Imatges de pÓgina

Threw many a northward look, to fee his father
Bring up his pow'rs; but he did long in vain!
Who then perfuaded you to stay at home?
There were two honours loft ; yours and your fon's:
For yours, may heav'nly glory brighten it!
For his, it ftruck upon him as the fun

In the grey vault of heav'n; and by his light
Did all the chivalry of England move
To do brave acts. He was indeed the glafs,
Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves.
He had no legs, that practis'd not his gait;
And speaking thick, which nature made his blemish,

Became the accents of the valiant;

For those, that could fpeak low and tardily,
Would turn their own perfection to abuse,
To feem like him: fo that in fpeech, in gait,

In diet, in affections of delight,

In military rules, humours of blood,

He was the mark and glafs, copy and book,

That fashion'd others. And him, wond'rous him!

O miracle of men! him did you leave

To look upon the hideous god of war

In difadvantage; to abide a field

Where nothing but the found of Hotspur's name

Did feem defenfible. So you left him.


Never, O, never do his ghoft the wrong,
To hold your honour more precife and nice
With others, than with Him. Let them alone:
The marshal and the archbishop are strong,
Had my fweet Harry had but half their numbers,
To-day might I (hanging on Hotspur's neck)
Have talk'd of Monmouth's grave.

Juftice Shallow is an admirably well drawn comic character, but he never appears better, than by reflection in the mirror of Falstaffe's wit, in whose descriptions he is most strongly exhibited.—It is faid by fome, that the Justice was meant for a particular gentleman, who had profecuted the author for deer-stealing. I know not whether that story be well grounded. The Shallows are to be found every where, in every age: but they who have least character of their own, are most formed and modified by the fashion of the times, and by their peculiar profeffion or calling. So though we often meet with a resemblance to this Juftice, we shall never find an exact parallel to him, now when manners are so much changed.-History or H 4


Philosophy cannot better fet forth the fuperior danger of a rebellion sanctified by the Church, than by the following words of Morton:


The gentle Archbishop of York is up
With well appointed powers. He is a man,
Who with a double furety binds his followers.
My lord, your fon had only but the corps,
But shadows, and the shews of men to fight;
For that fame word, rebellion, did divide
The action of their bodies from their fouls,
And they did fight with queafinefs, constrain'd,
As men drink potions, that their weapons only
Seem'd on our fide, but for their spirits and fouls,
This word, rebellion, it had froze them up.
But now, the bishop

Turns infurrection to religion:

Suppos'd fincere and holy in his thoughts,
He's follow'd both with body and with mind,
And doth enlarge his rifing with the blood

Of fair King Richard, serap'd from Pomfret ftones;
Derives from heaven his quarrel and his caufe;
Tells them he doth beftride a bleeding land
Gafping for life under great Bolingbroke :
And more, and lefs, do flock to follow him.


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Nor can the indecency of a prelate's appearing in arms, and the abuse of an authority derived from the facred function, be more strongly arraigned, than in the speeches of Westmorland, and John of Lancaster.


Then, my lord,

Unto your grace do I in chief addrefs

The fubftance of my speech. If that rebellion
Came like itself, in base and abject routs,
Led on by bloody youth, goaded with rage,
And countenanc'd by boys and beggary;
I fay, if damn'd commotion fo appear'd
In his true, native, and most proper shape,
You, reverend father, and these noble lords,
Had not been here to drefs the ugly form

Of base and bloody infurrection,

With your fair honours. You, my lord archbishop,
Whose fee is by a civil peace maintain'd,

Whose beard the filver hand of peace hath touch'd,
Whofe learning and good letters peace hath tutor❜d,
Whose white inveftments figure innocence,
The dove and very bleffed fpirit of peace;


Wherefore do you so ill translate yourself,
Out of the speech of peace, that bears fuch grace,
Into the harsh and boift'rous tongue of war?

My lord of York, it better fhew'd with you,
When that your flock, affembled by the bell,
Encircled you to hear with reverence
Your expofition on the holy text;
Than now to fee here an iron man,
Cheering a rout of rebels with your drum,
Turning the word to fword, and life to death.

That man that fits within a monarch's heart,


And ripens in the fun-shine of his favour,
Would he abuse the count'nance of the king,
Alack, what mischiefs might be fet abroach,
In fhadow of fuch greatnefs! With you, lord bishop,
It is ev'n fo. Who hath not heard it spoken,
How deep you were within the books of heav'n
To us, the speaker in his parliament,
To us, th' imagin'd voice of heav'n itself,
The very opener and intelligencer
Between the grace, the fanctities of heav'n,
And our dull workings: O, who shall believe
But you misuse the rev'rence of your place,
Employ the countenance and grace of heav'n,

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