« PreviousContinue »
O, if I could, what grief should I forget!-
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 boy again; For, since the birth of Cain, the first male child, To him that did but yesterday suspire,* There was not such a gracioust 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.
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:
Have you the heart? When your head did but
I knit my handkerchief about your brows,
And with my hand at midnight held your head,
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 away, And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
None, but to lose your eyes
Arth. O heaven!-that there were but a moat in
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wand'ring hair,
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,
It makes the course of thoughts to fetch about
THE COUNTENANCE OF A MURDERER.
This is the man should do the bloody deed;
A STRUGGLING CONSCIENCE.
The colour of the king doth come and go, Between his purpose and his conscience,
Like heralds 'twixt two dreadful battles set.
Old men, and beldams, in the streets
Do prophesy upon it dangerously:
Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths:
And he, that speaks, doth gripe the hearer's wrist;
Cuts off his tale, and talks of Arthur's death.
THE EVIL PURPOSES OF KINGS TOO SERVILELY EXECUTED.
It is the curse of kings, to be attended
By slaves, that take their humours for a warrant
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 fellow by the hand of nature mark'd, Quoted,† 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,
As bid me tell my tale in express words;
Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes,
If thou didst but consent
To this most cruel act, do but despair,
And, if thou want'st a cord, the smallest thread
Will serve to strangle thee; a rush will be
A beam to hang thee on; or would'st thou drown
Put but a little water in a spoon,
A MAN IN TEARS.
Let me wipe off this honourable dew,