never feared any, am vanquished by famine, not by valour.

IDEN.

[Dies.

How much thou wrong'st me, Heaven be my Judge. Die, cursed wretch, the curse of her that bare thee! And as I thrust thy body in with my sword, So wish I, I might thrust thy soul to hell. Hence will I drag thee headlong by the heels, Unto a dunghill which shall be thy grave, . And there cut off thy most ungracious head, Which I will bear in triumph to the king, Leaving thy trunk for crows to feed upon.

SHAKESPEARE, “King Henry VI," Part 2.

WARS OF YORK AND LANCASTER.

1450.

The strife between the houses of York and Lancaster was for a while deferred by the wars in France, according to Chicheley's counsel.

THUS is the storm abated by the craft

Of a shrewd counsellor, eager to protect

The Church, whose power hath recently been checked Whose monstrous riches threatened.

So the shaft

Of victory mounts high, and blood is quaffed

In fields that rival Cressy and Poictiers

Pride to be washed away by bitter tears;
For deep as hell itself, the avenging draught
Of civil slaughter! Yet, while temporal power
Is by these shocks exhausted, spiritual truth
Maintains the else endangered gift of life;
Proceeds from infancy to lusty youth ;
And, under cover of this woeful strife,

Gathers unblighted strength from hour to hour.1

WORDSWORTH.

SOLILOQUY OF HENRY VI DURING THE BATTLE OF TOWTON.

1461.

As he stands on a hill above the battle-field.

THIS battle fares like to the morning's war,
When dying clouds contend with growing light,
What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day, nor night.
Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea,
Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind;
Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea,
Forc'd to retire by fury of the wind:

Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind;
Now one the better, then another best;

Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,

1 There was an under-current of study of the scripture throughout

these wars.

Yet neither conqueror nor conquerèd ;
So is the equal poise1 of this fell2 war.
Here on this molehill will I sit me down.
To whom God will, there be the victory!
For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too,
Have chid me from the battle; swearing both,
They prosper best of all when I am thence.3
Would I were dead! if God's good will were so;
For what is in this world but grief and woe?
O Heaven! methinks it were a happy life,
To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill as I do now,

To carve out dials* quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run:
How many make the hour full complete;
How many hours bring about the day;
How many days will finish up the year;
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the times:
So many hours must I tend my flock;

So

many hours must I take my rest; So many hours must I contemplate; So many hours must I sport myself;

So many days my ewes have borne their young; So many weeks before the lambs be grown;

To cut out rude sun-dials in the turf, a sport of shepherds.

So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:

So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years, Pass'd over to the end they were created,

Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.

Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds looking on their silly1 sheep,
Than doth a rich embroidered canopy

To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery?
Oh, yes, it doth-a thousandfold it doth.
And to conclude, the shepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leathern bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince's delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couchèd in a curious bed,

When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.

SHAKESPEARE, "King Henry VI," Part 3.

SOLILOQUY OF RICHARD, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER.

1478.

After the final victory of the house of York.

Now is the winter of our discontent

1

Made glorious summer by this sun of York;'
And all the clouds, that lower'd upon our house,
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barbèd steeds,
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,-
He capers nimbly in a festive chamber,

To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

But I,—that am not shap'd for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,—
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable,

That dogs bark at me, as I halt by them ;

1 There was said to have been an appearance of a double sun at Towton field, whence Edward IV took the sun as his badge.