Puslapio vaizdai



There's nothing in this world can make me joy ; (9) Life is as tedious as a twice told tale, Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.

Departing Difeafes.

Before the curing of a ftrong difeafe, Ev'n in the inftant of repair and health, The fit is strongest: evils that take leave, On their departure, most of all fhew evil.

Danger lays hold of any Support..

He that stands upon a flipp'ry place, Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up.


Arthur's pathetic Speeches to Hubert.

Methinks, nobody should be fad but I;
Yet I remember when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as fad as night,
Only for wantonnefs. By my Christendom,
So were I out of prifon and kept sheep,
I should be merry as the day is long.

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* * *








you the heart? when your head did but ake, I knit my handkerchief about your brows; (The best I had, a princess wrought it me)

(9) Life, &c.] So in another part of the play, he says,

This act is as an ancient tale new told,
And in the last repeating troublesome.


I bring this paffage chiefly that the Reader may more carefully dwell on the inimitable beauties of that in the text.

And I did never afk it you again;

And with my hand at midnight held your head;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon chear'd up the heavy time;
Saying, what lack you, and where lies your grief?
Or what good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's fon would have lain ftill,
And ne'er have fpoke a loving word to you;
But you at your fick fervice had a prince.
Nay, you may think, my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning. Do, and if you will:
If heav'n be pleas'd that you must use me ill,
Why then
you muft-Will you put out mine eyes?
Thefe eyes that never did, nor never fhall,
So much as frown on you.

* * * * * * *




Alas, what need you be fo boift'rous rough?
I will not ftruggle, I will stand stone-still.
For heav'n's fake, Hubert, let me not be bound,
Nay, hear me, Hubert, drive these men away,
And I will fit as quiet as a lamb.

I will not ftir nor wince, nor fpeak a word,
Nor look upon the iron angrily:

Thruft but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to;
Is there no remedy?

Hub. None but to lofe your eyes.



Art. Oheav'n! that there were but a moth in yours,
A grain, a duft, a gnat, a wand'ring hair,
Any annoyance in that precious fense:

Then, feeling what small things are boist'rous there,
Your vile intent must needs feem horrible.

SCENE II. To add to Perfection, fuperfluous, and fufpicious.

To gild refin'd gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet,


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To smooth the ice, or add another hue
Unto the rain-bow, or with taper light
To seek the beauteous eye of heav'n to garnish,

Is wafteful and ridiculous excess.

* * * * *


* * * * *

In this the antique and well-noted face Of plain old form is much disfigured: And, like a fhifted wind unto a fail,

It makes the course of thoughts to fetch about;
Startles and frights confideration;
Makes found opinion fick, and truth fufpected,
For putting on fo new a fashion'd robe.

Murderer's Look.

This is the man fhou'd do the bloody deed;
The image of a wicked heinous fault
Lives in his eye: that close aspect of his
Does fhew the mood of a much troubled breast.

Struggling Confcience..

The colour of the king doth come and go, Between his purpose and his confcience, Like heralds 'twixt two dreadful battles fent; His paffion is fo ripe, it needs must break.

SCENE IV. News-tellers on the Death of Arthur.

Old men and beldams, in the streets,

Do prophecy upon it dangeroufly:

Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths;
And, when they talk of him, they fhake their heads,
And whisper one another in the ear.

And he that fpeaks doth gripe the hearer's wrift,
Whilft he that hears makes fearful action;
With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes;
I faw a fmith, ftand with his hammer, thus,


The whilft his iron did on the anvil cool,
With open mouth, fwallowing a taylor's news,
Who, with his fhears and measure in his hand,
Standing on flippers, which his nimble hafte
Had falfely thruit upon contrary feet,
Told of a many thousand warlike French,
That were embattled and rank'd in Kent.
Another lean, unwash'd artificer
Cuts off his tale, and talks of Arthur's death.

Kings evil Purposes too fervilely and haftily executed.

(10) It is the curfe of kings, to be attended

By flaves that take their humours for a warrant,
To break into the bloody houfe of life :
And, on the winking of authority,
To understand a law, to know a meaning
Of dang❜rous majesty, when perchance, it frowns
More upon humour, than advis'd respect.

A Vil

(10) It is, &c.] So the king, in A King and no King, obferves,

If there were no such instruments as thou,
We kings could never act such wicked deeds:
Seek out a man that mocks divinity,

That breaks each precept both of God and man,
And nature's too, and does it without luft,

Merely because it is a law, and good,

And live with him; for him thou can'ft not spoil.

And a little before, he speaks of Beffus, as the most horrid object, after confenting to his wicked propofal.

But thou appear'ft to me after thy grant,
The uglieft, loathed, deteftable thing,
That I have met with: thou haft eyes

Like flames of fulphur, which methinks do dart
Infection on me; and thou haft a mouth
Enough to take me in, where there does ftand
Four rows of iron teeth-in

Act 3. the end.

A Villain's Look, and wicked Zeal.

How oft the fight of means to do ill deeds, Makes deeds ill done? For had'ft not thou been by, A fellow, by the hand of nature mark'd, Quoted and fign'd to do a deed of shame, This murther had not come into my mind. Hadft thou but fhook thy head, or made a paufe, When I fpake darkly what I purposed; Or turn'd an eye of doubt upon my face, Or bid me tell my tale in exprefs words; Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off, And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me.



Truft not thofe cunning waters of his eyes,
For villainy is not without fuch rheum;
And he long traded in it, makes it seem
Like rivers of remorfe and innocence.

SCENE VII. Despair.

(11) If thou didst but consent
To this moft cruel act, do but despair,
And if thou want'ft a cord, the fmalleft thread,
That ever fpider twisted from her womb,
Will ftrangle thee: a rush will be a beam
To hang thee on or wouldst thou drown thyself,
Put but a little water in a spoon,
And it fhall be as all the ocean,
Enough to stifle fuch a villain up.


(11) It is, &c.] So in the Winter's Tale. Paulina tells the king his crime is fo great, it can never be forgotten, and nothing re mains for him but to despair.

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