Puslapio vaizdai

Gloucester's Diffimulation.

Why, I can fmile, and murther while I fmile; And cry, content, to that which grieves my heart And wet my cheeks with artificial tears;

And frame my face to all occafions:

I'll drown more failors than the mermaid fhall;
I'll flay more gazers than the bafilifk;
I'll play the orator, as well as Neftor;
Deceive more flily, than Ulyffes cou'd;
And, like a Sinon, take another Troy:
I can add colours ev'n to the camelion;'
Change fhapes with Proteus, for advantages;
(8) And fet th' afpiring Catiline to school.
Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?


Henry VI. on his own Lenity.

I have not ftopt mine ears to their demands,
Nor pofted off their fuits with flow delays;
My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds;
My mildness hath allay'd their fwelling griefs;
My mercy dry'd their water-flowing tears..
I have not been defirous of their wealth,
Nor much oppreft them with great subsidies,
Nor forward of revenge, though they much err'd.

(8) And fet, &c.]. I am of Mr. Warburton's opinion, this reading which is of the old quarto, is greatly preferable to that commonly received; not only because we thereby avoid an anachronism, but becaufe Richard, perhaps, may be more aptly compared to Catiline, and because he inftances, all through the fpeech, from the ancients..The other reading is,

And fet the murd'rous Machiavel to fchool..



The Duke of Warwick's dying Speech.

Ah, who is nigh? Come to me, friend, or foe, And tell me, who is victor, York or Warwick ? Why afk I that? My mangled body fhews,

My blood, my want of ftrength, my fick heart fhews,
That I muft yield my body to the earth,

And, by my fall, the conqueft to my foe.
(9) Thus yields the cedar to the ax's edge,
Whofe arms gave fhelter to the princely eagle;
Under whose shade the ramping lion slept ;

(9) Thus yields, &c.] For this grand and noble fimile, ShakeSpear is plainly indebted there, where, for the first time thro' this work, I am obliged, and gladly, to acknowledge him outdone. 'Tis from the 31ft chapter of the prophet Ezekiel, ver. 3. "Behold the Affyrian was a cedar in Lebanon with fair branches, and with a shadowing shroud, and of an high ftature, and his top was among the thick boughs. 4. The waters made him great, the deep fet him up on high with her rivers running round about his plants, and fent out her little rivers unto all the trees of the field. 5. Therefore his height was exalted above all the trees of the field, and his boughs were multiplied, and his branches became long, because of the multitude of waters, when he fhot forth. 6. All the fowls of heaven made their nefts in his boughs, and under his branches did all the beafts of the field bring forth their young, and under his fhadow dwelt all great nations. 7. Thus was he fair in his greatness, in the length of his branches: for his root was by great waters, 8. The cedars in the garden of God could not hide him: the fir-trees were not like his boughs, and the chefnut-trees were not like his branches; not any tree in the garden of God was like unto him in his beauty. &c. 12. And Atrangers, the terrible of the nations have cut him off, and have left him: upon the mountains, and in all the valleys his branches are fallen, and his boughs are broken by all the rivers of the land, and all the people of the earth are gone down from his fhadow, and have left him. 13. Upon his ruin fhall all the fowls of the heaven remain, and all the beafts of the field fhall be upon his branches. &c. See the chapter.

The fcriptures, and more especially the prophets, abound with many fimilar paffages, fublime and exalted as this, which it would be endless to produce here.

D 4


Whose top-branch over peer'd Jove's spreading tree;
And kept low fhrubs from winter's pow'rful wind.
Thefe eyes, that now are dim'd with death's black veil,
Have been as piercing as the mid-day fun,

To fearch the fecret treasons of the world.
The wrinkles in my brow, now fill'd with blood,
Were lik'ned oft to kingly fepulchres:

For who liv'd king, but I could dig his grave?
And who durft fmile, when Warwick bent his brow !
Lo! now my glory smear'd in duft and blood,
(10) My parks, my walks, my manors that I had,
Ev'n now forfake me; and of all, my lands

Is nothing left me, but my body's length.

SCENE VII, Omens on the Birth of Richard III. (11) The owl shriek'd at thy birth, an evil fign;: The night crow cry'd, a boding luckless tune;

(10) My parks, &c.] "I won't venture to affirm, fays Mr. Theobald, our author is imitating Horace here: but furely this paffage is very much of a caft with that which I am about to quote.'

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Linquenda tellus, et Domus, et placens
Uxor: neque harum quas colis, arborum
Te præter invifas cupreffos,

Ulla brevem Dominum fequetur.

Thy fpacious fields, thy fplendid house,
Thy pleafing wife muft thou forego,

B. 2. ode 141

Nor of thofe trees, thy hands have rais'd,
Except the baleful cyprefs boughs,

Shall one attend their short-liv'd lord below.

Dryden has beautifully copied the last line, in his Antony and Cleopatra, where he makes the defponding hero, throwing himfelf on the ground, thus lament..

Lie there, the shadow of an emperor,

The place thou preffeft on thy mother earth

Is all thy empire now.--

A. 1.

(11) The owl, &c.] See an account of the prodigies on the

birth of Glendower, p. 6. n.6.


Dogs howl'd, and hideous tempefts fhook down trees;
The raven croak'd hoarfe on the chimney's top,
And chattering pyes in dismal difcords fung:
Thy mother felt more than a mother's pain,
And yet brought forth less than a mother's hope,
To wit, an indigefted, deform'd lump,
Not like the fruit of fuch a goodly tree.

Teeth hadft thou in thy mouth when thou waft born,
To fignify, thou cam'ft to bite the world:

And, if the reft be true which I have heard,
Thou cam'ft into the world with thy legs forward.

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The Life of HENRY VIII.


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Requires flow pace at firft. Anger is


A full-hot horfe, who, being allow'd his way,

Self-mettle tires him.

SCENE IV. Action to be carried on with Refolution.

If I'm traduc'd by tongues, which neither know
My faculties, nor perfon; yet will be

The chronicles of my doing: let me fay,

'Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake That virtue muft go through: we must not stint Our neceffary actions, in the fear,

To cope

malicious cenfurers: which ever, As rav'nous fishes, do a veffel follow

'That is new trimm'd: but benefit no further
Than vainly longing. What we oft do beft,.
By fick interpreters, or weak ones, is
Not ours, or not allow'd: what worst, as oft
Hitting a groffer quality, is cry'd up
For our best act: if we stand fill, in fear,
Our motion will be mock'd or carped at,

We should take root here, where we fit; or fit
State-ftatues only.


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