Imatges de pàgina


Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice,
And lift my soul to heaven. Lead on, o' God's name.

H.VIII. ii. 1.


'A made a finer end, and went away an it had been any christom child; 'a parted just between twelve and one ;e'en at the turning of the tide: for after I saw him fumble with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile upon his fingers, ends, I knew there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and 'a babbled of green fields. How now, Sir John, quoth I: what, man! be of good cheer. So 'a cried out, God!-three or four times: now I, to comfort him, bid him 'a should not think of God; I hoped there was no need to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet. H.V. ii. 3.


But, see, his face is black and full of blood;
His eye-balls further out than when he liv'd,
Staring full ghastly like a strangled man;
His hair uprear'd, his nostrils stretch'd with struggling;
His hands abroad display'd, as one that grasp'd
And tugg'd for life, and was by strength subdued.
Look on the sheets, his hair, you see, is sticking;
His well-proportion'd beard made rough and rugged,
Like to the summer's corn by tempests lodg'd.

H.VI. PT. II. iii. 2.

By his gates of breath,
There lies a downy feather, which stirs not:
Did he suspire, that light and weightless down
Perforce must move.-.
-My gracious lord! my father!
This sleep is sound indeed; this is a sleep,
That from this golden rigol hath divorc'd
So many English kings.


I'll hear no more.-Die, prophet, in thy speech;
For this among the rest was I ordain'd.-

H.IV. PT. II. iv. 4.

What, will the aspiring blood of Lancaster

Sink in the ground? I thought it would have mounted.
See, how my sword weeps for the poor king's death!
O, may such purple tears be always shed
From those that wish the downfall of our house!
If any spark of life be yet remaining,
Down, down, to hell; and say,-I sent thee thither.

H.VI. PT. III. v. 6.



Aye, marry, now my soul hath elbow room;
It would not out at windows nor at doors.
There is so hot a summer in my bosom,
That all my bowels crumble up to dust:
I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen,
Upon a parchment; and against this fire
Do I shrink up.

Prince Henry.—How fares your Majesty ?

King John.-Poison'd,―ill fare;—dead, forsook, cast off:
And none of you will bid the winter come,
And thrust his icy fingers in my maw;

Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course
Through my burn'd bosom; nor entreat the north
To make his break winds kiss my parched lips,
And comfort me with cold: I do not ask you much,
I beg cold comfort.

[Enter Falconbridge.

O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye:
The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burn'd;
And all the shrouds wherewith my life should sail,
Are turned to one thread, one little hair:
My heart hath one poor string to stay it by,
Which holds but till thy news be utter'd;
And then all this thou see'st is but a clod,
And module of confounded royalty.


Et tu Brute?—Then fall, Cæsar.

How many ages hence,

Shall this our lofty scene be acted over,
In states unborn and accents yet unknown!


K. J. v. 7.

J.C. iii. 1.

J.C. iii. 1.

How now? what means death in this rude assault?
Villain, thy own hand yields thy death's instrument.
Go thou and fill another room in hell.

That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire,

That staggers thus my person. Exton, thy fierce band
Hath, with the king's blood, stain'd the king's own land.
Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high;
Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward here to lie.


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,

R. II. v. 5.

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.
These eyes that now are dimm'd with death's black veil,
Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun,

To search the secret treasons of the world:
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.

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.
H. VI. PT. III. V.


At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester,
Lodg'd in the abbey; where the reverend abbot,
With all his convent, honourably receiv'd him;
To whom he gave these words,—O, father abbot,
An old man, broken with the storms of state,
Is come to lay his weary bones among ye;
Give him a little earth for charity!

So went to bed: where eagerly his sickness
Pursued him still; and, three days after this,
About the hour of eight (which he himself
Foretold should be his last,) full of repentance,
Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows,
He gave his honours to the world again,
His blessed part to heaven,-and slept in peace.

Great men oft die by vile bezonians :
A Roman sworder and banditti slave,
Murder'd sweet Tully; Brutus' bastard hand
Stabb'd Julius Cæsar; savage islanders

Pompey the great: and Suffolk dies by pirates.



H.VIII. iv. 2.

H.VI. PT. II. iv. 1.

There spake my brother; there my father's grave
Did utter forth a voice!

Yes, thou must die:


Thou art too noble to conserve a life

In base appliances.


Thersites' body is as good as Ajax'
When neither are alive.


M. M. iii. 1,

Cym. iv. 2.

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.


Cym. v. 3.

Which shackles accidents, and bolts up change. 4. C. v. 2.
Duncan is in his grave;

After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well;

Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison,
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing,

Can touch him further.

M. iii. 2.

Had I but died an hour before this chance,

I had liv'd a blessed time, for, from this instant,
There's nothing serious in mortality.


Give me your hand, Bassanio; fare you
Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you;
For herein Fortune shows herself more kind
Than is her custom: it is still her use,
To let the wretched man outlive his wealth,
To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow,

M. ii. 3.

M.V. iv. 1.

An age of poverty; from which ling'ring penance
Of such a misery doth she cut me off.
Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life,
Cuts off as many years of fearing death.


Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin,
Unhousel'd, disappointed, unanel'd;
No reckoning made, but sent to my account
With all my imperfections on my head.


O, but they say, the tongues of dying men
Enforce attention like deep harmony:

J.C. iii. 1.

H. i. 5.

Where words are scarce, they're seldom spent in vain :
For they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain.
He, that no more may say, is listen'd more

Than they whom youth and ease have taught to gloze;
More are men's ends mark'd than their lives before:


The setting sun, and music at the close,
As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last;
Writ in remembrance, more than things long past:
Though Richard my life's counsel would not hear,
My death's sad tale may yet undeaf his ear.

They have e'en put my breath from me, the slaves;


My way of life
Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf.


These debts may well be call'd desperate ones, for a madman owes 'em. T. A. iii. 4.

Who builds his hope in air of your fair looks,
Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast.


You see me here, you gods, a poor old man,
As full of grief as age; wretched in both.
I am old now,
And these same crosses spoil me.
Pray do not mock me:

I am a very foolish fond old man,
Fourscore and upward; and to deal plainly,
I fear I am not in my perfect mind.
But on us both did haggish age steal on,
And wore us out of act.


You are abus'd, and, by some putter on
That will be damn'd for't;-would I knew the villain.

W. T. ii. 1.

R. III. iii. 4.

Thou art not vanquish'd.
But cozen'd and beguil❜d.


R. II. ii. 1.

Defiance, traitors, hurl we in your teeth.


T. A. iii. 4.

What man dare, I dare:

Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear,

M. v. 3.

K. L. ii. 4.

K. L. v. 3.

K. L. iv. 7.

A. W. i. 2.

K. L. v. 3.


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

J.C. v. 1.

M. A. v. 1.

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