adversaries!
Make us thy mistress of chastisement,
That we may praise thee in thy victory!
To thee do I commend my watchful soul,
Ere I let fall the windows of mine eyes;
Sleeping, and waking, O defend me still!

Richard starting out of his Dream.

Give me another horse-bind up my wounds: Have mercy, Jesu!-Soft, I did but dream. O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict

me!

The lights burn blue-is it not dead midnight! Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh, What do I fear? myself? there's none else by. Conscience.

Conscience is but a word that cowards use, Devis'd at first to keep the strong in awe. Richard before the Battle.

A thousand hearts are great within my bo

som.

Advance our standards, set upon our foes;
Our ancient word of courage, fair St. George,
Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons!
helms.
Upon them! victory sits on our

Alarum. Enter King Richard. K. Richard. A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!

Cates. Withdraw, my lord, I'll help you
to a horse.
[a cast,

K. Richard. Slave, I have set my life upon
And I will stand the hazard of the die:
I think there be six Richmonds in the field;
Five have I slain to-day, instead of him.
A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse !

[Exeunt.

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In shape no bigger than an agate stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies,
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep:
Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners' legs;
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;
The traces, of the small. st spider's web;
The collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams:
Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film;
Her waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm,
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid:
Her chariot is an empty hazel nut,
Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub,
Time out of mind the fairies' coach makers.
And in this state she gallops night by night,
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of
love;
[straight;
On courtiers' knees, that dream on courtsies
O'erlawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees;
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream,
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted

are.

Sometimes she gallops o'er a lawyer's nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit:
And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail,
Tickling a parson's nose as he lies asleep,
Then dreams he of another bencfice:
Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And then he dreams of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his car, at which he starts and wakes,
And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab
That plats the manes of horses in the night,
And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which, once entangled, much misfortune
[backs,

bodes.

This is the hag, when maids lie on their
That presses them, and learns them first to bear,
Making them women of good carriage.

This is she

Rom. Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace;
Thou talk'st of nothing.

Mer. True, I talk of dreams:
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain phantasy;
Which is as thin of substance as the air;
And more inconstant than the wind, whowooes
Een now the frozen bosom of the north,
And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.
A Beauty described.

O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night,
Like a rich jewel in an Æthiop's ear:
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
The Courtship between Romeo and Juliet in

the Garden.

Enter Romeo.

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It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!

[Juliet appears above at the Window.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou her maid art far more fair than she.
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green,
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off-
She speaks, yet she says nothing; what of that?
Her eye discourses, I will answer it.
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those

stars,

As day-light doth a lamp; her eye in heaven,
Would thro' the airy region stream so bright,
That birds would sing,.and think it were not
night.

See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
Jul. Ah me!

Rom. She speaks

O speak again, bright angel! for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,
As is a winged messenger of heaven
Unto the white upturned wond'ring eyes
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him,
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds,
And sails upon the bosom of the air.

Jul. O Romeo, Romeo!-wherefore art
thou Romeo?

Deny thy father, and refuse thy name:
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.

Rom. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at
this?
Aside.
Jul. "Tis but thy name that is my enemy—

What's in a name? that which we call a rose,
By any other name would smell as sweet:
So Roineo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes,
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name;
And for that name which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.

Rom. I take thee at thy word:
Call me but love, and I'll be new baptiz'd;
Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

Jul. What man art thou, that, thus be-
screen'd in night,

So stumblest on my counsel ?

Rom. By a name

I know not how to tell thee who I am:
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,
Because it is an enemy to thee;
Had I it written, I would tear the word.
Jul. My ears have not yet drunk a hundred
words
[sound;
Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague? [like.
Rom. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dis-
Jul. How cam'st thou hither? tell me, and

wherefore?

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