Imatges de pÓgina

What woman in the city do I name,
When that I say, The city woman bears
The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders?
Who can come in, and say, that I mean her,
When such a one as she, such is her neighbour ?

What we oft do best,

By sick interpreters, once weak ones, is
Not ours, or not allow'd: what worst, as oft
Hitting a grosser quality, is cried up

For our best act. If we shall stand still,

In fear our motion will be mock'd or carp'd at, We should take root here where we sit, or sit State statues only.

If I am traduc'd by tongues, which neither know My faculties, nor person, yet will be

The chronicles of my doing,-let me say, 'Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake That virtue must go through.

We must not stint

Our necessary actions, in the fear


cope malicious censurers; which ever,

As ravenous fishes, do a vessel follow

That is new trimm'd; but benefit no further
Than vainly longing.

We speak no treason, man ;-We


the king
Is wise, and virtuous; and his noble queen
Well struck in years; fair, and not jealous :-
We say, that Shore's wife hath a pretty foot,
A cherry lip,

A bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue;
And the queen's kindred are made gentlefolks:
How say you, Sir? can you deny all this?


You have among you many a purchas'd slave,
Which, like your asses, and your dogs, and mules,
You use in abject and in slavish parts,
Because you bought them.

And though we lay these honours on this man,
To ease ourselves of divers slanderous loads,
He shall but bear them as the ass bears gold,
Το groan and sweat under the business,
Either led or driven, as we point the way.

Romans now

Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors;
But, woe the while! our fathers' minds are dead,
And we are govern'd with our mother's spirits;
Our yoke and sufferance shew us womanish.

Thou art a slave, whom Fortune's tender arm
With favour never clasp'd: but bred a dog.


Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast!

Do not omit the heavy offer of it:

It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth,

It is a comforter.


Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth
Finds the down pillow hard,

How many thousands of my poorest subjects
Are at this hour asleep!-O gentle sleep,
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

Why rather, Sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,

And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber;
Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great,

Under the canopies of costly state,

And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody?

O thou dull God, why liest thou with the vile,
In loathsome beds; and leav'st the kingly couch,
A watch case to a common 'larum bell?

Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast
Seal up the ship-boy's-eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge;
And in the visitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the top
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deaf'ning clamours in the slip'ry clouds,
That with the hurly death itself awakes?

Canst thou, O partial Sleep! give thy repose
To the wet-sea-boy in an hour so rude;
And in the calmest and the stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king? then happy low, lie down!
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

'Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball,
The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,
The enter-tissued robe of gold and pearl,
The farced title running 'fore the king,
The throne he sits on, nor the tide of
That beats upon the high shore of this world;

No, not all these thrice-gorgeous ceremonies,
Not all these laid in bed majestical,

Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave,
Who with a body fill'd, and vacant mind,

Gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread.
Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye.
And where care lodges, sleep will never lie.
Boy! Lucius!-Fast asleep? It is no matter:
Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber :
Thou hast no figures, nor no fantasies,
Which busy care draws in the brains of men ;
Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.

To bed, to bed: Sleep kill those pretty eyes,
And give as soft attachment to thy senses,
As infants empty of all thought!

What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes
Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts.

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Upon the wanton rushes lay you down,
And rest your gentle head upon her lap,
And she will sing the song that pleaseth you,
And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep,
Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness;
Making such difference 'twixt wake and sleep,
As is the difference 'twixt day and night.


I am ill; but your being by me,

Cannot amend me: Society is no comfort
To one not sociable.

But this is worshipful society,

And fits the mounting spirit, like myself.


Then a soldier;

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth.

'Tis much he dares;

And, to that dauntless temper of his mind,
He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour
To act in safety.

His sword (death's stamp)

Where it did mark, it took; from face to foot
He was a thing of block, whose every motion
Was tim'd with dying cries.

His death, whose spirit lent a fire

Even to the dullest peasant in his camp,
Being bruited once, took fire and heat away
From the best temper'd courage in his troops :
For from his metal was his party steel'd;
Which once in him abated, all the rest
Turn'd on themselves, like dull and heavy lead.

Say to them,

Thou art a soldier, and being bred in broils,
Hast not the soft way, which, thou dost confess,
Were fit for thee to use, as they to claim,

In asking their good loves.

Rude am I in speech,

And little bless'd with the set phrase of peace;
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us'd
Their dearest action in the tented field.

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