head;

And I did never ask it you again :
And with my hand at midnight held your
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time;
Saying, What lack you? and, Where lies your grief?
Or, What good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still,
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
But
you at your

sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think, my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning: Do, an if you will:
If heaven be pleas'd that you must use me ill,
Why, then

you put out mine eyes ? These eyes, that never did, nor never shall, So much as frown on you?

you must.-Will

Alas, what need you be so boist'rous rough? I will not struggle, I will stand stone still. For heaven's sake Hubert, let me not be bound ! Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away, And I will sit as quiet as a lamb; I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, Nor look upon the iron angerly: Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you, Whatever torment you do put me to. Is there no remedy? Hub.

None, but to lose your eyes. Arth. O heaven !--that there were but a mote in A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wand'ring hair, [yours, Any annoyance in that precious sense ! Then, feeling what small things are boist'rous there, Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.

PERFECTION ADMITS OF NO ADDITION.

To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,

To throw a perfume on the violet,
To smooth the ice, or add another hue
Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish*,
Is wasteful and ridiculous excess.

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In this, the antique and well-noted face Of plain old form is much disfigured: And, like a shifted wind unto a sail, It makes the course of thoughts to fetch about; Startles and frights consideration; Makes sound opinion sick, and truth suspected, For putting on so new a fashion'd robe.

THE COUNTENANCE OF A MURDERER.

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This is the man should do the bloody deed; The image of a wicked heinous fault Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his Does show the mood of a much-troubled breast.

A STRUGGLING CONSCIENCE.

The colour of the king doth come and go, Between his

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

NEWS-BEARERS.

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.

THE EVIL PURPOSES OF KINGS TOO SERVILELY

EXECUTED. 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, Quotedt, 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 ;

a

Or turn'd an eye of doubt upon my face,
As bid me tell

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

HYPOCRISY.

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.

DESPAIR.

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

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ACT V.

A MAN IN TEARS.

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

and makes me more amaz'd
Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven
* Moisture.

Figur'd 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 enrag'd ;
Nor met with fortune other than at feasts,
Full warm of blood, of mirth, of gossiping.

DRUMS.

Strike

up

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

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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.

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

MADNESS OCCASIONED BY POISON,
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 I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen

up to dust: