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And fits the mounting spirits, like myself:
For he is a bastard to the time,
That doth not smack of observation.



That pale, that white-fac'd shore,
Whose foot spurns back the ocean's roaring tides,
And coops from other lands her islanders,

Even till that England, hedg'd in with the main,
That water-walled bulwark, still secure
And confident from foreign purposes,
Even till that utmost corner of the west
Salute thee for her king.


His marches are expedient* to this town, His forces strong, his soldiers confident. With him along is come the mother-queen, An Ate,† stirring him to blood and strife; With her her niece, the lady Blanch of Spain; With them a bastard of the king deceas'd: And all the unsettled humors of the land,Rash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries, With ladies' faces, and fierce dragons' spleens,— Have sold their fortunes at their native homes, Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs, To make a hazard of new fortunes here. In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits, Than now the English bottoms have waft o'er, Did never float upon the swelling tide, To do offence and scath‡ in Christendom. The interruption of their churlish drums Cuts off more circumstance: they are at hand.


By how much unexpected, by so much We must awake endeavour for defence: For courage mounteth with occasion

* Immediate, expeditious. + The Goddess of Revenge.

+ Mischief.


What cracker is this same, that deafs our ears With this abundance of superfluous breath'


You men of Angiers, open wide your gates, And let young Arthur, duke of Bretagne, in; Who, by the hand of France, this day hath made Much work for tears in many an English mother, Whose sons lie scatter'd on the bleeding ground: Many a widow's husband grovelling lies, Coldly embracing the discolour'd earth; And victory, with little loss, doth play Upon the dancing banners of the French; Which are at hand, triumphantly display'd To enter conquerors.


Rejoice, you men of Angiers, ring your bells;
King John, your king and England's, doth approach,
Commander of this hot malicious day!

Their armours, that march'd hence so silver bright,
Hither return all gilt with Frenchman's blood;
There stuck no plume in any English crest,
That is removed by a staff of France;
Our colours do return in those same hands
That did display them when we first march'd forth:
And, like a jolly troop of huntsmen, come
Our lusty English, all with purpled hands,
Died in the dying slaughter of their foes.


If lusty love should go in quest of beauty,
Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch?
If zealous* love should go in search of virtue,
Where should he find it purer than in Blanch?
If love ambitious sought a match of birth,
Whose veins bound richer blood than lady Blanch?


Rounded† in the ear

With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil,

* Pious.

+ Conspired.

That broker, that still breaks the pate of faith;
That daily break-vow; he that wins of all,
Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids;-
Who having no external thing to lose

But the word maid,-cheats the poor maid of that; That smooth-faced gentleman, tickling commodity,

Commodity, the bias of the world:

The world, who of itself is peised† well,
Made to run even, upon even ground;
Till this advantage, this vile drawing bias,
This sway of motion, this commodity,
Makes it take head from all indifferency,
From all direction, purpose, course, intent:
And this same bias, &c.



Thou shalt be punish'd for thus frightening me,
For I am sick, and capable‡ of fears;
Oppress'd with wrongs, and therefore full of fears,
A widow, husbandless, subject to fears;
A woman naturally born to fears;

And though thou now confess, thou didst but jest,
With my vex'd spirits I cannot take a truce,
But they will quake and tremble all this day.


What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head? Why dost thou look so sadly on my son? What means that hand upon that breast of thine! Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum, Like a proud river peering§ o'er his bounds? Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words? Then speak again; not all thy former tale, But this one word, whether thy tale be true.

* Interest.
+ Susceptible.

† Poised, balanced

§ Appearing.

A MOTHER'S FONDNESS FOR A BEAUTIFUL CHILD. If thou, that bid'st me be content, wert grim, Ugly, and sland'rous to thy mother's womb, Full of unpleasing blots, and sightless* stains, Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious,† Patch'd with foul moles, and eye-offending marks, I would not care, I then wonld be content; For then I should not love thee; no, nor thou Become thy great birth, nor deserve a crown. But thou art fair; and at thy birth, dear boy! Nature and fortune join'd to make thee great Of nature's gifts thou may'st with lilies boast, And with the half-blown rose.


I will instruct my sorrows to be proud;

For grief is proud, and makes his owner stout.


O Lymoges! O Austria! thou dost shame

That bloody spoil: Thou slave, thou wretch, thou


Thou little valiant, great in villany!
Thou ever strong upon the stronger side!
Thou fortune's champion, that dost never fight
But when her humorous ladyship is by
To teach thee safety! thou art perjur'd too,
And sooth'st up greatness. What a fool art thou,
A ramping fool; to brag, and stamp, and swear,
Upon my party! Thou cold-blooded slave,
Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side?
Been sworn my soldier? bidding me depend
Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength?
And dost thou now fall over to my foes?
Thou wear a lion's hide! dofft it for shame,
And hang a calf's skin on those recreant limbs.


I had a thing to say,—But let it go: The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day, † Portentous.

* Unsightly.

+ Do off

Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Is all too wanton, and too full of gawds,*
To give me audience:—If the midnight bell
Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,
Sound one unto the drowsy race of night;
If this same were a churchyard where we stand,
And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;
Or if that surly spirit, melancholy,

Had bak'd thy blood, and made it heavy, thick;
(Which, else runs tickling up and down the veins
Making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes,
And strain their cheeks to idle merriment,
A passion hateful to my purposes;)

Or if that thou could'st see me without eyes,
Hear me without thine ears, and make reply
Without a tongue, using conceit† alone,
Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words:
Then, in despite of brooded watchful day,
I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts:
But, ah, I will not.


O amiable, lovely death!
Thou odoriferous stench! sound rottenness!
Arise forth from the couch of lasting night
Thou hate and terror to prosperity,

And I will kiss thy detestable bones;
And put my eye-balls in thy vaulty brows;
And ring these fingers with thy household worm⚫
And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust,
And be a carrion monster like thyself:
Come, grin on me; and I will think thou smil'st,
And buss thee as thy wife! Misery's love,
O, come to me!


I am not mad: this hair I tear, is mine;
My name is Constance; I was Geffrey's wife;
Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost:
I am not mad;-I would to heaven I were!
For then, 'tis like I should forget myself:

• Showy ornaments.

+ Conception.

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