THE DIVINE RIGHT OF KINGS NOT OT all the water in the rough rude sea The breath of worldly men cannot depose King Richard II. Act III, Sc. 2. FOR well we know, no hand of blood and bone Can gripe the sacred handle of our sceptre, A King Richard II. Act III, Sc. 3. SUBSTITUTE shines brightly as Until a king be by; and then his state God's Rebellion The Merchant of Venice. Act V, Sc. 1. d'Arc Saw Divine Protection Un knowing Princes are still Princely HERE'S such divinity doth hedge a king, would, Acts little of his will. TH HOU divine Nature, how thyself thou In these two princely boys! They are as gentle Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as Their royal blood enchaf'd, as the rud'st That by the top doth take the mountain pine, That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop Cymbeline. Act IV, Sc. 2. HEAVENLY PORTENTS HEN beggars die, there are no comets WH seen; The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes. Julius Cæsar. Act II, Sc. 2. ΤΗ HE heavens themselves, the planets and Observe degree, priority and place, Sans check to good and bad. But when the In evil mixture to disorder wander, What plagues and what portents! what mutiny! What raging of the sea! shaking of earth! Death's Rebellion in the Heavens The opher Commotion in the winds! Frights, changes, horrors, Divert and crack, rend and deracinate Troilus and Cressida. Act I, Sc. 3. HEY miracles are past; and we have THE say our philosophical persons, to make modern and familiar, things supernatural and causeless. Hence is it that we make trifles of terrors, ensconcing ourselves into seeming knowledge, when we should submit ourselves to an unknown fear. All's Well That Ends Well. Act II, Sc. 3. Death's Irony THE KING AS HUMAN ITHIN the hollow crown WIT That rounds the mortal temples of a Keeps Death his court, and there the antic sits. To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks, An outward honour for an inward toil; They often feel a world of restless cares, O SLEEP, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou wilt no more weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, Sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, The King and Peasant |