But, see, his face is black, and full of blood;
His eyeballs further out than when he liv❜d,
Staring full ghastly, like a strangled man: [gling;
His hair uprear'd, his nostrils stretch'd with strug-
His hands abroad display'd, as one that grasp❜d
And tugg'd for life, and was by strength subdu'd.
Look on the sheets, his hair, you see, is sticking:
His well-proportion'd beard made rough and rugged,
Like to the summer's corn by tempest lodg'd.
It cannot be, but he was murder'd here;
'The least of all these signs were probable.

A GOOD CONSCIENCE.

What stronger breast-plate than a heart untainted. Thrice is he arm'd, that hath his quarrel just; And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.

REMORSELESS HATRED.

A plague upon them! Wherefore should I curse them?

Would curses kill, as doth the mandrake's groan,
I would invent as bitter-searching terms,
As curst, as harsh, and horrible to hear,
Deliver'd strongly through my fixed teeth,
With full as many signs of deadly hate,
As lean-fac'd Envy in her loathsome cave:
My tongue should stumble in mine earnest words:
Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint:
My hair be fix'd on end, as one distract:
Ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban:
And even now my burden'd heart would break,
Should I not curse them. Poison be their drink!
Gall, worse than gall, the daintiest that they taste!
Their sweetest shade, a grove of cyprus trees!
Their chiefest prospect, murdering basilisks!
Their softest touch, as smart as lizards' stings!
Their music, frightful as the serpent's hiss;
And boding screech-owls make the concert full!
All the foul terrors in dark-seated hell.

Now, by the ground that I am banish'd from,
Well could I curse away a winter's night,

Though standing naked on a mountain top,
Where biting cold would never let grass grow.

PARTING LOVERS.

And banished I am, if but from thee. Go, speak not to me; even now be gone.O, go not yet!-Even thus two friends condemn'd Embrace, and kiss, and take ten thousand leaves, Lother a hundred times to part than die. Yet now farewell; and farewell life with thee!

Suf. Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished,
Once by the king, and three times thrice by thee.
'Tis not the land I care for, wert thou hence;
A wilderness is populous enough,

So Suffolk had thy heavenly company:
For where thou art, there is the world itself,
With every several pleasure in the world;
And where thou art not, desolation.

DYING WITH THE PERSON BELOVED PREFERABLE TO

PARTING.

If I depart from thee, I cannot live: And in thy sight to die, what were it else, But like a pleasant slumber in thy lap? Here could I breathe my soul into the air,

As mild and gentle as the cradle-babe,

Dying with the mother's dug between its lips.

THE DEATH-BED HORRORS OF A GUILTY CONSCIENCE.

Bring me unto my trial when you will.

Died he not in his bed? where should he die?
Can I make men live, whe'r they will or no?—
O! torture me no more, I will confess.-
Alive again? then show me where he is;
I'll give a thousand pound to look upon him,--
He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them,—
Comb down his hair; look! look! it stands upright,
Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul!
Give me some drink; and bid the apothecary
Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.

ACT IV.

NIGHT.

The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day
Is crept into the bosom of the sea;

And now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades
That drag the tragic melancholy night;

Who with their drowsy, slow, and flagging wings
Clip dead men's graves, and from their misty jaws
Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air.

KENT.

Kent, in the commentaries Cesar writ,
Is term'd the civil'st place of all this isle:
Sweet is the country, because full of riches;
The people liberal, valiant, active, wealthy.

LORD SAY'S APOLOGY FOR HIMSELF.

Justice with favour have I always done; Prayers and tears have mov'd me, gifts could never When have I aught exacted at your hands, Kent to maintain, the king, the realm, and you? Large gifts have I bestow'd on learned clerks, Because my book preferred me to the king, And-seeing ignorance is the curse of God, Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven,➡ Unless you be possess'd with dev'lish spirits, You cannot but forbear to murder me.

KING HENRY VI.

PART III.

ACT I.

THE TRANSPORTS OF A CROWN,

Do but think,

How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown;
Within whose circuit is Elysium,

And all that poets feign of bliss and joy.

* Pitiful

A HUNGRY LION.

So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch That trembles under his devouring paws: And so he walks, insulting o'er his prey; And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder.

THE DUKE OF YORK ON THE GALLANT BEHAVIOUR
OF HIS SONS.

My sons-God knows what hath bechanced them:
But this I know,—they have demeaned themselves
Like men born to renown, by life, or death.
'Three times did Richard make a lane to me;
And thrice cried,-Courage, father! fight it out.
And full as oft came Edward to my side,
With purple falchion, painted to the hilt
In blood of those that had encountr'd him;
And when the hardiest warriors did retire,

Richard cried-Charge! and give no foot of ground
And cried,--A Crown, or else a glorious tomb!
A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre!

With this, we charg'd again; but out, alas!
We bodg'd* again; as I have seen a swan
With bootless labours swim against the tide,

And spend her strength with over-matching waves

A FATHER'S PASSION ON THE MURDER OF A FAVOURITE

CHILD.

O, tyger's heart, wrapp'd in a woman's hide! How could'st thou drain the life-blood of the child, To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,

And yet be seen to bear a woman's face?
Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible;

Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.

[blood.

That face of his the hungry cannibals
Would not have touch'd, would not have stain'd with
But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,--
U, ten times more,-than tygers of Hyrcania
See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears:
This cloth thou dipp'dst in blood of my sweet boy.

* i. e. We boggled, made bad, or bungling work of ou attempt to rally.

And I with tears do wash the blood away.
Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this:
And, if thou tell'st the heavy story right,
Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears;
Yea, even my foes will shed fast-falling tears;
And say,-Alas, it was a piteous deed!

ACT II.

THE DUKE OF YORK IN BATTLE.

Methought, he bore him* in the thickest troop
As doth a lion in a herd of neat;†

Or as a bear, encompass'd round with dogs;
Who having pinch'd a few, and made them cry
The rest stand all aloof, and bark at him.

MORNING.

See, how the morning opes her golden gates, And takes her farewell of the glorious sun!‡ How well resembles it the prime of youth, Trimm'd like a younker, prancing to his love!

THE MORNING'S DAWN.

This battle fares like to the morning's war, When dying clouds contend with growing light; What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails, Can neither call it perfect day, or night.

THE BLESSINGS OF A SHEPHERD'S LIFE

O God! methinks, it were a happy life,
To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run:
How many make the hour full complete,
How many hours bring about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the times:
So many hours must I tend my flock;

* Demeaned himself. Neat cattle, cows, oxen, &c. Aurora takes for a time her farewell of the sun, when she dismisses him to his diurnal course.