Imatges de pÓgina

More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

Follow I must, I cannot go before,

While Gloster bears this base and humble mind. Were I a man, a duke, and next of blood,

I would remove these tedious stumbling-blocks,
And smooth my way upon their headless necks.

He hath brought many captives to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?

When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept :
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.


To climb steep hills,

Requires slow pace at first; anger is like

A full-hot horse; who being allow'd his way,
Self-mettle tires him.

Give him no breath, but now

Make boot of his distraction: never anger

Made good guard for itself.

Anger's my meat; I sup upon myself,
And so shall starve with feeding.

Now, by the ground that I am banish'd from
Well could I curse away a winter's night,
Though standing naked on a mountain top,
Where biting cold would never let grass grow.


I am burn'd up with inflaming wrath; rage, whose heat hath this condition, That nothing can allay, nothing but blood, The blood, and dearest valu'd blood, of France.

O, that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth!
Then with a passion would I shake the world.

It were for me

To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods;
To tell them that this world did equal theirs,
Till they had stolen our jewel.

Away to heaven, respective lenity,
And fire-ey'd fury be my conduct now!

I, then all-smarting, with my wounds being cold,
To be so pester'd with a popingjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience,
Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what.

I am about to weep; but, thinking that

We are a queen, (or long have dream'd so,) certain, The daughter of a king, my drops of tears

I'll turn to sparks of fire.

This strained passion doth you wrong, my Lord: Sweet Earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour.

They are as gentle
As zephyrs, blowing below the violet,

Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough,
Their royal blood enchaf'd, as the rudest wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
And make him stoop to the vale.

Go, shew your

And make your

Fret, till your proud heart break; slaves how choleric you are, bondsmen tremble. Must I budge? Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humour? By the gods,

You shall digest the venom of your spleen,
Though it do split you: for, from this day forth,
I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter,
you are waspish.

What sudden anger's this? how have I reap'd it?
He parted frowning from me, as if ruin
Leap'd from his eyes: so looks the chaf'd lion
Upon the daring huntsman that has gall'd him ;
Then makes him nothing.


There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain;
And though that nature with a beauteous wall
Doth oft close in pullution, yet of thee
I will believe, thou hast a mind that suits
With this thy fair and outward character.

Mislike me not for my complexion,-
The shadow'd livery of the burnish'd sun,
To whom I am a neighbour, and near bred.

Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems,
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected haviour of the visage,
Together with all forms, modes, shews of grief,
That can denote me truly: These, indeed, seem,
For they are actions that a man might play:
But I have that within, which passeth shew;
These, but the trappings and the suits of woe.

You have slander'd nature in my form;

Which, howsoever rude exteriorly,

Is yet the cover of a fairer mind

Than to be butcher of an innocent child.


A braver choice of dauntless spirits, Than now the English bottoms have waft o'er, Did never float upon the swelling tide, To do offence and scath in Christendom. The interruption of their churlish drums Cuts off more circumstance: they are at hand. All the unsettled humours of the land,Rash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries, With ladies' faces, and fierce dragons' spleens,Have sold their fortunes at their native homes, Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs, To make a hazard of new fortunes here. Remember whom you are to cope withal ;A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and run-aways, A scum of Bretagnes, and base lackey peasants, Whom their o'er-cloyed country vomits forth To desperate ventures and assur'd destruction. His marches are expedient to this town, His forces strong, his soldiers confident. Thus far into the bowels of the land Have we march'd on without impediment. We are but warriors for the working day : Our gayness, and our gilt, are all be-smirch'd With rainy marching in the painful field. There's not a piece of feather in our host, (Good argument I hope we will not fly,) And time has worn us into slovenry: But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim.



Within a ken, our army
Upon mine honour, all too confident
To give admittance to a thought of fear.
Our battle is more full of names than yours,
Our men more perfect in the use of arms,
Our armour all as strong, our cause, the best :
Then reason wills, our heart should be as good.

Why do
you stay so long, my lords of France ?
Yon island carrions, desperate of their bones,
I'll favour'dly become the morning field:
Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose,
And our air shakes them passing scornfully.

Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar'd host,
And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps.
The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks,

With torch-staves in their hand; and their poor jades
Lob down their heads, drooping the hides and hips;
The gum down-roping from their pale dead eyes;
And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal bit
Lies foul with chaw'd grass, still and motionless;
And their executors, the knavish crows,
Fly o'er them all, impatient for their hour.

Their armours, that march'd hence so silver-bright,
Hither return all gilt with Frenchmen's blood;
There stuck no plume in any English crest,
That is removed by a staff of France;

Our colours do return in those same hands
That did display them when we first march'd forth;
And, like a jolly troop of huntsmen, come
Our lusty English, all with purpled hands,
Dy'd in the dying slaughter of their foes.


Authority bears off a credent bulk,

That no particular scandal once can touch,
But it confounds the breather.

Authority, though it err like others,

Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself,
That skins the vice o'the top:

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