SCENE VI. New Cuftoms.
New customs,
Though they be never so ridiculous,
Nay, let 'em be unmanly, yet are follow'd.»
The Duke of Buckingham's Prayer for the King.
May he live
Longer than I have time to tell his years !
Ever belov'd, and loving may his rule be!
And when old time shall lead him to his end,
Goodness, and he fill up one monument!
Dependants not to be too much trusted by great Men,
This from a dying man receive as certain :
Where you are lib'ral of your
loves and counsels,
Beware you be not loose; those you make friends,
And give your hearts to, when they once perceive
The least rub in your fortunes, fall away
Like water from ye, never found again,
But where they mean to sink ye.
Scene III. A good Wife.
A loss of her,
That, like a jewel, has hung twenty years
About his Neck, yet never lost her luftre;
Of her, that loves him with that excellence,
That angels love good men with ; even of her,
That, when the greatest stroke of fortune falls,
Will bless the king,
Scene V. The Blessings of a low Station,
(1) 'Tis betcer to be lowly born, And range with humble livers in content, Than to be perk'd up in a glitt'ring grief, And wear a golden forrow.
Scene VI.
Husband
(2). Alas, fir,
In what have I offended you? What cause
Hath my behaviour giv’n to your displeasure,
That thus
you should proceed to put me off,
And take your good grace from me? Heav'n witness,
I've been to you a true and humble wife,
At all times to your will, conformable:
Evêr in fear to kindle
your dislike,
Yea, subject to your count'nance ; glad or forry,
As I saw it inclin'd: when was the hour,
I ever contradicted your desire ?
Or made it not mine“too? Which of your friends
Have I not ftrove to love, although I knew
He were mine
enemy
? What friend of mine, That had to him deriv'd your anger, did I
(1) See the 50th page foregoing. Horace thus advises in his noth epistle, L. 1.
Fuge magna, &c.
Forsake the gaudy tinfel of the great;
The peaceful cottage beckons a retreat:
Where true content a solid comfort brings
To kings-unknown, or favourites of kings.
(2) Alas, fir,] The reader will find in the ad scene of the 3d
act of the Winter's Tale, a speech, made by the queen, on being
accused by her husband, very fimilar to this : 'Tis spoken in
court, where the innocent Hermione appear'd, and was condemn-
ed by her jealous husband,
Continue
Continue in my liking? Nay, gave notice,
He was from thence discharg'd. Sir, call to mind,
That I have been your wife, in this obedience,
Upwards of twenty years ; and have been bleit
With
many children by you. If in the course
And procefs of this time, you can report,
And prove it too, against mine honour aught,
My bond of wedlock, or my love and duty,
Against your sacred person ; in God's name,
Turn me away ; and let the foul'st contempt
Shut door upon me, and so give me up
To the sharpest kind of justice.
Queen, Catherine's Speech to Cardinal Wolsey.-
You are meek, and humble-mouth'd ;
You sign your place and calling, in full seeming,
With meekness and humility: but your heart
Is cramm’d with arrogancy, spleen, and pride:
You have by fortune, and his highness' favours,
Gone fightly o'er low steps; and now are mounted,
Where pow'rs are your retainers ; and your words,
Domesticks to you, serve your will, as't please
Yourself pronounce their office. I must tell
you, You tender more your person's honour, than Your high profesion spiritual.
ACT III. SCENE 1.
---On her own Merit. Have I liv'd thus long (let me speak myself, Since vircue finds no friends) a wife, a true one? A woman (I dare say, without vain-glory). Never yet branded with suspicion ? Have I, with all my full affections, S:ill met the king? Lov'd him, next heav'n obey'd him?
Been
Been, out of fondness, superstitious to him?
Almost forgot my prayers to content him?
And am I thus rewarded ? 'Tis not well, lords.
Bring me a constant woman to her husband,
One, that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure ;
And to that woman, when she has done most,
Yet will I add an honour; a great patience.
Qucen Catherine compared to a Lilly.
(3) Like the lilly, That once was mistress of the field and flourish'd; I'll hang my head and perish,
The hearts of princes kiss obedience,
So much they love it : but to stubborn spirits,
They swell, and grow as terrible as storms.
Scene III. Horror, its outward Effects.
Some strange commotion Is in his brain ; he bites his lip, and starts ; Stops on a sudden, looks upon the ground, Then lays his finger on his temple; strait, Springs out into fast gate, then stops again; Strikes his breast hard, and then, anon, he cafts His eye against the moon : in most strange poftures We've seen him set himself
(3) Like sbe lilly,] So Spencer calls
The lilly, lady of the flow'ring field.
Faerie Queene, B. 2, 4, 6, 8, 16.
Firm Allegiance.
Though perils did
Abound, as thick as thought could make 'em, and
Appear in forms horrid ; yet my duty,
(4) As doth a rock against the chiding flood,
Should the approach of this wild river break,
And stand unshaken yours.
SCENE IV. Anger, its external Effects. What sudden anger's this? How have I reap d it?" He parted frowning from me, as if ruin Leap'd from his eyes. (5) So looks the chafed lion
(4) As dotb, &c.] This fimile is used both by Virgil and Homer:
He, like a rock amidst the seas, unmov'd,
Stands opposite resisting : like a rock
Amidst the sea : which while the roaring tide
Encroaches, with its weight itself sustains
Among the noisy waves : in vain the cliffs
Foaming rebellow loud : and all around
The broken sea-weed dashes on its fides.--.
See Trap Æn.7. and again,
He like a rock, which o'er the ocean wide,
Hangs prominent, expos’d to winds and waves
And all the rage of sea and sky endures :
Stands fixt, unmov’d----
See Id, Æn, 100 (5) So looks, &c.]
So when on sultry Libya's desert fand,
The lion spies the hunter hard at hand :
Couch'd on the earth the doubtful savage lies,
And waits awhile, till all his fury rise :
His lashing tail provokes his swelling sides,
And high upon his neck, his mane with horror rides:
Then, if at length the flying dart infest,
Or the broad spear invade his ample breast,
Scorning the nd, he yawns a dreadful roar,
And lies like lightning on the boftile Moor.
Rowe's Lucan, B.1.
Upon
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