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O, if I could, what grief should I forget!
Preach some philosophy to make me mad,
And thou shalt be canoniz'd, cardinal;
For, being not mad, but sensible of grief,
My reasonable part produces reason
How I may be deliver'd of these woes,
And teaches me to kill or hang myself:
If I were mad, I should forget my son;
Or madly think, a babe of clouts were he:
I am not mad; too well, too well I feel
The different plague of each calamity.
A MOTHER'S GRIEF FOR THE LOSS OF A SON.
Father cardinal, I have heard you say,
T'hat we shall see and know our friends in heaven:
If that be true, I shall see my hoy again;
For, since the birth of Cain, the first male child,
To him that did but yesterday suspire,*
There was not such a gracious creature born,
But now will canker sorrow eat my bud,
And chase the native beauty from his cheek,
And he will look as hollow as a ghost;
As dim and meagre as an ague's fit;
And so he'll die; and, rising so again,
When I shall meet him in the court of heaven
I shall not know him: therefore never, never
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.
Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief.
Const. He talks to me, that never had a son.
K. Phi. You are as fond of grief, as of your child.
Const. Grief fills the room up of my absent child Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me; Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form: 'Then, have I reason to be fond of grief.
There's nothing in this world can make me joy: Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale, Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man. * Breathe.
STRENGTH OF DEPARTING DISEASES. Before the curing of a strong disease, Even in the instant of repair and health, The fit is strongest; evils, that take leave, On their departure most of all show evil.
DANGER TAKES HOLD OF ANY SUPPORT, He, that stands upon a slippery place, Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up.
ARTHUR'S PATHETIC SPEECHES TO HUBERT.
Methinks, no body should be sad but I:
Yet, I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be as merry as the day is long.
you the heart? When your head did but
ache, I knit my handkerchief about your brows, (The best I had, a princess wrought it me,) and I did never ask it you again: And with my hand at midnight held your head, And, like the watchful minutes to the hour Still and anon cheer'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 son would have lain still, And 'ne'er have spoke a loving word to you; But you at your sick service had a prince. Nay, you may think my love, was crafty love, And call it cunning: Do, an if you will: If heaven be pleas’d that you must use me ill, Why, then you must.-Will you put out mine eyes: These eyes, that never did, nor never shall, So much as frown on you?
Alas, what need you be so boist’rous rough? I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.
For heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!
Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men av
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
Nor look upon the iron angerly;
Thrust but these men away, I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to.
Is there no remedy?
None, but to lose your eyes
Arth. O heaven !-that there were but a moat in
yours, A grain, a dust, a grat, a wand'ring hair, Any annoyance in that precious sense! Then, feeling what small things are boist'rous there, Your vile intent must needs seem horrible,
PERFECTION ADMITS OF NO ADDITON,
To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet, To smooth the ice, or add another hue Unto the rainbow, or with taper light To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish," Is wasteful, and ridiculous excess.
In this, the antique and well noted-face,
of plain old form is much disfigured:
And, like a shisted wind unto a sail,
It makes the course of thoughts to fetch about
Startles and frights consideration;
Makes sound opinion sick, and truth suspected,
For putting on so new a fashioned robe.
THE COUNTENANCE OF A MURDERER.
This is the man should do the bloody deed;
The image of a wicked henious fault
Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his
Does show the mood of a much-troubled breast,
The colour of the king doth come and go, Between his purpose and his conscience,
Like heralds 'twixt two dreadful battles set.
His passion is so ripe, it needs must break:
Old men, and beldams, in the streets
Do prophesy 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 wrist;
Whilst he, that hears, makes fearful action.
With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes
I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus,
The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool,
With open mouth swallowing a tailor's news.
Who, with his shears and measure in his hand
Standing on slippers, (which his nimble haste
Had falsely thrust 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.
THE EVIL PURPOSES OF KINGS TOO SERVILELI
It is the curse of kings, to be attended By slaves, that take their humours for a warrant To break within the bloody house of life: And, on the winking of authority, To understand a law; to know the meaning, Or dangerous majesty, when, perchance, it frowns More upon humour than advis'd respect.*
A VILLAIN's LOOK, AND READY ZEAL. How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds, Makes deeds ill done! Hadst not thou been by, A sellow by the hand of nature mark’d, Quoted,t and sign'd, to do a deed of shame, This murder had not come into my mind. Hadst thou but shook thy head, or made a pause, When I spake darkly what I purposed; Or turn’d an eye of doubt upon my face,
* Deliberate consideration. + Observed
As bid me tell my tale in express words;
Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off,
And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me,
Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes,
For villany is not without such rheum;*
And he, long traded in it, makes it seem
Like rivers of remorset and innocency.
If thou didst but consent
To this most cruel act, do but despair,
And, if thou want'st a cord, the smallest thread
That ever spider twisted from her womb
Will serve to strangle thee; a rush will be
A beam to hang thee on; or would'st thou drown
Put but å little water in a spoon,
And it shall be as all the ocean,
Enough to stifle such a villain up.
Let me wipe off this honourable dew,
That silverly doth progress on thy cheeks;
My heart hath melted at a lady's tears,
Being an ordinary inundation:
But this effusion of such manly drops,
This shower, blown up by tempest of the soul,
Startles mine eyes, and makes me more amaz'd
Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven
Figurd 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 saw the giant world enrag'd;
Nor met with fortune other than at feasts,
Full warm of blood, of mirth, of gossipping.