Imatges de pÓgina

I think, there be six Richmonds in the field;
Five have I slain to-day, instead of him.

O that we now had here

But one ten thousand of those men in England,
That do no work to-day!

Shall we go throw away our coats of steel,
And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns,
Numb'ring our Ave-Maries with our beads?
Or shall we on the helmets of our foes
Tell our devotion with revengeful arms?

O inglorious league!

Shall we, upon the footing of our land,
Send fair-play orders, and make compromise,
Insinuation, parley, and base truce,

To arms invasive? shall a beardless boy,
A cocker'd silken wanton brave our fields,
And flesh his spirit in a warlike soil,
Mocking the air with colours idly spread,
And find no check? Let us, my liege, to arms.

Hence, therefore, thou nice crutch;
A scaly gauntlet now, with joints of steel,

Must glove this hand: And hence, thou sickly grief; Thou art a guard too wanton for the head,

Which Princes, flesh'd with conquest, aim to hit.

Let's whip these stragglers o'er the seas again;
Lash hence these over-weening rags of France,
These famish'd beggars, weary of their lives;
Who, but for dreaming on this fond exploit,
For want of means, poor rats, had hang'd themselves.

God forgive the sin of all those souls,

That to their everlasting residence,

Before the dew of evening fall, shall fleet,
In dreadful trial of our kingdom's king.

And if we live, we live to tread on kings:
If die; brave death, when Princes die with us.
Now for our consciences, the arms are fair,
When the intent for bearing them is just.

Why have they dared to march

So many miles upon her peaceful bosom ;
Frighting her pale-faced villages with war,
And ostentation of despightful arms?

Ah, gracious lord, these days are dangerous!
Virtue is chok'd with foul ambition,

And charity chas'd hence by rancour's hand;
Foul subornation is predominant,

And equity evil'd your highness' land.

England hath long been mad, and scarr'd herself;
The brother blindly shed the brother's blood,
The father rashly slaughter'd his own son,
The son, compell'd, been butcher to the sire.

Her vine, the merry cheerer of the heart,
Unpruned dies; her hedges, ever pleached,-
Like prisoners wildly over-grown with hair,
Put forth disorder'd twigs: her fallow leas
The darnel, hemlock, and rank fumitory,
Do root upon; while that the coulter rusts,
That should deracinate such savagery.

Alas, poor country: Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot

Be call'd our mother, but our grave: where nothing,
But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile;

Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rend the air,
Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems
A modern ecstacy; the dead man's knell

Is there scarce ask'd, for who; and good men's lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps.

A curse shall light upon the limbs of men;
Domestic fury, and fierce civil strife,
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy:
Blood and destruction shall be so in use,
And dreadful objects so familiar,

That mothers shall but smile, when they behold
Their infants quarter'd with the hands of war;
All pity chok'd with custom of fell deeds.


If thou art rich, thou art poor;

For, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows,
Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey,
And Death unloads thee.


Such duty as the subject owes the prince,
Even such a woman oweth to her husband:
And, when she's froward, peevish, sullen, sour,
And, not obedient to his honest will,
What is she but a foul contending rebel,
And graceless traitor to her loving lord?

I am asham'd, that women are so simple
To offer war where they should kneel for peace;
Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway,
When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.

Fye! fye! unknit that threat'ning unkind brow;
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes,
To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor :
It blots thy beauty, as frosts bite the meads;
Confounds thy fame, as whirlwinds shake fair buds ;
And in no sense is meet, or amiable.

Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,
Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee,
And for thy maintenance: commits his body
To painful labour, both by sea and land;
While thou ly'st warm at home, secure and safe;
And craves no other tribute at thy hands,
But love, fair looks, and true obedience ;-
Too little payment for so great a debt.

My noble father,

I do perceive here a divided duty:




you I am bound for life and education;
My life, and education, both do learn me
How to respect you; you are the lord of duty,
I am hitherto your daughter: But here's
And so much duty as my mother shew'd
To you, preferring you before her father,
So much I challenge that I may profess
Due to the Moor, my lord.

I crave fit disposition for my wife;
Due reference of place, and exhibition;
With such accommodation, and besort,
As levels with her breeding.

Alas! he has banish'd me his bed already;
His love, too long ago: I am old, my lords,
And all the fellowship I hold now with him
Is only my obedience. What can happen
To me, above this wretchedness?

I, an old turtle,

Will wing me to some wither'd bough; and there
My mate, that's never to be found again,

Lament till I am lost.

Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,
Is it excepted, I should know no secrets
That appertain to you? Am I yourself
But, as it were, on sort, or limitation;

To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,
And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the su-


Of your good pleasure? If it be no more,
Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife.

Happy in this, she is not yet so old
But she may learn; happier than this
She is not bred so dull but she can learn ;
Happiest of all, is, that her gentle spirit
Commits itself to yours to be directed,
As from her lord, her governor, her king.

As for my wife,

I would you had her spirit in such another:

The third o' the world is yours: which with a snaffle You may pace easy, but not such a wife.

Should all despair,

That have revolted wives, the tenth of mankind

Would hang themselves.

You are my true and honourable wife;

As dear to me, as are the ruddy drops
That visit my sad heart.

She is mine own;

And I as rich in having such a jewel,
As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,
The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.

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