Puslapio vaizdai

Why then you muft.
Will you put out mine eyes?
Thefe eyes that never did, nor never fhall,
So much as frown on you,-


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Alas, what need you be fo boift'rous rough?
I will not struggle, I will stand ftone-ftill.
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 speak a word,

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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 lose your eyes.

Art. O heav'n! that there were but a moth in yours A grain, a duft, a gnat, a wand'ring hair, Any anoyance 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 refined gold, to paint the lilly,
To throw a perfume on the violet,
To fmooth the ice, or add another hue
Unto the rainbow, or with taper light
To feek the beauteous eye of heav'n to garnish,
Is wasteful, and ridiculous excefs.

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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 ;
Starties, and frights confideration;

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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 ftreets,

Do prophecy upon it dangerously:

Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths; And, when they talk of him, they shake their heads,

And whisper one-another in the ear.

And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer's wrift,
Whilst he that hears makes fearful action ;
With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes.
I faw a fmith stand with his hammer, thus,
The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool,
With open mouth, fwallowing a taylor's news,
Who, with his fhears and meafure in his hand,
Standing on flippers, which his nimble haste
Had falfely thrust upon contrary feet,
Told of a many thousand warlike French;
That were embatteled and rank'd in Kent.
Another lean, unwash'd artificer
Cuts off his tale, and talks of Arthur's death.


Kings evil Purposes too fervily and hastily executed.

(8) It is the curfe of kings, to be attended
By flaves that take their humours for a warrant,
To break into the bloody house of life:
And, on the winking of authority,

To understand a Law, to know a meaning
Of dang'rous majefty, when, perchance, it frowns
More upon humour, than advis'd respect.

A Villain's Look, and wicked Zeal.

How oft the fight of means to do ill deeds,
Makes deeds ill done? For hadft not thou been by,
A fellow by the hand of nature mark'd,
Quoted, and fign'd to do a deed of fhame,
This murther had not come into my mind.
Hadft thou but shook thy head, or made a pause,
When I fpake darkly what I purposed ;,

Or turn'd an eye of doubt upon my face,

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

If there were no fuch inftruments 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,

Meerly because it is a law, and good,

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

And a little before, he fpeaks 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, detestable 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.----

Act 3. the end.

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



(9) If thou didst but confent

To this moft cruel act, do but defpair,

And if thou want'ft a cord, the smallest thread,
That ever spider twisted from her womb,

Will ftrangle thee: a rush will be a beam
To hang thee on: or would'st thou drown thy self,
Put but a little water in a spoon,

And it shall be as all the ocean,
Enough to ftifle fuch a villain up.

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A Man's Tears.

Let me wipe off this honourable dew,
That filverly doth progrefs on thy cheeks..
My heart hath melted at a lady's tears,
Being an ordinary inundation:
But this effufion of fuch manly drops,
This show'r, blown up by tempeft of the foul,.
Startles mine eyes, and makes me more amaz'd,

(9) It is, &c.] So in the Winter's Tale, Paulina tells the king his crime is fo great, it can never be forgiven, and nothing remains for him but to defpair. See Vol. 1. p. 149.


Than had I feen the vaulty top of heav'n,
Figur'd quite o'er with burning meteors.
Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury,
And, with a great heart, heave away this storm.
Commend these waters to those baby-eyes,
That never faw the giant-world enrag'd;
Nor met with fortune, other than at feafts,
Full warm of blood, of mirth, of goffiping.



Strike up the drums, and let the tongue of war

Plead for our int'reft.

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* *

Do but start

An echo with the clamour of thy drum,
And even at hand a drum is ready brac'd,
That shall reverb'rate all as loud as thine.
Sound but another, and another shall,
As loud as thine, rattle the welkin's ear,
And mock the deep-mouth'd thunder.




SCENE IX. The Approach of Death.

It is too late, the life of all his blood Is touch'd corruptibly; and his pure brain, (Which, fome suppose, the foul's frail dwelling-house,) Doth, by the idle comments that it makes, Foretel the ending of mortality.

Madness, occafion'd by Poifon.

(10) Ay, marry, now my foul hath elbow-room, It would not out at windows, nor at doors.


(10) Ay, marry, &c.] In the Valentinian of Beaumont and Fletcher, the emperor is brought on the stage, poisoned.----There he calls out for


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