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Then mark my words: I've been your flave too long,
And you have rul'd me with a rod of iron;
But henceforth know, proud peer, I am thy mafter,
And will be fo: the king who delegates

His pow'r to others' hands, but ill deserves
The crown he wears.

WAR.

Look well then to your own;

It fits but loosely on your head; for know,
The man who injur'd Warwick never pass'd
Unpunish'd yet.

EDW. Nor he who threaten'd Edward-
You may repent it, Sir-my guards there-seize
This traitor, and convey him to the Tow'r;
There let him learn obedience.

EARL OF WARWICK.

CHAP. XII.

ORLANDO AND ADAM.

ORLA. WHO's there?

ADAM. What, my young mafter! Oh, my gentle master! Oh, my fweet master! oh you memory

Of old Sir Rowland! Why, what makes you here?

Why are you virtuous? Why do people love

you ? And wherefore are you gentle, ftrong, and valiant?' Why would be fo fond to overcome

you

you.

The bony prizer of the humorous Duke?
Your praife is come too fwiftly home before
Know you not, mafter, to some kind of men
Their graces ferve them but as enemies?
No more do yours: your virtues, gentle master,
Are fanctified and holy traitors to you.

Oh, what a world is this, when what is comely
Envenoms him that bears it!

ORLA. Why, what's the matter?

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Come not within thefe doors; within this roof
The enemy of all your graces lives:

Your brother-(no; no brother; yet the fon,
Yet not the fon; 1 will not call him fon
Of him I was about to call his father)

Hath heard your praises, and this night he means
To burn the lodging where you us'd to lie,
And you within it: if he fail of that,

He will have other means to cut you off;
I overheard him, and his practices:

This is no place; this house is but a butchery;
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

ORLA. Why, whither, Adam, wouldft thou have me go?
ADAM. No matter whither, so you come not here.
ORLA. What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my
food?

Or with a bafe and boisterous fword enforce

A thievish living on the common road?
This must I do, or know not what to do:
Yet this I will not do, do how I can ;
I rather will fubject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood, and bloody brother.

ADAM. But do not fo; I have five hundred crowns,
The thrifty hire 1 fav'd under your father,
Which I did ftore to be my fofter nurse
When service should in my old limbs lie lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown:
Take that; and he that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the fparrow,
Be comfort to my age! here is the gold;
All this I give you, let me be your servant:
Though I look old, yet I am ftrong and lufty;
For in my youth I never did apply

Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood;

Nor

Nor did I with unbafhful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility;
Therefore my age is as a lufty winter,
Frofty, but kindly; let me go with you;
I'll do the fervice of a younger man
In all your business and neceffities.

ORLA. O good old man, how well in thee appears The conftant fervice of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed! Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will fweat but for promotion; And, having that, do choke their fervice up Even with the having; it is not fo with thee; But, poor old man, thou prun'ft a rotten tree, That cannot fo much as a bloffom yield In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry. But come thy ways, we'll go along together, And ere we have thy youthful wages fpent, We'll light upon fome fettled low content. ADAM. Mafter, go on, and I will follow thee To the laft gafp with truth and loyalty; From feventeen years till now, almost fourfcore, Here lived I, but now live here no more. At feventeen years many their fortunes feek, But at fourfcore it is too late a week; Yet fortune cannot recompenfe me better Than to die well, and not my master's debtor.

CHAP. XIII.

SHAKSPEARE.

SCROOP AND RICHARD.

SCROOP. MORE health and happinefs betide my Liege,

Than can my care-tun'd tongue deliver him!

K. RICH, Mine ear is open, and my heart prepar'd:

The worst is worldly lofs thou canft unfold;
Say, is my kingdom loft? Why, 'twas my care;
And what lofs is it, to be rid of care?
Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we !
Greater he fhall not be; if he ferve God,
We'll ferve him too, and be his fellow fo.
Revolt our fubjects? That we cannot mend;
They break their faith to God, as well as us,
Cry wo, deftruction, ruin, lofs, decay;

The worst is death, and death will have his day.
SCROOP. Glad am I that your Highness is so arm'd
To bear the tidings of calamity.

Like an unfeafonable ftormy day,

Which makes the filver rivers drown their fhores,

As if the world were all diffolv'd to tears;

So high above his limits fwells the rage

Of Bolingbroke, cov'ring your fearful land.

With hard bright steel, and hearts more hard than steel.
White beards have arm'd their thin and hairlefs fcalps
Against thy Majefty; boys, with women's voices,
Strive to fpeak big, and clasp their female joints
In ftiff unwieldly arms, against thy crown;
Thy very beadfmen learn to bend their bows
Of double-fatal yew against thy ftate;.
Yea, diftaff women manage rusty bills.
Against thy feat both young and old rebel,

And all goes worse than I have pow'r to tell.

K. RICH. Too well, too well, thou tell'ft a tale fo ill. Where is the earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot? What is become of Bufby? where is Green? -No matter where; of comfort no man fpeak, Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs, Make duft our paper, and with rainy eyes. Write forrow on the bofom of the earth! Let's choose executors, and talk of wills;

And

And yet not fo for what can we bequeath,
Save our depofed 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 ferves as paste and cover to our bones.
For Heav'n's fake, let us fit upon the ground,
And tell fad ftories of the death of Kings;
How fome have been depos'd; fome flain in war;
Some haunted by the ghofts they difpoffefs'd;
Some poifon'd by their wives; fome fleeping kill'd
All murder'd.-For within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a King,
Keeps Death his court; and there the antie fits,
Scoffing his ftate, and grinning at his pomp ;
Allowing him a breath, a little scene

To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks
Infufing him with felf and vain conceit,
As if this flesh which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable: and humour'd thus,
Comes at the laft, and with a little pin

Bores through his caftle walls, and farewel King!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With folemn rev'rence: throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while.
I live on bread like you, feel want like you:
Taste grief, need friends, like you: fubjected thus,
How can you fay to me I am a King?

CHAP. XIV.

SHAKSPEARE

HOTSPUR AND GLENDOWER.

GLEN. SIT, coufin Percy; fit, good coufin Hotspur; For by that name, as oft as Lancafter

Q5

Doth

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