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And often, to our comfort, fhall we find
The fharded beetle in a fafer hold

Than is the full-wing'd eagle. O, this life
Is nobler than attending for a check;
Richer, than doing nothing for a bauble;
Prouder, than rustling in unpaid-for filk
Such gain the cap of him that makes them fine,
Yet keeps his book uncrofs'd. No life to ours.

Guid. Out of your proof you fpeak. We, poor, unfledg❜d,
Have never wing'd from view o' the neft; nor know not
What air's from home. Haply, this life is best,
If quiet life is beft: sweeter to you,

That have a fharper known; well correfponding
With your ftiff age: but unto us, it is
A cell of ignorance; travelling a-bed;
A prifon, for a debtor that not dares
To ftride a limit.

Arv. What should we speak of,

When we are old as you ? when we shall hear
The rain and wind beat dark December? How,
In this our pinching cave, fhall we discourse
The freezing hours away? We have feen nothing;
We're beaftly; fubtle as the fox for

prey,
Like warlike as the wolf, for what we eat :
Our valour is to chafe what flies ; Our cage
We make a quire, as doth the prison'd bird,
And fing our bondage freely.

Bel. How you speak!

Did you but know the city's ufuries,

And felt them knowingly; the art o' the Court,

As hard to leave as keep; whofe top to climb

Is certain falling, or fo flippery that

The fear's as bad as falling; the toil of the war,

A pain that only feems to feek out danger

I' the name of fame and honour; which dies i' the fearch; And hath as

As record of fair act; nay, many time,
Doth ill deferve, by doing well: what's worse,
Muft curtfy at the cenfure. O, boys, this ftory
The world may read in me: my body's mark'd
With Roman fwords; and my report was once

Ofta flanderous epitaph,

Firft with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me;
And when a foldier was the theme, my name
Was not far off: then was I as a tree,

Whose boughs did bend with fruit; but, in one night,
A ftorm, or robbery, call it what you will,

Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves,
And left me bare to weather.

Guid. Uncertain favour!

Bel. My fault being nothing, as I have told you oft, But that two villains, whofe falfe oaths prevail'd Before my perfect honour, fwore to Cymbeline, I was confederate with the Romans; fo Follow'd my banishment; and, these twenty years, This rock and thefe demefnes have been my world; Where I have liv'd at honest freedom; paid More pious debts to heaven, than in all

The fore-end of my time.-But, up to the mountains!
This is not hunters' language: he that strikes

The venifon firft, fhall be the lord o' the feast;
To him the other two fhall minister:

And we will fear no poifon which attends

In place of greater ftate. I'll meet you in the vallies.

[Exeunt Guid, and Arv. How hard it is to hide the fparks of nature!

These boys know little they are fons to the king;
Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.

They think they are mine; and though train'd up thus meanly

I' the cave, wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit
The roofs of palaces; and nature prompts them,
In fimple and low things, to prince it, much
Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore,
The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, whom
The King his father called Guiderius --Jove!
When on my three-foot ftool I fit, and tell
The warlike feats I have done, his fpirits fly out
Into my story: fay, Thus mine enemy fell;
And thus I fet my foot on his neck: even then
The princely blood flows in his cheek; he fweats,
Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in pofture
That acts my words. The younger brother Cadwal,

(Once

(Once Arviragus) in as like a figure,

Strikes life into my speech, and fhews much more
His own conceiving-Hark! the

game

is rouz'd.

Oh, Cymbeline! Heaven and my confcience know,
Thou didst unjustly banish me; whereon,
At three and two years old I ftole these babes;
Thinking to bar thee of fucceffion, as

Thou reft'ft me of my lands. Euriphile,

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Thou waft their nurfe: they take thee for their mother,
And every day do honour to her grave;
Myfelf, Bellarius, that am Morgan call'd,

They take for natural father. The game's up.

[Exit.

No. XXIII.KING LEA R. ACT III. SCENE II. A Heath. Storm.

Enter Lear and Fool.

LEAR.

LOW winds, and crack your cheeks; rage, blow! You cataracts, and hurricanoes, fpout

Till you have drench'd our fteeples, drown'd the cocks!
You fulphuro us and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunder-bolts,

inge my white head! And thou, all-fhaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world;

Crack nature's mould; all germins fpill at once
That make ingrateful man!

Fool. O nuncle, court-holy-water in a dry houfe is better than the rain-waters out o'door. Good nuncle, in, and ask thy daughter's bleffing: here's a night that pities neither

wife men nor fools.

Lear. Rumble thy belly full, fpit fire, fpout rain;
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters;
I tax not you, ye elements, with unkindness:
I never gave you kingdoms, call'd you children:
You owe me no fubfcription; then let fall
Your horrible pleasure. Here I ftand, your flave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and defpis'd, old man.

But

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But yet I call you fervile minifters,

That have with two pernicious daughters join'd
Your high-engender'd battles, 'gainst a head

So old and white as this. Oh! oh! 'tis foul.

Fool. He that has a house to put's head in, has a good head piece.

The codpiece that will house,
Before the head has any,
The head and he fhall lowfe;
So beggars marry many.

That man that makes his toe,
What he his heart fhould make,
Shall of a corn cry woe,

And turn his fleep to wake.

For there was never yet fair woman, but fhe made mouths in a glass.

Enter Kent.

Lear. No, I will be the pattern of all patience;
I will fay nothing.

Ken t Who's there?

Fool. Marry, here's grace, and a cod-piece, that's a wise man and a fool.

Kent. Alas, Sir, are you here? Things that love night,
Love not fuch nights as thefe; the wrathful skies
Gallow the very wanderers of the dark,

And make them keep their caves. Since I was man,
Such fheets of fire, fuch bursts of horrid thunder,
Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never
Remember to have heard. Man's nature cannot carry
The affliction, nor the fear.

Lear. Let the great Gods,

That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads,
Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,
That haft within thee undivulged crimes,

Unwhipt of juftice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand,
Thou perjure, and thou fimular of virtue,
That art incestuous. Caitiff, fhake to pieces,
That, under covert and convenient seeming,

Haft practis'd on man's life!-Close pent-up guilts,
Rive your concealing continents, and afk

Thefe

These dreadful fummoners grace.—I am a man,
More finned against, than finning.

Kent. Alack, bare-headed!

Gracious my Lord, hard by here is a hovel;
Some friendship will it lend you 'gainft the tempeft.
Repofe you there, while I to this hard house,
More hard than is the ftone whereof 'tis rais'd,
Which even but now, demanding after you,
Denied me to come in, return, and force
Their fcanted courtesy.

Lear. My wits begin to turn.

Come on, my boy. How doft, my boy? art cold?
I'm cold myself. Where is the ftraw, my fellow?
The art of our neceffities is ftrange,

That can make vile things precious.

Come, your hovel. Poor fool and knave, I've one part in my heart, That's forry yet for thee.

Fool. He that has a little tyny wit,

With, heigh ho! the wind and the rain,
Muft make content with his fortunes fit,
Though the rain it raineth every day.

Lear. True, my good boy. Come, bring us to this hovel..

Fool. "Tis a brave night to cool a courtezan.

I'll speak a prophecy ere I go.

When priests are more in words than matter;
When brewers marr their malt with water;
When nobles are their tailors' tutors;
No heretics burn, but wenches' fuitors:
Then comes the time, who lives to fee't,
That going shall be us'd with feet.
When every cafe in law is right,

No 'fquire in debt, and no poor knight;
When flanders do not live in tongues,
Nor cut-purfes come not to throngs;
When ufurers tell their gold i' th' field,
And bawds and whores do churches build:
Then fhall the realm of Albion

Come to great confufion.

[Exit.

This prophecy Merlin fhall make, for I do live before his

time.

No. XXIV.

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