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Strike up the drums: and let the tongue of was Plead for our interest.
Do but start
APPROACH OF DEATH.
It is too late; the life of all his blood Is touch'd corruptibly; and his pure brain [house,) (Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling. Doth, by the idle comments that it makes, Foretell the ending of mortality.
MADNESS OCCASIONED BY POISON,
Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow room; It would not out at windows, nor at doors. There is so hot a summer in my bosom, That all my bowels crumble up to dust: I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen Upon a parchment; and against this fire Do I shrink up, Poison'd,-ill fare:--dead, forsook, cast off: And none of you will bid the winter come, To thrust his icy fingers in my maw; Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course Through my burn'd bosom; nor entreat the north To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips And comfort me with cold.
ENGLAND INVINCIBLE IF UNANIMOUS.
England never did (nor never shall)
And we shall shock them: Nought shall make us
rue, Ni England to itself do rest but true.
THE purest treasure mortal times afford,
That which in mean men we entitle-patience, Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
CONSOLATION UNDER BANISHMENT. All places that the eye of heaven visits, Are to a wise man ports and happy havens. Teach thy necessity to reason thus; There is no virtue like necessity: Think not, the king did banish thee; But thou the king: Wo doth the heavier sit, Where it perceives it is but saintly borne. Go, say—I sent thee forth to purchase honour, And not the king exil'd thee: or suppose, Devouring pestilence hangs in our air, And thou art flying to a fresher clime. Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it To lie that way thou go’st, not whence thou com’st, Suppose the singing birds, musicians; The grass whereon thou tread'st, the presence
strew'd; The flowers, fair ladies; and thy steps, no more Than a delightful measure, or a dance: For gnarlingt sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it, and sets it light. * Presence chamber at court. + Growling.
THOUGHTS INEFFECTUAL TO MODERATE
Ourself, and Bushy, Bagot here, and Green, Observd his courtship to the common people:How he did seem to dive into their hearts, With humble and familiar courtesy; What reverence he did throw away on slaves; Wooing poor craftsmen, with the craft of smiles, And patient underbearing of his fortune, As 'twere, to banish their affects with him. Off goes his bonnet to an oyster wench; A brace of draymen bid-God speed him well, And had the tribute of his supple knee, With-Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friendsAs were our England in reversion his, And he our subjects' next degree in hope.
ENGLAND PATHETICALLY DESCRIBED.
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
England, bound in with the triumphant sea, Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame, With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds: That England, that was wont to conquer others, Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows, Which show like grief itself, but are not so: For sorrow's eye, glaz’d with blinding tears, Divides one thing entire to many objects; Like perspectives,* which, rightly gaz'd upon, Show nothing but confusion; ey'd awry, Distinguish form.
I will despair, and be at enmity
PROGNOSTICS OF WAR.
The bay-trees in our country are all witherid, And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven; The pale-fac'd moon looks bloody on the earth, And lean-look'd prophets whisper fearful change: Rich men look sad, and ruffians dance and leap.
APOSTROPHE TO ENGLAND.
As a long-parted mother with her child Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles in meeting So, weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth, And do thee favour with my royal hands. Feed not thy sovereign's foe, my gentle earth, Nor with thy sweets comfort his rav'nous But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom, And heavy-gaited toads, lie in their way:
Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet,
SUN RISING AFTER A DARK NIGHT.
VANITY OF POWER AND MISERY OF KINGS.
No matter where; of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let's choose executors, and talk of wills: And yet not so,-for what can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's, And nothing can we call our own, but death; And that small model of the barren earth, Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings:How some have been depos’d, some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd; Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping killid, All murder’d:-For within the hollow crown