Imatges de pàgina
PDF
EPUB

A widow cries; be husband to me, heavens!
Let not the hours of this ungodly day
Wear out the day in peace; but, ere sunset,
Set armed discord 'twixt these perjur'd kings!
Hear me, O, hear me !

AUSTRIA.

Lady Constance, peace. CONST. War! war! no peace! peace is to

me a war.

O Lymoges! O Austria! thou dost shame That bloody spoil: Thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward;

Thou little valiant, great in villainy!

Thou ever strong upon the stronger side!
Thou fortune's champion, that dost never fight
But when her humorous ladyship is by

To teach thee safety! thou art perjur'd too,
And sooth'st up greatness.
What a fool art

thou,

A ramping fool; to brag, and stamp, and swear,
Upon my party! Thou cold-blooded slave,
Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side?
Been sworn my soldier? bidding me depend
Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength?
And dost thou now fall over to my foes?
Thou wear a lion's hide! doff it for shame,
And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs.

KING JOHN, A. 3, s. 1.

THE HERO O'ERCOME BY

TROILUS.

COWARDICE.

Hector is slain,

And at the murderer's horse's tail,

In beastly sort, dragg'd through the shameful

field.

Frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed!

Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at Troy! I say, at once let your brief plagues be mercy, And linger not our sure destructions on!

ENEAS. My lord, you do discomfort all the host.

TRO. You understand me not, that tell me so : I do not speak of flight, of fear, of death; But dare all imminence, that gods and men, Address their dangers in. Hector is gone! Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba? Let him, that will a screech-owl aye be call'd, Go in to Troy, and say there-Hector's dead: There is a word will Priam turn to stone; Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives, Cold statues of the youth; and, in a word, Scare Troy out of itself. But, march, away: Hector is dead; there is no more to say. Stay yet;-You vile abominable tents, Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains, Let Titan rise as early as he dare,

I'll through and through you!-And thou, great siz'd coward!

;

No
space of earth shall sunder our two hates;
I'll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still,
That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy thoughts.-
Strike a free march to Troy!-with comfort go:
Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe.

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA, a. 5, s. 11.

THE HERO'S PROGRESS.

I SHALL lack voice: the deeds of Coriolanus
Should not be utter'd feebly.—It is held,

That valour is the chiefest virtue, and
Most dignifies the haver: if it be,
The man I speak of cannot in the world
Be singly counterpois'd. At sixteen years,
When Tarquin made a head for Rome, he fought
Beyond the mark of others: our then dictator,
Whom with all praise I point at, saw him fight,
When with his Amazonian chin he drove
The bristled lips before him: he bestrid
An o'er-press'à Roman, and i'the consul's view
Slew three opposers: Tarquin's self he met,
And struck him on his knee: in that day's feats,
When he might act the woman in the scene,
He prov'd best man i'the field, and for his meed
Was brow-bound with the oak. His pupil age
Man-enter'd thus, he waxed like a sea;

And, in the brunt of seventeen battles since,
He lurch'd all swords o'the garland. For this
last,

Before and in Corioli, let me say,

I cannot speak him home: He stopp'd the fliers; And, by his rare example, made the coward Turn terror into sport: as waves before

A vessel under sail, so men obey'd,

And fell below his stem: his sword (death's stamp)

Where it did mark, it took; from face to foot
He was a thing of blood, whose every motion
Was tim'd with dying cries: alone he enter'd
The mortal gate o'the city, which he painted
With shunless destiny, aidless came off,
And with a sudden re-enforcement struck
Corioli, like a planet: Now all's his :
When by and by the din of war 'gan pierce
His ready sense: then straight his doubled spirit
Re-quicken'd what in flesh was fatigate,

And to the battle came he; where he did
Run reeking o'er the lives of men, as if
'Twere a perpetual spoil: and, till we call'd
Both field and city ours, he never stood
To ease his breast with panting.

Our spoils he kick'd at;

And look'd upon things precious, as they were
The common muck o'the world; he covets less
Than misery itself would give; rewards

His deeds with doing them; and is content
To spend the time, to end it.

CORIOLANUS, a. 2, s. 2.

THE HIGHEST FLIGHTS HAVE OFT
THE DEEPEST FALLS.

So farewell to the little good you bear me.
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man; To-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him:
The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost;
And,-when he thinks, good easy man, full
surely

His greatness is a ripening,-nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp, and glory of this world, I hate ye;
I feel my heart new opened: O, how wretched
Is that poor man, that hangs on princes' favours!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,

1

That sweet aspéct of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

K. HENRY VIII., A. 3, s. 2.

THE HUMAN FANG (SLANDER). WHAT shall I need to draw my sword? the paper

Hath cut her throat already.-No, 'tis slander; Whose edge is sharper than the sword; whose tongue

Outvenoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath
Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie
All corners of the world: kings, queens, and

states,

Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave
This viperous slander enters.

CYMBELINE, A. 3, s. 4.

THE HUSBAND'S PREROGATIVE IN

OLDEN TIME.

HARK you, Kate;

I must not have you henceforth question me
Whither I go, nor reason whereabout:
Whither I must, I must; and, to conclude,
This evening must I leave you, gentle Kate.
I know you wise; but yet no further wise,
Than Harry Percy's wife: constant you are;
But yet a woman: and for secrecy,

No lady closer; for I well believe,

Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know; And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate!

K. HENRY IV., PART I., A. 2, s. 4.

« AnteriorContinua »