Puslapio vaizdai

As were our England in reversion his,
And he our subjects next degree in hope.

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This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd ifle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demy Paradise,
This fortress, built by nature for herself,
Against infection, and the hand of war;
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the filver fea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,,
Or of a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands ;

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England, bound in with the triumphant fea,
Whose rocky fhores beats back the envious fiege
Of watry Neptune, is bound in with shame,
With inky blots, and rotten parchment bonds.
'That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.

Scene V. GRIEF. Each substance of a grief bath twenty fhadows, Which shew like grief itself, but are not so: For forrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears, Divides one thing entire, to many objects ; Like perspectives, which, rightly gaz'd upon, Shew nothing but confusion ; ey'd awry, Distinguish form


Scene VI. Hope, deceitful.
I will-despair, and be at enmity
With cozening hope ; he is a flatterer,
A parasite, a keeper back of death;
Who gently would diffolve the bands of life,
Which false hopes linger, in extremity.

Scene XI. The Prognoftics of War: The bay-trees in our country all are wither'd, And meteors Fright the fixed stars of heav'n ; The pale-fac'd moon looks bloody on the earth ;. And lean-look'd prophets whisper fearful change. Rich men look sad, and ruffians dance and leap:

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Richard to England, on his Arrival. As a long-parted mother * with her child Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles in meeting ; So weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth, And do thee favour with my royal hands. Feed not thy sovereign's foe, my gentle earth, Nor with thy sweets comfort his rav'nous sense ; But let thy spiders which fuck up thy venom, And heavy-gaited toads, lye in their way; Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet, Which with usurping steps do trample thee. Yield stinking nettles to mine enemies ; And when they from thy bosom pluck a flow'r, Guard it, I pr’ythee, with a lurking adder ; Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch. 7 hrow death upon thy sovereign's enemies. Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords ; Witb, &c.] The sense scems evidently to require from.

This earth shall have a feeling ; and these stones
Prove armed foldiers, ere her native king
Shall faulter under foul rebellious arms.

The Sun, rising after a dark Night.

Know'st thou not, That when the searching eye of heav'n is hid: Behind the globe, and lights the lower world :, Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen, In murders, and in outrage bloody here: But when from under this terreftial ball He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines, And darts his light through ev'ry guilty hole ; Then' murders, treasons, aud detested fins, The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their

backs, Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves.

Scene IV. On the Vanity of Power, and Misery

of Kings.
No matter where ; of comfort no man speak :.
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs,.
Make duft our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write forrow on the bosom of the earth !
Let's chuse executors, and talk of wills
And yet not fomfor what can we bequeathy.
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's,-
And nothing can we call our own, but death ;.
And that small model of the barren earth,
Which serves 'as paste and cover to our bones.
For heav'ns fake, let us sit upon the ground,
And, tell.sad stories of the death of kings.


How some have been depos'd ; some slain in war ;
Come haunted by the ghosts they dispossess’d;
Some poison'd by their wives; some sleeping kill'd:
All murther'd. - For within the hollow crown,*
That rounds the mortal temples of a king,
Keeps Death his court: and there the antick lits,
Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp;
Allowing him a breath, a little scene
To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks:
Infusing him with self, and vain conceit,
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable : and humour'd thus,
Comes at the last, and, with a little pin,
Bores through his castle walls, and farewel king*
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With folemn rev'rence: throw away refpea,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you

have but miftook me all this while :
I live on bread like you ; feel want like you;
Taste grief, want friends like you; subjected thus,
How can you say to me, I am a king ?

Melancholy Stories,
In winter's tedious nights fit by the fire,
With good old-folks, and let them tell thee tales
Of woeful ages, long-ago betid:
And ere thou bid good-night, to quit their grief,
Tell them the lamentable fall of

And send the bearers weeping to their beds.
* For, &c.] So in Philafter the king says,

Alas, what are we kings ?
Why do you, gods, place us above the reft,
To be serv'd, flatter'd, and ador'd, till we
Believe we hold within our hands your thunder ;
And when we come to try the pow'r we have,
There's not a leaf takes at our threatnings!


A. 4.

Scene III. A Description of Bolingbroke's and

Richard's Entry into London.
Them, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke
* Mounted upon a hot and fiery freed,
Which his aspiring rider seem`d to know,
With slow, but sfately pace, kept on his course:
While all tongues cry'd, God save thee, Bolingbroke!
You wou'd have thought, the very windows spoke,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their defiring eyes
Upon his visage ; and that all the walls,
With painted imag'ry, had said at once,
Jesu, preferve thee, welcome Bolingbroke !
Whilft he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his prcud steed's neck,
Bespoke them thus ; I thank you, countrymen;
And this still doing, thus he past along.
Dutch. Alas! poor Richard, where rides he che

while ?
York. As in a theatre, the eyes
After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,

Thinking his-prattle-to be tedious:
Even so, or with much more contempt, mens eyes
Did scowl on Richard : no man cry'd, God fave him!
No joyful.tongue gave him his welcome home;
But duft was thrown upon his facred head ;
Which with such gentle forrow be fhook off;.

of men,

* The king afterwards hearing of this horse from his groona observes,

So proud, that Bo'ingbrooke was on his back!
The jade hath eat bread from my royal hand.
This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.
Wou'd he not stumble ? &C


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