Imatges de pÓgina

O you mighty gods!

This world I do renounce; and, in your sights,
Shake patiently, my great affliction off.

Fates! we will know your pleasures:
That we shall die, we know ; 'tis but the time,
And drawing days out, that men stand upon.

I, in mine own woe charm'd, Could not find death, where I did hear him groan; Nor feel him, where he struck: Being an ugly monster, 'Tis strange, he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words; or hath more ministers than we That draw his knives i' the war.

Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,

All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea,

Some lay in dead men's skulls; and, in those holes
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept
(As 'twere in scorn of eyes,) reflecting gems,
That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep,
And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.

Ah, who is nigh? come to me, friend, or foe,
And tell me who is victor, York, or Warwick?
Why ask I that? my mangled body shows,
My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows
That I must yield my body to the earth,
And by my fall, the conquest to my foe.

Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge,
Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle,
Under whose shade the ramping lion slept;
Whose top-branch overpeer'd Jove's spreading tree,
And kept low shrubs from winter's powerful wind.

The wrinkles in my brows, now fill'd with blood,
Were liken'd oft to kingly sepulchres;

For who liv'd king, but I could dig his grave?
And who durst smile, when Warwick bent his brow?

Lo, now my glory smear'd in dust and blood!
My parks, my walks, my manors that I had,
Even now forsake me; and, of all my lands,
Is nothing left me, but my body's length!
Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust?
And, live we how we can, yet die we must.

I better brook the loss of brittle life,

Than those proud titles thou hast won of me;
They wound my thoughts worse than thy sword my
flesh :

But thought's the slave of life, and life time's fool;
And time, that takes survey of all the world,
Must have a stop.

Brave Percy: fare thee well!

Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk !
When that this body did contain a spirit,
A kingdom for it was too small a bound;
But now, two paces of the vilest earth
Is room enough.

Had I as many sons as I have hairs,

I would not wish them to a fairer death.

To die,

to sleep,

No more; and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ach, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,-'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd.

To die ;-to sleep ;

To sleep! perchance, to dream ;-ay, there's the rub;'
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause: there's the respect,
That makes calamity of so long life.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns,
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary
But that the dread of something after death,-
The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will;

And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?


Herald, save thou thy labour;

Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald;
They shall have none, I swear, but these my joints:
Which if they have as I will leave 'em them,
Shall leave them little.


pray thee, bear my

former answer back;

Bid them atchieve me, and then sell my


Good God! why should they mock poor fellows thus ? The man, that once did sell the Lion's skin

While the beast liv'd, was kill'd with hunting him.

What man dare, I dare:

Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear,
The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tyger,
Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves
Shall never tremble: or, be alive again,
And dare me to the desert with thy sword;
If trembling I inhibit thee, protest me
The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow!
Unreal, mockery, hence!

If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot,
Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame,

I'll strike thee dead.. Put up thy sword betime; Or I'll so maul you and your toasting-iron, shall think the devil is come from hell.

That you

I pr'ythee take thy fingers from my throat;
For, though I am not splenetive and rash,
Yet have I in me something dangerous,
Which let thy wisdom fear: Hold off thy hand.
Scorn, and defiance; slight regard, contempt,
And any thing that may not mis-become
The mighty sender, doth he prize you at.

Must I give way and room to your rash choler?
Shall I be frighted, when a madman stares ?

Neither the king, nor he that loves him best,
The proudest he that holds up Lancaster,
Dares stir a wing, if Warwick shake his bells.
I'll plant Plantagenet, root him up who dares.
What I did, I did in honour,
Led by th' impartial conduct of my
And never shall you see, that I will beg
A ragged and forestall'd remission.

Thou injurious tribune!

Within thine eyes sat twenty thousand deaths,
In thy hands clutch'd as many millions, in
Thy lying tongue both numbers, I would say
Thou liest, unto thee, with a voice as free
As I do pray the gods.

I had rather chop this hand off at a blow,
And with the other fling it at thy face,
Than bear so low a sail, to strike to thee.

Let them pronounce the steep Tarpeian death,
Vagabond exile, flaying; Pent to linger
But with a grain a day, I would not buy
Their mercy at the price of one fair word.

Behold! I have a weapon :

A better never did itself sustain

Upon a soldier's thigh: I have seen the day,
That, with this little arm, and this good sword,
I have made my way through more impediments
Than twenty times your stop.

Gentle heaven,

Cut short all intermission; front to front,
Bring thou this fiend of Scotland, and myself;
Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape,
Heaven, forgive him too!

Thou losest labour:

As easy may'st thou the entrenchant air
With thy keen sword impress, as make me bleed:
Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests.

The elements

Of whom your swords are temper'd, may as well
Wound the loud winds, or with bemock'd-at stabs
Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish
One dowle that's in my plume.

Let them come;

They come like sacrifices in their trim,
And to the fire-ey'd maid of smoky war,
All hot, and bleeding, will we offer them.

Thou dost wrong me, thou dissembler, thou:-
Nay never lay thy hand upon thy sword,
I fear thee not.

Why, I will fight with him upon this theme
Until my eyelids will no longer wag.

If thou deny'st it, twenty times thou liest;
And I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart,
Where it was forged, with my rapier's point.

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